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[melangedeparfums]

PAINT STARS AROUND MY SCARS

SCENERY OF LIFE SERIES

masterlist

husband!chris x wife!reader

cw: angst, emotional&physical scars, mention of trauma, fluff, chris unsure of his physical appearance, not proofread, first time writing Chris, enjoy! <3

19:43

THE STORM outside had died down to a simple whisper along the sound of rain falling against the windows. The lights are low, the moonlight peaking through the curtains, dancing between the shadows. The only sound was the soft rustling of sheets under your body and of your heartbeat - steady, slow, strong.

Beside you, he laid on his side, half-covered by the blanket, shirtless under the soft fabric, his eyes closed. The lamp’s glow fell across the landscape of his body - battered, strong, the marble carved with scars that didn’t ask for attention but commanded it anyway.

Curled beside him, legs tangled, your hand rested just above his heart, feeling the pulse under your fingertips, your attention shifting slightly. Without even thinking, your delicate fingers traced a line over his chest - one long, pale scar that curved all across his ribs, branding the smoothness of the skin.

Chris wasn’t sleeping - his attention still on every single of your movements, a shiver running through his spine, his heartbeat stuttering. He never understood why you gave so much attention to the terrible scars that marked his body. Anybody would have looked away.

But you weren’t anybody.

“This one?” The question lingered in the air, your eyes on his face. He was quiet for a moment.

Every scar was imprinted in his mind. Every battle. Every loss.

“Grenade. Raccoon City. Blew through a wall. Thought I was done for.”

He remembered all too well. The fear. The screams. The smell of gunpowder clinging desperately to his skin even though he tried to wash it off too many times, dragging him again and again into his worst night terrors. He swallowed the lump in his throat - a long sigh leaving his lips.

You hummed. Then continued. Your fingers traced another scar, smaller, faded over time on the stomach - an older one, that almost went unnoticed if you weren’t that close to him.

“Knife?”

“Close fight. Lost the blade, won the war.”

You shook your head softly.

“Your body’s a battlefield.”

“It’s a job.”

You met his eyes. Stern. Quiet. Tired. Eyes that saw too many things, witnessing the kind of horrors nobody could have imagined. Eyes that spoke loud and stayed quiet at the same time.

“You say that like it doesn’t break you.”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t bring himself to admit it, to question whether it did break him or not. He already knew the answer. Every mark was a physical reminder of the emotional agony he went thought, of his demons lurking in the shadow of his nightmares. Looking at them was already painful, but somehow, your hands on his body were a soothing balm to his wounded soul.

You leaned closer, pulling him from his own thoughts, as you pressed your lips gently to a jagged mark on his naked shoulder, his eyes fluttering under the dim lights. He didn’t expect it - the curiosity yes, the disgust even, but this? His chest felt too heavy, his throat even painful.

“You’re not just skin and war stories, Chris.” Your hand glided down. Another scar. Another memory. Your voice dropped to a soft whisper. “You remember the pain, don’t you?”

“I remember the silence after.” His rough voice made his chest rumble.

The silence.

Defeating. Echoing in his ears, his heartbeat in his eardrums louder than the religious silence that surrounded him.

You looked up. His eyes were dark, but open this time. Exposed. You’d seen his body before—but now?

This was him letting you in.

Seeing him vulnerable, naked, fragile under your gaze. Seeing him as the man - not as the wounded soldier he thought everybody was looking at, pitying him or judging him for his actions.

“Then let me give it sound,” you murmured. “A voice. A story. Something soft to rest inside all the noise.”

You moved down, tracing each scar with kisses, not for desire - but reverence. Naming them. Not as wounds, but chapters. He couldn’t believe it. What did he do in his life to deserve someone like you? Someone that would love him unconditionally? It was almost too much - his heart on the edge of his lips.

And then - quietly, unprompted - you began telling him your own story.

Where you got that old burn on your ankle (a spilled tea kettle at five). The line near your wrist (a childhood tree branch). The emotional scar of being too smart, too intense, too much for the men who came before him.

He listened. Barely blinking. Like he knew he’s being entrusted with something rare.

“I’m not perfect either,” you said. “But I’m yours if you want me.”

His hand came up—calloused, warm—and cradled your jaw, this thumb caressing your right cheek tenderly.

“I want all of it,” he said. “Every scar. Every unfinished chapter.”

He kissed you then. Not out of passion - but gratitude. Like you gave him something no one else dared to: softness without pity. Intimacy without question. Love without conditions.

And for the first time in years, Chris Redfield slept without dreaming of war.

────

i just want to give him a hug ☹️

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thank you so much for all your likes, reposts and comments, it means a lot!! ❤️

fun fact: the pyjama toji was talking about was a real pyjama i wore when i was a baby, with little cows on it, i looked like a freakin’ banana but that’s alright 🥰 and the last scene with the priority card line was inspired by my parents haha

AT THE SUPERMARKET

masterlist

toji fushiguro x pregnant!reader

tw: crack (attempts to), fluff, reader is pregnant with megumi, toji calling reader “ma, mama”, weird pregnancy cravings, not proofread.

“yellow or green?”

“hmm?”

“toji, are you listening to me?” you sighed in the middle of the alley of the supermarket, waving two baby pyjamas in each of your hands.

“i’m not buying my son a pyjama with fucking cows eating grass on it, ma’.”

“toji.”

running errands with toji was a nightmare. he was always behind you, his chest pressed against your back while he caged you before the cart, listening half the time to whatever you were saying. he also glared to anybody who dared stare at you for too long, ready to fight if needed while you offered apologetic smiles to whoever would come across your husband behaviour. that was always the same thing with him. having toji to lift the bags, push the cart, and pay was great - but his scary dog attitude was a lot to deal with.

“so, green or yellow?” you repeated, now that you had his full attention.

“green.”

“yellow it is.” you put the yellow pyjama - the one with the cows eating grass - in the cart, while he pushed it, his lips spreading into a half-smile. he knew you - you always got what you wanted, even if he found the pyjamas atrocious, and that it would make his son look like a fucking minion, he would bear it, for you.

toji couldn’t really understand why buying cute little stuff for your child - that wasn’t even born yet - seemed to always put you in a good mood. little socks, bobble hats, and everything that went with it. megumi - as he insisted on naming him - could wear nothing and he would love his son the same. but, he wouldn’t question it, not with you. the sigh of your swollen belly made his chest flutter with warmth, his dark blue eyes softening slightly. your were glowing with pregnancy, delicate skin flushed with heat, eyes gleaming with excitement - when you didn’t want to kill him half of the time - feeling his own heart stutter in his ribcage. he often couldn’t believe how someone so pure would want to do anything with him - but the universe worked in mysterious ways, not that he was really complaining.

“you know what i really crave right now?” your question seemed to pull him out of his thoughts, his eyes finding yours.

“cheesecake? fries and ice-cream?”

“no. i want strawberries with burrata, or avocado with chocolate….” your eyebrows knitted, a little pout on my lips, your eyes darting between both options, your hands on your belly. which one to get? it seemed like a whole dilemma, your mouth watering just thinking about it. your husband was used to it: it could take hours for you to choose, changing your opinion at least five times to be finally decided.

“which one does he want?” toji asked, my chin titling to your belly. he learnt how to be patient, his dearly wife deserved every once of the patience he could summon. so, if you took it seriously, he would too, even if you had to spend twenty minutes deciding. so, be it. your were the mother of his son after all.

