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MISS POSSESSIVE ⋆˚꩜｡五条悟, 鹿紫雲 (GOJO & KASHIMO)

PLOT 𐙚 Gojo’s been acting weird ever since he got unsealed: distant, smug, and just a little too rude about the fact you’ve been spending all your time with Hajime Kashimo. So when he catches you training together and things start heating up…well, you’re about to find out that territorial jujutsu sorcerers make very mean lovers.

FEATURING. Gojo Satoru x Reader x Hajime Kashimo

CW 𐙚 afab!reader, 3sûm, eiffél tower, orál (m), orál (f), dp, jealousy, semi-public séx, bulgés, gettin' pûssydrunk, implied yaoi for those who have the eyes to see, MDNI, post Culling Games, PETTY GOJO, mánhandling, inappropriate uses of jujutsu, possessive séx

WC 𐙚 8.1k

NOTE 𐙚 she's back and she's predictable... (req from @wetwhisper)

The air in the training room is far too thick and syrupy for your tired lungs. The temperature is warm, rising from shared body heat and gulping breaths. It's the kind of atmosphere that sticks to your skin, and makes your hairline damp, your limbs humming from overuse.

You're crouched low on the soft black mats, your strained thighs aching in the soft, linen pants you traded your navy staff robes for. One palm flattened against the ground as you attempt to dodge Kashimo's next hit.

The God of Lightning is as fast as his epithet, enjoying himself far too much, but you've come to learn that Hajime Kashimo is just naturally like that.

Nothing makes that man happier than bruised knuckles, and the sweet ring of victory bells.

"How can it be that you are this tired already?" Kashimo's panting and lurching forward, teal hair plastered to his brow. His sharp, jewel-toned cyan eyes are the exact same shade, and the effect is beautiful in the most disconcerting way.

"You wish." You lunge, twisting in a way that strains a solid third of your body, but Kashimo catches your wrist mid-strike, flipping you with a thud against the cushioned mat. His warm grip is firm, but never bruising.

Always precise, and always hungry.

The sorcerer lands above you, sun-kissed chest heaving, only wearing the ivory bandages wrapped around his torso, and dark martial pants slung low over his toned hips.

You forcefully tear your eyes away from the ripple of his carved abdomen as he cackles at the joy of his own victory. Again.

The next breath you draw is shallow, and you gnaw absently at the inside of your cheek as his knee presses between your thighs, "Dirty move."

"We must all play to win," Kashimo's cyan eyes are half-lidded, and you get the vague sensation that he's all the more pleased with your position pinned under him.

"You're ridiculous."

"Perhaps," Kashimo's pink lips quirk upwards, but he's tilting his head down to brush his mouth just barely against the curve of your jaw, "However, if my actions present an opportunity like this, I would be a fool not to indulge myself."

The training room's door might be closed, but this is still a public space, and you know that you should roll to your side, and shove him off.

But a lecherous demon inside you demands that you should tug your fingers through mussed teal strands, and pull him closer.

Surely, there's enough time for Kashimo to prove he can put his money where his mouth is.

Or rather, he can put his mouth right on your —

Bang!

Your body jerks upright instinctively as the heavy door slams open.

Gojo Satoru. Lacking a shirt, glistening and very much uninvited.

His snowy white hair is messier than usual, as though he's rolled out of bed and forgotten to fix it. But you wager he's been training nearby, judging by the white pants that hug his hips, low and lazy, covering a trail of thin, ivory hair that dusts his groin.

Ugh, the slope of his collarbone to the sharp ridges of his torso is frankly criminal. But his blindfold hangs loose around his neck, and his expression is...unreadable.

You'd wager a month locked inside the bounds of the Prison Realm wasn't exactly a picnic for Gojo, but still, does that really justify him treating you like week-old leftovers ever since he was unsealed?

Your best friend of years, now looking at you as though you personally hand-delivered the keys to his misery.

"Oh. It's you," Gojo intones, blue-eyes rolling skywards at the sight of Kashimo, dulcet voice flat and disdainful, as though offering a greeting offends him.

You think Gojo regards Kashimo the same way that someone may regard a raccoon digging through their trash, vaguely horrified and mostly inconvenienced.

Not that Kashimo notices, or cares. If anything, he always seems amused by Gojo's simmering, unadulterated loathing. Delighted, even.

Yeah, you've yet to figure out why Hajime Kashimo is the way that he is.

You remember a recent memory, perhaps a mere fortnight ago, when Kashimo insisted that the two of you train at the ungodly hour past midnight. So, you had untangled yourself out of soft sheets and trailed behind him down the dim hallway to the final training room.

But Kashimo had barely pushed the slow door open when a violent flash of red came screaming right past your shoulder. Hot, pressurised, and so close it nearly parted the roots of your hair from your scalp.

It had been a Reversal: Red. Casual as a breeze, as powerful as a packed weapon. Just coincidentally brushing past you, and aimed a little too close to Kashimo's face.

But he hadn't flinched, merely angled his staff with mechanical precision, deflecting the attack as though it was a light-hearted routine.

The blast of cursed energy had shattered against the far wall with a sizzle, leaving behind a smouldering scorch mark and the faint scent of fried ozone.

And Gojo? That smug bastard, that grown-ass man, had been inside, rolling his shoulders back as though he were plastered on a calendar shoot. Bare-chested, slow, gleaming with sweat. Thick arms stretched high as though he knew your eyes fell on him.

But when he dropped his hands, his blue eyes cut to you, sparkling with faux innocence, "My bad," your best friend had drawled, voice smooth and laced with the sugar that he was so fond of chewing, "Didn't see you there, man."

Kashimo had grunted at the time, entirely unmoved as he stepped past Gojo without so much an accusatory glance, "It happens."

Apparently, that pissed Gojo off more than a direct insult ever could.

You had watched it all unfold in real time, the petty twitch in Gojo's eyes, the way his jaw clenched as Kashimo breezed past, the medieval sorcerer already distracted and marvelling at the smoking crater in the wall like a museum exhibit.

And then, Gojo had turned that midnight-blue glare on you. As if you had personally redirected the blast. As if it was your fault that Kashimo hadn't been obliterated into magical dust. The sheer audacity.

And yet, you remember that exact moment your brain chose to focus on other matters. Like noticing the more...physical changes in your best friend.

It wasn't really a secret that Gojo had always been built like a demigod on vacation, but now? His time away had resulted in a thicker, sharper frame. All honed muscle and veined forearms, and a lean waist sculpted by aggressive training and solitude.

His training pants had been hanging low on his hips, loose and teasing, just barely clinging to the faint trail of white hair disappearing down his pelvis.

You had snapped your gaze to the far side of the room, pretending that you were admiring the chair where his dark top had been peeled off and discarded.

That petty, duplicitous bitch. He was definitely doing this on purpose.

But Kashimo had already moved on. Entirely unbothered and unperturbed by his near-death experience.

Not because he missed the way you practically gulped when Gojo stretched, but because he's too busy running curious, bandaged fingers alongside the crack in the wall, a neat floor-to-ceiling scar carved courtesy of Gojo's tantrums.

"An excellent technique, I have not seen a hit like that in centuries." Kashimo had whistled low, genuinely impressed. It had been enough for Gojo to throw the two of you a look of sheer disgust, his fingers snagging into his discarded shirt to yank it up, and stalk out of the room.

That brings you to the present. Gojo's still in the doorway, backlit by the warm training hall lights, white hair deliciously damp and tousled. His voice is flat and clipped, eyes like glass and tone like sandpaper as he nods, "Hey."

You blink, a scowl already defensively crossing your features. A pause stretches between the two of you, heavier and far more awkward than it's ever been, as you finally mutter, "...Hi?"

It comes out as more of a question than a greeting. Embarrassing.

Kashimo doesn't move from where he's perched above you, one leg stretched out lazily, and the other bent at the knee, still slotted between your thighs. He has yet to speak, doesn't need to, but a lean arm slips around your shoulders in that casual, infuriatingly confident way.

Not possessive, just visible. Just enough for Gojo to notice, with no Six Eyes necessary. Your best friend's lips are pressed into a thin line, as though he's grinding his teeth on gravel.

