leviackmyman

[leviackmyman]

the only drawback to making kento a father is the lack of 'alone time' you now get.

he was made to be a dad, there’s no doubt about it. he’s the perfect contender, stern but patient and understanding and so infatuated with fatherhood that you almost don’t mind the nightly interruptions.

almost. the sound of little padding footsteps leading up to your closed bedroom door gives you a trauma response now. how your husband can hold himself above you, inches away from dipping inside your sweet center, and still remain kind-eyed and cheery when your daughter starts banging on the shut door to be let in is beyond you.

he's a good man. you hate him for it.

maybe you just need sex. you've been deprived of your husband's body for so long that you're going stir crazy, in a sense. he did marry you with a vow of servitude, after all.

thank god for takuma and his wide eyes. he looks like a deer in headlights as he stands at your front door, a huge bag of toys and snacks and just-in-case diapers in one hand and your daughters tiny hand wrapped around two fingers of his other hand. she beams up at uncle ino, ready to spend a night away from home (and get unreasonably spoilt in the process).

"no snacks after her teeth are brushed. and she's developed a penchant for climbing—don't let her do that. and if she comes home with even a mark, ino, i will be breaking each and every last one of your bones, starting with the toes and moving upwards until i reach your—"

"i think he gets the point, love," you place a gentle hand on your husbands tense bicep. "please stop threatening to snap takuma's bones."

ino, who is probably going over his last will and testament in his head, forces a grin. "loud and clear, she's safe with me."

"mhm," your husband can only eye him for so long before your daughter is tugging uncle ino away and leaving the two of you in the foyer.

finally alone. just you, your husband, and his teething paranoia. he's darting to the front window and peeking through it like a yappy dog would as their owner leaves. it’s cute. you feel bad for the future-teenage version of your daughter, who will have to deal with a man like kento nanami as her father. but now she’s just a baby and in the safe (albeit shaky) care of uncle ino, and you are vying for an orgasm or six.

“ken, honey."

his eyes are stuck outside.

"kento."

still stuck. you never thought the other woman would be sporting butterfly clips and drool as a statement piece.

"oh my fucking god kento nanami if you do not fuck me right now i will take that little sword of yours and stick it so far up your— oh hi."

he's standing in front of you before you know it, with your face held firmly in his hands and an awfully stern look on his face.

"my love," he drags his thumb from your cheek, down to your bottom lip. "first of all, i have every intention of ravaging you until you're so full of me that you don't have the mind to beg for more. and second, it's more of a cleaver than a sword."

"okay nerd," you pull your man into a deep kiss, one much more intimate than you've been allowing yourself of late. kento takes the lead easily, slipping his tongue past your lips in a way he'd never dare to do over the breakfast table.

before you can register your movements, the two of you are stumbling like drunk teens up to your bedroom, a garment of clothing lost with each step to the door. you loosen your husbands tie and drop it to the ground, and he manages to unclasp your bra just as his back hits the bed and you're falling on top of him in a mess of gross kisses and shared laughter.

it's sweet, until kento tires of the homely teasing and flips you over to press his heavy body (and even heavier cock, it seems) against yourself. your legs part naturally, as they will ever do for the man you love, and kento trails kiss after kiss from your neck all the way down to the dripping mess of your cunt.

when he latches his lips to your clit you gasp and shoot your hand down to his hair. he loves it being pulled, admitted to you after a drink too many that he finds in degrading in a way that is only pleasurable coming from you: he's sensitive to that sort of stuff, so you tug lightly at his blond locks until your fingers snag against something hard.

"what's in your hair?" you manage between moans as ken savours his most favourite meal.

he pulls away for a second, resting his cheek against your parted (and already shaky) thigh as you comb through his hair with your fingers once more and pullout not one, but two hot pink butterfly clips that you were looking for only this morning.

"oh," your husband smiles when he sees them. "i got a princess makeover last night. i stopped her before she could go looking for makeup but she did manage to find those."

"they suit you," you smile, and clip them back into his hair. it look silly, but it keeps his hair from sticking to his forehead in the heat of things, so you look past the glitter. "you're a good dad, you know?"

kento presses a kiss to your clit, which has your breath hitch in your throat, before rising up to climb over you once again. his cock is heavy and pulsing with heat as it rests against you, but ken denies himself for a moment in favour of pressing a very sweet kiss to your lips. you can taste yourself on his smile.

"thank you for making me a dad," he kisses your cheek next, and then your forehead. "and thank you for everything else you have given me in our marriage."

"all those orgasms..." you muse, which earns you a small laugh from your lover.

"oh indeed," he reaches down and lines himself up with you. "you always know just how to set the mood. very sentimental, you are."

"it's what you married me for," you lift your hips a little to help your husband in. "isn't it? you just love the way i—oh god, ken."

he pushes into you niiice and slow, feeling the way you stretch around him. it's been a while, so the usual ache of accommodating his unfair size is more of a burn this time through, but kento's lips against your neck are a nice distraction. he's slow and sweet and so in love with you that you can feel it in the way he fills you up. or maybe you're just delusional from the dick.

"love the way you feel," he finishes your sentence. drawing his hips back only a little to get you used to his movements, he presses his next kiss to your shoulder. "love the way you look."

"you don't need to flatter me. you're already inside of me."

kento bites the skin of your shoulder and picks up the pace to really start fucking you. "love the way you can take a compliment without being a smartass about it."

"god, kento," you can only manage a few words before he's adjusting his thrusts to brush against your g spot with each movement in and out. "it's so much."

"i love how well you take me," he goes on. "i love your heart. and i love your body. and i love your idiotic jokes. and i love how you smell."

"ken..."

"and i love—" kento runs a hand down your left arm to take your hand in his, bringing your knuckles up to his lips before pressing a long kiss to your wedding band "—how i'm all yours."

not his, yours. he's made it very clear since your first date (which was more of a study-situation than anything, that he is all yours. your property. your lover. your shoulder to cry on and your life partner and the man who would burn down cities for you and your kid.

and the only man who could fill you this deep and still be romantic about it. he fucks you like that until your legs are locked around his waist and you're begging him to fill you up with his load.

and of course he obliges, because anything you ask for he will give you enthusiastically. he rubs your clit until you're blanking on your own name and cumming in beautiful synchronisation with him. kento spills deep inside of you with a breathy groan and even then still manages to fuck you through your orgasm until he's softening inside of you and you're trying ultra hard not to cry from the overwhelming love (and pleasure) you're feeling.

and as he holds himself over you, smiling down at you like he didn't just possibly breed you out again, all you can do is look up at him with teary eyes and laugh at the ridiculous pink butterfly clips on his head.

"you're so pretty," you giggle, reaching up between your sweaty bodies to tap on the clips. "my manly husband."

"god," he groans, dropping his head down to your chest. you laugh some more, now with an even better view of his accessories, until he steals your laughter altogether with a sharp bite to your nipple.

"ow, fuck! that is not how a princess behaves."

"you are going to be the death of me."

[leviackmyman]

a hero who never regretted, no matter what

i'm trying too, really

[leviackmyman]

jean’s so gentle with you

warnings: smut, extremely gentle loving throat fucking bc jean is never rough he is a lover boy end of <3

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

he’s big. tall, broad shoulders, a strong and solid chest, hard, defined abs and beefy arms. so so big, yet so unbelievably gentle and sweet with his soft, lovely girl.

he rarely denies you, he thought hell would freeze over the day he told you ‘no’, but when you asked him to go rough? to fuck you harder? god, he couldn’t say yes. he could see how bad you wanted it, watery, pleading eyes, but he just couldn’t.

if he left even a single mark, whether it be a bruise or a hand print that stayed etched into your skin just a little too long, he’d consider committing a felony. honest to god.

with jean, it’s gentle, tender caresses, entwined hands, soft kisses, and filthy, yet somehow the most loving and romantic praises.

he’s not fucking your throat, he’s making love to it. on his knees, somehow still so tall and imposing, he hovers over you whilst you lay against the cushiony headboard with his cock slowly dragging in and out of your mouth with each careful movement of his hips.

when you manage to take him all, he coos through your gagging and spluttering, guitar string calloused hand cupping your jaw as his thumb smoothes across your chin, wet and sticky from drool and cum.

