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sunnytalks · 7 hours ago

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moments in twilight

synopsis: oh, innocent child of blood and bones. you cry as if your heart bleeds fire. has nobody ever taught you to burn them all first? w.c: 13k.

pairing: heianera!ryomen sukuna x f!reader

warnings: childhood friends to lovers, major character death. mentions of cannibalism, violence, and slight gore. ANGST! sfw, but mdni!

a/n: this was requested by this enthusiastic nonie! i hope you enjoy this and that it’s everything you wanted <3 a massive shout to @spookuna for being my biggest supporter and cheerleader, because i genuinely couldn’t have done this without her!

divider / art / ao3 / @ficsforgaza

the first sight of her fate didn’t seem real, like something out of a dream.

she couldn’t understand what – or who – she was looking at.

perhaps it was a fully materialized specter born somewhere from the deepest recesses of her imagination, unknown even to herself. it certainly seemed that way to her; she was only six and knew nothing of the horrors of the world, except for those that came to life in scary stories.

her ghost was digging feverishly into the earth, its fingers curled like claws, like it was searching for something. it was a dirty, scrawny little thing, wearing no clothes except for a soiled fundoshi that looked as if it was strung together by luck and willpower. every so often, it would pull something stringy and limp into its mouth, devouring it rabidly, though she couldn’t make out what it was.

why would her imagination come up with something so… awful?

it wasn’t a pretty, or kind looking ghost to be sure, and she scratched her arms as an uncomfortable itch settled into her skin.

the specter paused, like a fawn that had been discovered.

and turned.

no… it was a wolf, but it was really just a boy.

a boy that stared at her with a basin full of blood in his eyes. a garden that should have been filled with a gorgeous array of ruby roses, was instead full of violence and malice, of death and root rot. this was not a normal, or happy, sort of boy like the boisterous ones in her village.

she still thought she was dreaming, still believed the boy was just a ghost.

because what else could he be? real boys didn’t have a second pair of small eyes beneath their normal ones. even if his were closed, his two pale lids shut tightly like an oyster.

would there be precious little red, red, red pearls underneath them?

a gentle gust of wind swept through the trees, ruffling the boys matted locks of hair, and he vanished from her sight like a puff of dust.

surely now it was a dream.

real boys couldn’t just disappear.

until she felt all the air knocked out from her lungs as she crashed backwards into the earth, sharp fingernails digging into the soft skin of her forearms, and the boy’s crimson eyes were consuming her in his fire.

she knew then it wasn’t a dream, because dreams couldn’t hurt her like this.

she kicked and struggled, her ears ringing from the force of her head knocking into the ground, screaming until one of his dirty hands covered her mouth. she stilled immediately, tears pricking the corner of her eyes, and sliding down the apples of her cheeks.

“you can’t steal,” the boy hissed, his voice sharp and pointed like nails, and he shook her roughly as he repeated like a mantra. “can’t steal, can’t steal.”

she whimpered and nodded frantically, as sharp stones from the earth pierced her skin, adding to her misery. the boy licked his lips, a snake tasting the air with its forked tongue, and bent down closer to her ear.

“i’m hungry” he whispered, a dusting of glee coating his words like powdery snow. “i want to eat you.”

the sky was haunted with the last light of the sunset, like the cries of a mourning mother, swirling with hues of orange and purple. she wondered if she was going to become a ghost that could only existed in her own mother’s dreams.

for the first time in her meager existence, she felt her childish immortality slipping between her tiny fingers.

something uncomfortably hot and wet spread out from beneath her thighs.

the boy sniffed once, twice, with his nose upturned.

then he cried out angrily, his red eyes flashing in the twilight hour, and shoved her roughly into the ground before releasing his grip on her, recoiling defensively infront of his hole of dirt. she scrambled up ungracefully to her feet, her chest heaving, wincing as she tasted bitter soil and salty tears on her tongue.

“yucky! dirty, dirty!” the boy spat indignantly, hypocritically, as if he wasn’t more soiled than she was.

he was rolling in the dirt now, rubbing his face and body with it as if it were soap, as if the coarse earth could wash her touch away from him. she took two steps backwards from him, feeling an eerie charge of energy settling into the edge of the forest.

like the spark of a flame that could ignite into a wildfire.

she took another slow step back.

and then another.

and another.

until she turned and fled, like a squawking bird escaping the grasp of a hawk, her short legs crying out as she sprinted faster than she ever had in her life. she ran all the way from the edge of the forest, up the slight incline of the main pathway through her village, and finally crashed through the doorway of her home, startling her mother who was scrubbing away at dirtied clothes in a bucketful of soapy water.

her mother gasped loudly, alarm rising like a looming mountain, always there and ever present. “whatever happened to you? you’re all scratched.”

lie.

she wailed loudly, messy snot dribbling down her nose and chin and right onto her mother’s worn, muted robes. her mother shushed her gently, bundling her child into her arms and pressing comforting kisses to her forehead.

“what happened, my dearest love?” her mother repeated, whispering softly and soothingly.

lie.

she somehow knew that if she told the truth, it would only invite chaos and misery into her home.

“i p-played in the forest a-and falled,” she finally hiccuped, her bottom lip pouting and wobbling.

her mother cooed, wiping away her tears with a warm, rough thumb. “you fell? my sweet, you’ll be alright. oh, oh. why have you wet yourself?”

more mucus ran down from her nose, and she wiped it messily with her palm as she shrugged her shoulders and said nothing. she let her mother fuss over her, completely unresponsive as she dunked her tiny body into a wooden bucket, washing away the touch of the wolfish, snake boy.

until all that remained of him were the little scratches dotting her arms – rough and ridged, lines carved into the trunks of trees.

she thought of him all through the night, even when her mother had tucked her into bed and tenderly kissed her brow. everything was unknown to her now, nothing was certain. was he actually like an animal, capable of following her scent and finding her here?

would he gorge on her until all that was left of her was red, red, red?

༺ ✤ ༻

the boy had taken over her life – he was everywhere, in everything.

haunting her.

taunting her.

filling her mind with paranoia and warped visions of his red eyes staring at her, always. she saw him in between the boards of the walls and floor, and in every bite of food she took. the wispy tendrils of his hands possessed hers, eating right alongside her. he was in the blood of her scrapes, which always seemed to reopen whenever she bathed, and in her tears as she whimpered quietly, unable to sleep as she hid beneath her blanket.

as if that could save her from him.

it was in the boy’s nature to haunt her with his hunt, to frighten and consume her every thought.

she couldn’t expect anything less than that; it was who he was.

she’d seen it in his eyes, a peephole into the true nature of his soul, and it was full of violence and cruelty and…

sadness.

… and beauty.

he was really just a sad, beautiful little boy.

a boy just as old as she was. a boy who had somehow been put on a path of loneliness, without light, kindness, or love.

it had to be some sort of twisted fascination she harbored for the boy, the same way she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the blood trickling from his scratches, or stop listening to the stories of ghosts and monsters in the night.

maybe it was his strange power that was possessing her, gripping her like quicksand and sucking her further and further down into his madness.

yes, that had to be it.

because why else would she be heading straight towards the edge of the forest, to him?

she tightly grasped a small bowl of rice and vegetables between her little hands, swiped from her own dinner right beneath her mother’s nose. it had long since cold, and she hoped the ghost wouldn’t mind. it was an offering, a desperate plea to break free from his curse that haunted her.

snap!

snap! crackle, snap!

a few twigs snapped loudly beneath her feet – a damning announcement.

she froze, nearly dropping her bowl, breathing quick and shallow puffs of air.

snap!

another one, this time from behind her.

she whirled around, and there he was.

the boy stood beside a thick tree trunk, his head cocked to the side and his eyes widened into full crimson moons. he was even more disheveled than he was a week ago, with mud caked to his skin and hair like dried, flaky clay. his ribs were more prominent too, scarily so, and his cheeks were gaunt like a skeletons.

he was weak.

far too weak, she realized.

she immediately extended her arms out, the bowl teetering on the edge of her fingertips, and breathlessly said, “yours.”

the boy grunted, “huh?”

snap! snap! crackle!

he’d taken a few steps forward, carefully, ever so fearfully.

she squeezed her eyes shut, turning her head up towards the twilight sky, her heart beating against her ribcage as if trying to escape, and tried more clearly, “food, for you.”

he was in front of her in a flash, his breath brushing over her cheeks. she cracked open an eye to peek at him, watching as he eyed the bowl with suspicion, sniffing loudly. he gagged offensively when his nose wandered too close to a vegetable, his tongue stretching far out from his mouth.

she half thought he was going to smack the bowl to the ground and lunge for her instead.

he’s going to eat me.

until he snatched it from her instead, retreating back behind the tree trunk.

she blinked, her lashes butterfly wings fluttering in a breeze.

there were the sounds of scoffing, rabid breathing and snuffling noises, and then nothing at all.

hiccup!

had he finished all of it already?

the boy’s face peeked out from behind the trunk, peering at her owlishly.

“why you back?” he asked simply, a touch of softness in his voice, the edge of a knife chipped and dulled.

she shrugged her shoulders. “you’re hungry.”

“but, what if i eat you?”

“tomorrow i’ll give you more, then you can’t eat me.”

he fully revealed himself, crouched low to the earth like a cat, staring up at her with his pupils blown. “you promise?”

she gulped. “i promise.”

“if you don’t, then i eat you!” he exclaimed, lips pulled back over his fangs in a threatening snarl, his hackles raised and shaking.

oddly, she didn’t feel afraid.

the ghost didn’t have the same malice as before; she could see his vulnerability in the way his fingers trembled. she felt it travel through the mountain air, settling onto her skin like a layer of dust. it wriggled like maggots, burrowing into her flesh and making her skin crawl.

her chest constricted painfully.

she felt so unbelievably and overwhelmingly sorry for him.

the boy scrunched his nose. “why’r you sad?”

“i’m not!” she replied quickly, a touch indignantly. she knew he would probably get angry if he knew how much she pitied him.

it was silent for quite some time as he stared at her, and she fidgeted in her spot. she knew she had to let him do this, to stay perfectly still like a rabbit in the reeds, as the wolf made its mind up whether it was hungry or not.

it seemed to work.

the boy huffed and collapsed to the ground in an ungraceful heap, his legs splayed out before him as he seemingly ignored her – a begrudging acceptance of her existing in his space.

she lowered herself to his level, the ground scraping beneath her legs, while maintaining that somewhat safe distance between them. her hands began to search for and pick up various rocks and twigs to play with, because she didn’t know what else to do to pass the time. the boy had his head held to the side, a shade of confusion painted over his cheeks as he clocked onto her every move.

she pretended he wasn’t there, ignoring the rising wave of bitter panic in her throat, and the fact that he was slowly inching closer to her, crawling to her like a prowling panther.

he sat beside her now, clearly observing how she sat with her legs crossed, then glanced towards his own legs kneeling into the dirt. she never stopped playing, pretending to be in her own world, watching from the corner of her eyes as the boy moved his body to mimic her posture and sitting position.

a giggle threatened to bubble out from between her lips.

the boy picked up a twig from her small pile, then retracted, looking at her with wonderful apprehension.

she gave him her full attention. “you can play too.”

another head tilt, and his pink lips curved downwards.

“…play?”

oh.

“have you never played before?”

“no, show me.”

and she did, without knowing how to really explain it. she told stories of how the twigs could be birds soaring between the gaps in the clouds, or the rocks could be fish darting in between the strands of a kelp forest. all the while, the boy was transfixed, and she began to really understand him for what he truly was.

scared and lonely, with an insatiable curiosity for new things – especially for her.

she only hoped she could live up to it.

༺ ✤ ༻

she discovered the boy’s name a fortnight later.

ryomen sukuna.

a strange sensation ran down her spine when she heard it for the first time, like a delicate lash from a whip made of fire.

she decided to ignore it.

they played together everyday since then, against the deep backdrop of the forest, and always during the duskiness of twilight. she would still sneak him scraps of whatever food she could spare, feeling guilty as her mother, who was none the wiser, always praised her for finishing her meals. her father would raise a questioning brow at her whenever she asked to play so late in the day, chiding her for being reckless, even if she passionately justified – albeit, borderline erraticly – that her imaginary friend would be very lonely without her.

“but why now? why can’t you play during the day with your… friend?”

“because he only comes out when the sun goes down.”

maybe sukuna really was a ghost.

she liked to hold onto that superstition. it made her lies a little less white, because he definitely wasn’t a figment of her imagination.

but it was still a lie, a pearlescent river of alabaster, and it had continued to flow strong for three years now.

she was nine years old, and during their time together, sukuna had only revealed glimpses of himself in little tidbits. it was like a sweet bite of plum on a hot summer’s day, satiating her for a time, but always leaving her hungry for more.

“where do you sleep?”

“i dig a big hole, you wanna see?”

“why do you only come after the sun?”

“i’m here all the time, you just don’t see me.”

but sometimes.

just sometimes, and only if she timed her questions right.

then sukuna would indulge her in just a little more.

“why are your eyes red?”

ryomen paused, a wickedly sharpened two-pronged stick in his hand, and shrugged nonchalantly. “i was hungry in my mother’s tummy, so i ate my brother.”

(there was a great clap of thunder somewhere far away, and the great sinful cut of the world bled just a little more.)

they were quiet for a long time after that.

he’d resumed stabbing the earth with his wooden weapon, completely unperturbed.

as if what he’d said was the most normal thing, like it was as easy as drinking the rain that fell from the pine leaves.

sukuna often said twisted things – things that reminded her of who she was really dealing with. although he had somewhat softened around her, he was still as wild and unforgiving as the mountainside he lived on.

she could never ever show him that it put her on edge.

still, much to her own shock, she was growing used to the depravity.

not that sukuna was always wicked, no. he would always ask her things, and she’d try to assume an air like her mother, knowledgeable and benevolent, as she guided him. when he wanted to know how she ate without using her hands, she took a pair of chopsticks from her kitchen and showed him how to use them. he’d sniff her hair, alarmingly too close, and asked how it was so much softer than his.

so one evening, she took him to the river where some of the villagers bathed during the day, and taught him how to wash himself.

“show me,” he’d ordered, his characteristic head tilt an open book of confusion.

he was more perplexed when she became flustered and refused to do it.

the ensuing conversation, in which she explained why she couldn’t just do that, was extremely awkward to say the least.

but she was even more surprised the next day when she came to play, and he was awkwardly standing there, his cheeks as pink as the once-hidden peaches in his hair. she’d stopped straight in her tracks, almost not recognizing her ghost without all the grime and dirt covering him.

he’s so beautiful…

ryomen blinked slowly, catlike, staring at his unusually clean feet with something akin to bashfulness. “what?”

“nothing,” she smiled, gentle like the summer rain that had just started to fall. “let’s play.”

༺ ✤ ༻

it was autumn now.

the leaves of the maple trees had turned into molten gold and burnt orange peels, and the remaining blooms had already died out petal by petal. there was a chill bite in the air, a promise of snow and piercing cold to come. she hated when the weather was like this, she worried about sukuna living in the wild in such conditions, and it only made it harder to go out and play with him in the evenings.

he, however, enjoyed it whenever the weather turned cold – it soothed the fire in his blood.

or so he said.

sukuna was lying down beside her, saccharine on the grass whilst looking up at the sky. he was wearing some washed-out linen clothes, a size too big, that she had managed to steal one day from the village boys bathing in the river. the deep plum wine in the skies mixed with the blood in his eyes – all four of them – the two colors swirling and teasingly touching each other.

two nights ago, the wind had been howling like wolves, screaming of murder and spilled blood in the darkness. there had been a strange heaviness in the air, a sort of static, like lighting biding its time to strike.

when she saw sukuna the next morning, he had a proud grin on his face, his teeth and mouth speckled with blood. all his eyes were wide open, staring at her as if to say ‘look at us, look at us!’

she knew that he had committed some sort of depravity in the night to have earned the transformation.

but he never told her.

perhaps she was never meant to know.

they were always alert, darting between everything and anything that moved even in the slightest – from the leaves rustling high up a tree, to the birds soaring high up in the sky, and to the blades of grass tickled by the wind.

and her.

one always rested on her.

“ryo,” she started, ripping fistfuls of grass. “do you like to play in the snow?”

the eye fixed on her rolled in annoyance. “no, and stop calling me that,” he huffed.

she rolled her eyes, blowing a hot-pink raspberry at him. “yes you do, liar! i know you do.”

she knew that sukuna loved to be teased, but only when he was carefree and relaxed. during moments like now, with the ghost of the permanent scowl sewn into his features unraveled into wispy threads of gold. he was seriously mulling over what she had just said, something she knew he also enjoyed – untangling mysteries and puzzles in his mind, a satisfied gleam in his eyes when he finally figured them out.

“i don’t… like anything.”

she stilled.

a blade of grass fell from her grip, and she gnawed on her bottom lip.

why did she feel so embarrassed?

he wasn’t really referring to her at all – and yet, it all felt so personal.

“okay,” was all she could muster weakly, barely a whisper, resuming her onslaught on the grass like nothing mattered at all.

maybe none of it ever did.

sukuna turned his head and stared at her strangely, but said nothing.

thwack!

he was grinning wildly now. “let me chase you.”

she wiped away the raindrops that had splattered onto her cheek, a slight sting on her thigh from his smack. “i don’t wanna play.”

“but… you like this game,” sukuna frowned, head tilted, rolling over with his elbows digging into the grass. “why not?”

“i jus-ow! stop hitting me!”