“i don’t know.” toji took a package of strawberries and the peanut butter. he made you smell one after the other, his eyes narrowing to watch every detail of your reaction. since you were pregnant, indecision seemed to claw at you, your cravings changing every time.

both of you waited for the little blessing in your belly to manifest himself, to kick or even move.

nothing.

absolutely nothing.

“he’s sleeping i think.” you finally announced, a sigh leaving your lips.

“hey, megumi, wake up and tell your mother-“ yes, toji was patient with you, but if his soon-to-be-born child could help him, even a little bit, he would feel extremely grateful right now.

“toji.”

“i was dead ass serious.” the little pout on your lips softened him, as he leaned to kiss your forehead with gentleness. “it’s okay, we can take both.”

“really?” your eyes seemed to lighten, eyelashes fluttering with hope.

“yes, mama.” he put everything in the cart without thinking twice. he would indulge your weird pregnancy cravings if he got to look at your adorable smile every single day.

arriving at the checkout, toji didn’t think twice and skipped the line: one of the perks of having a pregnant wife after all. he would use all the advantages - for you, like for him, “my wife is pregnant” being his favourite line every time he went out - even without you. skipping the line, using the parking spot (even when you weren’t pregnant) or taking every discount coupons that crossed his line of sight. yes, toji was a freeloader.

“you take too much pleasure in skipping the line.”

“hey, we are pregnant.”

his huge frame hid your body from the sight of the rest of the line. he listened intently to every word coming out of your mouth, his palm under his chin.

“sir, you’re not allowed to skip the line.” said an old woman, her eyebrows knitted. toji didn’t answer - in fact, he didn’t give a fuck about respecting the elders. why was she even bothering him?

“where are your manners?” she continued, her hands clutching her cane with frail hands, her eyes narrowing on his back.

fighting with other customers to have priority was one of toji’s favourite hobbies but today, he didn’t have the patience. instead, he didn’t waste time and spin you to show the old lady your round belly, a small squeal leaving your lips, his huge hands turning you by the shoulders making you almost dizzy in the process.

“my priority card is here, old hag.”

“toji!”

────

first time writing here (instead of studying), i don’t usually like the pregnancy trope but i liked the idea, so there we go! english isn’t my first language btw ✌🏻

[melangedeparfums]

SCENERY OF A LIFE

husband!chris redfield x wife!reader

masterlist

cw: english content, f!reader is a civilian and polyglot (because why not?), tender domesticity, fluff, angst, mentions of trauma, petnames.

synopsis: somewhere between gunpowder and chaos, chris built a world no one gets to touch. scattered memories written. not in order.

LIST

paint stars around my scars

three languages and a bottle of antiseptic: coming soon.

anatomy lessons: coming soon.

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CHRIS REDFIELD

scenery of a life (mini-series)

[melangedeparfums]

chris redfield. chris redfield. chris redfield. chris redfield. chris redfield. chris redfield. chris redfield. chris redfield. chris redfield. chris redfield. chris redfield. chris redfield. chris redfield. chris redfield. that’s it. that’s the tweet.

(wanna write about him so bad)

[melangedeparfums]

KEEP YOUR HANDS ON ME

husband!nanami x wife!reader

masterlist

tw: suggestive, not proofread, nanami can’t keep his hands off, petnames (“my love”, “my wife”)

nanami was good with his hands.

calloused hands trained by years of practice, manipulating weapons, combining agility and strength. his hands could destroy, wreck, bring everything to ruin - but for you, they create, soften, take care.

the roughness of his hands would meet the softness of your skin, the relief of his fingers on your thin skin - making him hum appreciatively, the slowness of his movements overwhelming you.

his hands were also large, much larger than yours, twice your size in fact, wrapping around every part of your flesh with utter care and patience because, yes, nanami was a man of patience, and he intended to make every bit last.

“see how my hands are made for you? see how you fit perfectly, hmm?” his deep voice made his chest grumble, arising goosebumps on your skin, his sharp look reflecting his focused mind.

nanami learnt to be delicate with his fists, his knuckles grazing over the swell of your breasts, his pants already tight. but Nanami was a man of control, and calm, and he would take his sweet time with you.

nanami knew what to do with his hands. always. when to came to you, it was natural. instinctive. his powerful hands could manhandle you, pin you down, and make you bend for him - his eyes captivated by the magnificent arch of your back against the mattress.

precise.

this man was a man of precision. aiming perfectly at his target. one look, and he didn’t have to think - his fingers moving for him, as he would take sight of you, spread for him. he knew where to touch, caress, pinch. alternating between his index and his thumb. gripping with both hands. slapping. the cold metal of his wedding ring shining through the light, trailing along your spine with finesse, his lips following the same path he created before.

“you are truly breathtaking, my love.”

my love.

you thought your heart would explode, your head dizzy and your vision blurred. something utterly tender in his honeyed tone made your core ache with pain, as his hands memorised the map of your body in the marble of his mind, his fingers foxtrotted on your epidermis gracefully to brand every scar, mole, stretch mark, freckle, birthmark into the furrows of his soul.

like a sculptor modelling the clay with an utter precision, kneading the dough between his fingers, awe shining in his hazel irises in front of the muse that made his heart pound deliciously into his ribcage.

veiny forearms that wrapped around your waist, making you switch positions, his digits pressing into the plumpness of your thighs to make it collide with his pelvis, eliciting a weak whimper from you, and a soft chuckle from him.

an work of art, you were his work of art. and Nanami was the artist, holding moonlight in his two hands all night long.

“my wife.”

──── ୨୧ ────

thank you so much for all the likes and the reposts!! 🫶🏻

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KENTO NANAMI

keep your hands on me: husband!nanami x wife!reader

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you're bit too possessive toward your nerdྀི

the moment you spot them through the glass wall of the library study room, something primal inside you snaps.

your nerd. your sweet, tall, stuttering nerd.

and some other girl leaning all over him. all giggles and twirls of her stupid hair, looking up at him like he hung the stars. you can practically see the way her fingers brush “innocently” against his forearm. and gojo—this sweet, beautiful idiot gojo. he's just smiling, shyly pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, completely, utterly oblivious of the advances the girl is making.

you see red. not the cute, flirty kind of jealous. no. 

you see murder.

by the time you stomp into the study room, he lights up the second he sees you—like a golden retriever seeing its favorite person. “babyy!” he blurts, half-standing so fast he nearly knocks over the chair. his knees bang the table. his pen scatter. he's flushed pink already, hands fidgeting with the hem of his stupid neat sweater, beaming at you like you're the sun itself.

meanwhile, the girl beside him falters, confused as hell when you swoop in, grab a fistful of his collar and yank him down into a messy kiss—a possessive and mean one, kissing him like you're marking him, like you're making a fucking declaration.

gojo gasps against your mouth, stunned, but immediately melts, tilting his head to give you more. he kisses back with desperate little noises, afraid if he doesn't, you'll change your mind and leave. when you pull back, he's breathless, blinking at you all dazed and drunk, glasses slipping halway down his nose. “i missed you…” he whispers.

you don't answer him, to focusing on the other girl. staring straight at her awkward form peeking up her books, face pale. you tilt your head and smile—sharp, unfriendly, a predator showing teeth. she scurries away without a word.

gojo blinks between you and the empty chair, confusion pinching his brows. “she…left? we didn't end the explanations—”

you grab his jaw in one hand, squeezing his cheeks until his lips squish pouty. “you,” you hiss, leaning so close your breath fans his pink ears, “are so fucking stupid, satoru.” his wide, panicked eyes blink down at you. “i-i am?” he stutters, looking on the verge of tears just because you're mad at him. “i-i didn't even—i mean…i was j-just doing the private lesson…i-i told you about it!” he babbles, desperate. not understanding a thing.