“there we go, baby,” he whispers, voice low and awestruck, honey glazed irises blown as he looks down to you, so fucking pretty with your mouth full of his cock, previously perfect lipgloss smeared around your lips. “so, so good f’me, yeah?”

preening and whining upon his praise, a blissed out smile tugs his lips upward, allowing you to catch a glimpse of his infuriatingly perfect teeth. “atta girl, f-fuck-“

it only gets better when he’s close. your ears are blessed with that little whimpery stutter, he sings your high praises even louder than before, and his knuckles turn that delicious white as he grips the headboard harder.

“shit, baby-“ he’s rutting into your mouth that little bit faster, which is perhaps the closest to rough you’ll even get with jean.

“g-gon’ cum, shit, gonna cum inside this pretty mouth, honey,” he croons with the softest of voices one could manage when on the brink, “y’ gonna swallow it, yeah? fuck, tell me you’re gonna swallow baby? p-please?”

you nod, nails digging into his thighs while more drool pools out of your soft lips, and that’s all he needs.

jean never holds back with his grunts and groans, he never keeps his thoughts to himself, you deserve to know how good you’re making him feel, you deserve kindness, you deserve gentleness.

and you deserve to cum at least three times after making your loving boy feel so fucking good.

[leviackmyman]

I think Jean would like to be manhandled just a little.. like he likes when you hold his face in your hands or better yet when you physically turn his head to make him look at something. Or when you grab his shoulders to move him aside when he’s in your way or pull him by the arm and drag him somewhere with you. He likes when you push him over to make room for yourself on the couch and when you force him to link arms with you as you walk down the street together. He just loves knowing that he belongs to you and he’s so smitten that he lets you push him around all you want, even if that’s physically

[leviackmyman]

messy! boyfriend jean kirstein headcanons

this man is HERE for all the drama

if yall go to parties there is a 100% chance you're standing in the corner with him at some point talking shit

will ask each other how the other feels about a person before full on saying their peace

"you see Eren's post on snap earlier?" "I did." "how'd you feel about that?" "I dunno'- how did you feel about that?" "he looked a little-..." "glad I'm not the only one, because-" and he'll go on a whole rant about it

this man will deadass look people from head to toe and give you a side eye

he's so mean, but it's so funny at the same time

drama fiend

this man will see you furiously typing on your phone and BEG to know what's going on

if you don't like someone, neither does he

you'll be on a whole rant about someone and he just agrees and ad libs while you are

"yeah, fuck that bitch"

always gotta have a debrief in the car after a party or going out anywhere

especially if people neither of you liked were there

this man is so fucking messy

will literally tell anyone "I'm here to talk" because he's FIENDING for some tea

tells you IMMEDIATLY when he hears something juicy

doesn't matter when or where, he's picking up that damn phone and calling you

"babe- I'm literally at work." "nah, hold up, you HAVE to hear what I just heard from Connie."

[leviackmyman]

random texts with best friend sasha ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

content: smau - messages between you and bestfriend!sasha on a regular day warnings: none really! mentions of food (typical) note: pride month is being SAUR homophobic to me with all the shit happening in my life so enjoy the silly sasha vibes im using to cope

[leviackmyman]

[leviackmyman]

𝐄𝐗 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐓 ˚◞♡ ⃗ satoru gojo

𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙬 ┊you and your ex know each other best. and even after your breakup, your ex remains the first person you want to contact when something bad happens.

𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩 ┊2.5k words. plot was inspired by @/creativewritingprompts on tumblr. if it wasn’t clear, satoru’s your ex boyfriend and he’s absolutely whipped.

𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚.┊for 30 mins i had to actually do research just for this oneshot .. everyone clap it up ! you learn smth new everyday

by the way, it’s been what, a year since i’ve posted a fic? man time goes by. forgive me with this beauty

at first, satoru barely registers the buzzing of his phone. he thinks it’s part of a dream—some annoying background noise bleeding in. but after what he assumes is two whole minutes, the sound doesn’t stop.

he groans, pushing his head further into his pillow as if that’ll make it go away. it doesn’t.

with a sigh, he throws out an arm to his nightstand, blindly groping everything in reach. his fingers brush against a bottle but by the time he realizes that’s what it was, it was already tipping. of course. just his luck. he helplessly listens as it hits the floor.

“god,” he mutters to no one, huffing out a breath through his nose.

his hand continues searching until it finally gets ahold of his phone—one that is still vibrating. he drags it to his ear. he’s not even sure he pressed the right button before he mumbles, “hello? who ‘s this?”

from the other end of the phone, he hears the rush of traffic—cars speeding by, horns blaring. he winces at the noise, then blinks slowly at the screen. it takes time for his eyes to adjust to the light, but when they do, the words ‘no caller ID’ glare right at him. he sighs, lifts the phone back to his ear, and now a little more alert this time, asks, “hello?”

it doesn't get him a response. from the other side of the line he could hear a few noises, ones he couldn’t decipher. satoru has always been one for pranks but if this was a prank, he wouldn’t be a happy participant. hell, do they see how late it is?

he sighs, “hello?” he tries again. yet, no answer. frustrated, he runs his free hand across his face, “look, it’s too late for all this. whoever this is, listen, i don’t have time for games. calling people at two in the morning isn’t some fucki—“

he said this to get an answer, so he could finally go back to bed. but what cuts him off makes a part of him hate himself for saying it at all.

the words that come through are barely more than a whisper, muffled and shaky, yet there’s no mistaking who they belong to. it’s a voice he hasn’t heard in months, but the moment it reaches his ears, it instantly makes his throat grow dry. it’s achingly familiar. the vibrations, the way the words rolled off the toungue, the way they were uniquely pronounced—he couldn’t forget it. how could he forget it?

he was so busy in his head that he failed to properly process your words. “i’m sorry, what?” he asks.

“satoru… im serious, alright? i’m not joking. i didn’t even want to do this because i know we’re not on speaking terms—and you—okay—i’m sorry for waking you up in the middle of the night, but… i just—i really need your help.”

a knot forms in his stomach. he recognizes that tone all too well—the tremor in the voice, the hint of desperation—the fear. all signs of a persons breaking point.

someone on the verge of tears. while he would be concerned about anyone having that tone, he’s even more concerned when he knows the owner of it is you.

at the realization, he sits up, voice gentle as he murmurs, "hey."

you left out a long breath before saying, "hi.”

“what’s going on?”

“alright, so," you begin and satoru genuinely tries to listen. he’s hanging onto every stutter, every inhale and exhale. but as your words continue to come through the phone, they begin to mush together. then, a change in your voice grabs his attention. the once steady rhythm of your voice is now replaced by soft sniffles and tremors.

he swears that even now, your cries will be the death of him.

his words pour out in a rush, "hey, hey, i'm here. it's okay, i'm here. okay? i'm here, sweetheart." the nickname rolls off his tongue so naturally, and he hopes you find it comforting instead of bothersome. "but i need you to take a moment and breathe so i can understand what you’re saying ‘kay? to help you, i need to know what's going on."

you sniffle and he hears the sound of a car door opening and closing. he hears shifting, and he knows that if you saw him leaned over his phone right now, desperately straining to hear something—anything, for a explanation, you'd laugh.

god, he wishes he could make you laugh right now.

“you still there?” he asks.

