#he's better in the manga on that front but no. I don't like him at all. great character but I hate him as a person. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

witchywcmans · 4 months

Text

AGAINST THE LAW. | KEN RYUGUJI

synopsis ━━ after one too many trips to the auto repair shop with your old car, you realize you can focus on your work tasks so much better in the waiting room. but when the head mechanic notices you've been loitering, you recognize him instantly: ken ryuguji. there’s zero chance you’re getting out of this one. (older!draken x f!reader.)

content warnings ━━ missionary position on a motorcycle (hey, this is fiction), cunnilingus + fingering, praise, semi-public sex, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, pet names (i.e. cherry), mentions loss of virginity in the past, mutual pining, au as helllll, draken is in his late 20s and a mechanic. nsfw (minors + ageless blogs dni).

word count ━━ 5.2k

song inspiration ━━ one for the road, arctic monkeys / one of the girls, the weeknd / fallen star, the neighbourhood

author's note ━━ ok off the bat, I just wanna say this fic was completely inspired by this movie called wait with me. my friends and I like to watch passionflix movies for the laughs, but this one wasn't. well horrible. if you watch it, don't expect oscar-worthy performances, but it was fun and stupid and yeah, it made me think about what if part of this concept was applied to draken when he was older, workin as a mechanic. idk. I'm not caught up on the manga whatsoever so take this as a major au lol

Your car was a piece of shit, but that wasn’t the only reason you ended up sitting in the waiting room at the mechanic’s more than usual. A police officer would call it loitering. You, on the other hand, called it a safe space. For the past couple of weeks, your car had been in and out of the shop due to a faulty ignition sensor that your mechanic couldn’t nail down until your car broke down on the side of the highway. For the third time. Needless to say, it had been a stressful past month. The car issues had been one thing, but then there was all the pressure at work. And for some reason, you began to find comfort in working at the mechanic’s waiting room.

Your work as a journalist was very important to you. A perfectionist at heart, you needed to be in the right zone, the right state of mind, to write. Unfortunately, you weren’t someone who could sit at your desk at home for hours, typing away at the speed of light, and you definitely couldn’t focus at a coffee shop. You tried a plethora of other places. The local park: your laptop died. The library: teenagers still whispered too loud even in the quietest of places. The McDonald's parking lot: you got distracted by your hunger. Nowhere was right … until you were forced to work from your mechanic’s waiting room while he worked on your car.

Even when your mechanic figured out the issue, you couldn’t help but sneak in through the entrance late mornings and work on your articles. The waiting room was just so … quiet, even more quiet than a library. There was hardly anyone in there besides the retired folk who could wait all day for their car to be fixed. You had a coffee machine at your disposable – not good coffee, but good enough – and a selection of snacks from the vending machine. It was pure bliss. You liked to hole yourself up in the corner, picking out different outfits that would conceal your face enough, and type away until the sun began to set. No one said a word to you. No one batted an eye.

So, as you can see, it was a surprise to you when someone eventually approached you two months into your loitering scheme.

It was just about closing time and you were shoving your laptop in your backpack after sending off another draft to your editor. A pair of feet appeared in front of your chair, and when you looked up at the young mechanic chewing on the end of a toothpick, you knew you were fucked.

“Toyota,” he said without missing a beat, knowing your car from the top of his head, “ignition sensor, right?”

You paused, sliding on your backpack. Could you make a break for it? “Um … correct.”

“That was fixed weeks ago,” he said, slapping a dirty rag on his shoulder, car keys dangling from the other hand.

Your mouth went completely dry. How the fuck could you explain this without coming off as a total weirdo? Your hands gripped the straps of your backpack for dear life. This was so embarrassing.

Before you could reply, the young mechanic gestured to the back door with his chin. “Follow me,” he said. “Boss wants to talk to ‘ya.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Still fiddling with your backpack straps, you knew there was no choice but to follow this guy. He led you through the back door and into the main workshop area of the shop. There were some cars left on a few lifts, ready to be inspected tomorrow, and the shelves packed with parts seemed to be in disarray. Besides that, there was no one in here but you, the young mechanic, and whoever this “boss” was still working in the back of the shop. You had never met the owner of the shop before; you typically worked with your mechanic and no one else.

You took down the hood that you’d been wearing today. There was no use in hiding your face now.

“Here she is, boss,” the man beside you said, still twirling those keys. “Can I go home now?”

“Yeah, yeah,” the boss replied, hidden behind the huge motorcycle he was working on. “Good work today.”

The younger man left, the bell above the office door jingling, and now it was just two: you and this so-called boss you’d never met. You stood there in silence, hands fidgeting with anxiety, as you waited for the boss to say something. From behind the motorcycle, all you could see was a flash of blonde hair and smoke puffing out into the dingy air. It smelled like motor oil and cigarettes back here.

You lifted your foot – maybe it was time to try and sprint out – but then a deep voice entered the work space.

“You know that loitering is against the law, right?”

That voice … it was familiar, but you couldn’t put a pin on it. And then, the boss was standing up, and you saw the tuft of blonde hair slicked back, the shaved sides on his head. That infamous dragon tattoo still on his left temple. The little hoop on his left ear was accompanied by a few other small piercings. He was still the same height – over six feet – but had grown some muscle. His hands were calloused from all those years of fighting, and now, from heavy labor. And those eyes … they were still as stormy and dark as the first day you saw him in school.

This wasn’t just embarrassing. This was mortifying.

“C’mon, Cherry,” Draken said, instantly recognizing you and your old nickname, “you know you can’t loiter in my shop.”

Cherry. You hadn’t been called that since … well, since high school. Your classmates hadn’t started calling you that because of a specific physical trait. To your face, you were told the nickname was for your quick skill of tying a cherry stem into a knot with your tongue. You had been the best, after all. But unbeknownst to you, the nickname came from when Mikey Sano, the infamous former leader of the Tokyo Manji Gang, popped your cherry.

You hadn’t even liked Mikey at the time. You were just sweet sixteen, and he was a year older, and you had assumed it would be better for your first to be someone with experience. Unfortunately, Mikey Sano had no experience. The sex had been awkward and terrible, as most first times between teenagers are, but at least you could say that you lost your virginity to the leader of Toman. Your eyes had always been on someone else, though. Someone who you had been too nervous to talk to, who you had only shared just a few interactions with. You never had a crush on Mikey as a teenager; you had always liked –

“Draken,” you said finally, shock lining your voice. Your eyes formed into wide saucers. It had been so long, and he was here. This whole time. Right under your nose. How surprised did you look right now?

He chuckled, wiping his hands off on a rag. The cigarette dangling from his lips was plucked out, and he stabbed it into an ashtray. “Don’t look so surprised.”

Oh, so you did look that shocked to see him.

He threw the tool he’d been using on a bench and stepped around the bike. “I really don’t go by Draken anymore,” he continued, sitting down on the rusted motorcycle, stretching his legs out. “Just call me, Ken.”

You were speechless. Were you breathing right now? You had to admit … you still found him to be handsome. He always had been. God, you were obsessed with him in high school, but always hid your crush in the shadows. Not even your friends knew about it, but you’d made it obvious, even if you didn’t know it. And now … he’d gotten better with age. The lines underneath his eyes told a story, as well as the scars etched into his veiny forearms. He could have more that you couldn’t see underneath the tattoos on his arms. Your mouth was so dry from staring at him that you had to lick the corners of your lips.

“Ken,” you said in a single breath, lacing your hands together in front of your body. You hadn’t moved from your spot, even when he was looking at you so casually. “I’m so sorry for loitering. Please, don’t call the cops on me. Or something. I have a reason –”

“Me? Call the police?” He laughed again, and it was just like how you remembered. “Do you know me at all, Cherry?”

Once you found the courage to breathe again, you stepped forward. Then another. And another. “I guess I don’t,” you shrugged, still playing with your hands. “I guess I just knew of you.”

“And I knew of you, all those years ago.” He smiled like you two were in on a secret. The rag that had been in his hands was tossed onto his left shoulder. He was wearing a pair of grey coveralls stained with oil, but the top half was unzipped and tied around his waist, leaving him in just a white tank top on his torso, which hugged his muscles so nicely. “So, tell me then. What’s the reason for your loitering?”

This had to be the most words shared between you two than all those years at school together. You thought about pinching yourself, just to check if this was all part of an elaborate dream. Or nightmare, depending on how it ended.

“Um …” You rubbed the back of your neck, blushing slightly. “Well, you see … the waiting room at your shop is very … quiet.”

His brow raised. “So I’ve been told.” He stared you down. “C’mon, out with it.”

“You’re going to make fun of me.”

“I will not.”

“Yes, you will.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because we went to school together!”

“Oh, you know that means noth –”

“I’m a journalist and I write my articles better in your waiting room,” you finally answered, crossing your arms over your chest. “There. I said it.”

Draken couldn’t stop himself from laughing. He knew he promised, but the giggles bubbled up inside him, forcing themselves to emerge. You looked at him incredulously, blinking too fast. All you wanted right now was to crawl into a hole and be left alone. You had to find a new mechanic after this.

“You said you wouldn’t make fun of me,” you sighed.

He waved his hand as his laughter died down. “I’m not. I promise.” Finally, his shoulders sagged again and he stood up. “I think it’s really cool that you … like my waiting room so much.”

You found your lips pulling into a smile at the same time as him. The tension broke and you felt your dimples crease. “I also like all the little snacks in the machine.”

“And the coffee?” He added.

You shrugged. “Could use some work.”

Draken laughed again, and just the sound of it made butterflies form in your stomach. You never had such a reaction to someone laughing before. What was wrong with you?

He stuck his hands in the front pockets of his coveralls. “It’s … really nice to see you again, Cherry.”

You mimicked his actions, instead sliding your hands into the back pockets of your jeans. “You too, Ken.”

“I won’t bust you for loitering, by the way. Even if it is against the law,” he chuckled under his breath, whipping the rag off his shoulder once again. “Come over here. Let me show you what I’m working on.”

His tone was so casual, as if years hadn’t passed between you two, as if this wasn’t the most you talked in years. You set your backpack down and approached him in front of the bike. Your fingers ran over the slope of the seat, all new despite the rusty exterior of the motorcycle. “That’s new leather,” he informed you. “Feel free to test it out. I need someone else’s butt on this thing so I know if I chose a good material.”

You giggled, all light and flirty. You simply couldn’t help it, especially when he looked at you with those dark eyes, the corners creasing when he smiled. Without missing a beat, you sat down on the side of the bike, like he had minutes ago, and looked up at him. He was tall, but from this seat, he was even taller.

He pointed to the wheel of the bike, and then the headlight. “I just started replacing the …” His voice drowned out as you simply focused on his lips. His mouth quirked as he explained what he fixed so far on the bike. You watched his finger dance around the bike, taking in the rough exterior of his hands up close. They were so much bigger now, amongst other things –

“So how’s that seat?”

You blinked, bringing yourself out of your horny stupor. “Oh, um – comfy. Very comfy.” You cleared your throat. “So … is this for a customer?”

“It’s mine. This is a personal project,” he explained, leaning slightly to the left, closer to you. “I wouldn’t be working on anything this late except if it was for me.”

His eyes were on you again, drinking you in as you sat on the bike. He placed his hand on the fuel tank, so close to yours. Your stomach was definitely doing flip-flops now, especially when you noticed the way his eyes raked down your figure. You wished you’d chosen something better to wear, something other than a pair of jeans and a cropped hoodie, but you’d only expected to be getting work done in the waiting room today. Not to be confronted by your old school crush. But it looked like it didn’t matter to him. The way he was looking at you … it felt like you were naked.

“It really is nice to see you again,” he said, voice just slightly above a whisper. His stance changed and he moved to stand between your legs.

You bit your lip for a moment. “You already said that.”

“You’re right. Uh … I …” He looked down at his hands, flexing them, breaking his nerves. “You just … look very pretty … sitting on my bike.”

You looked down at yourself. The way you sat with your legs spread wide was anything but attractive, and it wasn’t like you were wearing a cute, little dress. “I do?”

But when you lifted your stare again, his face was so much closer to yours. He was leaning down now, bracing two hands on the leather seat, and trying to pretend like he wasn’t inhaling your perfume. You just smelled … so good. Like strawberries and apples and … cherries. Red, ripened cherries. And the way you were sitting on that seat, eyes wide and cheeks blushing from being caught earlier. Fuck, it reminded him of the first time he saw you in high school. He had been a horny teenager, of course, but the way he saw you tie that cherry stem with your tongue … you were the first person he ever jerked off to the thought of. He had never made a move on you – ever – but at this moment, he was glad. Because things would’ve been different, and you never would’ve ended up loitering at his shop, and you never would’ve been sitting so pretty on his bike, all these years later.

“I just …” He trailed off, words failing him, as he lifted a hand to skim it over your jawline. “You can tell me to stop.”

But you didn’t. You wouldn’t. Your eyes simply batted up at him, leaning into his touch when his fingers caressed your cheek. Your skin immediately flushed. You were so soft, and warm, and god, did his skin prickle when he touched you.

“Can I tell you a secret?” He muttered, voice gravely. You nodded instantly, and his thumb went to trace the outline of your lips. “I had always been … jealous that Mikey got to you first.”

Had your feelings in high school been reciprocated and you didn’t even know it? You licked at the corners of your lips, your tongue quickly flicking his thumb in the process. “You were?” You asked, already feeling yourself getting wet from just him tracing your lips. “I … never really liked Mikey anyways.” You then shook your head. “It feels silly to talk about this so many years later –”

Draken turned your face back to his, looking into your eyes sternly. “You never liked Mikey,” he said, point blank, pressing his thumb onto your bottom lip.

Without hesitation, you wrapped your lips around his thumb, swirling your tongue around the fingertip. You shook your head at his question.

His breath hitched. Just the sight of your lips around his thumb had him adjusting himself in his pants. He could feel his cock start to swell with need, causing him to mumble a soft, “Fuck,” under his breath.

You weren’t just wet now. You were soaked.

You slipped your mouth off his thumb, leaving a tiny trail of spit. His face immediately got closer, his lips grazing yours. He could tell they were soft, and even your chapstick smelled like cherries. God, how could he be so hard already? “I liked you back when we were teenagers,” you confessed, reaching out to hook your thumbs in the belt loops on his coveralls. “I was too scared to say anything, and Mikey … he’d just been there. Right place at the right time. We really didn’t feel anything for each other.”

Your words stirred something within him, something more than jealousy. Was it regret? The fact that he could’ve had you, all those years ago, if he’d just manned up and asked. He could’ve fought people all day, but when it came to asking out the girl he liked, he’d sat back, let his best friend pop your cherry. It should’ve been him. Fuck, it could’ve been him.

His lips pressed to yours instantly, needing to taste the sweetness on your lips. His tongue darted out, swiping at that cherry flavor, and he moaned. Actually moaned. Draken wasn’t known to be weak for anyone, but you … you had always been a different story. You pulled him in closer by his belt loops, tipping your face up as he leaned over you. His mouth devoured yours, his tongue slipping past your lips once again to explore your mouth. He gripped the edge of the seat, his other hand cradling your jaw, and you wanted him so much closer. If he just put his knee between your legs, you could –

There it was. He did it, placing his knee right in the perfect spot. You bucked your hips up, setting a slow grind against his knee as he kissed you with feverish intent. Moans fell from your lips and into the kiss, making the tent in his pants grow bigger every passing second. He was so fucking hard now, and he needed more of you. He would have more of you.

“No, stop,” he muttered, breaking the kiss and moving his knee away. You huffed with disappointment, wanting that delicious friction once again, but when you opened your eyes, he was staring at you with purpose. “Please, let me taste you.”

You nodded dumbly, eyes blown out with lust. All you could say was, “Okay.”

In another life, you would’ve said something endearing, or maybe even hit him with a little dirty talk. But you absolutely couldn’t right now. Your head was swimming, the image of him unzipping your jeans and taking them off felt like it was out of a fever dream. Is this what it felt like to drown? No, you were breathing – just about – and Draken was throwing your pants off to the side, kneeling before you. Your legs spread wide as you sat on the bike. Surely, there could’ve been a better place to do this, but the way he was staring at your soaked panties, pushing them to the side to take in your pussy … you knew there was no stopping him. This was just his first course of the night.

His tongue dove between your wet folds, drinking you in like a glass of lemonade on a hot summer’s day. You knew you were done for when his arms wrapped around your legs, holding them apart, giving himself better access to one thing he’d craved for years. He rolled his tongue over your swollen clit, enjoying the sounds that slipped out of your mouth. You muttered obscenities, bucked your hips without thinking, pulled on his slicked-back hair. Anything to give you more friction on your precious, aching clit.

He dragged his tongue down, pushing it inside your warmth, collecting the arousal and groaning like a man starved. Fucking his tongue into you, he angled his nose to brush your clit, and you just about mewled. You had spent so many years either having mediocre sex or stressing over this stupid job, when this – this man you had been in love with in school – was here the whole time, just dreaming about the day he could eat your pussy. So much time wasted, so many fake orgasms, while Ken Ryuguji owned your favorite auto shop, so close to you and right under your nose.

You were pretty sure the seat on this bike had to have been ruined. Draken was turning you into a wet mess, making your hips buck against his face. His lips wrapped your beloved clit, sucking and pulling, needing more – so much more – of you. Slipping two fingers inside you, he pumped them fast. It didn’t take long for his fingers to curl and find that sweet spot that had your core trembling around him. He didn’t know what he’d do if you came on his face. Honestly, he’d probably cum in his pants on the spot.

“C’mon … c’mon … you can cum in my m–mouth –” He was practically begging, his voice muffled from deep within your thighs. “Tastes so, so good … fuck, Cherry, fuck –”

You couldn’t stop yourself, couldn’t even think about anything but the way his tongue lapped at your clit, before you were cumming on his tongue, your arousal smearing all over his lips. He moaned the second he got just a hint of your essence, burying his face more into your legs. You tasted better than candy, than cherries, than menthol cigarettes. He could spend forever between these thighs, drinking you in and listening to your desperate moans.

Once your body stopped shaking, he dragged his tongue one last time through your folds, making sure he didn’t miss a drop. You yelped from the overstimulation, and when you opened your eyes, he was rising from in between your legs. His licked at your slick still staining his lips, bringing your mouth to his again, letting you taste yourself. Your hands fisted into his shirt, downright desperate for more of him. As if reading your thoughts, he pulled back.

“I know it’s not ideal, given the place we’re in, but …” He cradled your face in both in his hands, as if you were just a baby bird. “Can I fuck you, Cherry?”

You nodded without hesitation, already drunk on his touch. You weren’t exactly sure how he planned on doing this. I mean … you two were in the dirty workshop area of an auto repair shop. This wasn’t exactly the best place to have sex. But then he was adjusting your position on the motorcycle, laying your head down by the handlebar and pulling your legs on both sides of the seat, your ass resting nicely in the curve. His hands were quick to roll off your panties.

“Ken,” you called out, sitting up a little and dragging your hand up. His white tank bunched up at the waist. “Wanna see more of you …”

Draken was so goddamn hard in his pants, his cock throbbing with the anticipation of being inside you, but you were just so pretty and he was putty in your hands. He let your palms explore him, lifting his tank top up so you could see what the fabric had been concealing. He’d really filled out since school – his arms were toned, his abdomen more defined. He looked like the statue of Apollo, all lean and muscled, but with just the right amount of grit. You liked that he never got his dragon tattoo removed (although, that would’ve been very painful), and that his piercings remained the same. Everything about him seemed untouched, but he’d just gotten better with age. Just the sight of him made your mouth water.

You leaned back down on the bike, bringing him down with you. Your lips pressed against his hungrily, and he was so, so tempted to slip his tongue into your mouth, when he felt his cock hard as a rock in his pants, aching and pulsating. His mouth broke away from yours, and he whispered, quite hopelessly, “I’m so sorry, but I really, really need to be inside you or my dick is going to explode.”

A chuckle escaped your lips, and just the sound of it made Draken smile. You nodded, urging him to continue, and he quickly unzipped the bottom half of his coveralls. He took his cock out: it was long, curved, pink at the tip, and leaking precum on the shop floor. All the more reason to be inside you; he couldn’t have his mechanics seeing that on the floor and wondering what he was doing after hours. He pulled a condom out from his wallet and slid the ribbed rubber on. Lifting both your legs onto his shoulders, your ass was almost rising off the seat and he positioned himself between your thighs, noticing the way your slick was smeared all over his seat. He grunted at the sight of it, slamming his cock into your without thinking.