you shake his head a little by the jaw, making his glasses slip down worse. “yeah, yeah. i agreed on a private lesson." you snarl, voice dripping poison-sweet. "not private fucking sex.” you yank his wrist, dragging him out of the little study room, ignoring the curious heads turning to you. 

satoru stumbles after you, tripping over his own feet—over himself just to keep up. “y-you're mad,” he whines, almost breathless, cheeks burning red. “w-what did i…i didn't—”

his voice gets smaller when you spin around, shoving him back hard against the nearest wall. his back thuds against the cold surface, and he freezes up, chest heaving. “you really don't get it, huh?” 

that dumb, pretty face of his—lips pink from your previous kiss and from him nervously chewing them, his glasses crooked, his hair all messed up—god, you could eat him alive. “you let that clingy bitch touch you like that?” you spit. “smile at her like that? let her giggle and bat her lashes like you didn't already have someone who should be the only thing you look at??”

satoru is practically vibrating in place, like a kicked puppy. his Adam's apple bobs hard when he swallows. “i-i didn't notice!” he chokes out. “i swear, angel, i didn't! i-i didn't even l-look at her. .” your nails scrape up his chest through his hoodie, making him whimper. “you're mine, aren't you, 'toru?” he nods so fast you think he might give himself whiplash. “y-yes!! yours! of c-course, only yours!”

your hand snakes lower, palming the half-chub tenting his sweats. poor thing :( so quick to get hard just from yelling at him. “you're lucky you're cute,” you snap, but your heart is hammering at how real the panic was in his voice. 

you squeeze him through the fabric. his hips jolt into your hand with a pathetic little gasp. you watch his pretty white lashes flutter, poor boy was genuinely confused why you're so pissed—poor sweet nerd who only ever wanted you :((

you click your tongue. “my pretty nerd,” you mock sweetly, squeezing his cock harder through his pants, making his knees buckle. “getting hard just ‘cause i’m scolding you? bet you'd cum just from me slapping your face.” 

“i-i could! i would, i-if that's what y-you—ah!—want,” his mouth works uselessly searching for words, his brain short-circuiting because your hand's still lazily stroking him through his sweats. you lean up, biting his jaw hard enough to make him whines. 

"you’re gonna make it up to me," you murmur against his skin, voice syrupy sweet. "gonna let me use you however I want. gonna be a good boy for me, huh, satoru?" he was towering over you but he was so, so submissive.

he nods so fast again his glasses damn near fall off. "a-anything," he breathes. "please. please let me—lemme be good—i'll be so good, promise!"

[melangedeparfums]

MASTERLIST

jujutsu kaisen

satoru gojo

kento nanami

toji fushiguro

resident evil

chris redfield

[melangedeparfums]

YOUR ARMS, MY HOME

toji fushiguro x f!reader

masterlist

tw: a bit angsty, fluff, not proofread, reader has anxiety and struggles to speak in public, a bit of self-depreciation, toji comforts reader (writing is cathartic okay? ✋🏻), pet names (“ma”, “my girl”, “pretty girl”)

“what’s wrong, ma’?”

“nothing, toji.”

a sigh left toji’s lips, his eyes scrutinising your face. the bedroom was eerily quiet - more than usual, the sounds of car horns from the street filling the silence. you were sat on your bed, your eyes never leaving the book on your lap. the words seemed to blur, your attention elsewhere. you weren’t even focused, just needing something to forget what happened earlier.

“i know something’s wrong.” toji knew it. something was wrong. from the way your lips pursed, your eyebrows slightly knitted - anybody wouldn’t have noticed of course. but he wasn’t anybody. he knew you by heart, every part of his soul had memorised you: every facial expression, every breath, every word that came out of your lips.

“did I do something wrong?” he asked, a bit confused. he didn’t remember doing something that would have upset you.

“no, no at all.” you answered simply, but toji wasn’t buying it.

“who is it? want me to-”

“no, toji. of course not.” a soft chuckle left your lips. you know he was ready whenever you would give him the permission. a single word and he would have been already out, looking for the person that upset you. but, today, you just needed him. his steps brought him before you, he sat on the edge of the bed, facing you.

“what is it then?” his tone was somehow softer this time. he hated seeing you in this state. “you know you can tell me everything.”

“i know.” your eyes met his, dark blue irises flickering in the dim light.

“come here.” he didn’t wait a second, his large arms engulfed you, your face in the crook of his neck, as you breathed his scent. he smelt like home. comforting. warm. familiar. he closed his eyes, his hand caressing your hair, keeping you against him. he knew you needed some time to open up: talking about your feelings was never easy, and he understood that. even if you didn’t want to talk about it, he would stay here as long as you needed him. your face moved to his chest, your cheek squished against the soft material of his black t-shirt. his heartbeat - steady and grounding - was a soft contrast to yours.

after a while, you slowly pulled back, your hands on your lap. his arm was on your knee this time.

“it’s work related, nothing major.” you quickly brushed it off, ready to change the subject. “it doesn’t matter.”

“it matters to me.” everything that was about you, mattered to him. you mattered to him, his thoughts always came back to you. it was natural for him, as natural as breathing.

“i just…” your eyes drifted away, as you swallowed the lump in your throat. “i feel like i’m out of place sometimes.”

“why do you say that?” there was no judgment in his question, his thumb rumbling circles on your knee, his touch soothing the tremors of your heart.

“you know how I struggle when I have to talk in public, right? i had a briefing today.” you paused, taking an inhalation. he listened intently, his eyes never leaving yours. “well, no word could come of my mouth. i was…” you stopped, your throat tightening, your jaw tensing. you hated yourself for being so weak, so vulnerable. a simple thing happened and you felt like the world - your world - stopped spinning the next second, your brain freezing, focusing only on this disastrous briefing.

“paralysed?” toji softly suggested, his head titling slightly. his fingers took one of the strands of your hair out of your face, putting it behind your ear to get a better look at your face, as he waited patiently for you to continue. he had all the time of the world - for you, he would find it.

“yeah.” a shaky breath left your lips, as your eyes fell on your lap again. you were already fidgeting with your fingers nervously, memories from the briefing flooding your mind again.

“have they said anything to you?”

“no. but, everybody kept looking at me, waiting for something - anything and when I was about to say something… the briefing was already over.” a bitter chuckle echoed in the room, your words sounding strange to your ears. you could feel the looks from your colleagues and your supervisor on you again. “god, i feel so stupid.”

“hey-“ his index flickered your forehead, catching your attention. you rubbed the skin, a little pout on your lips. “none of that. you are not stupid.” you were about to say something else, your mouth opening and closing the next second. his tone left no room to argue, and you knew better than to contradict toji right now. “fuck them. fuck your supervisor and fuck your colleagues.”

“toji…” you shook your head, a half-smile on the corners of your lips. the thing you liked about him was that he was never afraid to say whatever he thought out loud. toji was frank - a bit too much sometimes - his tongue as as sharp as his mind. he didn’t have a single care in the world - except for you of course.

“you are not stupid, alright? you are one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. don’t talk about my girl like that.” from the exterior, it would have looked like he was scolding you, but it wasn’t the case. he knew you all too well, and when your head kept spiralling with self deprecating nonsense, he knew he had to be careful with his words, but sharp. “i may not understand what’s happening in this pretty little head of yours, but i know for sure that you tried your best. things like that happens.”

he knew he wasn’t the best at comforting - his words sometimes clumsy, his tone a bit too rough on the edges. his actions were always louder, more expressive, physical touch was easier. this time, it was different. words were a soothing balm, meant to ease the tempest of your mind.