"yeah," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. you sigh, "i know i said it earlier but ‘m sorry for waking you up."

“i was already awake.” it’s a clear lie and he knows it. he even knows that you know it. but for the sake of the situation, you both choose to ignore the comment.

you clear your throat before explaining, "my car broke down on the side of the road, and, well—i don't know what to do." the sound of your laugh fills the silence, but it’s not the joyful kind that satoru craved. it was almost pitiful. "i remembered you're good with cars, so i thought, y’know—hey, maybe satoru could help me out."

fuck.

hurriedly, satoru throws the sheets off himself. he rushes off the bed and puts the phone on speaker, "where are you right now?" he asks, setting the phone on his nightstand. suddenly, the room around him is a blur of movement. he throws on a random pair of sweatpants from the floor before grabbing his wallet.

“im pretty sure i’m on Highway 121… just a few miles outside of town. its pitch black out here, and id be lying if i said i wasn’t a little scared. if i even say out loud that i’m alone, i think i might just have a panic attack.”

he snatches his phone from the nightstand and rushes down the stairs to the front door, "alright, i’m coming. just stay where you are, and i'll get there as soon as i c—shit."

“you okay?”

"yeah, i just forgot ab—well—it doesn't matter," he adds, running back upstairs to get his keys. "just stay right there, promise i’ll be there as soon as i can."

“i mean, not like i’m going anywhere,” you snort. “can’t teleport, and my car decided to die on me, so…not going anywhere fast.”

“you could always walk home,” he teases. “get some steps in.”

“oh, right, so i can get kidnapped? that’s your plan? yeah, bet you’d love that, huh?”

his voice drips with mockery, “you gettin’ snatched up would ruin my night. who else do you know that’ll call me at this time just to give me a chance to show off?”

it’s been months, but he still knows you. both how to get under your skin—and make you smile. even without being able to see you, he knows you’re fighting against the twitch of your lips that so badly want to twist into a smile.

“a real tragedy,” you say, tone flat and deadpan. it’s a useless effort, because he catches the underlining pleasure you feel in your voice.

the silence that follows hangs in the air for much longer than satoru expected.

he clears his throat. “‘m on my way. or, actually not just yet—“

he’s cut off by the long, deep groan that give him.

“jus’ give me 5 minutes okay? need to grab some tools..keep your hazards on so other people can see you. let’s prevent an accident today, yeah?”

“i will,” you say, and he hears the soft click on the other end. “just don’t be swerving on the road. i know you’ll be in a rush to get to me, but you can’t be my hero if you crash on the way.”

“and what makes you assume that i’d be risking my life just to get to you, hmm?”

“because i’m stranded. alone. on the side of a creepy highway.”

“you’re not really alone. in theory, i’m there. right there in your heart.”

you groan, “ugh, you’ve always been so corny.” but you can’t help laughing.

he smiles at the sound, happy that at least one goal was accomplished.

it's quiet for a moment. just the clanging of his tools filling the call until he calls out your name.

“yeah?” you reply.

“you okay?”

“yeah i’m fine…and satoru?”

“hm?”

“thanks for still showing up for me.“

he’s glad you can’t see him right now—especially with the way he’s smiling like a complete idiot. “‘s nothing,” he says, trying to sound casual. “you don’t have to thank me.”

there’s a quick shuffle on your end, then your voice, quieter now, says “alright, well… i’ll see you soon, yeah? bye—”

“woah, woah, what are you doing?”

“…hanging up? i did say that i’ll see you soon.”

he hesitates, chewing his lip before murmuring, “just… stay on the line.

“what—“

“stay here with me on the line, c’mon now it’s a safety precaution.”

“my phone won’t even last another 15 minutes. it’s on eleven.“

“i’ll make sure to be there in 10. but i need you to stay on the phone with me until i get there, ‘kay? i need to know you’re safe.”

he hears you shuffling around once more, but you don’t give him a response. it’s only when he calls out your name that he hears a, “fine” from you. “but if you’re not here by the time my phone says—what? 5 percent? i’m calling the tow truck people to pick me up.”

he laughs, “deal.“

true to his word, satoru shows up in ten minutes on the dot. granted, he completely ignored your advice—swerved down every street he could and definitely didn’t take it slow because if he did, it would’ve took him 20 minutes to get there and no 10. so instead, he sped down the shoulder in silence, driving like he had something to prove. illegal? yes. reckless? absolutely. but he made it.

he spots you before he spots your car. at the sight of his own car, you get out and lean against your car hood. you cross an arm over your chest, and gaze at the cars speeding past.

before he turns off his car, he gives himself a quick look in the rear view mirror and runs a hand through his hair, giving it a light fluff. nothing too fancy, just enough to look more put together. besides, first impressions matter—and while it wasn’t his first time meeting you, it was the first time he’d seen you in a while.

as he steps out of the car, he tugs a little tighter at his jacket. it cold, he notes.

“ten minutes,” he smirks as he approaches you. “i should get a medal or something.”

you turn his direction, giving him a look over. “you just don’t listen, huh?” a light smile makes its way across your face. “pretty sure you broke, like—three laws to get here.”

he shrugs. “emergencies don’t care for the laws.”

you hum. “i guess not.”

there’s a pause before he says, “you look gorgeous.”

fuck. it slips out before he can think better of it—too soft, too real. he watches as your eyes flicker to the ground, like it might offer you an escape route. you don’t answer—not really—and that silence hurts more than a shutdown. it twists something low in his chest, because if you were going to say he shouldn’t have said it, at least that would’ve been something. they say something is better than nothing. but instead, you just look away, and somehow, that’s worse.

he clears his throat, glancing down, pretending like he’s just now noticing the outfit you’re wearing. it’s classy. fitted to your figure. a sleek black dress that hugs your shoulders just right.

“were you—” he nods at your clothes, and he hopes he sounds more casual than he actually is. “going out somewhere?”

“coming from somewhere,” you correct. you hesitate to add on. but once you do, you don’t stop. “a date—it was terrible. he wasn’t a gentleman at all. can you believe he didn’t even offer to open the door for me?”

he gives you a half smile in return. “guess i really screwed up your night, huh?”

you smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “you have a knack for timing.”

and neither of you say the obvious—that he doesn’t have a right to care where you were going or who you were going with.

but it doesn’t stop him from wondering.

you sigh before pushing yourself off the hood of your car. “it just… died. no warning. nothing. just gave up on me.”

“oh, the nerve she has.”

satoru pops the hood. he leans in and checks the simple things that break. but he already has a gut feeling, and sure enough, it hits him the second he reaches for the belt.

snap.

cut.

clean.

“it’s the serpentine belt,” he says.

you take a look over his shoulder. “the what?”

he points at the engine. “the long thing that makes the rest of the car actually work. the alternator, steering, water pump—you name it but when the belt goes, everything goes.”

“but you can fix it, though, right?”

you ask him so naturally. as if things are still as simple as they used to be.

it sings. it stings even more when he know he won’t be able to fulfill your expectations.

he straightens up, brushing his hands down his thighs. “i can’t tonight. i don’t have the tools… or the belt. i got to go head back, grab a bunch of car stuff you definitely don’t want the names of, and come back.”

you nod, but he sees it—the disappointment you try to blink away. he hates that he notices it. hates that he still cares so much.

“i’ll come back her the morning,” he says. “but your car’s toast for the night.”

you roll your eyes. “still dramatic, huh?”

“ugh, still a party pooper.” he playful pouts. “you do a bad job at actin’ like you don’t appreciate my jokes.”

“oh please. you’re not even that funny.”

for a split second, it’s like no time has passed. like this is just another night. another joke. another moment where maybe, maybe, things could’ve turned out different.

“yeah…” he mumbles. “you got someone you can call? for a ride?”