"Didn't know the room was booked," Gojo mutters, stepping inside anyway, and shutting the door behind him with an unnecessary click. His arms are crossed over his chest, the muscles in his forearms bunching, "My bad. Didn't mean to crash your little date night."

You return his unimpressed look, correcting him, "Training."

Gojo hums, the sound is dry and unimpressed, "Sure."

You sigh, gently pushing Kashimo's arm off, and sitting up on your knees. You're certain that sweat clings to your skin, your top is damp and clingy, and hair must be stuck to your cheek.

"What?" You say, flicking your gaze up at him, watching how the warm light reflects the smooth, peach-tone of his cheeks, "Miss me or something?"

It's a teasing comment, like it always has been, but there's a carefulness underneath that disguises hope. The hope for a smirk, the sing-song voice, the snarky comeback that you've been privy to for over a decade.

But Gojo doesn't smile at you, for his eyes are narrowed, and something devastatingly sharp flickers beneath his impossibly long lashes. Rather, he's scoffing, tipping his head, "You wish."

You tilt your chin to mirror him, "Do I?" You look Gojo over, slow and deliberate, from his sweat-damp hair down to the way his pants hang low enough to piss off any patron saints of modesty, "Because you came all this way to interrupt us. And you know these rooms have training schedules right. One even the first years can read. So..."

Your gaze lingers on the sculpted lines of his abdominals, "What? Fresh out of clean uniforms?"

Gojo's arms tense tighter across his broad chest, wide shoulders flaring, "Are you really grillin' me about laundry right now?"

"No," You glance at Kashimo, who doesn't even bother hiding the amused curl shaping his lips, "No. I'm not, I'm – whatever."

Your sentence breaks off, and you realise there's a hot flush of irritation licking at your chest. You just wish that Gojo would just spit out whatever evil demon is bothering him, or either fuck right off.

Kashimo snorts softly, the sound low in his throat, but he doesn't speak. His expression simmers, not mocking, just entertained. Maybe even fascinated.

Gojo says nothing, watching you. Staring, and you do your best not to shiver at the weight of those bright jewel-blue eyes. His step forward stills you, pulse quickening under your skin like the warning crackle before lightning hits.

But the real lightning beside you doesn't seem as concerned.

Kashimo tracks Gojo's approach with the cool interest of a haughty cat watching another enter its territory, not threatened in the least, but ready. He shifts slightly, elbow resting on his knee, and his toned frame draped in lazy tension.

"He's a good sparring partner for you now?" Gojo says, voice as low and smooth as a knife laid flat on the edge of a table, tipped to fall.

You shrug, deliberately loose and saccharine, "He's good, keeps me nimble."

Gojo's sky-blue eyes dip, skimming over your form as though he's committing you to memory. You can see his gaze linger on the strip of skin above your waistband, the sweat slicking your collarbones, "I thought sparring included more of a fight, and less...touching."

"Jealousy? Seriously, Satoru, that's what this is?"

Gojo scowls at you, sharp canines peeking out from glossy lips as he sneers, "Not of him." His reply is immediate, flat as paper and twice as sharp, "I just don't want you gettin' sloppy."

From behind you, Kashimo snickers, the kind that makes heat lick your spine, "She's not sloppy." Teal hair clouds the peripherals of your vision as his hair tickles your cheek, and his fingers drag lazily down your lower back, "She's quite lethal. And very flexible, trust me."

You should have whacked Kashimo upside the head.

Because, bless his heart, truly, but you didn't fancy Gojo deciding to rev up the old Hollow Purple again to try and smite the Edo-period sorcerer.

Gojo's resulting inhale is nearly silent, nearly. But you hear it, and his jaw tics, shoulders squared, and fingers twitching.

You're getting flashbacks to Geto Suguru's dramatic antics, back in your school days when the raven-haired sorcerer would get all huffy and puff up, like a chicken about to fly the coop. The thought of the similarity would have been funny, if it hadn't also been so depressing.

"Something on your mind, Satoru?"

Gojo tilts his head, slow and deliberate, giving you that bored look. The one that precedes impulsive, poor decisions. The look that usually ends up with someone pinned to a wall, for better or worse.

"I'm just looking out for you," Gojo finally shrugs, as though he's attempting to shake the tension from his shoulders, "I heard all about his...exploits during the Culling Games. Kashimo's not exactly known for playing nice."

Kashimo hums, scraping his cyan hair up into his signature, loose knots, "She does not want nice."

"I know," Gojo's grin is blindingly dangerous, like a blade dressed in lace, "I've known her longer, right? I think I know everything she wants."

You glance between the two sorcerers, Infinity and Lightning, crackling like twin storms on the verge of colliding, and you can feel the heat in your gut bloom, sharp and molten.

Ugh, men. Honestly.

Kashimo breaks the silence, puffing air from his cheeks with the blunt edge of a bomb, as he drawls, "What, you want to hit me or kiss me? Or kiss her?"

Gojo's expression flickers, just for a second as confusion flits across his face, followed by a flush of colour painting his handsome features. White brows knitted together, as his lips rearrange into a defensive scowl.

You pinch the sorcerer beside you, "Hajime –"

Kashimo shrugs, clearly unfazed, "That is clearly what it is, is it not? His intentions have been clear to read since he walked in. What is it, irritated that we have fucked, and you were never invited?"

Gojo's opens his mouth, maw flapping open, probably to say something clever, or cutting, or catastrophically self-destructive. But nothing comes out, just cold static.

You have to hand it to Kashimo. You don't think you've seen Gojo Satoru truly speechless in over ten years. Well, unless you count that disastrous night on the train platform not so long ago, but who's fault was that really?

Kashimo leans in, ghosting the shell of your ear, "I told you so."

Your eyes snap to your best friend, and yeah. There it is, the front of his pants entirely tented, and the implication is loud and clear.

There's no misreading the watercolour blush painting his creamy cheeks as Gojo sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair, "Fuck you." Not a hint of denial in the rock-salt rasp of his voice.

"You could only wish," Kashimo snarls, all teeth and challenge, "We are still sparring. Stay and watch if you want. Or jump in, I am not that picky."

Your lungs are still burning when the match ends, and Kashimo has had his fair share of victory. The sorcerer had you pinned, once more. Sweat-drenched, gloating like a feline that had caught something squirmy.

He had leaned down, and murmured something obscene right againt your ear, voice a low purr that made your groin ache. When you had snapped at him to shut up, Kashimo had just licked the salt from your collarbone, "How fiery."

The bastard had wandered off to get water as though he hadn't left you with the urging desire to have your guts rearranged right here, right now. You're still shaking out the leftover adrenaline, hunched with your hands braced on your knees. Your pulse is doing double time in your neck when footsteps thud in your ears.

"Had your fun?" Gojo looks as though he's sucked all the juice dry from an unpleasantly sour lemon.

"Fuck's sake." You're muttering, dragging the back of your wrist against your forehead, "Why do you get off on sneaking up on people like that?"

"This is a training mat, not a door," Gojo says, deadpan.

"Satoru."

The way you say his name, soft and breathy, intimately frustrated, makes something flicker in his vibrant eyes. Something raw and reflexive, like a muscle flinch. He steps closer, you step back.

You don't mean to. It just happens, that instinctive movement, your heart doing triple-axel flips behind your ribs. Anticipation, and some dark thrill you don't fancy naming.

Gojo follows, slow and loose-limbs, like a big cat cornering something warm, and tired and tempting. His hands are in his pockets, and it's taking Olympian-level strength to not flit your gaze downwards.

"What do you want?" You're asking, doing your best to keep your tone breezy, but you don't quite succeed, "Here to give me an impromptu performance review?"

"Didn't think I needed to," Gojo scoffs, voice dipped in cool-lipped sarcasm, "You've been plenty vocal all day."

Your brows knit, "What?"

"I was nearby earlier," Gojo says smoothly, but you can see the twitch in his eyelid, lashes fluttering, "Hard not to hear when someone's moaning like that."

Your mouth opens, tongue sinking like lead. Closes, and opens again. This conversation doesn't seem to be related to sparring anymore. Not technically, not unless training included a little moment a few hours ago when Kashimo had two fingers curled inside you, streaking slick down your thighs, and you had gasped out his name in breathy cries.