“so, take out this idea of your mind. don’t let it dominate you.” his lips kissed softly your temple, his nose caressing your face, his arms still around your body. he wouldn’t let you ago - not until you would push him away. your frail hand found his - much larger and bigger than yours - your fingers intertwined together. he knew that taking out the thoughts that plagued your mind would take time, it was easier said than done. soft words came out of his mouth, his eyes closed, as he kept you in his arms. “but if you really want me to go talk to-”

“no, toji. i don’t think we have the same definition of talking you and I.”

“hmm…” at least, he tried. he knew how to talk but if you didn’t want him to intervene, he wouldn’t do it. you were perfect able to pick your battles and speak for yourself - you just needed a little push sometimes.

“but, thank you, really.” your eyes shone with gratefulness, your lips kissing his cheek softly.

“don’t mention it, pretty girl.”

────

we all need a toji in our lives

[melangedeparfums]

THE DEVIL’S ADVOCATE

PART ONE

lawyer!satoru gojo x lawyer!reader

masterlist

tw: ooc gojo, very poor knowledge of criminal law (sorry), cliché af, tension (no smut yet), inspiration from how to get away with murder and the devil’s advocate, and i think that’s all for the moment?

“There is no motive here, Your Honor. My client had nothing to gain from the alleged offense.”

The tension in the court was palpable, every member of the jury looking at each other, the sound of gasps and whispers disappearing under the weight of the silence filling the room. It was almost a typical case. The wife - ex-wife now - had been accused of wanting to poison her husband - well, ex-husband’s now - for having a mistress.

Crime of passion? Revenge? Every cliched scenario was plausible. Was it the mistress or the wife? This question seemed to hold every breath, lingering on every tongue. 

Almost a typical case.

It wasn’t the fact that the said husband wasn’t really dead - he was still alive, paralyzed and unable to communicate - that bothered you. You were sure of yourself. Your client - the wife - was innocent and you were going to prove it, your guts telling you to fight back until you had the final word. The wife couldn’t have murder him now - she knew about the affair for years. Why would she act now? The mistress - who was much younger - out of jealousy could have done it when he threatened to never leave his wife. 

Silence. 

“Even if there was no clear no motive, the evidence speaks for itself. The facts of the case establish my argument, and motive is not a necessary element to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.” 

The deep masculine voice - that you didn’t want to hear since the beginning - rose into the courtroom, after a few seconds, making you grit her teeth. You could smell meters aways his confidence from where you stood.

Goddamn it.

On the other side of the courtroom, Mr. Satoru Gojo - wearing his signature black suit, decorated with gold - knew what he was doing. He always knew what to do.

Pristine white hair perfectly brushed framed his blue eyes, that made every person in the courtyard turn back, falling on you for a mere second, his tongue even sharper than his jawline, against his teeth, devilish satisfaction painted on his face. 

Did he recognise you? 

You glanced back at him, your teeth biting your inner cheek. It wouldn’t be him that was going to make you lose. Not now. Not ever. Your fingers gripped your pencil, your grip turning almost white, breaking in half, as you breathed one more time. 

“The session is over for today.” 

────

“Almost lost your cool in here?” 

Moving as swiftly as a black mamba in the jungle, his dangerous smirk dancing across his lips, Gojo walked beside you, his hands in his pockets. He was an asshole. An asshole that made your skin boil with anger every single time he dared open his mouth and talk to you after every case. You wanted to slap him so hard in the face, to make his sweet condescending smirk disappear immediately - things you wanted to do since law school. It would have been too satisfying. He took too much pleasure every single time playing with your nerves. Calm and collected, you didn’t want to talk to him, even a blind man could have seen that. You had to be focused, losing time wasn’t on your agenda, and certainly not with Mr. Gojo. 

Not wanting to give any attention, you didn’t even acknowledge his presence, checked your watch before walking towards the exit of the Supreme Court. The constant buzzing of New York greeted you, the honks and the shouting and the clickety-clack seemed to never leave the city. 

“You should probably go reassure your client. She isn't really confident in your skills. Especially when she is guilty.”

“You know I don’t care if she did it. The guy kinda deserved it.”

You didn’t expect less from him. We were talking about pragmatic Gojo after all. You knew him all too well. His approach to the law was totally opposite from yours. You just didn’t expect him to share it out loud with you. The only reaction he got from you was a scoff coming out of your red lips. You went down the stairs, your heels clicking on the stone.

“Playing the devil’s advocate now?”

“You and your sweet idealism.” Arching a brow, you stopped walking for a second. Your ��sweet idealism”? You were supposed to be a lawyer for God’s sake! Maybe you took things too much at heart and hoped for a better society where everybody should be judged under the same laws, equally. The reality was different and far from being manichean though, you weren’t stupid. But, maybe, you had hoped that your peers would think the same. Of course, you had the end up with the Devil’s Advocate who didn’t really give a fuck about his client’s situation - his cynicism dripping like honey from his mouth. 

He felt your judgmental stare into his soul. Yes, Satoru was being truthful - for once. He didn’t care if his client did it. It wouldn’t help him sleep better at night if he knew the truth. His job was simple : defend his client and win the trial. Other things were just futilities and he didn’t had time for that. 

“Why defend her if you don’t even bother believing her?” You wouldn’t answer to his provocation - idealist or not, you were determined to do your job, and do it well. 

“Everybody deserves to be represented, no?” 

Touché. 

Yes, everybody deserves to be represented. It didn’t mean that he could so easily brush off the truth. Before you, in the middle of the square, he didn’t seem to be intimidated by you. Of course, he had recognised you. How could he not? Top of your class. Eyes that held so much animosity every time you landed them on his person. Red lips that were never afraid to speak up and insult him whenever he teased you endlessly. You was fucking unforgettable, and it was messing his pretty head. 

“Well, good luck to prove her pseudo innocence.”

“I don’t need luck, sugar. i’m the strongest.” He winked at you, making you roll your eyes, the nickname rolling on his tongue too smoothly to your liking, his black sunglasses perched on the top of his nose.

Him and his damn hubris. 

You would definitely slap him one day. 

He didn’t really change since law school, his arrogance was still present, dangerously lurking in the shadow of his undeniable beauty. That enraged you even more. You would never admit it though to his face. He didn’t care about bending the rules or manipulating the facts - the Devil’s Advocate with his pretty face always won somehow. It didn’t mean you couldn’t fight until the end. 

You stopped a cab with a swift move of your right hand, checking your watch for the second time. You couldn’t allow yourself to be late. 

“Oh, but I think you’re gonna need it. You’re going to lose, Gojo.” With a simple smile, you left him alone in the middle of the street, not even bothering listening to his answer, and got into the cab. 

It made his smirk even bigger. 

You would destroy him, and you would enjoy every second of it. 

────

can’t believe i’ve written this ten months ago, hope you enjoyed it!

[melangedeparfums]

AT THE SUPERMARKET

masterlist

toji fushiguro x pregnant!reader

tw: crack (attempts to), fluff, reader is pregnant with megumi, toji calling reader “ma, mama”, weird pregnancy cravings, not proofread.

“yellow or green?”

“hmm?”

“toji, are you listening to me?” you sighed in the middle of the alley of the supermarket, waving two baby pyjamas in each of your hands.

“i’m not buying my son a pyjama with fucking cows eating grass on it, ma’.”