“oh i’ll figure it out.”

he hesitates. “i know your place is far and you look pretty tired so—i can drive you back to my place. y’know, if you want.”

you give him a look. one that he can’t decipher. “that a good idea?”

“maybe not.”

another pause.

“but the offer still stands,” he adds.

you sigh, rubbing your temples. “god, i forgot how annoying you get when you’re trying to be nice.”

“and i forgot how stubborn you can get when you need help.”

you laugh, “touché.”

“lock your car door, make sure you got everything valuable incase someone breaks in.” he nods his head towards his car. “and c’mon.“

you don’t bother protesting. “yeah, okay.”

satoru makes his way to his car. you turn to go to your own car, then pause in your tracks.

“satoru,” you call out.

he turns around.

“…thanks again.”

he nods once. “anytime.”

and just then, satoru allows himself to believe that maybe some broken things aren’t meant to stay broken.

even if it’s just for tonight.

[leviackmyman]

meet not-so-cute | fushiguro toji, fushiguro megumi, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, kong shiu, nanami kento, sukuna ryomen, yuuji itadori ╰►sorcery aside, how might you two meet? what organic ways do you cross paths? and how long will he allow this little meet-cute to go on before he asks you out? 6.7k words

a/n: hello!!! this was actually a request I got in my inbox and I had a lot of fun writing it, so thank you anon :] super fun idea, I thought. I included more characters than I usually do because a lot of the headcanons are shorter than usual. I kind of lost the plot with some of these. meet cute is kind of an umbrella term that I loosely followed for these headcanons. one day, I should go more in depth into my writing process with these, but basically, I usually try and make them as individualistic as possible, so each character feels like it's own oneshot. I did still try to do that with this, but I tried not to focus too much on length. I wanted these to be short and sweet. hope you like them <3 warnings: mentions of murder/death, cussing, kissing, use of my singularly detested term "y/n."

megumi thrived in the university library. three evenings a week, like clockwork, he clocked in at 4:00 and out at 9:00. no noise, no drunk roommates, no sweaty basement parties—just the steady hum of fluorescent lights and the smell of old paper. it was quiet. predictable. he liked that. he didn’t like much else about university. the loudmouths, the frat boys, the posturing. but the library? the dewey decimal system? that was his sanctuary.

he’d seen all kinds pass through. coughing stem majors who hadn’t slept in three days, loud econ guys using the back tables to scam freshman girls into dates, study groups that dissolved into tinder swiping. occasionally someone genuinely cool wandered in, someone who treated the books with care, read for pleasure, maybe even respected the quiet rule. but those people were rare.

which is why you stood out. he was mid-shelving—a tattered copy of the brothers karamazov in hand, scowling because who the hell willingly read dostoevsky in college—and then there was your voice. “is that the brothers karamazov?” he blinked and turned. you stood a few feet away, clutching your backpack strap like you’d been walking the aisles for a while.

“uh,” he glanced at the cover. “yeah. it is.”

you lit up. lit up. “I've been looking for that forever! I thought it was checked out or something.” and then you were smiling at him—really smiling—and he was malfunctioning.

“uh—yeah, it was. but it’s back now. I mean—obviously.” he handed it to you before his brain could sabotage him any further. you took it like it was a gift from the gods.

“thank you,” you said, so sincerely it made his heart squeeze. “seriously.”

he opened his mouth to say something, anything clever or smooth, but what came out was: “you’re welcome.” flat. useless. he was great at this. you wandered off before he could embarrass himself more, and he stood there for a moment longer than necessary, trying not to look like he’d just seen a mythological creature. it should have ended there, but it didn’t.

he finished shelving the rest of his cart and was heading back up front when he saw you again, tucked into a table in the back corner. a warm cup of tea beside you. laptop open but ignored. three books sprawled out: two obviously your own, littered with tabs and notes and your handwriting in the margins. but the one in your lap? that was the brothers karamazov. you were flipping through it like it was the most engrossing thing on earth. your glasses were slipping down your nose. you pushed them up absently. you looked soft. focused. smart.

megumi refilled his cart and wandered toward your table under the flimsy excuse of returning some books nearby. how had he never seen you before? he lived here. he breathed this place. and yet—you were new. fresh. gorgeous. he slowed his walk, pretending to skim the titles on his cart as he passed you. he saw the pen twitching in your hand as you hesitated over the library book. “you can—you can write in it, you know?” he said quietly, hoping he didn’t sound like a total creep.

you looked up, startled. then you smiled. “isn’t that considered vandalism?”

he gave the smallest smile back. "I won’t tell.”

you laughed, and megumi felt something uncoil in his chest. like maybe he wasn’t going to die alone after all. “I'm y/n,” you said, casually. “you work here?”

“yeah,” he replied, straightening a little. “megumi.”

“nice to meet you, megumi,” you said, and he nearly floated off the floor. you chatted. about the book. your major (literature, he was right). the annoying freshmen who always talked too loud. it was easy. natural. he didn’t feel like an awkward lump of bones for once.

then your phone buzzed. you glanced at it and winced. “shoot, I've got a meeting. I gotta go.” he nodded, trying not to look visibly crushed. “I'll be back tomorrow, though,” you said, smiling again. "I like it here.” you left with the book hugged to your chest, and megumi spent the next hour thinking about ways to casually die and be reborn as someone cool.

the next day, he wasn’t supposed to work. but his coworker, yuuta, owed him a favor, and megumi was suddenly very motivated to collect. you walked in right on time. cardigan today. worn jeans. hair up, soft tendrils falling around your face. you looked like you belonged in the pages of the very novels you read. effortlessly poetic.

megumi had gone full nerd. he’d pulled a few other books from the stacks—ones he thought you’d like. similar authors, maybe some translations. he told himself it was just good customer service. he caught your eye and walked over, awkwardly offering the books like a cat dropping a dead bird at someone’s feet.

you beamed. “you brought me more?”

he shrugged, face heating. “thought you might like them.”

you motioned to the seat across from you. “well then. you should stay and tell me which one to read first.” he sat. you talked. again. books and music and weird professors and the best study spots on campus. it was casual and fun and somehow flirty in a way that didn’t make him want to crawl into a hole. you were honest. kind. ridiculously smart. he was trying not to fall in love on the spot.

eventually, you glanced up from your tea. “so, megumi,” you said slowly. “you ever hang out outside the library?”

he blinked. “sometimes?”

you laughed. “would you want to? like—with me?”his brain short-circuited. but his mouth worked faster. “yeah. yeah, I'd like that.” you smiled, and he liked that.

toji knew this hit was going to be a bitch. rich politician. high-end steakhouse. twice as many bodyguards as brains. shiu had warned him—these weren’t the type of guys you take out clean. no, they came with backup, surveillance, and bulletproof everything. but toji wasn’t losing to a security system. he was losing to a guy built like a refrigerator. they’d gone two rounds already. the alley behind the restaurant was littered with blood, broken glass, and toji’s pride. this last bodyguard was a tank—fast, brutal, and apparently immune to concussions. toji wasn’t about to admit defeat, but the bruises forming on his ribs were saying otherwise.

he was about to cut his losses, pull a classic “abort and call shiu like a little bitch” move, when—crack. the sound was sharp and final. something heavy slammed into the back of the guard’s skull. he dropped. toji hit the ground too—knees giving out, breath ragged, knife still clenched in his fist.

you were standing over him. tall. calm. a black bodysuit clinging to you like shadow. hair pulled back. tire jack still raised in your hands like you’d done this before. like this wasn’t even your first alleyway knockout of the evening. toji blinked up at you, bloody and blinking, heart pounding from the fight—or maybe not just the fight. “…huh.”

you arched a brow. “that all you’ve got to say?”