Gojo's smile is slow, and sharp. Amused, but you can see the searing, red-hot tips of his ears peeking through mussed white hair, "You know, they say that Kashimo was one of the strongest sorcerers ever." Faux-modesty colouring his voice as he continues, "Well, of that era. Time has moved forward, you know."

"So?"

"So," Gojo wrinkles his nose, voice like honey poured over barbed wire, "Does he fuck you better than he fights you?"

Your back is to the training room wall, cool bricks pressing into your spine. A harsh contrast to how blisteringly hot the rest of your body feels. Your thighs twitch, and you're certain that if you pressed them together, you would feel the slick slide of your arousal pooling between your swollen folds.

"And I just didn't think you were into guys like him," Gojo murmurs, voice low and mildly unimpressed, "Loud. Cocky. I mean, that guy's a walking lightning rod with a complex."

Had you been in a more rational state of mind, you may have commented that Gojo's description was outstandingly self-aware. Instead, your pulse thuds in your ears as you arch a brow, "Didn't know you were takin' notes and watching that close."

"I'm not."

"Really? 'Cause this feels a lot like investigative journalism to me."

Gojo's eyes drop to your mouth, lingering, before flicking back up, "Does he always touch you right? You always make those sweet, little sounds like earlier this afternoon?"

Something dangerous flashes and sits right underneath your tongue, something along the lines of asking why he doesn't touch you and see if he can recreate the same melody.

"If you want to fuck her, just say it," Kashimo drawls from the doorway, sauntering back in with a water bottle in one hand, and a towel slung loose around his neck.

You freeze, feeling the low pulse of sheer want beginning to throb in between your thighs. But Gojo doesn't flinch, jaw stiff enough to grind diamonds down into dust.

Kashimo takes a long swig, shrugging handedly as one would comment on the weather, "It is tragic enough how you brood each time I touch her. We all know what is on your mind."

"I'm not –" Gojo's snapping, but the sharp, protruding tent in his pants speaks volumes for him.

"Who are you fooling?" Kashimo's teal eyes glint, teeth flashing in a lazy grin.

You glance between the two sorcerers, your best friend of years with that unreadable storm in your eyes, and Kashimo, who seems as though he's enjoying Gojo's fury a little too much. Your pulse is in your throat, your thighs tacking together, and the air around you crackles, thick enough to chew.

"Tell you what," Kashimo offers, unravelling the ivory bandages from his forearms, "Since you are so clearly aching for it," his eyes flicking to Gojo, and then you, "And she is all but waiting for one of us to finally pounce, why not have a taste?"

There's heat licking at your ribs, a molten and wicked thing that is curled low in your belly, and it's climbing. Fast. You watch distractedly as the linen wraps fall to the floor.

Your brows shoot up, "Are you –"

"I do not mind sharing," Kashimo says, and beneath his deceptively flat tone, you can sense the gears turning in his head, fuelled by the thrill and excitement, "So long as you can keep pace." Ocean-toned eyes glittering as they slide sideways.

Gojo scoffs, but you can see the dangerously red flush climbing up the back of his neck, tickling the edge of his white undercut, "You think I can't keep up with you?"

Kashimo rolls his eyes as though it's beneath him to answer, "I was not speaking to you, Six Eyes." He's tipping his head towards you, teal strands tangling, "I'm asking her."

Truthfully, you're soaked. Not metaphorically, nor subtly. You're clenching your thighs around nothing. Heartbeat pounding between your legs as if it's desperate for some friction, as heat bleeds through your clothes.

Kashimo's already beside you before you can draw another sharp breath, "Mhm. No answer?" He's humming, as though he already knows. Bandaged fingers drap down your hip, slow and teasing, before hooking into the waistband of your shorts with an easy flick of his agile wrist.

You stifle a sharp gasp as warm fingers slip through swollen, slick folds, and Kashimo snorts, "Dripping through your clothes. All this for us?"

The fabric slides past your thighs, and the cool air licks at your slick skin. It's almost cruel, how exposed you feel, heat pulsing between your legs, chest rising in shallow gasps as Gojo swallows behind you, a large hand coming to rest at your waist.

"I think it's just for me," Gojo purrs, grinding the prominent line of his cock behind you, hard through the thin fabric of his martial pants. His voice is smug, sweetened by the rasp of want, "Pretty sure she's been staring since I walked in."

Kashimo's clicking his tongue, gently mouthing a pink-blooming mark beneath your jaw, "That is because you strut about like a young peacock in the spring."

"I'm twenty-nine, you freak of nature."

"Then cease the preening, and get undressed."

"Now who wants to fuck who?"

"Okay!" You're gasping, flustered, and your voice trembles several octaves higher than usual. You're flushed from neck to navel, your pulse ricocheting through your veins like a cursed technique gone rogue, "You guys can argue later, right?"

They both pause, Gojo's raising a thin brow, amused. And Kashimo tilts his head, as though you're a puzzle he's planning to solve with his mouth.

"Sure, we can take turns," Gojo huffs, and his lips brush your shoulder. Open-mouthed, and hot. And your entire body lights up, glistening strands of arousal tacking between your folds.

Kashimo's hand slips over your chest, and he palms your breast with sheer hunger, tweaking your stiff nipple with practiced cruelty.

"F-fuck," You moan, bucking into Gojo's chest, and the white-haired man growls, a throat-deep snarl that erupts unfettered, "I wanna' touch her first."

Kashimo's responding look is smug, "She has taken me before. I suppose you can taste her first."

Your gasp turns sharp because your best friend is clearly done playing nice, and he's on his knees now, dragging your sodden panties all the way down, admiring the translucent fabric clinging to the shape of your puffy pussy folds. A long finger hooking the wet fabric aside, as his big hands grip your thighs, spreading you open with ferocious purpose.

"Pretty pussy's wet enough to drown in," Gojo murmurs, voice reverent, like he's found some holy grail between your legs, "And you've been letting the little lightning freak do this? Seriously?"

"I thought you did not care," Kashimo drawls, and he's tipping your chin up with two fingers, watching the daze flood your eyes, "And yet here you are, already kneeling."

"That's because I'm gonna' show you how it's actually done," Gojo grins against your inner thigh, pressing a kiss to the soft flesh like a searing brand.

Between Kashimo's fingers digging into your jaw, and Gojo's warm breath fanning your cunt, you can barely think, let alone string together a rational strength. You're split between the searing light of the sun, and the rumbling thunder of a storm, one sorcerer smug as though it's another victory for him, and the other watching you with unbridled devotion.

"Go on, princess," Gojo murmurs, "Say please. Beg real sweet, and I'll eat ya' until you forget his name."

"You want first so bad?" Kashimo muses, brushing a thumb over your bottom lip. His skin smells of ozone, and danger, that natural pine-scent you've come to associate with the medieval sorcerer. "Let him warn you up, little dove. We both know how partial he is to using his mouth."

"I will kill you," Gojo mutters, but there's hardly any heat in the threat, not when he's burying his face between your thighs, sending streaks of pleasure prickling through your spine.

Pink tongue licking a thick stripe over your soaked slit, slow and all for show. Then he flattens the glossy muscle over your clit, stamping you with his signature. You can already hear the tacking, sloppy sounds of Gojo quenching his thirst down there, and your knees give out instantly.

"Holy f-fucking –" You're gasping, gripping Kashimo's arm like a lifeline as your legs collapse like noodles. Wet, trembling and fucked-out. And they had barely begun.

Gojo hums smugly into your pussy, and it's obscene, all wet suction and vibrations, complete with practiced flicks of his tongue. Precision, ego and a little cruelty. He's eating you out as though he's attempting to outdo every man who's ever looked at you sideways.

"Still think I'm j-jealous?" Gojo rasps against your clit, lips slick with your shiny arousal, voice vibrating right into your core as you buck your hips against his chin.

"You are the one tongue-deep in her cunt five minutes after saying you would kill me." Kashimo's reply is dry as kindly, but you can hear the barely-grasped restraint shaking underneath, "You tell me."

You can hardly see straight. The world has narrowed down to Gojo's mouth, and Kashimo's hand, which is now stroking your cheek with infuriating calm, elegant thumb tracing your marked jaw as though he needs to ground something precious and his

The very tip of Gojo's nose bumps your clit just right, and you whine, pitchy and utterly wrecked. Hips twitching, thighs trembling as you bury your nails into Kashimo's lean arm, attempting to anchor onto something solid.