“start running then.”

so she did, quite begrudgingly.

her footsteps crackled loudly against the forest floor, as the dark grey clouds darkened even more and the rain fell faster, and the sun dipped further behind a neighboring mountain. sukuna was hot on her trail, and she knew how easily he could catch up to her in an instant, but he never did. it was as if he switched off whatever made him less human during their games. maybe it was to give her a fighting chance, or perhaps it was entertaining to him to know he could always win whenever he wanted to.

if she got to the village fast enough, she would win today.

she swung herself against a tree trunk to propel herself forward, imagining she was an agile deer leaping between the trees.

get to the village.

win.

run, you can wi-

her leg gave way beneath her, sliding up in an arc as she slipped backward. her head hit the ground, and stars and minuscule black moons danced in her eyes amidst the silver clouds.

sukuna appeared above her, his face upside down, all of his eyes on her with what looked something like panic in his irises. it made her heart skip a beat, followed by a swarming terror of bats and a throbbing swell of pain in her left ankle.

and then… sheer, crippling embarrassment.

she started to wail loudly.

big salty droplets squeezed out from her tearducts, running to her temples and mixing with the rain in the dirt. sukuna's face contorted painfully, his mouth pulled into a grimace, his eyes darting over her like a hummingbird flitting between flowers.

"s-stop doing that," he tried to order harshly, but was cruelly betrayed by the shaky wobbling his lip.

snot messily dribbled down her nose as her ankle started to throb more intensely. "it h-hurts!"

"stop crying!" sukuna exclaimed, his fists clenched and shaking. "just stop."

she made the mistake of moving her leg, and cried out as fiery pain licked a smoldering trail straight up to her head. "ryo! please. make it stop, make it stop, make it stop."

his face fell, crumbling into pieces. with a tenderness she had never known, and the sleeves of his shirt falling over his hands, sukuna gently held the sides of her face.

she stilled, a drop of crystal suspended in time.

he hushed her, soothingly. "it's okay. just... please. stop crying."

she sniffled, broken sobs stuttering out from her lips, until they fizzed out altogether. all the while, sukuna never let her go, their foreheads brushing against each other, his peach frizz blowing in the wind. oh, how she wished she could see his face. she wanted to know that he wasn't faking this level of care – of emotion – if nothing really mattered to him.

sukuna lifted his head, his blood eyes glossy and pained, and whispered, "does it still hurt?"

her bottom lip trembled dangerously and she nodded. sukuna sighed, his hands leaving her face and scrunching his hair.

"i-," he paused, nervous. "let me try something."

sukuna looked at her expectantly, eyes widened and pleading. she nodded again, not sure exactly what she was agreeing to, he moved slowly, cautiously, as if any sudden move would set off her pain again. all the while, his gaze was trained on her, settled and pooling on her already swelling ankle.

he breathed out shakily, placing a rough palm over her warm skin, and she whimpered as a piping hot sensation seeped through to her bone. it was nothing like pain, but it felt like sukuna. it was a strange feeling, like little bubbles popping on the skin he touched. she knew then what she was feeling – his power. sukuna was concentrating hard, little grunts escaping his lips every so often, his brow deeply furrowed into a valley of ridges.

the power rose, a tidal wave of fire and blood, and then collapsed into nothing.

he hissed in frustration, sharply pulling his hand back from her ankle, head bowed almost… shamefully.

it was quiet for a heartbeat longer before sukuna muttered, “i’m sorry, i can’t fix you. i’m not strong enough.”

her heart swelled, and she smiled weakly. “it’s okay, ryo.”

he looked up at the dark sky, mouth opening and closing as he chased his words and settled on, “its going to be night soon.”

she looked up too, watching the veil of the silver crescent moon lifting. “mhm.”

she sat up slowly, sukuna immediately turning to watch her. “i-i don’t think i can walk, ryo,” she mumbled. “how can i get home?”

“but… you can’t stay here.”

“i know.”

“the bears will hunt you.”

“ryo, i know!”

his head tilted and a spark lit in his eyes.

“i can carry you!” sukuna blurted out, his chest puffed out proudly. “i’ll bring you to where i sleep. it’s warm there, and then the bears can’t eat you because i’ll be there.”

“… you can fight a bear?”

“what do you think i eat now? i told you I didn’t need your stinky vegetables anymore!”

she blinked three times.

“okay, and then what?”

“and then… i can figure it out in the morning. i’ll keep trying to make you better when you sleep so you can go home.”

without hearing another word from her, sukuna swept her into his arms, eliciting a startled yelp from her. he settled into a brisk pace, taking them both much farther away from the village. the light darkened considerably this deep into the forest, the trees hugging each other so tightly that hardly any of the sun’s waning light could pierce between the leaves.

suddenly, he stopped.

sukuna hunched over, her cheek squishing against his chest, and gently placed her down into a cavernous burrow.

"you really weren't joking when you said you sleep in a hole," she half-heartedly joked, looking around.

he scoffed, crossing his legs and sitting beside her injured side, halfway turned towards the entrance to the burrow. "you don't like it?"

"i never said that! it's just... different."

"not all of us live in a nice home."

the air turned slightly sour, lemons tainting his softness, and they were completely silent. the sounds of the night became louder then; strange animal cries off in the distance, and the rain pelting down from outside, steady drip drip drip of droplets falling from the entrance. sukuna was right, his burrow was reasonably warm. almost, dare she say it, actually comfortable.

he was still beside her, a hand pressed lightly to her injury, his power ebbing and rushing forward like a wave against the shore. as the night grew longer, sukuna seemed to be getting more and more agitated, hissing lowly as he failed at every attempt to heal her. she couldn't sleep regardless of his noises; the enormity of the situation she was in was too jarring. what if a bear discovered their sanctuary? what would her parents be thinking right now? sukuna had to be hungry, as well tired from expending his power. could he really fight a bear if it came down to it?

"ryo?"

"go to sleep."

"but i-"

"shut up, or i'll let the bears eat you."

"ryo! i just wanted to ask you something."

he groaned in annoyance. "what then?"

"earlier, when you said you didn't like anything. did you mean it?"

"well... yes. i don't lie."

"oh, yeah. i know."

sukuna tilted his head, both left eyes rolling towards her. "why did you get sad when i said that?"

heat rose to her cheeks. "did not!"

"you did so! i felt you get sad! you’re getting sad again now"

she fidgeted uncomfortably. "because!"

"because?"

"because, because- ugh! because then that means you don't like me, okay? and that hurts my feelings.”

red eyes flashed in the dark. “why do you care if i like you?”

“because we’re-you… you’re my friend. of course i care if you like me.”

“but, what if i don’t care?”

her heart dropped, and a fresh tear prickled the corner of her eye. “you don’t?” she mumbled quietly, a drop in an ocean of naive, childish feelings.

sukuna’s face crumbled again, and he gripped her ankle just a fraction tighter. “no! i mean, yes! i do care.”

he bashfully looked away, mumbling under his breath before he said a bit louder, “i like you.”

she perked right up at that. “you do?”

“mhm.”

“you promise?”

a low grumble. “promise.”

༺ ✤ ༻

for five days and five nights, she was in another world.

a world where all the memories of her past were washed away by the swirling green of the deep forest. it was an almost cathartic experience, a transition from one plane of existence to the next – one drawn in dripping red ink, a solitary existence that belonged only to ryomen sukuna.

or, at least, it was easier to imagine it that way.

otherwise, the painful pangs of guilt would strike her violently whenever her thoughts strayed to her village and family. if she paused and closed her eyes, she could feel the steady thrum of her mother’s grief, like an earthquake reverberating across the distance between them. it was all too much for her young mind to bear.

and so, she willingly slipped through the doorway into a new reality, where it was just her and her crimson ghost.

during that time, she had learned how to read him.

his anger was a lashing snake hidden between the rocks – wickedly sharp and quick to strike her with venomous words. they would spread quickly though her blood, making her huddle into herself, perfectly still, like a mouse meeting its most unfortunate end.

fortunately for her, she was only bitten once, and the snake had only acted out of hunger, not genuine malice.

if sukuna’s anger had been real, she doubted she would have lived to see the next sunrise.

his apology came much later after he had returned from the hunt, a satiated tiger slow to act. the only acknowledgement of his remorse was a silent head pat with a bloody palm.

his fear was iron claws scratching against a rock, piercingly grating and scraping at the walls of her heart. if sukuna was fearful, she knew it by the way he stalked and paced outside the burrow, a whip strike away from pouncing on anything that moved even slightly out of the ordinary.

“there are more people in the forest,” sukuna would mutter darkly during those fearful fits. “they're shouting your name.”

“did they see you?”

he responded with nothing more than a pointed look.

but above all, it was his kindness that was most present.

she first noticed it in the way sukuna corrected himself around her, protecting her from certain aspects of his lifestyle. for instance, when she saw the blood on his hands after a kill, or saw how horrified she was when he offered her raw, dripping meat from a deer he had just killed. it was in the way he had immediately changed his ways – washing his hands after a hunt, and skinning and butchering his kills far from the burrow so she wouldn’t see a thing.

it was also in the way he pretended he wasn’t purposely foraging berries for her, dropping them onto her lap like he had just randomly stumbled across them. it was in his stubborn refusal to give up on healing her every night when he thought she was asleep, and in how he treated her like precious sugar glass – so very careful in how he handled her.

it shouldn’t have been so surprising to discover that ryomen sukuna was neither cruel nor mad.

he was still that lonely boy from all those years ago, still learning how to be kind while yearning and searching for love.

one day, she saw him play with fire between his fingertips as if it were nothing extraordinary.

she saw how the blood in his eyes came alive, like dancing waves of a turbulent red sea. when he looked at her, she didn't expect him to smile so gently as he started a small fire and cooked her meat for her.

after sukuna had shown her more of his power, the cracks in his soul seemed to split apart, and his fire teemed and spilled out uncontrollably. he finally began to open up to her, telling her things she had always wanted to discover, along refreshingly childish ramblings.

“you know, i actually didn’t mind eating your stinky vegetables. yeah.”

“deer aren’t actually that pretty, but watching them when they’re still is… relaxing?”

“yeah, i lied before. i do like playing in the snow, especially throwing it at you.”

but some of the worst things would also spill out – things she would have preferred to never know, because they were dark and cruel enough to change the way she viewed the world.

“i didn’t mean to eat my brother, but i was just really hungry in my mother’s tummy, and she wasn’t feeding us.”

“she called me a demon for what i did.”

“no, i don’t know know where she is now, and i don’t know about my father too.”

“i do… feel a bit bad about eating my brother, because he was hurting.”

there was a stretched, almost foreboding silence before sukuna finally asked the question that must have been on his mind since the day they met.

“are you afraid of me?”

the fire spit and fizzled, and she hissed as a spark danced dangerously close to her skin.

“no, ryo. you’re my best friend.”

“really?!”

“well, duh. you saved me.”

he shuffled ever so slightly closer, their arms just about to touch, and mumbled, “so did you.”

she really believed she could have stayed with sukuna forever.

but her new world was shattered on the morning of the sixth day, as if the cosmic rulings of the world had decreed that they'd both had enough of a good thing.

still, it was all her fault – it had to be.

she was the one who insisted that she was too cold, that the chill in the air was day beyond what she could tolerate. she felt the wet tears clinging to her lashes were about to freeze over, and sukuna could not stand to see her cry. so, despite his own warnings, he lit her a fire for her during the day and watched nervously as the smoke rose high above the trees.

it wasn't long before the hunters came.

they came silently, prowling and closing in on them both.

and sukuna knew it.

he was bristling defensively, his neck hairs rising, eyes closed, and head bowed in the direction of a bush that had rustled unnaturally. the hunters crept forward cautiously, eyeing the boy with barely concealed suspicion, while beckoning for her to come with them.

she stayed put, pretending she was a statue of ice that couldn’t understand a thing.

a hunter tightened his grip on his bow.

another nocked an arrow.

and sukuna opened his eyes.

chaos erupted, a whirlwind of metal and feathers and red, red, red.

the hunters charged forward, consumed by a fear they could not rationally explain – of demons and monsters possessing their hearts and minds. but sukuna was faster than all of them, disappearing in a flash, and reappearing to hurl a hunter against a tree.

the poor souls had no clue what they were up against.

she knew sukuna could – and would – kill them all.

"no! no! no!" she screamed, heaving and desperately clawing at her face. “please.”

somehow, he could understand her amidst the shouts and cries of anguish from the men who had come for her.

(he always did, he always would.)

the boy of blood and fire stilled, dropping his hands to his sides, and the wolves descended upon him instantly.

she screamed once more as a hunter seized her, dragging her away from the fray of madness. all the while, sukuna remained curled in a fetal position, all of his eyes locked on her retreating figure as he endured the the blows to his body with stoic silence.

only his eyes betrayed his pain.

༺ ✤ ༻

her heart was weak.

it could only beat with half its strength, as if it couldn’t be bothered to do what was expected of it.

when she was returned to the village, to the nearly suffocating embrace of her weeping mother, she was hailed as a miracle – a little girl who had somehow survived a demon. she was cherished and fussed over by the whole village, her family showered with gifts of millet and rice, plenty of dried boar to survive the winter, and stone amulets for protection against the evil that had touched them.

meanwhile, sukuna had escaped.

the hunters had said the demon vanished into the highest peaks of the mountains, where they could not follow. they bowed low and deep to her mother, their knees buckling as they vowed vengeance on the scourge of the mountain. but she knew it was all for show. they were completely terrified of him, too proud to admit it, and so the mere memory of sukuna was spat on and desecrated by the other villagers.

oh, if only they knew the truth of it all.

it took a fortnight for her heartstrings to stop aching from the pain of being ripped apart from sukuna, and even longer for her piercing wails to cease every night before she slept. her tears burned, tears of fire and salt, made from sukuna's precious blood that had dripped down his face as he was beaten.

all because of her.

her parents couldn't fathom her sheer anguish, perplexed and frightened by its intensity, and only able to explain it as the effect of a demon. all they could do was pray for her recovery, and the rest of the village did the same.

in the beginning, when she had exhausted all her energy from wailing and crying, she would peer into the darkness of the room. through the gaps in the walls of her home, she willed and prayed so fervently that she would one day see four red orbs peering back at her.

but twelve winters and summers came and went without sukuna, and she began to wonder if had all been just a dream. an elaborate tale of an imaginary friend her mind had tricked her into believing was real. a ghost that was never meant to be, one she ought to bury in the deepest recesses of her memories where he could finally rest.

but, oh, how lifeless her world was without him.

nobody could understand or see how the anguish swirled beneath her skin. she didn’t even have the words to describe it to herself anymore, other than she was not doing well at all and felt sick all the time.

how very isolating it all was.

she was fifteen now, and all her parents could talk to her about was marriage.

“you are a young lady now!” her mother would gush loudly, almost nagging. “one who survived a demon, and every man who passes through the village wants your hand.”

she tried not to think about it at all, but it loomed larger and larger over her head as the years passed, and she doubted she could remain as she was for much longer. in those moments, her thoughts would always stray to sukuna, and how if she could have married anybody, then it would have been him.

it was the only thing that felt right.

she tried not to dwell on that for too long.

but trying not thinking about ryomen sukuna was like telling the sky not to cry.

there were often tales from afar that the traveling merchants told the villagers as they stopped for respite and to sell their crafts – stories full of horrors and atrocities. entire villages, along with all their inhabitants, were found burnt to cinders or encased in a tomb of ice, with no rhyme or reason why, simply there one minute and gone the next. there were accounts of cries and calls from strange creatures in the night, born from suffering and pain. some spoke of certain people being able to wield magic, only to be found mangled and nearly destroyed by others of the same power.

she would think of sukuna after hearing those stories and wonder what kind of life he was living.

was he just as lonely as she was?

or was he happy indulging in the violence of his nature?

then, one fateful day, her father placed a hand on her head fondly and said, “tonight is your omiai, dearest. you will finally meet the man the nakodo has chosen as your husband.”

and that was that.

that night, she stared into the eyes of the man she was to marry.

they were kind, warm – so very plain. he spoke a little to her, mainly about how he could offer her a better life than what she had now. something more comfortable, with a better house, more food, and even kimonos made of silk.

it all sounded… safe.

reliable.

her family was happy she was marrying such a man, and assured her that they would come and visit her in her new home once she had settled in.

she didn’t care about that at all.

all she could think about was red, red, red, and how it felt like the ultimate betrayal.

she could do nothing but nod placidly at them all.

really, she should count her blessings that she was about the same age as her soon-to-be husband, and that he seemed likely to treat her with kindness and respect. maybe, if she tried hard enough, she could convince herself that she would find some measure of fulfillment in her marriage.

she could learn to accept it all, even force herself to be happy.

even if a part of her could never be scrubbed clean from all the red.

the day before she left for her betrothed’s village, she went to the clearing in the forest where it all began. it was midday, the sun high in the air, and the sweet bite of winter kissed her cheeks as she stood there clutching the white silks that had been gifted to her.

“things are going to change for me,” she whispered to the trees that had long watched over her and sukuna, her head bowed low. "and i do not believe i will ever return here.”

desperation gripped her in a suffocating hold, hooking its claws deep into her spine. she wondered if there was a string that connected her to sukuna. a red-stained one, dripping in their blood. would he feel it wherever he was in the world if she pulled it hard enough?

if she tried, would he come for her?

(a gust of wind, a spark of flame, and a ripple of blood.)

she had realized some time ago what she had felt as a child.

but it was still a terrifying thing to admit to herself, even now, in this quiet corner of the world, that she had once been in love with ryomen sukuna.

it was best to bury it here with the trees.

tonight was the eve of her wedding, and all she wanted was to have just stayed there.

it was supposed to have been a night of solitary peace.

the last one she would ever have, with only the sound of the herbal bathwater rippling and the scent of yuzu in the air to keep her tethered to this world.

it had all been overturned in an instant.

the monsters came swiftly down from the mountainside in the night, slaughtering and tearing their way through every home in the village. the night was full of brutal screams, blood moons and snow falling from the weeping clouds. she could see them, but others weren’t so lucky. that brief look of terrified confusion was haunting – blood bubbling from their mouths as their throats were slashed by something they couldn’t see.

she stared at her fiancé, both of them trapped beneath a wooden beam, as his eyes, wide and lifeless, had not a single trace of the kindness they had once held. death had never been so close to her before, she could almost feel the cold kiss of its blade against her throat, beckoning her closer to the other side.

their assailant was a thin creature, broken and bent, with a feminine form. it licked the dripping blood of her betrothed from its wickedly sharp claws, unperturbed to the rest of the carnage unfolding around it.

