kashverse

[kashverse]

Hi! I was wondering if you wrote a Babykuna and baby Yuuji fic? I wanted to read it but I couldn’t find it! :(

feel free to send in a request if there is something specific you'd like me to write, but these are whatsoever i have written so far :)

babykuna and yuuji befriending megumi in preschool

the original post about babykuna and yuuji's friendship dynamics

[kashverse]

who the hell are mr. pickles and baby of the sukuna household? → read here!

pet visits at the sukuna household were nothing short of an event. they were a grand production of hissing, bribery, and more fur flying than what should be physically possible for two cats. but, alas, this was the price of responsible pet ownership, and babykuna took her role as a loving yet strict caretaker with great pride.

mr. pickles, the dignified maine coon who had long accepted his fate as a regular at the vet, took his check-ups with the quiet resignation of a war veteran. his ears flicked at the cold of the stethoscope, his tail swished when his belly was poked, but otherwise, he was a picture of patience. remarkably, for a cat of his advanced years, his medical results were pristine. the vet, in sheer awe, even called him "a marvel of feline genetics"—though sukuna grumbled under his breath that it just meant the furball was too stubborn to kick the bucket.

baby, on the other hand, was a walking health hazard. where mr. pickles was a refined housecat who requested fresh meals and pristine litter conditions, baby was a feral gremlin in the body of a domestic tabby. this was a cat that had, at least once, been caught trying to gnaw on a discarded tire. his lifestyle—if it could be called that—was "youthful" at best, "grossly unhygienic" at worst. the vet, exhausted after trying to inspect him, simply wrote "?????" under his potential ailments because there was simply no telling what eldritch horrors lurked in his fur. at this point, baby had probably singlehandedly discovered a new species of lice.

but medical concerns aside, the true highlight of vet day wasn’t the check-ups. no, it was the spa day afterward.

the moment they returned home, babykuna whisked her beloved boys straight into the bathroom, where a full-blown feline luxury treatment awaited. they were shampooed, conditioned, and towel-dried like royalty—though baby did his best to convince everyone he was being waterboarded the entire time. when they emerged from the bathroom, both cats were fluffed up like expensive rugs, their fur cleaner than it had ever been. baby, despite his protests, smelled like fresh lavender instead of whatever unholy mix of motor oil and dirt he’d been previously marinating in.

but the real cherry on top was the styling session.

mr. pickles, being the noble creature he was, tolerated this part with a dignified air. his fur was gently trimmed in a way that framed his face, and even his whiskers got the lightest touch-up—just enough to appease his tiny owner. a small bow was delicately placed on his collar, a mark of his undeniable seniority in the household. he looked like a wise old professor, the type to lecture other cats about the "good old days" when food didn’t come from cans but was hunted with claws and cunning.

baby, on the other hand, was made to suffer.

his fur, already a wild mess, was combed into submission before babykuna decided that he too deserved a bow. however, unlike mr. pickles’ refined little accessory, baby’s was a full-blown, oversized pink ribbon, positioned right at the top of his head like he was some kind of tragic beauty pageant contestant. the sheer offense on his face was unmatched. if looks could kill, babykuna would have been vaporized on the spot.

when sukuna entered post-session, arms crossed and already expecting some level of nonsense, he was greeted with the sight of two completely different levels of feline acceptance.

mr. pickles sat tall, his mane glossy, his whiskers subtly shaped—if anything, he looked rather pleased with himself. he was exuding "distinguished gentlecat" energy, someone who would sit on a velvet throne and demand tribute. 

baby, meanwhile, sat stiff as a board, the pink ribbon slipping slightly to the side, his eyes holding the thousand-yard stare of someone who had seen too much.

sukuna snorted. "why the hell does baby look like he just lost a bet?"

babykuna, utterly delighted with her work, beamed up at him. "doesn't he look sooo cute?!"

baby, tail flicking in pure rage, silently disagreed.

[kashverse]

thank you for being patient with my hiatus :) i hope you enjoy this!

the sukuna household did not half-ass anything—especially when it came to the arts. the living room had been transformed into an elaborate stage for tonight’s grand production: the tale of the brave warrior and the mighty dragon king. 

sheets were draped over furniture to form great mountains, the coffee table was now a treacherous bridge over a deadly chasm, and sukuna’s very expensive velvet armchair had been forcibly declared a tower. mr. pickles and baby sat dutifully at your feet, your loyal underlings, ready to aid in your villainous dragon duties.

“ROOOAAAR!” you boomed, standing atop the couch—sorry, the dragon’s lair—in your most powerful stance, arms crossed, chin tilted up with the authority of a true ruler. your daughter, the wise, strong, and courageous warrior queen, stood before you, her tiny wooden sword held high. 

“foul dragon king!” babykuna declared, pointing dramatically. “you have to release the princess at once!”

from the glorious velvet throne (which was absolutely not meant to be used as a tower, but sukuna had lost that battle the moment babykuna threw herself on the floor and fake-cried for extra drama), sukuna sighed the sigh of a man questioning his life choices. he stretched out his legs, lounging with all the grace of a terribly uninterested captive. “oh noooo,” he drawled, voice flat, expression bored. “i’m trapped. whatever shall i do.”

baby, your ever-faithful minion, let out an enthusiastic howl. mr. pickles, as always, sneezed.  "silence, my beasts!" you commanded, waving a hand. 

mr. pickles stared at you with the eyes of an old man who had been through enough.

"no!" babykuna shouted, turning to her most trusted allies. "do not listen to the dragon king’s evil words!"

baby howled in encouragement. mr. pickles, still questioning his life choices, gave a slow blink.

“warrior!” sukuna suddenly perked up, seemingly realizing that he had been regulated to princess duty. “come, rescue me!”

he spread out his arms—big, dramatic, clearly expecting some grand, heroic moment. and then—

silence.

the warrior queen and the dragon king exchanged a look. a deep, understanding look. a scheming look.