“toji.”

running errands with toji was a nightmare. he was always behind you, his chest pressed against your back while he caged you before the cart, listening half the time to whatever you were saying. he also glared to anybody who dared stare at you for too long, ready to fight if needed while you offered apologetic smiles to whoever would come across your husband behaviour. that was always the same thing with him. having toji to lift the bags, push the cart, and pay was great - but his scary dog attitude was a lot to deal with.

“so, green or yellow?” you repeated, now that you had his full attention.

“green.”

“yellow it is.” you put the yellow pyjama - the one with the cows eating grass - in the cart, while he pushed it, his lips spreading into a half-smile. he knew you - you always got what you wanted, even if he found the pyjamas atrocious, and that it would make his son look like a fucking minion, he would bear it, for you.

toji couldn’t really understand why buying cute little stuff for your child - that wasn’t even born yet - seemed to always put you in a good mood. little socks, bobble hats, and everything that went with it. megumi - as he insisted on naming him - could wear nothing and he would love his son the same. but, he wouldn’t question it, not with you. the sigh of your swollen belly made his chest flutter with warmth, his dark blue eyes softening slightly. your were glowing with pregnancy, delicate skin flushed with heat, eyes gleaming with excitement - when you didn’t want to kill him half of the time - feeling his own heart stutter in his ribcage. he often couldn’t believe how someone so pure would want to do anything with him - but the universe worked in mysterious ways, not that he was really complaining.

“you know what i really crave right now?” your question seemed to pull him out of his thoughts, his eyes finding yours.

“cheesecake? fries and ice-cream?”

“no. i want strawberries with burrata, or avocado with chocolate….” your eyebrows knitted, a little pout on my lips, your eyes darting between both options, your hands on your belly. which one to get? it seemed like a whole dilemma, your mouth watering just thinking about it. your husband was used to it: it could take hours for you to choose, changing your opinion at least five times to be finally decided.

“which one does he want?” toji asked, my chin titling to your belly. he learnt how to be patient, his dearly wife deserved every once of the patience he could summon. so, if you took it seriously, he would too, even if you had to spend twenty minutes deciding. so, be it. your were the mother of his son after all.

“i don’t know.” toji took a package of strawberries and the peanut butter. he made you smell one after the other, his eyes narrowing to watch every detail of your reaction. since you were pregnant, indecision seemed to claw at you, your cravings changing every time.

both of you waited for the little blessing in your belly to manifest himself, to kick or even move.

nothing.

absolutely nothing.

“he’s sleeping i think.” you finally announced, a sigh leaving your lips.

“hey, megumi, wake up and tell your mother-“ yes, toji was patient with you, but if his soon-to-be-born child could help him, even a little bit, he would feel extremely grateful right now.

“toji.”

“i was dead ass serious.” the little pout on your lips softened him, as he leaned to kiss your forehead with gentleness. “it’s okay, we can take both.”

“really?” your eyes seemed to lighten, eyelashes fluttering with hope.

“yes, mama.” he put everything in the cart without thinking twice. he would indulge your weird pregnancy cravings if he got to look at your adorable smile every single day.

arriving at the checkout, toji didn’t think twice and skipped the line: one of the perks of having a pregnant wife after all. he would use all the advantages - for you, like for him, “my wife is pregnant” being his favourite line every time he went out - even without you. skipping the line, using the parking spot (even when you weren’t pregnant) or taking every discount coupons that crossed his line of sight. yes, toji was a freeloader.

“you take too much pleasure in skipping the line.”

“hey, we are pregnant.”

his huge frame hid your body from the sight of the rest of the line. he listened intently to every word coming out of your mouth, his palm under his chin.

“sir, you’re not allowed to skip the line.” said an old woman, her eyebrows knitted. toji didn’t answer - in fact, he didn’t give a fuck about respecting the elders. why was she even bothering him?

“where are your manners?” she continued, her hands clutching her cane with frail hands, her eyes narrowing on his back.

fighting with other customers to have priority was one of toji’s favourite hobbies but today, he didn’t have the patience. instead, he didn’t waste time and spin you to show the old lady your round belly, a small squeal leaving your lips, his huge hands turning you by the shoulders making you almost dizzy in the process.

“my priority card is here, old hag.”

“toji!”

────

first time writing here (instead of studying), i don’t usually like the pregnancy trope but i liked the idea, so there we go! english isn’t my first language btw ✌🏻

[melangedeparfums]

TOJI FUSHIGURO

at the supermarket: toji x pregnant!reader

your arms, my home

[melangedeparfums]

SATORU GOJO

the devil’s advocate: lawyer!gojo x lawyer!reader

[melangedeparfums]

THE DEVIL’S ADVOCATE

lawyer!gojo x f!reader

tw: enemies to lovers, NSFW, SMUT (18+), minors and ageless blogs do not interact, not proofread, f!reader, ooc gojo (wrote it just for the last part #imkidding), very poor knowledge of criminal law (sorry), cliché af, tension, inspiration from how to get away with murder and the devil’s advocate, unprotected & semi-public sex, mirror sex, p in v, language, slapping, praising, choking, begging, fingering, pet names.

──── ୨୧ ────

PART ONE

PART TWO: coming soon…

PART THREE (NSFW): coming soon…

[melangedeparfums]

melange de parfums. XXII. she. multilingual & multifandom.

masterlist

sfw and nsfw (MDNI, you will be blocked!). silly writing. requests are closed. open ask box.

likes, reblogs, and comments are welcome! please don’t copy or post my works anywhere without my permission. <3

[melangedeparfums]

YOU ARE NOT DYING jjk men

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

sum. MIA for two whole days, your older boyfriend finds you have been sick the whole time but don’t worry, they are here to take care of you!

warning. non-sorcerer! jjk men, you are early twenty and they are late twenty, petnames, fluff, crack,

GOJO SATORU

he bursts through your apartment door like a whirlwind in a storm — keys jangling as they hit the floor, designer sunglasses still perched on his nose, even though it's nearly sundown. the moment the door swings open, his voice echoes through the quiet, too-quiet apartment.

“sweetheart? baby?” his voice is deceptively cheerful, light and sing-song, but the tension is there, tight in the undercurrent. he hasn’t heard from you in two days. no text. no call. nothing. and you never go that quiet, not even when you’re mad at him.

satoru’s long legs carry him through your apartment like he owns the place — which, to be fair, he kind of does, considering he pays your rent without your knowledge. he steps into the dimly lit living room and freezes.

you’re there, bundled up on the couch like a miserable, sniffling ghost. oversized hoodie swallowing you whole, one of his, naturally, and a pathetic mountain of tissues around you like a fortress. there’s a blanket halfway off your legs, a cold cup of tea on the table, and your phone sitting dead by your hand.

“...what the hell,” he breathes, sunglasses slipping down his nose as he takes it in, brows furrowing under snowy bangs. “are you seriously dying in silence? do you hate me?”

you groan softly, barely able to lift your head. “didn’t wanna bother you… you’re busy with work…”

“busy with work? babe, i thought you got kidnapped by some creepy guy who’s into sniffing socks or something—which, by the way, i would’ve lost my shit over.”

he’s already moving, dropping to his knees in front of the couch, hands large and warm as they cup your flushed face. you’re burning. “oh my god, you’re so hot,” he says, wide-eyed, like it’s not from the fever. “and not in the good, ride-me-until-my-legs-don’t-work way. like… medically concerning.”

you manage a weak laugh, and he beams like you just handed him the moon. satoru brushes your hair back with trembling fingers, his usual smugness cracking under genuine concern.