“i miss you, i miss you,” it hissed in a low, screeching voice. “i love you, i miss you.”

the demon turned to her, eyeless, with only a mouth full of teeth and a thousand tongues, as if it could smell the life and heat fading from her blood. it crawled sideways towards her, its scraggly black hair brushing the ground in front of her face.

it paused, dipping its face down towards her, its reeking, snarling breaths close to her ear.

she screamed weakly as it sank its teeth into her shoulder.

soon, all our ghosts will dance together.

pale pink rose petals fluttered from the sky, falling along with the snow.

how beautiful is death?

“hmph, idiot.”

a flash of a thousand blades, and the world turned red and then black.

༺ ✤ ༻

it was the smell of incense that coaxed her back from the dreams of death.

honeyed rays of light danced behind her closed eyelids, their warmth caressing her brow and lips in golden life. when her eyes finally opened, she was convinced that she must have already been reborn. her body was wrapped in opulent silk sheets, delicately embroidered with intricate gold and silver flowers. a byobu depicting a blooming cherry blossom tree stood a few paces in front of the bed.

this was a bedroom of royalty, dripping with extravagance.

she felt as if she didn’t belong here.

but when she pinched the skin of her forearm, felt her legs moving and toes wriggling, and heard the sheets rustling loudly, she knew that this was all very real. all the blood that had been spilled was real, the kind man who would have given her a good life was truly dead, along with his entire village.

“you're awake then are you?”

she froze.

that voice.

it can't be.

so intimately familiar, yet it belonged to the strangest of strangers – deep as the oceans she had never seen, mysterious and smoky like the swirls of incense wafting through the room.

this was the voice of death.

she felt like she had heard it before, as if she should know who it belonged to.

because it was too beautiful to forget.

“sukuna?” she called out in disbelief, her voice fragile and trembling like leaves.

a low chuckle followed. “you still know me.”

oh my.

“h-how are you here? where have you – but y-you disappeared.”

the outline of shadow loomed large behind the byobu, and she gulped.

“i’ve been everywhere in this country. there’s nowhere i haven’t seen.”

it’s him, it’s really him.

sukuna hummed again, his figure swaying. she could make out the shadow of the bridge of his nose and his lips, as well as the elaborate layers of clothing he wore.

“do you remember what happened?” he finally asked after a prolonged silence.

she clenched her fists tightly. “yes.”

“good. and before you accuse me of it, i had nothing to do with what happened to you.”

“i-i wasn't going to.”

“how quaint. it’s rare that i’m not accused of causing wanton violence.”

she watched his shadow reach over and pour a liquid into a cup, followed by soft sipping noises as he drank from it.

“those... those things,” she began tepidly. “is that what you are?”

sukuna snorted. “no. i'm nothing like those low-grade cretins.” he sipped from his cup again. “although, it’s good that you can see curses. next time, you should run instead of just stand there.”

she was starting to remember him again.

she knew that he was nervous; it was evident in his sharp jibes toward her. sukuna always acted like this in unfamiliar situations, when he was unsure of how to act around her. so he would poke and prod because, at least, he understood pain and anger.

she chose to ignore it.

“i went back to the village,” he said, clearing his throat. “it hasn't changed much.”

a flash of terror struck her like lightning.

“but imagine my surprise when i discovered that something had actually changed,” sukuna’s voice had taken on a goading tone, and she could tell he wasn't pleased in the slightest. “you had left to go and get married, of all things.”

my family.

he scoffed, as if he sensed her shift in emotions. “oh, don't worry. your parents told me quite willingly. they were smart enough to know they couldn’t keep me from you.”

a trail of ice and fire ran down her spine.

oh, how much more dangerous have you really become, ryomen sukuna?

dread settled onto her bones like melted lead, and despite her better judgement, she sputtered out, "why now, after all this time?"

silence.

maybe he didn’t even know why.

sukuna's silhouette swayed back and forth behind the byobu, like beech trees high up the mountains, struggling to stay upright during a blizzard. like them, he was battling, but always against himself. his perpetual internal war against that small part inside of him that was human; full of his pain, fear, and kindness. sukuna’s cup was overflowing, even if he didn’t realize it, spilling and pouring everywhere – but she knew it.

she’d known it for the longest time.

“ryo,” her voice cracked like splintering glass. “answer me.”

he sighed, exasperated, “its been so long” – a sharp exhale – “but i can’t stop bleeding!”

utterly perplexed, she frowned. “bleeding? wha-”

sukuna’s shadow rose like a bonfire, erratically pacing in front of the byobu, and she could have sworn she saw the dancing shadows of four swaying arms.

he snarled, the words wrenched from between his fangs, "they tore you from me, and it made my heart bleed. it hasn’t stopped bleeding, because of you."

bang!

his heavy fist struck the screen, and she flinched frightfully.

“i-i don’t k-know what you mean,” she stuttered fearfully, her breaths coming out in rapid, little puffs. “i don’t understand what’s going on.”

he groaned, collected himself, and rolled his shoulders back purposefully. when he spoke again, his tone was calm, with none of the previous fire that had been spitting out from between his teeth.

“it doesn’t matter,” sukuna said, moving away from the cover as his silhouette disappeared. “you’re here now.”

the hidden implications were not as subtle as he thought. he was just as possessive as he had ever been, and it seemed that ryomen sukuna would not be letting go of her again.

she was still his, and had been for all these long years.

“you must be hungry,” he said, swiftly changing the subject. “come here.”

her heart quickened.

slowly, she rose from the safety of the bed, each step as momentous as it was absolutely terrifying. after all this time, she would see sukuna again. the boy who had once protected her, coveted her, and shielded her from the worst parts of himself. the one who wanted to change his ways and be softer for her.

she rounded the byobu.

and there he was.

her bones shivered as her mind froze her in place, stopping her from moving a single step closer.

sukuna was sitting perfectly cross-legged in front of a low table, his eyes widened ever so slightly and his lips parted. a hand was frozen mid-air, suspending in bringing his cup closer to his mouth.

oh, how much he had changed.

sukuna had grown significantly in height, could quite easily tower over her if he stood. he was no longer a boy, but a man – big, broad, and dangerous. and she had not been mistaken before; he had four arms, adorned with strangest black markings, just like his face. if it hadn’t been obvious before, it was now. sukuna was everything taboo in this world, an embodiment of death and fury itself.

“sit,” he ordered, breaking his gaze and motioning in front of him.

his words were in a refined tongue, the kind spoken by highborn royalty and nobles spoke in – those who were educated and understood things beyond the grasp of people like her. she obeyed, feeling the urge to be as well-spoken as possible.

she had never felt so small or so common in all her life.

there was an array of different foods on the table, each more richly presented than the next. elegant bowls held freshly cut fish, arranged to look like the petals of a flower. at the centre of the table sat a lacquered bowl of sekihan at the center of the table, the red bean rice a sharp contrast to the earthy tones of the pickled vegetables around it. mochi of all colors and shapes were delicately wrapped in oak leaves, and chopsticks of pearl and gold were laid beside each of their settings.

sukuna cleared his throat. “so, marriage.” she nodded silently, picking up a piece of mochi. he continued, “i’m assuming it was arranged.”

“yes. he-uh, arrived one day in the village, he was a merchant. my father and the nakodo approved, and that was it.”

he hummed thoughtfully, a fearsome blaze in his eyes. “and did you want this?”

dangerous territory, tread carefully.

“n-not really, but he seemed… kind.”

a flash of red fury crossed his face, and sukuna pursed his lips. “i see. is that what matters most to you, then – kindness?”

careful, careful, careful.

“well… i did not want to end up with a man who would hurt me.”

a dry chuckle. “and do you believe that i will?”

a flash of a memory – of a burrow, of shared tears and painful farewells.

never.

“no,” she replied firmly, picking up another piece of mochi and chewing.

he seemed to approve of her answer, watching as she continued to eat. “good.”

they were silent again, the only sounds coming from the distant chirping of birds and the gentle trickle of a fountain outside. sukuna’s smaller eyes remained fixed on her, while the rest of his attention was on his meal and sake, his expression intensely contemplative and serious. his earlier heat had subsided into a brooding stillness, and he seemed just as amazed as she was that they were finally in each other’s presence again.

she bit her lip before tepidly trying his nickname on her tongue again, “ryo?”

he stilled for a moment, his eyes glistening with a hint of vulnerability before it vanished, and then made a questioning noise.

“what exactly do you expect from me here?”

“you will receive an education, i will not allow you to remain illiterate. you will learn to read and write, and study the arts and poetry. that is all i ask in return.”

“in return for what?”

“for residing in my residence with me. you will not return to the mountains or the village, and you will never see your parents again.”

this was it.

her childhood dream of staying with sukuna was finally here. perhaps he had really felt her pulling on their red string, felt her desperation and fear, and had come to save her. he wasn’t entirely human, after all; maybe he could have sensed her from so far away, and known about that deep hole within her. and so, he had taken her away from it all, demanding only that she say goodbye to everything she had ever known.

but things were different now.

they weren’t little children anymore. there was a taste of change in the air – something tantalizing and liberating. their dynamics had shifted, whether they wanted it or not. adulthood had brought new possibilities that couldn’t have been there before, the kind that made her heart race and chest flutter.

in the way sukuna’s eyes flashed, she felt that he knew it too.

it was her fate after all, she had just been too young to comprehend it.

so be it.

“alright.”

༺ ✤ ༻

the ink was blacker than raven feathers.

drip! drip! drip!

as beautiful as the depth of midnight, it shouldn’t be wasted.

she bowed her head, pensively holding her brush. the words were right there on her fingertips, straight from the centre of her heart, but she didn’t know how to say them.

or rather, if she could say them correctly.

biting her lip, she lightly pressed her brush to the page, the words flowing out with every stroke. when she was done, she leaned back on her heels and looked expectantly at her teacher.

“your brush technique was incorrect,” uraume chided emotionlessly, their icy aura ever present. “but you were close. try it like this instead, see?”

sukuna’s second had been tasked with educating her and showing her the finer ways of noble life. under uraume’s tutelage, she learned to draw the beautiful curves of hiragana and the straight, angular lines of katakana. she was introduced to the golden literature of her country, where she delved into classic and more modern texts, and learned to appreciate the hidden depths beneath the surface of grand tales and poetry.

once, she had been jealous of uraume. it was unnerving to see how much confidence sukuna placed in the ambiguous and frosty figure, and it hurt to know he trusted someone other than her. but she soon came to realize that uraume’s sole desire was to serve sukuna, and sukuna harbored nothing for them other than respect that surely had been well earned.

“try it again,” uraume suggested, returning to their position behind her and watching over her shoulder as she picked up the brush once more.

moreover, uraume was neither cruel nor haughty about her illiteracy and never treated her like a lowborn. they always guided her with a gentle coldness and a detached tone of instruction. she wondered what they thought about the nature of her relationship with sukuna, and if perhaps uraume had ever been jealous of her. she liked to think they hadn’t been, and if they had, they never showed it or asked any questions. for that, she was grateful.

what she had with sukuna wasn’t something she could describe easily.

he was there now, one of his eyes watching the way her hands moved with the brush. it wasn’t unusual that he was present; sukuna often observed their lessons, seating himself a distance and quietly reading a book or scroll. he never lavished her with praise, such was not his nature, but offered more subtle compliments in her progress: a tilt of his head, a single nod, and a hum of approval.

she would be lying to herself if she said it didn’t thrill her to hold his attention.

they only grew closer as time went on, building new little routines with each other. every night after they dined together, sukuna would tap his fingers rhythmically on the low table, completely silent, as she either read poetry from a book or recited it from memory. these were moments of softness, sukuna's strange way of drawing closer her, as the red thread connecting them weaved them closer to each other with every passing night. his gratitude was silent too: a heavy hand on her head, a quick press of his fingers to her cheek, and a small smile as he left.

it was easy to imagine sukuna as changed in those moments, a regal lord always composed and calm.

but that wasn't the reality of the world.

she was frequently reminded of it.

"i need to go," he would suddenly say, abruptly pulling her from her focus.

she closed her book and peered up at him through her lashes. “where?”

sukuna smirked, a wild gleam in his eyes. “to quench my thirst.”

he would then disappear, but never for more than a few days at a time. she liked to hope that his brief absences were because he disliked leaving her for too long. when sukuna returned, he was like a predator satiated from the hunt – more at ease, prone to teasing and sending her into a shy fluster. she realized quickly that he was still as he had been when he was a boy; always acting upon his desires and impulses without a shred of restraint.

although, sukuna kept her well away from any glimpse of that side of him.

she was relieved to be spared from it. even though she had accepted his nature, she was far more content to remain his tether to a calmer side, always ready to pull him back into the peaceful river of soothing milk and honey that was her company. yet, she couldn’t help but wonder if that was all she would ever be to him.

she had to wait three years for the winds of romance to finally shift.

the day after her eighteenth birthday, sukuna began leaving things for her to find.

sometimes the gifts were small, such as delicate hairpins, vibrant silks, or rare fruits from distant lands. they would enjoy the fruits together, her laughter filling the room as she watched him scowl at their unfamiliar taste. other times, the gifts were more extravagant: a retinue of handmaidens to attend to her every need, opulent jūnihitoe crafted by the best artisans, the emperor’s most exquisite jewelry, and the rarest art.

but perhaps the most precious gift of all was his poetry.

she didn’t know why she had assumed sukuna had no taste for poetry. after all, he had ensured she studied it, and seemed to enjoy listening to her recite it. she had thought it was to encourage her to uphold the traditions of noble women studying the arts, to refine herself as a proper lady. given his impulsive nature, she merely thought he lacked the time and patience to write his own poems.

but oh, how he had a way with words.

it wasn’t in the more traditional styles she was used to reading, but it was uniquely sukuna’s. he was never one to follow the rules anyways. they had started off expressing the calming joy he felt in her company, with gentle musings about her being like a light summer rain or the soft morning glow of the sun. those early verses were lighthearted, designed to make her heart flutter with silly little butterflies.

and now?

now they could make her heart melt into a puddle of its own blood, making her body run hot with feverish, burning emotions.

with every poem she read, warmth would spread through her cheeks and chest, her bones shaking from the intensity of it all. it embarrassed her how obviously and hopelessly in love she felt. sukuna, however, was completely unruffled, a knowing smile playing on his lips as he watched her stumble over her words.

“any particular reason why you have that stupid smile on your face?” he’d tease, ostentatiously chewing on a piece of fruit.

she looked away petulantly, a slight pout forming on her lips. “stop it, ryo!”

it was blatantly obvious he savored this.

how could he possibly expect her to act normally around him after reading something like that? these poems were a gateway to his soul, a window straight through his eyes and into his heart. she could hardly contain herself any longer, and it was almost cruel that sukuna was keeping her in suspense for even a moment longer.

but did sukuna even want marriage?

he never liked being bound to anything, always pursuing whatever he desired whenever he wanted to. perhaps he wanted the benefits of courting her without ever becoming tied to her. she wasn’t sure if she could ever accept the idea of being his concubine. after all they had been through, it would crush her soul.

they were taking a stroll together in the gardens after one of her lessons, but the air was tense. sukuna stood unusually close to her, completely silent as they moved together, stopping occasionally and waiting as she admired certain flowers blooming. she tried hard not to be too flustered, and attempted to diffuse the palpable tension between them by talking about all sorts of things.

“oh, ryo! don't you think this flower is gorgeous?”

“hmm, yes. quite.”

“the weather is so pleasant for this time of year, isn't it?”

“yes it is.”

“look, the koi! aren’t they pretty?”

“for fish, sure.”

she gave up after that last attempt. it was obvious she wasn't going to get much out of sukuna today in terms of conversation – he seemed completely and utterly wound up.

they stopped underneath the shade of a tree, and she gracefully tucked in the layers of her clothes beneath her before sitting down. sukuna stood pensively beside the tree, his side profile solemn as he clenched and unclenched his fists. his movements were slow, methodical, almost like it was the only thing grounding him in that moment.

and then, in a flash, he was crouched right in front of her.

“i have something to say,” he announced, his voice like stone.

she swallowed thickly. “then say it.”

sukuna exhaled, and she heard the sound of his knuckles cracking and snapping before he continued, “i recognize that we two are… different in many ways. i have been bound to you from the moment i first laid eyes on you, and i will forever be yours.” – a sharp inhale followed by a shaky exhale – “however, while i may accept this, i understand that you might not outside the ties of marriage.”

this is it.

“you are the one good thing about my soul,” he whispered, his voice trembling with a vulnerable softness that shook her to her core. “please, say you will accept me?”

she didn’t hesitate for even a moment.

“i have always been yours, ryo, and i always will be.”

༺ ✤ ༻

love was infinite.

it transcended time and space, indifferent to who it dragged into its otherworldly domain, filled to the brim with whiteness and the saccharine scent of roses.

being ryomen sukuna’s wife meant crossing that threshold into another world, one that he had forced to turn into the brightest shade of red. his love was ferocious, nearly crippling in its intensity. loving him meant baring her heart to him, exposed and vulnerable, ready for him to consume it completely. he was a deprived man who had finally been given the key to her soul, and now he was able to come through and show her how deep his love for her coursed through in his veins.

“i want to bury myself into your skin,” he murmured into her ear, his arms wrapped around her bare body. “and settle into the spaces between your ribs.”

and yet, sukuna was tender too.

he would crave the moments of quiet, when it was just the two of them, whispering in the dark about how much she meant to him. wherever they were, a part of him was always touching her – whether it was his head on her shoulder as they sat in the garden, or pulling her onto his lap during her lessons. all the while, his eyes were memorising every little thing she did; the way she laughed, how she breathed, and every different sound and expression she made.

sukuna was immensely proud to be her husband, always devoted to providing for and protecting her.

she never wanted for a single thing.

and yet, he was still larger than life, a force of strife and bloodlust.

she knew what sort of reputation he had, that he was something of a living legend. there was no doubt that history would remember his name, spitting on it and sending shivers down people's spines at the mere mention of it.