"actually," you stroked your chin, voice thoughtful. “i think i shall keep the princess.” babykuna nodded solemnly. 

"yeah, we don’t need him."

a beat.

"...excuse me?" sukuna squinted.

"mr. pickles," you turned to your most trusted advisor, "what say you?"

mr. pickles stared at sukuna. then at you. then at babykuna. 

and then he rolled over onto his side and started grooming himself.

sukuna’s eye twitched.

"baby?" you prompted. 

baby the tabby let out a single, very conclusive ‘mrep’.

“WHAT ENDING IS THIS?!” sukuna roared, kicking off his imaginary princess skirts in outrage.

but the warrior girl and the dragon king had already turned away, walking into the sunset of their happily-ever-after.

baby was awarded the honorary title of ‘keeper of the sacred tennis ball’. mr. pickles got a nap. and the princess? well, the princess had many questions and zero answers.

[kashverse]

communication is a pillar of the sukuna household. and that means a full debrief after kindergarten is absolutely non-negotiable. 

the three of you are stationed at the living room couch, babykuna positioned squarely between you and sukuna, legs swinging as she recounts the major political events of the day—how she valiantly stopped a classmate from consuming a crayon (a heroic feat, if she does say so herself), how she devoured every last bite of her snack (because growing warriors need fuel), and how she bravely faced the trials of nap time.

but the moment your fingers start combing through her soft yet unruly hair, it’s game over. mid-sentence, her voice slows, then slurs, and before either of you can intervene, she’s slumped forward, using sukuna’s stomach as a very cushy, very comfortable pillow. the air is filled with the sound of soft, rhythmic snores.

sukuna, meanwhile, looks like he's in the throes of a full-blown crisis. his face is bright red, eyes wide, jaw clenched as he tries—desperately—to suppress the violent wave of cuteness aggression overtaking his entire body. you can see the vein on his forehead pulsing with the sheer force of his willpower. his fingers twitch. his breathing is uneven. the sheer adorableness of the situation is threatening to send him into an unhinged outburst, and you know if you don’t intervene, he’s going to lose it.

“honey,” you murmur, barely above a whisper. “breathe.”

“i am,” he rasps, voice strained, fists clenching against his thighs. “barely.”

and when babykuna lets out a particularly soft little sigh in her sleep, nuzzling deeper into his stomach, sukuna makes a noise so ungodly you’re concerned he might actually explode on the spot.

[kashverse]

kunafamily lore masterlist ☆ a good place to start reading if you want to fill in some lore gaps! this dates back to when kunamama used to be sukuna's boss. :) → can you guess who mamami is? (hint: nanami's future wife <3)

rewind time, back to the golden era when sukuna was still a corporate grunt—well, an aggressively overqualified corporate grunt with an ego problem, but a grunt nonetheless. 

and like every other grunt in the office, sukuna thrived on gossip. not that he’d ever admit it, of course. no, no, he wasn’t one of those losers huddled around the breakroom whispering about who got caught making out in the supply closet. sukuna didn’t do whispers. but casual, offhanded commentary? strategically-placed remarks that conveniently extracted information? oh, absolutely.

“what’s with all the murmuring?” he drawled as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head. he wasn’t even facing anyone in particular, but he knew they’d take the bait. they always did.

mamami, the undisputed queen of office gossip and the only person who could navigate the workplace with more dignity than the boss, raised a brow. “wouldn’t you like to know?” she mused, sipping her coffee.

“if i wanted to, i’d ask,” sukuna countered, feigning indifference as he casually scrolled through his phone—nothing open, nothing reading, just scrolling to appear as if he had better things to do. “but i don’t. i just think if people have time to gossip, maybe they should be working.”

“so noble of you,” mamami deadpanned, unimpressed. one of the interns snorted. “you were literally just talking shit about accounting five minutes ago.”

“that was different,” sukuna said, snapping his fingers. “that was facts, not gossip. there’s a difference.” mamami rolled her eyes but smirked. “if you must know, we were talking about types.”

“types?” sukuna echoed, still feigning disinterest, though he was listening very, very intently. “you know, what kind of person someone’s into.” she took another sip of coffee.

then casually, almost absentmindedly, said, “like how the boss apparently has a thing for guys like you.”

now. now. sukuna had heard many things in his life. many things that had tested the very fabric of his self-restraint. but this—this was something else entirely.

his brain short-circuited. his mouth opened, then shut, then opened again, before he settled on a reaction that he hoped would appear completely normal.

“ha. ha. ha.”

it did not.

mamami gave him a look. “you okay?”

“me? yeah. totally. normal day, normal conversation.” he waved a dismissive hand, like this was of no importance whatsoever. “so. uh. did she say that herself, or is this a, you know, speculation thing?”

“oh, she said it,” she confirmed, eyes twinkling. “but you didn’t hear it from me.”

sukuna nodded, trying to school his expression into something resembling nonchalance. “right. right. obviously.”

and then, because he was a completely normal, well-adjusted man who was not absolutely losing his mind over the fact that his boss—his terrifying, brilliant, untouchable boss—might have a thing for him, he proceeded to excuse himself to the bathroom, where he proceeded to stare at himself in the mirror for five full minutes, processing.

holy. shit.

