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nanamineedstherapy · 2 days ago

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Campus Couples Therapy (CCT)

Summary: Thursdays at the campus counselor’s office were cursed. Unfortunately for her, the most chaotic couples in the city decided she was free group therapy. Warnings: Slice of life Crack, No actual therapy is performed (do NOT use as life advice).

You weren’t even a week into your new job as the university’s career counselor when you learned two important things about the campus:

First, the aerospace engineering students apparently never slept. They drifted into the counseling office at all hours—red-eyed, caffeine-shaky, smelling faintly of burnt solder—asking whether it was “too late” to change majors to something “less mathy.”

Second, there was a group of male idiots roaming the grounds like feral pigeons, collectively lowering the IQ of the institution by simply existing.

The ringleader was easy to spot.

Ryomen Sukuna.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Tattoos curling over his hands and disappearing beneath rolled-up sleeves. Always smirking like he’d just bet someone he could make you mad in under thirty seconds.

You heard about him before you ever saw him—whispers from the admin staff over the printer. “Campus gangster.” “Part-time weed dealer.” “Full-time liability.”

The rest of his posse was a disaster lineup that sounded like the draft picks for some underground sport:

Gojo Satoru—tall, loud, and apparently allergic to shutting up.

Geto Suguru—quieter, but only in the way a man with a full bag of questionable ideas is quiet.

Zenin Toji—built like he should be working in construction, not casually sitting in engineering lectures.

Hajime Kashimo—always dressed like he’d either just come from or was on his way to start a fight.

It would have been fine if they kept to themselves.

They didn’t.

The other thing you learned was that these men had somehow latched onto a set of completely unwilling victims—respectable, intelligent students who looked like they’d accidentally subscribed to an ongoing harassment service with no unsubscribe button.

And somehow… you were starting to suspect you were about to get dragged into whatever this was.

Sukuna & Nanami

Nanami Kento was a PhD student in medical sciences—the sort who arrived at 8:00 AM sharp with a pressed shirt, gold-framed glasses, and a face that could make a grown toddler (Gojo) cry. Even in the humid chaos of campus, he carried himself like an overworked salaryman on his way to file for divorce.

Sukuna saw him once across the library—a fleeting, unremarkable moment for everyone else—and for reasons known only to him, decided that this man would be his personal project.

Not to date. Not even to seduce in any earnest way.

Just to… stick to him like burrs on a sweater.

It became a ritual.

Nanami would claim a desk in the quietest corner of the library, spreading out his papers with the precision of a surgeon laying out scalpels.

Ten minutes later, Sukuna would appear, dropping into the seat across from him with the heavy, deliberate thud of someone who wanted to be noticed. He’d lean forward on his elbows, tattoos peeking from rolled sleeves, grinning lazily.

“If you ever need a sugar daddy to fund your research, baby, I’m available,” Sukuna would say, voice low enough to carry but not low enough for Nanami to pretend he hadn’t heard.

Without even glancing up from his notes, Nanami would reply, “If you ever need a life insurance policy, I’ll gladly recommend one. For your family. Because I will kill you.”

The exchanges never escalated. They didn’t need to.

The real entertainment—at least for Sukuna—was in the persistence. He’d show up at Nanami’s lab under the flimsy excuse of “picking something up” from a mutual acquaintance, leaning against the doorframe until Nanami finished an experiment, just to comment on his “strong hands” or ask if lab coats came in tighter sizes.

Once, on your way past the campus café, you overheard Sukuna telling Gojo, “I’m not even trying to date him. I just like knowing he hates me personally.”

Gojo laughed, clapped him on the back, and said something about “true love in its purest form,” which only seemed to encourage him.

It wasn’t flirtation in the traditional sense.

It was harassment, but wrapped in the strange, almost courteous consistency of a daily newspaper delivery—unwelcome, but inevitable.

Kashimo & Hiromi

Hajime Kashimo was the sort of political science student who could make a crowd gather without trying—the charisma of a cult leader, tempered by the restless energy of a man who might burn the cult down just to see how quickly it’d happen.

He came from a dynasty of powerful politicians, the kind whose names opened doors, got parking tickets forgiven, and, in Kashimo’s case, ensured that his habit of running with drug dealers never seemed to leave a permanent mark on his record.

It was, frankly, baffling to watch him roam with Sukuna’s crew—a tattooed weed peddler, a mechanical engineering ex-con-looking man named Toji, a walking Xanax prescription named Suguru, and Gojo, who was… whatever Gojo was. But Kashimo fit right in, all sharp smiles and unapologetic chaos.

Higuruma Hiromi, on the other hand, came from a rival political family—the kind with less scandal and more cold precision. A law student whose posture was straight enough to pass military inspection, Hiromi wore pressed suits to class and carried himself with the quiet authority of someone who could ruin you with a strongly worded letter. His eyes carried a permanent subtext: I will sue you and win.

They were natural enemies.

Which, in Kashimo’s mind, made them perfect for each other.

Toji & Atusya

Then there was Zenin Toji—a mechanical engineering major, black tank tops year-round, and a jawline that could make your grandma wet too.

His target: Kusakabe Atsuya, doing some degree that you weren’t even sure existed. You’d seen his attendance sheet—half blank, half just “Absent” written in angry red pen.

Toji’s idea of courtship?

Calling him “sleepyhead” and sending 12 “u up?” texts at noon.

Planning dates that he didn’t bother to tell Atusya about until the last second.

Showing up at Atsuya’s dorm with takeout and breaking in when Atsuya didn’t answer the door.

Atusya’s idea of romance?

Sleeping through all of it.

Gojo & Suguru

These two were already dating and used their relationship to make everyone else suffer.

Gojo was an aerospace engineering student (god help you all), and Suguru was in psychology, which just meant Suguru knew exactly how to enable his boyfriend.

Example:

Gojo sending “Nana-chan, Sukuna’s longingly staring at you again 😍” during lectures.

Suguru bringing popcorn to watch Hiromi throw Kashimo out of the law library.

---

Hiromi’s alliance with Nanami was purely transactional—two martyrs shackled to the sinking ship of Campus Morality—both of them spearheaded the campus anti-drug protests, organizing rallies outside the library and petitioning for tighter enforcement on “illegal activities.”

Nanami handled speeches with a single girl dad’s precision. Hiromi handled the legal loopholes and media statements with a headache.

Every. Single. Rally.

Kashimo materialized like a politically funded ghost.

Not protesting. Not heckling. Just… observing.

He’d lounge against the “Drug-Free Campus” banner itself, sunglasses perched on his nose, smirking as he lit Hiromi’s flyers on fire with a monogrammed lighter. “Relax, counselor. Arson’s not on the banned substances list.”

Sukuna and Gojo were his backup dancers.

Sukuna sparked joints directly under Nanami’s nose, crooning, “Breathe deep, Nana-chan. It’s medicinal… for my broken heart.”

Gojo live-tweeted it all, “🔥DAY 7: Nana-chan’s jawline could cut coke. Sukuna’s tears could water it. #ProtestChic”

When Hiromi ran a study group for first-years in the law library, Kashimo appeared, sliding into a seat without invitation.

He never brought notes, never spoke unless directly asked, and when he did, it was to say something like, “Don’t you think we’d look good in court together?”

Hiromi would pause mid-sentence, inhale slowly, and respond in the flattest tone possible, “The only place we’d be together is in a criminal case where I’m prosecuting you.”

By the second week of term, Hiromi was threatening him with assault charges twice a week, sometimes preemptively, as soon as he spotted Kashimo across the quad.

It didn’t deter him.

If anything, it seemed to be exactly the kind of attention Kashimo thrived on.

---

Then came another day when the anti-drug rally was supposed to be serious.

Nanami and Hiromi had invested two weeks in this. Flyers. Sound permits. Atsuya’s attendance (theoretical).

In practice, getting Atsuya to a protest was like trying to get a housecat into a bathtub.

Architecture degree, perpetually tired, attendance sheet a tragic work of red-ink art. Nanami slid energy drinks under his door; Hiromi served fake subpoenas titled “RE: Your Existence as an Event Decoration.”

Both were ignored in favor of “accidentally” sleeping until noon.

So when Atsuya finally arrived halfway through the rally, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, hair flat on one side from a nap, it was a miracle.

A miracle that immediately soured when he pulled out a cigarette, leaned against a sign that read "Drug-Free Campus Now," and lit it.

The problem was, the Sukuna-Satosugu-Kashimo-Toji peanut gallery was already in attendance, scattered along the edge of the crowd like they were watching an outdoor theater performance.

Sukuna stood with his arms folded, eyes locked on Nanami like a cat watching a fishbowl.

Kashimo leaned on the back of a bench, tossing water bottles at Hiromi’s head. “Hydrate or die-drate, gorgeous.”

Gojo was filming everything on his phone. “Suguru, bet 500¥ Nanamin snaps first.”

Suguru was eating potato chips out of a crinkly bag, quietly egging him on for the best angles. “Baby, his tie’s still straight. He’s a pro.”