You cried out, feeling him so deep so quickly. He held your legs up, leaning down as far as he could, and muttered, “Fuck, I’m sorry – so sorry – just … needed to be inside you. Needed to fuck you on my bike.”

You hand came up to cup his chin for a moment. “S’okay,” you promised, “just fuck me like you should’ve done years ago, Draken.”

He knew he told you to call him Ken, but just the nickname falling your lips in such a filthy manner had him groaning. Draken pulled out of you until only the tip remained, and then pounded his cock back inside you. You keened, trying to close your legs, but he held them up by his shoulders. He set a fast pace inside you, unable to keep his moans at bay, and slipped one hand off your leg to snake his fingers up your hoodie, pushing it up to your chin. Pulling your breasts out from your bra, his eyes clouded and played with your sensitive nipples. “So good,” he muttered, teeth sinking into his bottom lip for a moment. “Feels so, so good … needed you for so long, Cherry.”

“I know, I know, Draken,” you whimpered, locking your arms around his neck to bring his face closer to yours, your thighs now curling against your chest. Your back ached against the seat and your legs burned from the uncomfortable position, but you wouldn’t dare push him away, not when he was filling you like this.

With his lips just grazing yours, he tugged on your lip, making you moan, and he fucked into you harder. Your nails were now dragging down his shoulders, leaving marks that he’d think about forever. “Fuck, I’m s’deep … so deep inside you. You’re so warm, so wet – fuck, I’m so close already.”

“Wait for me,” you begged, sighing as his cock curved against your sweet spot. “Wanna cum with you, Draken.”

“I know, Cherry,” he grunted, his pace relentless. Fuck, this was all he ever needed, all he wanted to do, forever. It felt like you were made to take him. “Touch yourself f’me. Cum together … we’ll cum together.”

You nodded quickly, moving your hand in between your bodies, finding your puffy clit so easily. A whine escaped your lips as you fingers rubbed little circles, getting you so close already. You just needed a little push. Draken was slamming into you, his breaths fanning your cheeks, and when he felt your legs start to shake, your walls clenching just a little, he almost died. “Such a good girl …” He cooed, nose brushing yours. “Touching yourself f’me so nicely … fuck, you take me so well … yes, yes, you’re so close. Just like that.”

Your fingers rubbed a little faster, and you knew your orgasm was imminent. With him pushing into you, filling you completely, and the stimulation on your clit … you felt your lips purse into an O-shape. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Draken. I’m gonna … fuck, I’m gonna cum.”

“I know, I know,” he groaned. “Fuck – gonna cum too. That’s a good girl … doing so good – fuck –”

His release came first. He had been close for so long, Draken was surprised he’d been able to hold back. He came with a loud groan, spilling himself into the condom, and it was only seconds later that your jaw went slack with pleasure. His name fell from your lips in a whimper, and you kept rubbing that aching clit through your orgasm, going tight around his cock. He wouldn’t stop fucking into you, even when your orgasm subsided, needing to feel you clench around him for just a moment longer. The way he filled you wasn’t like any other. You never wanted to feel empty again. You couldn’t, not when you knew how Ken Ryuguji felt inside you.

When you both eventually stopped trembling, he gently placed your legs back down on the sides of the bike. They felt sore and limp, but that was the last thing on your mind. You opened your eyes at the same time, and you both couldn’t help but laugh at the position you were in, the absurdity of it all. The workshop smelled like gas and oil, and you were surrounded by broken-down cars. But you two had fucked like you were in a bedroom, on a soft mattress, rather than a motorcycle. You hand went over your mouth to suppress your giggles.

Draken smiled with you, and then removed your hand, liking the way you laughed. “I know it’s been a long time coming, but … can I take you out some night?”

You couldn’t stop smiling even if you tried. “I’d like that, Ken.”

His cock had gone soft, but he was still nestled inside you, basking in your warmth. Draken wished he could be inside you forever, with your fingers playing with his hair. He would give anything for this moment to last, but he knew this position on the bike had to be the most uncomfortable for you, and he needed to take off this condom. He chuckled under his breath.

“Also, in case you were wondering,” he said, lips pulling into a smirk. “You can loiter around my waiting room anytime.”

737 notes · View notes

tender-rosiey · 1 month

Note

to be honest, idk how you did it but you truly got me stoked over heian era husband! sukuna. i hate the man with most passion (bcs of what he did in the manga), but i couldn't help but giggling, crying, kicking my feet with butterflies in my stomach every time i read your husband!sukuna stories. your writings are *chef's kiss*, i read all of those more than twice already.

idk if you're currently open for request or not, but i want to ask, are you comfortable writing angst/hurt no comfort stuffs? bcs my mind keeps imagining what and how the husbands (gojo, geto, sukuna, nanami) react to their wife (y/n) got klled right in front of their eyes? perhaps bcs of their enemies or something, the enemies know you are their weakness (imagining sukuna, the king of curses, who's feared by most, or satoru who's known as the strongest — turns out have a weakness that he himself perhaps is not aware of is so mindblowing(?)) anyway, you don't have to write it if you're unable to, no worries and no pressure!!

"YOU— WHO I HAVE LOVED TILL LOVE BURNED"

— when you die in front of gojo, geto, nanami, and sukuna

a/n: hehe i am so glad that you like my heinaera!sukuna MWUAH 💕 we gotta ignore what he is doing in the manga 🧍‍♀️ also sorry in advance y’all, but I lowkey had a blast writing this; hope you like this anon <333

GOJO SATORU:

satoru stood outside the operations room, anxiously tapping his feet on the floor.

he clutches his hands tightly, and his eyes are trained on the door, fixated on your cursed energy that he can feel through the door.

you were going into labor, after long 9 months of waiting.

the two of you were going to finally meet your baby girl. the same girl that the two of you would talk to at night, whispering and giggling amongst yourselves.

he knew that the pregnancy was hard on you, and that’s part of the reason why he is relieved that this day has come.

the moments are long agonizing, and what kills him on the inside are your screams of pain as you try to push out your daughter.

he wanted, so desperately, to be with you in the room, but the doctor decided against it; they thought that it would be better to free the room as they worried that there might be a risk in the labor.

that worried him, but he had no choice but to abide by what they said. finally, the sun smiles upon him, and he hears the cry of his daughter.

he stands up, grin overtaking his face, and eagerly awaiting being let in.

he waits.

and he waits, but nothing happens, and he stops the first nurse that goes out the room, “what is happening? is my wife okay?”

the nurse splutters and nods, before dashing to another room. he doesn’t believe her for one second, and so, he tries looking into the room through the windows on the door.

he can’t see anything, but he can still feel your cursed energy. that’s the only thing that calms him down.

but, he can’t find it in him to sit back on the chair. he leans on the wall beside the door, and his nails dig into his knuckles, almost making them bleed.

he doesn’t snap out of it, until the doctor walks out, lowering his mask, “mister gojo—”

he walks past the doctor and heads inside.

“y/n!” he calls out, but he is met with the sight of the nurses covering your figure with a white cloth. his eyes widen, and he grips the wrist of one of them, “what are you doing? she is not dead.”

the nurse’s brows furrow, and her expression turns into of one of pity. he snaps his head towards you then at her, “she is not dead. I can feel it.”

he can still feel your cursed energy, so they must be wrong.

he looks down at you and cups your face gently. he moves your face to his direction, and he whispers, “pretty girl, you did so well, but you gotta wake up now.”

your face is limp in his hand, and his eyes grow frantic, “y/n?” he urges, “please say anything, yell or scold me even.”

he rubs his thumb across your cheek as he chuckles nervously, “love, I can feel your cursed energy. the prank you’re playing is a bit too much, no?”

“mister gojo,” one of the nurses calls out, “I think it’s from her.”

he looks up, and he sees your daughter in the nurse’s arms. she is wailing loudly, and—the nurse is right—she is emitting your cursed energy or remnants of it, he realizes now.

“mister gojo, you need to have skin-to-skin contact with your daughter,” she speaks softly, gently handing the little girl to him.

he takes her, wordlessly, and he mindlessly opens his chest to hug his daughter to it.

the nurses exit the room, and satoru is left to stare at you.

he sits on the bed, one arm holding your daughter and the other hand holding your face. he speaks up lowly with a small and quivering smile, “wifey, come on, wake up. our daughter is here.”

said girl lets out a small huff, and satoru finds himself biting his lip as he lays his forehead on your own.

“come on, y/n,” he begs, “she even looks exactly like you,” he pulls you closer, “you cant do this to me—please, not you too.”

GETO SUGURU:

the businessman sighs, “I won’t pay more than what I offered. geto. my words are final.”

“and who are you to be making orders? geto asks, resting his elbows on the desk, “I could kill you with the flick of a finger, so either you give me the two million yen—I know you can provide—monthly, or you can say goodbye to this life and empire you built.”

the man taps his palm and sighs, “I assume that we won’t be reaching the outcome I want?”

geto tilts his head with a smile, “come on, you still have the power of choice.”

the man stares at geto for a second before speaking up, “your wife is a lovely woman,” he grins, “too bad she has to depart so early.”

at the moment, for the first time since that incident, geto feels his heart drop to his stomach.

he jolts up, grabbing the man by the collar and slamming him into the nearest wall, “what nonsense are you spouting?”

geto’s grip on the man’s throat quickly tightens.

the man is barely able to choke out his reply, “y—your dear sweetheart has been poisoned, since she went to your ‘usual’ café spot, and my men were there,” he grins manically, “better go and try to get your goodbyes, while you’re at it.”

your husband throws him on the floor and releases his most brutal curses to eat him. the man’s screams are ignored, as geto hurriedly runs to the café.

his heart beats violently against his chest. how did his curses not notice anything? how could he let you be in danger?

he slams the door open and yells out, “y/n?! y/n, do you hear me?!”

the café is empty, and the only person present there is you. the others having long fled.

you look so pained, letting out labored breaths and furrowing your eyebrows in discomfort. he kneels beside you and gathers you in his arms. he rises to his feet, but halts when you let out a pained shriek.

“I am sorry, honey, I know, just hold on,” he comforts. you shake your head and bury your face into his chest. he tightens his embrace on you and quickly starts running out.

“suguru, it hurts—moving hurts,” you cry, and it makes him kiss the top of your head firmly while nodding, trying to comfort both himself and you.

he thanks the heavens that he arrives at the estate, and he gently places you on the bed. he looks back at manami, “call all the healers and doctors, now!”

he looks down at you, and he grips your hand with it and presses it to his lips. he murmurs softly, “you will be okay; don’t worry,” he clutches your shirt.

he repeatedly apologizes and brings you fully into his arms. he watches your breathing slow down, and he feels your skin get colder. your expression starts to relax little by little.

it sends geto into a frenzy. he snaps, “where are the doctors?! why is no here yet?!”

manami runs inside and pants, “a-all the doctors have been k-killed.”

geto stops feeling the tips of his fingers, and he looks down at you. he starts breathing frantically, “then get anyone! anyone who knows about poison!” he cups your face and shakes you lightly, “y/n, please open your eyes.”

“suguru,” you say weakly, and he instantly lowers his head, so he can hear you better. you whisper softly, “I love you.”

he nods repeatedly, “and I love you too, so you have to stay awake, so we can say it again, yeah? come on, y/n.”

he moves your hair away from your face, his hands shaky as he falters, “can you say it again? one more time.”

your body stills in his arms, and he shudders, “just o-one more, y/n…” he closes his eyes, burying his face in your chest. your arms are limp, and he is left hugging your body.

everybody stays silent, and they watch geto not leave or loosen his hold on you.

he looks up slowly at manami and speaks lowly, “round up everyone that had an affiliation to that scum; those filthy monkeys will pay for what they have done.”

NANAMI KENTO:

nanami heaves a sigh of relief when he spots yuuji, “are you okay?”

the young boy nods frantically, and nanami looks around him then at yuuji again, “is y/n not with you? have you seen her? anywhere?”

yuuji shakes his head, regretfully, but nanami takes a deep breath, “it’s fine; let’s search for her together, okay?” he assures.

yuuji smiles and nods, determined, “yes!”

nanami barely manages a reassured nod of his own, his mind focused on finding you. in fact, he starts running, eyes quickly scanning each street and corner for any sight of you.

he clenches his jaw, remembering what you said before taking this mission.

“kento, I have a really bad feeling about this.”

he dismissed your worries and pulled you close, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. he hummed softly, “I know, but we have to do it. if things go bad, then we have gojo present anyway.”

gojo is not present. shibuya is slowly turning into a city full of blood and corpses, both non-sorcerers’ and sorcerers’. he regrets not listening to you, but what else could’ve been done?

all he can do right now is find you and make sure you’re okay. that is his first and most important priority.

“nanamin, I found her!” yuuji screams excitedly, pointing at you who was busy thwarting off the myriad of curses charging at you. at the sight of you, nanami’s body relaxes, and he lets out a small smile.

you punch a curse back to a building, so you can finally turn to your husband.

“kento!” you grin and start running towards him. you throw yourself into his arms, and he—as always—catches you. he pulls you close and takes in your presence, burying his face into your hair.

he lets out a small breath.

“I am so glad you’re okay,” he says, but then he feels a strange wetness on his hand. he pulls away slowly and looks down at it. his eyes widen in alarm.

it’s covered in blood.

he looks up at you and mutters, “y/n, are you hurt? where are you hurt?”

“I—I don’t know,” you look up at him, “I can’t feel anything, k—kento; I don’t want to die,” you plead, and he quickly tears off a part of his suit to cover your wound and trying to stop the bleeding.

yuuji quickly goes to try and find shoko.

he hugs you closer, applying pressure to the wound, while pressing gentle kisses to your hair, “you…you won’t; don’t worry.”

you grip his shirt weakly and look up at your husband. you manage a small smile, “have I told you how handsome you are?”

he chuckles weakly, trying to stabilize his voice, “mhm, but I would like to hear you say it again tomorrow; can you do that?”

you nod slowly, “yeah…”

he stays silent for a second and grips you a bit tighter, “do you promise?”

your breathing starts slowing, “promise,” your body relaxes against his, and you feel his hand go to hold your own. he massages your ring finger and raises your hand to his lips.

you close your eyes with a smile, “I love you, ken.”

“I love you more,” he replies instantly. you stay still, and nanami embraces you with the entirety of his body, burying your face into his chest.

he clenches his jaw and whispers, “so much more.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA:

the king of curses dodges another attack with a full-blown smirk on his face. he swiftly turns and slashes the person till they drop into pieces. his chest heaves with excitement.

that is until he catches the smell of your blood.

he turns behind him, and he is greeted by a sight that he would usually take the time to relish in: a myriad of dead bodies, some piled on top of each other, and blood splattered and spilled everywhere.

he ignores of all that as his feet take him to where he senses your cursed energy.

he sees you standing in the middle of the bodies, and your stance is weak. you’re clutching your side, trying to stop the bleeding. he slowly walks towards to you and teases, “what happened? the queen got hurt?”

you let out a small chuckle, “shut up; it’s a minor injury, nothing worth noting.”

that is until the skin over your chest starts bubbling, and your heart explodes. the blood splashes all over him, and your body drops lifelessly to the floor.

sukuna’s eyes lock with your own blank ones, and he can’t process all the feelings he has.

his chest starts heaving particularly quickly, and his jaw clenches. he bends to his knees—something he never thought he would do—and raises your head towards his, searching for a glimpse of your cursed energy.

his eyes bore into your own as he speaks your name roughly.

“stop playing games, y/n!” he barked, shaking your head in his hand, but you grace him with no response.

“haha! I took out your dear wife; what will you do about it now, you monster?!”

sukuna eyes’ snap to where the voice came from.

he then decides that he will put that man through torture that is not even close to the amount of fury in his chest. sukuna is silent, as he gently lays your head down and walks towards the man.

the sorcerer’s smile starts crumbling, and he quickly falls on his back while trying to move away from sukuna.

“s-stay back, or I will kill you!” he attempts to threaten, but sukuna’s expression is blank. blank being a permanent furrowing of his eyebrows and his lips are pressed into a thin line.

the moment the sorcerer turns his back, trying to flee, sukuna cuts his feet.

sukuna doesn’t give him the chance to scream and wordlessly stomps on his back. little by little, he presses harder on the man under him.

he continues until he hears the cracking of bones and coughs full of blood. sukuna watches as the man tries to claw at his feet, in attempt to escape.

“I will make you suffer ten times over for what you have done.”

and it goes down in history as the biggest carnage sukuna has ever committed.

it didn’t stop at that man.

it extended to all the villages surrounding the vicinity. every sorcerer met a crueller death than the one before him. the single women were eaten, and the married ones were slaughtered.

no man was to enjoy what he was stripped of, and he would let the world remember your name along his through the passage of time, and he would make the temple he erected in your name stand tall forever.

taglist: @magenta-cat-drawingss@pompompurin1028@scul-pted@requiem626k@nameless-shrimp@sonder-paradise@jessbeinme15s-notebook @todorokichills @ginneko @missrown @shrynkk @simplyxsinned @beautiful-is-boring @starlostlaiba @izukus-gf @irethepotato @thekaylahub @dazaisbloodybandages @aeanya @sweetcloudsimp @moon-catto @the-midnightskies@pianopuppygirl @gojosblackqueen @kryscent @kunikida-simp @whoami-72 @mx-0-child @fiona782 @kisakitwister @imjustasimpxd @psychopotatomeme @dreamcastgirl99 @watyousayin @doobiebochana @laylasbunbunny @hojicha-expresso @4sat0ruu @nineooooo @chuuyasboots @alekssashka7 @rieejjyubi02 @satoryaa @nothisispatrick300 @fallencrescentmoon @etheviese @ho34gojo @the-mom-friend-dot-com @the-weeping-author @stray-npc @libbyistired @anon1412@maehemthemisfit @satorustar @b4nka1@sad-darksoul@ko-fi-heart@pumpkindudeishere@suyaaachin@babyqueen17@chaosguy352@murakami-kotone@sukun4ryomen@yumieis@hearts4itoshi@sleepyxxhead@dunixxd@sleepycrybbylaiah @imjustaduckwholikesbread @emilyyyy-08@spacebaby1@arabellatreaty@viscade @washeduphasbeen @janbannan @sugurubabe @enidths @mwtsxri @peppersapro @uranosbaaee

do not copy or plagiarize or I will rat you out to my bestie

check out my buy me a coffee!

706 notes · View notes

raven-at-the-writing-desk · 4 months

Text

may 2024 twst manga updates~

***This includes spoilers for the Episode of Savanaclaw, Episode of Octavinelle, and the 4koma!***

AAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH LILIA SILVER AND SEBEK LOOK SO GOOD HERE 🤡 I love how Silver and Sebek are constantly shown flanking Lilia, it really enhances the bodyguard/knight vibes! Every time Lilia appears, he always looks like he's having so much fun. Lil' guy is living it up in every panel! Especially when he appears upside down to spook Ruggie.

efbiuSIUBDBYypvfW9wpWD THIS SHOT IS SO GOOD??????? ?I'M LIVING FOR CATER MAKING SILVER AND SEBEK LOOK LIGHTLY UNCOMFORTABLE AS HE HANGS ON THEM.............. .... . . . . ....... .. .... .. . . . . .. ..

Ruggie's despair is delicious 🤤 He's thinking about all the events that led up to this point and about how that will now all go to waste. Now that I think about it and I have the visual right in front of me... That's the same thing Leona felt every time he got knocked down for his efforts. The parallels, man...

Well, fellas... Looks like it's probably Overblot Leona time next chapter. A detail I love here is that, from Leona's perspective, all the faces of his dorm members are sorta blotted out... which is interesting seeing as how it was stated that Mrs. Rosehearts' face was intentionally blotted since she is considered the source of Riddle's trauma + the light novel tells us that Leona fears seeing hope and desperation for a better future in others because it might motivate him to try again, thus prompting another failure or rejection... 😭

Palace servants: Young master Leona's magical power is so strong, it's scary!! Leona: Damn, they don't understand me! They judge me before they even get to know me. If I were the older brother, they wouldn't be saying this stuff. Also Leona: [see image above]

MALEWIFE MODE RUGGIE????? 😭 What a contrast to the Ruggie in the Episode of Savanaclaw who is really going through it…

Love the detail of Yuuta and Grim helping out with chores in the background! It shows that they’re trying to pull their weight while they stay over.