[kashverse]

kunafamily lore masterlist ☆ a good place to start reading if you want to fill in some lore gaps! 

competition is important. it builds character. it fosters ambition. it fuels the soul with the sweet, unrelenting drive to win. and for the sukuna household, competition took the form of a daily war—a battle waged between a father and his daughter, where the ultimate prize was the privilege, the honor, the right to wish you good morning first.

sukuna, being the supreme strategist that he was, played it smart. he had an advantage, after all. he woke up early, hit the gym before the sun even thought about rising, and returned home just in time to catch you in the kitchen, where he could saunter up and drop the first morning greeting before his pint-sized opponent even rolled out of bed.

today was no different. he could already see you by the counter, tea in hand, your hair still messy from sleep. perfect. the moment was his.

he smirked. “mornin’, babe—”

then he heard it.

a rumble. deep. foreboding. a sound that struck the soul with a primal sense of dread.

from the hallway emerged the general of the opposition—mr. pickles, in all his aged, majestic, maine coon glory. his fur bristled like a battle-worn lion’s mane, his tail swishing with terrifying precision. and behind him, following in lockstep, was his tiny, formidable apprentice—babykuna, determination burning in her little eyes.

sukuna barely had time to process before he saw it.

baby. airborne.

yes. flung. like a living, breathing projectile, claws extended, hurtling toward his unsuspecting face.

“ABORT—”

too late. impact.

sukuna shrieked, staggering back as baby latched onto him like a rabid gremlin, paws swiping at his face, claws digging into his skin as if enacting some ancient feline vengeance. “you little—get OFF, you hairy demon—”

and amidst the chaos, babykuna, the true mastermind of this operation, elegantly twirled past his flailing form, reached your side, and placed her tiny hands on your arm. “good morning, mama,” she said sweetly, blinking up at you.

you smiled. “good morning, baby.”

victory.

sukuna, meanwhile, was busy peeling baby off his face, muttering curses under his breath. he looked at his daughter, utterly betrayed. “you little snake. you used the damn cat as a weapon.”

babykuna giggled, holding up one tiny finger. “papa zero. me, one.”

mr. pickles sat beside her, victorious, licking a paw with all the smugness of an undefeated war general. competition was important, after all. and sukuna, for all his strength and cunning, had lost.

[kashverse]

how would babykuna fend off a man getting too friendly with mamakuna?👹

life, in all its wonder, occasionally presents moments no one asks for—like unsolicited masculinity at the grocery store.

there you were, simply trying to decide between two brands of pasta, when a voice intruded upon your peaceful existence. "you know," said a man who smelled suspiciously of overpriced cologne and misplaced confidence, "most people don’t realize there’s a huge difference between keto and gluten-free."

ah. one of those men.

you turned, already bracing yourself. "oh. uh, yeah."

"it’s actually fascinating," he continued, leaning way too close to your personal space. "keto is all about low-carb intake, while gluten-free is more about avoiding wheat proteins. a lot of people think they’re the same, but i make it a point to educate whenever i can."

babykuna, sitting proudly in the shopping cart, had been silently observing this disaster unfold. her tiny hands gripped the metal frame, her little brows furrowed in utter disdain.

this...this was unacceptable. mama was under attack. and until papa arrived, she had to be the hero. she sucked in a dramatic breath and let out a long, exaggerated "eeewwwwww."

the man blinked. "uh—"

babykuna wrinkled her nose like she had just smelled something truly foul. "mamaaaa, he stiiiiiiiinks."

you cleared your throat, trying (and failing) to suppress your amusement. "baby, that's not—"

"yes, it is," she cut in, now pointing at the man like he was an exhibit at a zoo. "he smells like...like..." she thought for a second, then gasped. "yucky cheese!"

the man visibly bristled. "i—uh, i don’t think that’s—"

"yucky, stinky cheese," she confirmed, nodding sagely. then, just to make things worse, she waved a tiny hand in front of her nose, scrunching her face in an oscar-worthy performance of disgust.

you sighed, switching to polite rejection mode. "listen, i really appreciate the...um, food science lesson, but I’m just here to shop with my daughter—"

"papa’s coming," babykuna cut in, her tone warning.

and oh, how those words sent a ripple of cosmic dread into the universe.

because just as the man opened his mouth to press whatever point he thought he had, a shadow loomed over the scene.

sukuna.

tall. broad. wearing his usual look of mild menace. he took one glance at the situation—his wife looking vaguely annoyed, his daughter puffed up like an offended cat, some random guy standing too close—and placed a single hand on the cart.

"hey, babe," he said casually, eyes fixed on the man like a wolf sizing up its next meal. "who’s this?"

the man, suddenly realizing the error of his ways, took a sharp step back. "oh, i was just—uh—talking about—"

"stinky cheese," babykuna supplied, nodding solemnly. sukuna smirked. "oh yeah?" he turned to you. "you makin’ friends?"

"not particularly," you deadpanned.

the man fumbled. "i—uh, actually, i just remembered I have to—uh—go get, um, kale. yeah. kale." and just like that, he disappeared down the aisle, never to be seen again. babykuna sighed, relieved. "phew. he almost touched mama with his stink."

sukuna chuckled, ruffling her hair. "good lookin’ out, kid."

and with that, the three of you continued your shopping trip, the crisis of stinky cheese man officially averted.

[kashverse]

meow

[kashverse]

how would babykuna fend off a man getting too friendly with mamakuna?👹

life, in all its wonder, occasionally presents moments no one asks for—like unsolicited masculinity at the grocery store.

there you were, simply trying to decide between two brands of pasta, when a voice intruded upon your peaceful existence. "you know," said a man who smelled suspiciously of overpriced cologne and misplaced confidence, "most people don’t realize there’s a huge difference between keto and gluten-free."

ah. one of those men.

you turned, already bracing yourself. "oh. uh, yeah."

