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yunalinwrites · 1 year ago

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saved by the bell (chapter 2) | fushiguro toji x reader

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available on wattpad

summary: fushiguro toji never makes first moves--until he happens to meet the teacher of the son he hasn't seen in years.

strangers -> fwb -> lovers

takes place in 2006 around the star plasma vessel/hidden inventory/premature death arc; megumi is a first grader

about reader: female, around 30 or older, teacher, has a soft spot for megumi, speaks kind of formally, has daddy issues + abandonment issues

warnings: eventual smut, cursing, alcohol, smoking, daddy issues, abandonment issues, mention of child abuse/trauma, toji is initially kind of an ass, spoilers for the season 2 arc mentioned above

"Don't get how a puny thing like him can burn through a gallon in a week," he'd complained, watching the infant chug his bottle eagerly in his lap. "Damn FamilyMart workers are starting to know my name."

His friend turned back to face him, looking inside from the balcony as he took a drag from his cigarette and adjusted his tie.

"If you want him to look anything like you by the time you sell him off, you better get used to it," his friend advised. "Probably the cheapest source of protein out there."

Finally, the little boy lifted his mouth from the bottle, but only to let out sharp wails. At this, the man's friend put down his cigarette and came back inside.

"Not like they'll give me any extra money for it," the man grumbled, handing his son awkwardly to his friend. "He'll be strong enough. And fuck if I help the Zenin clan more than I need to."

Patting the baby's back gently, his friend made a suggestion: "You could always keep him. Learn how to raise him yourself. Spite 'em that way."

The man didn't appear to be listening, already having shifted his attention to the glitchy TV he'd gotten off the street and sinking into his cracked leather couch. Sighing, his friend laid down the now quiet baby beside him and headed towards the balcony to continue where he left off, his suggestion met only with the sound of footsteps as he was followed out.

"They'll make sure he's strong," the man guaranteed, taking a cigarette from his friend's pack. Once he'd successfully flicked the lighter at the end, he continued: "Probably gonna breastfeed him till age fuckin' eight."

And though he was met with no contest from his friend, he went on, with a breath of nicotine concluding, "'Just not something I'm made to provide."

***

Tossing the cap behind himself, he took a long swig straight from the jug.

He slammed the refrigerator door shut and leaned back against the counter, but--thanks to the lack of distance between everything in his cramped unit--this move forced him to meet the reflection of himself in the glass of the balcony door.

His friend seemed to have been right all those years ago. The incorporation of milk into his diet gave the man a body that he was, for the most part, proud of--mountainous biceps, chiseled abs, bulging pecs; the works. The only thing that irked him about his appearance, though, was his face--that scar, that fucking scar.

He vaguely remembered hearing somewhere else that protein was good for building tissue, which was a claim sufficiently evidenced by his body--from the neck down, that is. So it was both confusing and disappointing when he'd wake up in the middle of the night to take a piss and that nasty mark of his past would be the first thing he saw in his dirty mirror. Still, not really knowing what else to do about it, he took another sip and tried focusing his attention through the glass door rather than on it. In doing this, his eyes found refuge on the polka-dot umbrella he'd left out to dry.

It had been a little over a week since that night at the bar. It was still quite rainy here and there, so he found himself still using the item almost every night. It's not nearly as romantic as it sounds, though--at least not for you. He had mostly been using it to escort other women home.

To be fair, he had some self awareness. He felt worse every time he saw your name and number whenever he opened it for someone other than himself. But what was he supposed to do, return it? You hadn't been back at that bar since. Not that he was really checking he just figured if he was going to go out to do his nightly ritual, he might as well do it at that same joint. You know, in case you wanted your umbrella back.

And before you ask, no, he couldn't call you. He almost never, ever called first; it went against his morals, if you can even refer to them as that.

Again, he had some self-awareness. He knew he was kind of a piece of shit, so much so that even through the gray clouds and even among the 8-billion-some-odd people on His earth, he supposed God recognized him as such. So, just like how God decided whether or not the boats he bet on would get him out of this apartment, he assumed God also decided which women ended up in his web, and which would come back for a second night. By this logic, so long as he didn't make too many overt first moves, all broken hearts could simply be attributed to and excused by fate. It was a sort of heavenly restriction, if you will; he would sacrifice his initiative for the ability to keep being an absolute fucking asshole.