"I usually have a better opener, but I'm concussed,” he grunted, propping himself up on one elbow.

your eyes dropped to the blood on his shirt. “looks like more than a concussion.”

he smirked. “still breathing, aren’t i?”

you didn’t laugh, but something about your mouth twitched. like you were tempted to. like you’d enjoy it if he kept talking. “you alright?” you asked, voice too casual for the situation.

“peachy.”

“good.” you turned away. “because I'm not carrying you.”

he let out a short laugh—painful, but real. “didn’t realize I was your type.”

“you’re not.” that shut him up.

but not in a bad way. no, it lit something up behind his ribs. he liked women who could kill him—liked them more when they didn’t fawn or fuss. you were the opposite of delicate. you didn’t even offer him a hand. toji leaned against the alley wall, watching you disappear through the side entrance like smoke. you didn’t look back.

by the time he made it to the other side, limping and pissed, the hit was done. clean. efficient. bullet to the skull in the bathroom. silenced. silent. he was halfway to sulking in the shadows when you emerged again—cool and composed, slipping a pistol into your waistband like you’d just clocked out of a shift at the office.

the client was already waiting, briefcase in hand. “name?” you didn’t hesitate. you tell him. he hands over the money. toji clenched his jaw. six figures. gone. and then—you brushed past him. no smug grin, no lingering glance. just a whisper of perfume and your fingers ghosting briefly over his chest.

he didn’t even register it at first. just stared after you as you vanished into the night like you belonged to it. three minutes later, he was slouched in the passenger seat of shiu’s car, grumbling and cursing and trying to find a position that didn’t make his ribs scream. “you look like shit,” shiu said, not looking up from the road.

“feel worse.” toji shifted—and felt something odd in his inner pocket. he fished it out. thick envelope. heavy. inside: the cash. most of it. he stared. then pulled out the folded slip of paper tucked beside the bills.

shiu whistled. “guess someone felt sorry for you.”

“you know her?” he asked, casually. too casually.

shiu shrugged. “seen her around. heard good things. tell me if she’s looking for work—I'd hire her in a heartbeat.” toji didn’t answer.

later that night, after the stitches and the cursing and the bottle of whiskey, he found out where you lived. two days later, half the cash was back in your mailbox—stuffed in an unmarked envelope. along with a slip of paper of his own. toji. xxx-xxx-xxxx.

the next morning, you found it. you rolled your eyes. smirked. called the number. “hope you’re not just looking for a thank-you,” you said.

on the other end of the line, toji’s voice was rough and amused. “nah. I'm asking if you’re free friday. wear something that won’t get blood on it.” cute. in a criminal sort of way.

gojo satoru was beloved. that was just a fact. teachers liked him because he was smarter than he let on. students adored him because he was charming, funny, and hot enough to make skipping class feel worthy of the punishment. waitresses at his regular spots knew his order, his quirks, his usual table. baristas at the corner café? knew him by name and drink.

which was why, when the to-go cup handed to him tasted like battery acid and death, he blinked. “what the hell—” he muttered, peeking into the cup. black coffee. no sugar. no cream. just three shots of death with ice.

he turned back to the counter just as you stepped up. hoodie sleeves too long, voice soft as you said: “sorry, I think there was a mix-up. this…isn’t mine.”

he took you in with one glance. pretty. like really pretty. the kind of pretty that made his brain go a little sideways. “actually,” he said, stepping up beside you, flashing a grin like it belonged on a billboard, "I think I've got your drink.”

you turned your head, eyes wide. blinked up at him. that was when it hit him. you weren’t giggling. or playing with your hair. or leaning into the flirtation. you looked…startled. a little confused. blushing, yeah—but more out of discomfort than delight.

“I'm so sorry,” you said, placing the actual sugary masterpiece he’d ordered back on the counter and pushing the black coffee his way. "I didn’t even look. that’s on me.” it wasn’t. he knew it wasn’t. but you were still taking the blame like it was second nature. his gaze flicked to a lone backpack at a corner table. your table.

“well,” he said, picking up both drinks, “seems like fate wants us to chat.” you looked horrified. and then he was walking, sliding into the seat across from your things before you could protest. you hesitated. stared. but eventually followed. sat slowly, unsure. gojo leaned his chin into his hand, sipping his coffee—your coffee—and pretending not to wince. “this is evil,” he said conversationally. “are you okay? do you hate yourself?” you didn’t laugh. just looked at him, expression flat.

conversation came easy for him. he asked about your major. your music taste. your hair routine. the specific reason you were drinking a war crime in a cup. your skincare. your favorite color. how you felt about pancakes. you answered with as few syllables as possible. you weren’t shy—you just didn’t care. you weren’t flattered. you weren’t amused. you weren’t impressed. 

it drove him insane. because gojo was used to being liked. he was used to being the sun, and people orbiting him with giddy smiles and heart eyes. but you? you had no orbit. you had gravity. heavy and still and unmoved. you didn’t need to be charmed. you weren’t looking for anything. least of all him. he loved that.

after the twentieth question in under five minutes, you set your pen down. “what’s your goal here?” you asked bluntly. “are you just really bored or something? because I don’t have time for this.”

gojo blinked. grinned wider. “let me take you out.”

you stared. “like…on a date?”

“mm-hmm.”

“why?”

“because you’re beautiful, clearly immune to my overwhelming appeal, and I like a challenge.” he lifts your cup. “I'll take you somewhere they serve things better than this war crime in a cup. there's this place uptown—prix fixe, white tablecloths, the whole shebang.” he gives you the name of the restaurant he has in mind. 

you blink again. “dinner at that place costs more than my laptop.”

he shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I'll cover it.”

you raised your eyebrows. “there’s zero chemistry here.”

“you think so?” he asked, cocking his head. “because I feel a spark.”

“there’s no spark.”

“there will be,” he said confidently. “eventually. you’ll see.”

“no,” you say, quick. not sharp, but not hesitant either. “no, thank you.”

there’s a beat. a breath. he deflates—not dramatically, just slightly. like he expected it. like this was how it was always going to go. “fair enough,” he says. he leans back in his chair, looks up at the café lights with something too soft for someone wearing sunglasses indoors. then he looks at you again. “I'll be here tomorrow. same time. I'll get your drink. still think it’s gross, though.”you huff—almost a laugh, almost—and stand. you don’t say yes. you don’t say no. and gojo watches you walk out like he’s watching a star slip below the horizon. because maybe you didn’t want his fancy dinner. but you still might want him. and he’s got time.

it starts with a dare. a dumb one. your friends are three shots in and bloodthirsty for chaos. loser has to kiss a stranger. that’s the rule. you lose. you pick someone fast—because thinking about it too long will make you chicken out—and the first person you lock eyes with is a boy in a grey hoodie, laughing with friends near the kitchen. he's cute. sweet-faced. his smile looks like sunshine distilled. takuma, your friends tell you his name is. 

you walk over. "hey," you say, tapping his arm gently. "weird question. can I kiss you?"

he blinks. "huh?"

"I lost a bet," you explain, already wincing. "and the consequence is kissing a stranger. you’re very cute. but I totally get it if you don’t want to—"

"no, no—it’s okay!" he blurts, eyes wide and pink creeping up his neck. "I mean—uh. sure. if you're okay with it."

you grin. “okay. I'll be quick.” except you’re not. because as soon as your hands fist in the front of his hoodie and you pull him down, it spirals fast. the kiss is hot. messy. decidedly not pg. someone somewhere yells for you to “get a room!” and then laughs fade into static as your mouth moves against his.

he tastes like mint and strawberry soda. his lips part and yours follow. he grips your waist like he might float off otherwise. it lasts a lot longer than fifteen seconds. when you pull back, you’re breathless. his eyes are glassy. you smile—bashful now. “thanks,” you say quietly. and then you’re gone, swept back into the crowd like a fever dream.

takuma doesn’t even catch your name. but he thinks about you constantly. your perfume haunts him. warm, floral, clings to the fabric of his hoodie like ghostly fingers. he wears the same sweatshirt three days in a row. maki notices. “seriously?” she asks on day four, watching takuma sniff his sleeve like a lovesick freak. “you kissed one stranger. let it go.”