When Atsuya took his first drag, Hiromi stopped mid-sentence in his speech, climbed down from the podium, and smacked the cigarette out of his mouth. “Are you clinically incapable of reading?!”

Atsuya blinked, slow and unimpressed. “It’s tobacco.”

“It’s performance art,” Kashimo called. “Symbolism, Hiromi! He’s rejecting your oppressive sobriety agenda!”

Before anyone could process, Toji emerged like a tank-top-clad avalanche, like a dog hearing someone raise their voice near its food bowl.

“Hands.” His tone wasn’t loud, but it carried. “Off. My. Investment.”

Hiromi gaped. “You’re defending a smoker at an anti-drug rally?”

Toji puffed his chest. “Tobacco’s a vegetable. My lawyer said so.”

Atsuya facepalmed so hard he nearly napped mid-motion.

Nanami stepped in, tie quivering with rage. “Remove yourselves before I repurpose Sukuna’s spine as a coat rack.”

Sukuna practically purred. “Threaten my boys again, baby, and I’ll sue for custody… of you.” He invaded Nanami’s space, smirking venomously. “Wanna be my dependent?”

“I am not your—” Nanami began, but Kashimo was already sliding in on Hiromi’s other side, pressing chilled Evian to his neck. “You’re flushed. Is it the heat? Or my presence?”

Hiromi hissed, “It’s your impending wrongful death suit.”

“Romantic,” Kashimo sighed. “Write the eulogy together? I’ll bring champagne.”

The rally was halfway through its scheduled two hours when the whole thing collapsed into a standoff worthy of bad campus reality TV.

On one side: Nanami and Hiromi, all righteous purpose and tight shoulders, the only two men on campus who could make holding a clipboard look intimidating. Nanami’s tie was perfectly straight despite the heat or his emotional support object. Hiromi’s suit jacket was still buttoned, and the Evian bottle in his hand was a potential murder weapon.

They looked like they’d stepped out of a campaign poster about civic responsibility by Batman.

On the other hand, Toji, Sukuna, and Kashimo, who hadn’t read the flyer, didn’t care what the rally was about and were clearly only here to enjoy the chaos. Toji was already cracking knuckles, whispering, “Naptime after this, ‘kay?” to Atsuya. Sukuna had that lazy, sharpened grin of his, tracing Nanami’s jawline in the air with a tattooed finger. Kashimo’s hands were in his pockets, rocking back on his heels like a man who’d shown up for a wedding he wasn’t invited to.

The rest of the crowd was already edging back, sensing trouble.

Gojo shoved his phone in Hiromi’s face. “Smile for discovery, lawyer-kun! Hashtag: RallyFail!”

Hiromi’s eye twitched. “I will dissolve your scholarship in court.”

Gojo kept going undeterred, “Cute of you to assume I need a scholarship to be here.”

Suguru crunched chips like a war correspondent. “Awareness exercise! Toji—describe Hiromi’s aura.”

Toji squinted. “Like a pissed-off Chihuahua. Cute.”

Hiromi lunged.

Kashimo caught his wrist. “Assault with intent to adore me? Guilty.”

Sukuna pouted at Nanami. “Yuji’s boyfriend packed him two onigiri today. Where’s my bento, Kento?”

Nanami snapped. “In your delusions. Alongside my affection.”

“Aww, you taglined it!”

Suguru stepped between them, still chewing. “Gentlemen. This is a rally for awareness, not a rally for… whatever this is.”

“What’s your definition of awareness?” Toji asked without looking at him.

“Awareness of each other’s feelings,” Suguru said, deadpan.

Gojo laughed so loudly it echoed off the library walls. “You sound like my therapist. Wait, no, you sound like your therapist.”

He turned his phone back on Nanami. “Quick, Nanamin, tell us how you feel about Sukuna staring at you like that.”

“My feelings,” Nanami said evenly, “are that I would like him to be arrested.”

“Aww, will you come visit me in prison with that tight ass of yours, baby?” Sukuna asked, his curiosity evident.

The question was so absurd that Nanami Kento sputtered for a full moment before finally looking away.

Meanwhile, Hiromi was still gripping the Evian bottle like it was a weapon. “Kashimo, if you don’t leave right now, I will—”

“Will what?” Kashimo interrupted. “Sue me? You’d lose. I’ve got better lawyers.”

“Those lawyers work for your father,” Hiromi said, his voice going flat and cold. “And your father still lost the last municipal election to mine.”

“Rival families.” It was unclear whether Kashimo didn’t hear him or simply didn’t care. “Face it, Hiromi—we’re Romeo & Juliet with better lawyers. My dad’s suing yours over parking fines as we speak.”

Hiromi looked ready to combust. “I. Hate. You.”

Kashimo beamed. “Now that’s a love confession. Your honor, I rest my case.”

Before the shouting could escalate, Gojo threw himself between the two “teams,” arms wide like a human barricade. “Okay, okay, everybody calm down before we get expelled for disrupting college property. Which, by the way, would be good for my epic fails compilations, but still.”

Suguru sidled in beside him. “If anyone’s going to get expelled, it should be me. I’ve been planning for it all semester.”

“This is not helping,” Hiromi snapped.

“It’s not hurting either,” Gojo said. “And my beautiful princess with a disorder gets whatever he wants.”

Suguru grinned smugly from behind Gojo.

Campus security arrived to Nanami strangling Sukuna with his own lanyard, Toji carrying Atsuya off like loot, and Kashimo bribing officers with “recovery water” for Hiromi.

Sukuna blew Nanami a kiss. “Same time Thursday, sugartits?”

Nanami’s reply was muffled by security hauling him away.

Gojo waved his phone. “Viral! #RallyRumble #SimpKuna”

Suguru sighed dreamily. “True love is so messy.”

Kashimo trailed after Hiromi with two more bottles of expensive water, apparently prepared for a full day of rejection.

---

Then They Came to You

It was a Thursday, which already had a reputation for going wrong.

Not in the ‘paper jam’ sense. In the ‘Japanese gods drawing straws to see who gets to ruin your life’ sense.

Thursdays were when the universe remembered you worked in this office and sent its most chaotic emissaries to test your will to live.

The knock never came. Instead, the door slammed open with the force of a small car accident, making your pen skid a jagged line across your neat margin notes.

Sukuna strolled in—if ‘strolled’ could describe a man moving like the physical embodiment of a bad decision—smirk loaded with intent and the gait of a man who’d never once considered knocking.

Nanami followed, wearing the expression of a man who’d just been told he had to disarm a bomb with a teaspoon—he looked like he’d been yanked directly from his lab just to endure this humiliation.

Sukuna planted himself in the middle of the room and announced, “We need couples therapy.”

You blinked slowly. “...Congratulations on the relationship—”

“We are not in a relationship,” Nanami cut in, voice flat enough to level a bookshelf.

“Exactly,” Sukuna crossed his arms. “And I need to know why.”

You set your pen down as if it might be the last object you’d handle before homicide. “I’m a career counselor. I help students find jobs. I don’t—” you made aggressive air quotes “—do ‘romantic interventions.’”

Sukuna dropped into a chair like he was claiming disputed land. “Write this down: discrimination against young, self-made entrepreneurs.”

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. “He’s a drug dealer.”

“See?” Sukuna grinned. “We’re communicating.”

Before you could banish them, the door banged open again.

This time it was Toji, all black tank top and shoulder muscle, dragging Atsuya by the hood of his sweatshirt like a mother cat carrying an uncooperative kitten.

He deposited him in the empty chair next to Sukuna. “Fix him. Keeps ditchin’ my dates.”

Atsuya didn’t open his eyes. "Sleeping isn’t ghosting. It’s self-care."

You held up a finger. “Not a couple. Not my problem.”

“Not yet,” Toji corrected, puffing his chest. “I installed blackout curtains, and last week I got him 50 energy drinks! Strategic courtship."

Atsuya cracked one eye. "I kept one. Evidence for the restraining order."

Toji beamed, satisfied. "See? He’s sentimental."

Then Atsuya made direct eye contact with you and mouthed, "Help me."

You mouthed back, “Earn it.”

Ten minutes later, you were considering locking the door.

Because you barely had time to draw breath before Kashimo burst in like the problem child of an energy drink and a cult initiation, one hand on the shoulder of Hiromi—immaculate suit, immaculate hair, immaculate scowl.

Kashimo grinned at you like you were a receptionist at a hotel. “We need counseling.”

“We need a restraining order,” Hiromi countered, trying to peel him off. Failed.

Kashimo slapped a fake subpoena on your desk. “Article 5, Section B: Defendant must kiss plaintiff by sunset.”

Hiromi tore it in half without looking. “Campus bylaw 4.2: Public Nuisances. Penalty: 500 feet.”

You pushed your chair back so hard it squeaked, planting your palms on the desk. “Here’s how this works: I charge ¥50,000 an hour for this circus. Pay up, or get out.”

Gojo’s voice drifted in from the doorway. “Kinky.”