"Look at you," Kashimo murmurs, voice dripping with fond amusement, "So sensitive already. Are you going to finish just from his mouth already, little dove?"

"I – fuck, I might –"

"She will," Gojo cuts in, voice wicked and soaked with pride. He licks up into you again, tongue prodding at your pulsing entrance, slower now as he draws a long moan from your throat, "Knew I could always make her sound like t-this, easy."

You choke on a sound that's part moan, part whimper as Kashimo's gaze sharpens, "Not that easy." His breath ghosts your ear, trailing down to your pebbled nipples, "You will still scream for me, right?"

Your whole body must be trembling, caught in the tug-of-war between Gojo's talented, fuckin' mouth, and the sensation of Kashimo running his hands over your chest. You can feel that orgasm coiling low, and hot, and violent.

"You gonna' cum, pretty girl?" Gojo's teasing, pulling back just enough to press a kiss to your inner thigh, while the pads of his fingers run tight circles over your swollen, sensitive bud, "Or you wanna' be edged till he starts zappin' sparks everywhere."

Kashimo's grip tightens on your chin, "Let her come."

You don't just fall, you shatter. It's fast, too fast as your thighs clamp around Gojo's head like a vice, a desperate and gasping moan that rips from your throat as an orgasm crashes into you like a tidal wave. Raw, and shuddering, and shameless.

Gojo doesn't budge, nor does he flinch. He's just grinning into it, as though there's nowhere else he would rather be but your pulsing cunt. When he finally pulls back, after pressing a sticky mwah! to your very core, his face is soaked. Mouth swollen, chin shiny with your gloss, and silver hair in a disarray. He looks as though he just crawled out of paradise, and is considering diving right back in.

"If he wasn't so impatient, I coulda' made you squirt," Gojo huffs, smug as sin, swiping a thumb over his glistening jaw like a badge of honour.

You're barely upright, more puddle than person, when Gojo gently rolls you over, standing behind you and dragging his loose pants down with a practiced tug. You can feel the hot wisp of pre-cum cool against your ass after a heavy slap of his cock makes you jolt.

You draw in a deep breath, attempting to shake the last remnants of your orgasm-dazed haze out of your head, as you peer up at Kashimo. Naked. When the hell did that happen? But judging by the creamy slick already being bumped over his shaft, he's already been more than ready.

His cock is flushed, and proud, all glorious inches curving to the right, and the expression on Kashimo's face is somewhere between reverence and predation, "She's trembling." Brushing a thump along your lower lip, "Broke her already, Six Eyes?"

"Haven't even s-started. Gonna' make her cum again," Gojo grunts, and you can feel the thick, blunt head of his cock snag against your swollen, dripping folds.

Each thick inch is slow, unrelenting as though your gummy walls are memorising vein-ridden moulds of his cock. Each small bump of his cock deeper makes you tremble, back already arching so deliciously as you bite back a loud wail.

"F-fuck, Satoru," Your voice cracks, eyes rolling as your walls stretch and mould around him. Easily the biggest you've ever taken, and he's making every inch count, getting closer to kissin' your cervix.

"Thaaat's it, baby," Gojo pants, teeth skimming your shoulder as white hair clouds the peripherals of your vision, "Gotta' l-love hearing ya' say my name like that."

But when you open your eyes, you don't quite miss the jealous twitch that thunders across Kashimo's fine features. And you know that the God of Lightning is never to be outdone. Teal lashes fluttering as he gently runs a linen-wrapped hand over your face, "Just keep your mouth open, hmm?"

The head of his cock brushing your cheek as you mewl, sharp, from Gojo's harsher thrust. You obey before you even think, lips hungrily parting to flick your tongue over the cherry-red tip.

Kashimo hisses softly, the milky muscles of his thighs twitching, "Sweet tongue," he's murmuring, pushing his cock deeper into your waiting mouth, slow and deliberate, "So eager to serve. Who would not aim to worship you?"

Your mind splinters, for what Kashimo lacks in girth, he makes up for in sheer length, and your knees dig into the soft mat. Gojo's hand is running down your spine, trailing from the nape of your neck to the heart-shaped juncture of your ass, before slamming into you with a rhythm that feels almost mean.

But Kashimo is fucking your mouth with a devastating kind of patience, as though he's savouring every hollowed, sloppy suctioned moan that you let out. It's immensely satisfying how he shivers when you press your tongue right over the long, throbbing vein that runs on the underside of his shaft.

And just like that, you're full. Every inch of you claimed, stretched wide so your slick and saliva begins to pool, stuffed in stereo. Pretty pussy and throat. You can feel your lashes fluttering, as desperate fingers dig half-moons into the muscles of Kashimo's upper thighs.

"Good, fuck – good, wet girl," Gojo groans behind you, hands bruising your hips, but every so often he's gently soothing over your spine with a warm brush, "A pretty damn' good multitasker, hmm? I'm making ya' feelin' good?"

"You are awfully loud for someone who was not even inside her five minutes ago," Kashimo mutters, voice tight with restraint, and sweat sliding down his temple as he slowly draws his gleaming, glistening cock out of your droolin' mouth. Flattening himself underneath you, so he's got the perfect view of you perched over him, right down to where the thick base of Gojo's cock is swallowed up by your folds again and again. The sorcerer hisses as he guides the spurtin' head of his cock back to your soaked, trembling cunt.

You can hear Gojo snicker behind you, and you know if you turned you would see fluttering, pretty lashes and cocky blue eyes as though he isn't currently ploughing balls-deep inside you already, "Didn't need to be," he murmurs, "Didn't take her long at a-all to cum from my mouth."

"I was there, fool."

"Then maybe, ya' shouldn't taken n-notes," Gojo purrs, lips stuttering around a broken moan as he digs his fingers further into your hips. Your upper teeth sink into your lip, half-wrecked and half-feral as Kashimo begins to slide the tip of his aching cock through the mess, teasing at your already-stretched entrance.

"Are you two gonna' fight, or a-actually fuck me?" You're snapping, voice shredded as your breath catches, attempting to breathe through the impossible fullness of Gojo hittin' all the sweet spots inside you, all while Kashimo lines up behind you again.

Gojo groans, admonished, as he tilts his hip to thrust up into you, deep and indulgent, "Not our fault you're so fuckin' addictive, baby."

"Speak for yourself, Six Eyes," Kashimo mutters, and then he pushes in, at the same time. Right next to Gojo's thick shaft pounding into you, right into your already stuffed cunt.

Your forehead, beaded with exertion, drops helplessy onto Gojo's chest as your walls stretch. The intrusion is deliciously unbearable, for both sorcerers are thick, solid and throbbing. And still, your greedy and aching body tries to take it, split right open as your sweet spots sing from the stimulation.

"Holy f-fuck –" you cry, voice cracking as your hips tremble and quiver under Gojo's large, surprisingly gentle hands, "You're both, oh my God –"

"Yes, sweet thing," Kashimo hisses, a sibilant sound that flickers past his lips, as his own hands reach up to anchor themselves in your waist, "Taking all of it s-so well."

You can feel both their cocks, sliding against each other inside you, pressed right in that too-small gummy cavity, kissin' up right against your sweet spot in the most incredible way. Gojo's exhaling a shaky laugh from behind you, smug even as his cock twitches from the extra friction, and you can feel the rough pads of his fingertips shake, "Didn't think you'd be able to us both, baby."

You rock helplessly between them, back beautifully arched, fucked-out moans spilling past kiss-stung lips as they set a steady rhythm that borders on ruthless. Kashimo's hand, elegant and tightly clenched, brushes Gojo's thigh. Barely a gaze, a blink and you'd miss it type of touch. But time hiccups, and you can feel that sudden, sizzling crackle that zips between them like lightning caught in a bottle.

The sensation ricochets through your body, shivering and kissin' along your spine. It's so much more carnal and charged, nearly unbearable. Deep sapphire-blue meets cool, ocean-cyan over your quivering, rocking shoulders, eyes locking like swords.

Kashimo leans in closer, in a way that his carved front presses against your own chest, smooth voice a dangerous purr in your ear, "He feigns disinterest. But he shivers when I touch him."