“I'm trying,” takuma mutters, curled on the couch. “it’s not working.”

he replays it in his head at least twice an hour. the way your lip caught between his. the breathy little sound you made. the way you smiled—soft and kind, like you were shy even after that feral, earth-shattering kiss. he’s down bad. and he knows it.

the next weekend, there’s another party. takuma throws it, mostly because he’s hoping, maybe…and there you are. in a different outfit, with different friends, but unmistakably you. you see him before he sees you, and when your eyes meet, you freeze. like a deer caught mid-escape. then you’re stumbling over.

“oh my god,” you say. “hi. I—I didn’t know this was your apartment again. I didn’t mean to just like—last week—if that was weird or—”

takuma shakes his head fast. “it wasn’t weird. at all. I mean, it surprised me, but, uh. in a good way.”

you pause. blink. “really?”

“really,” he says. then, braver: “I've actually been hoping I'd run into you again.”

your breath catches. “oh.”

“and, um,” he adds, scratching the back of his neck, “if you're not doing anything tonight, maybe we could actually hang out? like talk. you know. with our mouths off each other.”

you laugh, cheeks warm. “yeah. I'd like that.”

you spend the whole night on the couch together, feet tucked up, drink forgotten on the side table. he asks you everything—your major, your favorite movie, whether you like cats or dogs more, whether you’ve always been this quiet.

you remind him of nanami. a little guarded. thoughtful. reserved. not cold, just self-contained. but unlike megumi, you don’t scoff at everything hopeful. you listen with wide eyes and small nods. takuma finds himself talking more than usual, because you actually make him feel heard. and you surprise him, too. you say dry, clever things that make him snort into his cup. you have this crooked smile that sneaks out when you least expect it.

he’s officially toast. by the end of the night, he doesn’t want to say goodbye. “so…” he says, hands nervously wringing together. “would you wanna go out sometime? like a real date. somewhere I can impress you.”

you raise an eyebrow. “are you planning on kissing me again?” you say, as if you weren’t the one who kissed him in the first place. 

"I mean—only if you want—”

you laugh. "I was hoping you would.”takuma’s face goes red. he beams. “then yeah. I'd really like that.” and he means it. he likes you, a lot. and he’s already planning ways to prove it.

shiu’s on his way to work. not the kind of work that comes with a suit and 401k. the kind that involves shady offices, burner phones, and blood in the back seat if fushiguro doesn’t show up on time. he’s either heading downtown to his dingy little hideout or sitting curbside waiting for a client to bring the kind of mess no one else wants to clean up.

he doesn’t see exactly how it happens. one second he’s turning at a green light, and the next a shiny black tesla is gunning it across two lanes like it’s trying to break the sound barrier. and then—crash. metal. glass. crunch. his car takes the brunt of it. slams into the tesla, and somehow still clips you too.

he jerks forward with the impact. the seatbelt leaves a nasty burn across his chest. his baby—hot rod, his beautiful, custom-tuned, low-riding sweetheart—is groaning from the front end. hood buckled. front bumper dangling. engine coughing like it’s on its last breath. he’s pissed. he’s out of the car before the airbags deflate, already stalking toward the tesla like he’s going to drag the driver out through the window.

but then—you're already there. apologizing. repeatedly. like it was your fault. and the asshole in the tesla is loving it. he’s rubbing his neck, already prepping for the insurance scam, and smirking down at you like you’re a wounded puppy. “it’s alright, sweetheart,” he drawls, all fake charm and condescension.

shiu sees red. he steps in, all six-foot-something of muscle and rage, shoves tesla guy back with a hand to the chest. “you kidding me?” he snaps. “she wasn’t at fault here. you blew the light. you were speeding.”

tesla guy protests, something about his neck and a green light. shiu silences him with a glare. he knows his type—slick, greasy, and probably calls his mother’s maid “toots.” not happening. meanwhile, your car’s got a scratch and a ding, tops. his car? getting towed away in pieces. and still—you’re turning to him, soft and apologetic, offering your insurance info like you had anything to be sorry for.

he grabs your arm, not rough, but firm. directs you gently but unmistakably away from the mess. “don’t apologize,” he says, voice low. “not to that dickhead. you didn’t do anything wrong.”

you blink up at him, startled. he really gets a good look at you for the first time. you’re…pretty. real pretty. a little disheveled from the crash, still in work clothes. kind, clearly, even to people who don’t deserve it. that kind of kindness doesn’t survive long in his world. “you headed somewhere?” you ask, glancing at the wreckage of his car as it’s hooked to the tow.

“work,” he says, automatically.

“want a ride?” you offer. "I just got off a night shift. I'm free.”

he hesitates. his line of work isn’t…civilian-friendly. but you don’t need to know what’s behind the unmarked door he’s getting dropped off at. it’s just a ride. no big deal. and besides—he doesn’t like the thought of letting you disappear just yet. so he accepts.

it’s been a long time since shiu kong has ridden shotgun. but your car? it’s spotless. immaculate. it smells like you—floral, soft, sweet in a way that clings. the steering wheel is pink. there’s a little plush charm hanging from the mirror. it’s all so not his style. but he likes it anyway. you drive with one hand on the wheel and the windows cracked. talk a little, laugh quietly. you don’t ask too many questions. he likes that.

then your car pulls into his lot. you hesitate. the building is sketchy. unmarked. windows tinted, graffiti peeling. a place people walk past fast with their heads down. you glance at it, then at him. but you don’t ask. you just say, “want me to come back and get you when you’re done?” he stares at you for a moment. surprised. you don’t know him. you don’t owe him.

but you’re looking at him like you want him. like you see him—and you’re not scared. or maybe you should be, and that just makes him want you more. he shakes his head. “won’t be necessary. I'll have the car thing handled tonight.” shiu without a car is like a shark without teeth. just wrong.

but before he gets out, he pauses. glances at you, hand on the door handle. “give me your number,” he says.

you blink. “what for?”

he shrugs, casual. “just ‘cause I don’t need a ride…doesn’t mean I don’t wanna see you again.” you smile. kind. a little wary. but you hand over your number anyway. and shiu kong, criminal consultant and part-time getaway driver, walks into his back-alley office already planning when he’s going to call you.

nanami works in finance. suits. deadlines. numbers that won't stop blinking at him. hiromi higuruma’s law firm shares the building. their companies partner often—legal and financials always tangled—and nanami’s walked the same halls as their employees more times than he can count.

you, though. you’re new. he’s seen you a few times. usually with your nose buried in a stack of paperwork, always moving with purpose. paralegal, he’d guess. he catches snippets—your name in passing, your voice on late-night calls echoing through the stairwell. you’re polite, focused. never unkind, but busy. too busy to notice anyone else. which is fine. he prefers to observe anyway.

it's late. the building is near-empty. everyone’s gone home except the usual suspects—higuruma still holed up in his office across the hall, nanami finalizing projections with an exhausted sigh, and you, curled up on the floor of the breakroom surrounded by documents, legal pads, and a cold, half-eaten sandwich. a storm rages outside. not just rain—sheets of it. thunder that rattles the glass. nanami packs up around 9:45. he pulls on his coat, briefcase in hand, and steps into the hallway right as you do.

you’ve got your hood pulled up and your tote bag slung over one shoulder. he nods at you out of habit. polite. respectful. his hand already on the door handle when he sees you hesitate, peering through the glass at the torrential rain. you sigh. adjust your coat. mumbling something about the mile-long walk to the station. nanami pauses. “pardon me,” he says, voice even. “are you headed toward the station?”

you look up at him, surprised. “yeah. I'm just hoping I don’t get struck by lightning on the way there.”

he doesn’t laugh. but the corner of his mouth quirks. “I'm parked out back. I'd be happy to offer you a ride.”

you hesitate. he sees it. but your eyes soften as you take him in: the tailored coat, the neat briefcase, the calm, steady presence of a man who never raises his voice and always holds the elevator door. “…you sure?” you ask. "I don’t want to be a bother.”