And just when you thought the room couldn’t get more crowded, the final nail in your professional coffin—Gojo and Suguru sauntered in without knocking, carrying iced coffees and a bag of caramel popcorn like they were here for a matinee.

“And I’m charging double,” you said, pointing at the door. “First idiot to say ‘sexual tension’ owes me ¥100,000.”

“We don’t need therapy.” Gojo sat down on the floor. “We’re here for bro support.”

“And to judge.” Suguru added, already unwrapping a chocolate bar. His psychology textbook poked out of his bag, as if to mock you.

You ignored them, flipping open your laptop. “Fine. Let’s start. Who’s going first?”

Sukuna leaned forward like he’d already bought the VIP package. “We are.”

Nanami didn’t look up. “If you think I’m going to dignify this—”

“You’re like a hot DILF when you’re righteous,” Sukuna grinned.

“Die,” Nanami looked away, the tips of his ears red from anger or embarrassment; no one dared point out.

You didn’t even blink. “And now you owe me ¥100,000.”

Nanami glanced at you with something almost like gratitude.

Toji elbowed Atsuya like he was waking a teammate on the bench. “Tell her how you feel about us.”

Atsuya didn’t open his eyes. “It’s fake.”

Toji smirked. “That’s my sleepyhead. Always playin’ hard to get.”

“Can I leave?” Atsuya asked.

“No,” Toji said, without even looking at him. “We’re in therapy. This is intimacy.”

Meanwhile, Kashimo had leaned so far into Hiromi’s space, like an albino rat circling expensive cheese. “I think our biggest problem is sexual tension.”

“Our biggest problem,” Hiromi said, voice like a scalpel, “is that you exist.”

Nanami groaned from his corner. “You sell drugs on campus. You are a criminal.”

Sukuna flicked his forehead. “I’m saving up for our kid’s college fund, baby. That’s called long-term planning.”

You pointed your pen at Sukuna. “Your idea of a ‘college fund’ is two duffel bags and plausible deniability.”

Atsuya, eyes still closed, leaned into Toji’s shoulder like gravity had given up on him. “I literally don’t know why I’m here.”

Toji’s hand automatically landed on his head. “Because I like you, you sleepy bastard.”

Atsuya tried to roll away from Toji’s massive grip. Failed. “…And that’s my problem.”

Hiromi crossed his arms. “Hajime, we have nothing in common.”

Kashimo passed him a chilled Evian like it was a peace treaty. “We both hate everyone else in this room. That’s romance.”

Gojo, talking through a mouthful of popcorn, said, “Except me.”

Everyone, without missing a beat, yelled, “Shut up, Gojo.”

Suguru was quietly taking notes—not for therapy, but like he was preparing an assassination dossier. Every few lines, he’d lean toward Gojo and murmur something that made him grin like someone had just handed him a flamethrower.

You clapped your hands once, hard enough to make Atsuya twitch. “Alright, ground rules. No touching without consent, no bribes under ¥10,000, and if you say ‘soulmate’ in my office, I bill extra.”

Sukuna ignored that completely. “Why won’t he meet my parents?”

Nanami’s head snapped toward him. “Because I refuse to acknowledge the gene pool that spawned you.”

Sukuna frowned like a chonky hamster, “They’re nice! My mom makes great rice balls.”

Nanami glared. “Your mother, Mrs. Kaori, tried to sell me edibles.”

Suguru snorted coffee out his nose.

You nodded. “Genetic contamination concerns are valid. Next couple.”

Toji jabbed a thumb at Atsuya. “He keeps skipping my dates. I plan romantic stuff.”

Atsuya yawned. “You planned paintball at 8 AM.”

Toji spread his arms like this was irrefutable. “Prime romance hour. You break a sweat, you bond.”

Atsuya muttered, “For war crimes maybe.”

Kashimo suddenly put on a fake-serious face. “Hiromi won’t even consider giving me enemies-to-lovers head—”

Hiromi smacked the back of his head. “Finish that sentence and I will litigate.”

Kashimo pointed at the concept of Hiromi’s existence. “See? This is our problem. No intimacy.”

Hiromi’s jaw tightened. “You set my case notes on fire.”

“Accidentally.”

“You yelled ‘watch this’ first.”

Gojo raised a hand like a game show host. “So the takeaway here is that love comes in many forms—”

Suguru sipped his coffee. “—and some of them are felonies.”

“Exactly,” Gojo said, winking at Suguru. “But not for us. We’re elite.”

Thirty minutes in, the ‘session’ had turned into open warfare.

Sukuna leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “If you just admitted you liked me, we could end world hunger.”

Nanami didn’t flinch. “If rejecting you could cure cancer, we’d have a global shortage of hospitals.”

Toji was trying to convince Atsuya that breaking into his dorm was a ‘grand romantic gesture.’ “He calls my dorm invasions 'home invasions'—when it’s clearly just surprise cohabitation!”

Atsuya was explaining how that was literally home invasion. “Surprise felony isn’t foreplay.”

You scribbled on your pad: Defendant believes crime = courtship. Refer to a law textbook, any of them.

Kashimo tried sliding cash across your desk. “Write ‘Go on a date with him’ on his career plan. For love.”

Hiromi’s eyes narrowed. “I will sue both of you.”

You didn’t look up. “Great. Double-billable hours.”

Gojo had been livestreaming the whole thing to an unknown audience.

Suguru tapped his chin. “Let’s go around and name one thing we like about our… partner.”

“He’s punctual,” Nanami said dryly, “about ruining my day.”

Sukuna grinned. “His tits are immaculate.”

Nanami made a move for his throat; Gojo blocked him with one arm and kept eating popcorn.

“He brings me food,” Atsuya mumbled.

Toji smirked. “Progress.”

“He’s loaded,” Kashimo said, twirling a strand of his own hair.

“He’s not in prison yet,” Hiromi said, trying to find a way out of this room of drug dealers.

Gojo raised his cup. “I love that we’re perfect and make everyone else feel bad about it.”

Suguru clinked his drink to his. “To us.”

Nanami deadpanned, "His ability to exist silently. A skill he’s yet to demonstrate."

Sukuna’s grin went feral. “The way his eyelashes flutter when he imagines my murder.”

You lifted your coffee in a mock toast. “Mutual toxicity. Billable.”

By the end, Sukuna had booked “weekly therapy” just to be in Nanami’s space, Toji was asking if therapy couches came in king-size “for cuddle emergencies” (Atsuya slow-rolled away), and Kashimo was slipping you more cash to convince Hiromi to meet him for dinner.

“Hiromi looks cute in handcuffs,” Kashimo said.

Hiromi surged to his feet; Gojo tripped him before he could lunge.

Then Gojo promised to bring “more clients” next Thursday “so it’s like a season finale.”

You closed your note titled "Retirement Fund: Hostage Situation Log"—not that you’d written anything useful—and wondered if war correspondence might actually be a quieter job.

Because at least in a war zone, people got paid to be insane.

---

Six months later, your office still smelled like stale coffee and poor life choices.

You’d just submitted a request to have your job title officially changed to Unhinged Containment Specialist when the door swung open hard enough to rattle the frame.

Toji walked in carrying Atsuya—not over the shoulder, not dragging—carrying him like a smug shoplifter holding the world’s laziest prize.

Atsuya’s hood was pulled low, breathing slow, clearly mid-nap.

“We worked it out,” Toji announced, like he was at a press conference. “Turns out if you install a king-size nap pod in his dorm and stock it with his chips, he stops ghosting you.”

Atsuya cracked an eye. “It’s not ghosting if I never agreed to the date in the first place.” A pause. “But yeah, the blackout curtains helped.” Then he closed his eyes again like the conversation had already taken too much energy.

You stared. This was the man who once broke into Atsuya’s room to build a pyramid of energy drink cans tall enough to violate safety codes. Now he looked like he’d converted to the Church of Sleeping Catboys in the form of a napping architecture student.

“…Congrats?” you tried.

Toji set Atsuya on your couch—careful, but still with the air of someone tossing a duffel bag. “Nah. We’re here ’cause the lawyer’s about to lose his mind.” He jerked a thumb at the hallway. “And Gojo wants footage for his drama channel.”

Minutes later, Hiromi stormed in like a thundercloud in a tailored suit. His tie was crooked. His eyes said homicide.

“Explain,” he hissed, slamming a newspaper onto your desk.

Headline: Rival Dynasties Unite! Higuruma Heir Engaged to Hajime Scion in Shocking Alliance

Photo: Hiromi and Kashimo badly photoshopped into a gala picture, both looking like hostages.

You held up your hands. “If I’d planned this, there would’ve been pyrotechnics and a restraining order.”

“My parents,” Hiromi snapped, “announced it at a fundraiser. Before telling me. ‘Strategic merger.’ They sold me like a racehorse.”

The door swung open again.

Kashimo leaned in the doorway, smirk sharp like this was the best day of his life. “Relax, gorgeous. I negotiated terms.”

He tossed a document onto your desk. “Prenup’s airtight. Section 4a: you get the penthouse when you inevitably stab me.”