“you didn’t even call me,” he murmurs, voice dipping low. “two days, angel. two days. i almost broke into your classes like a psycho sugar daddy with a god complex.”

you sniffle, leaning into his palm. “didn’t wanna make you worry…”

“i always worry about you,” he says, exasperated. “that’s, like, half my personality. haven’t you noticed?”

and then, of course, he softens — because he’s a menace, but he’s your menace. satoru stands, scooping you into his arms like you weigh nothing. you squirm, mumbling protests, but your limbs are too heavy, and his arms are warm.

“shut up. we’re doing this,” he says, already carrying you to your bed. “you’re sleeping somewhere with actual blankets and no tissue graveyard. jesus, babe, this whole place smells like menthol and heartbreak.”

he sets you down carefully, tucking the blankets around you like you’re the most delicate thing he’s ever touched. he presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then lingers near your lips, hesitant.

“can i…? or am i gonna get the plague?”

you pout. “you’ll get sick.”

“worth it,” he says immediately, leaning down and giving you the softest kiss — just enough pressure to make your heart ache, his thumb brushing your cheek like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

when he pulls back, he’s grinning again, wicked this time. “besides, i bet i’d look hot with a fever. you’d have to nurse me back to health in, like, a slutty little nurse outfit. win-win, right?”

you roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “you’re impossible.”

“and you’re my favorite stupid little college girl who forgets to eat when she’s sick.” his hands are already sliding under the covers, slipping around your waist, pulling you close. “so now i’m gonna hold you like a clingy teddy bear, make you drink water, and maybe talk about how good you’d look drooling all over my shirt.”

you snort. “what happened to concern?”

“baby, i am concerned. but i’m also very horny, emotionally overwhelmed, and tragically in love with you. deal with it.”

you let him spoon you from behind, his breath warm on your neck, his body a furnace. his fingers trace lazy circles on your stomach, lips brushing your shoulder.

“next time you’re sick,” he mumbles, “you better call me. i swear to god, i’ll tattoo my number on your forehead if that’s what it takes.”

you nod sleepily, and satoru kisses the shell of your ear.

“good girl.”

GETO SUGURU

he doesn’t knock.

he doesn’t need to — your spare key has been hanging on his keyring for months now, worn from use. suguru opens your door slowly, shoulders tense under his tailored black coat, hair pulled into a lazy low bun like he didn’t even bother styling it this morning. he’s been in meetings all day, working too much, sleeping too little — and now, he’s standing in your apartment, greeted by silence and dim, static air.

“baby?”

his voice is low, velvety, laced with concern that makes your stomach twist. it’s the first time you’ve heard him in two days. you were too sick, too dizzy, too caught up in your own haze of shivers and aching limbs to call him, even though you wanted to. god, you wanted to.

you hear his steps grow closer, steady and measured, then stop right in front of your bedroom door. it creaks open. his tall frame fills the doorway.

and that’s all it takes.

your throat tightens immediately, and like a switch flipped, you burst into tears. snotty, pathetic, breathless sobs that hit you harder than you expected. your voice cracks as you try to speak, but nothing coherent comes out — just a whimper, an ugly sniffle, and a tremble in your bottom lip.

“suguru…” you croak, eyes watery as you sit up on the bed.

his expression falters for half a second — just a flicker of panic under the cool surface. he moves toward you so fast it’s like instinct, dropping his bag to the floor and shrugging off his coat in one motion.

but you beat him to it.

you swing your legs over the edge of the bed with all the theatrical effort of a dying victorian bride, forcing your shaky body upright. it makes your vision spin, but you don’t care — you throw your arms open dramatically, like some sad, flu-stricken princess summoning her knight.

“hold me,” you sniffle, hiccupping through the tears. “i’m sick and miserable and ugly, and i think i’m dying.”

he blinks. then huffs a breath — a soft, low laugh, like he doesn’t know whether to kiss you or scold you.

“you’re the most dramatic little brat i’ve ever seen,” he murmurs, but he’s already on his knees in front of you, pulling you into his chest. his arms wrap around you fully, palms spread over your back as he tucks your face into the crook of his neck.

“i missed you,” you whimper into his skin, voice cracking. “i was too dizzy to text you and i tried to make soup but it just turned into sadness—”

“shh,” he whispers, stroking your hair gently. “breathe, baby. you’re okay now.”

you cling to him like a koala, fists bunching the back of his shirt. your body sags in his arms, and he holds you up without flinching, like he wants to carry your weight, all of it — your illness, your loneliness, your melodramatic sniffles.

“two days without you and i already look like a corpse,” you mumble. “my skin’s grey. i’m withering.”

he chuckles against your hair, then pulls back just enough to cup your flushed cheeks. “hm. dramatic. needy. sick. crying in my arms like a heartbroken soap opera wife.” his thumb brushes your bottom lip. “you know that’s kind of hot, right?”

you blink. “i’m literally disgusting right now.”

“you’re my favorite disgusting little creature,” he says, and kisses your forehead. “now lie back. i’m going to order real food, give you meds, and make you drink water even if i have to hold your nose shut.”

you sniffle again, eyes fluttering shut as you nuzzle into his chest.

“you’re gonna spoil me,” you mumble.

he smiles, kissing your hair.

“i already do, sweetheart.”

his hand trails lower under the blanket, slipping to your waist, possessive and warm.

“and after you stop looking like a dying victorian girl,” he murmurs by your ear, voice dipping low, “i’m gonna spoil you in other ways.”

you groan into his chest, heat blooming in your cheeks. “gross.”

“mm. you love it.”

and he’s right. because even at your worst — sick, crying, clingy — suguru geto looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made his life worth slowing down for.

NANAMI KENTO

he should’ve come sooner.

the thought pounds in his head, rhythmic and steady like the ticking of his watch as he pushes into your apartment with a key he made you give him months ago — “for emergencies,” you said, laughing. but this feels like one. you hadn’t texted him back in two days, and that’s unlike you. you were always eager to reply, dramatic even in your “i miss you” messages. so when the silence stretched into a second night, nanami ended his meeting mid-sentence, picked up his coat, and walked out without an ounce of hesitation.

the moment he steps inside, he knows something’s wrong.

your apartment smells off — like the sour tang of sickness masked under old lavender candles. he closes the door quietly, gaze sharp as he sets down his briefcase and calls your name once, calmly.

no answer.

the bathroom light is on.

and then he hears it — the retching.

nanami’s blood runs cold. he moves fast, faster than you’d ever expect from the man who lectures you about walking too quickly indoors. the bathroom door is cracked open. inside, you’re slumped on the cold tile, hugging the toilet bowl, trembling and feverish. your hoodie is sticking to your back with sweat, your knees red from the floor.

you don’t hear him. not until his calm, familiar voice cuts through the haze.

“sweetheart.”

your head jerks up weakly. your voice comes out hoarse, cracking. “kento…?”

he doesn’t say anything at first — just takes a slow breath and kneels beside you, sleeves rolled up in one fluid motion. his tie dangles over your shoulder as he brushes your damp hair back gently, then reaches for the towel nearby to wipe your mouth. his hand doesn’t shake, but his jaw clenches. tight.

“how long has this been happening?” he asks softly, but there’s steel under it. restrained panic. the kind that only surfaces when something he cares about is suffering — and you are the only one who makes him lose control like this.

you sniffle, dazed. “since last night… thought it would pass…”

“and you didn’t call me.”

“you were working,” you mumble. “didn’t wanna stress you out.”

nanami lets out a breath. a sharp one. he gently presses the back of his hand to your forehead, his frown deepening. you’re burning up.