"it’s actually fascinating," he continued, leaning way too close to your personal space. "keto is all about low-carb intake, while gluten-free is more about avoiding wheat proteins. a lot of people think they’re the same, but i make it a point to educate whenever i can."

babykuna, sitting proudly in the shopping cart, had been silently observing this disaster unfold. her tiny hands gripped the metal frame, her little brows furrowed in utter disdain.

this...this was unacceptable. mama was under attack. and until papa arrived, she had to be the hero. she sucked in a dramatic breath and let out a long, exaggerated "eeewwwwww."

the man blinked. "uh—"

babykuna wrinkled her nose like she had just smelled something truly foul. "mamaaaa, he stiiiiiiiinks."

you cleared your throat, trying (and failing) to suppress your amusement. "baby, that's not—"

"yes, it is," she cut in, now pointing at the man like he was an exhibit at a zoo. "he smells like...like..." she thought for a second, then gasped. "yucky cheese!"

the man visibly bristled. "i—uh, i don’t think that’s—"

"yucky, stinky cheese," she confirmed, nodding sagely. then, just to make things worse, she waved a tiny hand in front of her nose, scrunching her face in an oscar-worthy performance of disgust.

you sighed, switching to polite rejection mode. "listen, i really appreciate the...um, food science lesson, but I’m just here to shop with my daughter—"

"papa’s coming," babykuna cut in, her tone warning.

and oh, how those words sent a ripple of cosmic dread into the universe.

because just as the man opened his mouth to press whatever point he thought he had, a shadow loomed over the scene.

sukuna.

tall. broad. wearing his usual look of mild menace. he took one glance at the situation—his wife looking vaguely annoyed, his daughter puffed up like an offended cat, some random guy standing too close—and placed a single hand on the cart.

"hey, babe," he said casually, eyes fixed on the man like a wolf sizing up its next meal. "who’s this?"

the man, suddenly realizing the error of his ways, took a sharp step back. "oh, i was just—uh—talking about—"

"stinky cheese," babykuna supplied, nodding solemnly. sukuna smirked. "oh yeah?" he turned to you. "you makin’ friends?"

"not particularly," you deadpanned.

the man fumbled. "i—uh, actually, i just remembered I have to—uh—go get, um, kale. yeah. kale." and just like that, he disappeared down the aisle, never to be seen again. babykuna sighed, relieved. "phew. he almost touched mama with his stink."

sukuna chuckled, ruffling her hair. "good lookin’ out, kid."

and with that, the three of you continued your shopping trip, the crisis of stinky cheese man officially averted.

[kashverse]

i have an idea!! could you write something about sukuna taking babykuna to her first daddy daughter dance? 🥹

oh this made my heart soft.....thank you for requesting <3

it wasn’t often that sukuna did things quietly. he was a man of big gestures, loud proclamations, and—if the mood struck—petty celebrations just to rub in a victory. but this was different.

it started when babykuna saw you and sukuna dancing in the kitchen one evening. you weren’t doing anything extravagant, just swaying to the soft hum of music playing from your speaker. sukuna had one arm around your waist, his fingers lazily tracing shapes on your back, and babykuna watched from the hallway, eyes wide with interest.

the next day, it happened. sukuna had just gotten home when babykuna marched up to him, very serious.

“papa.”

he looked down. “yo.”

she huffed. “we must dance.”

sukuna blinked. “…we must?”

“yes.”

a pause. then he smirked. “you tryna challenge me, kid?”

babykuna narrowed her eyes. “no.” she pointed very dramatically. “you must dance with me. like how you do with mama.”

ah.

so that’s how sukuna found himself in the living room, with the lights dimmed, holding his daughter in his arms as ‘cariño’ by the marías played softly in the background. babykuna, dressed in her favorite pajamas, scrunched up her face in deep concentration, her tiny hands clutching onto his much larger ones, trying to mimic how she’d seen you dance with him.

sukuna, at first, played along with mock seriousness, humming the tune as he swayed them gently. but then, somewhere between her little giggles and her determined little frown, his expression shifted— from amusement to softness.

he was dancing with his little girl. his baby. and one day, she wouldn’t be this small anymore.

nearby, mr. pickles the maine coon and baby the orange tabby were sitting still, watching the scene unfold. mr. pickles, ever the wise old man, was probably contemplating the fleeting nature of time. baby, however, was staring blankly ahead, absolutely void of thought.

and you were standing in the doorway, watching them, clutching a kitchen towel like it could physically hold in your emotions. because, damn it, if you didn’t feel like crying.

sukuna caught your eye. his signature smirk softened into something quieter, something fond. and then, with babykuna still in his arms, he tilted his head towards you, offering a silent invitation. your feet moved before you could even think. before you knew it, you were joining them, swaying together in the middle of your home, the warmth of your family pressed close.

and for once, sukuna wasn’t the loudest thing in the room. for once, he let the moment speak for itself.

[kashverse]

HEY!! just wanted to say i am SO inlove with your writing!! could i request something with toji?? 👀👀 like toji with a wife who LOVES plants, and even have matching tattoos? 💋 mwah i appreciate youu !

toji fushiguro is a lot of things—dangerous, feared, and borderline feral when it comes to money—but absolutely shit in love with you takes the top spot on the list. the kind of love where he’d kill for you (already does), die for you (willingly), and most importantly, water your plants when you’re not home because he knows how much they mean to you. because you? you are a plant gal.

it started as a hobby—something to fill the quiet moments, something that gave back just as much love as you poured into it. but then you got invested. suddenly, you knew which plants thrived indoors, which wouldn’t murder your air quality, which were safe for megumi (and his growing collection of questionable hobbies). and of course, you had an aloe vera. because no household, no matter how chaotic, could survive without an aloe vera.

toji still remembers the first time he really noticed it. you had been standing next to one of your flowering plants, humming softly as you misted its leaves. and he swears—swears—that damn flower bloomed even more just because you were next to it, like you were the fucking sun incarnate. it was the dumbest, most lovesick thought he’s ever had, and it hasn’t left him since.

but on top of all that, there was one other thing that made his chest swell with that ridiculous, head-over-heels, fully-done-for kind of love.

the matching tattoos. a silent, permanent mark of something only the two of you knew.

sometimes, people asked about them—little nosy shits who saw the ink peeking out from his sleeve or traced along your skin when they caught a glimpse. and every time, without fail, both of you would just exchange a look. a knowing, secretive little smile passing between you.

because it was yours.

toji loved that. loved that while the rest of the world only saw what you both allowed them to see, there were things—big, small, etched into your very skin—that belonged only to you and him. and yeah, sure, you didn’t react nearly as intensely as he did when he looked at you, all bright-eyed and head full of flowers and tattoos and love. but toji knew. 

even if you didn’t say it, even if you didn’t make a big show of it like he did, he knew. 

because, at the end of the day, your plants weren’t the only thing that bloomed under your care.