Babe, wake up... New Yuuta and Leona reaction images just dropped from the Episode of Octainvelle... (I am Yuuta whenever new TWST content drops and my non-Twstie friends are Leona whenever they're listening to me blab nonstop about the updates--)

Yuuta once again proves to be my favorite of the current Yuu iterations 🫶 He’s just so sweet and hopeful!

We actually get to see the class photo!! Although the resolution here is very grainy. I'm really hoping that we get to see a close-up after Azul's OB!! I'm dying to see what he looked like as a kid!

fbhlavfuoeqy8vevif;fa fai THIS CHAPTER REALLY MADE ME LIKE ACE?????? ??? ? ?? ? It's probably because he gives the same flawless liar (even though the acting is sooo overexaggerated) energy as Jade in book 4. There's a really fun scene where he's distracting the Atlantica Museum guards and really hamming it up. He looks so cute while he's being (fake) upset yet so enthusiastic!!

This was my favorite part!! Ace excitedly talks about how he's always been interested in merfolk since he was little (lie) and how he saved up all his money to come to this museum (also a lie)... THEN BRO HAS THE AUDACITY TO POSE LIKE THIS AND TALK ABOUT WANTING TO BE A PART OF THAT WORLD????? ?? ???? ? ?? ? ?? ARIEL WHO>?????? ?? ??? ?? ? ?I o NLY KNOW TRAPPOLA NOW

One of the 4koma this month is about Octavinelle going on a camping trip! Azul wants to study the stars for money-making ideas/inspiration.

When talking about auroras, they're reminded of the Diasomnia students and think about making an aurora-colored drink to sell to them. The Octatrio also star-gaze and talk about aliens + selling octopus to them. They discuss the idea of filling a space suit with water and fish to they can walk in space too.

The other 4koma is about Trey brushing the mouths of his mandrake (as they have no teeth but dirt). He insists that everyone should have a clean oral cavity.

You can even tell which mandrake is Trey’s because it has a bunch of toothbrushes stuck in its pot 🪥

Jamil was planning on using his own mandrake to make an ancient remedy for relieving toothache. Trey is uh… interested… and attempts to test out the healing toothpaste for himself (Jamil of course stops him).

Trey… you’re the most NORMAL one, why are you like this OTL

736 notes · View notes

room-surprise · 1 month

Text

New Ryoko Kui Interview from Anime Expo 2024 (Summary/Commentary)

This interview is unintentionally hilarious. It's much shorter than the other interview, and every question was met with either a polite non-answer or a flat-out "No." Kui embodied this elf lady she drew for the entire thing:

Kui really wasn't having any of it. Every time the interviewer tried to ask a leading question about things the fandom thinks are extremely central to the manga, Kui basically answered no/I don't care/You're overthinking it/I wasn't suggesting what you're assuming I was suggesting.

My summary/commentary of the interview under the cut.

Please keep in mind these are my opinions, based on my knowledge of Japanese social conventions, and how I personally read the interview!

Q: Dungeon Meshi is about the power of eating in groups/family, do you have any food memories or recipes you can share with us that are important to you? A: No. (In other interviews Kui has stated that she doesn't like eating, other people seeing her eat, or watching others eat, and that she used to eat her meals in the toilet to avoid being around other people during meals. This is a common thing people who are shy, bullied, or socially avoidant do in Japan.)

Q: What meal in DM do you want to eat? A: None of them, I'm a picky eater.

Q: You obviously love TTRPGs. A: Uh...Not really... I've never played one, I just read about them for research purposes. (In other interviews Kui has stated she's never played a TTRPG because she doesn't have friends she can do it with. The fact that so many people in the world do have that many friends they are that close to was very shocking to her. She was amazed that people would actually role-play in front of other people. This, plus other things Kui has said in the past ("I'm not good at human relationships"), suggests that she's not very socially active.)

Q: Your fantasy ecosystem is so complex, how did you build it? A: I though about it, and then I used my imagination. (This is kind of an ice-cold burn. Like a writer saying "I wrote one word, and then another, and then I kept adding words until the book was done.")

Q: Do you love monsters as much as Laios? A: No. But I do like them a lot, and I've loved them since I was a kid.

Q: How'd you design Laios' ultimate monster? A: I used the childhood memory of wanting to design the coolest, strongest monster.

Q: A lot of fans think Laios is autistic, especially because of his fight with Toshiro. A: I wrote him to be a normal guy that anyone can relate to. I don't think he's special or unusual. Both he and Toshiro have problems and they both need to work on communicating better. (Kui saying she didn't write Laios as autistic doesn't mean you should shit on other fans who read him as autistic. All it means is that he's not canonically autistic, and you can't say "Laios being autistic is the foundation of the entire manga." Kui saying that she didn't intentionally write Laios as autistic doesn't invalidate the interpretation, it just means saying Laios is autistic is an interpretation, and not a concrete fact. Also worth noting that labeling Laios as autistic might come across as very rude for a Japanese person. Kui may not want to call Laios autistic due to social stigma.)

Q: Tell us about the Senshi fanservice. A: Calling it "fanservice" feels wrong to me. He's just an older man who doesn't care if people see his underwear, something I've experienced in real life. It might make some people uncomfortable but Senshi's just living his life, I thought that was funny. Laios is a bit uncomfortable seeing people in their underwear. (Holy shit. This answer is the equivalent of Kui firing a shotgun directly in the interviewer's face and screaming "it's not fucking fanservice." She's being VERY direct for a Japanese person, and implying that she doesn't like people calling the Senshi pantyshots fanservice, that she sees them as comedy.)

Q: But Senshi's handsome isn't he? A: All dwarves are handsome :) (This is a complete non-answer, and after that previous answer, it's very likely Kui is trying to brush the interviewer off. This is most likely Kui saying "Please stop this line of questioning/I don't want to talk about this anymore.")

Q: What inspired Marcille's dungeon lord dress? Her friends all make fun of her but I thought it looked nice. A: There's no specific reference. I made it up to look like her mom's dress and added a childish head covering. The dress is totally normal, her friends making fun of Marcille is a joke. They're just not used to seeing Marcille in that kind of clothing, so it seems weird to them. They don't actually think the dress is that strange or uncool.

Q: Did you expect the strong fan reaction to Marcille and Falin's relationship? A: I don't think about how the fans will react when I'm writing. (Another complete non-answer. She doesn't want to discuss the topic of Farcille and avoids it like a landmine. Honestly, good for her. She wants fans to feel free to think what they want and have their own interpretations.)

Q: Will you write a spin-off about Izutsumi getting revenge on the person who made her? A: Maybe, maybe not. Probably not. I think Izutsumi's pretty happy as she is and just wants to live her life.

In short, Kui's reaction to a lot of the fandom opinion questions was:

EDIT: Also, looking at the headline/page summary for the article, it's uh...insanely misleading.

"We sat down with Kui-sensei at Anime Expo 2024 to discuss the community of food, why Senshi is so sexy, seeing neurodivergence in Laios, and more." Kui literally said no in response to all of those questions, this summary of their own interview implies that there was anything discussed, and not just Kui telling them "no" to each question.

#dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #talking mushroom #opinions #analysis #laios touden #marcille donato

390 notes · View notes

17020 · 4 days

Text

LET'S PLAY TELEPHONE!

In which Third Division vice-captains Yn Narumi and Soshiro Hoshina become their officers' latest hot topic after a misunderstanding, even reaching the Ariake Maritime base and its captain, Gen Narumi.

TAGS . . . implied manga spoilers, co-vice captains!yn & hoshina, gen's sister!reader, suggestive remarks, warning!! gen narumi, loser hoshina agenda, everyone in the jakdf are gossips.

TELEPHONE . . . START!

Reno Ichikawa and Kafka Hibino were... confused. With each passing day, there were more questions popping up in their heads whenever they saw their vice-captains around the Tachikawa base. Sure, it wasn't any of their business, but you have to entertain yourself at your job with what you have, right?

"Oh! Here they come now" Kafka whispered, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. Reno simply nodded as he saw you and Soshiro step into the cafeteria, each one of you grabbing a lunch tray and sitting next to one another.

"What do you see, sir?" Reno questioned the man in front of him, as he squinted his eyes to get a better view. "Nothing out of the ordinary, they're just lunchin—oh!" he gasped, to which Reno raised his eyebrow. "What?"

"He put his arm around her, like in the movies."

Now that piqued Reno's interest, as he subtly turned his head to watch the scene behind him. It was true, the way in which Soshiro had wrapped his arm around your shoulder resembled the old movies he used to watch as a little boy. There was a huge smile on your face, which only fueled his theory even further.

"They sure are happy" he noted. Kafka chuckled at his comment, "If you didn't know them, you'd probably think they're dating!"

They both looked at each other with a serious expression, as if something had finally clicked. Reno leaned in, "You thinking what I'm thinking, sir?"

He nodded, his gaze returning to you and Soshiro. He could see a slight pink hue in his cheeks, which confirmed his suspicions.

It was then when Iharu sat down beside them, asking what they were so serious about. When they asked him to lean in, he knew he was in for a good time. Asking what the huge deal was and why they had to be so secretive, his eyes almost popped out of his skull when he heard the reason.

"Haven't you seen? Vice-captain Narumi and vice-captain Hoshina act like a couple!"

GET THE MESSAGE ACROSS!

As soon as the speculation started, Iharu knew that the next person he had to recruit was Izumo. When approached in the training room, Izumo simply tilted his head to the side in confusion.

"What makes you think that?"

"Are you blind?" Iharu asks, his hands on his head. "Dude, they're all over each other—I swear. Just pay attention on our next mission."

The Kaiju gods must have been on Iharu's side, because as soon as he said those words, there was an emergency in a nearby park. It was a crustacean-type honju with various yoju, and as soon as the officers touched the battlefield, their eyes were on you.

With each yoju they neutralized, they turned their heads towards you, as you and Soshiro paved a path for your captain to neutralize the honju. They paid special attention to their earpieces, which gave them a conversation starter for the next week.

"Whoever cracks the honju's shell first gets free dinner" Soshiro beamed, running straight towards the creature in front of him. Your laugh was heard through the officers' earpieces, "I guess I'll have free dinner tonight then! Remember that new ramen place near Shibuya Station?" you asked, rifle in hand shooting right through the crab's carapace.

Soshiro chuckled, "Same time as last week?"

"Mhm."

"Don't make me wait, m'dear."

Soon after, Captain Ashiro stepped in to take care of the honju. The officers saw Soshiro approach you after all kaiju were neutralized, excited to hear what he was to say next. What surprised them, though, was that they didn't hear anything, despite seeing his lips move.

Soshiro Hoshina turned off his microphone, and so did you.

The four men looked at each other before turning theirs off as well, with Iharu speaking up. "What could be so important that they had to turn off their mics?"

"Guess that's confirmed, then" Reno stated.

"What's confirmed?"

The group stiffened as they recognized the voice, turning around to see Kikoru with her arms crossed. They looked at each other, then at her.

"Didn't you know? Vice-captain Narumi and Vice-captain Hoshina are dating!"

MISSION ACCOMPLISHED . . . NOT?

FURUHASHI 20:50 SHINOMIYA PLEASE YOURE OUR ONLY HOPE!!!

HIBINO 20:50 If you wouldn't mind, Shinomiya, please!

ICHIKAWA 20:50 Please, Shinomiya We'll pay you back however we can

Kikoru sighed at the screen in front of her, shutting her phone off and leaving it on her bed before heading out. She was in total disbelief, asking herself why she even agreed to it in the first place. Going inside the bathhouse, she could faintly hear you and Nakanoshima having a chat.

Nothing too interesting, according to the guidelines she had received. She could hear Iharu's voice in her head, screaming 'Only tell us if she says something related to the matter at hand!'

As she took a seat in the bath in front of you, she noticed something was off. There was a faint, red-ish mark on your collarbone, and she knew there was no way a kaiju would have done that.

"Um, vice-captain?"

You turned your head towards her, a smile on your face. "What's up, Shinomiya?"

"If you don't mind me asking, are you okay? There's something on your neck."

Your eyes widened as you raised your hand to your collarbone, before letting out a giggle. "It's nothing to worry about, Shinomiya. When my liver has had enough of my drinking habits, I usually break out in hives. I didn't know I had one right now, so thank you."

She hummed in response, while you mentioned that it was late and you had to head to Soshiro's office to run through some reports. When you stepped out of the bath, Kikoru's eyes were wide and her jaw was nearly on the floor.

Scratches. All over your back.

Bidding your goodbyes, Kikoru was left thinking. It was Nakanoshima who broke her our of her trance.

"You don't think that was her liver, don't you?" Nakanoshima questioned, "I'm not usually one to spill, but I don't think that's her liver either. You saw those scratches?"

Kikoru nodded, "She's heading to the vice-captain's office right now" she said, to which the platoon leader laughed. "Is she? We don't really have any proof, you know? What we do know, though..."

"...is that vice-captain Narumi is keeping herself busy."

After drying herself up and returning to her room, Kikoru unlocked her phone, ready to send a message.

SHINOMIYA 22:22 I got something

FURUHASHI 22:22 WHAT SPILL

ICHIKAWA 22:23 What'd you find??

HIBINO 22:23 Say something

IZUMO 22:24 Yo Spill

SHINOMIYA 22:25 Vice-captain Narumi and vice-captain Hoshina are sleeping with each other

THE TELEPHONE BROKE!

Kikoru usually complained that the training room was always too rowdy due to the men, but today, she was silent.

Everbody was silent.

Word had gotten out about what happened the night before, and everyone was simply processing. They weren't judging, but they were curious. How could you even have the time, as a vice-captain?

When lunchtime came around, the group was determined to watch you like a hawk. They grabbed their trays and made a beeline towards your table, where you and Soshiro happily welcomed them.

While Kafka engaged with the two of you in some small talk, Kikoru and Reno observed. They looked for anything that could be deemed as suspicious. When Reno's eyes scanned over your hands, he gently kicked Kikoru from under the table.

His eyes told her everything she needed to know, as she subtly sent Kafka a text about her and Reno's finding. On the side of your hand, right below your pinky, was a tattoo of a date. And oh—what a coincidence! Soshiro had the same one.

When Kafka secretly read Kikoru's text, he choked on his food, causing you and Soshiro to ask him if he's okay. "I'm good, vice-captains, but if it's okay to ask, why do you have matching tattoos?"

Soshiro laughed as he slammed his palm on the table, "That's 50 pushups for ya, fledgling!" "Hey—make it 30, he was just curious" you justified, "It's okay to ask, Hibino. Me and Hoshina lost a bet to a superior officer a long time ago and had to tattoo the date of that night as a result."

He didn't push any further, afraid it would cost him more pushups.

SHINOMIYA 13:01 Long time ago my ass that ink looks fresh

FURUHASHI 13:01 They're definitely hiding something

ICHIKAWA 13:02 Hey aren't we going to the first division base later today? We can ask some of the officers from there

FURUHASHI 13:03 Shinomiya you know what to do

SHINOMIYA 13:04 What am I your errand girl?

HIBINO 13:05 You're gossip girl

"Rookies, isn't it rude to be on your phones when you're at the table?"

FURUHASHI 13:06 Watch he's gonna give us 30 pushups cuz he wants to hide that he and vice-captain Narumi are married

"Officer Furuhashi, please drop your phone, it's rude. That's 40 pushups for ya."

MESSAGE RECEIVED!

Even with the First Division present, the investigation was ongoing. Within the shared training grounds, whispers were exchanged about the latest news.

"I mean, I couldn't believe it—I'm still in shock" Kafka whispered, to which Kikoru nodded. "It's weird that they decided to keep it secret, but I can see where they're coming from. Who'd want everyone to know that you're boning your coworker?"

"Who's boning who?"

Shivers ran down Kikoru and Kafka's spines as they realized who that voice belonged to. They straightened themselves up while saluting, "Captain Narumi! Sorry, we didn't see you there" Kafka apologized.

"You didn't answer my question, who's boning who?"

"Uhm..."

"Well?"

"...umi and...shina."

"Hahh?"

"...aptain Narumi and....Hoshina, sir"

"Speak up, damn it!"

"Vice-captain Narumi and vice-captain Hoshina, sir!"

"Well that's fuckin' outdated, I'm captain and I'm not into idiots like Hoshina."

"..."

"Oh."

"..."

"BONE?"

"Well, sir, it's normal for married couples to—"

"My SISTER is MARRIED?"

"Sir, we don't know for su—"

"MY SISTER? BOOOONE?"

When Gen Narumi turned on his heel and left, Kafka and Kikoru knew they were done for. They scrambled out of the training grounds in fear for their lives, as Gen Narumi angrily called you and Soshiro into his office.

When you went to greet him with a hug, he screeched. "Yn, you got married to that beady eyed scumbag and didn't tell me??"

You looked at him confused, "Gen, where did you hear that?"

"It's captain Narumi, and for your information, I found out because your whole squad knows you're fucking each other."

Soshiro laughed, his hand holding his stomach from how hard he was laughing. "You think I'd date Yn?"

"It's Ln to you, and I'll have you know my sister is way out of your league, you annoying brat."

"Gen, did you seriously call us to your office for this?" you questioned, seeing the pout on your brother's face. "I have nothing to hide, Gen, and you know that if I'd be dating someone, you'd be the first to know."

"Good to know" he noted, "now get out, will ya? I got things to do."

As soon as you closed the door behind you, you looked at Soshiro. He was about to laugh, when he saw your fearful expression.

"We need to be more careful Soshiro" you sighed, "don't go leaving any evidence next time."

"Oh brother, If I'd be dating someone, you'd be the first to know" he mocked.

Your angry expression quickly shut him up.

"The tattoo thing was a good save though, sweetheart. Good job."

taglist (open, yippee!): @stunie @kaiser1ns @nyxypoo @karasuglazer @maruflix @littleplantfreak @heartkaji @ryescapades , also tagging @justwinginglife this is for you !!

#kaiju no 8 x reader #hoshina x reader #kn8 x reader #kn8 x you #hoshina soshiro x reader #soshiro hoshina x reader #hoshina x you #kaiju no 8 x you #hoshina soshiro x you

292 notes · View notes

iid-smile · 20 days

Text

can't get rid of me , fushiguro toji series

| overview |

never date a criminal for the thrill, especially a cheating bum like him. you've forgiven toji one too many times, so many red flags you didn't see, like him stealing your surname and divorcing you right after. the birth of your son, megumi, was the last straw, except he was the one that left you. he's a liar, a cheater, a deadbeat, a misogynist... there's so much more you want to say. did you still cry? yes. did it still break you? yes. six years passed, and somewhere in that time, you saw on the news that he got caught. good for him. but not good for you, because once that prison got a hold of your house number, and then your mobile phone number, they were calling you nonstop. apparently, said cheating bum misses you. really misses you.

| content warning |

cheating, profanity, smoking, crime, mentions of murder and violence, pregnancy, angst, suggestive themes once or twice (no smut!), toxic ex toji, toji honestly just wants some love, nothing that's too off from what happened in the manga/anime except you're "mamaguro" (dont wanna get mixed up with surnames), and his ways of living never changed for the better, may or may not get fluffy as this progresses, nothing violence/crime related is explicitly described

| main cast |

fushiguro toji, fushiguro megumi, kong shiu

feel free to hide this tag — #cgrom ୨ৎ — if you wanna hide this!

prologue: before the storm

you're desperate. seeing the only man you've loved in your life walking away from you was making you desperate. you try you best to keep up with his long strides, attempting to grab at his shirt, only to be just out of reach. "toji—"

"i already told you, whatever's in your stomach, it's not mine." that hurt, those words. it hurts each time he says them.

you speed up and get in front him, to block him away from the only exit. "i haven't been with anyone but you!" you plead. useless, really. "you can't just stand here at tell me it's not yours, toji. this is our son!"