“you’re shaking,” he mutters. “you’re not staying in here another second.”

“but i threw up—”

“exactly why you’re not staying in here,” he says firmly.

and that’s when your vision blurs again, but this time with hot tears. you cover your face with your hands, voice cracking like glass. “i feel gross, kento. i smell disgusting. my mouth tastes like death. i wanted to clean up before you came and now you’re seeing me like this—”

he doesn’t let you spiral.

his hands, large and warm, wrap around your wrists and gently pull them from your face. he leans in, forehead to yours, voice calm but low.

“you think any of that matters to me?” he whispers. “you’re sick. and you’re mine. i don’t care if you smell like hell. you’re still the most beautiful girl i’ve ever seen.”

you sniff, swallowing another sob. “i look like a wet rat.”

he presses a kiss to your damp forehead. “then you’re my wet rat.”

and despite everything, you laugh — a weak, wet, pitiful sound, but it makes him smile.

then he lifts you. no warning. one smooth motion, as if you weigh nothing. your arms cling to his neck, dizzy and lightheaded as he carries you out of the bathroom and down the hall.

“where—?”

“bed? no,” he says, striding straight past it. “you’re burning up and soaked through.”

he stops in front of your closet and kicks it open gently. “clean clothes,” he mutters. “then i’m drawing you a bath.”

you blink. “aren’t you going to let me change myself?”

he looks at you, unimpressed. “do you really think i’m letting you stand on your own right now?”

you pout. “you’re bossy when i’m sick.”

“i’m bossy because you’re reckless and dramatic and refuse to call me when you need help,” he says, setting you down on the edge of your bed. his hands reach up, unzipping your hoodie with such care it makes your breath catch. “and if you ever do this again, i swear to god—”

you reach out weakly, tugging at his tie. “you’ll what?”

he leans in, gaze dark and heavy.

“i’ll handcuff you to my bed and monitor your temperature every hour until you learn your lesson.”

your eyes go wide. “…is that a threat or a promise?”

his lips curl into the barest smirk.

“both.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

you were crying. again.

but not soft, delicate tears — oh no. it was messy, snotty, full-volume dramatic sobbing, the kind you’d only let out in the privacy of your kitchen, hunched over like some tragic figure in a bad medical drama.

the bottle of meds sat in front of you. sealed. stupid. evil.

and your fingers? useless. trembling. too weak to twist it open. your body had already betrayed you all day — shivering under five blankets, sweating through them an hour later, barely able to sit up without seeing stars. and this goddamn childproof bottle was the final straw.

“open,” you whispered hoarsely, turning it with your palms, your arms shaking.

“open, please… i’m not strong enough, oh my god. i’m a weak pathetic little victorian widow.”

you tried again. failed again.

your bottom lip quivered.

you dropped your head onto the counter with a dramatic thunk.

“this is it,” you wailed to no one. “this is how i die. taken out by a five-dollar bottle of generic tylenol.”

and that was, of course, the exact moment the front door opened with a heavy thud.

of course it was toji.

he was supposed to be out — working, training, maybe casually intimidating someone. but no. your hot mess of a dramatic arc just had to intersect with him at the peak of your suffering.

“you better not be on the floor again,” his voice called out dryly.

you gasped. “toji—!”

and in he walked, black shirt clinging to his chest, hair still slightly wet from the shower he probably took at the gym, eyebrow cocked in that way — the one that said he knew he was walking into bullshit.

he paused at the kitchen doorway.

you were curled in front of the counter, shaking like a leaf in your hoodie and fuzzy socks, cradling the bottle of meds in your hands like it was your last hope.

your eyes, glossy with fever and tears, locked on him like he was salvation.

“babe,” you croaked, dramatic hand on your heart. “i’m too weak. i need you.”

his face was unreadable.

then he sighed.

“you can’t open your meds bottle?”

“no,” you sobbed. “i tried. i begged. i even yelled at it. and it laughed at me, toji.”

he walked over slowly. “the bottle laughed at you?”

“with its silence.”

“you’re outta your damn mind.”

you whimpered as he took the bottle from your hands like it was the easiest thing in the world. he twisted it open with one hand. one hand.

your mouth dropped open in betrayal.

“don’t gloat,” you muttered.

“i didn’t say anything.”

“you were thinking it. i can hear your thoughts. they’re all smug and condescending.”

toji plucked two pills out, popped them in your hand. “yeah? what else are my thoughts saying?”

“they’re saying, ‘wow, my girlfriend’s so weak and small and pitiful, i could crush her with one hand.’”

he snorted, pushing the water bottle toward you.

“i’d rather use the one hand to spank you next time you act like an idiot instead of calling me.”

your eyes widened. “i was preserving your peace!”

“and i’m preserving your life, you dramatic little shit.”

you downed the meds, still sniffling. “i want chicken soup and cuddles.”

“yeah? say please.”

you glared at him.

he leaned down, grabbed you by the back of the thighs, and lifted you up with zero warning, tossing you over his shoulder like a sack of rice.

you squealed. “toji—!”

“you want cuddles? you get ‘em after soup. and no more dying alone in the kitchen, dumbass.”

you whined into his back, but your fingers were already gripping the hem of his shirt, safe and secure.

he set you on the couch, tucked you in aggressively, and went back to the kitchen to slam pots around. the bottle of meds still sat on the counter, now open. completely defeated.

you glared at it from your blanket cocoon.

“i hope you fall off the counter and roll under the fridge, you little bitch.”

“what was that?” toji called.

“nothing, babe! love you!”

“that’s what i thought.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

he knew something was off the second he walked through the door.

your apartment was dark. quiet. no sounds of you stomping around, no dramatic voice echoing from the bedroom about how he never refills the snacks or always leaves his rings on the counter like you’re his damn butler.

nothing.

just silence.

and sukuna?

he doesn’t do silence when it comes to you.

so his voice comes loud, sharp. “oi. where the fuck are you?”

no answer.

he’s already heading down the hall, jaw tight, fingers twitching like he’s ready to rip the universe in half if it’s taken you from him. he calls for you again—louder this time. still nothing. until—

a soft, pathetic sound.

gagging.

choking.

then… sniffling.

he throws open the bathroom door and freezes.

you’re on the cold tile, curled up dramatically beside the toilet like a tragic heroine in some bad romance movie. your hair is a mess, face flushed with fever, nose red, eyes glassy with tears. you’re shivering in one of his oversized shirts, legs tucked up like a child. and you’re talking to yourself.

rambling.

like you’re saying goodbye.

“tell… tell my mom i loved her,” you whisper hoarsely to no one. “and you can have my manga… just not the signed ones. bury me with those. and don’t let that bitch from the office come to my funeral—”

sukuna blinks. hard.

“what. the fuck,” he growls, stepping in. “are you doing?”

you gasp, like he’s a ghost. “sukuna? is that you? i can’t see, i’m so cold—”

he crouches beside you instantly, hands grabbing your face. your skin is clammy. lips dry. eyes dramatic as hell.

you’re not dying.

you’ve just been throwing up for hours and working yourself into a spiral.

“are you fuckin’ kidding me right now?” he hisses, brushing your hair back, eyes scanning every inch of you. “you didn’t call. didn’t text. didn’t scream at me for buying the wrong brand of tea. i thought someone killed you.”

you sniffle, grabbing his wrist with trembling fingers. “i tried to crawl to the kitchen… to get water… but then i thought, what’s the point? i’m dying anyway—”

he looks like he’s two seconds from slamming his fist into the wall.