[kashverse]

𝒯he 呪術廻戦 men taking your pug for a walk

⪩⪨ ✶ implied f!reader but can be read otherwise featuring ♡ modern au! jjk boys (gojo, nanami, toji, geto, sukuna, choso) and obviously, bitsy the pug. ✿ ⪩⪨ written in memory of my pug zoey <3

walking the dog. truly, an activity built on bonding, friendship, and your boyfriend turning to god for help when you bid him and your furry companion goodbye as they embark on this supposedly peaceful journey together.

but first, let me introduce you to bitsy. bitsy, the beautiful… pug. yes, bitsy the beautiful pug, because that is the only title the fat—i mean, chubby—pug will acknowledge. call her anything else, and she will stare at you with the cold, unblinking judgment of a creature who has never once been told “no” in her entire life.

she is round. she is spoiled. she is roughly 80% attitude and 20% actual dog. her tiny, smooshed face perpetually holds the expression of someone who has seen the decline of civilization and is unimpressed. and she is the queen of this household. you are merely her humble servant, and your boyfriend? he is about to learn that walking bitsy is not just a casual stroll—it is a battle of wills. because you see, bitsy does not simply go on walks. she allows herself to be escorted. and if she does not feel like walking? well, that is a personal problem for whoever is holding the leash.

gojo satoru has tamed curses, defied death, and bent reality to his will. naturally, he assumes walking a pug will be easier than all of that. "alright, bitsy," he says, crouching in front of her, his usual cocky grin in place. "let’s make a deal—you don’t make this difficult, and i’ll let you have a treat after. sounds fair, yeah?"

bitsy, the beautiful pug, does not respond. she simply blinks at him.

"see? already a great understanding between us. i like you, kid." he ruffles her tiny head before standing up, leash in hand. "now let’s—"

bitsy sits down.

gojo blinks. "okay. funny joke. but we gotta go."

he tugs the leash slightly. bitsy remains seated, her chunky body glued to the pavement as if she has just become one with the earth itself. "go on, walk," gojo insists, pointing dramatically in the direction of the park. bitsy, ever defiant, does not so much as twitch. a normal person might have taken this as a sign to reevaluate their approach. gojo satoru? he kneels back down, getting eye-to-eye with her, his tone suddenly serious. 

"listen here, you little meatball. i’m the strongest." he taps his chest for emphasis. "i bend the laws of physics for fun. you are a 20-pound pug with breathing problems. let’s think about this logically—"

bitsy yawns. 

gojo gasps. "oh, hell no. did you just disrespect me?"

passersby slow their pace, giving wide-eyed glances at the grown man locked in a silent battle of wills with a chubby pug.

"you walk, i give you a whole bag of treats," he tries bargaining.

bitsy blinks.

"go on a short walk, and i’ll let you ride in my jacket like a little emperor."

bitsy snorts.

"go on a three-step walk, and I’ll buy you a gold-plated collar. custom engraving. real diamonds."

bitsy lifts a paw. for a split second, gojo thinks he's won—until she uses said paw to scratch her ear. 

"oh my god." gojo clutches his head. "is this how nanami feels when i ignore him?" you watch from the porch, arms crossed, while gojo grovels at the feet of a pug. this is, quite possibly, the best thing you’ve ever seen.

nanami is a man of principle. so when you ask him to take bitsy for a walk, he treats it like an obligation—not a chore, not an errand, but a task that must be done correctly. he does research beforehand. what’s the ideal walking speed for a pug? how much exercise should she get? what environmental hazards should be avoided? when he finally takes the leash, he kneels slightly, adjusting her collar to make sure it isn’t too tight.

"comfortable?" he asks.

bitsy, for the first time in her life, looks mildly impressed. then, the walk begins.

nanami maintains a steady, measured pace, keeping an eye on the pavement for anything sharp or dangerous. when he notices bitsy lagging slightly, he adjusts his speed to accommodate her tiny legs.

when they pass by a particularly sunny patch of sidewalk, he lifts bitsy momentarily to keep her paws from getting too hot. by the time they return, bitsy looks serene. satisfied. pampered. "how’d it go?" you ask.

nanami takes off his watch and wipes his hands as if he’s just performed surgery. "adequate. though i noticed some dehydration near the twenty-minute mark. i gave her some water, but I’d recommend bringing a collapsible bowl next time." you look at bitsy, who is now reclining dramatically on the couch, clearly expecting you to continue this level of service.

"you—" you point at her, "—are getting spoiled."

nanami adjusts his tie. "as you should be, if you’re cared for properly."

you glare. bitsy smirks. you have lost.

toji fushiguro is not the kind of man you expect to see walking a pug. his whole vibe—scarred, broad-shouldered, perpetually dressed like he just walked out of a street fight—does not scream "pug owner." so when you hand him the leash, he stares down at bitsy like she’s an alien. "this thing?" he gestures vaguely. "this is the dog?"

bitsy snorts.

toji sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "fine. let’s get this over with."

ten minutes into the walk, something strange happens. every male dog in the area starts losing their minds.

a german shepherd whimpers as they pass. a golden retriever pauses mid-fetch, dropping his tennis ball in shock. one particularly dramatic french bulldog flops onto his back in submission. toji stops. looks down at bitsy, then at the chaos unfolding. "what the hell is going on?" he mutters. bitsy, ever poised, continues strutting forward like she owns the streets. and then it clicks.

bitsy is not just a pug. she is a queen. the queen. these other dogs? they recognize royalty when they see it. toji watches a doberman sit his ass down just to stare reverently at bitsy.