"your son now. you should stay away if you know what's good for you." with ease, he pushes past you, his deep voice rumbling through your veins and making you... dizzy. are you this attached to the point it's driving your body insane? "got too much debt to pay for another needy clone like you."

the one time he willingly turns to you, is when he drops the keys, your keys, on the floor. "keep the place, though it's under your name anyways." and he has the audacity to laugh in your face. indeed it is under your name, because this guy who actually has a "job" refuses to pay for shit, living around for free.

the door slams shut.

you don't doubt he was sleeping elsewhere most nights. who knows who that guy was messing with? now you've only got yourself to deal with... and a plus one.

table of contents

i. a strong legacy to be left behind

you've been muting your phone over and over again the entire week, and it's stressing you out. what's worse is bills are due in a weeks time, you haven't eaten in ages, megumi's elementary school is putting pressure on you, and you're running out of your beloved cigarettes. how many times will you have to come clean to your six year old son to try and make him understand?

ii. sent straight from... hell, with a cigarette in hand

you snuck out at night. you're desperate with any sort of relief, but being a "good" mother comes at its cost. coincidentally, your lighter went out just before your cigarette could light. lucky. as if it was meant to— or orchestrated to happen, there's a man next to you that just so happens to have a light. talking to strangers isn't so risky... or that's what you think, at least.

iii. shopping spree with a stranger's card

talking to strangers really isn't risky! especially when they're loaded with money. not a single time did you have the temptation to fill your carts with the finest luxury, or items that have been on your wishlist for ages. no, not at all. all you asked for was some help with your bills, and to let megumi get whatever he wants.

iv. a jealous ex

not this bum again... it's been six years, why can't he get over you? to your dismay, his personality has become ten times more potent, which means ten times more snarky, sarcastic and smart-mouthed, and ten times more that you're this close to wanting to rip your ears out. just this once, you'll hear him out. no way he still thinks you'll take him back in a heartbeat; he knows you're not that dumb.

v. ???

tba...

242 notes · View notes

trueebeauty · 4 months

Note

hello dear! can I request a fluff scenario with Lookism men (with Gun, Goo, Sam, Jake + whatever characters you like), when you prank him by pointing at your man's lap and ask if that seat was taken 😊 tyty!!

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ notes ; I had so much fun writing this one, I hope you enjoy it!!

GUN PARK

— It's a quiet evening, the kind of evening that Gun usually spends buried in work. His office is dimly lit as Gun sits there, his figure hunched over documents, his brow furrowed in concentration.

You pause at the doorway, watching him. To the world, he's a monster, a threat. But to you, he's just Gun, the man who softens only for you.

"Gun," you call softly, stepping into the room.

He looks up, the sharpness in his eyes immediately dulling. It's a transformation only you witness - the feared Gun becoming just a man, tired and in need of a break. "What is it?" His voice, usually a weapon, is gentle now.

You saunter towards his desk, a playful sway in your hips. Gun's eyes track your movement, a hint of curiosity in his gaze.

You stop right in front of him, pointing at his lap with a mischievous grin. "Excuse me, sir, but is this seat taken?"

Gun blinks once, twice. You've caught him off-guard, a feat very few can claim. Then, a sound rumbles from his chest - a chuckle, low and rich.

It's not his usual cold laughter that sends chills down spines. This is warm, amused, meant only for you.

"You're playing a dangerous game," he says, but there's no threat in his voice. Instead, there's a fondness that makes your heart skip.

Gun pushes back from his desk, his expensive leather chair rolling smoothly. It's an invitation, one that speaks louder than words from a man who prefers action.

You don't hesitate. In a moment, you're settled on his lap, your legs dangling off one side of the chair.

His arms come around you, not with his usual strength, but with a gentle possessiveness. You're encased in a cage of muscle and warmth, more comforting than confining. Here, in Gun's embrace, you're the safest person in Seoul.

"Better than any chair," you quip, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. He smells of expensive cologne and something uniquely him, a scent that spells home for you.

"Brat," Gun murmurs. The word is gruff, but you hear the smile in it. You glance up to see it - a rare, genuine smile softening his sharp features.

It's a sight reserved only for you, more precious than any treasure he owns.

Gun's hand comes up, calloused fingers tracing your cheek with a tenderness that belies their strength. These hands have brought empires to their knees, yet they touch you like you're made of glass.

"You should rest," you whisper, reaching up to smooth the furrow between his brows. "The world won't fall apart if you take a break."

He hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. But he makes no move to return to his work.

Instead, he pulls you closer, his chin resting atop your head. You feel the tension leaving his body, the rigidness melting away.

You smile, knowing you've won a victory sweeter than anything. You've stolen Gun's seat, yes - but more importantly, you've stolen a moment of his time, a piece of his heart.

With you, he's not a king or a ghost or a nightmare. He's just Gun, a man holding his world in his arms.

GOO KIM

— It's a lazy Sunday afternoon, the kind Goo loves best. No jobs, no fights, just pure relaxation. You've just returned from a grocery run, bags dangling from your arms. The apartment you share with Goo is quiet, except for the faint rustle of pages.

You nudge the door open with your hip. "Goo! A little help here?"

He's sprawled on your plush couch, one leg dangling off the edge, the other propped on the armrest. His wild hair is messier than usual, and he's got a manga held above his face.

At your call, he flips a page, a smirk playing on his lips. "Busy," he drawls, not even glancing your way.

You huff, but there's no real annoyance. This is classic Goo - mercurial, a little shit, but undeniably yours.

You set the bags down and take a moment to admire him. Even in repose, there's a coiled energy about him, like a cat pretending to nap but ready to pounce at any moment.

A mischievous idea strikes. You saunter over, putting a little extra sway in your hips. Goo's eyes flick to you over the top of his manga, a spark of interest breaking through his facade of indifference.

You stop right by the couch, pointed chin, playful eyes. "Baby," you say, your voice a blend of innocence and cheek. "Is this seat occupied?"

Goo blinks, momentarily caught off guard. Then, a slow grin spreads across his face, the kind that usually precedes chaos.

But this chaos is all for you. "Oh?" he drawls, tossing the manga aside carelessly. "Getting bold, are we?"

You shrug, the picture of innocence. "Just looking for a comfy spot."

Goo laughs, a sound that's half amusement, half challenge. He pats his lap, a clear invitation. "Well, don't let me stop you, darling."

You don't hesitate. In a moment, you're plopped onto his lap, legs stretched out along the couch. Goo grunts at the sudden weight, but his arms are already around you, one hand splayed on your back, the other dangerously close to your ticklish spots.

"Comfy?" he asks, but there's a glint in his eye that spells trouble.

"Very," you start to say, but the word morphs into a squeal as Goo's fingers dance along your sides. "Goo!"

"That's what you get for being cheeky," he teases, but he's grinning ear to ear, a sight that transforms his whole face. Gone is the cold, calculating fighter. In his place is your Goo, all playful energy and unrestrained joy.

You squirm in his grasp, laughter bubbling out of you. It's a game now, one you both love. His tickles are merciless, but you manage to retaliate, finding that one spot behind his ear that always makes him twitch.

"Yah!" he yelps, more surprised than displeased. His grip on you tightens, not to hurt but to pull you against him.

The tickle war morphs into a tight embrace, your giggles fading into contented sighs.

Goo's chin rests atop your head, his breaths ruffling your hair. "You're lucky I like you," he murmurs, but there's no bite to it. If anything, he sounds almost awed, as if he can't quite believe you're here, that you chose him.

"More than you like manga?" you tease, glancing at the discarded book.

He snorts. "Don't push it." But his hand comes up to stroke your hair, gentle in a way few would believe the infamous Goo could be capable of. "But yeah, maybe a bit more."

You hum happily, nuzzling into his chest. Under your ear, his heart beats steady and strong, and in the arms of one of Seoul's most feared men, you feel nothing but safe.

The groceries lay forgotten by the door. The manga stays on the floor. The world outside, with all its violence and schemes, seems distant.

Right now, it's just you and Goo, tangled together on the couch, his unpredictable energy gentled by your presence.

As you start to doze off, lulled by Goo's warmth and the faint scent of his shampoo (the one you bought him, because "if you're gonna fight, at least smell nice"), you feel him press a kiss to your forehead. It's feather-light, almost hesitant, as if he's still learning how to be soft.

But that's okay. You've got all the time in the world to teach him, one lazy Sunday at a time. After all, you've already claimed the best seat in the house - right here, in Goo's lap, in Goo's heart.

SAMUEL SEO

— It's a hot summer day in Seoul. The air is thick with humidity, making even the short walk to the gym feel like trudging through the desert.

But Samuel Seo doesn't do half-measures, not in fights and certainly not in training. So, here he is, wrapping up an intense workout while others have long since retreated to air-conditioned cafes.

You push open the gym door, a blast of sweat-tinged air hitting you. The place is nearly empty, save for a few diehards and, of course, Samuel.

He's at the bench press, muscles straining, a look of fierce concentration on his face. You pause, taking a moment to admire the way his black tank clings to his skin, how his veins stand out with each rep.

He finishes his set and sits up, grabbing a towel to wipe his face. That's when he spots you. "Oi," he calls out, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Come to see a real workout?"

You roll your eyes but can't help the smile that spreads across your face. This is Samuel's way of saying he's glad to see you. "Real workouts involve water breaks, Sammy," you retort, holding up the bottle and towel you brought.

He grunts, but there's a flicker of appreciation in his eyes as he meets you halfway. "Thanks," he mumbles, downing half the bottle in one go.

Water trickles down his chin, tracing the sharp line of his jaw. You resist the urge to chase it with your lips.

Instead, you hold out the towel. "Here. You look like you took a swim in your clothes."

Samuel snorts but takes it, roughly toweling his hair. "It's called dedication. Not that you'd know, with your yoga and pilates crap."

"It's called flexibility," you counter with a wink. "Very useful in certain situations."

A faint blush creeps up his neck, visible even through his workout flush. He clears his throat, adorably flustered. "Yeah, well... whatever."

You grin, loving how this tough-as-nails fighter turns into a stammering mess with just a bit of flirting. But you're not done teasing him yet. As he starts to move back towards the weights, you clear your throat.

"Hey, Sammy?" you call, your tone playful. He turns, one eyebrow raised in question. You gesture towards his lap with an impish smile. "Is anyone sitting here?"

Samuel blinks, his blush deepening. "You're such a—" he starts, but you don't let him finish. In a moment, you've perched yourself on his knees, legs dangling on either side of the bench.

"Language, Samuel," you tease, poking his chest. "This is a public space, anyone can hear you."

He grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like "impossible shit," but his hands find your waist, steadying you. "You do realize I'm sweaty and gross, right?" he mutters, but he's not pushing you away. If anything, he's pulled you a bit closer.

"Mmm, eau de hard work," you joke, leaning in to nuzzle his neck. "My favorite."

"Ridiculous," Samuel breathes, but there's a tremor in his voice, a softness that belies his gruff tone. "You're going to get all sweaty too."

"Then we'll match," you say simply, pulling back to look at him.

His face is a study in contrasts - sharp angles and soft eyes, a scowl fighting a smile. It's a face you've come to adore, every scar and frown line a part of the man you love.

Samuel looks at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his gaze. Then, with a gentleness that would shock his enemies, he reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "You're impossible," he murmurs, but it sounds more like a declaration than a complaint.

You lean into his touch, your heart swelling. "You love it," you whisper, and before he can deny it, you press a soft kiss to his cheek.

He lets out a shaky breath, his facade crumbling. In this quiet corner of the gym, with the faint hum of a lone fan and the distant clang of weights, Samuel allows himself a moment of vulnerability.

He rests his forehead against yours, his hands sliding from your waist to wrap around you in a full embrace.

"Yeah," he admits, so quietly you almost miss it. "Yeah, I do."

JAKE KIM

— It's a typical Wednesday at the Big Deal hangout and Jake Kim sits at the center of it all, face full of determination. He's hunched over blueprints spread across a makeshift table, Jerry and a few other trusted members surrounding him.

You slip in quietly, a tray balanced in your hands. The aroma of fresh food and drinks cuts through the usual scents of sweat and tears.

A few of the guys nod at you, respect and a hint of fondness in their eyes. You're not just their boss's partner; you're the one who brings warmth to this rough-edged place.

Jake doesn't look up as you approach. His brow is furrowed, eyes intense as he traces a route on the map.

It's a look you know well - the weight of responsibility, the constant battle to keep his people safe. You set the tray down gently, the clink of plates, bowls, and cups finally drawing his attention.

"Thanks," he mumbles, distracted. One hand reaches out, finding a cup by memory alone. He takes a sip, and you see a fraction of tension leave his shoulders. It's small, but it's enough to make your heart swell. Even in the midst of planning, he acknowledges your care.

The others grab their cups too, while some run to the food first, murmurs of thanks rippling through the group. You smile, pleased, but your eyes are on Jake.

He's back to the blueprints, the brief moment of respite already fading. You know he'll push himself too hard; he always does.

A mischievous idea forms. It's risky, maybe a bit too playful for the serious mood, but you can't help it. Jake needs a break, even if he won't admit it. So, you clear your throat softly.

"Um, excuse me," you say, your voice a blend of shyness and cheek. Jake looks up, a question in his tired eyes. You gesture to his lap, fighting back a grin. "Is this seat available?"

The warehouse goes quiet. Jerry's eyebrows shoot up. Someone in the back chokes on their drink.

But you only have eyes for Jake, watching as surprise melts into understanding, and then - oh, there it is - a warm, genuine smile that transforms his entire face.

"For you?" he says, his voice soft but carrying in the stillness. "Always."

Without hesitation, you settle onto his lap. Jake's arm comes around you automatically, a gesture so natural it's like breathing. You fit against him perfectly, your back to his chest, his chin finding its place on your shoulder.

Around you, the Big Deal members exchange glances. Some smirk, others politely avert their eyes. But there's no judgment, no scorn.

They've seen how you soothe their leader's burdens, how you bring light to his darkest days. If anyone's earned the right to this intimacy, it's you.

"Comfy?" Jake murmurs, his breath tickling your ear. There's a hint of playfulness in his voice, a side of him his enemies never see.

"Mmm," you hum contentedly, snuggling closer. "The best seat in the house."

Jake chuckles softly, the sound reverberating through his chest and into your back. His free hand finds yours, calloused fingers intertwining with yours atop the blueprints.

"Boss," Jason speaks up, his usually stoic face softened by a faint smile. "Maybe we could take a break? Looks like you've got your hands full."

There's a round of chuckles, more felt than heard. Jake looks around at his crew, sees the fatigue hidden beneath their tough exteriors.

Then he looks down at you, nestled in his arms like you belong there. Which, he thinks, you absolutely do.

"Yeah," he agrees, surprising everyone. Jake Kim doesn't take breaks; he powers through. But today, with you in his lap and his crew looking at him with loyalty mixed with concern, he allows himself this weakness. "Let's call it for now. Good work, everyone."

The warehouse comes alive with movement. Guys stretch, joke, make plans for dinner. But no one comments on how you stay right where you are, or how Jake's arms tighten around you.

"You planned this, didn't you?" he murmurs once the others have drifted away. There's no accusation in his voice, only a fond exasperation.

You turn in his lap to face him, one hand coming up to trace the sharp line of his jaw. "You needed a break," you say simply. "And I needed a seat."

Jake laughs, a real laugh that crinkles the corners of his eyes. It's a rare, precious sound. "I'm starting to think you like me more for my lap than my charming personality," he teases.

"Mm, it's a tough call," you play along, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "The lap is very comfy. But the man it's attached to? He's pretty great too."

Jake's eyes soften, the hard edges of the gang leader melting away. He leans in, resting his forehead against yours. In the quiet of the now-empty warehouse, he allows himself to be vulnerable.

"I don't know what I did to deserve you," he whispers. It's an admission he'd never make in front of his crew, a crack in the armor he wears for their sake.

You cup his face in your hands, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. "You're you," you say firmly. "That's more than enough."

He kisses you then, slow and deep, pouring into it all the words he can't say. When you part, his eyes are bright, not with the sharpness of the intensity but with something softer, something that belongs only to you.

#lookism #lookism headcanons #lookism x male reader #lookism x reader #lookism webtoon #lookism manhwa #goo kim #gun park x reader #gun park #goo kim x reader #jake kim #jake kim x reader #samuel seo #samuel seo x reader

365 notes · View notes

pure-smut · 2 months

Note

Hello :)

May I ask you for an eating out session with Togame Jou, Yamato Endo and Hayato Suo?

coming undone.

featuring: Togame Jo x f!reader, Hayato Suo x f!reader

contains: established relationships, cunnilingus (ofc), orgasm denial/control from Suo, dom!Suo, aftercare

note: all characters are aged up to 21+!

MDNI | 18+ content

word count: 2.3k

masterlist

a/n: ty for this request!! unfortunately i haven't read the manga so i don't think i'd do Endo justice bc i don't know him that well (he has got some SERIOUS drip tho ngl) but i hope you enjoy Togame and Suo!!

Togame Jo

Your day has been shit.

You trudge through your front door, dropping your bags and jacket on the floor and trudge over to your bed, falling face down onto it with a groan. It’s not even 7pm but you’re ready to go to sleep and hope that when you wake up tomorrow, you never have to put up with a single customer again.

You know you should get undressed but your body aches from standing for a full ten-hour shift and you’re so emotionally drained, you just want to rot where you’ve landed.

“Who do I need to fight?” Togame’s voice floats from somewhere behind you. He’s only half-joking.

You sigh in response, not even having the energy to vent.

Togame’s hand smooths across your back, feeling your stress knots. He gives a sympathetic tut. He hates seeing you like this, hates that you hate your job but there’s no other jobs going. Every time you tell him about another shitty customer, he has to physically restrain himself from tracking them down.

“What do you need, baby?” he asks, his deep voice soft.

“Just want to lie here,” you mumble into the bed covers. “Feel like shit.”

Togame looks over you, feeling your sore limbs and he desperately wants to smooth the stress from your brows, wash the worries from your mind. He knows what to do.

With easy strength, Togame moves you up the bed, gently turning you onto your back. You let him, flopping over with another heavy sigh.

“Sorry,” you mumble. “I’m not good company right now.”

“You see me complaining?” Togame grins down at you.

The corner of your mouth upticks despite yourself. You fling an arm over your eyes, sitting in easy silence for a few minutes. It’s not long before you feel the mattress shift beneath you as Togame pushes his body between your legs, leaning over you. You feel his lips on your cheek before moving down to your neck, pressing soft kisses.

You don’t move, letting Togame lick a lazy stripe across your collarbone.

“How about I make you feel better, hmm?” he hums in your ear.

Just from Togame kissing your neck, you know you’re already wet, but you really don’t have the energy to do anything right now. You pull away your arm from your eyes.

“I’m sorry, Jo,” you tell him. “I’m too tired. I don’t think I can cum tonight.”

Togame thumbs your bottom lip, easy smile on his face.

“You don’t need to do a thing,” he says. “And there’s no pressure to cum, okay? I just wanna kiss your pretty little pussy for a bit.”

You feel your lips tugging into a smile.

“Okay,” you relent, with a playful roll of your eyes. “Go ahead.”

“Thanks, baby.” Togame grins. “Always so good to me.”

He pushes up your dress to your waist before lying down on his stomach between your legs. He doesn’t take off your panties, not yet. Togame likes to take his time, especially with the things he enjoys most.

Togame sucks small bruises into your inner thigh, replacing the marks he’d left a few days ago. Your legs are lazily laid out, not enough energy to even pull them back for him but Togame doesn’t mind. He slings them over his shoulders, your calves resting on his solid back.

You feel his hot breath on your clothed pussy just before the heat becomes solid, his tongue pressed against the thin fabric. Togame brushes his tongue up and down your panties, just on the other side of your clit, the warmth of him teasingly sweet. Togame loves feeling you get wet through your panties, loves knowing he can make you soak them through. He presses wet kisses against the fabric, tasting you more and more as your body responds.

You lie there, sighing softly, enjoying the feel of Togame’s mouth even through your panties.

Needing to taste more of you, Togame eventually hooks his fingers under the hem and tugs them down, repositioning so he can move them down your legs. They’re not even fully off, still dangling around one of your ankles when he returns to your dripping pussy.

Togame presses his mouth flush to your mound, his tongue dipping between your folds. He moans into your pussy as he finds a well of your slick, lapping his tongue in and out of your hole for more.