You know, and Gojo knows too, for you feel his hand tighten on your waist, just a little. There's a filthy echo of skin against skin, strands of slick sticking and unsticking as Gojo pounds into you, more determined than ever to see you fall apart for him.

Kashimo's fingers creep higher now, beautiful hands with small bruises from constant training. But they're moving intentionally now, brazen as his palm slides up your side, overlapping with Gojo's, both their hands pressed possessively to your body, steadying your stuffed form.

If you had been able to create coherent words, you would have comment on the low whine behind your ear, Gojo's muffled moan as he matches his pace to Kashimo's agile hips.

The white-haired sorcerer thrusts up into you, snapping your spine taut as a gasp is punched out of your lungs. His cock is driving into you so, so deep, brushing every sweet spot that you could only ever dream of finding.

"R-right there, Satoru!" You yelp, head falling forward against Kashimo's shoulder, that heady scent of mountain pine and something sweeter, like persimmon, enveloping you once more.

The God of Lightning answers with his own brutal snap of hips, driving forward to bury himself beside Gojo again, twin cocks filling you, stretching you wide while your arousal pools from your puffy lips, providing the slick lubrication needed. The sorcerers move together now, and yet not, not synchronised but racing, as though they're trying to outpace each other with every savage grind into your dripping cunt.

"Close, little dove? I can f-feel how tight you are, like a v-vice," Kashimo huffs, voice heady and low as a glass of smooth wine in the cold December air.

But Gojo's laughing, harsh and knowing, his muscular thighs caging you on either side, as sweat glimmers on his temple and he leaves sweet kisses on the nape of your neck, "Watch this."

A large hand slips between your thighs, and you crane your neck to peer in a haze at the soft dusting of white hair over peachy skin, and then —

Pressure. The pad of his thumb presses against your clit in slow, merciless circles. Too precise, too good that it becomes villainous. Like Gojo's already got a blueprint of your most sensitive spots memorised, and he's weaponising it.

You wail, falling further against Kashimo's sculpted chest, high and frantic gasps leaving your glossy mouth as your thighs twitch, cunt clenchin' tight around both of them.

"Fuckin' cheater," Kashimo groans, hips jolting as the soft thatch of teal curls at the base of his cock droop with the sheer amount of your arousal pooling over his hips at this angle.

"She likes it, don'tcha baby?"

"She likes me more."

"You gonna' cry 'bout it?"

"I will hit you."

"You'd hafta' pull out first."

You can't hold back a snappy, wet shriek. Not a cute gasp, but a full-body, trembling cry, and just like that, both sorcerers finally shut the hell up. Because your orgasm doesn't arrive so much as detonate. It slams you into like a special-grade, no warning nor mercy. Your thighs lock up, trembling as your cunt squeezes tight on both their cocks.

An awed choke echoes behind you as Gojo's jaw goes slack, flush crawling up his chest, "Holy s-shit, she's squeezin' me out –"

Kashimo looks equally affected, the magenta marks beneath his eyes bright as he attempts to keep his moans muffled, but he ends up panting, lips curled as he curses beneath his breath, "Beautiful, wicked thing. I may finish a-already."

"Ya' better not," Gojo growls, still fucking into you like a man possessed, the bulky, mushroom-tip of his shaft pressed right up against your cervix, "I'm not d-done yet." He's flipping you over with ease, that casual display of strength from your best friend that you had never really focused on before. His thrusts are messier now, sloppier and louder.

Gojo's groaning, low and filthy in your ear, beautiful praises barely coherent as he pounds into you, soothing the strained ache in your thighs as he runs his hands over the stung flesh, "So p-perfect, missed ya', right? M-missed everything, baby. Shoulda' done this a looong time ago."

Kashimo kneels beside you, cock still slick from glistening folds, aquamarine eyes molten. His thumb trails down your jaw once more, catching on the plush, gnawed seam of your lips, "Look at you, so lovely splayed out like this. Six Eyes must be doing a good job for that pretty cunt to still be so sensitive."

You mewl, nodding your head as you breathe deeply, attempting to clear some of the haze from your eyes, and Gojo doesn't answer, but his cock twitches inside you, heavy sack smacking against your ass and creating the most filthy mess on the mats.

"Go on, then," Kashimo murmurs, low and electric, "Fuck her full, Gojo, I'll clean her up."

The sound falling from Gojo's lip is closer to a whimper, a desperate high that he's chasing, and it's raw. You're babbling now, hips arching to meet his every thrust as your legs tremble, hands fisting on the mat. Your pussy flutters madly around him, greedy and so insatiable.

"S-Satoru," you sob, tears pricking at your lashes, drooping, Please –, please cum inside, n-need it."

That does it, for his name on your tongue breaks the strongest sorcerer of the modern day. Gojo moans loud and unabashed, ruined as his hips jerk, burying himself deep and spillin' inside you. Thick, and hot and endless, flooding every divot and sticky nook within you. Your pussy pulses around his shaft, every girthy vein to milk each drop of his creamy seed as though it was made for him.

Kashimo doesn't waste a second, the long, sheer length of his flushed cock slipping past your lips, snagging on your cheek and leaving a faint smear as your moan vibrates around him, "Fuck, little dove," he snarls, teal hair falling over his face as he shakes his head, "You sing with your tongue."

You hollow your cheeks, and that's enough to undo the greatest sorcerer of the Edo period. Kashimo loses it, spilling into your mouth, translucent seed like hot salt on your tongue, and his voice cracks as he shudders above you. You're swallowing what you can, and the rest trickles down your chin, sticky and so obscene.

One sorcerer's release leaks out of the swollen, glossy folds of your cunt in lazy drips, trickling down your thighs. And the other's coats your tongue like a second sin. It's a mess, a masterpiece and a miracle.

You're flat on your back now, dazed and twitching, held together by the warm and shuddering weight of two powerful jujutsu sorcerers. Gojo collapses beside you first, chest heaving with a strawberry flush, face pressed to your neck. His hand stays tangled in yours like a lifeline, as though he needs to be touching you.

But Kashimo leans over, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip where his release still glistens, "You made quite the mess," he murmurs, sea-glass eyes ringed by impossibly long lashes.

You huff, and let out a wet giggle, though it's still quite the exertion for your spent body, "You liked it."

Kashimo pauses, and then in a rare, velvet-soft voice, he laughs, fond, and presses a kiss to your mouth as though he's sealing a sacred pact, "I did, little dove."

Gojo's head lifts, white hair plastered to his forehead, blue-eyes heavy with bliss and almost boyish affection. He reaches for your face, and you lean into your best friend's touch, his warm and unhurried fingers that brush a damp strand of hair behind your ear with the kind of tenderness that makes your chest sting.

"You still with us, baby?" Gojo's voice is gravel-laced velvet, playful and hoarse, "Or did we both finally fuck the soul outta' you?"

From the other side, Kashimo grunts, brushing damp strands of ocean-toned hair from his forehead, his voice dry as old parchment, "Oh, so now it is both."

You blink at up them, barely. Your lashes are stuck together, lips slick and bitten-red, and there's a pleasant glow settling between your thighs, though the ache is just as delicious, "Yeah, yeah, Satoru. I'm with you."

Silence settles over the training room like the aftershock of an afternoon storm, heavy, drowsy and gold-lit. You're still impaled on the memory of them, of everything. Their touch lingers in fingerprints across your skin, heavy seed still tacking between your legs. Gojo's bulky thigh is nudged across yours, pressed against Kashimo's, and oddly enough, neither of them seem particularly inclined to move.

"So...," Kashimo lies flat on his back, turquoise eyes locked on the ceiling in a heavy contemplation of the cosmos.

Gojo hums from where he's lazily tracing a finger along the slope of your hip, strands of mussed white hair falling over his forehead, "Hmm?"

"Wouldst thou partake again?"

Gojo turns his head, squinting up at Kashimo, almost as if he's incredulously offended, "Did you seriously just say 'wouldst thou'? Do you remember the dinosaurs?"

"I remember many beast, but your face is far more unpleasant than any I had encountered," Kashimo snaps coolly, before turning his attention back to you, a sculpted hand resting absently on your head, "Little dove?"

Their gazes flick towards you, sprawled out, cheeks pink and glowing, lips parted around breaths that still echo like whimpers. Ruined, radiant and definitely not done.