Hiromi’s eye twitched. “You knew?!”

“Found out this morning,” Kashimo shrugged. “Mom texted: ‘Wear blue to the engagement shoot, darling! P.S. You’re marrying the Higuruma boy.’”

He winked. “I did send flowers to your dorm. Forever ones. You ignored them.”

Hiromi looked ready to leap across the desk. “I thought they were a bomb!”

“Romantic,” Kashimo sighed.

Nanami and Sukuna appeared in the doorway like they’d been drawn by the sound of chaos.

“Aw, Thunderbolt’s getting hitched!” Sukuna crowed, smacking Kashimo’s back. “Need a best man? I’ve got knives. Will kill anyone who objects.”

“I’ll officiate if it speeds up the divorce,” Nanami muttered to Hiromi like he was offering condolence.

Gojo and Suguru arrived next, wheeling in an actual popcorn machine.

“We’re live!” Gojo shouted, phone in hand. “#WeddingOfTheYear! Donate to Hiromi’s escape fund!”

Hiromi flipped through the prenup, looking like each clause personally offended him. “‘Joint custody of the hedge fund’? ‘Mandatory date nights’? And what’s clause 7b?”

Kashimo leaned close. “That’s the fun one. We have to at least try consummating before annulment.”

Hiromi recoiled. “I’d rather make out with a toaster.”

“Kinky,” Gojo approved.

You massaged your temples. “Alright, options: one, elope to a country with no extradition treaty; two, fake your death; three—”

“—embrace it,” Toji cut in, stroking Atsuya’s hair while he dozed. “I kidnapped ’Tsuya for months. Now he wears my hoodies. Love’s weird.”

You and Nanami shared a look that said, ‘don’t acknowledge the nickname.’

Atsuya murmured without opening his eyes, “Still have the energy drink can. Evidence for the trial.”

Kashimo slid a new document toward Hiromi. “Counteroffer?”

THE KASHIMO-HIGURUMA NON-AGGRESSION PACT

Article 1: No arson during marital disputes.

Article 3: Mutual veto power on hideous wedding china.

Article 5: Weekly dinners where you try not to poison me.

Hiromi stared. “This is insane.”

“So’s your family auctioning you off,” Kashimo countered. “But my plan has perks.”

He tapped another clause. “I send you dirt on your dad’s tax evasion. You ‘forget’ to bust my weed business.”

Nanami adjusted his glasses. “…That’s almost pragmatic.”

“Almost?” Hiromi snapped.

Kashimo smirked. “C’mon, marry me. We’d make power couples look boring.” He nudged Hiromi’s foot. “Plus, it’ll piss off both our dads.”

Hiromi stared at him for a long moment. “…Do I get to pick the divorce lawyer?”

“Baby,” Kashimo said smoothly, “I’ll be your divorce lawyer.”

---

One month later, the Thursday curse hadn’t lifted.

It had just… evolved.

The door to your office didn’t slam anymore—now it swung open with the smug weight of routine.

Sukuna stepped in first, looking like a man who’d spent months being wrong about everything but refused to admit it.

“We have a problem,” he said, like it was an urgent matter of national security.

Nanami followed, a stack of lab papers in hand, looking like he’d been dragged away from something far less disgusting—possibly dissecting live snakes.

“You have a problem,” Nanami corrected. “I have a chronic migraine named Ryomen Sukuna.”

Sukuna ignored him completely. “My brothers are in better relationships than me.”

You leaned back in your chair. “Tragic. I’ll start a candlelight vigil.”

Gojo and Suguru wandered in next, Gojo pouting like a kid who’d just been told Santa unfollowed him.

“And it’s not just his brothers,” Gojo added. “We were supposed to be the model couple on campus.”

Suguru shrugged. “Apparently not.”

You raised an eyebrow. “This is about Choso and Ino, isn’t it?”

The groan that escaped Sukuna was half-defeat, half-offended pride. “It’s about both of them. First, Choso—my younger brother—goes and gets himself a graphic design boyfriend who listens to him and actually packs him lunch. Lunch! Who does that?”

Nanami deadpanned, “Functional adults.”

“And then,” Sukuna went on, stabbing a finger at you, “Yuji—my baby brother—starts dating Megumi. And Megumi’s in veterinary school, which means he’s like… compassionate or some crap.”

You tapped your pen against your desk. “So your brothers found men who feed them, remember their birthdays, and don’t threaten to kill them fifteen times a day.”

“Sixteen today,” Nanami said without missing a beat.

Gojo crossed his arms. “But we were supposed to be the peak. The blueprint. The—”

“—campus yaoi power couple?” you cut in.

Gojo brightened instantly. “Exactly!”

“Sorry to break it to you,” you said, leaning back, “but apparently peak romance isn’t weaponized codependency. It’s knowing your partner’s coffee order and not turning public places into your foreplay stage.”

Suguru coughed into his fist to hide a laugh.

Sukuna jabbed a thumb at him. “See? Even he thinks it’s a problem!”

Suguru smiled lazily. “No. I think it’s hilarious.”

By now, your compassion reserves for these men had been bankrupt for months.

You pointed toward the door. “Go watch your brothers be happy. Learn how to hold a conversation without escalating it to a death threat.”

Nanami adjusted his stethoscope. “I’d settle for him going thirty seconds without speaking.”

“Impossible,” you said. “That would be character development.”

Sukuna pointed at you like you’d just kicked his puppy. “You’re supposed to be on our side.”

“I am,” you said sweetly. “On the side of anyone who keeps you farthest from my office.”

---

Same time next week, it began—like most bad ideas—with Sukuna pacing your office like a tiger that had just spotted another predator in its zoo enclosure.

“They think they’re better than me,” he muttered, jaw tight, rings clicking as his hands flexed.

You didn’t look up from your email. “They are better than you.”

He froze mid-step, narrowing his eyes. “You’re doing that thing where you antagonize me on purpose.”

“It’s called accuracy.”

Nanami was leaning against the filing cabinet, still in his lab coat from the morning lecture, scrolling his phone. “Why am I here again?”

Sukuna spun on him, stabbing the air like this was a PowerPoint presentation. “Because I need to observe them. Figure out their… tactics.”

Gojo, perched on the edge of your desk like a very smug white pigeon, tilted his head. “Reconnaissance? You gonna take notes, big guy?”

“Maybe I will,” Sukuna said.

From the corner, Suguru sipped his coffee. “You do realize you’re talking about your brothers like they’re enemy combatants, right?”

“Exactly.”

The ‘plan’—if you could call it that without insulting actual plans—took shape in under ten minutes. Sukuna, Gojo, Nanami, and Suguru would casually ‘pass through’ the campus courtyard where Choso and Ino usually had lunch, conveniently timed for when Yuji and Megumi left anatomy lab.

For your own amusement, you suggested they “blend in.”

They took that to mean:

Gojo wearing a baseball cap like he was on the lam.

Sukuna in an oversized hoodie that made him look like he’d robbed a Hot Topic.

Suguru carrying a sketchbook for ‘cover.’

Nanami holding a campus map like he was auditioning to be an undercover cop in a bad TV show.

They parked themselves on a bench under a ginkgo tree, pretending to admire the fountain.

You followed with your iced coffee because if this train wreck happened, you wanted first-row seats.

Choso arrived first, with paint on his hands and a portfolio case slung over his shoulder. Ino was already at their table, unpacking an actual bento box. He waved Choso over with the ease of someone who had never communicated through passive-aggressive Post-its.

“See that?” Sukuna hissed. “Home-cooked food. He feeds him.”

Nanami didn’t glance up. “I feed myself. Revolutionary concept.”

Before Sukuna could bite back, Yuji jogged into view, backpack bouncing. Megumi followed at a calmer pace, expression mildly annoyed but eyes soft—like he’d already forgiven whatever chaos Yuji caused in the last ten minutes. Yuji carried a smoothie in one hand and a wrapped sandwich in the other.

“That’s two food-based acts of service,” Sukuna said sharply. “Two.”

Gojo patted his shoulder. “Maybe your love language is starvation.”

At their tables, the couples settled in, blissfully unaware they were under deeply incompetent surveillance from fifteen feet away.

Choso pulled a jar of homemade pickles from his bag. Ino laughed, brushing a speck of paint off his cheek. Sukuna visibly stiffened.

Yuji animatedly told a story, gesturing so wide he nearly took out the smoothie. Megumi caught it one-handed, never breaking eye contact, still listening.

Suguru rested his chin in his palm. “You know… they’re just nice to each other. No power plays. No weird dominance games.”

“Boring,” Gojo declared.

“Functional,” Nanami corrected.

Sukuna scowled. “I don’t see what’s so special.”

Right on cue, Ino leaned closer, murmured something to Choso that made him go pink. Yuji passed Megumi a napkin before he even asked.

Sukuna made a sound like he’d just bitten into a lemon. “…Okay. I see what’s so special.”

That might have been the end of it—just a quiet spiral into jealousy—if Gojo hadn’t decided to “get closer for better intel.”