“the king of curses,” uraume revealed to her one day, a hint of pride in her voice. “that is what the sorcerers call him.”

and that title did not come without a challenge.

on an unassuming autumn morning, sukuna abruptly interrupted one of her lessons. “i must go,” he said abruptly, clutching his trident like a god of old, a hint of glee in his words. “the fushigawa clan must be brought to heel.”

and heel they must have.

for when he returned, sukuna's face had split into two, with a mouth comfortably situated at his midriff. she knew then that unspeakable atrocities must have been committed, because her husband’s body did not evolve unless he had killed and sinned in the most horrific ways possible.

sukuna averted his gaze from her, his skin drenched in blood that was not his own. `'you cannot love me like this."

“and yet,” she whispered, standing on her toes and cupping his bloodied cheekbones. “i still do.”

she had never expected his true nature to change once they were married. to deny it was to deny him – and his love for her. as long as he kept her far from the sight of it, what more could she ask for?

in those moments, it was easy to forget how quickly darkness could overwhelm a fire.

the twilight moon cast a gentle light as a pleasant breeze wafted through the air, brushing against her cheek in a tender caress. it was one of those quiet, soft evenings, where the world slowed down just enough for husband and wife to savor each other’s company. they sat by the koi pond, watching as the silk ribbons of gold and white fins traced elegant patterns in the water. sukuna’s head rested on her lap, a pair of his eyes closed, as she gently stroked his hair.

nothing was out of the ordinary.

save for the strange man with starlight hair strolling towards them.

her husband sat up, and they both turned to watch the man approach them. the stranger carried the aura of a man assured in his own destiny, radiating confidence in the self-righteousness of the path he was on. when he lifted his head and met her gaze, she couldn’t help but gasp at the sight of his eyes, which held a beauty that well surpassed even that of the heavens above.

she knew then that this was no normal man.

“you were stupid to come here,” sukuna huffed, barely sparing the man a glance as he helped her to her feet. “i prefer not to kill in front of my wife.”

“and yet, you will die all the same,” the man retorted, his hand glowing with a threatening iridescent aquamarine light.

boom!

there was a deafening thunderclap, followed by the loud creaking and crashing of tumbling wood. before she could blink again, she found herself somewhere far from their home, surrounded by trees and nature that seemed to stretch for miles. her husband’s expression was calm, a perfectly still lake amidst the tumultuous whirlwind of emotions inside her.

sukuna softly touched her cheek. “this will all be over soon, my love.”

he pressed a tender kiss to her brow.

don’t leave me, please.

and then, he was gone.

a strong fear settled in the pit of her stomach amidst the eerie silence. she flinched each time the sky lit up in hues of red and blue, once with purple, and she could have sworn that she heard the sound of her husband’s untamed glee carried on the wind. every rustle of the trees set her teeth on edge, and she wrapped her arms tightly around herself as the coldness of the night began to settle in.

snap!

she whirled around.

another stranger emerged, this time with hair as black as the night. shadows pooled beneath his feet, ominous snarling and snapping noises of hounds coming from its depths. with a sharp gesture, the man hushed and silenced the shadows, and the hounds ceased to be. he tilted his head curiously at her, as if he couldn’t fathom why she was here alone in this place.

but what struck her about him were his eyes — they were as green as the forests in the mountains.

it made her strangely homesick.

“my husband will never stop hunting you for this,” she finally said coolly, despite the terror coursing in her blood.

“you think that terrifies me?” he scoffed, instantly shattering the image of warmth she thought he had. “no matter what, history will forever remember as the sorcerers who brought the king of curses to his knees.”

a silver blade gleamed wickedly as the man grinned maliciously.

“meanwhile, you are irrelevant.”

she didn't say a word, understanding all to well what was about to happen and why.

would death be kind?

she shook her head, turning away from the man and looking up at the crimson twilight sky, unwilling to face the man or the cruel blade that was to be her end.

(a drop of blood in a firestorm, a scream of agony)

it doesn’t matter, so long as sukuna cannot feel it.

༺ ✤ ༻

death was abysmally cruel.

ryomen sukuna once believed that it would have given him the sweet relief he always craved deep down – something that would have finally extinguished the ceaseless fire blazing in his veins. it was a release he had always longed for, yearned for, and thought he had always been ready for.

especially when the curse, kenjaku, found him suffering amidst the wreckage of his vengeful rampage for the love that had been stolen from him.

“you had your chance, once,” the curse purred, his forehead stitches starkly contrasting with the pallor of the body he had taken. “but you knew that already.”

no, death had hurt him beyond measure.

it was a hailstorm of ice and sleet, beating down at him, surely dousing his fire, but so very slowly. even though his memory now was hazy at the best of times, he would always remember that pain. how he smashed and ground his teeth together, silent as stone as kenjaku worked to preserve his essence into every one of his fingers, because he refused to cry again.

all sukuna could remember was pain.

and her.

he would always remember her – the pain of loving her, and the pain of losing her.

and how he cried for the first and last time when he saw her crumpled body lying there in that forest. how he wanted nothing more than to hold her bones in his arms for the rest of time, to die right there and then with her, and let their skeletons be burned into ash together.

love had made him sick with desire, with hate, with yearning.

it terrified him.

because ryomen sukuna did not like to feel.

he then swore to himself that he would never repeat his mistakes. love was never to be touched again, and he would burn the world before it had the chance to hurt him once more.

and finally, here sukuna was, reborn and made anew, ready to enact that vow.

only, he hadn’t planned on being stuck inside this miserable, pretentious annoying brat.

no matter, this isn’t permanent.

“how you feelin there, yuji?” asked satoru gojo in an irritatingly perky voice.

sukuna’s vessel rubbed his chest tentatively. “i guess it kinda hurts a litt- ow! okay, never mind, it hurts a lot.”

satoru smiled. “well, lucky for you, i know someone who can help with that.”

sukuna rolled his eyes, grumbling under his breath. oh, how he wanted to rip the smirk right off his face.

first, i’ll tear you–

a light laugh trickled in from just outside the door.

sukuna froze.

he knew that laugh.

the brat turned around, and through him, ryomen sukuna saw what he had thought he lost a millennium ago.

for a moment, there was nothing but white noise.

sukuna was entranced, captivated by the way her lips moved, the graceful way her figure leaned against the doorframe, and how every single feature of her face had remained unchanged and untouched despite all the time that had passed.

is this some sort of joke?

“ok yuji,” she said warmly, a kind smile on her face as she placed a hand on his chest. “this won’t hurt a bit.”

sukuna felt the ghost of her hand touching his own skin, familiar and warm, and he gripped his throne of bones tightly.

yuji frowned. “will it hurt you?”

“oh no, don’t worry about me. i can absorb as much physical pain as i want without feeling any of it myself.”

“that’s so cool! but, do you really not feel anything at all?”

she bit her lip, an ancient sadness in her young eyes. “well… sometimes i go blind for a while, and all i can see is the color red.”

“what? hell no, what if you go blind because of me? no way.”

yuji shied away from her touch, and she reached out to grasp his hand.

“no, i promise i won’t!” she practically begged. “please. yuji. i–something happens when i go blind, like something is trying to show me what’s missing inside me, and i need to find out what it is.”

so, you don’t remember a thing.

sukuna leaned forward, bones crunching beneath him.

“okay…” his vessel answered, apprehension and concern woven into his tone.

she smiled gratefully.

i think i understand what you were to me after all this time, my love.

༺ ✤ ༻

#ohhh... bewitched by how reader-chan is able to acknowledge that sukuna does bad shit and she doesnt love That but she loves Him #so its like. fine. shed prefer not to see him kill people but she isnt gonna change him bc she loves him as she is #thats the good shit #sunnyrbs #jjkposting

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sunnytalks · 18 hours ago

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pull your boxers down we need to talk.

#hornyposting #sunnyrbs

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sunnytalks · 19 hours ago

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“Did you know—”

“I don’t care,” Sukuna interrupts, wholly disinterested. It’s half past three—(which is, of course, his fault, but that doesn’t mean he’s any less tired).

But you, wholly uncaring, promptly ignore him. “—That some female spiders eat the male ones after mating?”

“What do you want me to do with this information?” He looks at you irritably, glaring at you from the corner of his eyes. You flash him a grin—it’s a mischievous little thing, your lips curled in a cheeky, flirty way that warns him silently that he’s about to risk popping another vein. He seems to do that around you quite often, and it certainly feels like it’s underway once more.

(And, as it always is, his intuition would be right).

“It’s a warning,” you hum.

He snorts, raising a clearly disbelieving brow as he hums, “oh yeah? For what? Are you gonna—wha-hey!”

Not a lot catches Sukuna off guard. You giggle as he barks out a surprised yelp of your name, harshly shoving you away from his chest. There’s a nice, fresh, very crystal and very clear outline of your teeth marked right on the flesh surrounding his nipple.

He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He asks incredulously.

You let out a soft, amused little giggle that sounds through the room before he feels your weight shift and fall onto him, making him grunt as his arms steady you and his eyes stare up at your hovering face with an agitated purse of his lips.

“I’m eating you,” you say cheekily, “see?” For emphasis, you leave an equally as shocking bite to his bicep, your head leaning down to get a mouthful of his bare arm. He lets out a low, startled grunt before one large and very firm hand grabs the back of your neck and yanks you off.

“Have you completely lost it?” He hisses.

“We just mated—”

“Who on Earth talks about sex like that? We are not animals who—”

“—And now I’m going to eat you after mating. Like a female spider.”

“If you’re going to be weird, just go the fuck to sleep,” he grumbles lowly.

Sukuna is tired.

(And yes, the reason is partly because he’s a bit inexhaustible once he’s felt the velvet heat of your walls, and yes, it’s technically his own greediness that’s worn him out so physically for the night. But that’s all been the cost for something of greater benefit to him. Something he doesn’t exactly mind draining his energy for.

Bur your odd, unsettling, abnormal and very plainly weird schemes are not a part of the list of things he’s willing to sacrifice his energy for. There isn’t much pleasure in entertaining your nonsense most of the time.

If anything, there’s pain—the stinging bite marks on his skin can attest to that.)

“I’m not tired,” you hum.

“Then let me make you tired,” he offers smugly, lips tugging into a cocky grin as he looks up at you.

“If you didn’t manage that the first time, what makes you think that’ll work the second?” You tease.

He doesn’t seem to like that very much, because with a growl, he pushes the back of your neck until your face falls into the crook of his neck, a strong, bulky arm wrapping around your waist and keeping you in place against his body.

It’d be awfully intimate, and awfully sweet if he didn’t mumble, “I love when you sleep because it’s the only few hours of the day I get to hear you shut the fuck up.”

“Maybe if you’d just appreciated my fun fact—”

“You bit my fucking nipple.”

“I could bite the other one, too, if you want,” you pipe up with an excited grin. He can feel it pressed against his skin as your face buries deeper into the space between his neck and shoulder.

Sukuna is tired. Most of the time, it’s because of you. All of the time, he chooses to allow it because he likes having you around for a good fuck.

(And, of course, there’s all that bullshit about love and affection, too. But that’s just that odd stuff you like to babble about—that odd, unsettling, abnormal and very plainly weird emotional part of you that somehow ropes him into being the same way every once in a while.

He doesn’t like it.)

“You need a lobotomy,” he mutters, wincing when you bite the skin of his neck in response. Not in a manner he likes, either—very much in a manner that makes sure he feels the sharpness of your incisors.

“Don’t be rude,” you scold, “I’m biologically meant to be your predator.”

“You biologically give me fuckin’ migraines.”

You grin—it’s a smile that’s easy. Smooth. Maybe a little giddy, too. It comes out only around Sukuna. Him and his gruff, rugged way of accepting your affection, and his double as rough and crude way of giving it back. His callused hands and toughened knuckles that brush along your cheeks carefully. His crass and undignified words that are carefully thought out enough to never cross the line. His downturned lips and narrowed eyes that only ever soften at the sharp corners around you.

“Next time, I’ll eat you for sure,” you murmur, settling against his chest and getting comfortable. He wraps both arms around you, warm and tight enough that you almost think you can forgo the blanket altogether. “Assert my dominance.”

“You can’t even open the pickle jar.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s only a matter of time until natural selection gets you,” he snickers quietly. You huff, biting back a smile as he yawns.

Gently, with a kiss over the bite mark you left against his neck, you say softly, “goodnight. Love you.”

“Night.”

“I love you.”

“For the love of—love you too, holy fuck. Go to sleep.”

#cute...#jjkposting #sunnyrbs

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sunnytalks · 19 hours ago

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a funny thing about having a Problematic Blorbo is that you'll periodically come across a post along the lines of "um let's not forget that [Blorbo] is a bad person..." listing their various crimes, and if you have a modicum of intellectual honesty you find yourself nodding along and saying yeah it's true... but it's the greyness of their character that makes them so compelling... At the same time though you have a little Saul Goodman in your ear going "your honor in their defense: who cares like omfgggg who caresssssss like come onnnnnn"

#nods sagely #i think he should put more heads into duffle bags actually.

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sunnytalks · 22 hours ago

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@meowdei :^) so i saw you like zoro?

zoro being zoro aka papi…. mmmmghggghgggghgghhhnmmmmggjm

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sunnytalks · 1 day ago

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Bzzz.

Bzzzzz.

The persistent sound pulled you from peaceful slumber, but it stopped after a few seconds. Groggy, you nudged your head further into the chest of your husband and tried to tried to lull yourself back to sleep. It was easy to drift off when you were wrapped in his warm embrace, comforted by the soothing movement of his breathing. Sleep nearly claimed you again.

Bzzzzzzz.

You sighed while Ifa groaned above you. He tightened his grip around you and tried to bury his face in your hair.

“It’s your turn,” you mumbled into his chest.

“I got it last time. You’re up, sweets,” he whispered back, eyes still closed. “Let’s just ignore it.”

You huffed out a laugh. “Because that’s worked out so well before?”

“Mhmm.” He pulled you closer, dropping a kiss into your brow.

Bzzzzz.

You sighed again, and pushed yourself up, fully awake. You ignored Ifa’s small “nooo” and silent beg for you to come back.

Rubbing your eye, you opened your front door to reveal Ororon, hand poised in midair to ring your doorbell once more.

“Evening, Oro. Or maybe I should say morning,” you greeted, letting the man inside.

It could’ve been either considering the sky was still dark, but you were no stranger to keeping strange hours. It’s not uncommon in Natlan for people to be working or out and about in the middle of the night.

He at least had the decency to look sheepish. “Sorry. I did tell you I was coming early. Did I wake you?”

“Not at all.” Your lie was immediately followed by a giant yawn.

Ororon dropped your delivery of vegetables onto the kitchen counter.

“These look great, Oro! Best veggies in Natlan!” His chest puffed up with pride. He started to help you put them away when Ifa emerged from the bedroom.

“Morning, bro,” he said stifling a yawn while he began to make some coffee.

He handed you a mug with a kiss on the cheek and slid a mug across the counter to Ororon.

“Thanks, bro.”

You chatted with your friend for a bit more before he had to travel for the rest of his deliveries. You hid your grin behind your cup while Ifa and Ororon joked around with their usual antics.

“Next week, I’ll make sure your delivery is last so it’s not so early- er, late?”

Ifa nodded, “Appreciate it, man.”

You waved goodbye to Ororon and closed the door. You turned to see Ifa finish cleaning the mugs.

“Well, I’m for sure awake now,” you said and walked into his hug while he leant against the counter. He pressed a long kiss onto your forehead while you traced the tattoo on his neck.

“Well, we could still go back to bed.”

Ifa lifted your chin and gave you a soft kiss. The moonlight peaking through the window and display of unrushed affection made the scene one of a loving home.

His other hand, warm and strong, slowly slid up your waist, and you sighed into the kiss.

But that was before his hand dove to tickle your side.

You squealed and pushed him away. You smiled while running back to your bedroom, Ifa’s laughter and footsteps close behind.

You both knew exactly how you’d spend the rest of the night.

#CUTE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#love the casual intimacy at play. aughgh [sobbing softly]#sunnyrbs #genshinposting

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sunnytalks · 1 day ago

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jjk fic writers if you can hear me... please...

#he..........#jjkposting #sunnyrbs

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sunnytalks · 1 day ago

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Does this count as smau? 🐦‍⬛🧍‍♂️ im sorry if it doesn't

#djhskagdj #sunnyrbs #ladsposting #sylus tag

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sunnytalks · 1 day ago

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The last time I drew him was two months ago 🥀

#HANDSOME BOY... HANDSOME HANDSOME HANDSOME BOY #jasonposting #sunnyrbs

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sunnytalks · 1 day ago

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holding an oc closely.... if you had a fandom would people be insane about you....

#yesenia i love you but fandom would be terrible for you on so many levels...#youd not get a single scrap of correct characterization im afraid

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sunnytalks · 2 days ago

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Double cake 🍰

#the perfect man.........#jjkposting #sunnyrbs

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sunnytalks · 2 days ago

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What's In A Name?

Paring: Barista!Reader & the LIs Rating: G Word count: 778 A/N: The first time you meet Sylus - er...Skye. The Destiny Barista Series || Cross Posted on AO3

You'd never forget the first time you met the leather-clad giant that now greeted you each morning you worked.

4:30 AM was typically a time of silence - quiet reflection before the city fully awoke for the day to begin. For you, it was a time to clean and prep the cafe; for him, a mayhem of activity and meetings.

The world slept while he was awake, and the idea of finding anywhere to pick up a caffeinated beverage to help push him through the next few hours was a rarity at best. So when he had entered the dimly lit cafe, nothing too bright for this early hour, clad in his riding leathers and still smelling of slightly burnt rubber, he wasn't actually expecting to run into anyone.