Gojo leans in closer, brushing a tender kiss to your temple, reverent and sweet, "Baby," he murmurs, and the name sounds so natural falling from his honeyed tongue, "You up for round two?"

"Or three," Kashimo adds helpfully, sitting up so you can admire the faintest streaks of jagged lightning over his smooth, rippling back, "I wish to see him dethroned. Spectacularly."

"Oh my god," Gojo groans, "You're obsessed with me. You wish you could dethrone me."

You shift, stretch slow and syrupy, winching at the ache in your thighs, that kind of soreness that feels like worship, "You boys gonna' kiss each other this time?"

A beat of silence, before predictably and gloriously, all chaos breaks loose in an echoing din.

"I'm not kissin' that Pikachu," Gojo snaps, but that sudden flush sits beautifully high on his sculpted, milky cheekbones.

"Do not call me names I do not understand. And you had your tongue in her half an hour ago, and now you are defensive?" Kashimo retorts, scandalised as his fangs peek from his pink mouth.

"I'm a tag-teamer, man, you just don't get it –"

"Is that an admittance of guilt?"

You sigh, closing your eyes, and you would be lying if there wasn't a faint smile ghosting your lips as you take what little rest you can get before you plan to make them both eat their braggadocio.

#timezone rb

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nanamiskentos · 7 days ago

Text

ꗃ 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐏 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃, 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐏𝐒 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 .

❝ answer me. did you think of her when you're in bed with me? when you're kissing me and holding me— was she the one on your mind? ❞

summary: it's hard knowing you aren't really the person in toji's heart but loving him was something you still did regardless. as for toji, he thinks he's ready to give you his all.

desc: 2.8k words, f!reader (referred to as ‘mama’), canon compliant i think, takes place after mamaguro's death and before toji’s, age gap (early 20s reader, early 30s toji), baby gumi ahhhhh, sfw, angst to fluff to angst again lol, intended lowercase, think you're tsumiki’s mom but without tsumiki bc the relations would be too complicated and also the second wife erasure in the canon storyline?? yeah it's reserved specifically for this fic, not proof read i fear but pls read it's really interesting i can swear by it lmaoqhdhns

dating a widowed man with a son wasn't easy especially when the said man is still in love with his former wife, or rather, his wife who had died.

love is often beautiful but sometimes it's unfair. it can also be cruel. what other reason would make you still stay despite knowing you'll never measure upto the person who had been here before you?

and you've heard stories about her. she was sweet, so beautiful— not just in her appearance but her entire being was beautiful. there always was an ache in your heart upon just the mention of her name.

so how much more would it have ached for toji?

“mama” the spiky haired boy, barely two years old calls you and you realise the silence in the room. “not mama, i’m nana okay?” sick.

nana. not mama but close enough. it doesn't matter anyway, n and m are just letters and next to each other so how much difference would that make? you're the one that's here after all, are you not?

if there's a lump in your throat and your eyes are burning with unshed tears, you force yourself to ignore.

“okay nana” megumi nuzzles his face into your chest, slowly drifting away to sleep. the boy always liked cuddling with you and it melts your heart immensely.

your hands strand through his dark hair. people always said he's the carbon copy of his dad but you'd like to differ. megumi has his mother's eyes and his hair resembled hers more than it did his dad's.

the thought sends another ache in your chest but you push it away– as you always have.

you recall the last time toji had heard megumi call you “mama”. you had never seen toji that livid. he was never a gentle man to begin with but that night, there was nothing else you've been more scared of.

was he like that to his wife? maybe not.

does that matter though? it's not like toji treats you badly. he's decent and loves you an enough amount. you weren't crazy enough to stay when you're not wanted so that must mean you were something to him right?

you also recall the whispers of pity and condemnation thrown at you for just being with toji. him being a brute is one thing but the difference in age is what people seem to have a problem with. you're so much younger than him and have your whole life ahead of you so why are you entrapping yourself this way?

you disagree though. love doesn't know any age and you definitely aren't naive to be head over heels over a guy just because he's relatively older. no, this was real and genuine.

a faint knock disrupts your train of thoughts. “he sleepin’?” toji nods towards the small boy in your arms and you nod back in return.

taking care not to wake the sleeping kid, you slowly pry his hands away from you and pull over a blanket to cover his small body.

when you make your way towards toji, he wastes no time in pulling you closer “missed you” he mumbles, placing a kiss onto your forehead and suddenly all thoughts plaguing your mind disappears. that's all you could ask for, even if it was just for a moment.

“i missed you more” you whisper back, he only huffs out an amused chuckle.

“got bad news though” a frown finds itself on his lips, decorated by a single scar next to it.

“did you lose all your money again?” toji was a gambling addict, another thing you forced yourself to tolerate just for him.

“sorry, doll. thought i’d win this time” he rubs small circles on your back comfortingly and it makes you a bit uneasy to know that he has his way with you so easily.

“it's alright. i’ll just find another part time job”

“so good to me” toji pulls you into his chest and you let out a sigh— of exhaustion? relief? you couldn't really tell but that's not important, toji had you in his arms.

“i’ll try and think of something too. don't worry your pretty little head too much” he lifts you up with ease. while you're in his arms, you feel the safest.

toji really felt bad this time. he was confident he would win but that stupid horse had to trip and lose its lead, ending up last of all places. he knows luck never favoured him but that's didn't stop him from trying again and again and again.

he also knows how you didn't say anything more than necessary about it but he isn't that much of an idiot either. he sees how your expression falters and your shoulders slump a little more when he comes home with another news of his gambling loss.

this is also why he tries, or rather, tried to quit — one too many times, unbeknownst to you. however, old habits die hard and most of the time (everytime) toji gives into his urge and loses yet again. the cycle keeps happening.

maybe this isn't just about gambling.

with the way you're asleep so soundly next to him after putting his son to sleep and taking care of him too, he is overcomed with yet another feeling to be better for you and megumi alike.

toji isn't a gentle man; everyone knows that, you do too — even more than anybody else but he can't help the familiar pool of warm feelings surging through him the longer he stares at your peaceful state.

he remembers the last time he felt it, with another person. it felt like a lifetime ago.

he also remembers how painful it was when he lost it — the person, the feeling altogether. his hands that were making their way to caress your face stops mid air.

toji knows you deserve so much better. you've been nothing but patient to him, so amazing, so perfect to him. still, he just can't do it yet, just not yet.

he will eventually, he hopes you stay until then.

toji wakes up to an empty bed and his heart sinks a little but the creases and wrinkles on the sheets serve as a reminder that you were really here.

he makes his way towards the kitchen, only finding megumi sitting on a chair next to the dining table.

“hey kid, where's your mama?”

toji freezes. it came out so naturally he didn't realise he said it himself and almost thinks he didn't but megumi's wide eyes prove that he actually did.

“m…mama?” megumi says hesitantly and toji nods this time. “yes, your mama”.

“potty potty!” megumi points to the bathroom and giggles, toji follows suit. the man crouches to his son's eye level and pats his head.

“you love your mama, kid?” toji sees megumi's eyes sparkle as the boy nods enthusiastically “very very much!!”

“yeah? i love your mama too.”

toji smiles to himself, he can't wait to tell that to you.

the next time toji got his pay, he finds himself hesitating. instead of heading towards the race tracks, his feet takes him to a jewellery store.

instead of picking out a slot and testing his luck, he picks out a ring. it's not fancy by any means but he thinks it would be the most beautiful band of metal to exist if it slides into your ring finger.

the tiny ring carries all the heavy feelings he has for you.

──

it was one particular evening when you saw an old man lingering by the front gate. its particular because the warm sunset and the soft cool breeze contrasted the ground breaking truth you find out.

“can i help you?” you ask the old man who looks at you up and down, not making an attempt to hide his distaste of your sight.

“is this where toji zenin lives?” he stares down at you with his scrutinising gaze; it makes you feel small.

“zenin?” you ask, confused. is he referring to toji? but his last name is fushiguro is it not?

“yes toji zenin. i heard he has a son as well. you're not the mother are you?”

is it that obvious? you wonder how the old man figured it out. regardless, you're not about to give him his answers so you stood your ground.

“i’m sorry i don't know what you're talking about.” you turn around, about to head inside when his words make you stop short.