His sacrifices also included curiosity, he tried reminding himself; if he was meant to know something, then he would just know it already--so there was no point in wondering about you or, by association, his... that little boy.

Yes, there was no point in wondering how he managed to look that much like him, or where he got the balls to just follow curses around whenever he pleased, or why his name was Fushiguro, and not Zenin

Or, for that matter... fuck, what was his first name?

He headed towards the couch and took a seat, jug still in hand.

Shit. I don't even remember what it started with...

Forcing out a low laugh at this realization, he fished for the TV remote in between the cracked cushions.

Whatever.

He flicked through the channels with occasional sips from his drink, letting clips of people talking, singing, and laughing play no longer than a second before he cut them off with the press of a button. He kept spamming it, tapping and tapping, faster and faster, sounds merging together until:

Wasn't it an M...?

Placing the milk jug down on the dusty coffee table, he stared at the characters on the remote's number pad, his attention focused on a singular key in particular.

Fuck.

Putting the remote down beside him, he rubbed his eyes in distress, trying to massage the thought out of his head.

Goddammit...

He cursed His name, but as he used his arms to push himself up off his imprinted spot on the couch, hoped that God would forgive him just this once.

Hastily, he headed towards the balcony door and shoved the stubborn thing open. Snatching the umbrella with one hand, he punched in your number with the other, a firmness in his thumb. As soon as the phone rang with his outgoing call, though, whatever resolution that was just occupying his body had completely vanished. By the second ring, he was tapping impatiently on the rusty railing. By the third, he was trying to steady himself against it, which only resulted in a concerning creak. By the fourth, he'd headed back inside out of fear that he'd drop his outdated device, something that he couldn't afford. The fifth ring had his thumb just millimeters shy of the red button on his keypad, getting dangerously close due to his trembling, but then:

"Hello, this is Miss L/N speaking."

He exhaled after what felt like an eternity of holding his breath. As his lungs regained their rhythm, he felt his shoulders melt back down into relaxation, and soon, a smirk found itself creeping onto his lips. "Jesus--you really do talk like a princess."

"Um... I'm sorry, could I ask who this is?"

Still smirking, he took another deep breath and spoke up: "Think you left your glass slipper with me at the bar the other night," he started, absentmindedly studying the item. "But you made my job a lot easier by putting your number on it, Miss L/N Y/N."

There was a short pause, but then she realized: "O-oh! It's you--Oh my God, um... Hello..."

He chuckled lightly at her stuttered response. "It's me."

"So," he began again, "What are you doing tonight?"

For a while, nothing came through the speaker. He bit his cheek.

When she finally did speak, her tone was lowered: "I can't stay out late. It's a school night."

He placed the umbrella on the coffee table and took a seat on the couch, putting his free arm over the back.

"Won't take that long to return an umbrella," he pointed out. "Didn't realize you had something else in mind."

"N-no, that's fine, you can just--"

"I'm just pulling your leg," he interrupted. "How about now--what're you up to right now?"

That came out a little more eager than he meant for it to be. In an attempt to fill the awkward silence, he grabbed the milk jug from the coffee table and resumed his drink, gulping as he held the microphone away from his mouth.

"I'm out running errands."

"Where?"

Slamming his drink down--again, a little too eagerly--he reached for the remote and switched off the TV.

"Um..."

The hesitation was discouraging at first, but as her microphone betrayed her, it would seem that the aforementioned God was on his side today. In the background, he heard the familiar chime that indicated someone had come through the automatic door.

"Which FamilyMart is that?"

This time, there was surprisingly little hesitation: "...the one by the station."

And with that, he finished off the last few ounces left in the container and tossed the empty jug on the table, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Don't move," he instructed, grabbing the umbrella with one hand and pulling the phone from his ear with the other. Bringing his thumb back to that red button, this time with returned unwavering confidence, he finished, "See you there, princess."

***

The door chimed welcomingly as it automatically slid open, causing you to whip your head around in anticipation. To both your disappointment and relief, it was just a gaggle of teens looking for some after school snacks.

As you turned your head back to your shopping, your eyes caught on to something right next to the entrance: a bin of umbrellas, for only a couple hundred yen each. You sighed as you took your eyes off the salt in your wound. Your mother had taught you well enough to know how bad this was: a stranger knowing your name, number, and current location. So, really, the too-late sight of an alternative was just unnecessary on God's part.