“Mmm,” you moan lightly, your eyes closing. You’re motionless, no energy left in you as Togame lazily makes out with your pussy.

His strong nose nudges your clit as he pushes his tongue deeper inside you and your hips buck on instinct. Togame pulls back to suck on your lips before licking his way back up to your swollen bud.

He could spend forever between your legs. He’s not even trying to make you cum, too lost in exploring you with his tongue, in mapping and memorising every inch of you. He latches his lips around your clit as he flicks his tongue over it and you make your first real moan of the night.

Togame smiles against you. He’ll never get bored of hearing you make that sound. But he knows you’re tired and sore. He knows you’re not in the mood for anything rough or fast or hard. And he’s more than happy with that – this is always more his pace.

Togame laps at your hole again, gathering more of your arousal on his tongue before returning to your clit. You move only slightly, only enough energy to whimper, your fingers barely grasping the bed sheets. Togame continues his languid strokes of his tongue, resting his temple on your thigh as he sucks slowly on your clit.

You can feel your orgasm building, your body responding to Togame even when you’re too tired to lift your arms. Togame can feel it too, in the slight quiver of your thighs.

In the quiet evening of your shared bed, amongst your low whimpers and his lazy moans, Togame makes you come undone against his tongue. It’s not the kind of orgasm that seizes you, that makes you see white and curves your spine. It’s the slow kind. One that sends ripples of pleasure right through to your fingertips, that coats your boyfriend’s mouth and chin in your juices.

Togame rises up, not bothering to wipe his face, but by the time he crawls up to kiss you, you’ve already fallen asleep.

Hayato Suo

You’re lying bent over the bed, your wrists bound in front of you and tied to the headboard. Suo hums as he ties your ankles to the feet of the bed, making sure the binds are snug but not too tight. He takes his time, knowing the anticipation is killing you, and that’s half the punishment.

When Suo’s done, he presses a soft kiss to the back of your thigh – making you jolt – before rising to his feet. He cocks his head, raking his eyes over you with a smile.

You look so pretty like this, all splayed out for him, not an inch of you he can’t see or touch. He has to resist the urge to smooth his hand over your skin, to stop himself touching you just yet.

“You’ve been bad,” he says, his voice light but there’s a hard edge to it. Just the sound of his voice makes you shudder.

“Y-yes, sir,” you manage to stammer out. “I’m sorry.”

Suo chuckles darkly.

“Yes,” he muses. “You will be.”

You close your eyes, goosebumps springing along your exposed skin.

You had been teasing Suo all day when you were both out with your friends – your hand just slightly too high on his thigh, bending over slightly too long in front of him, your kisses slightly too lingering. You couldn’t help yourself. Suo’s always so in control, so sharp-eyed he’s one step ahead of you. Seeing him struggle to keep his composure as you teased the life out of him was just too damn satisfying.

And now you’re paying for it.

Suo trails his fingers in a featherlight touch across the back of your thigh. You squirm under his touch, desperate for more, and Suo tuts at you.

“You’re going to stay still and behave,” he instructs. “Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.”

There’s a long pause. You swallow, not able to see what he’s doing. It’s thrilling and a little scary at the same time but you trust Suo more than anything. You wait, almost patiently.

You bite down a squeal as you suddenly feel Suo’s tongue on your pussy. He licks a long, deep stripe from your clit to your hole before sliding his tongue inside you. You whimper lightly, keeping as still as possible like he told you too.

Suo pulls your cheeks apart to give him better access, fucking your tight hole with his tongue. You feel him hot and wet inside you, rubbing against the nerves at your entrance to make your thighs quiver involuntarily. You desperately want to move, to push your hips back against his face, but Suo has you tied down firmly. All you can do is lie there as he slides his thick tongue in and out of you.

By the time Suo moves down to your clit, he finds it dripping with your arousal and throbbing under his touch. Even the lightest lick is enough to make you gasp, your legs pulling against the restraints as your thighs clench.

Suo listens to you, to your moans and the way your body moves, keeping his strokes focused on your clit. His hands move to the flesh of your ass, grasping you firmly as he sucks on the sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Can I – ah – can I cum, please, sir?” you whimper against the bed sheets, your orgasm impending and coming quicker than your lust-addled brain can process.

“No.”

Suo pulls back, your pleasure quickly replaced with frustration.

With what little movement you could make, you sink back onto the bed. Suo continues to touch you, stroking your back and the sensitive spot on the back of your thighs, but he doesn’t lick you again. Not yet.

When you don’t complain, instead remaining silent - albeit a bit pouty - on the bed, Suo smiles and squeezes your ass.

“Good girl,” he praises.

Suo returns to your hole to flick his tongue over it, gathering your slick. Your taste is addictive and Suo has to fight not to get lost in the moment, not to close his eyes and give you exactly what you want. But you’ve been teasing him, almost making him lose control, and he can’t have you getting away with that.

You start to stir again under him as he eats your sensitive pussy. Suo sucks on your lips, slides his tongue in your hole and licks fat stripes between your folds. He teases you, licking you deliciously but never going where you really need him to.

Your clit throbs with need, Suo assaulting you with pleasure without bringing you to the apex. It’s only when your juices are dripping down his chin and you’re half-sobbing on the bed that he moves down to your clit again.

You make an almost feral moan as he latches around your swollen bud, his soft, hot tongue stroking against it in the way he knows drives you crazy. Suo uses his thumbs to pry your lips apart, gently freeing your clit from its hood. He carefully laps at it, so exposed and sensitive that even the lightest lick is enough to makes your thighs shake.

“F-fuck…” you breathe raggedly. “I’m… oh, fuck… C-can I please – ah – please cum, sir?”

The desperate plea in your voice makes Suo smile. Still, he pulls back and says, “No.”

You bury your face in the sheets to stop from screaming. Your pussy aches, even the air on your lips enough to make sparks of pleasure run through you.

Suo stands and slides two fingers inside your sopping pussy. You moan and try to buck your hips, held down by the restraints. Suo slowly pistons them in and out of you but he doesn’t curve his fingers, doesn’t seek out the bundle of nerves inside you that he knows will make you cum. He’s just keeping you going, keeping your pleasure sustained without taking you over the brink.

“P-please, sir,” you sob. “Please, I need to cum.”

Suo hums thoughtfully.

“You are begging very nicely,” he allows, fondness in his voice. “Have I punished you enough?”

You try to speak but Suo’s fingers are addling your brain, making it hard to think. You desperately nod instead.

“Are you sorry?”

“M’sorry,” you moan. “Won’t… do it – uhn – again. Promise!”

"Then you can cum, sweetheart."

Suo withdraws his fingers, leaving you feeling empty, but it’s soon replaced by his tongue. You moan, long and low with satisfaction as he softly sucks on your clit again. You’re so oversensitive that any stimulation would have done but the feel of Suo’s deft tongue is enough for an orgasm to rip through you.

You cry out, half-sobbing, as pleasure wracks your body. If you weren’t tied to the bed, your legs would collapse from under you. You fist the bed sheet so hard your knuckles turn pale, a seemingly endless tidal wave running through your body. By the time your orgasm starts to fade, you’re breathing hard against the sheets, sweat coating your body, your throat hoarse from moaning.

Suo unties your restraints, pressing kisses against your skin as he does so. When you’re finally free, he scoops you easily into his arms before sitting on the bed, his back against the headboard and you over his lap. He strokes soothingly down your back and legs as you curl up against him, his heartbeat against your cheek.

“You feel okay, my love?” he asks, voice soft.

“Mhm.” You give a small nod. “M’okay.”

“You were such a good girl,” he assures you, pressing gentle kisses against your forehead and temple. “I love you so much.”

You snuggle up tighter against his chest.

“I love you too.”

masterlist

Support me on Ko-Fi! ♡

287 notes · View notes

slight-gaming-addict · 2 months

Note

Heyyyy I was just wondering if you could do Azul, Malleus, Idia, and riddle x Tired and Ditzy Reader who is really socially unaware but feels really bad when they say something wrong/mean unintentionally (like semi hurt/comfort)

(Absolutely love love love your writing btw<3)

foolishly wrong

join the taglist | masterlist | request rules | ko-fi

you say something harsh to them unintentionally

characters: azul ashengrotto, idia shroud, malleus draconia

𝑨𝒛𝒖𝒍 𝑨𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒕𝒕𝒐

This whole week, Azul has been busy with a big business project that he's trying to complete in a timely manner to get the most out of it. You're happy that he's doing what he loves, but eventually, you get tired of having to greet him in his office every day.

One night, you're tossing and turning in bed, unable to fall asleep, knowing that Azul is still up and working. You drag yourself out of bed and head toward his office. He greets you with a quick smile before returning to his paperwork.

"Why are you up right now? It's late," he says, still looking down at the paperwork.

"I would be sleeping if you knew how to stop working." You're rubbing your eyes, letting out a small yawn. You look up at him, seeing a look of shock and hurt on his face.

"You know how important this project is to me." He's been working on this project nonstop and was excited to share the finished product with you, but now he's having second thoughts about whether you actually care about it.

You feel horrible hearing the hurt in his voice and seeing the look on his face. You didn't mean to hurt him; you just wanted him to come to bed so you both could get some rest.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you." You continuously apologize, hating the hurt that appeared on his face.

He lets out a small sigh, scoots his chair back, and beckons you to come to him. He pulls you into his lap, and you bury your face in his chest, your apologies still coming out muffled against it. He gently shushes you, telling you that it's okay as he rubs your back.

You pull your face away from his chest, apologizing once more before asking about his project. You feel your body warm up at the sight of the smile that forms on his face when you ask.

He spends the next few minutes explaining everything to you and how excited he is about it. You listen to him intently, hanging onto every word he says. He eventually gets back to work, and you fall asleep against his chest.

𝑰𝒅𝒊𝒂 𝑺𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒅

Idia knows how you are and how cranky you get if someone messes with your sleep, so he should've known better than to be up late at night, being loud on his computer while you're sleeping in the same room.

You're groggy when you wake up, making a snide comment about him always being on the computer and never doing anything else. Idia gets off the computer when you say something. He tries to brush off the comment, knowing how you can get when you lose sleep, but it weighs heavily on him through the night.

He loves his computer and gaming, and you know that, but hearing you say that he doesn't do anything else but that hurts. It's already hard for him to fit into any social norms, and gaming is something he found solace in. For you to call him out on the one thing he's found comfort in really hurts him.

He sighs and decides to go to bed for the night so as not to upset you anymore. He lies in bed for an hour before he's even able to fall asleep.

In the morning, you don't even remember saying anything to him, as you were half asleep at the time. But you notice that Idia seems off today. When it's already lunchtime and he's barely spoken two words to you the entire day, you decide to talk to him.

You go to his room, expecting to find him there, but you grow confused when he's not there. You don't know where else he would be; he's almost always in his room. You eventually find him in the corner of the library, looking irritated with a stack of manga scattered on the table in front of him.

"Idia?" You call out to him, causing him to jump slightly, not expecting anyone to be there. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. What are you doing here? I've been looking all over for you." Idia huffs, flipping through the book in his hand. He sighs when he looks back up at you, watching him with worry and curiosity.

"I shouldn't have been loud last night. I'm sorry." There's a slight annoyance in his tone when he speaks, confusing you. You don't know why he's apologizing for being loud last night. He sees your confused look and explains how you woke up annoyed at him for making too much noise.

You immediately feel terrible, realizing he's obviously hurt by what you said, even if you don't remember it. You apologize to him profusely, explaining that you didn't mean what you said when you were half asleep and tired. You do anything you can to make it up to him, telling him that you'll play the new co-op game that he's needed a second player for.

He immediately perks up at the sound of you offering to play with him. By the time nighttime rolls around and he's showing you the game, it's safe to say he's forgotten everything you said.

𝑴𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒖𝒔 𝑫𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒂

It's no secret that Malleus likes to roam around late at night, and recently, he's been wanting you to go with him, enjoying the opportunity to talk to someone.

You've had no problem with it, happy to accompany him on his walks, but on this particular night, you've had a long day and are already in bed when he wants to go out for a walk. You're about to fall asleep when you hear him come into your room, not realizing you're about to go to bed, and nonchalantly asking for your company.

"Don't you have anyone else to drag with you?" you mumble, eyes still closed as you try to fall asleep.

Malleus is taken aback by the sudden outburst. He didn't mean to bother you; he just figured you both enjoyed the walks together. But now, he's wondering if he was the only one. Not wanting to force you into something you don't want to do, he leaves the room when he sees you not moving from your spot on the bed.

Your words echo in his ears as he walks outside. He's been walking alone for as long as he can remember, with no one else ever inviting him for casual walks. He enjoyed walking with you as you talked about whatever was on your mind, but now he's questioning if he's been forcing you to join him when you don't want to.

You realize something's wrong when you hear Malleus leave the room without another word. You squint your eyes open, staring at the door he just walked out of. You replay the words in your head, and you realize they came out harsher than you intended.

Instead of falling asleep, you get out of bed and go to find Malleus. You start to feel bad as you search for him, knowing that he doesn't talk to many people, and it's not really by choice.

You find him sitting in your usual spot, on a bench facing a big empty field. You see the glow of the moonlight on him as you approach. "Hey," you announce your presence when you're close enough. He turns around, surprised to see you out at this hour.

You sit down next to him, apologies spilling out of your mouth for your earlier words. "I should be the one apologizing. I just assumed you enjoyed these walks and didn't ask about your feelings." You shake your head, turning your body toward him.

"I do enjoy the walks with you. I was just really tired tonight from the long day I had. I shouldn't have said that to you. I'm sorry." You rest your arm on the back of the bench and lean your head against it as you watch his reaction.

He looks at you, happy to know that you do enjoy the walks, but starts to feel guilty that you're out of bed talking to him when you wanted to sleep earlier. "You should go back to bed if you're tired." You shake your head at him.

"It's okay. I'm already out here, and it's nice out tonight." He grins at you, looking out into the field as he begins to tell you one of his many stories.

buy me a coffee ♡

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

taglist:

@akaneredsstuff @sad-little-miao-miao @rosesforo

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

get tagged for future fics

275 notes · View notes

r0-boat · 5 months

Note

Because I’m starving for the boy who clearly came out of a shoujo manga. The true beauty of Hades imho. Could I request some sweet and maybe spicy Foras headcanons? 🌸

Ooh YES!!

Foras headcanons

Nsfw&Sfw

Cw: stalking, dubcon.

Sfw

Foras is in unknown territory. It's just a flutter every time he sees you. You're so bright and lively that he shy is always so easily. But at the same time, it's that same bright and liveliness He wants to protect and cherish. He has never been in love before. And the fluttery feelings honestly scare him.

Balancing his love and loyalty for his king and his love for you is difficult... Especially when the two of you fight like angels and devils. He knows how much you don't like Levi but he'll still at least try to get you to have a better relationship. (He doesn't know the dynamic you two have) he can't help but selfishly fantasize about having both you and leviathan his arms. And he hates seeing two people he loves fight.

Foras wants you but never dared to act on those feelings; call it shyness. Or call it not wanting to give unwanted competition to his king. He avoids you when he's visible; when he's invisible, he's practically your new shadow. He passes off as an excuse, throwing his king under the bus. Telling you that Levi had ordered him to stalk you. (Something he would tell you if you actually catch him) which is half true. Yes, Levi wants him to follow you around everywhere you go to report back to him. But honestly, he's just as curious about you as Levi.

But will not fight you if You're the one initiates. In fact, he would prefer that; his heart would go wild if you pull on his ropes and pull them into a kiss. He doesn't care if he gets punished for this. He wants to feel your soft lips against his.

Touch starved. Extremely touched starved. Melting into your hand when you pat his head, touched starved. He wants more, but he doesn't want to ask.

He feels that little pain in his chest, poisonous jealousy when other devils get your attention. But, he had never acted out on those feelings before.

He would only do something if it protected you. Or if an angel attacked you and your all alone. He is the reason that water or snacks would magically appear if you say the your hungry or thirsty.

Nsfw

He can't say that he has claim over you, Even though it'd feel good too. He wants to claim you in more ways, claim the inside of his body in the most prime way. He touches himself every night dreaming to how you would feel. Every night, he would touch himself to you, wishing and wanting. He hates to admit it, but one time, he came into your room invisible and walked in on you, touching yourself. His breath was getting heavy and shaky, looking how your fingers and hands played with yourself. After a while of watching you, he gives in, sliding his hand into his pants to palm himself. Biting his lip to hold back his sounds.

His greatest fantasy is fucking you in front of Leviathan. Whether it be ordered to do so or not, it's something that he jacks off to constantly.

Despite being a devil, He's actually sort of innocent by devil standards. He has never had sex before.

Now that he is over you, his face is pink, and he is nervous; he wants to pleasure you. He wants to make you feel good. even though he's very nervous. At least he knows how you like to touch yourself.

Pull on his chains will you ride him; he'll go insane. Those things are just for decoration, so they might break, but he doesn't care. The sight was so hot he filled you up on the spot.

Closet pervert. Chivalrous knight of hell is a closet pervert! He has a virgin but at the same time he thinks about doing real nasty things to you you'll never know because of his straight face.

#smut #whb x reader #whb foras #whb mc #what in “hell” is bad?#what in hell is bad #wihib x reader #wihib #whb #whb fanfic #whb headcanons #sorry for the terrible quality of that image ew

308 notes · View notes

s4lv4tions · 1 year

Text

numerology; nsfw

pairing; gojo satoru x reader / gojo satoru x geto suguru (past) / geto suguru x reader (past) summary; numerology — the belief in an occult, divine or mystical relationship between a number and one or more coinciding events. or: trying to move on. wc; 13.4k cw; death, angst, requited unrequited love, violence, smut (at the very end, but mentions throughout), canon divergence, spoilers for manga an; if you think you've read this before, you probably have! i posted this on my old tumblr a year or so ago, and it's still available on my ao3. this version is slightly updated and edited, but still diverges from canon as it was created at the start of the culling games arc :)

The first time you bathe with Satoru, he cries.

You don't notice at first; he's quiet — abnormally so —, and his face remains pristine, unchanged. The only hint you get is a small, barely audible sniffle that stops as quickly as it starts — and you think he wants it that way. You don't think he's ever cried in front of anyone.

That's why you don't say anything. Just continue washing the suds from his hair, and pretend that the tears rolling down his cheeks are beads of water dripping from his hair — but you take extra care to massage the conditioner in, and peck his cheek as you finger-comb through silky, cloud-white strands.

It occurs to you afterwards — as he lounges on your bed, scrolling through channels with a wayward hand planted on his stomach — that perhaps, it's the first time somebody has taken care of him. The first time ever, or just the first time since… since…

Geto Suguru's face smiles up at you from your vanity — a tiny polaroid, his face no bigger than the nail of your thumb. Beside him, Satoru grins, cheeky and bright-eyed — you don't think he's ever been any different —, and in the corner, the smudge of your thumb covers the lens. You don’t have to lift the photo and check the back to know what’s written there, in your scratchy, looping scrawl; the strongest, 2006.

"Lord of the Rings?" Satoru calls, carefree as ever. A yawn catches in his throat, and his fingers slip underneath his shirt to scratch absentmindedly at his chest. "Ooh, haven't seen this one yet…"

"Uh, yeah. Sure."

It was a better time. Less pain. Less responsibility. Less death — or maybe the same amount, just shielded by the blinding cover of childhood inexperience. Suguru was still alive and burning bright, Satoru was happy (happier. He didn't cry in the bath, at least). Shoko didn’t self-medicate as intensively as she does now. The days were spent in childish ignorance and stupid indulgence, and even when things seemed their darkest, you never lost hope.

(It probably says a lot about you that, if given the chance, you wouldn't return. Whether that's because of what you know is bound to happen, and the pain is too much to experience again, or because you're so utterly pathetic that you'll take sadness and grief and a tiny shred of affection over… whatever it is you were back then, you don't know. A smudge in the corner of a picture of the jujutsu world's greatest.)

Suguru's eyes seem to burn into you. You turn the picture over, and rejoin Satoru on your bed.

"It's been two years."