"holy shit," he breathes. “i’m walking the goddamn dog mafia boss.” he looks down at her, suddenly understanding that this is no ordinary pug. this is a leader. and toji fushiguro? he is merely her bodyguard. by the time they return home, he’s holding the leash differently—less like a man doing a chore, and more like a man protecting an asset. "how was it?" you ask.

toji exhales. shakes his head. "i was humbled."

bitsy hops onto the couch, regal as ever. you do not ask any further questions.

geto is a reasonable man. rational, observant, always thinking three steps ahead. so when you ask him to walk bitsy the beautiful pug, he does not scoff, nor does he complain. he does, however, stare at bitsy for an uncomfortably long time, eyes narrowing in calculated suspicion.

“are you glaring at my dog?” you ask, crossing your arms.

“just… assessing.”

“assessing what?”

“whether or not this is an elaborate ploy. i wouldn’t put it past you to bring home something so unassuming, only for it to be a true menace.”

bitsy, completely unbothered, tilts her smooshed-in face up at him. geto sighs and clips on the leash. “fine. let’s go, creature.”

but here’s the thing—bitsy is smart.

at first, geto keeps his distance, walking like a man accompanying a colleague, not a pet. but soon, he starts noticing things. bitsy does not waste time sniffing every inch of the sidewalk—she knows exactly where to do her business, aiming for the most efficient spots like she’s planned her route in advance. she leads them to the best sunbathing patch in the park, where the pavement is warm but not scorching, and settles in like an old lady on her front porch. she watches passing dogs with the practiced indifference of someone who knows she is above them.

slowly, begrudgingly, geto starts to respect her.

by the end of the walk, they return in absolute silence, an unspoken agreement hanging between them. “…so?” you ask, curious. geto unclips the leash. bitsy waddles inside with all the grace of an empress.

“she’s efficient,” he says simply, rolling his shoulders like he’s just been in a tactical meeting. “i respect it.”

the way bitsy smirks at you before plopping down tells you everything you need to know.

you have one rule when sukuna takes bitsy out. do not encourage her bad habits.

you should have known better.

“did she push another dog aside to pee on the best spot?” you demand when they return. “duh.” sukuna tosses the leash onto the couch and rolls his shoulders like he just won a championship.

“did she hiss at a cat?”

“only ‘cause it was eyein’ her funny,” he shrugs.

“did you—” your voice catches as you take in the scene. sukuna is carrying bitsy—not just carrying, but holding her above his head, like a wrestler showing off a championship belt.

bitsy looks thrilled.

“you’re holding her like a WWE trophy.”

“damn right i am.” sukuna grins, utterly unapologetic. “my girl won today.”

“won what?”

“territory. respect. the goddamn sidewalk. tell ‘em, bits.”

bitsy snorts.

you groan, dragging a hand down your face.

“whatever. you can deal with her attitude now.”

sukuna smirks, tossing bitsy onto the couch where she lands like a sack of potatoes. “nah,” he says, ruffling her wrinkly head. “she’s just like me. perfect.”

choso has never fallen in love.

until bitsy.

it starts subtly. the way he adjusts her collar so it’s extra comfortable. the way he holds the leash just right, never tugging too hard. but then… then it gets worse.

bitsy, your once independent pug, has expectations now.

she cleans herself up when choso isn’t looking, wiping away snot and drool with her little paw, making sure she looks presentable for her beloved. she waits by the door when it’s time for her walk, tail wagging not for you, but for him.

and choso is worse.

he talks to her in that soft, affectionate voice he never uses with anyone else. he calls her sweetheart. he sits on the floor to be at her level. you are not proud of it, but one night, as choso cradles bitsy on the couch like she is the most delicate being in existence, you finally snap.

“i feel like a third wheel in my own relationship.”

choso looks up, confused. “huh?”

bitsy does not look up.

your eye twitches.

“you know what? never mind.”

[kashverse]

𝓗ow the 呪術廻戦 men play tennis

⪩⪨ ✶ no reader gender specified as these are character headcanons. featuring ♡ modern au! jjk boys (gojo, nanami, toji, geto, sukuna, choso)  ✿ ⪩⪨ good morning to all the tennis players….the rest of you all, good morning i guess

amongst the many hobbies of your beautiful stay-at-home husband, one of them was, surprisingly, tennis. nanami carries himself with such grace, he probably would have received 16 missed calls from zendaya asking him to be part of the next challengers movie. banana bread by night, tennis by day… what a man! the type to make you fresh orange juice with pulp in the morning and then go outside to serve aces so effortlessly, it makes professional players question their entire careers. he doesn't even need a coach—he learns purely through vibes and sheer elegance. he steps onto the court, does a couple of stretches, and suddenly it's like watching poetry in motion. you don’t know how he does it, but you're not about to question a man who balances a perfect backhand with making you the softest, fluffiest pancakes in the morning.

toji, on the other hand, has the raw power for tennis but none of the coordination. his idea of a "soft" rally is launching the ball into orbit, and if you ask him to do a drop shot, he’ll drop the entire racket instead. but he gets the hang of it eventually—almost a full year later, when everyone else has already moved on to their next hobby. now he’s just waiting for wimbledon season to roll around so he can finally convince everyone to play with him again. poor thing. you can find him standing outside the court with his racket, looking like a stray dog waiting to be let inside.

choso, meanwhile, is a badminton boy through and through, so tennis was an uphill battle for him, but he coped. kinda. his muscle memory betrays him every time, so he ends up flicking his wrist too hard or just standing in place, wondering why the ball isn’t as light as a shuttlecock. he also keeps accidentally playing doubles rules in singles matches and gets fouled for stepping inside the court mid-serve. but he tries his best, and that's what counts. bless his heart.