But then again, as much as you didn't love the pattern she'd chosen, it would've been cruel to replace a gift from your mother. She also always said herself to pick public spaces for first dates and, given that the local high school usually wrapped up clubs around this time, more than enough people were coming in by the second. Just now, for example, a young couple walked in holding hands in their uniforms.

And this wasn't even anywhere near a first date anyway; he was just coming to give you your umbrella, that's all. But, also... Even if he were to stick around for, say, a cordial conversation about the weather, and, hypothetically, he did so long enough that it would only be polite to ask for his name... Well, you always did preach both manners and curiosity to your students.

Deciding that you'd overthought enough, you tried to direct that curiosity to the crackers, chips, and cookies in front of you. You scanned over the rainbow of packaging, searching for something that looked both appealing and healthy. Nothing in particular jumped out at you until you looked to the top shelf, focused on a specific bag. At first, you couldn't tell why you recognized it, especially considering you couldn't see all of it due to its height, but then you realized: Megumi's brought that one to lunch before...

The shelf was well over your head, but it seemed like the only employee around--the cashier--had gone to the bathroom, so you reached your arm up as best as you could. The bag brushed your fingers, which only pushed it farther back, so you had to employ the help of your tippy toes. You could feel it just within reach of your fingertips, as the crease in your flats dug into your feet.

C'mon, just a little closer...

"Need a hand?"

Suddenly, a muscular arm emerged from behind you, reaching over you and grabbing the bag with ease.

Planting your heels back down on the floor, you spun around and smoothed out your pencil skirt, only to look up and find him--him and his scarred face--startlingly close to you.

"Thanks..." you obliged, trying to look away as you gently took the bag of sweet potato chips from his hand.

Even after you had placed the product in your basket, he didn't back up, so it was almost hard to see his entire body. But, you were still able to recognize he was wearing the same thing as when you saw him for the very first time: a black short-sleeve shirt and gray sweatpants.

As you had learned to make note of in your students, wearing repeated outfits that didn't fit the season or didn't fit the wearer was typically an indicator of a low-income background. In this case, it wasn't so much that the clothes were ill-fitting... it was just that the waistband of his pants were hanging loosely, dangerously low on hips, and his shirt was.... Tight. Very tight. And thin, which was interesting considering the chilly breeze that came through the door with every customer. Along with that, you were feeling the air from the heavy exhales of his nose.

"My eyes are up here, Miss."

You didn't realize how long you'd been watching his chest rise and fall rather quickly.

"Sorry," you corrected shyly. "You didn't rush to come here, did you?"

He shrugged. "Said you couldn't stay out late. Wouldn't wanna keep you from your royal duties."

"Oh, I see... Well, I didn't mean to hurry you. You could've at least put on a coat."

He looked down to where his compression shirt hugged the grooves of his abs. "Didn't realize there was a dress code, Miss," he teased. "Am I being indecent?'

"I-It's not that," you stuttered. "It's still cold out, you know."

"Cold? It's spring."

"Yes, but you could still get sick. Especially if it rains. You know the saying, 'In like a lion, out like a lamb'?"

"With all due respect, Miss, I'm not fucking stupid."

As soon as the profanity left his mouth, he winced at his own words. He was hoping to keep up his gentleman facade a little longer, but he supposed couldn't hide his true nature forever. Taking off the wrist strap of your umbrella, he began preparing to never see you again.

But then you spoke, surprisingly calmly: "I never said you were. But you never know. People aren't born knowing everything, are they?"

He froze in his place, thinking about your words--about how they didn't hold even a hint of anger or hurt in them. He couldn't tell if that made him feel more or less guilty.

Hearing his silence and seeing the solemn expression on his face, you felt the need to apologize for your preaching: "Sorry... I guess I'm still in teacher-mode. I swear, it's what being in this uniform does to me."

Suddenly, he smiled, and his eyes were almost soft as they looked down at you and your dainty button-up. "It's alright," he rasped. His pupils definitely darkened, though, as they drifted lower, down to your form-fitting pencil skirt and your pantyhose-clad thighs. "Yeah, no, it's... it's fine."

Feeling you remove the umbrella from his hands, he snapped out of his gaze on your body as you spoke again: "Thank you for coming all this way to return it. I wasn't really expecting you to."