“it would bother me more,” he says, “to watch you walk through that storm.”

you blink. then smile. small. grateful. “alright. thanks.” he leads you to his car—a sleek, black luxury sedan. immaculate interior. smells faintly of cedar and clean laundry. he opens the passenger door for you, of course. it’s quiet for a moment once you're inside. the rain patters against the roof like static. you glance around, a little sheepish. “nice car.”

“it gets me where I need to go.”

“still. very…bond villain of you.”

that earns a ghost of a smile. “hopefully less villainous.”

you chat lightly on the way. he learns that you're not from the city. that you’re working while putting yourself through night classes. that you're tired—he can see that—but proud. you ask him what it is he actually does, because finance sounds like a broad umbrella.

he tells you. you listen. actually listen. it’s simple. it’s nothing. but it’s been a long time since someone has looked at him like you do. interested, engaged, without a trace of performance. he pulls into the station, and for a second neither of you moves. “thanks again,” you say, finally unbuckling your seatbelt.

“of course.” then you’re gone. rushing through the rain toward the platform, hood up again. nanami watches you go, hand still on the gearshift, mind curiously quiet.

but after that night, nanami is…resolved. he’d like to get you back in his car. but this time, for dinner. somewhere quiet. classy. you in a nice dress, him with his sleeves rolled to the forearms. maybe afterward, he’d take you to that little dessert café he only ever goes to on sundays. maybe, eventually, he’d take you home. not just a ride. a night. a morning after.

the thought surprises him. the intensity of it more than anything. he doesn’t act on impulse. never has. but he asks hiromi about you—just once. casually. hiromi doesn’t buy it for a second. “you?” he says, raising a brow. “since when do you flirt?”

"I wasn’t flirting.”

hiromi laughs. “alright. sure.” nanami doesn’t respond. but he’s thinking about you again before he even leaves the office.

two weeks pass. late nights. brief glances. passing hellos. it doesn’t rain again—until it does. a quiet friday, near closing time. thunder rolling in low and steady like a warning. he finishes his work deliberately late. watches the sky darken through the high windows. waits. and when you appear in the lobby, your coat too thin and no umbrella in sight, he’s already there. already standing beside you. already holding the door open with quiet expectation.

“it’s raining again,” he says. "I can give you a ride.”

you blink up at him, surprised. “oh—really? that would be… really nice, actually. thank you.”

you step into the car, brushing water from your sleeves. he turns the heat on a little higher, makes sure your seat warmer is on. you compliment the vehicle absently—something about how it smells nice, or how clean it is—and he simply says thank you. he says he’d be happy to drive you home, not just to the station. you assure him he doesn’t have to. he insists. 

the drive is mostly quiet. comfortable. your voice cuts through every now and then, soft and curious. you ask about the building he works in, if he likes the coffee on the third floor, how long he’s known hiromi. normal questions. friendly ones.

and nanami, steady as ever, answers all of them. carefully. thoughtfully. when he pulls up in front of your apartment, you start unbuckling, murmuring another round of gratitude. but before you go, he says, without looking over, “I'd like to see you outside the office sometime. if that’s something you’d be open to.”

there’s a pause. a small, confused silence. “like—help with something for work?”

his hand stills on the steering wheel. “no,” he says. “just dinner. if you’d like.”

you stare at him for a second. then smile, a little sheepish. “oh. um. sure. yeah, that sounds…nice.”

nanami nods once. keeps his expression neutral. but after you close the door and disappear into your building, he lets out a quiet breath—just a little longer than necessary—and smiles, just a little softer than usual.

sukuna doesn’t usually wander the human world. it's tedious. soft. full of noise and smell and weak little creatures with short lives and even shorter memories. but today, he’s feeling… strange. restless. so he ends up in a museum, which is somehow worse and better at the same time—like walking through a graveyard of things he already buried.

he’s passing through a wing on ancient warfare when he hears your voice. “—and this particular design was popularized during the late kamakura period, though its origins likely trace back to—”

“that’s incorrect,” sukuna says flatly.

you glance over at him. “I'm sorry?”

he steps closer, hands tucked into the sleeves of his coat, eyes scanning the blade behind the glass. “the craftsmanship. that curve. the hamon. it predates kamakura.”

you arch a brow. “well, most scholars disagree.”

he shrugs. “they’re wrong.”

you smile tightly. “and how would you know?”

"I was there.”

there’s a pause. then you laugh, a single breath through your nose. “you were there. in the thirteenth century.”

“earlier.”

you blink. “right.”

he doesn’t elaborate. you don’t ask. the middle schoolers you’re touring shuffle awkwardly, sensing something off, and you keep moving with a practiced ease. sukuna follows. silently, at first. then he speaks again when you pause in front of a replica scroll. “that’s not how it looked.”

you sigh. “let me guess. you were there, too?” you think you’re playing into some theatrical joke. of course he wasn’t there…right? right? 

he hums. “not there. but I remember who drew it.”

you give him a sideways look. “well, if I'm getting all of this wrong, feel free to take over.”

"I would, but your delivery’s not terrible.” you don’t realize that’s a compliment. you just nod, like you’ve decided he’s one of those eccentrics who know a lot and talk a lot more. 

the kids leave, eventually. ushered out by a second staff member. but sukuna stays. you glance back and find him still behind you, hands clasped, eyes sweeping the room. “you’re not part of the tour,” you say.

“I'm aware.”

“then why are you still here?”

he shrugs again. “nothing better to do.” that’s not true. he’s killed for less boredom than this. but you…you’re interesting. not because you’re beautiful, though you are. not because you’re clever, though you are. but because you’re confident. steady. you stand in front of him like you don’t realize what he is—or maybe like you don’t care. either way, it fascinates him. 

you make another offhand remark about a historical treaty and he corrects you again. it’s barely even a correction. just a detail. a preference. he knows you’re not wrong. he just likes disagreeing with you. you glance over, amused now. “do you have a degree in this or something?”

“something like that.”

you roll your eyes, good-natured. “well, if you are a reincarnated warrior from a thousand years ago, you could at least be a little less smug about it.” he doesn’t smile. doesn’t correct you. you’re only human. maybe ninety years if you're lucky. you don’t know what it means to be alive forever. you wouldn’t believe him if he told you. so he doesn’t. he reigns himself in.

“what’s your name?” you ask eventually, still half-suspicious. he lies. gives you a simple one. something borrowed. you nod. “well, thanks for the impromptu history critique, I guess.”

“I'll be back,” he says, almost without meaning to.

you snort. “try not to heckle the next time.”

he watches you walk away—back through the staff hallway, badge clipped to your belt, keys jingling in your hand. he watches the way the museum lights flicker just slightly as you pass. he reminds himself that he doesn’t like humans. but maybe you’re not like most. 

he returns two days later. lingers near the entrance like a shadow. you notice him immediately, lips twitching in some combination of fondness and exasperation. “you again?” you say, meeting him halfway.

“you never corrected the kamakura exhibit,” he replies.

you roll your eyes. “let me guess. still wrong?”

he nods. then, after a beat: “there’s another museum. less modern. more...accurate. you should see it.”

you hesitate, trying to gauge if this is another one of his strange quirks or an actual invitation. “you want to take me to a museum?” you ask.