sukuna is… passionate. let's just leave it at that. he swings the racket like he's trying to destroy all his opps along with it, and any unfortunate soul who dares to play against him ends up fearing for their life. every ball he hits sounds like gunfire, and the courts have a dedicated "sukuna damage fund" because he’s broken so many rackets, fences, and possibly the willpower of a few umpires. people gift him new rackets on special occasions, not because they care about his game but because it’s a public safety issue at this point.

there’s also gojo. the man who buys everything you need for the aesthetic—matching outfits, the latest high-end racket, sweatbands in colors that complement his eyes—and then plays exactly one round before heading home to make a five-second reel with some awful text like, “pov: you're a tennis typa guy 🎾.” if you're lucky, he might stick around to take photos of the rest of you suffering in the heat, but that's about it. his true talent lies in making sure he looks good enough to make people think he plays, even though he barely does.

and finally, there's geto, the only one who can match up to nanami. you've heard of a work husband, but now get ready for a tennis court husband. that’s exactly what they are. they're not just playing tennis—they're engaging in a gentleman’s duel of skill, patience, and sheer endurance. their matches go on for hours, both of them moving with such perfect form it feels like watching a live-action sports anime. they don’t even trash-talk, they just exchange knowing looks that somehow carry entire paragraphs of meaning. everyone else just sits on the sidelines, drinking water and waiting for them to finally finish. at some point, someone suggests making popcorn, because at this rate, they’re going to be here all day. honestly, they probably deserve their own rivals to lovers arc, but no one wants to say it out loud.

[kashverse]

nanami’s handwriting is, as expected, immaculate. each letter crafted with the precision of a master calligrapher who moonlights as a salaryman. his strokes are even, calculated—like he’s silently judging the lesser beings who dare to write with anything less than perfection. of course, the sheer volume of paperwork he deals with has refined his skill. he’s the type to write his grocery lists in flawless cursive, only for gojo to ruin it by doodling sunglasses on the "eggs" entry.

gojo, on the other hand, has the handwriting of a child who just learned how to grip a pencil. it's an offense to the written word. his letters are uneven, loopy, and aggressively inconsistent, like they’re protesting against being confined to the page. it’s a miracle if he doesn’t turn a signature into a doodle of his own face. not that he ever signs anything—he usually leaves that to nanami, much to the latter’s dismay.

geto’s handwriting is elegant, of course. smooth, refined, the kind of script that belongs in historical documents and love letters no one was ever meant to find. it’s clear he’s practiced—perhaps too much. he probably picked up calligraphy in secret, pretending it was some profound, personal pursuit, but really, he just wanted his notes to look better than gojo’s (not a high bar). and they do. he could write an insult in the most graceful script and you’d thank him for the honor.

toji’s handwriting is less handwriting and more a desperate scrawl. he writes like someone trying to forge an ominous killer’s insignia and failing miserably. his letters look like they were scratched into the paper with a dull knife rather than a pen. half the time, he runs out of ink mid-sentence, but instead of refilling the pen, he just presses harder, as if brute force will solve his problems. it never does.

and then there’s sukuna, a man who has never written a single word in his life. why would he? he had servants, he had uraume—why dirty his hands with something so menial? and it shows. if you ever did manage to get him to write something down, it would look like an ancient curse that needs an entire research team to decipher. his grip on a pen is likely unnatural, like watching a cat try to hold chopsticks. at best, he can carve his name into flesh, but paper? absolutely not. his handwriting is a crime against literacy.

[kashverse]

nerd gojo fawning over nerd reader

kinda went crazy with this one….nerd gojo in the 90's….naia u really bring out the best in me💗

gojo adjusts his round, too-big glasses—thick enough to magnify his already ridiculous blue eyes—and takes a deep breath. he runs through his mental calculations one more time.

"wonderwall" equation for max effectiveness:

optimal vocal projection: 85 decibels (±5dB)

ideal tempo: 87 BPM (±3 BPM for emotional effect)

nasal twang coefficient: moderately high

statistical probability of rejection: 12.3% (adjusted for charm bonus)

potential embarrassment level: catastrophic

this is fine. standing in front of your house, decked out in a windbreaker that is as violently neon as it is unnecessary for the mild weather, he strums an imaginary guitar and belts out:

"today is gonna be the day that they're gonna throw it back to you~"

he pauses, adjusting his stance. “hmm. no, no, that was flat. i need to increase my pitch by 1.3 semitones. let’s try that again.”

he clears his throat and goes again, this time making sure to align his vibrato with the harmonic frequency of maximum emotional resonance (as determined by extensive research conducted via rolling stone magazine and a questionable conversation with nanami, who muttered something about 'a disaster' before walking away), kicking the dirt for dramatic effect, and goes again—this time leaning into the nasally britpop vocals hard.

"by now, you shoulda somehow realized what you gotta do~"

he glances at your window. no movement. he’s losing you. quick, gojo, pivot.

“statistically speaking,” he calls out, adjusting his glasses, “your chances of experiencing a more mathematically perfect prom night are significantly higher if you go with me. i have prepared a powerpoint.” he gestures at the projector he has somehow set up on your front lawn. 

your door creaks open. you're standing there, arms crossed, a mixture of amusement and secondhand embarrassment etched on your face.

“satoru.”

he straightens. “yes, my beloved quadratic equation?” you blink. “what the hell is happening right now.”

“romance,” he says, dead serious. “but also: physics.”

"oh my god—"

“listen, babe, i crunched the numbers. we’re talking optimal slow dance potential, prime photo booth placement, minimum cringe risk—”

“minimum cringe?” you interrupt, raising an eyebrow. “you’re standing on my lawn singing oasis like a dork.” gojo grins. “yeah, but, like, in an endearing way.”