“are you fushiguro?”

that's toji’s last name isn't it? not zenin or whatever he called it. so why is he asking you that? is he implying that you're married to toji?

“no. you have the wrong person.”

“why? did he say not to get involved with anyone from his clan?” the old man draws closer, chucking to himself. you're just there unmoving, trying to comprehend the situation and the words coming from his mouth.

“or did he not tell you that either? did he tell you anything at all?” he stands tall in front of you, tearing away bits of yourself with every word he says.

“when he returns, tell him the clan wants to propose him an offer. you can do that much at least won't you?”

…

and when toji comes home that night with the ring cluched tightly in his fist and inside the pocket of his white pants, the world stills.

he finds you in a state he has never seen you before. you look completely and utterly defeated.

“hey, what's wrong?” his hands come to caress your face so effortlessly, the ring and prior nervousness long forgotten.

“talk to me what's going on?” he looks around and the house seems emptier than usual. your laundry that were usually hanging with his were gone.

your small trinkets you placed around the house to “make it more lively” were nowhere to be found.

and there's a bag in the corner of the room which toji prays and hopes he isn't what he thinks it is.

your hands push away his own that were cupping your face. you're not even looking at him.

“say something damn it!”

you flinch and toji takes a step back. he recalls the last time you trembled in fear — when he got mad megumi called you his mom. he punishes himself for it.

“im sorry. please talk to me.” he isn't touching you now but he wants to. he wants to reach out and pull you close, as he always had done. but now there's an unbearable silence and the small distance between you both felt like lightyears away.

“who's zenin” your voice was meek, barely a whisper but toji's eyes widen. how did you find out about that?

no fuck that, he was supposed to be the one telling you. in his own time.

“i can explain” was all that came out of him. he's nervous, he doesn't know where to start. there's a lot of information to unpack and he's not sure how to do it without hurting you too much.

when he doesn't elaborate, you ask another “who's fushiguro then?” your voice falters a bit and toji curses himself for it.

but he's done running away and keeping things from you. “my… my late wife” he says wryly.

your eyes close and a shaky breath leaves your body, as if he just confirmed your worst suspicions. damn life is so funny isn't it? everything you thought you knew apparently wasn't what it seemed to be after all.

opening them again, your vision blurs and you realise tears were escaping your eyes. fuck you didn't want to cry now of all times but they won't stop.

and the way toji was looking at you, it makes you want to throw up.

“i must've been so stupid to you” you let out a humourless chuckle. “did you pretend im her?”

your gaze was sharp and so were your words. maybe all your bottled up feelings were resurfacing. it doesn't make you feel better about it but that doesn't stop you though.

“answer me. did you think of her when you're in bed with me? when you're kissing me and when you're holding me, was she the one on your mind??” your voice was loud now. you should be afraid of waking up megumi who you cradled to sleep just a few hours ago but no, your thoughts are too clouded right now.

toji sighs. he has no excuse.

“i used to” he actually looks ashamed as if he wasn't the one who did it purely out of his will.

your scoff makes him wince “but not anymore.”

his words fall on deaf ears “you know… i knew you did. but i stayed regardless because i thought there would be a chance that maybe one day, you could open up your heart to me. im not even asking for all of it, just a little… i thought you'd let me in.”

you're blabbering and honestly, so distraught.

“but not a moment was there when it was me isn't it? it was always her in the first place.”

now toji should have said something, anything but he stays there planted in place. and maybe that was your breaking point.

you turn around, grabbing your bag and brushing past him towards the door. instead of holding onto you and stopping you, toji clutches the small box containing the ring — your ring in his pocket, almost crushing it in the process, as he hears the door slam.

you think it's funny how toji did not reach out after what happened. it's poetic even. very fitting of him, till the very end, he did not give two shits about you.

so then, why were you back here?

it's been four long years since the trajectory of your life changed. you still don't know if it was for the better or for the worse.

saying it has been hard would be an understatement. it took you a long time just to get back onto your own feet but you did it regardless. however, you left a part of you here long ago and now, you're here to take it back.

that and you missed megumi dearly. perhaps it was an excuse too because you won't deny a part of you still missed toji, despite everything that happened.

standing a few feet away from the place you used to call home, you hesitate.

maybe this was a bad idea. oh this was definitely a bad idea. you'll see them, and then what? what comes after that?

closure? don't make yourself laugh. you’ll just be reminded of how you couldn't be that person for toji— how you'll always come second. and what if they moved?? there's no reason they'd still be here right?

forget this, you don't need to do this. why must you still be the one who put effort? to reach out? four long years passed and still no news means they clearly moved on... right?

you were convinced enough and was about to go back when you saw little megumi carrying a backpack on his back, seemingly coming home from school.

your feet wouldn't move and your eyes wouldn't blink. he grew up so well.

the world pauses as your gaze follows the kid you used to consider your own, now as good as a stranger.

“do you know that kid?” a voice at your back makes you whip your head around. life really is full of surprises and this time, the surprise was in the form of a tall man, no a tall kid with white hair, looking at you curiously through his round tinted glasses.

“... no i don't” well you weren't exactly lying. you don't know the megumi you see now. perhaps if he asked whether you raised him since he was a baby till he was two, then your answer would've been different.

“oh okay” the boy shrugs. “poor guy though”

“why? whats up with him?” you turn to look at megumi again who was minding his business walking home and your heart aches a little.

“I'm here to recruit him. his dad died you see so he's–”

“wait what was that??”

“his dad. he's dead” the amused boy in front of you chuckles and you stare at him, horrified.

“what happened to him?” your voice was shaky and doesn't sound like your own. he leans down to meet your eye level and smirks “why? i thought you don't know that kid. why does that matter to you?”

your stomach churns as you stare at him, not even knowing what to say— the smug expression on his face only widens.

“so you do know him.”

'know' would be a weak word to use when it comes to toji. you knew of his habits, the simple things he does and also of the more complex ones — like the exact place his scar decorated his lips and how it felt to kiss it.

then again, you don't really know anything about him and maybe you never will.

and maybe that's really, the closure you needed.

#sweet suffering fuck...#fics

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nanamiskentos · 8 days ago

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By Sam Wolfe Connelly

#aes

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nanamiskentos · 8 days ago

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a feel like the new generation of fanfic readers NEED to understand that clicking on a fic (interaction) does nothing. ao3 has no algorithm. your private discord discussions of fic do not reach the authors. if you do not actively engage with writers they will stop posting. this isn’t social media this is community.

#text

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nanamiskentos · 8 days ago

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CREATE BAD ART

#sometimes u just have to proudly write some bullshit #text

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nanamiskentos · 8 days ago

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𖦏 /brief: female reader. fluff. domestic, himbo toji. established relationship. depiction of mild relationship anxiety. excessive cleaning as a coping mechanism

“you free tomorrow?” you ask, casually.

too casually.

the words float out like you’ve just remembered you need eggs and not that tomorrow is the five-year anniversary of your completely baffling but enduring relationship with the man currently kneading your cat like a seasoned baker with carpal tunnel.

toji grunts from the floor, face smushed into the carpet, one hand rhythmically working over cherry bomb’s back while the other scratches behind the cat’s ears. “nah,” he mutters, “gotta work overtime. bigshot’s coming to the hotel. politician type. probably smells like soap and stolen tax money.”

you blink. “so… no dinner?”

he pauses, eyes squinting up at you like you just asked him to recite the periodic table. “baby. i literally just said overtime.”

you nod, pretending it’s fine.

pretend the stinging in your eyes is from cherry bomb’s ass betraying you both with the force of a gas leak.

“jesus christ, cherry,” toji coughs, fanning the air dramatically. “that’s the third one this morning. what’d you feed him? napalm?”

“chicken and rice,” you say faintly. “he's sensitive to anything else.”

“sensitive,” toji repeats, deadpan. “this dude has no respect for my lungs. or the sanctity of this carpet.”

you look down at your boyfriend – shirtless, slightly sweaty from committing fully to a feline massage session, a grown man with scars and shoulders built like security gates, who is currently trying to coax a burp out of cherry bomb like he’s a newborn.

"you know what tomorrow is, right?"

“uhhh…” toji trails off, eyes flicking to the ceiling like it’s a magic 8-ball. “not my birthday. not your period. not rent day. don’t tell me it’s… dentist?”

your silence is damning. he sits up finally, one palm still on cherry bomb’s back like a devoted chiropractor. “shit. what is it? anniversary?”

you sigh. he perks up like a cat himself.