“to set the record straight,” he says. “nothing else.”

nothing else. not the way he wants to see how you light up when you talk about things you love. not the way your voice sounds when you're unsure but keep speaking anyway. not the way he could maybe—just maybe—show you things no one else can.

you tilt your head. “alright. but if you start arguing with the exhibits again, I'm leaving you in the feudal era.” he doesn’t smile. not quite. but his eyes burn a little brighter.

yuuji waltzes into the er like it’s a casual wednesday. arm bleeding, shirt clinging to his skin, and a cocky little grin that’s doing a poor job of masking the fact that he’s very much in pain and maybe just a little dizzy. he did not mean to get this hurt. he also did not mean to walk into the trauma bay and immediately fall in love.

but there you are. clipboard in hand, blue scrubs, hair tied up, calm as a monk. you glance up at him and blink like, oh great, another idiot. and yuuji? he’s a goner. full-body, soul-leaving-the-chat goner. you’re beautiful. so beautiful it makes his teeth hurt. like, he thinks he might be bleeding more just to get your attention a little longer. and you’re cool. collected. you haven’t even smiled once and he already wants to marry you.

“looks deep,” you murmur, taking his vitals. your hands are gentle. professional. efficient. you don’t even flinch at the mess of his arm.

he tries to play it cool. “yeah,” he says. “you should see the other guy.” you don’t laugh. not even a pity smile. okay. fair. he’s bombing. but he can recover. 

you pull on gloves and start prepping the tray. “you need stitches. a lot of them.”

“sweet,” he says, because his brain is goo and he doesn’t know how to talk to pretty girls when he’s not also actively leaking blood. “do you do this often?”

you glance at him again, dry. “stitch people? it’s kind of my job.” right. yes. obviously. cool cool cool.

he shuts up for a bit while you clean the wound, staring at the ceiling and trying not to faint. from blood loss. or how close your face is. either/or. she has really nice eyes, he thinks. is that creepy? probably. don’t say anything about her eyes, man. don’t do it. don’t be that guy. you lean in closer to check his pupils with a tiny penlight, and yuuji’s stomach flutters like he swallowed a whole nest of butterflies. he can feel your breath on his cheek. smell your shampoo. his brain whites out for a second.

“you feeling lightheaded?” you ask, scribbling something down.

yes. because you exist. “nope. all good,” he croaks.

you’re stitching now. he winces. “sorry,” you murmur.

“no, no. it’s cool. you’re doing amazing. like, if I ever get injured again—which statistically I probably will—could I request you?” you glance at him like you're not sure if he’s joking. he is. but also, he’s not. and then he starts blatantly staring at you while you work. he can’t help it. he’s trying to memorize your face. commit this moment to memory. you in your element, brow furrowed in concentration, lips pursed in a way that makes his chest hurt.

you finish the last stitch and start taping gauze. “all done,” you say.

already? he sits up too fast and wobbles. you steady him with one hand. he’s in love. “do I get a sticker or something?” he asks, a little dazed.

you raise a brow. “do you want a sticker?”

“I'd keep it forever.” and there it is—a tiny laugh. barely a breath. but it counts. it’s the greatest sound he’s ever heard. he wants it as a ringtone. you start typing something into the chart on the monitor, clearly wrapping up, and yuuji panics. fast. “actually, uh—wait. I think I'm still a little lightheaded.”

you pause, peer over your shoulder. “you stood up fine.”

“yeah, but like, internally. I'm dizzy. maybe nauseous. blurry vision. could be internal bleeding.”

you squint. “from a forearm laceration?”

he nods, very serious. “anything’s possible. medical mysteries happen all the time.”

you sigh, come back over with your stethoscope. “alright, dr. house. let’s check you again.” he lets you, thrilled to be buying more time. you check him. everything’s normal. his pulse is a little fast, but that might be from the way you're touching his wrist. “ino,” you say slowly. “you’re fine.”

"I might throw up,” he tries.

“you won’t.”

he pouts. “can’t I just like…hang out here for a bit? make sure I don’t collapse outside?”

your lips twitch. “the waiting room’s that way.”

he winces. “so cold.” you’re already back at the chart again, wrapping things up for real this time. and now he’s desperate. time’s running out. so he blurts, “do you wanna maybe go out sometime?” silence. you glance at him over your shoulder, amused. exasperated. fond, somehow.

you don’t say yes. but you don’t say no, either. just shake your head, smiling despite yourself. and when he’s walking out of the er, still a little loopy, he’s already planning how he might maybe get injured again next week. nothing major. just…a mild concussion. or a broken finger. something small. just enough to see you.

[leviackmyman]

cutie chibi

[leviackmyman]

lets just get this started,

hi everynyan!!

i’m sorry ive been gone, ive had a really hectic time but always in a good way. so many new opportunities and chances to learn new skills. happy i could take some time to update my blog on here!

i will be spamming your timeline today with all the art ive made after leaving tumblr, tw its juicy as hell 😈

feel free to block me if it becomes oversaturated with bunni content :3!

here’s a yuta spread!

[leviackmyman]

choso and this took so long cause i finally drew my husband so it had to be right and im really happy with it!!!

[leviackmyman]

hes so breedable WHAT who said that

[leviackmyman]

[leviackmyman]

Christmas if Gojo, Shoko and Geto had been able to raise Megumi, Tsumiki, Nanako and Mimiko together (Featuring Nanami)

[leviackmyman]

I love their height difference so much ehuhehehehehhh

[leviackmyman]

stepping into the comfort of your home, nanami is met with a shrill cry from his four year old.

following her cry, he rushes to your room, mind cascading with the absolute worst scenarios he could walk into.

and upon opening the door, he’s met with a rather unusual atmosphere.

you sit leaning against the headboard, a smile on display whereas your daughter is crouched by the foot of the bed, a photo in hand while sobbing uncontrollably.

confusion etches a puzzled look onto his face and he steps into the room ‘hey..? what’s going on’ he asks, loosening his tie just in time for him to catch his daughter as she runs up to him.

leaning down, he picks her up and plants a small kiss onto her hairline, her small body shaking with each sob.

he hates seeing his girl cry like this.

his hands stroke her back in hopes to calm her down ‘hi angel girl, why’re you crying hmm?’ he asks.

he feels her nod a “no” into his neck.

the cries still continue and he looks to you for help. a sigh leaves your lips ‘i was showing her our wedding photos and she started crying because she wasn’t invited’ you try to hide your grimace, because in all honesty, this situation was hilarious.

‘oh’ kento says, a small smile on his face as he turns your daughter’s face towards him ‘sweet girl can you look at me? please?’ he murmurs.

his little girl lifts her head from his neck, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand ‘why was i not invited?’ she asks, her doe eyes starting to fill with tears once again.

chuckling at this, kento pats down her hair and smiles at her ‘you weren’t born yet angel, otherwise you know for sure you would’ve been there’

this seems to have consoled her a tad bit ‘really?’ she asks.

‘really’ he confirms, placing a kiss onto her cheek as he places her back on the bed, her sobs coming to an abrupt stop.

your girl has this thing where she’ll listen to anything and everything kento says. if her dad says it, it must be true.

she goes back to looking through the albums, cheeks still a bit damp and red from all that crying.

you scoff at this ‘i told her the same thing at least a 50 times, but no, she only takes your word’ you get up from the bed, walking over to him.

he pulls you in by the waist, pressing his forehead against yours ‘well, then this concludes our last week’s discussion on who her favourite is’ he smirks.

‘hmph, yeah okay’ you roll your eyes, as you feel him plant a kiss to your temple.

and suddenly-

‘you went to school together!? without me!?’ your daughter shrieks and her lips wobble, now looking at your and kento’s high school album.

oh shucks.

(rblogs are appreciated but this is not proofread so do w that info what you will🤟🏼)