You stood from where you were bent over a large yellow bucket filled with suds to the tinkling of the chime above the door, the normal greeting slipping immediately from your lips out of habit.

Eyes caught the clock on the wall as you turned, brows slightly furrowing in confusion at the early hour, only to raise in surprise at the man that stood just inside the closing door. You blinked, remembering your manners, and then headed to the counter, slipping behind it as you dried your hands on a towel at your waist.

With a hum, he approached the counter, crimson eyes glancing over the menu above your head. What an interesting eye color - you wondered if they were contacts.

You felt you had to tilt your head up, up, up to see him fully. Snowy white hair, neatly messy, a lighter complexion from what you could tell that wasn't hidden completely under layers of black leather.

When his gaze finally landed on you, you peered curiously at his eyes. There was no faintly blue ring around the iris. No contacts then. "What can I get you?"

"I was told this place has Arabica Mountain, but I unfortunately don't see it on your menu." The voice that rumbled from him stunned you for a moment. Deep and rich, smooth as a glass of whiskey.

Good gods, you could listen to him read a phone book and still be mesmerized.

You nodded, using the moment to clear your head. To focus on your job. "Ah, yeah. Jamaican or Haitian?"

He blinked, an eyebrow quirking upward. A question in expression.

Shrugging, you tapped the tablet in front of you to wake it. "It's not exactly heavily bought, so the boss took it off the main menu. Problem is, he and a couple regulars love the stuff, so we always have a small batch of both in stock."

"I see," there was amusement in his tone. "Haitain. To go."

"16 ounce fine with you, or do you need something larger?"

"16 ounce will be plenty."

Another couple quick taps, and then you flipped the tablet toward him, reaching for a thick, paper cup and a sharpie as he paid. "Name?"

"Skye."

"You spell it any particular way?"

The silence was long enough that you glanced up from your writing position to look at him. With a shake of your head, you wrote it the most common way you knew, and beat him to a comment. "Maybe figure out how to spell your pseudo if you're going to use one." With a wink, you turned around toward the machines.

"You wouldn't be the first to use a false name here; but there are ways to make sure people don't realize it's a fake."

There was a chuckle from behind you, low and deep; it felt like it vibrated in your bones.

"It'll take a few minutes to brew, that okay?"

"I'm in no rush."

You gestured an open hand to the empty area around you. "Feel free to wait comfortably. Gotta get the beans from the back." You didn't stick around to see if he had listened to you, but by the time you returned, he seemed to have found a rather large armchair he could comfortably fit into; one that faced the dark expanse of a window.

Once the brew was made and poured steaming into the cup, you capped it and made your way over to the man, gently tapping his shoulder. "Your coffee, Mr. Skye."

"Ah, thank you," his eyes darted quickly to your name tag, but you saw the confusion cross his features as what it said came out of his mouth, "Miss Mocha…?"

With a snort you were already turning away to continue what you needed to do before the big breakfast rush. "You're not the only one who likes to keep their identity a secret."

☕Barista Team: @humanitys-strongest-brat , @blessedunrest , @peascribbles , @beesin03 , @applepi405 , (Let me know if you would like to be added to the tag list!) Created by @thechaoticarchivist . DO NOT REPOST.

Reblogs and comments always welcome ♥ Sylus Stories Master List

#love how she meets this tall intimidating guy and IMMEDIATELY calls him out #sunnyrbs #ladsposting

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sunnytalks · 2 days ago

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Too pretty to die- unfortunatly

A/N: Inspired by this headcanon post. Bodyguard!Toji AU! This is the female version, there'll be a nonbinary and a male version. each version has it's own plot!

warnings: i went overboard, this is VERY long. warnings are the same as in the headcanon. 7294 words.

It started with a bullet through your fucking living room window.

And it wasn’t the first one.

The press didn’t cover it — your PR team made sure of that — but you knew someone out there wanted you dead.

Maybe it was one of the political snakes you destroyed in court. Maybe it was the overseas conglomerate you turned down. Maybe it was that little prick CEO whose merger you killed with a single word: “No.”

You’d built your entire empire on a reputation: sharp, cold, beautiful, and utterly brutal. Everyone in your orbit knew it — when you walked into a room, the floor shifted beneath your stilettos. You weren’t a woman, not to them. You were a force. A gavel in lipstick. A hurricane wrapped in Chanel.

So when your fucking address got leaked, when some low-life tried to take your head off with a sniper round through your penthouse window, your board panicked.

You didn’t.

You stood there, staring at the shattered glass with a whiskey in hand and your cat, Chairman Meow, hissing under the table.

“Pathetic aim,” you muttered, and downed the drink.

New penthouse. New location. New problem.

The board was insistent. You weren’t going to keep walking around unprotected — not when there were contracts, assets, shares, and politics tangled around your name like electric wire. They lined up options like a fucking dating service. Ex-military, ex-police, some former Yakuza types. All of them certified from different private agencies.

You looked at the photos like they were resumes.

“Ugly. Too clean. Creepy. Boring. Weak.”

And then: Toji Fushiguro.

Ex-hitman. Ex-assassin. Ex-everything. Big as hell, pretty scar across his lip, and an expression like he wanted to kill the camera. No background outside what was scrubbed, probably killed people with his bare hands — but Jesus fucking Christ, hot. His file came from Shiu Kong’s registry. Notoriously expensive. Notoriously effective.

You read his record.

Then signed the contract.

One bodyguard. No detail team. Yours.

Within the hour, Shiu Kong sent a tight little email confirming the hire.

Five minutes later, he texted Toji:

“You’re in. Do not fuck this up.”

And called just to repeat it.

Toji was not happy about it.

Babysitting? Some rich bitch with an ego the size of Tokyo Tower and heels tall enough to impale a man? Nah. Not really his thing.

But his bank account had been grumbling for weeks. That last job barely paid enough to cover rent.

And hey — maybe she’d be ugly. Maybe she’d be the kind of uptight corporate ghoul with a voice like nails on glass. Maybe she wouldn’t even talk to him.

He could deal with that.

Money was money. Babysit the boss bitch, keep her alive, cash the check.

Easy, right?

*-*

WRONG.

Toji stood in front of the penthouse mirror, grimacing as he adjusted the tie.

The suit clung to him like a second skin—black, sleek, custom-fitted because the client had standards. Shiu had even sent him a cologne rec. “She likes subtle, woodsy, nothing cheap.” Fucking rich bitches.

He wanted to roll his eyes out of his skull. Babysitting some spoiled heiress wasn’t what he had in mind when he signed up for this gig. He was a goddamn killer, not a valet.

But rent was due. His bank account looked like a fucking war crime.

“Money’s money,” he muttered to himself. “Babysit the princess. Don’t fuck her. Don’t fuck it up.”

She opened the door in four-inch heels, a black dress tighter than God’s judgment, hair wrapped up like a fucking goddess, and a look that said she’d watched men stronger than him beg for her approval.

Toji went stiff. Not just in the shoulders. Lower.

“Fushiguro?” you said, voice slow, eyes dragging up his frame like you were choosing how to eat him alive.

He nodded once.

“Yeah.” His voice cracked slightly. Shit. He cleared his throat. “Toji’s fine.”

“Right. Fushiguro,” you smiled, all teeth and power. “Let’s get one thing clear : I don’t like being followed. Don’t talk to me unless it’s relevant. Don’t touch me unless I say. And don’t get in my way.”

Toji blinked.

Then grinned. “Yes, boss.”

You stepped aside. “Don’t let the cat out.”

The apartment is huge. Cold. Expensive- clearly you'd only been living here for like two days.

Everything smells like cedar and money — except where your cat has decided to piss in the corner out of stress, which yeah you've cleaned but still. Chairman Meow immediately launches an attack on his boots when he enters. Claws and everything.

“Fucking hell,” Toji snarls, dragging the thing off his leg. “That your cat?”

“She’s sensitive,” you say flatly, not looking up from your laptop. Cue said cat to piss on him.

Toji muttered a long, inventive string of curses as he peeled off the damp leather. Great. Pissed on by a cat. First ten minutes on the job. Fucking nailed it.

“Yeah? She pees like a war crime.”

*-*

He does a full sweep — every room, every vent, every line of sight — and keeps stealing glances at you.

Fuck. You’re like a damn hallucination. Heels on hardwood, skin like satin, power oozing from every goddamn syllable you drop into your phone. You don’t even look at him, and it makes his cock twitch.

He hides in your hallway, behind a column, and sends Shiu a text:

Toji: she’s a fucking goddess. like actual fucking Aphrodite in a pantsuit. i’m gonna die. i’m gonna fuckin nut in this suit. she made eye contact ONCE. she told me not to touch her. i might pass out. what the fuck kind of job is this. help.

Shiu does not answer.

Probably deletes the message.

*-*

He’s your shadow.

In the car. In the lobby. In the back of boardrooms where old men visibly sweat under your words.

He wears a black suit. Has to. You said so.

“You look like you mugged a bartender,” you said when he showed up in jeans and a black tee, sent him fucking home, told him if he wasn't back and dressed within twenty minutes, you'd call Shiu and make his life hell.

Now he’s got the sleeves rolled up, cuffs tight on his forearms, chest stretching the buttons. Sunglasses. Earpiece. Everything. You told him to “look clean.” Now every time he looks in the mirror he wants to jerk off thinking about whether you’re looking.

He never stood too far. Never left your blind spots exposed. He learned your patterns. Your tells. The flick of your eyes when you're bored. The slow drag of your nails along your wine glass when you were hunting.

You were intoxicating. Dangerous. And so, so fucking hot it made his brain feel like static.

At first, you ignored him. Treated him like expensive furniture. Sometimes barked orders. Sometimes forgot he was there.

You're a goddamn siren.

And Toji? He is drowning.

*-*

You’re unbearable. And hot. So unbearably hot.

You say things like:

“You’re standing too close. Do I look like I need training wheels?”

“Speak when spoken to, Fushiguro.”

“You exist to serve me. Don’t forget that.”

“You’re paid to protect me. Not ogle me like a mutt.”

He’s chewing through his own tongue trying not to moan.

Every time you scold him, he gets harder. You once flicked him on the forehead for stepping in front of a door too slowly, and he got a full-on erection. Had to turn around and fake a phone call just to calm down.

“She’s so fucking mean. So fucking pretty. Bet she rides dick like it’s beneath her. Bet she spits on men. She’s gonna kill me. I want her to. I want her to choke me with that fucking necklace she wore today.”

So like a rational man he texted Shiu again.

At one in the morning:

Toji: i think i’d let her piss in my mouth. this is a cry for help.

Still no reply.

*-*

He dreams about you.

About kneeling.

About crawling into your bed and laying under it like a dog, just in case someone tried to touch you in the night.

About begging you to let him taste you.

He watches you from the car mirror while you argue on the phone. Sees the way you toss your hair, the way you lift your sunglasses to look down at the world.

You own this city. Not the government. Not the courts. Not the investors. You.

And now he works for you.

You’re his boss. His paycheck. His goddamn owner.

He calls you “boss” so much it starts to sound like daddy in his head.

*-*

By Day Five, he doesn’t even hide it.

He follows you like a shadow. Closer than necessary. Protective. Possessive. When a man tries to flirt with you in a restaurant lobby, Toji puts a hand on your lower back and glares until the guy walks away.

You slap his hand off.

“Touch me without permission again and I’ll break your fingers.”

Toji swallows.

“Please,” he mutters.

You arch a brow. “What was that?”

He shakes his head, red in the face. “Nothin’, boss.”

*-*

You still haven’t given him a single order he didn’t follow.

But God, he wants more.

He wants you to look him in the eye and command. Wants you to leash him with a fucking silk tie and tell him to sit. Wants to drop to his knees and let you use him however you see fit.

Wants to guard your door, your bed, your pussy. Wants to belong to you.

You’re powerful. You’re dangerous. You’re sexy as fucking sin.

And he’s just the dog barking at your heels.

*-*

Toji’s only been on the job for three weeks and he's already losing his goddamn mind.

Like full-on, dick-hard-in-the-shower, bark-at-the-wall insane.

So when you give him a day off, the first one since the contract started, he should rest.

Should sleep.

Should catch up on whatever passes for a normal life.

But no.

This motherfucker goes straight to Shiu Kong’s half-lit office, kicks the door open, and trauma-horny dumps like a goddamn fever dream, slams down into the leather chair across from his desk like a man possessed, rubs his temples, and goes:

“I’m gonna fuckin’ die.”

Shiu doesn’t look up from his laptop. “You say that every time you’re horny, and I don’t care.”

“I’m serious this time.” Toji’s palms are over his face. “She’s gonna kill me. I can’t keep doin’ this. I’m gonna bust in my pants watching her file paperwork.”

Shiu sighs. Sips his drink. “So don’t fuckin’ look.”

“I can’t not look. She wears those heels that sound like sex on marble. You know what she did yesterday?”

“No, and I don’t wanna—”

“She yanked my tie down so I’d bend to her fuckin’ mouth like I was some leashed mutt and whispered, someone’s tailing us, stay close, and I got a fuckin’ half-chub in the middle of the crosswalk like some deranged little freak.”

Shiu stares at him for a long moment. Then, very calmly, pulls a handgun from the drawer and cocks it.

“Get out of my office.”

Toji doesn’t move.

“You ever see a woman who’s like—mean hot? Like, ruin-your-life hot? Like she’d make you crawl naked across broken glass just to get kicked in the ribs and you’d say thank you?”

CLICK. The gun's click pulls Toji out of his weird horny-rant.

“Okay, okay,” Toji grunts, getting up. “Jesus. You’ve lost your sense of fuckin’ romance. God, fucking prude.”

*-*

A ‘normal’ week with you could kill a lesser man.

Tense. Measured. Like the string of a bow pulled tight — always threatening to snap, to shoot, to pierce something vital.

Toji follows.

Toji guards.

Toji watches.

He doesn’t speak unless spoken to.

He doesn’t walk in front of you, doesn’t trail too far behind either — just that exact, tense distance.

There’s nothing “normal” about a man who looks like that standing silently behind you at all times, muscles coiled like a loaded gun, eyes scanning the room like he’s five seconds from breaking necks.

He’s not just your bodyguard. He’s your shadow. Your protection. Your property — unofficially.

Toji Fushiguro, your own personal goddamn hound.

The way he watches you is almost feral. Sharp, heavy gaze that drips down your back like warm oil. Never disrespectful, not out loud, but Jesus Christ, he looks at you like he wants to get punished.

You don’t call him a dog. You don’t say “good boy.” You don’t yank a leash or click your tongue. You don’t need to.

You look at him — just once, with that cut-glass stare — and he stands straighter, tighter, readier.

You treat him like a guard dog, sure. But you don’t pet him. You don’t feed him.

You keep him starving.

*-*

MONDAY (this is when the famous 'she pulled my ties incident occured)

Toji starts the day trailing you through a financial district that stinks of cologne and fragile masculinity. You’re all teeth and silence, gliding across marble floors in stilettos and a custom suit that costs more than his entire life. Everyone stares. Not at him. At you. And he’s just the black-suited brute behind you, a shadow with arms.

You’re talking into your phone. You don’t need him right now.

But you always use him.

You pause on the street corner. You don’t look at him — just snap your fingers once, softly.

He steps closer immediately.

Not a word. No order.

Just instinct.

“Someone’s tailing,” you murmur, low. And then — then, holy fucking God — you grab his tie. Fistful of silk. Drag him down like you’re whispering sweet nothings but your voice is pure command, sharp as a scalpel.

“Third car back. Navy Lexus. Plate ending in 9-2-7. Make them disappear.”

Toji’s pupils blow wide.

He makes a fucking sound. Not a word. A grunt. Guttural. Gutted. The way you pull him in, like a dog on a chain — he swears his cock twitches.

He’s hard before he even answers.

“Yes, boss.”

And when that car shows up again? Toji’s gone before you even blink.

It disappears. Permanently.

*-*

TUESDAY

You work sixteen-hour days. Meetings. Mergers. Boardroom warfare. Toji sits outside your glass office like a fucking statue — unreadable, broad-shouldered, terrifying. People whisper about him. They don’t know what he is.

Carries your bags. Opens your doors. Walks you through lobbies with a hand hovering just above your lower back. Never touches.

He watches you through the glass.

The way you sit — legs crossed, back straight, head tilted like you're waiting to eat the next person who speaks out of turn.

You’re so calm when you destroy people. You lean back in that thousand-dollar chair and sip espresso while CEOs stammer and tremble in front of you.

When you speak, people fall in line.

When you lift your hand, Toji follows.

When you glance at him, he knows if he’s supposed to act or wait.

He doesn’t need a leash. You’ve got him fucking trained.

*-*

WEDNESDAY

You don’t speak unless it’s business. You text him once:

"Keep the car ready. And get Chairman Meow’s prescription wet food."

Toji does it, of course. Then cleans up another puddle of cat piss. You walk past him as he’s crouched over the mess, hair tied up, phone pressed to your ear.

You don’t stop. Just say:

“Good.”

That’s it.

He’s on his knees scrubbing the floor like a goddamn servant and you just said good, and he almost moans.

*-*

THURSDAY

You’re eating lunch with some tight-faced ambassador. Toji’s a few feet behind your chair. Silent. Watching. Waiting.

And then?

You cross your legs. Slowly. Smooth as sin.

You don’t look at Toji.

But you know.

You know he’s staring at the slit of your skirt, the edge of your thigh, the way your heel swings in lazy rhythm.

He wants to bite your ankle. Actually. Like an animal.

You cut your steak. Deliberate. Elegant.

And smirk — just a twitch of your lips.

He wants to bark.

And for the rest of the afternoon? You make him carry your bags.

Not literally. Not like shopping bags.

Like briefcases. Confidential ones. Labeled. Sealed. He’s not allowed to ask what’s in them — not that he would. He’s a dog. Dogs don’t ask. Dogs carry.

You don’t thank him.

You just glance at him from the elevator mirror and say, “You’re useful.”