He slid off the bench, pretending to stretch, and sauntered toward the fountain. “Gonna get some ambiance shots,” he called back, holding up his phone.

You took a slow sip of your iced coffee. You’d seen enough disasters to recognize the opening scene.

Gojo didn’t just walk past the couples. He stopped right next to them, raised his phone, and chirped, “Smile!”

Yuji blinked. “Uh… hi?”

“Don’t mind me,” Gojo said brightly. “Just documenting true love for the gram.”

Ino squinted. “Aren’t you—”

“—Gojo Satoru,” Choso finished flatly. “Sukuna’s… friend?”

On the bench, Sukuna stiffened.

All four heads turned toward him.

Megumi’s gaze flicked over the hoodie, the sunglasses, and Nanami’s campus map. “…Are you spying on us?”

“No,” Sukuna said. Way too fast.

“Sure looks like it,” Ino muttered.

Choso raised an eyebrow. “You’re sitting under a tree, staring at us, with your entire little gang. In disguise.”

“I’m not part of his gang.” Nanami protested, slamming the map shut.

“Not a disguise,” Gojo said, still filming.

“Looks like one,” Ino muttered.

And then Toji arrived late, dragging a very drowsy Atsuya behind him like a kid’s helium balloon. “What’d we miss?”

“Subtle surveillance,” Suguru said dryly.

“Cool,” Toji replied, shoving Atsuya down next to him. “Is this the part where we yell at ‘em? I brought energy drinks.”

Atsuya cracked one eye. “I’m not here willingly.”

“Kidnapping’s just surprise quality time,” Toji said, patting his head.

Before Sukuna could recover, Kashimo strolled up with Hiromi in tow—Hiromi’s jaw clenched like he’d been dragged into hell in broad daylight.

“What’s the op?” Kashimo asked, peering toward the couples.

“Apparently,” Nanami muttered, “envy.”

Hiromi’s eyes narrowed. “You idiots are spying on your relatives?”

“Research,” Sukuna corrected.

Yuji leaned forward from his table, chin in hand. “Why would you spy on us?”

Sukuna opened his mouth, but Nanami cut in, “Because he’s pathologically competitive and insecure.”

You snorted. Loudly.

The whole “mission” fell apart in under sixty seconds. Yuji and Megumi stood and walked over, Choso and Ino close behind, bento box still open.

Megumi crossed his arms. “What was the plan? Score us like a sports event?”

Gojo grinned. “A-minus. Needs more PDA.”

“Not helping,” Suguru muttered.

Ino smirked at Sukuna. “You’re jealous.”

“Am not.”

“Sounds like jealousy,” Yuji said.

“Am not!”

Choso stared at Sukuna, eyes narrowing. “You’re jealous. I’ll let Kaori know.”

“Don’t tell Mom. I’m not jealous.”

Kashimo, clearly enjoying the show, nudged Hiromi. “See? We’re normal compared to them.”

Hiromi didn’t blink. “We are not normal.”

Toji leaned back with a smug grin. “I’m winning though. Mine doesn’t even leave the house anymore.”

Atsuya, eyes still closed, said, “Stockholm syndrome isn’t winning.”

Yuji tilted his head at Sukuna. “What exactly are you jealous of? We’re just… dating. You could date someone too, y’know.”

Sukuna gestured wildly at Nanami. “I am—”

Nanami cut him off immediately. “We are not dating.”

Megumi deadpanned to Yuji, “Healthy.”

You laughed again—not even trying to hide it.

Satisfied with their moral victory, the couples went back to their tables. Yuji stole a pickle from Choso’s jar; Megumi handed him a fork without looking. Ino slid another bento divider closer to Choso. Kashimo loudly declared he and Hiromi should “outdo them next Thursday.” Hiromi threatened litigation.

Back at the bench, Sukuna sank deeper into his hoodie like it was a foxhole. Gojo muttered about “rebranding their image.” Toji offered Atsuya the last chip in his bag and was promptly ignored. Kashimo was already plotting next week’s sabotage. Nanami checked his watch and muttered about wasted time.

You stood, tossed your cup in the trash, and glanced over the lot of them.

“Next time you want to feel bad about yourselves,” you said, “don’t make me an accessory.”

Then you turned and awakened off.

You could still hear Gojo behind you: “So… next Thursday, same time?”

---

One week later, Toji and Atsuya were spotted napping in a lecture hall supply closet—Atsuya curled up like a cat, using Toji’s abs as a pillow.

“He’s comfy,” Atsuya told the bewildered professor, who’d just opened the door, blinking up like he’d been caught mid-dream. “And he doesn’t snore anymore. Progress.”

Toji didn’t even look embarrassed. “We’re testing the acoustics.”

Meanwhile, Hiromi and Kashimo dominated the society pages again.

The photograph was a study in contrasts: Kashimo in a cobalt-blue suit, grinning like he’d just won a bet against God; Hiromi standing at his side, jaw locked, eyes like he’d swallowed a wasp and it was still alive in there.

The caption read: Love’s Bitter Pill.

By noon, Sukuna had printed fifty copies of the article, scrawled NEED A DATE? in Sharpie across his own forehead in each, and mailed them all to Nanami.

Nanami used them for target practice in the lab. His med classmates still found confetti-like shreds of Sukuna’s face in the recycling bin a week later.

When you came into your office, there was a pile of gifts waiting:

A “#1 Trauma Counselor” mug (from Gojo—the irony wasn’t lost on you).

A stapled, 23-page draft titled When Kashimo Inevitably Ruins Your Life (from Hiromi).

A single brass key labeled “Nap Pod” in Atsuya’s handwriting, taped to the side of a snack-sized bag of chips (from Toji).

On top sat a folded note, written in a mishmash of pen colors and handwriting styles:

Thanks for nothing. See you Thursday.

– The Happy(??) Couples

P.S. Satoru’s streaming the wedding. Wear fireproof gear.

You sipped coffee from your new mug, stared at the key for a long moment, and thought—maybe naps were the answer after all.

---

Twenty Years Later, It was a rainy afternoon in the campus café—or rather, what used to be the campus café, now a wine bar with too much reclaimed wood and not enough decent lighting. The six of them sat at their usual pushed-together tables, though ‘usual’ now meant once a year at best.

The empty ninth chair stayed empty.

Nanami adjusted his reading glasses, leaning back in his chair like his spine had finally started charging him interest. His wedding band glinted under the light as he nursed a coffee. “I got the memorial invite this morning. You all going?”

“Obviously,” Sukuna said. He looked the same, only with more ink, less hair, and a face that had grown comfortable in its own shamelessness. “The counselor was the only reason I didn’t get expelled for… most things.”

“You mean the counselor keeping the administration from noticing half your crimes,” Nanami corrected.

Gojo was already halfway through his wine. “She still dated Yuki though. Whole time we thought she was single, and she was having—”

“—an actual adult relationship,” Suguru finished, shaking his head in mock disbelief. His hair had silvered at the temples, but he still had that therapist’s smooth cadence, like every sentence had been proofread in his head before leaving his mouth. “Professor Yuki’s.. was a good match for her. Sharp. Knows how to keep secrets.”

“Back then, we didn’t even think she had a personal life,” Hiromi said. His tailored suit was sharper than ever, and his wedding band matched the gold pin on his lapel. “And here we were making her babysit our disasters every Thursday.”

Kashimo lounged next to him, bright cyan hair streaked with white, suit jacket hanging loose over the chair. “Babysitting’s what she lived for. You think she stayed late because she liked paperwork? Nah. She liked the entertainment.”

“She hated the chaos,” Atsuya mumbled from behind his coffee, dark circles under his eyes—not from all-nighters anymore, but from having four kids under ten. “She told me once she’d rather fight a bear than listen to you two argue about prenups again.” He jabbed his thumb toward Hiromi and Kashimo.

Toji chuckled, his hands big and calloused from decades of mechanical work. “And yet she still came to all our weddings.” He tilted his head toward Atsuya. “Even ours. Twice.”

“That’s ‘cause you forgot to file the paperwork the first time,” Atsuya deadpanned.

Gojo grinned, swirling his glass. “You think she’d be proud of us now?”

Nanami snorted. “No. But she’d at least be relieved none of us committed a felony this year.”

“Speak for yourself,” Sukuna muttered, smirking into his drink.

Kashimo leaned back, stretching. “I dunno. I think she’d be proud. We turned out… fine. Mostly married. Gainfully employed. Kids that aren’t in juvie.”

Hiromi’s mouth twitched into something dangerously close to a smile. “And we still meet on Thursdays.”

The rain hit harder against the windows. The empty chair stayed empty, but none of them rushed to fill it.

---

A/N:

This is for my Sukuna x Nanami agenda along with Choso x Ino, Toji x Atsuya & Kashimo x Hiromi with SatoSugu & ItaFushi for morale support.