Satoru doesn't like to talk after sex. Not in any way that's really meaningful, you mean, nothing that lets you in. He loves jokes, empty small talk, work politics. Chatter that's deep enough to show he cares a little without bearing any part of himself — your injury healed up? When was the last time you had a break? There's a new teppanyaki place in Shinjuku, I'll treat you. Don't work yourself too hard, you'll put me out of business!

If you're being honest, you didn't go into this expecting anything more than a person to scratch an itch with.

You're already friends — though, you're not sure friends totally encapsulates what Satoru is to you, romantic or platonic. You've been friends since you were 12. Satoru, Suguru, you — and then Shoko, when you all met in your first year at Jujutsu Tech. That's how it's always been.

You swear sometimes you know him better than yourself. You swear sometimes it's his voice you think with. Is that what "friends" encompasses? Somehow, it doesn't seem enough.

Whatever. The point is that your relationship with Satoru is already strong; foundations tall and proud and unshakeable. You didn't start fucking Satoru in the hopes of forming a relationship — one was already there.

It's just... Satoru is young, yes, and he enjoys flirting, but (contrary to common belief) he's not all that keen to sleep with the first person who's willing. You don’t say this with the belief that you’re special. It’s just that with work, and especially with — y'know, his… romantic history, Satoru hasn’t found the time or will to just sleep around. At least, according to him.

Sheer willpower isn't enough to make those urges go away, though, and… well, you had them too, and you were willing, and he trusts you. And you'll take anything he'll give you, really, even if it's just scraps. Even if sometimes it makes you feel worse.

Today's one of those days.

You feel sick, after. Not because of him — because of yourself. Your polaroid of Getou and any other photo he's in has been turned over, anything that could remind you of him tucked away, but — but he's everywhere today, everywhere, and you'd fucked Satoru despite it. And Satoru is covered in memories of Getou, of course. Every freckle, every shifting of muscle, every jut of bone — did Getou touch him here? Caress every bit of him he could get his hands on? Tangle his hands in his snow-white hair, breathe against his collarbone?

When you came, you cried. Pretended it was just because it was so intense, but behind your eyelids, dark, cat-like eyes stared back.

"Hm?" Satoru hums as if he didn't hear you, eyes fixed on the TV. Dumb doesn't suit him — it's honestly a bit of an insult for him to even try it. Like you didn't sense the stiffness of his limbs the second he'd stepped inside, or the crumbling edge of his smile, or the way he'd forced you to love him harder — pull his hair harder, scratch his back deeper, his Infinity turned off and his skin yours for the marking.

Satoru's mannerisms are scribed into your brain. You catch yourself emulating them, sometimes; hands waving, head tilting, grin wide and posture open. You wear it like an oversized coat, an ill-fitting costume, and sometimes you wish you could stop taking on pieces of him. The more you take, the more you must throw away — and it's Suguru that your memory discards. You find yourself forgetting how he hummed when he woke up from a nap, or filled his cheeks with food like a hamster; how he scrunched his face up when he laughed, pretty all the while…

The point is that even with his incredible knowledge, his awesome strength, the sheer holiness of his existence — you know Satoru. And the fact that he came to you today isn't mere coincidence.

You decide to come out with it. You've tiptoed around it for 24 months, give or take, had a shockingly brief mourning period before the jujutsu world forced you along, and… even with what he did, Suguru deserves better. "Suguru died today."

A beat of silence. Then:

"Mm, I guess he did."

You'd spent the day staring out at the grey sky, the miserable sight of soaked pavement. Grey, grey, grey. Concrete jungle. Heavy rain clouds and an ocean of multicoloured umbrellas, bobbing and rolling to destinations unknown. You hadn't said it aloud; hadn't even thought of it, specifically. The knowledge of it had just sat over your head like a thick, sweltering fog — and if you know Satoru at all, you know that he'd done the same. Maybe he hid it better.

You don't have to look now to know that his lips are pressed thin. You find the sudden thought of looking him in the eyes daunting, anyways, so you turn onto your side, back facing him, and pick mindlessly at the sheets. You don't want to see what his reaction will be when you say—

"Did you know that I loved him — back then?"

You don't want to see the shock, or the confusion — and you'd rather not see a lack of them, either. What's worse, you wonder — him knowing and loving Suguru too, or not knowing and loving him?

"...Yes."

You screw your eyes shut and try to will away the sudden surge of cold, like a sharpened dagger to your chest.

(It turns out that knowing is much more painful.)

Suguru Geto had been the apple of your eye ever since you'd met. 11 and gangly and stupid in a way that all children were always stupid, Suguru had been a bit kinder than his white-haired counterpart. Satoru, being Satoru Gojo, had grown up with no fear of authority, no mindfulness for his less-powerful peers as anything more than people who existed around him. You and Suguru were allowed the title of friends, but very few were. Anyway — he grew out of that mindset, of course, but your fondness for Suguru stayed.

(Though they'd always seemed to be on another level than you — not even just in terms of power, but… just caught up in each other, always. Suguru had only ever wanted Satoru. And vice versa.)

And then Suguru changed. Right under your nose, he changed, and his sudden quietness made sense. His fatigue. The way his hands would always shake when swallowing an exorcised curse, always had since you were kids, and then suddenly they were ingested with a scary calm. Nobody understands the taste of curses. Not even you, not even when he’d explained it in sickening detail.

You sigh, then. Tired and lethargic and not from physically straining yourself for an hour. This is bone-deep, soul-weary. It's been held in for 730 days, or maybe more. Maybe you've carried it with you since birth. "I never apologised."

"For what?" Satoru asks — and he laughs, jolly, and the sound fits awkwardly in his throat. A clear attempt at feigning indifference, but he's a bad liar. He always has been, because he's never needed to lie. Perks of being the strongest, you guess. You can just come out and say shit — and if you can't, not saying anything technically isn’t lying.

"I hated you, after," you confess. You dig your thumbnail hard intoyour pinky finger, taking momentary refuge in the sharp shock of pain. "I couldn't stand to look at you. When I did, I saw… I saw what you did. What you had, and what you had thrown away. I blamed you for Suguru. I blamed everyone except Suguru."

Another snicker, a bit too humourless. "You can't stand to look at me now."

"I…" You don't know what to say to that.

Truth is, you don't want to see his face. Contorted in pity, or disgust, or sadness for you. You've gotten used to living in his shadow — most everyone has — but that doesn’t ease the ever-present blanket of insecurity that you carry around your shoulders. It doesn’t dull the ache of inferiority you’ve been housing in your chest from the moment you were saddled with your technique. As you aged, you got better at hiding it, and you generally prefer your self-pity to go unnoticed, but Satoru—

He could always read you like a book. And you hated it. You hated being pitied by someone who was as powerful as him — someone as close to God as one could get. It was demeaning. Patronising. It makes you feel like a child again, bowing your head as your mother makes excuses for you.

You shift over — onto your back, and then onto your other side — and you look at him. You force yourself. Blankets pooled around his waist, his skin so pale it could be translucent, eyes icy blue and framed with fluffy white.

"You were forced to do it," you murmur. Your eyes remain trained on his chin — his are much too bright, much too all-seeing for comfort. "If you hadn't, he would've gotten worse. He never would have stopped. You knew that, you always did. It… took me a while to come to terms with it."

Satoru sighs. Then, he slumps down so that — like you — his head rests flat on the pillow, and his body arcs towards yours. He's forced himself into your sights again, in a way that’s gentle, but not so much that you wouldn't be able to figure out what he's doing: forcing you to face him.

"Would it have made you feel better," Satoru begins, reaching forward to brush his fingers against your chin, "if you were there when I did it?"

Would it have?

Would it have given you closure? Would you no longer spend your nights wondering what he'd looked like, what his last words were, his last thoughts? If he had spittled and roared in anger, if he had wept in fear, if he had attempted a smile, a joke? If he thought of you, or if you were just another insignificant blip in his radar?

In your mind, Suguru exists as his 17 year old self — smiling and mischievous, polite yet humorous. He puts extra broccoli on your plate and gently berates you to eat more. He tells you that you're a precious part of the team, that none of them would be who they are without you. He calls you crybaby because you always wear your heart on your sleeve, and tells you not to worry about things you cannot change.

Change what you can. Forget the rest and leave it to me, crybaby.

The bubbling hatred that had festered inside him has no place in your head. You want him to stay as he is, your Suguru that was never yours, shining like gold in your mind.

"No. He hated me at the end, I think," you say quietly. For a second, you dare to meet his eyes — bright and pointed in how they stare at you. You know he can see the tears that have begun to burn in your waterline, the way you ball your fists so hard you dig half-moon into your skin. He doesn’t need to be blessed with the Six Eyes to see.

"I wasn't interested in changing the world like he was, even with my Technique. That made him despise me, I think."

Satoru stares for a few more seconds. You wonder what he's thinking about. A second in your time is a lifetime in Satoru's; he must be thinking hard.

But he blinks, at last; sighs so deeply that his chest caves in with it, before he winds an arm around your waist and pulls you close, bare chest to bare chest, only atomic space between you.

There's nothing sexual about it. You're nothing but bones and skin and blood, here. He moulds your head to his shoulder with one large hand and cocoons you in his embrace, warm. Protected. You're not sure who the action is meant to comfort.

And just when you think the conversation is over — just when minutes have passed with nothing but the sound of the TV between you both — he speaks.

"Suguru could never hate you. Trust me."

You don't want to know what that means. You're only beginning to get over it, two years later.

Satoru is holding three onigiri in one hand, and two Starbucks' cups in the other — extra sugar, extra cream, extra ice, extra unicorn-marketing, just the way you both like it.

"There she is!" Is the first thing he says as he meets you just outside the metro, grinning.

It's sweltering hot today — the sun had risen early and would surely set late, and Satoru seems to be taking advantage of it. Gone is his Jujutsu Tech uniform and thick blindfold, but he's stuck with the all-black theme like he usually does — black jeans, black linen shirt, black socks and shoes. Even the frames of his sunglasses are black.

(Handsome. He's handsome. He's always been handsome — years later, you'd think you'd stop feeling the effects of it.)

Lucky for him. You're not, y'know, the strongest sorcerer in the last century, so there's no leeway for you — and even in your summer uniform, the skirt and short-sleeved blouse, you're sweating. Your only respite is that the combined force of you and Satoru will mean this mission is going to be a breeze.

Satoru tsks. "Took your time. I almost ate your onigiri."

A man nearby jogs past, clearly in a rush, and Satoru has to step closer to you to avoid him. He could've stayed still. He wouldn't have touched him, anyway, with his Limitless.

"And you would've had to buy another, genius."

A pout. "You only love me for my bank account, don't you?"

(He's joking. It's a joke.

But your hand shakes — a miniscule tremor — as you reach out to take one of the cups, and you know he sees it because he's Satoru and he sees everything. You turn away as quickly as you can, setting off in the direction of whatever place it is you're here for, and pretend that the fact that he can say it so casually doesn't kinda fucking hurt.

(He could never say it like that with Suguru — so bluntly, so crassly. Not without softened eyes and softened smiles and a gentle tilt of his head — those are mannerisms reserved only for him, never to be seen again. Instead, you get snickers and digs in the arm and teasing pulls of your hair. Of course it’s a joke. That’s all you are.

Perhaps you should just be grateful for what you get. Perhaps you should try to stop comparing yourself to a man you once loved. Perhaps you should try to stop comparing yourself to a dead man. Perhaps, in the end, you just love the pain of it all.))

"Yeah," you reply, taking a large, sugary sip. "And don't you forget it, either."

Satoru catches up to you quickly, effortlessly; his arm flops around your shoulder as he tugs you in the opposite direction, chastising you for going the wrong way — but it stays there long after it needs to.

Itadori Yuuji — Sukuna's dead-but-not-really vessel — thinks your cursed technique is powerful. He thinks it’s amazing that you can use reverse cursed technique — you must be really powerful, right? Gojo-sensei says you’re special grade. He also thinks you're very pretty. He tells you this over his fourth grilled pork belly wrap — this one bursting at the seams with kimchi, garlic, and roasted sesame seeds.

He doesn't say it in a flirtatious way — it's just an observation to him, simple and blunt, and you figure he has about as much of a filter as Satoru does.

"O-oh," you say, metal tongs frozen over the sizzling meat. "Thank you, Yuuji."

You had briefly met him for the first time before his death — Nobara, too. Megumi, the third piece of the golden trio, has been something of a little brother ever since Satoru had taken him in, and you know him well enough to know that Yuuji's death (or lack thereof) is weighing on him terribly.

(There are too many parallels you could make. Suguru and Satoru. Haibara and Nanami.)

Hiding it does make you feel guilty. To experience that grief, that loss — even if it will soon go away when Yuuji rejoins jujutsu society — isn’t something to take lightly. But Yuuji needs a guide that isn’t completely off the rails. Satoru and you balance each other out, and balance seems to be something Yuuji needs.

He reminds you terribly of Satoru when he was younger. Maybe that's why you have such a fond spot for him — he's too goofy and well-meaning and genuine to dislike.

"Why are you acting surprised?" Gripes Satoru, chewing with his mouth open. "I tell you that all the time."

Your eyes narrow. You place a perfectly cooked slice of marinated beef on his plate. "You're you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He whines. "We're best friends, crybaby!"

"You don't say I'm powerful. You say I'm helpful. There's a difference. And don’t call me that."

"Is there?" Satoru asks, turning to Yuuji for guidance. The teen boy shrugs, preoccupied by assembling his newest monstrosity. "I call you pretty, too."

"Yeah, when—"

When you're eight inches deep in me, face buried in my neck, trying to get yourself off. Your cheeks flush with warmth at the thought, and you shut your mouth. Yuuji doesn't notice your slip up, busy as he is; Satoru does completely, and fixes you with a grin so sharp that you vow to not give him any more meat until Yuuji is completely full.

"It's not the same," you say, voice final. It's a lighthearted lunch. You don't want to ruin it by getting touchy over semantics, and that's exactly what'll happen if you keep going. "You say it to reward me. Like tossing a dog a bone."

You reach for the scissors to snip the meat into little pieces — and in doing so, you miss the brief frown that presses against Satoru's brow.

Neither of you say anything more on the matter.

Satoru has known you for five years when he realises that he resents you. Not completely, and not for one particular or solid reason, either. He prefers not to think about it, in any case, because you're one of his closest friends — and even at 17, he knows that that's hard to come by. Especially as the Strongest.

Satoru stares up at his ceiling; stares at the miniature striations only he can see, the starburst-shaped gyrations of clay used to finish it off.

Tonight, he's thinking about it. And many other things.

He hates that you're so hesitant about everything — he hates that you believe yourself so weak that you have to tiptoe. You, with your reverse cursed technique — which is a feat in and of itself — that could transcend time and space, just like he could. A technique passed down for hundreds and hundreds of years, accumulating power all the while…

(Your technique has lots of rules and regulations, of course. A handicap, and he understands it frustrates you, but his own frustration eclipses his understanding. Why should someone so strong feel anything but their own strength?)

He hates that you curl in on yourself when you're sad, or lonely, or angry. He hates that you wear your heart on your sleeve — he's never allowed himself to, not fully. He can't, never fully, because there are people who are watching him, people who hate him, people who want him dead. He can joke. He can make his political desires clear — but he can’t love like he wants to, and God forbid he cries.

He hates that you close your eyes and bask when it's sunny, like a cat in a sunspot; hates that you remember that he doesn't like chicken wings and prefers thighs; he especially hates that you watch over Suguru like it's your job, when Suguru doesn't need it.

And some part of Satoru hates Suguru, too. It was strange for him to come to terms with it, fond of him as he is, but as he grows Satoru realises that there's no love of his that isn't closely affiliated with hate. It makes the love all the more strong.

Satoru, for one, dislikes how polite Suguru is, even when he doesn't need to be. He hates that Suguru becomes a straight-faced, unfeeling thing when he's upset, and tries to hide it — the emptiness in his eyes unsettles him like nothing else.

Most of all, above all, Satoru hates that Suguru loves you, crybaby, and is too pussy to do shit about it. Satoru doesn't understand why, anyways, because he'd made it clear that if he wanted, Suguru could have you both and Satoru wouldn't care. Usually, the thought would offend him. How can you love someone when you already love me? When you've already sworn yourself to me? You already have the strongest, who else do you need?

But… he doesn't know. He kinda understands. You're precious to him, too, after all, sunflower soaking up the sun.

Like he said: there's no love of his that isn’t closely affiliated with hate.

Six and a half hours after the hours-long meeting that followed the ruined School Goodwill Event, you find yourselves in a diner somewhere in Harajuku. It’s one of those weird fusion places, loaning ornamentation and tokens from classic American diners, serving omurice with fries, sushi with mashed potatoes, with a cute little mascot that looks like Elvis. It’s loud enough and bright enough to make you feel timeless. It's a sensation you can appreciate.

Something’s been telling you that time’s ticking, and you’re not quite sure what it is. Trauma, probably. Anxiety. The fact that curses have been banding together, learning spoken language, amassing power — planning an attack on Jujutsu Tech, gaining intelligence, gaining anger.

Satoru doesn’t say it — doesn’t want to say it — but you think it’s unnerved him, too. The last time outsiders entered school grounds was… two years ago, wasn’t it? It’s crazy. Everything always seems to lead back to Suguru.

The attack has fueled something in both of you, anyways; something that makes you both stay up instead of knocking out like you usually do; something that makes you both hungry and restless and liable to travel across Tokyo past midnight. By public transport, no less. No warping or high-speed flying for you, tonight.

But you appreciate it. And you think that Satoru is taking things slow for the same reasons you want to — to take things in, to appreciate what you never think to appreciate. To admire the mundane, even for a little while. Satoru’s less emotionally attached to the jujutsu-less aspects of life than you are — bullet trains and waiting in line and standing on the train platform, escalators and traffic — but he enjoys them all the same when he has time to. And it’s not often The Strongest gets to experience pure, genuine normality, too, so maybe sitting in this gaudy diner and watching the world pass you by is a luxury he rarely affords himself.

He orders the most complicated drink they have — a sakura-caramel milkshake topped with whipped cream, glacé cherries, and an entire slice of cheesecake. He’s down to the last dregs of melting cream within 10 minutes, swiping fries from your plate between sips, ignoring your chides of rotten teeth and high blood sugar.

Blindfold swapped for glasses. Strands of hair drifting down against his forehead.

You’re always reminded at the worst times of how handsome he is. It’s not like it’s a secret, or he’s unaware of it — and he takes pride in his looks, if his extensive skincare shelf and general attitude is anything to go by — but he puts much more stock in his strength, in his usefulness to others, his intelligence. The things he can provide for others. Not many people realise that.

Maybe you shouldn’t act so high and mighty. It’s not like you don’t appreciate his appearance as much as the next person — hell, half the time you’re trying to stop it from distracting you — but maybe you get a pass. Y’know, as a person who actually has reason to marvel over the stretch of his neck and the flush of his cheeks and how his lips go the prettiest pink when you kiss him. Or the cords of muscle along his arms; the slender-yet-thick bands of muscle of his chest and legs. The large, veiny expanse of hand — slim, delicate fingers wrapped around a paper straw…

"Are you gonna eat those?" Says Satoru, slurping obnoxiously. “Haven't eaten since dinner."

You push the basket across the table, uncharacteristically void of argument. "Go crazy."

Satoru sets his empty glass aside, but the straw remains in one hand. The other he uses to pluck up fries, 4 or 5 at a time, his gaze suddenly fixed on you as he chews nonchalantly.

"Y'know," he says, licking salt from his fingertips, jabbing the straw in your direction, "I can always tell when you're horny."

"Excuse me?"

"You squirm," Satoru continues — matter-of-fact, casual, as if he's talking about the weather. "And you get quiet.”

“I’m a quiet person,” you snap, nails pressing against your palms under the table. “Sorry I know when to shut the fuck up—”

“And then you get flustered. And when you’re flustered, or embarrassed, you get angry.” He raises his hand — signals the cute waitress for another basket of fries, and leans back with his arms splayed along the back of the booth. “Don’t look so surprised! How long have we known each other?”

If you were a better person, you’d probably admit that yes, he’s right. You do get quiet when you’re horny, and you do get angry when you’re flustered — if you were a worse person, though, you’d remark on how you're the first person he crawls to when he’s sad, or overwhelmed. How getting you into bed and losing yourselves in each other is a sort of therapy for him. How he always tries to distract you with cheeky grins and sly, flirty comments, but then afterwards he cries in the bath as you clean him up.