It goes straight to his dick.

*-*

FRIDAY

He’s bracing for rejection.

There’s a gala.

Some private-sector exclusive hellhole filled with billionaires and media snakes and old politicians with hands that like to linger.

You don’t want to go, but you have to — donors, networking, social contracts to uphold. You hate these things. The men leer. The women compete. The champagne’s cheap even when it’s expensive.

Toji knows the drill. Girls like you — powerful girls, rich girls — they don’t bring muscle to things like this. Not visibly. They bring arm candy. Suits with good hair. Hangers-on.

He expects you to say it. To wave your hand and tell him to wait outside. Wait in the car. Wait in the rain like a sad dog, or a shitty love interest in a music video.

He’s ready for it. He’s already pissed off about it.

But then—

You look him up and down that morning and go:

“You’re not wearing that shit to the gala.”

Toji blinks.

“What?”

“Come on.” You grab your coat, keys. “I made an appointment.”

Which, to his fucking amazement, brought him to one of those fancy ass stores, the type that he was pretty sure was a front for money laundering. Tailoring. Tokyo’s finest. Private. Luxurious.

You walk in like you own the building. (You probably do.) The tailor bows so deep he nearly eats carpet.

Toji’s standing there like a massive wall of black denim and scowl, totally out of place. You wave at the tailor. Then at him.

“He needs a suit,” you say. “One that doesn’t look like he mugged someone in a dark alley.”

Toji mutters, “I like mugging people.”

You snap, “Shut up.”

And he does.

Toji looks wildly out of place — scars peeking out, shoulders too broad, energy too feral. He’s stiff while they measure him, glancing at you every three seconds like you’ll disappear if he blinks.

“Arms up,” the tailor says.

He obeys. Glances at you again.

You step closer. Drag your hand along a row of fine fabrics. Pause.

“Hm,” you say, inspecting a charcoal-black Italian wool. “No. Too polite.”

Toji blinks.

“Boss—”

“Shut up. Let me work.”

He shuts up.

You pick a dark obsidian suit. Sleek. Structured. Imposing.

“You’re my shadow,” you say, circling him like a wolf. “You wear what I tell you.”

The tailor barely breathes.

Toji watches you, jaw clenched, chest heaving.

"Yeah,” he mutters, rough. “Anything you say.”

The fitting?

It feels like foreplay. A weird, way too expensive form of foreplay.

Measuring tape around his thighs- bare thighs- cause yeah, he's only in his boxers.

Your fingers at his collar.

You choose everything — lapel shape, fabric, cut, buttons. You push the tailor aside at one point and straighten his shoulders yourself.

Toji’s got a full-body blush under his skin that he’s trying to smother behind a deadpan frown.

When you touch his jaw to tilt his chin up, he swears he sees God.

You mutter, “You’re not ugly, but you dress like a strip club bouncer.”

He smirks. “Was one for three years.”

You snicker.

He almost moans.

It’s not that he’s shy. It’s not that he minds the touching. It’s you. Choosing the buttons. Adjusting the jacket lapels. Tilting his chin to see how the collar sits.

It’s the way you look at him — cold, calculated, hungry. Like he’s a weapon you own. Like you’re customizing him.

He’s half-hard by the time they finish hemming the pants.

The suit?

It’s devastating. Sharp black, tailored within an inch of his sinful thighs, tapered sleeves, collar that hugs his throat like a leash. You stand back, arms crossed, gaze raking over him like he’s a car you’re about to buy and crash for fun.

“Hmm,” you say.

“Hmm?” he echoes, tense.

“You’ll do.”

Later that night, he sees the tag.

1,780,000 yen.

Almost twelve thousand fucking dollars.

His hands shake. Toji stares:

“You just spent—”

“I know what I spent.”

He opens his mouth.

You cut him off.

“You’re mine tonight,” you say. “I don’t dress sloppy.”

*-*

The gala.

He’s your date, technically- a date that's basically your shadow dressed in silk.

He stands beside you, silent and dangerous, eyes scanning the room while you talk in clipped tones to governors and oil barons. Every single man there stares at your ass — and every time, Toji itches to break their fucking noses.

The suit fits like sin. You picked every detail. You dressed him like he was yours — like a prize pet, or a weapon you keep in your clutch.

The gala is a storm of wealth. Diamonds. Cameras. Handshakes worth millions.

Toji doesn't leave your side.

When you pause to greet people, he steps half behind you, angled to block any threat. When some greasy bastard gets handsy, Toji slides in so close the guy nearly chokes on his own spit.

You touch Toji's sleeve, briefly.

He doesn't move.

Just watches.

Waits.

Obeys.

He knows you don’t need him.

You’re power in stilettos. You’ve broken men for less than what he is. You chew glass and sip diamonds. You’re not looking for protection — you’re looking for a blade. A leash. A collar around something dangerous that only listens to you.

And Toji? Toji’s about to bite- or lose his mind, OR die of a heart condition because his blood has permanently relocated to his dick.

At some point, you lean in to whisper:

“Keep an eye on the minister’s wife. She’s got a knife in her clutch.”

Toji grins.

“You’re scary.”

You smile. “You’re slow.”

Fuck.

At the end of the night, as you step into the car, Toji opens the door for you. Hand on the handle, back stiff.

You pause. Look at him. A genuine??? Smile??? Graces your lips???

“You looked good tonight.”

His heart stops.

You slide into the back seat.

“Keep the suit. Consider it a gift.”

He sits in the front. Quiet.

Staring out the windshield. Wondering if his champagne that he sipped once had been ruffied.

Boner pressed awkwardly to the zipper of a suit that cost more than his rent.

“She dressed me. She dressed me like I’m hers. She said I looked good. Holy shit. Holy fuck. I think I’m gonna explode. I’d follow her into hell. I’d crawl on all fours through broken glass just to hear her say ‘good boy.’ What the fuck is happening to me.”

He doesn’t say a word the whole ride home.

But he texts Shiu when he gets back.

Toji: she bought me a suit. she’s gonna be the death of me. and i’ll die hard. suit on. dick hard. smile on. put that on my grave.

Shiu does not respond.

But that night, Toji falls asleep on the couch of his apartment- which is one minute and thirty-two seconds away from yours, probably forty seconds if he sprints.

Gun on his chest.

Hard in his pants.

Dreaming of the next time you pull his tie.

He wonders if he should thank whoever tried to assassinate you.

Because guarding you?

Hurts.

But being owned by you?

That might just kill him.

*-*

It goes to shit one month in.

The call comes in a 2:37 am.

The phone rings once.

Twice.

Three times.

Toji’s already up.

Sleep doesn’t cling to him the way it does normal people. The mattress in his high-rise loft has barely softened under his weight. He’s sitting up, hand already reaching for his phone on instinct.

You only ever call in emergencies.

You text, you command, you glance and expect him to move. But call?

Call? Never.

And then he sees it.

Your name. Private line. Secure.

The screen flashes: Boss (subtitled in his brain: Mistress, Obsession, Reason I’m Breathing)

He answers in one breathless grunt of your title.

And then—

You say it.

“Toji?”

His spine locks up so hard it’s a fucking miracle his bones don’t snap.

You don’t say his name. You never, ever say his name.

You call him “Fushiguro.”

You spit it like a bad taste, like the dog he is. Cold. Formal. Controlled.

But now?

“Toji, can you please get my briefcase from my office? The one with my work laptop in it?”

Every neuron in his body lights up red.

Danger. Threat. Code.

He inhales, lips parting just enough to keep the tension from bursting out of his jaw.

He knows your code. You built it with him.

He remembers it word for word.

Asking for the black laptop? That’s code for something’s wrong.

White laptop? Everything’s fine. Bring it, shut the fuck up, don’t look into it.

Black laptop? You’re in danger.

And then you add:

“With the case.”

With the case.

Toji’s vision fucking tunnels.

“With the case” = not just a threat. They’re close. In the room. Within earshot.

He swallows the growl climbing his throat.

“Got it,” he says smoothly. “I’ll be there in fifteen. Black laptop. With the case.”

He hangs up.

Then he moves.

He’s already grabbing the matte security binder under his bed — flipping through schematics of your penthouse layout. Pulls the encrypted tablet from the drawer. Triggers the silent alert on the security system, sends red flag pings to Shiu’s agency, then re-routes them back. No outside help. He’s handling this.

He’s out the door with a burner piece, two knives, a fire-safe lockpicking tool, and the case.

Your case.

*-*

You’re calm. Of course you are.

When Toji gets to your place, you answer the door like nothing’s wrong. Like you're not being held hostage in your own penthouse.

Your expression is pristine, but your eyes flash when you see him.

His heart is beating like a wild thing.

Two knocks. Your signal. Open up.

Toji enters, briefcase in hand, and eyes scanning everything like a hawk on crack.

You’re standing in silk. Barefoot. Calm. Perfect.

You glance at him once, then flick two fingers in a gesture that would mean nothing to anyone but him.

Two.

Two people.

Still here. Still watching.

Still fucking breathing.

Toji places the case on the granite island like it’s a gift at the altar. Then steps back, nods once, and glances — just so — to the left.

He sees it.

In the reflection of the wine chiller: two men.

Wearing maintenance uniforms.

Unarmed, but with enough muscle to think they’re a threat. Probably been working the building for months. Waiting. Timing it. Thought they could get in without alerting external security.

They were right.

Except Toji’s not external.

He’s hers.

Internal. Installed. Plugged into you like a power line.

And he’s already fucking moving.

The first guy doesn’t see it coming.

Toji steps around the counter like he’s going to pour himself a drink — then smashes the guy’s nose in with a blunt elbow, drags him down by the collar, chokes him out before he even makes a sound.

You don’t blink.

You sip your wine.

Toji wants to bark.

The second guy tries to run.

He gets three steps.

Toji sweeps his legs, cracks his skull on the marble, presses his boot to the guy’s throat with exact enough pressure to keep him from passing out.

“You get ten seconds to explain,” he growls, voice like boiling tar.

The guy sobs something about debt and cash and “she’s rich, no one would miss it.”

Toji grins.

“You just tried to rob a fucking dragon,” he hisses. “She doesn’t breathe oxygen, she breathes lawsuits. You know how many teeth she’s pulled from men ten times your size?”

He looks up.

You’re still standing there.

Still gorgeous. Still untouched.

Still above it all.

You tilt your head, then tap two fingers to your neck — silent command. Choke him out.

Toji obeys.

Willingly. Eagerly. With joy.

Because nothing will ever compare to following her orders.

*-*

The cops come. Quietly. Discreetly. Arranged via silent protocols that Toji had already activated before stepping inside. The building manager is fired. The two would-be thieves are taken out on stretchers. Not dead- Toji isn't that sloppy.

Toji cleans his hands in your kitchen sink, rolls his sleeves back up, and watches you over his shoulder.

You’re back at your dining table. Working.

Already.

Like nothing happened.

And then, for the first time, you look at him and say:

“You were late.”

Toji nearly bites his lip in half.

*-*

He’s sitting on the edge of your white leather couch, wiping blood from the crystal glass.

You walk by.

Pause.

And drop a square velvet box beside him.

“Your cufflinks for the next gala,” you murmur. “They arrived early.”

He picks it up. Stares. Opens it.

Gold. Engraved. With a symbol that means “dog” in Old Japanese script.

Toji laughs. Just once.

You walk away before he can say anything.

But his voice follows you:

“You ever call me ‘Toji’ again,” he murmurs, low and full of grit, “I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”

You pause.

Look over your shoulder.

And smile.

“Then behave.”

*-*

Five months. Twenty weeks. A hundred and forty days. And he hasn't killed anyone on your property yet. That’s a win.

You think you’ve got him pegged. Tightly wound muscle in a Tom Ford shell. Ex-gangster turned bodyguard with a penchant for swearing at your coffee machine and staring at your thighs during board meetings.

But you don’t know the half of it.

You don’t know how his lungs feel tight when you say his name.

You don’t know that he sleeps in the hallway outside your suite sometimes, under the bullshit pretense of “safety rounds,” even though your entire penthouse is triple-fortified and guarded like nuclear codes.

You don’t know that when he closes his eyes, your voice is still ringing in his skull, branded there like fire:

“Fushiguro, I’m heading out. Don’t lag.”

You don’t know that your heels clicking across marble is better than porn to him.

You don’t know that he would kill for you again without even blinking.

You don’t know that five weeks ago, when you walked past him in that backless silk dress at the launch party, he nearly came in his goddamn suit.

And you definitely don’t know that he kept the lipstick-stained napkin you left behind at that same party, folded it, and stuck it in his jacket pocket like a fucking teenage girl with a crush. (He hasn't even told Shiu about that, mostly because if he did, Shiu would actually shoot him).

So no.

You don’t know what you’ve done to him.

But you're about to find out.

*-*

It starts with a phone call. Not yours.

Toji’s.

He’s in the corner of the terrace, jaw tight, voice low. Doesn’t know you’re there. Doesn’t see you pause, doesn’t see the look flicker in your eyes when you hear:

“You rejected him because of my record? He’s ten, you fuckin’ suit-wearing parasite. He didn’t kill anyone. I did.”

Silence. More tension. Toji rubs a hand over his face like he’s going to punch the sky.

You’re already walking away before he notices. Already calling your head of legal. Already sending three of your most vicious attorneys to war.

And by that evening, when Toji gets the call that Megumi is in, when the director suddenly sounds terrified of losing him, when no one will tell him why the tune changed—

He has no idea you’re the reason.

But that’s you, isn’t it?

Always above. Always untouchable. The predator perched at the top of the ladder.

Even when you’re drunk.

He doesn’t expect it.

The drinking, first of all.

You never drink. Not when you’re out. Not when you’re working. Not even when your quarterly report shows your company up 11% and your board’s throwing champagne like confetti.

But tonight?

You’re plastered.

He sees it in the way your pupils dilate in the back seat of the car, the way your legs kick up over the divider and you throw your head back with a laugh like it’s been caged in your chest for years.

You smell like gin and orange blossom and old money.

Toji’s sweating in his seat.

“Toji,” you slur, slouched like you own the universe — which, to be fair, you almost do. “Y’ever notice how you look like… a really angry caveman in a suit?”

He snorts. Keeps his eyes on the road.

“Every fuckin’ day, sweetheart.”

You grin. Your lips are wet. Normally, you would've insulted him for calling you 'sweetheart'.

“S’good. I like it. You stand out. Look good on my arm. Like an emotional support threat.”

He nearly veers into traffic.

*-*

He helps you home. You’re barefoot by the time the elevator dings.

He’s holding your heels in one hand, his other under your elbow like you’re made of spun glass and spite.

Chairman Meow doesn’t even hiss at him. Just flicks her tail and accepts her gourmet salmon like it’s expected.

Toji’s lowkey proud. That’s a two-month no-pee streak. A new record.

You trip over the threshold into your room. Toji’s hands snap to your waist before you fall. You’re laughing. Eyes glazed.

“Zip,” you demand, spinning like a drunk ballerina, trying to reach the zipper down your spine and failing miserably.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t breathe.

Just steps in.

Undoes it with two fingers and clenched teeth. Doesn’t touch your skin. Not once. Not even when you grunt about your tights being too tight and practically fall into him trying to peel them off.

He helps. Professional. Silent.

Like he’s not dying inside.

Like his cock isn’t throbbing with every goddamn please from your glossy mouth- because normally?? Please isn't exactly in your vocabulary.

He sets you on the edge of your bed. Gently. Pulls your hair free of its pins. Wipes your lipstick with warm cloths. Dabs your mascara. Smooths the little lines between your brows.

Then you hiss.

“Rolled my ankle.”

He’s down instantly.

On his knees. Of course. Where else would he be?

He cradles your ankle. Presses. Checks for swelling. His thumb brushes your skin and he flinches like it burned him.

You’re barely looking at him. Barely awake.

But then—

You lean forward.

And kiss his forehead.

Just a brush of lips.

Soft. Thoughtless. Like you’ve done it a hundred times in dreams and forgot this was real.

Toji stops breathing.

“Guard dogs deserve treats,” you murmur. “Maybe I’ll take you on a date. Show you off.”

You’re asleep before you can finish the sentence.

Toji stays kneeling. For a long time. Longer than necessary.

His breath catches in his chest. His hands tremble on your skin.

He should leave.

Instead—

He whispers:

“Say it again, boss.”

But you’re already gone.

And he’s still kneeling.

*-*

You don't mention it.

The kiss. The drunk date comment. The fact that Toji stayed kneeling beside your bed like a temple guard until he heard your breathing even out into something soft and human and vulnerable.

He thinks maybe you forgot. Or sobered up and realized you were talking nonsense. Which, fine. Whatever. He can deal.

You don’t mention it. But you remember.

Of course you do.

You remember the faint tremble in his fingers. The hard set of his jaw. The way he looked at you like he was praying and you were the god.

You don’t speak of it, but you also don’t ignore it.

Because two weeks later, you hand him a folded navy envelope with an address on it and say, simply:

*“Pick me up at 7. You’re not wearing a gun tonight.”

Toji stares at the envelope like it’s cursed. His brain static. His hands too big and clumsy to handle delicate things.

“...This a job?”

You smirk. That slow, feral smile that makes him feel like prey wrapped in Gucci.

“No. This is a reward.”

*-*

The restaurant was uh...... yeah. Something. Probably cost more than anything Toji had ever owned.

The chandelier alone could pay off his debt to Shiu twice over. Everything smells like truffle oil and wealth and clean tile. Every waiter speaks in apologetic whispers. There are real diamonds in the salt grinder. Toji’s 80% sure.

He wears the suit you bought him.

He hates how well it fits. He hates how easy it is to forget he’s just the dog when you’re looking at him like you’re starving and he's the meal.

The restaurant is in the clouds.

Literally — it’s 68 floors up, tucked into a tower only foreign diplomats and ultra-wealthy ghosts can afford to haunt. Every table has a view of the city. Every dish looks like it costs more than Toji’s rent back in the day. And when he shows up — black-on-black suit, expensive shoes, not a weapon in sight — he finds you already waiting.