Canon compliance was abandoned at the door. If you’re looking for accuracy, you won’t find it here (Bc Toji & Megumi are somehow same age???)—but if you’re here for petty arguments, ridiculous ships, & the slow emotional breakdown of one poor campus counselor… welcome. FYI, I normally don't write this much out of script but its kind of a destress project.

Sukuna/Nanami (a feral pigeon gangster with a toxic obsession on a tsundere), Kashimo/Hiromi (enemies to lovers), Toji/Atsuya (himbo x tired catboy), & Gojo/Suguru (chaotic yaoi bystanders).

Thank you for reading this chaos experiment. The counselor deserved hazard pay, but at least she got a nap pod key. Comments, reblogs, & screaming in the tags are appreciated—I read them all while pretending to be productive.

All Works Masterlist

37 notes · View notes

velvetghoul · 29 days ago

Text

Possession

Reader x Megumi Fushiguro | 18+ MDNI

cw: soft smut, unresolved tension, slight corruption vibes, post-possession Megumi, dominant Megumi, height difference, age gap (25 x 23), tattoos, eye contact, pinning, kusakabe being a father figure for reader, gojo being a menace

⸻

You hadn’t even planned to stay. Just drop the scrolls off at Gojo’s desk, roll your eyes at whatever idiotic comment he’d make, and be out the door before anyone even clocked you. That was the idea.

But then he walked in.

You’d heard the rumors. That Megumi had taken back control. That he wasn’t fully himself anymore—but wasn’t fully Sukuna either. That something strange lived just behind those eyes now. And that somehow, in the years since everything fell apart, he’d survived. Changed. Grown.

But you weren’t expecting this.

He was taller. Much taller. A full head and a half above you, with a frame broad enough to make the doorway seem too small for a second. His hair was shorter and ink sprawled across his body—black tattoos curling up from under his sleeves, like shadows dancing just beneath his skin.

“Damn,” you muttered, not even trying to hide the grin tugging at your lips, “you got old, Fushiguro. And hot.”

He blinked once, slow—like a cat sizing up prey—then that smug fucking smirk crept up his face. “Yeah,” he said, voice lower than you remembered, rougher. “That’s what happens after having five birthdays.”

You scoffed. “Cute. Still got a smart mouth, huh?”

He stepped closer. Just a little. But it was enough to feel the way the air shifted—enough to make your breath catch in your throat. And his eyes? They didn’t leave yours once.

“You’re still short,” he muttered, tilting his head. “I thought age came with height.”

You clicked your tongue. “I’m two years older than you, asshole.”

“That’s adorable,” he murmured. And his voice—god, his voice—was so casual, so quiet, but you felt it like heat brushing over your skin. “You think that gives you the upper hand.”

You meant to roll your eyes. Meant to shove past him, grab your bag, say something sharp and get the hell out. But you didn’t. Because his hand was already brushing past your waist, fingers grazing the fabric of your shirt, like he was daring you to move.

“What are you doing?” you whispered.

He leaned in, and his breath was warm on your ear. “Just getting a better look. You’ve changed too.”

Your mouth parted, but no sound came. Because now his hand was on your hip—firm. Confident. Like he knew he could touch you. Like he already had in another life.

“You’re not the same,” you whispered.

“No,” he said simply. “I’m not.”

His lips ghosted your jaw. Barely there, a teasing press of heat. But the way your knees nearly buckled under it? Pathetic.

“You should go,” he murmured.

“You should stop touching me.”

He chuckled, the sound low and indulgent. “You don’t want me to stop.”

“You don’t know what I want.”

He pressed you into the wall so fast you barely had time to register it. His palm flat beside your head. The other hand, still at your waist, slid up your side with a roughness that wasn’t cruel—just hungry.

“I’ve known for years,” he said, voice rasping now. “Even when I was half-gone. I remembered you. You were always so sharp. So mouthy. Thought you were above me.”

“I was above you,” you hissed, but your back arched toward him.

“You’re not now.”

And then he kissed you. Not soft. Not gentle. It was possessive—like he’d waited years to do it. Like tasting your mouth would quiet every violent thing that had ever lived inside him.

You whimpered before you could stop it, grabbing his shirt, yanking him down harder. His tongue slid over yours, slow, filthy, like he had all the time in the world to explore your mouth. And his hips pressed closer—flush now. You could feel how hard he was. How much he meant it.

Your hands trailed under his shirt, over the inked skin of his stomach, feeling the tight muscle twitch beneath your touch. He growled into your mouth.

“Bedroom,” you gasped, breathless.

He pulled back just far enough to look at you. “Not unless you say please.”

Your jaw tightened. “You’re still such a fucking—“

He kissed you again. Silenced you. This time slower. Deeper.

You weren’t sure who moaned first. Or who pulled the other through the nearest door. All you knew was that Megumi’s hand was under your shirt now, rough palms over soft skin, and that the way he touched you—like he was memorizing you—was making your head spin.

“You’re older,” he murmured against your mouth, sliding your shirt over your head. “But I still want to ruin you.”

“Then do it,” you said, shoving him back just enough to straddle his lap, legs bracketing his thighs.

And he did.

Soft, yes—but not sweet. Not this time. This was Megumi with Sukuna’s shadow in his spine, Megumi who’d clawed back control and still came out darker, smarter, cockier. This was Megumi who knew what he wanted.

And he wanted you.

The door clicked shut behind you, but you didn’t remember walking through it.

Megumi was already pushing you back, his hands finding your hips again like they belonged there. You landed on the bed, your knees catching on the edge, your body sprawled beneath him while his weight hovered just enough to make you ache for more.

He didn’t rush. Just looked. The kind of look that made your blood warm too fast. The kind of look that said I know what you want, and I’m going to make you say it.

“You’re staring,” you whispered, pretending to be annoyed.

“You’ve always liked being watched.”

You blinked. “No, I—”

“Liar.”

His hands slid over your bare stomach, then higher, palms wide and warm. You gasped when his thumbs grazed the underside of your breasts through your bra. It wasn’t rough, wasn’t obscene—just confident. Controlled.

His eyes didn’t leave your face. He was studying every little twitch, every reaction like a puzzle he was planning to take apart.

“You still with me?” he murmured, his voice so low you felt it more than heard it.

You nodded. But that wasn’t enough.

“Use your words.”

That made your thighs press together.

“Yes,” you managed, breath catching. “I’m with you.”

And god, the way he smiled at that—proud, smug, almost affectionate—like hearing your voice do that to itself was his new favorite thing.

“You’re good when you listen,” he muttered, ducking down to mouth at your neck. His lips trailed fire—slow, deliberate kisses, a scrape of teeth here and there that made you shiver. “You used to mouth off so much.”

“I still do.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, licking a stripe up the curve of your throat. “But now you moan when I shut you up.”

You whimpered, arching into him, desperate for friction. His hand dipped between your thighs, cupping you through your underwear—just holding, like he had all fucking night.

“Wet already,” he said, smug. “All that attitude doesn’t mean much if you’re this easy for me.”

“Megumi—”

He pulled your underwear down in one slow motion, gaze dropping to the mess between your legs, then back to your eyes. Like he wanted you to see what he saw.

“Fuck, you’re perfect.”

Two fingers slipped between—barely in, not nearly enough, but god the way he watched you squirm. Then he leaned down, whispering against your lips: “Let me taste you.”

You almost said no. Almost. But then his mouth was on you, and your spine arched.

He was slow. Devastating. Tongue dragging over you with reverence, fingers spreading you wider. And when he groaned? Felt it rumble into your core?

Your moan was embarrassingly loud.

He flicked his tongue, circled your clit, and slid one finger in—crooking it like he knew exactly where you’d snap. Then another. Stretching you, filling you, working you open like he planned to ruin every man after him by comparison.

Your thighs shook. He didn’t stop.

“You’re gonna come,” he said against you, mouth hot, voice even hotter. “And then I’m gonna fuck you until that mouth forgets how to talk.”

And you did—with his name spilling out of you like a confession, your hips grinding into his face, his hand gripping your thigh so tightly you knew it’d leave a mark.

He pulled back slowly. Chin slick. Eyes dark.

Then—“One more.”

You blinked. “Wha—?”

He was already lifting you higher on the bed, dragging your thighs over his as he knelt between them.

“I said one more,” he growled, pulling his shirt off, revealing more ink, more muscle. “You think five years made me forget what I wanted?”

You stared at him—Megumi, all grown up, with control laced into every movement, and heat behind his eyes like he hadn’t touched a single soul in years.

You reached for him. “Then shut up and take it,” you whispered, pulling him into you.

And he did. Harder. Slower. Deeper than you’d ever imagined.

And somewhere in between those kisses, between your gasps and his praises and your nails down his back—

You realized: He hadn’t just changed. He’d been waiting.

You woke up to sunlight crawling across the sheets—and the weight of a very large, very warm body draped half over yours.

At first, your brain was foggy, hazy with the leftover high of everything. The night, the hands, the mouth, the voice in your ear telling you you were his now, the way he’d groaned when you whispered fuck, right there, don’t stop with your nails in his back.

Then your eyes opened.