You don't say that, obviously. Seems like a pretty shitty thing to bring up today of all days. He'd probably deny it anyways, but you don't think it's a coincidence that the attack has left him restless and he obviously wants to take you home.

The new fries are delivered to the table, but he looks right past them. He bows his head slightly, glasses slipping a little further down his nose so that his white-framed eyes peek over the top of them.

"Let's warp home," Satoru says — and oh. There's that voice. That drop in tone, that lack of boisterous humour he always employs. It's soft enough to have goosebumps rising on the back of your arms, smooth enough to have you squirming — yes, squirming, you admit it — in your seat. "Alright?"

"Yes." And it's embarrassingly breathless, and embarrassingly quick, but Satoru doesn't tease you. Just smiles, raises a hand for the bill, and watches you all the while.

You count seven stitches in the forehead of Geto Suguru.

Count, because it's all you can do. Everything else is lost to you.

Breathing.

Standing.

It feels like even your heart has stalled. Because—

Because—

Because Geto Suguru is dead. Dead, in the ground, no longer breathing, no longer living. Satoru had killed him. Satoru had demolished him.

The lips of the Geto in front of you twist — a sickening, stomach-turning imitation of the smile you once adored. On his face it's a sneer, a mockery. Your Suguru did not smile like this when you knew him.

"Hello," he greets pleasantly. His arms are hidden within the sleeves of his yukata. Hair down. Suguru always tended to wear his hair up, unless he was fresh out of the shower. Unless he was upset. It was too much hassle to take care of. You know when he took over the Time Vessel Association and donned the gojo-kesa he began wearing it down. "_____ _____, yes?"

You can't answer. Your ears are ringing. Your stomach gives a worrying lurch that winds up your throat — you think you're going to be sick.

How? Why? Who — who is this in front of you? Because it's not Geto, not Suguru — and you don't say that because of longing or a pathetic desire for ignorance. This thing feels wrong. Inherently, blasphemously wrong. Looking at him for too long makes your cursed energy prickle. Seeing Suguru's image painted in such slimy, rancid energy has you gasping for breath.

Satoru, your mind whispers. Satoru needs to know.

He should. He needs to. But this pseudo-Geto does not look friendly in the slightest, and you are isolated.

Looking back, it had seemed fine to go alone to exorcise curses in the belly of Tokyo's metro. Taking old service tunnels and eventually entering abandoned tracks hadn't felt scary. You're a semi-special grade sorcerer with years of experience under your belt and a powerful cursed technique that could get you out of most, if not all, pinches, restrictions and regulations be damned.

"I'm sure you're very confused. I apologise, really…"

The reality of the situation hits you. Maybe hit is the wrong word — it doesn’t come as a bloody, stinging smack in the face. It’s a trickle of ice-cold water down the nape of your neck, drawing dread from your head all the way into the pit of your stomach. You don't think this is a pinch you'll come out of — at least not battered half to death, especially when a silver-haired curse decorated with stitches steps out from behind pseudo-Geto. The curse Kento had fought. The one that he said to look out for. Patchwork.

Immediately, you know fighting isn't an option. But what else is there to do, in the face of pseudo-Geto and his silver-haired, sentient curse? Your technique may not be limitless in your possession, but in theirs? If they did to you what they did to so many others — transfiguring you past the point of recognition, stealing your body and technique, desecrating your corpse with cursed energy…

"I can feel it from here," titters the curse excitedly. "So warm… I have to have it! Her soul, I have to have it!"

Fuck.

You could try to escape, but you wouldn't have enough time to run past them and through the winding corridors of the underground, even while distracting them with your cursed technique. They'd catch you within seconds. You’re sure they have curses lurking around waiting to thwart you, too.

You could burst directly into the layers of concrete and metal above — use your technique to revert them back millions and millions and years to their very first forms, atoms and subatomic particles, and then rebuild them up as an ascending platform — but that would take too much time, and you'd be completely defenceless while you did. Not to mention the toll it'd take on you.

(Not to mention the fact that you'd be bursting into the public eye from a giant crater in the ground.)

"I'm sure you know what I'm going to do," continues pseudo-Geto, amiable. "I would ask you to join us, but I know that is impossible. Therefore, there is only one course of action."

Can't fight. Can't escape. Can't get answers. Can't stay clueless. How contradictory.

You're not dying, that's all you know. And if you have to do the one thing you never wanted to do, then so be it. Anything is better than death. Death is not an escape, in this scenario — it’s a guarantee of imprisonment.

"It's a shame," pseudo-Geto sighs, bloodlust swelling. "Such a waste of a good technique."

You make a Binding Vow with yourself within seconds.

Using a magnitude of cursed energy usually out of your reach, your entire body will be reduced to atoms — intangible, untrappable, unkillable — for as long as it takes to retreat to safety. In return, you will be unable to think, unable to move according to your own will, only a mere pawn to entropy as the rest of the galaxy is — high risk, high reward.

There are many things that could go wrong.

In reducing yourself to essentially nothing, in splitting your cursed energy into billions of particles, you could reach a state of such low cursed energy concentration that you are, for all terms and purposes, considered dead. In doing so, your Binding Vow could break, and you would be unable to return to living.

Or you could float for days, weeks, years — safety is subjective, subjective is dangerous when it comes to contracts, and you can only hope that your own understanding of it sets the standard.

It's either this, this fleeting, terrifying chance, or death. With one, you can return to your school, your students, your Satoru — you can tell them what happened. You can bring justice to whoever has disturbed Suguru from his slumber. With the other — nothing. Just plain, utter nothingness forever and ever.

(You know which you'd rather.)

The last thing you recall, in spotty haziness, is the heart-stopping sight of Suguru surging towards you, eyes bloodthirsty, face contorted in malice.

The last thing you hope is that Satoru isn't too upset about the risk you've taken.

Eight days after your solo mission, you resurface — a discombobulated, stumbling mess on the outskirts of Shibuya, eyes glazed and mouth stuttering over syllables. A nearby Window calls the college within seconds, and Gojo is there just as soon — hands shaking when he grasps your arm and turns you to face him, fingers trembling when he cups your cheeks and brushes them under your eyes.

It’s you. It’s you, it’s you, it’s you, and he can breathe, he can fucking breathe, his chest is lighter than it’s been for those entire 8 days — all the while, he burns with an anger so intense it hurts. And Satoru is no stranger to anger, of course — knows it as intimately as he knows himself — but he's not sure if he can remember the last time it had rendered him breathless, trembling. Bloodthirsty.

It's not the time to think about it. Not when you're shaking in his arms, so frail and weak everywhere except your hands — no, your hands remain strong, fingers digging into his clothes and skin. He turns off his Infinity. The sting of your touch grounds him.

Shoko is already waiting in the clinic for him — she’d been preparing ever since the call first came in. The students (the ones on campus, at least) crowd together at a distance, buzzing anxiously as Satoru disappears swiftly into the depths of the infirmary with you in his arms.

Bad things happen often. Too often. Satoru isn’t sure whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing that they haven’t gotten used to it yet.

“Gibberish,” Satoru answers when Shoko asks if you’ve said anything competent since he picked you up. “Just gibberish.”

Shoko is poking and prodding you with the usual doctor's shit — stethoscopes and thermometers and that blood pressure band that goes around your arm — and you just lay there and take it. Head rocking side to side, limbs trembling, mouth lolling open, and Satoru's trying not to lose his head because what good is taking your temperature? Do you look like you have a fucking cold? Is the way your eyes focus and unfocus normal? The way you can’t string together two syllables that make fucking sense?

But even with how he can see your cells malfunctioning all over your body, Shoko knows more about this shit than him. So he sits pretty on her swivelling chair, twisting back and forth, body the image of boredom but mind anything but. Time and time again, he’s reminded of how unprejudiced tragedy is — how it leaves no hint, no mark of itself, no time to prepare for the toll of it all.

Satoru had greeted you briefly before you’d left. Said something about getting lunch together, that you better be careful because you were treating him — the same shit he said time and time again, his real plea hidden within the folds and twists of his jokes and quips. Be careful. Don’t die. I can’t lose you. You’re precious to me.

You’ll be okay. You have to be — he won’t allow anything otherwise. But if he’d known last week that you’d end up like this, would he have said those things out loud? He doesn’t think so. He’s cowardly in that way.

A few moments later, Shoko straightens up. Immediately reaches into the pocket of her lab coat and pulls out a cigarette and a rusting lighter, and is puffing out clouds of bitter air just seconds later.

Shit. That’s not a good sign.

Shoko sighs. Rubs at her dark undereye circles and only makes them worse, taps her cigarette so that the ash falls to the floor. “I know what it is.”

Well fucking tell him instead of keeping it in!

“Oh?” Satoru says instead, leaning forward onto his knees. “What is it, then?”

“She used her technique on herself.”

“She does that all the time to heal."

“She didn’t heal herself,” Shoko snaps — and Satoru remembers that he’s not the only person you’re important to. That while he and Suguru had gotten ahead of themselves being the strongest, they’d left you and Shoko to stroll humbly along your own paths. The only girls in their year. The only person Shoko could fully confide in, really — at least in Tokyo —, the only person who had bothered to check up on her when she drank too much, smoked too much. Even if Shoko hated it.

Shoko is upset. Satoru doesn't what to do with it.

(Alcohol — she likes alcohol. Satoru reminds himself to pick up the most expensive bottle of the stuff the next time he's out.)

(No. She’s trying not to drink so much, isn’t she?)

(Whatever. Life is short.)

“She dissipated herself.”

Satoru knows about your technique intimately enough that it immediately gives him pause — but he runs over the details in his head, just in case, as if it isn’t already imprinted on the flesh of his skull.

Your cursed technique allows you to disassemble items down to their most basic units — subatomic particles — while your reverse cursed technique allows you to reassemble them. Items can be reassembled into their previous form, or to another related form, but you cannot exceed the item’s natural entropy threshold. If you do, the item cannot be reverted back to a physical state, and you will bear the brunt of the resulting shift in energy.

It's a finicky technique. Finicky and fickle and the risks tend to outweigh the rewards — but you'd always used it so elegantly, so gracefully. Even when you doubted yourself, you had a handle on it. Satoru admired that about you.

("You don't say I'm powerful. You say I'm helpful. There's a difference."

You'd said that to him once, when he brought you and Yuuji to lunch. You'd acted like it didn't bother you but he could tell it did — he didn't need his Six Eyes to notice how your nose twitched and your eyes narrowed, displeased.

But Satoru believes in two types of helpfulness.

The kind he is — powerful, needed, a force to be reckoned with. Someone that keeps things afloat, that acts as a beacon in the dark.

Then there's the other kind. The usefulness of pawns, of bait. Necessary, but not fundamental. Desired, sure, but rarely crucial.

You've always been the first. Always. You and him and Suguru and Shoko, always. Even he could admit that.)

You disassembled yourself into atoms. Into nothingness. You lost your mind, your body, your energy, everything—

Satoru sighs. He's been doing that a lot today.

“I didn’t know she could do that,” Satoru says. His throat is covered in a layer of sawdust. He can’t remember the last time he had to actually focus on not throwing up. “Why would she do that?”

“She talked about it, before,” Shoko says. She leans against the bed you’re laying on, gazing over her shoulder — and the way she looks at you turns his stomach, the upturn of her brows, the sad downturn of her mouth. It’s as if you’re already dead. As if she’s looking at a living corpse. “Just… as a theory. A last resort to help her get away, if needed, but—”

“But what?”

“She knew she didn’t have the power for it,” Shoko mutters. Breathes another puff of cigarette smoke. “If she tried, she'd end up just… fading away. In breaking herself up, she'd negate the cursed energy that gives her the power to put herself together.

"And the side effects would be… well, you can see that for yourself. Stupid, so fucking stupid…”

“Well, obviously she has the power for it,” Satoru murmurs. “Or made the power for it.”

“A binding vow?”

Satoru shrugs. Clenches his jaw, watching as you scratch at the faux-leather underneath you. “It'd make sense. Explains how she put herself back together."

(But for what? What could have driven you to such lengths?

A curse like Jogo wouldn't be all too difficult for you to defeat.

So who…?)

Shoko hums. She stares into space for a moment, eyes unfocused, and for a moment Satoru sees her younger self — the one who just started smoking, just started drinking, who carried the weight of all the people she healed (and those she'd failed to) tucked in her pocket. The Shoko that would make sarcastic quips and humble them when they needed humbling, but humour them when she knew the outcome would be funny.

A time when they had very little responsibility. Even him, shackled with it since birth. Comparing his duty from then to now is like comparing a boulder to the weight of the world.

He feels very old, suddenly, at 28.

"There's nothing I can do for her," Shoko says, softly. Regretfully. "If she did make a binding vow, I can only assume she made a condition about returning to normal. If so…"

Satoru can’t do anything about it, basically, she explains. Your condition is one that will only heal with time, patience, and the odd boost from Shoko’s technique. Maybe, she says — she's still unsure about that last bit.

It sickens him. It festers as a deep, curdling annoyance in his bones, his uselessness. It’s a sensation he had only felt once before, standing before the slumped-over body of Geto Suguru. Nothing he could do for him except put him out of his misery, and even then that felt like a cop-out.

So… he can't go directly after the thing that had forced your hand, because they had left no trace. He can't heal you, either. He can't take care of you while your body repairs itself, while your supposed binding vow returns you to your rightful state — that duty will fall to Shoko, or one of her interns.

He can do nothing. And Satoru is nothing if he cannot be of use.

Nine months after the events of the culling games, Satoru enters your room to see you sitting up — eyes wide, eyes seeing, and it only takes you fixing him with a single look to know that you're okay.

(Subjectively. Relatively.)

Suguru Getou — Kenjaku — is finally dead — exorcised. He’s not sure which is the right word to use. All of his allies, killed or exorcised too. Nanami, murdered. Nobara, comatose. Yaga, dead. Inumaki, Maki, Okkotsu, maimed; the great houses of sorcery destroyed and rebuilt in the image of Satoru’s will.

Itadori Yuuji — dead. Sukuna Ryomen — exorcised.

Adding up the gains, subtracting the losses, carrying the ones… Both sides seem to have lost pretty evenly. And he should be happy about it, too; things could have turned out much worse. And they would have, too, if he hadn’t pushed himself out of his pouting and escaped the prison realm — a feat that was half out of spite and half concern for the outside world, and maybe a little curiosity. Rage. Longing to see the bastard who’d stolen Suguru’s face and body, who dared to reanimate him and rouse him from peace — longing to slaughter the thing that had rendered you bedridden and half-mad for months.

He had been the one to kill Kenjaku. It only felt right to be the one to do so — he’d killed Suguru, after all; had been the one to leave him defenceless and open to manipulation. If Suguru hadn’t been dead, Kenjaku wouldn’t have been able to steal his body.

Of course, Satoru ignored the fact that the very last rotten, desperate dregs of Suguru would have enjoyed Kenjaku’s plan — it was the only way he was able to keep his eyes open when he blasted his brain to bits. It was hard enough the first time.

All of these things sit on his tongue, bitter and souring and curdling — every detail of the battle, of the culling games, the colleagues and peers and students he’d held in his arms, the ones he’d comforted as they slipped away, the ones he’d reassured and promised.

(Pink, blood-covered hair; a smile that never dimmed, a nervous murmur (“It’s okay, Gojo-sensei. I know what I got into.”). The shaky laugh that had followed.)

Satoru’s hands tremble at his sides.

Your eyes are wet with tears when you look at him.

“How long has it been?” You croak — voice dry and cracked with disuse, whining in some parts, low and wheezing in others. Bone-deep, the fear in your voice, and for good reason — things had already been at a boiling point when you’d been taken down. Everything had moved past you. “Satoru—?”

Another selfish decision on his part: he doesn’t tell you. At least, not now, when the words threaten to vomit out of his mouth, when the pain is suddenly too fresh and too raw.

(For one strange, too-long second, he’s reminded of his mother — weak, presence-less, powerless as she was. Empty-eyed and unhappy. She was hardly even a mother with the amount of governesses he had.

Somehow, though, every problem would seem worse when her eyes were upon him; every cut and bruise was more painful; every slight against him a grave insult; every mistake a cause for self-pity and temper tantrums — and none of it mattered, as long as she took him into her arms.

A rarity, yes, but… maybe one of the only fond memories he has of his childhood in the Gojo household.

Satoru feels like a kid again — suddenly sniffling from a bruise he swore didn’t hurt, his mother ready to pat his head and baby him and coo his name. Satoru. Not Gojo-sama.)

He crosses the room and plants himself upon your bed and takes you into his arms for the first time in months, and—

And for the first time since Yuuji’s death, since Nanami’s, since Suguru’s, since your injuries—

He cries. Openly. Heaving, chest-wrecking sobs; red, wet nose and ugly whimpers. It’s overwhelming. It’s cathartic. It makes the pain worse, for a second, before it begins to taper out in a bruising wave; with it, he remembers his darling underclassmen who died, his colleagues that he’d wanted to live at least a few more years; he remembers that despite years of being told so, he’s not God — he couldn’t stop Yuuji’s death, or Suguru’s, or Toge losing his arms, or—

“Thirteen months,” he manages to get out. “Thirteen months — you couldn’t talk, or move properly, or—”

Satoru grabs handfuls of you — hair, waist, belly, it doesn’t matter. He can feel you beneath his skin. Rushing, pounding blood, cells, micromolecules — and he doesn’t need to, but he engages his Six Eyes for a moment — actually engages them, doesn’t let them run unconsciously in the background. It’s a comfort to let himself see each receptor interact with each signal on each plasma membrane, to let himself see the tissues that formed organs that formed organ systems forming you, breathing, living, sentient—

He kisses you — or you kiss him, he’s not sure — but it’s far more intimate, far more tender than any touch he’d delivered unto you; hands clutching the sides of your face, your fingers digging into his wrists. You’re crying, salt on his tongue — and he only knows they’re not his own tears because you give a great, shuddering sob when you part, trembling like a leaf in the wind.

“I had to,” you gasp, and he wants to tell you that he knows, he knows, he doesn’t blame you, sweet girl — did what you had to do to live, to survive— “I had to—”

“Only go where I can follow, okay?" His eyes are burning again, voice cracking with the promise, regardless of the fact that he’d rather you do it 100 times over than die. But it's the only way he can tell you he loves you without telling you he loves you, and he can't remember the last time he said the words aloud.

(He does. He remembers. And he remembers that Suguru wouldn't mind if he said it to you — that Suguru loved you as he loves you. And he remembers that Suguru is dead and doesn't have an opinion anymore, so it really doesn't matter, anyways.)

Satoru calls Shoko when he rights himself, barely pulling back from your embrace to text her something barely understandable and hurried. You don't say much while he does; still acclimating to being aware, being awake — he catches you with your eyes screwed shut and your nose buried in his jacket, fingers tight on his arms again. Grounding yourself. Reminding yourself that you're alive, and with him.

Shoko scolds you between rummaging around for a thermometer and scribbling your prescription in messy, barely legible cursive — calls you a dumb bitch for doing what you did, tells you that you owe her a bottle of wine and a trip to a fancy hot spring, and it all seems a little lighter.

(She cries a little — if the slight glassiness of her eyes can be considered crying. Satoru only teases her a bit for it, though you're quick to mention how he'd blubbered like a baby when he saw you, and he's humbled quickly.

It's the most normal he's felt in weeks.)

Shoko clears away after a few hours — gives you strict orders to rest, and sends him a knowing look that he's not all too sure of the meaning of.

"You look tired, Satoru," you finally say when you're alone again. Your smile is sad, knowing, and Satoru curses it all. You deserve a grace period, a moment of ignorance before the grief settles in. "What happened?"

But when have you ever wanted a moment of ignorance? When has he ever been able to hide the truth of things from you? When have you ever been anything but his equal, his confidant?

"Everything," Satoru says. A short, humourless laugh punctuates his single-worded sentence. "Everything, crybaby. Everything that we thought could happen, and everything we thought couldn't."

A flicker of a smile — uncomfortable, flat. Your eyes flicker down to the bland, starched sheets of the hospital bed. "Did you see him?"