Your legs crossed. Your lipstick red.

He’s never even walked by a place like this, let alone been sat at a private rooftop table by a man with white gloves and a name tag in gold.

The first bottle of wine costs more than what he made during his first three hits. The dessert is a sculpture. Like something out of an art gallery. And you—fuck, you—

You look like you were carved out of every single one of his delusions.

Elegant. Confident. Gleaming like glass and gunpowder.

And for the first time, you look a little nervous.

Only a little.

But it’s enough to make Toji’s brain stutter.

“You really brought me here?” he mutters when he sits, already scowling like the menu insulted his mother. “The fuck am I supposed to eat — this salad looks like it was shaved off a bonsai tree.”

You just smile.

“You’re adorable when you don't know.”

Toji almost flips the damn table.

You feed him filet off your fork at one point, and he thinks he might die right there with foie gras in his lungs and a boner under the goddamn white tablecloth.

“You’ve been good,” you say halfway through your steak, not looking up. “You earned this.”

He snorts.

“Like a fuckin’ treat?”

You smile.

“Exactly like that.”

The date’s good. Better than it should be. Better than either of you probably expected.

He actually makes you laugh — real, genuine, shoulders-shaking laughter — when he tells you about the time he got arrested for punching a guy over a microwave burrito.

You tell him about the hostile acquisition you orchestrated in Milan with a smile and a fucking wine swirl like you’re narrating a children’s book.

It's insane. It’s unbalanced. It shouldn’t work.

But it does.

And then— Date two.

You tell him to meet you at 11AM. Somewhere warm.

It’s a beach.

A real-ass beach. Sand, sun, little umbrellas in coconuts- of course you privated the entire thing for the day. Normal people things.

And Megumi is already there, in a hat that’s too big and a shirt that says “I am not my father’s crimes,” which you 100% had custom-made.

Toji doesn’t know what the fuck is happening.

Not until he sees you sitting in the shade, sunglasses on, smiling at Megumi as he builds a crooked sandcastle and tells you some weird, depressing fact about sea cucumbers.

He watches you kick off your heels and walk barefoot like you own the entire ocean.

He doesn't understand it.

He doesn’t understand you.

Because sure, he’s had fantasies. Filthy ones. Sick ones. The kind that could get him fired and jailed and dragged through concrete.

And something in Toji just… breaks.

In a way that isn’t feral or horny or unhinged.

It’s tender. It’s horrifying.

He’s so fucked.

He’s been so fucked.

*-*

And then comes the gala — some pompous, gold-plated thing where you wore a high-slit dress that could’ve ended wars and he had to listen to ten different senators try and flirt with you while pretending not to want to kill them all.

It’s always a gala. Your world spins on designer heels and Champagne flutes, and Toji, well…

He’s just the dog keeping the wolves away.

But this one is different. There’s tension in the air. Something simmering beneath the surface, because you’re giving him orders in that low voice again, your fingers brushing his tie like it’s a leash. You’ve got that look again.

That dangerous one.

That “I own you” look.

Toji’s holding it together — barely — right up until the moment you criticize his stance.

“Fushiguro, for fuck’s sake. Can you at least pretend you weren’t raised in a back alley? Stand up straight. You look like a bruiser from a Yakuza soap opera.”

It’s not even that mean.

But he’s on edge. Too sharp. Too tired of pretending he isn’t about to lose his mind every time you breathe near him.

So he snaps. Just a little. Just one stupid line, said with teeth:

“Bet you wouldn’t be complaining if I was fucking you like one.”

Silence.

Fucking silence.

The kind of silence that splits atoms.

Your head turns.

Eyebrow lifts.

Mouth parts.

“What did you just say?”

Toji goes white.

Like. Fuck.

“Shit—no. Boss. Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

You ignore him, slip into the car and:

“Driver, penthouse.”

Your voice is crisp. Cool. You don’t look at him again for the rest of the ride.

Toji stares out the window.

Brain spiraling. Vision blurred. Every security instinct screaming that he just ruined everything.

No more job. No more Megumi’s school. No more you.

He almost gets out at the light. Almost jumps from the car like a lunatic just to avoid hearing the words you're fired come from your mouth.

But when the car pulls into the underground garage, you don’t send him away. You just step out in silence. Cool. Collected.

But when you both step inside the penthouse, and the door shuts behind you, you don’t fire him.

You don’t scream.

You don’t even raise your voice.

You toss your purse down. Kick off your shoes. Turn to him slowly, like a goddess descending from her throne.

Eyes sharp. Voice low.

“So?”

Toji swallows.

You step forward.

“You barked.”

Another step. His back hits the glass wall.

“Now I want to see if you bite.”

Toji’s cock is fully hard. He wants to scream. He wants to beg.

Instead, he growls.

“I bite.”

And he does.

It’s a goddamn battle.

Teeth and heat and biting, snarled words. You tell him he’s replaceable — he says he wants to choke out every bastard that ever called you ‘ma’am’ with a wink.

You call him a dog — he says he only answers to you. You say he’s disgusting — he says you like it.

“Pathetic,” you hiss, dragging him in by the tie.

“Yours,” he growls, teeth bared.

You shove him down. He drags you closer.

And in that blistering, explosive mess of dominance and submission and some damn class power dynamics turned feral, something shifts.

Something permanent.

Because by the time the sun’s rising, and you’re still lying on the floor half-dressed, breath ragged, laughter raw from your throat as you swat him off your thigh—

You know.

You both know.

This wasn’t just a fuck.

It never was.

Not from the moment he knelt on your floor that night and let you kiss his forehead like a reward. Not from the moment you called him Toji and made the air freeze in his lungs.

He was always yours.

And you? You were always his downfall.

A/N: pls i wrote this, haven't re-read it, idk if it makes even any ssense, it's too long, someone get me OUT OF HERE PLEASE- anyways i hope you enjoy it, this'll be one of the rare times where i'll do a tag list, normally i wouldn't but this felt special: @facelessmenforthewin @realalpacorn

Masterlist.

#sweats. this was. stupid hot #sunnyrbs #jjkposting #fic rec

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sunnytalks · 2 days ago

Text

Teaching the ways of the heart.

A/N: salaryman!nanami x teacher!reader. i dont make the rules, this was a must. nanami has custody of yuji in this. also i changed my pfp, yippe

warnings: tried writing smth adorable, sweet, lots of fluff, tiny bit of angst, smut a the end (sorta).

It starts with curry.

Well. Technically, it starts with a glitter painting of a blonde man with a briefcase and some disturbingly realistic abs for a seven-year-old’s drawing.

But the curry stains come first.

And the glitter.

And then you.

*-*

Nanami Kento had not planned to fall in love. Certainly not at 3:24 PM on a humid Wednesday, standing in front of a tiny, cracked elementary school with its peeling paint and suspiciously leaning flagpole.

No, Nanami had planned to simply pick up his kid, accept the drawing with solemn gratitude, and return home to review Q3 sales reports with a glass of whiskey.

Instead, he found himself paralyzed, hand halfway in his pocket, blinking like he’d seen a curse materialize in the form of a woman who looked like she had walked out of a Ghibli movie and into his very, very tired heart.

You were beautiful in a way that should be illegal during daylight hours. Ethereal but grounded.

Like you read poetry over tea and could probably fix a flat tire without breaking a sweat. Your long, black skirt whispered around your ankles, and your cardigan—was it green? Olive? Sage? Who cared, it was soft-looking and elegant and made you look like the protagonist of a historical fantasy romance.

The kind where the prince never stood a chance.

Nanami stood no chance.

“NANAMIN!!!”

And then Yuji was gone, bolting across the courtyard with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever who had just spotted its owner after a year-long expedition to Antarctica.

“Yes,” Nanami replied, calm as ever, despite the absolute chaos buzzing in his chest.

Yuji flung a glitter-covered paper in his face.

“LOOK! I MADE YOU! I EVEN GOT YOUR TIE COLOR RIGHT!”

Indeed, the tie was yellow. There was also an unfortunate amount of glitter on his eyebrows now.

“Thank you, Yuji,” Nanami said, brushing off some of the glitter with the same dignity he used when confronting Grade 1 curses. “This is very… detailed.”

“He worked really hard on it,” said a new voice.

And then there was you.

Nanami looked up.

Up, because of course the universe would choose now to knock the breath clean out of his lungs.

You were smiling. Bright, genuine, sunshine-between-clouds smiling.

“Hi,” you said, offering your hand. “I’m Yuji’s new teacher.”

Nanami stared. Just for a beat too long.

He took it like it was going to shatter in his palm.

Your handshake was warm, confident. Your nails were painted a chipped gold. There was a faint ink stain on your palm.

You were real. Too real.

“Nanami Kento,” he managed. “I’m Yuji’s guardian.”

His voice. It rumbled like a cello note, deep and smooth and carefully measured.

Your brain short-circuited for exactly 2.5 seconds.

“Ah! Nanamin!” you said, laughing, eyes crinkling at the corners. “He’s always talking about you.”

Nanami blinked. “Oh?”

“Mmhm. Says you make the best pancakes and that your briefcase is actually a cursed tool.”

Yuji gasped dramatically. “You weren’t supposed to tell him that!”

“Oops,” you said, grinning at the boy before turning your attention back to Nanami.

He’s never been more envious of a glitter painting in his life.

“I just wanted to apologize,” you continued. “Yuji got a little excited during lunch. There was curry. And, uh, centrifugal force. Long story short, his shirt is in his bag. I hope it’s salvageable.”

Nanami blinked. “Centrifugal force?”

“He was spinning to show off his bento box.”

“I WAS SPINNING LIKE A BEYBLADE,” Yuji added helpfully.

“Right.” Nanami exhaled. “Thank you for taking care of him.”

“He’s a joy,” you said, absolutely and completely sincere.

Nanami could tell you meant it. He could also tell your earrings were shaped like little books. That you wore comfortable shoes because you were on your feet all day. That the ink smudge on your hand matched the color of the dry-erase marker clinging to the sleeve of your cardigan.

He noticed all of it. It was a problem.

The sky was the color of apricots as you handed him a trifold pamphlet.

“So, I know this is short notice, but we’re organizing a class field trip to the dinosaur museum next week,” you said, brushing a stray curl behind your ear. “Yuji mentioned you used to be an archeology major in college before you went into finance?”

Yuji nodded. “He knows ALL the dino names. EVEN THE ONES WITH THE REALLY LONG NAMES.”

“Would you be interested in chaperoning?” you asked, voice gentle but curious.

Nanami, who had not processed anything beyond “field trip” and “next week,” nodded.

You smiled.

The world tilted.

“Wonderful!” you beamed, handing him the pamphlet. “We’ll be leaving at 9:00 AM sharp. There’s a lunch break and a guided tour. I’ll put you on the group text.”

“Text,” Nanami echoed faintly.

“Thank you for volunteering!”

“Of course.”

Yuji beamed. “We’re gonna see the BARYONYX!”

Nanami had absolutely no idea what he’d just agreed to.

*-*

Later that night, Nanami sat in his apartment with a glass of whiskey in one hand and Yuji's glitter painting pinned on the fridge behind him.

He was trying very, very hard not to think about the way your cardigan had fluttered when you turned.

Or the little crease between your brows when you focused on talking to the children.

Or the way you seemed to glow, just a little, in the sunlight.

He failed.

Miserably.

Yuji appeared from the bathroom, wearing dinosaur pajamas and smelling like strawberry toothpaste.

"Nanamin," he said, flopping onto the couch beside him.

"Yes?"

"You like my teacher."

Nanami sipped his whiskey.

"Don’t be ridiculous."

"You blushed. Your ears did the pink thing."

"I did not."

"Did too."

Nanami sighed, tipping his head back against the couch.

He was doomed.

Utterly.

And it was only the first day of school.

*-*

The next morning, Gojo Satoru leaned across their shared booth at a café and said, “So. You’re blushing. Spill.”

“I don’t blush,” Nanami snapped.

“Yuji said you met his teacher. Said she looked like a pretty kung fu librarian.”

Nanami considered stabbing himself with the butter knife.

“What did you agree to?” Gojo asked, too delighted.

“A museum trip.”

“Oh my god,” Gojo cackled. “You got seduced by a cardigan. This is amazing.”

Nanami stabbed the butter.

*-*

The field trip starts with Nanami realizing he's the only man in a sea of volunteer mothers.

He feels it before he sees it — the polite tilts of heads, the way some of the moms size him up like an endangered species in khakis and good posture. He straightens instinctively.

Not that it matters. He came prepared.

And by “prepared,” he means Gojo called it a “Dilf Fit” and threatened to post it on Instagram if he didn’t wear it.

So here he is: beige cardigan, navy slacks (tailored, of course), glasses perched low on his nose, hair slightly tousled from the breeze. A look he’d call “functionally resigned with mild aesthetic intention.” But Gojo had cackled like a demon and said it screamed “emotionally available single dad with a tragic past.”

Nanami hates how right he might be.

Because then you walk in.

And your skirt—your skirt—is covered in hand-drawn, softly colored dinosaurs.

Brachiosaurus. Stegosaurus. Tiny little parasaurolophus curled in a spiral at the hem.

And you walk toward him.

“Oh no,” he mutters under his breath, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Yuji, who immediately squints up at him.

“Nanamin?”

“Nothing,” he says. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

You’re waving, clipboard under one arm, your cardigan a soft lavender today, layered over a white blouse. And the boots. The same tiny-heeled, probably-ridiculously-comfortable boots you always wear.

But then the man himself showed up that morning, standing awkwardly near the museum entrance, a gentle expression that made him look like he’d just wandered off the set of a melancholic film about finding love in the quiet moments.

And—well.

You had not been prepared for him to be that attractive.

Which is saying something, because usually your brain does not clock this kind of thing so easily. Faces are hard. Emotions are harder. Subtext is a cursed language.

But something about Nanami made your neurons all scream in the same direction like an alarm: “ATTENTION. DILF IN CARDIGAN. WE REPEAT. HOT DAD DETECTED.”

So of course, like the absolute fool you are, you walked directly up to him.

“Nanami-san!” you say with a smile that could heal generational trauma. “Thanks for coming today. We really appreciate it.”

“My pleasure,” he replies, even as his brain screams ABORT MISSION SHE’S WEARING A SKIRT WITH DIPLODOCUSES ON IT THIS IS A HOSTILE ENVIRONMENT.

You fall into step beside him, gesturing to the kids who are already pressing their faces to the glass doors of the Natural History Museum.

“I hope you brought earplugs,” you joke, “They get really excited around the animatronic T-Rex.”

“I used to major in archaeology,” he says, playing it off. “I’ve heard worse.”

“Oh right! Yuji said you were a ‘dinosaur nerd with cool bones.’ I wasn’t sure what that meant until now.”

“Cool bones,” he echoes blankly. “Nice skirt,” he adds. Then cleared his throat like it surprised him too. “Thematic.”

You grinned. “Dinosaurs spark joy.”

And then, gods help you, you curtsied. CURTSIED. LIKE A MEDIEVAL LIBRARIAN.

You were going to die. Right there on the concrete.

You laugh anyway, then immediately start calling for the kids to get into pairs. And for the next two hours, Nanami watches you navigate chaos with the grace of a wind chime in a storm — always moving, always calm, somehow both delicate and indestructible.

He helps organize the snack break and accidentally impresses a cluster of seven-year-olds with a spontaneous lecture on hadrosaurs.

“Oh my god,” you whisper after, “You just explained cretaceous herbivores to a bunch of second graders and they understood you. That’s... incredible.”

He clears his throat. “They were attentive.”

You lean a little closer, eyes wide. “Can you stay forever?”

He almost dies.

*-*

The museum garden is surprisingly peaceful for a place surrounded by life-sized skeletons. It smells like grass and sunscreen and fruit gummies. You’re sitting cross-legged on a bench under the shade, Hello Kitty bento box in your lap, smiling as Yuji trades a grape jelly for a rice cracker.

Nanami sits beside you.

His heart stops.

Because there, nestled in your pink, compartmentalized lunch box, are four — count them, four — dinosaur nuggets.

You catch his stare and follow his gaze.

Dinosaur. Nuggets.

You didn’t think twice when you packed them this morning, still half-asleep with your hair in a messy bun and your cardigan inside out. You just thought: “The kids’ll love it. Thematic. Funny.” And also: they were on sale.

But now there’s Nanami Kento. Sitting next to you. Looking like a walking Pinterest board labeled “Divorced Hot Professor Aesthetic,” and you’re holding up a stegosaurus-shaped nugget like it’s the world’s saddest romantic overture.

“…Is that a dinosaur-shaped chicken nugget?” he asks, voice dry but—maybe—you think you detect a hint of amusement?

You blink. Then grin. “Oh. Yeah. Stegosaurus. Or... maybe a weird horse?”

Nanami adjusts his glasses. “It’s definitely a stegosaurus.”

“Thank you,” you say, overly sincerely, as if he’s just confirmed your doctoral thesis. “I try to stay on theme.”

“I noticed.” His eyes flick down to your skirt.

Right. The skirt.

It’s ankle-length. It’s flowy. It’s covered in pastel-colored dinosaur silhouettes. And you wore it on purpose—because the kids would love it and because you’re a sucker for matching your outfit to your lesson plans and because dressing like a chaotic kindergarten Pinterest board gives you comfort.

And maybe a little because someone else might notice.

(He noticed.)

He tries something wild. Something reckless.

He flirts.

Sort of.

You sip juice from a thermos with tiny stars on it.

He tries: “It’s nice. Seeing someone so enthusiastic. You light up when you talk about things you love.”

You blink at him.

“Thanks! That’s really sweet. I try not to get too annoying.”

“You’re not annoying at all.”

You pause, looking genuinely touched. “Oh. Wow. Thank you, Nanami-san. That... means a lot.”

It hits him like a train: you didn’t realize he was flirting. Not even a little.

He is doomed.