And you saw the black ink curled across Megumi’s forearm resting against your ribs. His chest rose and fell, steady and slow. His hair was a mess—swept back and falling into his eyes—and one of his legs was thrown completely over yours, like you were his pillow now.

You shifted slightly.

His hand slid instinctively to your waist. “Don’t.”

His voice was sleep-rough. Dangerous. And a little bratty, actually.

You blinked. “I have to pee.”

His arm tightened. “No you don’t.”

You snorted. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m always serious,” he mumbled into your neck, lips brushing skin. “Don’t move yet. I’m comfortable.”

“You’re heavy, Fushiguro.”

“You weren’t complaining last night,” he muttered, kissing the spot just under your jaw. Soft. Barely there.

Your breath hitched. “God,” you whispered, “you’re such a smug bastard now.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you. The morning light hit his eyes, making the green seem lighter—gentler. But the curve of his mouth? Still that same smirk.

“I’ve earned it,” he said. “You think controlling a thousand-year-old curse didn’t come with perks?”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, you call this a perk? Using me like your personal stress relief?”

He leaned in, brushing his nose against yours. “I call it mutual satisfaction.” A pause. Then, a little lower—“You were the one begging by the second round.”

Your cheeks burned. “You promised we weren’t talking about that.”

“I lied.”

You shoved his shoulder weakly. “You’re such a little shit.”

He grabbed your wrist, held it gently, and kissed your knuckles. “Mhm. But I’m your little shit now, aren’t I?”

You stared at him. And fuck, you hated how soft your chest felt. How warm your legs were tangled with his. How easy it was to look at him now and forget the five years of pain in between.

“You’re two years younger than me,” you muttered. “You should be calling me senpai.”

Megumi rolled you over easily, pinning you to the mattress, his weight caging you in again like last night never ended.

“You’re older,” he said, brushing a thumb along your cheekbone, “and still couldn’t handle me.”

You gasped. “Excuse me?”

But before you could say more, he kissed you again.

Not desperate. Not hurried.

Just soft. Like he had all the time in the world now.

And maybe—just maybe—you wanted to stay a little longer.

You thought you were subtle. You really did.

Fresh clothes. Hair brushed. No obvious marks—you checked. Twice. And Megumi, the smug bastard, had just given you a lazy wave and a low “Don’t forget to come back tonight,” as you slipped out of his dorm like a thief.

You should’ve known better.

“Kusakabe’s looking for you,” someone muttered as they passed you in the hall.

You froze. Because of course he was.

And sure enough, ten minutes later—after trying to casually drop off Gojo’s scrolls—you turned the corner and nearly walked into him.

“Hey,” he said flatly. “You got a minute?”

Shit.

“…Sure?”

He walked with you. Silent. That kind of too calm silence that told you he already knew everything. He didn’t look at you. Just stared straight ahead.

“I saw Megumi this morning.”

You swallowed. “Oh?”

He paused. “He looked… rested.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t.

“And smug,” Kusakabe added dryly. “More smug than usual. Which is impressive, considering the kid used to have the personality of a cardboard box.”

You almost laughed. Almost.

But he turned, deadpan. “You wanna explain why he was limping slightly and why you came in looking like you’d been up all night committing federal crimes?”

Your mouth opened. “I—what? I don’t—he wasn’t limping—”

Kusakabe just gave you a long, unblinking stare. “You think I don’t recognize a walk-of-shame?”

“I wasn’t—” you tried, cheeks burning now. “We didn’t even—!”

He held up a hand. “Nope. Don’t wanna know. Don’t need to know.”

You exhaled.

“Just one thing,” he added, voice low now. A little serious.

You glanced up.

“That kid,” he said. “He’s not just stronger now. He’s different. He’s got something dark in him. You know that, right?”

You nodded.

“I’m not saying don’t fuck him,” Kusakabe said, blunt as hell, making you choke on your own saliva. “I’m just saying… keep your head on straight. Don’t fall into whatever storm he’s got brewing behind those eyes.”

Your throat tightened. “He’s not dangerous to me.”

“I hope you’re right,” Kusakabe said softly. “Because I know what it looks like when someone’s got that kind of control, and that kind of hunger. Just be careful.”

You nodded. “I will.”

He exhaled, rubbed his forehead like this whole conversation gave him a headache. Then he muttered, “Can’t believe I’m gonna have to see that punk shirtless at missions now. Tattoos. Jesus.”

You bit your tongue, but your grin betrayed you.

“Hey,” he snapped, pointing. “Not a word.”

You saluted, already turning to walk off.

“I’m serious,” he shouted after you. “You break your back on that kid’s lap and don’t come crying to me!”

“Love you too, Atsuya!”

“Don’t test me!”

Kusakabe had almost managed to pretend it didn’t happen.

He was minding his business. Nursing a lukewarm coffee. Trying very hard not to think about how you showed up to HQ with damp hair, glowing skin, and the kind of loose-limbed posture that screamed someone rearranged my organs last night.

And then Megumi fucking Fushiguro strolled down the hallway—shirt slightly wrinkled, hair still wet from a quick rinse, that cocky glint in his eye burning holes in Kusakabe’s will to live.

“Morning,” Megumi said lazily.

Kusakabe didn’t look up. “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing your face right now.”

Megumi just smiled. One of those slow, easy ones. The kind that said I know exactly what I did, and I’d do it again.

“I slept well,” he said.

“You’re gonna sleep in a body bag if you keep talking.”

Megumi ignored him. “She looked good leaving my room this morning.”

Kusakabe slammed his hand on the table. “You shut the hell up, right now.”

But Megumi just tilted his head and had the audacity to look thoughtful. “Kinda crazy how soft she gets when she’s not acting tough, huh?”

“Kid.”

“Her legs were shaking a little. Should I be worried?” Megumi blinked, feigning concern. “I mean, it was a lot to handle. I was a lot to handle.”

Kusakabe stood. Actually stood.

Megumi took a small step back, grinning.

“Let me explain something to you, Fushiguro.” Kusakabe’s voice was like cold steel. “I knew her before you ever figured out where to put your dick. You are this close to eating teeth if you so much as look at her wrong.”

Megumi nodded, dead serious. “I respect that.”

Pause.

“But she was the one pulling my shirt off, you know. Just saying.”

Kusakabe’s soul left his body. “GET OUT.”

“I’m going,” Megumi laughed, hands raised in mock surrender. “You’re so tense, Kusakabe. You should get laid.”

“I SWEAR TO GOD—”

Megumi disappeared around the corner, still chuckling to himself. Kusakabe stood in the hallway, vibrating with rage and emotional damage, whispering under his breath:

“She’s gonna fall in love with that smug little bastard and I’m gonna have to officiate their wedding. Fucking kill me.”

You turned the corner at the worst possible time.

Megumi was walking away from Kusakabe—who stood frozen in the middle of the hallway, coffee cup crushed in one hand, eyes wide like he’d just seen a war crime.

You blinked. “Uh… what did I miss?”

Megumi didn’t even pretend to behave. He turned around slowly, hands in his pockets, grinning like the devil himself.

“Nothing,” he said, voice smooth. “Kusakabe and I were just having a heartfelt conversation about how well I take care of you.”

Your eyes snapped to Kusakabe. “Oh my god. What did you say to him?”

Kusakabe looked at you like you’d personally betrayed him.

“Don’t ask me that,” he said, voice hollow. “Don’t look at me like that. You’ve got a hickey on your collarbone and you’re acting like you didn’t just destroy my will to live.”

You immediately tugged your shirt higher. “Wha—? No, I—shit.”

Megumi snorted, still watching you both from a distance like this was his show and you were just guest stars.

You turned back to Kusakabe. “He’s messing with you.”

Kusakabe narrowed his eyes. “Oh really? So you didn’t come in here this morning glowing like you just got spiritually cleansed by a six-foot curse user with tattoos and a superiority complex?”

You blinked. “…Damn, that was kinda poetic.”

Kusakabe buried his face in his hands. “I’m gonna throw myself into the cursed object vault.”

You walked closer. “Hey, come on. You’re overreacting.”

“I was worried about you,” he muttered, voice muffled by his palms. “I thought maybe he was gonna break your heart or worse, break your fucking bones. But no, turns out you’re the one breaking him. His hips probably don’t work anymore.”

Megumi, from behind you, called out: “Actually, they work just fine—”

“I WILL KILL YOU!”

You held back a laugh—barely.

Then walked up, gently patting Kusakabe’s arm. “Hey. I’m okay. He’s… not all bad.”

“You like him?”

You shrugged. “He’s hot. And kind of a bastard. You know that’s my type.” Kusakabe exhaled like he’d been stabbed. “I swear to god. I knew I should’ve introduced you to that boring medic from Kyoto. He wore glasses.”

Megumi walked by, brushing your waist with his fingers as he passed, low enough for Kusakabe not to see—but definitely not low enough for it to go unnoticed.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Megumi whispered. “Don’t forget to stretch.”

You choked.