He doesn't need you to elaborate. There's really only one person you both mean when you say him.

"Yes."

"Who was he?"

Satoru shifts in his seat. "An ancient sorcerer named Kenjaku. His cursed technique allowed him to transplant his brain between bodies and possess them."

"And he chose Suguru."

"Yes. And many others, too."

"And you killed him."

"Yes. For Suguru, and for you. But mostly for Suguru.”

“I’m glad,” you say, but your fingers twist the sheets tightly. “When I saw him, I was angry. So angry, I… I wanted to kill him. I knew I wasn’t strong enough, and I knew he would kill me, but for a second—”

He understands. God, does he understand. “You wanted to take the risk.” No matter the cost, no matter the damage to your own body. Anger like that consumes.

“I did.” You swallow. Your eyes meet his. “It was like… adding insult to injury. As if it’s not enough that Suguru is dead, but this — this Kenjaku has to puppeteer him too. Disturb his peace."

The wind rustles the trees outside. The late-afternoon gold of the sun settles along the horizon, a burning orange that stretches the shadows and warms the wind and turns the side of your face honey-soft and sad.

“But I realised that I was probably the first person he’d revealed himself to," you continue, "so I was the only one that could warn you."

Always thinking about the good of others. It was another thing he admired about you — Nanami, too. Satoru, for all his big talk about changing the world of jujutsu, about being better than those who came before him, is really quite selfish.

It's why his hands had trembled when he'd had to kill Yuuji. It's why he couldn't put Suguru in the ground the first time they met after he became a curse user. Even when he knows things are necessary, he tries his damnedest to hold on — just for the chance of it all. The chance that Suguru could change his mind. The chance that Sukuna could be removed from Yuuji without him needing to die.

"And…”

One snow-white brow raises. “And?”

“You’ve already lost too many people that you love,” you say simply, shrugging — like it's a simple fact, no need for experimentation, no need for an academic paper complete with its own abstract and footnotes. Like you've always known, in some little way, but you're only able to bring yourself to say it now.

And Satoru — well, it's no secret to him, is it? He's known it since he was 13, 14, 15 — had a bit of a buffering period, sure — and now here at 28, he knows it just as well. The point is that you're not supposed to know. Not while you're still healing from Suguru and… being attacked by fake-Suguru.

Regardless of what he knows and how long he's known it, Satoru feels his throat begin to close up, twisting and turning and holding his breath tight. He doesn’t like the feeling.

“Love?” He echoes. His voice has gotten a little empty. It's too soon for him to say it aloud, he thinks. It was okay when he whispered it in his head after making love to you; it was easy when he grinned at your scrunched up nose and scoffed comments and thought fuck, I love you. It was easy when he could pretend it was a simple, passing comment, a trick of the mind — but having it said as fact?

Not so simple. But you don’t need to know that. “Is that so?"

You don't seem to notice his momentary pause — a lifetime of rambling in his time, a second's hesitation in regular time — too busy staring at the space where his fingers stretch apart over the sheets. Just inches away from yours. "We're friends, aren't we?"

Oh.

"Oh." Satoru blinks back. "Oh, yeah. Best friends, you and I, crybaby."

"I know it's normal for us," you say, ploughing ahead, "to just lose and lose and keep losing, but… I'll be honest. I never fully got used to it, and I don't want to."

He wishes he could say the same, but he can't.

He understands, in some capacity. Nobody wants to see the people around them die, a continuous and vicious cycle. Nobody wants to get so used to loss that most funerals no longer hold any emotional significance. But getting used to it had saved him. Getting used to it helped him act without consequence, without remorse, and that's what the battlefield both needs and requires of him.

He could count on both hands the people he wants to save in this world — about half of them were dead, at this point. A lot of them died while he was imprisoned. Two, he had to kill himself. He swore he'd protect the rest with all Six Eyes, every non-existent boundary of his Limitless.

So Satoru doesn't care much about getting used to death and dying and loss and grief. As long as you're okay, he's okay. As long as his job as the Strongest is done, everything is as it should be.

He doesn't say that to you, of course. You'd probably curse him out and call him a heartless bastard. Instead, he nods, hums and agrees and tells you the names of those who died when you work up the courage to ask.

It's a long night. It's an even longer list.

10.

Shoko keeps you for observation for 10 days after you wake up — three days longer than necessary, but she won't hear it from him, no matter how many times he reminds her that technically she falsified her degree—

He's joking. Mostly.

Satoru volunteers himself to help you back home, taking with you the plastic bag filled with your cleaned sorcerer's garb and weapon. He carries it over his shoulder along with two teddy bears, a half-wilted bouquet of tulips and a half-eaten box of chocolates (all courtesy of the second years — except for the chocolates, which are half-eaten because of him). He winds his other arm around your waist even though you can walk perfectly fine, but — it's just in case. Purely precautionary. For once, you don’t argue about being babied.

In the midday sun outside, you tilt your head back and close your eyes and smile. For a moment, it's as if the sadness has melted away from you — the tears you shed over Yuuji, Nanami, Suguru. The tears you shed over him, and he wasn't even dead. Satoru is glad your eyes are closed — even beneath his sunglasses, it's painfully obvious that he's staring.

You decide to take the subway home — it's my first time outside in almost a year, you remind him, so he pushes down any arguments he might have and enjoys the too-cramped journey towards Akihabara. You’re both shoved standing together, between a panicked looking man holding a tray of coffee and a woman with her child hanging about her legs, your head bobbing against his chest as the train moves.

For a moment — as the train passes momentarily out of the underground and becomes encapsulated in light — it's easy to drown in the normalcy of it all. For a moment, he sees himself looking in as a stranger would. Here, he isn't the Six Eyes; just a simple man taking his girlfriend home, standing close on the train, wishing to be closer. Riding home to your shared apartment where he'll peel oranges and feed them to you, where he'll lay his head in your lap and hold your hands to his heart.

His nose wrinkles. He prefers reality, he thinks, where he can be powerful and have you by his side; where he can protect you, uphold peace, change the jujutsu world for the best — and then go home all the same, and have you to hold.

"What are you thinking about?" You mumble against his collar.

"Oranges," he replies.

"I don't have any at home," you say, "or if I did, they're rotted."

"Don't worry — we cleaned your kitchen up. Me and the kids." It was an afternoon of Yuuji attempting to shove rotting potatoes in Nobara's face. That was before Shibuya; before everything, really.

"Oh? You got your hands dirty?"

Satoru tries to not think about that same beaming, smiling Yuuji's last breaths. "Of course! This is me we're talking about, honey. I was front and centre."

You snort, soft against his neck. It's a wonder he went almost a year without you. "Housewife Satoru. I'll keep it in mind."

When you return to your apartment, you shower together for the first time in forever. He spends extra time and care massaging shampoo into your scalp, detangling each knot; spends extra time rinsing the suds out, tilting your head back with a gentle tap to your chin.

Steam clogs his mind. Almond shower oil and citrusy shampoo fog his senses. The realisation that you could have potentially been taken away from him sits heavy like a stone in his stomach — why it hadn't sunk in in the past, oh, 13 months or so, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he's terribly bad at caring for precious things — but if he could, if it's possible, he'll remould and reshape his hands, his heart, his mind, just for the chance—

"Satoru," you breathe against his lips, "Bow your head."

(Bow your head, you say. He'd kneel if you asked him to.)

You brush your hands through his hair; rinse him free of suds and bubbles and kiss his temples as you shut off the water. What is supposed to be healing for you is quickly becoming therapy for him — muscles relaxing, mind clearing of all responsibilities, mournings, obligations. All he knows are the soft, newly washed sheets beneath him and your nose in the crook of his neck.

It's a strange sensation, the lack of tension, his brain not working overtime. But hardly unwelcome.

11.

Satoru asks you if you saw anything when you were indisposed. Memories, flashbacks, prophecies? Blurry half-truths, nonsensical babbling? You tell him that you can't really remember — and you can't, not really, but you do remember one thing.

When you were 11, you met Satoru and Suguru for the first time. It's that memory that you can remember playing in your head, over and over and over again: Satoru and Suguru, scrawny and still-faced in their yukata.

Satoru was from a great, traditional house. Suguru was not, but upon discovery of his powers, was taken into unofficial custody of the higher-ups. In most circumstances, you wouldn’t have been allowed within two feet of them — but the elders had deemed your cursed technique a great gift, and so you were warily accepted into the upper echelons of jujutsu society, a stranger, a foreigner.

Introducing you to the most powerful sorcerers your age was nothing more than political play, of course. The adults followed behind as you walked through the grand grounds of the Gojo family — (maintained by a team of 12 gardeners, according to the Lady of the house) — muttering and scheming between themselves, making sure nothing would go awry.

Nothing did, of course. Satoru picked his nose and Suguru told him it was rude and they bickered for a while — Satoru bickered, Suguru replied calmly and quickly. Satoru asked you if your technique was good or bad ("No such thing," interjected Suguru) and whether or not you think you could beat him in a fight.

(That last question was to stroke his own ego, of course. Everyone knew he was the strongest sorcerer born in the last century.)

At some point, Satoru made you cry.

You can't remember what about, all these years later — you'd think you'd remember, considering the fact that you know the amount of gardeners employed by the Gojo estate — but you know that you had tried to stop it; fists balled, teeth gritted, full-body heaves. Crying was the last thing you had wanted to do. Crying meant weakness. Weakness meant being taken advantage of.

But you were so scared. It was all so alien. You wanted to go home, but home didn’t exist anymore. You wanted your mother, but your mother was long gone. All you had left were stone-faced adults that were only interested in your abilities.

Suguru had been confused at your reaction to what he took as a harmless quip — a little callous, as most children are — but he had reassured you nonetheless.

"Don’t cry. Satoru speaks before he thinks," he'd said, nudging your shoulder. "Sometimes you have to ignore him and he'll be so bored that he has to think."

"I can hear you," Gojo huffed. "I didn't mean to."

"See?" Suguru smiled. "Works like a charm."

Yes, Suguru had always been there to protect you. Emotionally, at least. He was willing to be kinder to people. More gentle, more forgiving. He'd believed that it was his duty as a sorcerer to protect those that couldn't protect themselves, and—

Well. That had changed, by the end, but having that memory replay in your head made you see the bigger picture of it all. Suguru's place in things. Your place in things.

You'd loved Suguru, no doubt. And you’ll probably always carry a piece of him with you — you'd hate to do otherwise. You’ll carry his kindness and his jokes and his catlike smile, all tucked away in bubble wrap somewhere in your chest cavity — but you will never disregard his wrongdoings. Since his death, you'd argued against the two sides of him; felt guilty for loving him after what he did, felt guilty for hating him after loving him and knowing him for as long as you did. Two halves of a whole. Darkness in light and light in darkness.

He was both of those things. You love him, but you don’t forgive him, and you probably never will. He will never again be the boy that comforted you after Satoru made you cry; he will never again be the boy who let you braid his hair back. He won't be the boy who slaughtered innocents, either — death's funny like that. Indiscriminately doing away with both the good and the bad.

And that's okay. Kenjaku is dead, after all, and Suguru can finally rest — and with him, your warring mind.

12.

Midnight strikes and you're still awake. You don’t even seem tired, and that's after a long shower and takeout and a movie. Usually you'd be a drooling mess by now, but tonight is different. Feels different. Satoru isn’t sure if it's just a year's worth of built up sexual tension or something else, but he feels it regardless.

He's flopped on his stomach, hair still damp; you're curled up in the shape of a C, skin reflecting the light of the TV. He might visit Nobara tomorrow. Megumi usually goes on Wednesdays, too — they could make a day out of it, and you could tag along, too. He's got a craving for the pistachio macarons they sell near—

"I'm in love with you," you announce.

Satoru doesn't bother asking you to repeat yourself because he knows he didn’t mishear. It isn't the knowing that shocks him — he's not stupid, and you wear your heart on your sleeve — it's the sudden, quick verbal affirmation of it that catches him off guard. After all, haven’t you two been putting this all off? Yearning for a dead man? Being pulled from two opposing poles?

He turns his head towards you, opens his mouth to ask you just that, and—

"After Suguru, I thought I'd never be happy again," you say, and you’re smiling like you didn't just say something inherently heartbreaking. But no, you look fond — content, even, blinking slowly at him. "And I thought I'd never feel for someone as strong as I did for him. But here I am: happy, and in love, and okay."

Satoru opens his mouth — then closes it quickly. For some reason, he remembers something Suguru said to you when you were younger: "Satoru speaks before he thinks." But he wants to think about this — about what he should say. How does he respond to you quite literally baring your heart to him? How does he tell you what he wants to tell you, what you deserve to hear? He's never been good with real, genuine words — emotional shit never came easy to him out loud. His thoughts are much more concise than his mouth is, but he guesses it's because it moves so fast in comparison.

Pity you can't read his mind. It'd make things much easier.

“You don’t have to say anything,” but he wants to, don't you know? "You don't have to pretend. It’s okay. I know that… maybe you don’t love me as much as you loved Suguru, but I know you love me in some way, at least—”

Satoru frowns — strings of ideas and thoughts bunching up and stopping short as your words register. “As much as I— hey, stop putting words in my mouth—"

"The truth is," you continue on, "I feel lighter than I have in years. I don't dread life so much anymore. I don't dread you anymore."

"You… dreaded me?"

You hum. Your legs stretch down, arms forward, face scrunched up in a passing yawn. "I'm not stupid to think you didn’t know how I felt, but… I hated that I was so obvious about it. Even when I was fighting with myself about it, I was obvious. It made me hate being around you, sometimes."

You sigh, then — not as heavy and melancholy as they used to be, no. This is a sigh of relief, of cathartic release.

Satoru blinks, and attempts to wade through the seventy-or-so compulsions telling him to make a joke, to laugh, to tease you. Maybe he should actually be serious for once. Say it straight and say it firm, so you can't take anything the wrong way. If there was ever a time for him to not beat around the bush…

"I've liked you since I was 17," he confesses, finally. "Me and Suguru, we were together, y’know, and we were happy. And Suguru loved you, and somewhere along the line I… began to do the same, but we were so young and then… Everything changed so fast. Everything broke so fast.”

Your fingers brush against his, and he breathes in a sigh. Your eyes are wide and watery, low light reflecting like glitter in your eyes.

"Sometimes, it keeps me up at night," Satoru says, laughing a pained sort of laugh. "Out of everything, that's what keeps me up — that we could've been happy together, all three of us. It never would’ve been enough to make him change, but…"

At least you would’ve known what it was like. To be happy together in that way. To be content. To find your places in the world, hand and hand. To know what it was like — even if Suguru’s fall from grace was inevitable — so you wouldn’t have to keep wondering until your untimely, gruesome, sorcerer-style deaths, or whatever.

Back then, Satoru didn’t understand why Suguru never told you how he felt. He couldn't understand how he could be content watching from afar, looking but never touching. What Satoru wanted, he learned to take; the Strongest didn’t need to ask for permission, only forgiveness.

He learned quickly that some things were better left unsaid. And now, 28 years old, half of his friends, students, colleagues dead — he understands even more.

He remembers how Yuuji had tried to stave off tears when he realised he had to die; remembers how his student’s throat had felt being crushed in his hands. He loved Yuuji like a little brother. Like a son, even. He was family. He was his student, and yet his death had been necessary, and Satoru battled with it. It allowed him to succeed in the mission he was born to complete. But he had given up Yuuji in return.

There is no curse more twisted than love.

Therein lays the problem, he supposes. The second you love someone, you run the risk of having them end up like Yuuji did. Like Suguru did. Like Nanami did. When you are burdened with incredible power like Satoru is — like Suguru was — you must be able to sacrifice for it. The closer that people are, the more likely they are to be caught in the crossfire, the more likely you are to be hurt. Suguru hoped to avoid that at all costs. It was easier to watch from afar, less painful.

Satoru is a tad more selfish. Which is bad, he knows, because he's too prepared to sacrifice. Even now. Even now, he knows that if caught between saving you and saving society, he would be forced to — to—

Satoru inhales. The only thing for it is to simply stop things from getting that far.

He could explain all this to you. He could talk circles around you about it, in fact, but the truth is that it's all conjecture. Suguru isn’t here to tell him why he did what he did. He can’t speak for him, no matter how well he knew him.

"I don't know why Suguru never told you," Satoru says instead. He folds his fingers tighter, taking yours in his grip as he does so. "Guess that's something he took with him to the grave."

"I've stopped wondering," you say. “I’ll never stop regretting, but I’ve stopped wondering. I can’t stay rooted in the past any more. It was doing more harm than good."

And you raise your interlocked hands — nestle them under your chin and screw your eyes shut, like you're wishing on the evening star, like he's something precious to be treasured. All of a sudden he's 17 and confused about why he can't stop staring at you. He doesn’t have Suguru to tease him about it, now.

“I’ll never forget him,” Satoru announces — a warning, or a reassurance, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he’s telling the truth and nothing but the truth, and whether or not you like his truth is not his concern. He respects you too much to lie about this to you.

Your lips twitch upwards, a phantom of a smile. “Neither will I. "

"I'll never forget you, either."

The smile grows, blooms, blossoms, until it stretches bright and full across your face. The first smile of yours he's seen in a while that wasn't at half-mast, or tinged with sadness, or pain, or fatigue.

"How lucky I am," you whisper, "to be known by you, Gojo Satoru."

It should be the other way around, he thinks.

(12.5.

It's the first time he makes love in years.

Satoru has always fucked you. Always. No matter how tired you both were, no matter how injured — he'd always force himself to be rougher, force his touches to not linger as much as he wanted them to.

If he felt too much, he'd crack a joke instead of drowning in it; if he felt his eyes beginning to burn he'd bury his nose in the crook of your neck and push it down. If he thought of long, dark hair and cat-like eyes, he'd tighten your grip in his hair and the shock of pain would clear his mind. He fucked quick, and when he was done he'd lay far away enough that he couldn't feel your skin against his.

Tonight, he lets himself love and be loved again.

You're on top of him, ass flush against his thighs, taking every inch he has to give you; his hands have found your jaw, thumbs brushing back and forth across your dewy, sweat-slick cheeks. One hand of yours clasps around his wrist; the other bands to his chest, nails digging red into his skin. Your cursed energy blooms, flushes, flourishes when he opens his eyes to look at you.

He sees every pore, every hair, every dimple, every broken capillary, every scratch and scrape. Every part of you, bending to him in some places, unfalteringly stubborn in others.

"Look at you," he mumbles, blinking dumbly. "So… pretty…"

You snort something like a laugh, and continue: up, down, up, down. Slow, grinding gyrations of your hips that make his head spin pleasantly; and with his Limitless nullified, he feels every inch of skin, every tensing of muscle, every scrape and press fully and completely. He’s never felt so engulfed in it before — the sensations of it all, the warmth, your scent, your weight above him.

He'd drown in you, if he could. Take you in his mouth and nose and ears and everywhere, until he's left gasping for air and grappling for something of substance. Maybe once upon a time he would keep those thoughts to himself, for whatever reason — but now he's allowed to be selfish in his affections, allowed to give more than surface-level compliments and vague declarations of love.

Between pleasure-ridden shudders and sloppy, wet kisses, he breathes:

"I want you everywhere," he says, "All the time. Over me, on me, in me—"

You raise a brow, impudent and teasing in a way that makes his abdomen tighten. "In you?"

And maybe he didn’t mean it in the way that you took it, but he plays along anyways, waggling his brows. "You heard me."

"You're terrible."

"I'm not joking," Satoru argues — but it’s hard to take him seriously when his voice quietens, when he arches up eagerly to meet your lips—

When his grip on your lower back becomes painfully tight, when his lips part in a moan and his eyes screw shut and he throws his head back, hips rutting up to meet yours, and—

His peak rises to greet him — and his heart swells all the while. He finds himself clawing for you as his orgasm builds, hands clambering against your back, your neck, your hair, until (with a great, shaking breath, may he add): "Fuck, I — mmf, I love you—"

It carries him off to a state of fuzzy, empty-minded ignorance — pleasure tightening his entire body, fizzling from the tips of his fingers to his curling toes. Your name on his tongue, slurred and mellifluous, his smile dizzy and drunk.

As you smile down at him, so unbearably fond, Satoru thinks that he doesn’t mind saying I love you aloud after all.)

1K notes · View notes