You don’t notice the way he looks at you then—soft, curious. Like he’s trying to memorize the way your face lights up when you talk about weird science facts or how you wiggle your shoulders when you’re proud of a lesson plan. He notices everything about you, always has. The chipped gold nail polish. The way you organize your clipboards by color. The fact that you hum Studio Ghibli soundtracks under your breath when you think no one’s listening.

But you’re not listening now. Because Yuji is screaming somewhere in the sand pit.

“OH NO THE FOSSIL IS DEAD AGAIN—”

You sigh. “Time to supervise the excavation, I guess.”

*-*

Term One: The Simpening.

It gets worse.

Or better.

Depends who you ask.

Nanami picks up Yuji every single day, rain or shine, and every single day you say hi. You talk. About school. About Yuji’s drawings. About the latest picture book you found on carnivorous plants.

He brings an umbrella when it rains. Offers you his coffee when you’re yawning. Buys you a little dinosaur keychain because Yuji said you’d like it. (You do. You clip it to your lanyard.)

You think it’s just—friendly. That he’s just a Very Nice Man.

You have no idea that Nanami Kento is living in emotional agony. That he goes home and lays awake thinking about the way your eyes scrunch when you laugh. That he remembers every outfit you’ve worn this semester. That he writes mental poetry about your hair.

That he tries—so many times—to flirt.

“That color looks nice on you,” he says one day, casually.

“Thanks!” you say. “It has pockets!”

He dies a little.

“You always wear such thoughtful accessories,” he tries another time.

“Oh, I got them on clearance!”

Dead. Flatline.

Eventually, he gives up entirely and just... listens. Collects every detail like sacred fossils. He watches you talk to the kids with your whole heart, watches you make jokes with Gojo, sees how Yuji glows when you praise his coloring page.

He wonders—more often than he should—what it would be like if things were different. If he had more time. Less fear.

If he could reach out.

If you’d ever reach back.

*-*

The day you wore the book skirt, Nanami stopped breathing for twelve full seconds.

It wasn’t even that flashy—okay, maybe it was. It was one of those high-waisted, pleated midi skirts with actual book covers printed on it. Little classics: Anne of Green Gables, The Little Prince, The Secret Garden, even Dune of all things, curled near the hem like it was hiding from the sun. You’d paired it with a crisp white blouse and your usual boots, and you had a book clip in your hair. A little enamel one. He noticed it right away.

Of course he did.

Nanami Kento notices everything about you. *

It’s sort of his curse.

How you always carry three pens but only use one.

How you count your steps in sets of four when you’re anxious.

How your handwriting changes depending on what mood you’re in—print when you're focused, cursive when you’re tired.

He notices the way you talk to Yuji like he’s an equal, like his little heart and brain are important.

He notices how you tilt your head when you listen, as if you’re cataloguing everything.

How you always stop to look at the clouds before you unlock your car door.

Nanami also notices that today, your earrings are little open books.

He is—officially—losing his mind.

So he tries.

He flirts.

Sort of.

“Your skirt,” he says, that evening at pickup, hands in his coat pockets, “is impressive. Is there... a theme today?”

You blink up at him, squinting against the sun. “Oh! Yeah. It’s Book Fair Week. You know—literacy encouragement and all that.”

“It suits you,” he says.

You smile. “Thanks! It has pockets.”

He almost screams.

*-*

This goes on for weeks. Flirt. Deflect. Flirt. Completely Missed Cue.

And it’s starting to hurt.

Because he really, really likes you.

But at some point—some horrible, cursed point—Nanami starts to wonder if you’re not just missing his signals.

Maybe you're ignoring them.

And not in a way that’s cute or endearing, but in a way that makes his stomach churn with the sharp guilt of a man raised in a country that taught men to be terrifying by default.

Maybe you're being polite.

Maybe you don’t like him, but also don’t want to upset him. Maybe you’re scared to reject him directly, because you don’t know what kind of man he is. Maybe you’ve been trying to gently pull away for weeks, and he’s been too selfish to notice.

So he stops.

Cold turkey.

No more flirtations. No more “thematic” compliments. No more sidelong glances. No more stolen moments when he pretends to touch your hand accidentally while passing you the clipboard.

He goes back to polite. Distant. Formal.

And it kills him.

*-*

It lasts three days.

You're folding chairs after the Friday morning assembly when you finally ask, straight-up, “Nanami-san, are you okay?”

And he just.

Snaps.

Not in an angry way—no, never. He would never raise his voice around you. But everything in him has been packed tight for weeks, and the stress is leaking out through the cracks in his carefully composed self.

“My boss rejected three quarters of my submitted quarterly figures today,” he says flatly. “I have to redo the entire proposal by midnight or risk losing our most lucrative client.”

“Oh.”

“The cat had an allergic reaction to the new litter. We had to rush him to the vet. Yuji cried for an hour. I cried for forty-five minutes. The vet bill is absurd.”

“Oh no.”

“I have not slept properly in four nights.”

“Nanami-san—”

“And I stopped flirting with you because I thought you were trying to let me down gently, and I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, but it’s driving me mad, and I’m exhausted, and I still think about your stupid weather-themed skirt from today—”

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

You look down at your skirt. Pale blue, with clouds stitched along the hem and tiny embroidered suns and raindrops. You paired it with yellow tights and a storm cloud pin.

You wore it because today’s science unit was climate and weather. The kids made rain clouds with cotton balls. Megumi told you that the sun embroidery looked like a fried egg. You’d laughed for a full minute.

Now?

You look at Nanami’s face. Pale. Tight-lipped. Scared.

And suddenly you see it. The way he’s been looking at you for months. The way he tries to speak your language. The way he cares.

“Oh,” you say.

“...I’m sorry,” Nanami adds, voice low. “I didn’t mean to overwhelm you. I just—I couldn’t not say something. Not anymore.”

You nod slowly.

“Well,” you say finally, “me too.”

He blinks. “...What?”

“I like you too,” you say, soft. “You’re very… capable.”

Nanami stares at you.

You smile. Thank him for his honesty.

And walk away.

He stands there at the school gates for an eternity.

Yuji tugs at his pant leg. “Nanamin?”

“…Yes?”

“Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like someone hit you with a dictionary.”

Nanami puts a hand over his face.

*-*

That night, Nanami reevaluates everything.

What did you mean by “me too”? Why did you leave? Did you think he was rejecting you? Did he mess it up? Were you scared again? Did he blow it by being too direct?

He overanalyzes everything. The thank you. The smile. The pause. The weather skirt. The dinosaur nuggets.

He lies in bed and watches the ceiling. He makes a list of every interaction you’ve ever had. He’s going to lose his mind.

*-*

The next day, at pickup, he marches up to you like a man on a mission.

You’re crouching near the garden gate, showing Yuji, Megumi and a gaggle of children a ladybug on your wrist.

He clears his throat.

You look up.

“Oh, Nanami-san! Hi! Look—bug.”

“We need to talk,” he says.

You blink. “Huh?”

“About yesterday.”

You tilt your head. “Which part?”

“The part where we both admitted we liked each other and then you walked away like you’d just told me you liked my tie.”

“Oh,” you say. “That part.”

“Yes. That part.”

You let the ladybug go on a plant, you straighten up, brushing dirt from your palms.

“Sorry,” you say. “I needed to process. I don’t usually—well. Feel things. Like that.”

Nanami tilts his head. “Like what?”

“Big. Loud. Messy things. It’s hard to put them in order. And also... I didn’t want to be wrong.”

You look up at him.

“I do like you,” you say. “I just didn’t know what came next.”

Nanami is quiet for a long moment.

Then he says, “Coffee.”

You blink.

He clears his throat. “Come for coffee. With me. Tomorrow. After school.”

You smile. “Okay.”

Nanami exhales for the first time in months.

Yuji claps. Megumi sighs. Gojo, somewhere in the background (probably in the bushes), yells “I KNEW IT.”

*-*

Okay, so here’s the thing:

Nanami Kento is not someone who typically loses his composure.

He is steady. Reliable. He wears his watch two fingers above the wrist bone because it’s correct, he files his tax return early, and he drinks his coffee black, every time, without fail.

And yet.

The moment he saw you walk into that sleepy, tucked-away coffee shop on the western edge of Tokyo in your goddamn star-themed skirt—he almost dropped the ceramic mug he’d just been handed.

Cardinal blue. Gold thread. Constellations stitched by the gods themselves. The hem swaying just past your knees as you stepped in and shook the drizzle from your worn leather messenger bag. You looked like a vintage painting and smelled like chai and honey and the subtle scent of printer ink from your classroom.

He’s gonna throw up or propose. There is no in-between.

“Hi,” you said softly, pushing a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “Sorry I’m a bit late, I forgot my umbrella and had to borrow a friend’s.”

He stood when you approached, because of course he did, because manners, and helped you hang your bag over the back of the wooden chair. “No problem. I wasn’t waiting long.”

(He was. He got there fifteen minutes early like a weirdo. He’s never been this nervous in his life.)

You sat. The light was warm and soft in the little café, and rain slid in perfect, lazy streaks down the windows.

Aesthetic: immaculate. Your skirt: criminal. Nanami: struggling.

The date? It went stupidly well.

You liked the same books. You both couldn’t stand overly sweet coffee. You told him about your favorite classroom stories—about how Yuji tried to turn a math worksheet into a comic strip, and Megumi once corrected the dictionary in front of the entire class with no shame.

You laughed at his dry commentary. He smiled more than he had in years.

Your foot brushed his under the table by accident (you apologized, he short-circuited). You pointed out the rainbow-colored mug set near the pastry counter and whispered, “I want to live in this café.”

And when it was finally time to go?

It was still pouring.

Of course it was.

So Nanami, ever the gentleman, offered you his umbrella. Walked you to the metro. Held it tilted slightly more over you than himself, because of course he did.

And right there, under the yellow-orange glow of the metro entrance lights, you turned to him and said—

“I had a really nice time.”

He nodded. “Me too.”

Then—

You leaned up and kissed him.

Just.

Kissed him.

Soft. Light. Like stardust and sugar and everything he’d ever wanted. Your fingers brushed his jaw, and your lips pressed gently against his, and then you pulled back and said—

“Thanks for the coffee. See you Monday.”

And just walked away.

You walked away.

And Nanami just.

Stood there.

Absolutely fried.

A blank screen with the cursor blinking.

Then a gust of wind ripped the umbrella out of his hands and he had to chase it down the sidewalk in the rain like a clown, which felt incredibly on brand.

*-*

Pickups after that? Oh.

OH.

Nanami becomes a new man.

There is a kind of pep in his step that could only come from mutually confirmed crushes. He doesn’t skip (he would never), but if he did it would be between 3:18 and 3:22PM every weekday.

You make a point of saying, “Nice tie,” every time he wears the ones that match his socks. He dies. Reincarnates. Dies again.

You keep showing up in your thematic skirts. Snowflakes. Constellations. Pumpkins. Even a ramen-themed one once (he still thinks about that one at night).

You laugh at his dry flirting. You bring him little things—pressed leaves from class activities, sticky notes with Yuji quotes (“My sandwich fell into my feelings”), the occasional ginkgo leaf tucked into the pocket of his coat without him noticing.

He’s thriving.

You start holding hands casually. Nanami’s world explodes quietly in the background every time.

*-*

Then comes Christmas.

The school year winds down. There’s glitter on everything. Paper snowflakes. Holiday cards. Yuji is living on candy canes and joy. You’re exhausted but glowing.

You and Nanami have been dating (yes, dating, real word, real relationship, holy shit) for two months now, and the weekend after Christmas? That’s your dinner date night.

At his place.

Yuji is at Gojo’s with Megumi. Shoko’s coming later. There’s eggnog. It’s chaotic.

But for now?

Just the two of you.

You arrive wearing a dark green wool coat, cheeks flushed from the cold, and underneath—he catches a glint of golden thread.

A skirt again.

Of course.

This one is a deep velvet blue, stitched with little weather motifs—snowflakes, suns, clouds, golden-threaded lightning bolts. When you walk, the hem catches the lamplight like starlight.

Nanami’s already down bad.

You bring a bottle of wine, and two small gifts. He offers you slippers, makes sure the apartment is warm. There’s gentle jazz playing in the background, and the scent of roasted chicken and rosemary lingers in the air from dinner.

It’s quiet, safe, lovely.

When you hand him your gift, his throat tightens: it’s a small book of poetry. Well-worn. Annotated. Tabs and underlines and your handwriting in the margins. “Thought you might like it,” you say. “It’s the one I always borrow from the school library.”

He gives you a scarf, soft cashmere, navy blue to match your cardigan. “I thought it’d go with your weather skirts,” he says softly.

You put it on immediately. “Perfect. Thank you.”

You talk. Eat. Sip wine and tease each other, legs brushing under the table.

And when the plates are cleared, and the movie is halfway in, and the soft sound of wind against the windows hums in the background—

You reach for his hand.

Thread your fingers through his slowly.

He exhales. Tightens his grip. And when he looks over—your eyes are on his mouth.

“Come here,” you whisper.

And that’s the beginning of the end.

The first kiss is slow.

Molten.

You climb into his lap with easy confidence, your thighs straddling him as you pull his cardigan off with practiced hands. “Can I?” you murmur, fingers ghosting the buttons of his shirt.

“God, yes.”

You kiss him like you mean it—mouth warm, insistent, tongue just shy of sinful. He makes a soft sound as you slide your hands under his undershirt, palms smoothing over the firm planes of his stomach. He’s warm, solid, trembling just slightly beneath your touch.

He grips your waist, strong and grounding, then lets one hand drift up your back, feeling every ridge of your spine, every shift in your breath. You shiver, and he doesn’t miss it.

“You cold?” he murmurs against your cheek.

You shake your head. “Warm enough.”

His lips curve. “Let me make sure.”

Nanami carries you to the bedroom. Gently. Reverently.

It’s neat. Softly lit. The bed’s already turned down, the blankets inviting. He sets you down like you’re fragile and precious and peels your cardigan away, fingers brushing your arms like he’s memorizing every inch.

You’re wearing a fitted blouse. He undoes the buttons slowly, one by one, mouth dragging down your collarbone.

He doesn’t rush.

No.

Kento Nanami maps you.

With his mouth.

Your moles, freckles, the faintest scar on your left shoulder—he presses his lips to each one like a cartographer sketching stars. Every kiss is deliberate. Like a prayer.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “You’re so—”

You kiss him again, hands diving into his hair, short blond strands soft between your fingers. You gasp when he pulls your blouse fully off and kisses your sternum, warm mouth leaving heat that pools deep in your belly.

You guide his hand to your skirt.

He raises a brow.

You nod.

And he worships.

When he gets you naked, he doesn't stare. He studies. Like you're a miracle he’s only just earned the right to touch.

His mouth drags down your chest, past your navel, over your hip. You’re shaking by the time he kisses the inside of your thigh.

“Relax,” he murmurs, kissing your knee, your ankle, every delicate part of you. “I’ve got you.”

And he does.

His hands are steady, his mouth sinfully talented. He learns your body by sound—gasps, moans, the sharp inhale you take when his tongue flicks just right.

When you come the first time, you’re half-sobbing, fingers tangled in his hair, thighs clenching around his head.

“Fuck—Kento—”

He just holds you through it.

Kisses your hips as you ride it out. Pulls you up after, wraps you in the blanket for a minute, presses a hand to your chest.

“You okay?”

You blink at him.

“What are you?”

He laughs, low and quiet. “Yours, if you’ll have me.”

Round two begins with you pulling him onto the bed, kissing him slow and sweet and deep. You help him out of his shirt. Then his pants. Your hands roam like you’re learning him too.

“You’re gorgeous,” you breathe, lips against his neck. “So capable. Always holding everything together.”

You kiss down his jaw.

His chest.

Lower.

When you take him into your mouth, he loses it—his hands fisting in the sheets, jaw slack, whispering your name like a sin. You suck him slow. Deep. He’s breathless, ragged, hands trembling when he finally pulls you up.

“Need you,” he growls. “Now.”

You guide him in.

Both of you moaning into each other’s mouths, your nails digging into his back, his lips at your shoulder, your neck—he bites you.

It’s soft. Sharp. Possessive.

You gasp.

“Oh—fuck, do that again—”

He does.

Harder.

You mark him back with your nails.

You ride him, pressed chest-to-chest, whispering praises between every kiss. He holds your hips, guiding your rhythm, groaning your name like it’s the only word he knows.

You both come hard—together.

It’s messy.

Raw.

Feral.

And then it’s tender.

He doesn’t let you move.

He wraps you in blankets, pulls you into his chest, kisses your temple and smooths your hair.

“You’re staying,” he says. “Non-negotiable.”

You hum sleepily. “Good. Too cold to walk anyway.”

“I’ll make you breakfast in the morning.”

“Will it be dinosaur-shaped?”

A low laugh. “I’ll do my best.”

You nuzzle into him. Kiss his neck. He feels the sting from your earlier bite and shivers.

“Marked me,” he murmurs.

“Felt fair,” you reply, dreamy. “You already ruined me.”

He smiles. Kisses your shoulder. “You have no idea.”

*-*

The next morning, Yuji finds Nanami’s cardigan on the lamp.

You wear his shirt to breakfast. He hands you dinosaur pancakes shaped with a cookie cutter. You kiss his cheek.

He pretends he’s not blushing.

You both fail miserably.

A/N:its cute, idc, i needed to write smth cute

Masterlist.

#THATS SO FUCKING CUTE!!!!!!!!?!?!?!??!?!#man...#miss teacher is so cute i love how she themes her outfits. imagine having that kind of wardrobe + organization... goals #but i also love how shes a little oblivious and bad at feelings but KNOWS she is and isnt at all shy about it. shes blunt. love that #nanami is ofc the perfect man as always #but i appreciate that both he and miss teacher are kind of losers about it all. her with the Hot Dad Alert. him running after the umbrella #nerds ♡#jjkposting #sunnyrbs #fic rec

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