“is that why you’ve been calculating the acoustic properties of your own voice for the last ten minutes?”

gojo gasps, clutching his chest dramatically. “you noticed? babe. we really are meant to be.”

you stare. he stares back.

“…so, prom?” he asks, hopeful. you sigh, rubbing your temples before nodding.

he fist-pumps so hard he nearly dislocates his shoulder. “YES! the experiment was a success!”

“there was an experiment?”

“of course! and the hypothesis was that gojo satoru is the most dateable nerd this side of the millennium!”

“…and the conclusion?”

“that you are super hot and super smart, and i am also a genius.”

you shake your head, unable to fight the grin tugging at your lips. maybe prom night with a human calculator wouldn’t be so bad.

[kashverse]

i love your kunapapa drabbles so muchh but what about satoru being a girl dad?

co-written alongside my friend who has no clue about jujutsu kaisen but is a twitter veteran....

gojo satoru is a man of principles. but more importantly, he’s a man of theatrics. which means that when he sets rules for his baby-girl—aka babytoru, aka the apple of his six eyes, aka his beautiful babygirl—those rules are nothing short of spectacularly ridiculous.

the gojo family commandments, as dictated by the strongest and his miniature heir 

1. say please—but make it sabrina carpenter please.

none of that weak, single-word "please" nonsense. babytoru has been trained to drop the full please, please, please just like miss sabrina intended. three times for maximum cuteness, effect, and emotional manipulation.

“daddy, can i have ice cream?”

“what do we say, baby?”

“please, please, please!”

“hmm, you could’ve hit that third ‘please’ with a little more desperation, but i respect the effort.”

“daddy—”

“—okay, okay! no need to go full oscar-winning performance, geez.”

(people outside the gojo household are startled when babytoru wields this power elsewhere. one time she did it at a convenience store and the poor cashier just handed her a free pack of pocky. toru had to pretend he didn’t see.)

2. say thank you—but always thank beyoncé first.

the first time babytoru thanked the nice old lady at the grocery store without thanking beyoncé first, gojo dramatically gasped so loud that the produce section shook. since then, she has been well-trained.

“thank you, beyoncé.” (pause for respect.)

“thank you, nice fruit stall lady.”

“what… what just happened?” the vendor once asked, deeply confused.

“she thanks the queen first,” gojo shrugged. “as all cultured people should.”

(when gojo called his father to borrow money once, he also did it. "thank you, beyoncé. now, about that loan—" to this day, his dad refuses to acknowledge it happened.)

3. when asked about the future, respond with confidence.

the gojo side of the family has some nosy people. the kind who ask a six-year-old what she wants to do with her life as if she should have a five-year plan. but babytoru is prepared.

“so, dear, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

“celebrate brat summer all year.”

gojopapa's cousin blinks. “what?” gojo, nodding sagely, claps her on the shoulder. “brat summer. all year ‘round. my little genius is thinking ahead.”

(babytoru does not know what "thinking ahead" means. she just knows that her daddy fist-bumped her for it, which means she was correct.)

bonus rules that gojo enforces when no one is watching:

any emotional moment must be accompanied by the succession theme song playing softly in the background.

sunglasses indoors are not just encouraged, they are mandatory.

[kashverse]

HAI HAI!!

since your requests are open

I request:

Waitress!reader/waiter!reader x costumer!gojo

I love ur writing sm its fine if this one comes out late your kunafamily fics are enough to keep me happy for my entire life 💕

i decided to continue my nerd! gojo in the 90's au :)

gojo is cool. he's chill. he's definitely not about to make a total dweeb of himself in front of the most statistically, scientifically, gravitationally attractive human being he has ever laid his bespectacled eyes on. 

you're just a waiter. a devastatingly good-looking, reality-breaking, hotter-than-a-bunsen-burner-on-max waiter. but whatever. he’s got this.

so when you set down his extra sweet caramel latte—because caffeine alone is for people who don’t respect the concept of joy—he decides, yeah, he’s gonna flex a little. “y’know,” he starts, adjusting his glasses like he’s about to drop some serious knowledge, “chemically speaking, caramelization is a non-enzymatic browning reaction caused by the pyrolysis of sugar at high temperatures, breaking it down into smaller volatile compounds that give off that totally radical smell and taste."

he glances up, hoping for at least a nod of interest, maybe a ‘whoa, dude, that’s fascinating’—but instead, you just blink at him.

danger. danger. abort. ABORT.

but then—you giggle. like, an actual, real life giggle.

oh. oh hell yeah. this is it. this is his moment.

he leans in, confidence skyrocketing. “basically, what i’m saying is, this latte? it’s got the same level of complex molecular interactions as the feeling of looking at your face.”

you snort. “that’s the nerdiest way anyone’s ever hit on me.” he shrugs, throwing in what he hopes is a suave smirk but probably just makes him look like he’s fighting a brain freeze. “i aim for innovation, babe. anybody can say ‘you’re pretty’—but only i can compare your existence to a maillard reaction.”

you shake your head, still grinning. “you really just monologued about sugar chemistry instead of just saying you think i’m cute, huh?”

“listen,” he says, leaning back and spreading his arms dramatically, “i could’ve gone with the basic approach, but then i’d be just some guy to you. i’m tryna be THE guy—the one you remember forever as ‘that one boy who equated my attractiveness to caramelization.’” you hum, tapping your chin. “that is pretty memorable.”

“right?! see, i’m playing 4D chess here.”

you roll your eyes but don’t stop smiling. “all right, textbook boy, enjoy your latte. try not to get lost in thermodynamic contemplation or whatever.” you walk away, and gojo, still riding the high of your giggles, takes a sip of his drink—only to immediately regret every decision he’s ever made in his life. 

“holy—” he pulls the cup away, blinking rapidly. “that is so sweet. why did i order this?”

he hears you chuckle from behind the counter. he’s never ordering anything else ever again.