“you’ve got a stomach bug. not the plague. stop acting like you’re in a fuckin’ soap opera.”

“easy for you to say,” you croak. “you’re not the one rotting from the inside out.”

sukuna lets out a sound that’s half-growl, half-laugh, and scoops you into his arms like you weigh nothing. you cling to him instantly, arms locking around his neck like a koala.

“don’t cremate me,” you mumble into his throat. “i wanna be dramatic even in death. open casket. fake lashes. maybe some light fog and music—”

he cuts you off with a sharp slap to your thigh. “shut up.”

you gasp, offended. “did you just spank me on my deathbed?!”

“you’re not dying,” he growls, carrying you to the bed. “but if you keep talking, i’ll kill you myself.”

you whimper pitifully in his arms. “then… will you at least keep my diary? the one hidden in the closet behind the shoe box? don’t read it—”

“i’ve already read it.”

“what?!”

he lays you down gently, brushing his thumb across your damp cheek.

“you wrote about me in it,” he says, voice low and dangerous now, “every page. even the ones where you were mad. you love me so much it’s pathetic.”

you sniff, cheeks heating up. “i’m allowed to be obsessed with you. it’s your fault.”

he leans down, face inches from yours. “and i’m gonna baby you so hard after this that you’re gonna wish you died, brat.”

“you promise?” you whisper.

his eyes flash with something possessive, raw, feral.

“yeah,” he says, dragging his thumb along your bottom lip, “but only after i get some fluids in you. and not the kind you’re thinking, you filthy little goblin.”

you smile weakly.

and sukuna — your unhinged, dangerous, older boyfriend — tucks you into bed, curses the germs under his breath, and spends the entire night at your side.

because dramatic or not… you’re his.

and he’s not letting you go.

SHIU KONG

he had a key.

of course he had a key. he demanded it after you once locked yourself out at 3 a.m. wearing nothing but a t-shirt and one sock, sobbing over forgotten dumplings. "never again," he’d muttered, shoving the key into his wallet with the same reverence he gave blackmail material.

he wasn’t expecting the door to be unlocked today.

or to hear… whimpering.

low, pitiful, echoing from somewhere deeper in the apartment.

“babe?” he calls out, already slipping off his shoes. his voice carries a lazy calm, the kind he always uses when he’s preparing for bullshit. “you better not be doing something stupid again.”

he turns the corner and freezes.

you’re on the floor.

literally on the floor, crawling toward the kitchen like a Victorian orphan in the final act. your blanket is trailing behind you like a cape, your hair a mess, eyes glassy with tears as you stretch your trembling hand toward the counter like it’s the promised land.

you pause, mid-drag, and look up at him with the most heartbroken face he’s ever seen.

“i dropped… my toast…”

shiu blinks.

you sniffle. “it fell jelly-side down.”

his lips twitch. “oh no.”

“and then i got dizzy.”

“mhm.”

“and i think the floor is sucking the life out of me, shiu.”

he’s walking toward you now, casually, like he’s not biting back a laugh. “you’re telling me… you belly-crawled like a war hero because you dropped toast?”

“i’m starving. i haven’t eaten in days.”

he bends down, squats beside you, one elbow resting on his knee as he watches you dramatically paw at the floor like you’re about to fade into the afterlife.

“you had broth.”

“broth isn’t food. it’s liquid regret.”

shiu snorts. actually snorts. “you’re outta your mind.”

but his voice is gentler now, and without warning, he slips an arm under your waist and another beneath your knees, lifting you like you weigh nothing. you yelp, clinging to his shirt.

“shiu! put me down! i was making progress!”

“toward what? an oscar?”

“toward the toaster!”

he carries you to the couch instead, ignoring your weak little kicks as he deposits you like a fragile treasure, tucks your blanket around you like he hasn’t seen you cry over expired yogurt before, then leans in close.

his voice drops, soft and dangerous.

“next time you wanna reenact your dramatic death, text me first, sweetheart.”

“i didn’t wanna bother you.”

“you’re my favorite kind of bother.”

you blink up at him, pout trembling.

“you’re such an asshole.”

he grins, brushes your hair back gently with a sigh. “but i’m your asshole.”

and then he disappears into the kitchen, mumbling something about how he’s going to make toast the size of your face and spoon-feed you if you try to crawl again.

he does.

he even cuts it into heart shapes.

he just won’t admit it.

HIROMI HIGURUMA

he knew something was off the second he called and you didn’t answer.

you always answered. even if it was just a groggy voice telling him you hated his ringtone and to never call you again. so when he’d finished his meeting, walked out of the courthouse with his tie loosened and a coffee he didn’t even want, and still hadn’t heard from you?

his stomach turned.

fifteen minutes later, he was at your apartment door, unlocking it with the key you gave him the night you first got sick and told him he was your emergency contact “because you look like you’d yell at doctors for me.”

he pushes the door open.

“...hello?”

silence.

and then—

soft sniffles. pen scratching paper. a dramatic sigh.

he follows the sound to the living room and—

freezes.

there you are. wrapped in a blanket like a sad little lump, sitting cross-legged on the floor with your head resting against the coffee table. a whole stack of napkins laid out in front of you like legal documents, each one written in your slightly-shaky, overly-loopy script.

he walks closer, blinking at the one closest to him.

“to my beloved hiromi: you can have my succulents, even though you always forget to water them. i forgive you. i love you. tell my cat i said bye.”

his brow twitches. “...what the hell is this?”

you jump, head snapping up like a child caught drawing on the walls. your eyes are watery and dramatic, red from crying, your nose a little stuffy and your cheeks flushed from fever. you clutch a pen like it’s a quill and you’re writing your last will before war.

“you came,” you whisper.

“yeah. what the hell is going on.”

you sniffle, voice soft and shaking. “i think i’m dying.”

he looks at the box of tissues, the half-empty bottle of cough syrup, and the room-temperature cup of tea on the table.

“you have a cold.”

“a terminal one.”

he sighs, long-suffering but fond, dropping the briefcase onto the floor with a soft thud.

“you sent me twelve napkin letters. in one of them you said i can have your pinterest password when you die.”

“you should know what i liked. to mourn properly.”

“you also left the air fryer to nanami.”

“he said he liked it once!”

he crouches down in front of you, long legs folding easily, eyes scanning your flushed face. he lifts a hand to press it gently to your forehead.

“jesus,” he mutters. “you’re burning up.”

you gaze at him with tear-filled devotion. “if i go, you have to be the one to eulogize me. make it sound like i was sexy and mysterious.”

“you’re congested and covered in napkins.”

“so was marilyn monroe probably.”

hiromi lets out a soft breath. then he leans forward, gathering you into his arms with a slow, practiced motion, your blanket and all, lifting you gently until you’re in his lap, cheek pressed against his shoulder.

you melt into him instantly, mumbling, “i left you my lip balm too. don’t let another girl use it.”

he hums. presses a kiss to your forehead.

“don’t worry, angel. you’re not dying.”

“you sound like a lawyer.”

“i am one. and i can legally promise you’re going to be fine.”

you grumble something about rewriting your will just in case, and he lets you. even picks up a fresh napkin for you and hands you your glitter pen with a quiet, indulgent smile.

“just let me make you some soup after,” he murmurs. “and then i’ll read every one of your dramatic goodbyes.”

“even the one where i left you my collection of embarrassing texts?”

“especially that one.”

he holds you tighter. his voice soft, but his touch firm. grounding. safe.

because for all your chaos, he wouldn’t be anywhere else.