Kusakabe spun. “THAT’S IT. I’M RETIRING.”

You lost it—laughing as Megumi disappeared down the hall, victorious. Kusakabe dramatically slid down the wall like he’d aged ten years. “I hate young people,” he muttered. “I hate tattoos. I hate love. I hate this fucking building.”

You crouched down next to him. “Wanna be my maid of honor?”

He glared at you. “I will unplug your life support if you say that again.”

Kusakabe was still sitting on the floor like the shell of a man. Your laughter had mostly died down—mostly—but every time you opened your mouth to say something comforting, the image of his expression after Megumi whispered “Don’t forget to stretch” hit you all over again.

You sat beside him, cross-legged. “You know, this is the closest we’ve bonded in years.”

“I hope you know I’m planning your funeral in my head,” he mumbled.

You patted his shoulder. “That’s fair.”

And then, like the universe wanted him to suffer—

SLAM. The door burst open. Loud footsteps. A dramatic entrance.

“WHAT’S THIS I HEAR ABOUT MEGUMI HAVING A GIRLFRIEND?!” Gojo shouted, sunglasses already lowered, grinning like he won the lottery. “No one tells me anything anymore!”

You blinked. “How the fuck do you know already?”

Gojo pointed at you. “You’re glowing. He looked like he just did 500 pushups and smoked a cigarette made of sin. I know things.”

Kusakabe groaned. “Why. Why him of all people. Why couldn’t she have dated someone emotionally stable. Or a civilian. A fucking barista.”

Gojo flopped onto the floor in front of both of you like a child at storytime. “Wait, wait, wait—so Megumi really bagged you? Damn. Good for him.”

He grinned wide. “Did he use that broody ‘I’m full of darkness’ line? That always works on the trauma babes.”

You choked. “I am NOT a trauma babe.”

“Okay,” Gojo shrugged, “but your taste says otherwise.”

Kusakabe slammed his head back against the wall. “This is a nightmare.”

Gojo leaned closer. “You guys wanna hear something worse?”

“No,” Kusakabe growled.

Gojo whispered, hand cupped to his mouth, eyes sparkling:

“I walked past his dorm this morning. Door was unlocked. Guess what I saw?”

Kusakabe immediately put his fingers in his ears. “I swear to every higher being, Gojo, if you say something that makes me visualize that kid with his pants down, I’ll erase you myself.”

Gojo laughed so hard he nearly tipped over.

“I didn’t,” he said. “But I could’ve. That’s the important part.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Why are you like this?”

“I raised him,” Gojo said proudly. “This is my legacy.”

“That’s not something to be proud of,” Kusakabe hissed.

Gojo winked. “Hey, better he ends up with her than half the unhinged women at Jujutsu High. Have you seen Mei Mei’s texts lately?”

You buried your face in your hands. Kusakabe stared at the ceiling. “I’m gonna fake my death. I’m going to go live on a cursed object farm. Change my name. Start over.”

Gojo clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll officiate the wedding.”

Kusakabe didn’t even blink. “I’m going to kill you first.”

You were halfway through a cup of jasmine tea.

Feet up on the break room couch. Feeling very pleased with yourself. The morning had been eventful—Megumi had left a very satisfying bruise on your thigh, Kusakabe had screamed into the void, and Gojo was currently telling anyone who’d listen that he “made Megumi hot through a strict program of childhood trauma and violence.”

Kusakabe was across from you, slumped in a chair with dead eyes.

“I can feel my lifespan shortening,” he muttered.

You took another sip. “You’re doing great, sweetie.”

Gojo was still going.

“All I’m saying,” he declared, standing by the coffee machine like it was a stage, “is that no one gave me credit. I raised that broody, emotionally constipated little bastard into a full-fledged thirst trap and now he’s out here blowing backs out—”

“What did you just say?”

The room froze. You didn’t even have to look. You knew that voice. Low. Sharp. Laced with very restrained murder.

Megumi stood in the doorway, arms crossed, tattoos peeking from under his sleeves, jaw tight. He wasn’t smiling.

Gojo blinked. “Ah. Speak of the devil.”

Megumi stepped in, slow and silent like a goddamn panther. “You raised me?”

Gojo grinned. “Well, I mean, I taught you. Guided you. Shaped your sexy adult self into what it is now—”

“You traumatized me.”

“Constructively.”

Kusakabe stood. “I’m leaving. This is going nuclear.”

But you waved him down, sipping your tea. “No, no. Sit. The show just started.“

Megumi’s eyes flicked to you for a split second—like he knew damn well you were enjoying this—and then narrowed back on Gojo.

“You really want to start talking about who’s ‘blowing backs out’ in a public break room?”

Gojo didn’t flinch. “I said it respectfully.”

“You’re a bitch.”

“I’m a proud father figure.”

“I will put you through the vending machine.”

Gojo grinned wider. “Aw, look at you. All grown up. Threatening me in front of your girlfriend.”

You didn’t even react. Just raised your tea again like you were judging an Olympic routine.

Megumi walked forward. Close now. Eyes sharp. “Keep her out of your mouth.”

Gojo smirked. “That’s your job, isn’t it?”

There was an audible smash as Megumi grabbed the edge of the coffee machine, like he was this close to flipping it.

Kusakabe stood again. “I’m intervening. I’ve had enough.”

But you stood up first. Calm. Cool. Walked over to Megumi. And slipped your hand into his.

“Hey,” you said softly, brushing your thumb along his wrist. “Not here.”

He looked at you. Just for a second. And the tension in his shoulders melted.

Not completely—but enough.

Gojo, of course, looked like he was about to make another comment. You turned your head and gently raised your middle finger without breaking eye contact.

Gojo grinned, hand over his heart. “She’s perfect for you.”

Megumi sighed. “She’s the only reason you’re still breathing.”

Kusakabe mumbled something about holy water and got up to leave again.

You tugged Megumi back toward the door, still holding his hand. “Come on. Let’s go before you actually commit murder.”

Gojo waved. “Use protection!”

“Satoru I swear to fucking—”

The door closed behind you both.

Megumi hadn’t said a word since you pulled him out of HQ by the hand—just sulked beside you like a pissed-off jungle cat in a crewneck, jaw tight, muttering occasional death threats under his breath about coffee machines and blind bastards with God complexes.

He didn’t even take his shoes off when he walked in. Just dropped them somewhere near the wall and followed you straight to the bed.

He collapsed. Right on top of you.

You barely had time to yelp before your back hit the mattress and his full weight—six-foot-whatever, broad, smug, heavy—draped over you like a human thundercloud with emotional baggage and killer bone structure.

“Mmf,” you grunted, face mashed into his collarbone. “You’re… crushing me.”

“Good,” he muttered.

You shifted under him, trying not to laugh. “You’re such a menace when you’re mad.”

“He is a menace,” Megumi growled, pressing his face into your neck like a cat trying to burrow. “I was two seconds from popping his fucking jaw off like a cursed Lego.”

You snorted. “He said you’re a thirst trap. Honestly, you should be flattered.”

He lifted his head and glared at you. “You’re not helping.”

You grinned. “You do have a sexy scowl. And tattoos. And—mmph—” You broke into laughter as he shoved his face back into your shoulder to shut you up.

“You’re worse than him.“

“No one’s worse than him.”

“True,” he muttered. “But you’re close.”

His hand slid under your hoodie, resting on your bare waist, fingers splayed warm and possessive. His mouth was still buried in your neck, but the tension in his body was slowly ebbing away—his weight more like comfort now than threat.

“You know he’s just trying to piss you off, right?” you whispered, fingers threading through his hair. “That means he’s already lost.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” Megumi mumbled. “He’s been annoying since I was seven. Now he’s just loud and thinks he’s funny.”

You scratched his scalp gently, and he hummed. Actually hummed.

“I never thought I’d see you that angry.” His whole body went still. You felt it immediately. The tension in his spine. The way his breathing paused. His hand curled a little tighter at your waist. He didn’t answer right away. Then he lifted his head—slowly—and looked down at you with those eyes that weren’t just his anymore.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I still have Sukuna in me.”

It wasn’t dramatic. No warning. No flash of cursed energy or grand shift.

Megumi’s face shifted back a little. His expression—his again. But he was watching you carefully now, as if he was afraid of what you might be thinking.

“He doesn’t come out much anymore,” he said low. “I have control. But sometimes… when I get possessive—when I want to rip someone’s head off—he stirs.”

Your hand came up slowly, resting on the side of his face. You could feel the heat under his skin, the tension in his jaw. His breath was uneven.

“Hey,” you said after a beat. “I like when you get protective.”

He shifted just enough to look at you. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “It’s hot. Broody, tattooed, threatening my coworkers in public—classic boyfriend material.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re such a little shit.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth.

He kissed you back. Slow. Lazy.

Then dropped his head back into your chest with a long, dramatic sigh. “If he brings this up again in front of anyone—”

“Megumi.”

“Yeah?”

“I think you need to accept the fact that everyone now knows we’re fucking.”

He groaned, muffled. “I hate that.”