“wait, how many years?”

“five,” you mutter, wiping at your eye like it’s just itchy and not emotionally leaking.

“FIVE?” he says, scandalized. “like, full five? as in, you’ve tolerated me for half a decade?”

you nod.

“damn. and they say miracles don’t happen.” he whistles low. “look, babe, ’m sorry. i swear i wasn’t being a dick on purpose. you know i’ve got the brain capacity of a houseplant.”

“you’re more like a cactus,” you say. “prickly, weirdly endearing. hard to kill.”

toji grins. “you gonna water me now or what?”

you chuck a throw pillow at him. “you can’t just forget our anniversary and then make cactus jokes, toji.”

he catches the pillow with one hand, smug. “counterpoint – i absolutely can.”

“counter-counterpoint – you’re sleeping on the floor with cherry tomorrow.”

toji shrugs. “he treats me better than you do. massages my back sometimes. we have a system.”

cherry lets out another tiny, sinister bomb.

“traitor,” you mumble, fanning the air.

“listen, i’ll make it up to you,” toji says, scooting closer on his knees like a sinner approaching the altar of your patience. “we can do something the next day. weekend. whole damn day. just you, me, and this flatulent meatloaf.”

“and what, you’ll remember that plan too?” you raise a brow.

he taps his temple. “writing it down. mental note. locking it in.”

“that means nothing. your last mental note was to buy toilet paper and we ended up using napkins for three days.”

“yeah, because they were the fancy kind. don’t act like you didn’t enjoy the quilted experience.”

you sigh again, but this time there’s a smile bleeding through.

“five years,” he says quietly now, hands coming up to rest on your knees as he looks up at you. “you really put up with me that long?”

“i must hate myself,” you murmur dryly.

he smirks. “nah. you just love me so much it makes you stupid.”

“if you finish that sentence i will drown you in the litter box.”

he leans forward anyway, bumping his forehead against yours. “happy almost-anniversary, babe.”

૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

the apartment smells like lavender disinfectant, lemon pledge, and a hint of desperation.

you’ve already scrubbed the kitchen counters twice. you cleaned the air fryer. you dusted the top of the fridge. the top of the fridge. who even looks there?

cherry bomb is supervising from the couch, loafed up like a judgmental orange bread roll, eyes narrowed as if silently critiquing your vacuuming technique. your shared spotify blend with 98.76% compatibility – a badge of unhealthy codependence if there ever was one – is playing through the battered bose speaker, crooning out a song you both called “your guys’s sex anthem” as a joke, and then promptly kept on every road trip playlist since.

somewhere between aggressive scrubbing and fighting with the vaccum, you decide to reorganize the drawer of old receipts and paper clips. and that’s when you find it.

tucked under a dried-up pen and a crusty cinema ticket stub, there’s a photo. one of those cheap polaroid prints from a vending machine photo booth.

it’s from one of your first dates. both of you squeezed into the tiny plastic curtain-covered booth, faces pressed close together like two awkward teens despite already being legal adults who could (allegedly) hold conversation.

toji had acne all over his jaw and forehead. his hair was a little too greasy, not from neglect but from that particular phase of “i don’t need conditioner” confidence. he was grinning, eyes scrunched up, throwing a peace sign like a menace.

you looked... flushed. like someone had taken a shade of beetroot and lightly slapped it across your cheeks. that was your blush blindness era – anything he said, did, or breathed would make your face turn the color of a firetruck.

you smile down at the photo, thumb brushing over the glossy print. and then the memory hits you, unprompted but potent.

a year into dating. sitting on the couch with tiktok open. some overly-filtered, soft focus video playing. a woman’s boyfriend getting down on one knee, fireworks in the back.

she’s crying. they’re both crying.

someone’s dog is wearing a tux.

you turned to toji, back then still a little too in love to tease him for his reactions. “would you ever do something like this?”

he had grunted, leaning over you to take a swig of your coke. “not like that. looks expensive. fireworks? dumb. but yeah, i’d work my ass off if it meant doing something good for you on the fifth one.”

“so you’re gonna propose on our fifth?”

he raised a brow. “i didn’t say that.”

“you implied it.”

he grunted again. then: “don’t quote me on shit, woman. i’m tryna be hardworking.”

you’d laughed and saved the video anyway. not because you thought it’d happen, but because some part of you wanted to believe that kind of memory would stick with him.

now, here you are. hours away from midnight. toji at work. the flat quiet aside from music and the low hum of cherry's tail thumping gently on the cushion.

you lie down on the couch next to him, one hand stroking his fur. he doesn’t purr – cherry bomb is a stoic cat, too emotionally distant to lower himself to such basic affection. but he shifts his weight until his back is pressed against your side, and that’s his way of cuddling.

“you think he forgot?” you ask him.

he blinks once.

“yeah,” you say softly. “me too.”

you close your eyes, letting the song fade into something slower. something you’d both slow danced to once in the middle of the kitchen when it was raining too hard to go out.

cherry bomb’s tail flicks lazily across your stomach. he doesn’t care about anniversaries. but he’s warm, and that’s more than the cold corner of your heart can ask for right now.

still, in the far corner of your mind, you wonder:

did he really forget? or is he planning something stupid?

you hope. god, you hope.

the doorbell rings at exactly 12:55pm.

cherry bomb, who had been deep in his snoring session, jerks his head up with the speed of a tactical unit and trots over to the front door. he sniffs twice, then three times, then dramatically flops onto his side and begins kicking at the bottom of the door like it owes him rent.

you groan from your nest of self-pity and pilled blankets on the couch. “if it’s another zara package i drunkenly ordered, i swear i’m cancelling my debit card.”

cherry bomb responds by farting again, because of course he does.

your cat, your child, your emotional support food processor.

you drag yourself to the door, still in your pajamas, hoodie zipped halfway over the tank top you wore to bed. your hair’s tied up in a bun that’s doing its own gravity experiment. you open the door half expecting a confused ubereats driver or your elderly neighbor who likes to gossip about everyone’s trash schedules. but instead —

there’s a man in a baseball cap and mask, holding a clipboard and a large brown envelope.

“delivery,” he says.

you squint. “uhm…didn’t order anything.”

“has your name,” he shrugs. “need a signature.”

cherry bomb, behind you, starts doing figure eights around your legs like he knows something you don’t.

or maybe he’s just gassy again.

you squint harder at the man, at his frame, at the very familiar veins on his forearms.

“…why are you built like that?”

the man tilts his head. “genetics.”

you snatch the clipboard and squiggle your name. “weirdo,” you mutter, then eye the package. “what is this anyway?”

“you should open it,” he says, and pulls down the mask.

it’s toji.

you blink.

he looks good. annoyingly good. hair a little messy like he ran here, eyes sparkling with a cocky sort of pride. the kind of look he only gets when he wins rock-paper-scissors five times in a row or finds an extra chicken nugget.

“what the hell,” you whisper. “you’re supposed to be at work.”

“i am. i worked through dinner. left some poor intern to watch the cameras. might be fired. worth it though.”

he holds up the envelope, taps it against your forehead. “open this.”

with trembling fingers, you pull the document out of the envelope.

marriage registration form.

your name. his name. partially filled. waiting.

you look up, throat suddenly dry.

“you remembered,” you say, barely a whisper.

toji smirks, sheepish and proud all at once. “y'kidding? you think i forget the one time i promised something halfway romantic? on tiktok of all places?”

your laugh comes out broken, more of a hiccup. “you made me clean the entire apartment. i stress cried to mitski. cherry’s probably infertile from all the febreze fumes.”

“you thought i forgot?” he teases, stepping closer.

“you said you forgot.”

he shrugs. “i lie sometimes. keeps things spicy.”

“i hate you,” you mutter, already tearing up.

“no you don’t,” he grins, pulling a pen from behind his ear like some domestic delinquent magician. “you love me. five years worth.”

he hands you the pen and doesn’t say anything else. cherry lets out one more celebratory bomb and trots into the bedroom like he knows you’re about to be legally, officially stuck with this man forever.

and honestly? you couldn’t be happier.

#eating this up!!!#fics

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