Cockily, he put his hands on his hips. "Yeah, well, I just happened to run out of milk, so you can thank God for that. I mean, I'm a busy man, you know? Part of why I rushed here."

You laughed. "Physical therapy, was it?"

He paused for a second, almost as if he forgot what he did for work, but resumed the banter soon enough. "Right, yeah. Got appointments left and right. Seriously, I mean, you should consider yourself lucky."

"Well, I appreciate you squeezing me in."

"I'll let it slide just this once, princess, but you'll have to pay a fee next time."

Your stomach fluttered at the prospect of seeing him again, but you still tried to hold your guard up around the near-stranger. "Next time...?" you questioned.

"Yeah. Next time you need physical therapy."

You laughed nervously. "I don't think I... understand..."

"C'mon, Miss. You're smarter than that."

You blushed, putting together that he probably wasn't talking about yoga balls.

"I'm flattered, but... we've only just met, haven't we?" you argued, though unsure if it was to him or yourself.

He shrugged again. "Don't usually meet my clients before I meet with 'em."

You were given an opportunity to turn away when you heard the door chime again. A young man and woman had come in to shamelessly ask for where the condoms were, though they weren't holding hands. And despite it being only around 5 p.m., they were obviously somewhat inebriated, which brought up a good point--you two had met before, and you'd done so at a bar, where it was common for such shallow appointments to be made. In context, it was a little less weird when you thought of it as him picking up where he left off, underneath that bar awning.

Still, you looked down instead of back at him, imagining how he probably did this often. "I don't see why you can't just find another one, then."

He sighed through his nose and shoved his hands in his pockets. For a second, you thought you'd said something wrong--he looked uneasy, dreadful almost. But just as quick, he combed his hair back and painted a charming smile across his face.

"Yeah, I guess so," he pretended to consider. "But I noticed something about you." He crossed his arms, showing off his veiny forearms.

"When you were walkin' away from me that night, you had this... sway in your hips." He looked you up and down, squinting his hooded gray eyes.

"Could sense an underlying condition, beneath that little dress of yours." His tongue peeked out of his pale lips, teasing the scar at the corner.

"Just sayin', in my professional opinion, something oughta be done about that."

You let out a shaky breath, staring up at him, eyes wide and cheeks pink. He certainly did have some expert words to say. Meanwhile, your teeth had a deathly grip on your bottom lip, so you couldn't come up with even a single consonant to respond with. Figuring that you weren't going to respond any time soon, he began to back off.

"I should probably get going," he told you, "but don't be a stranger, yeah? Ain't got a business card or anything but my number should be in your Recents."

Even as he walked away, you couldn't say anything, and the only movement made by you came from your lip managing to escape your painful bite. All you could find in yourself to do was watch, mouth agape, as he made his way to the fridges at the end of the aisle, not even realizing you didn't yet have a name for his contact.

As he grabbed the cold handle of the refrigerator door, he could see his now frowning reflection in the glass.

He was probably going to beat himself up later over all the creepy and corny things he'd let himself utter to you, but right now, he didn't think about that; he was just glad the conversation was over. Making a number of first moves and doing so in a FamilyMart snack aisle before it was even dark out--he couldn't even focus on why he'd come here in the first place. Whatever he was trying to do-which he himself wasn't even exactly sure of-it was stupid. He felt like a fish out of water, and all he wanted to do was jump out of his skin and drown himself in the current, never daring to swim against divine intervention again.

But as if he didn't regret coming here enough, he recognized another familiar face as he moved toward the registers.

"Ah, Fushiguro!" the elderly woman would always greet. "Just milk again, Fushiguro? That's good. Lots of protein. Helps build tissue. Huh? What's that, Fushiguro? You want a pack of Marlboros? Oh, you're just like my son, Fushiguro..."

He tsked. He always hated how that old hag managed to fit his name in at the end of every other sentence, loud enough for her half-deaf ears--along with the entire store--to hear. And of course, just his luck, she lived another day to work this specific shift.

He put the milk jug back as quickly as he could and searched for the most inconspicuous route to the exit. Of course, that just happened to be through the aisle you were still in. With little time to think, he swallowed his pride. Making his way over and brushing past you, he mumbled something about having forgotten his wallet as he briskly made his way to the door.

"Wait!" you called. Head darting between the milk fridge and the back of his figure, you moved quickly after him.

Frantically tossing bills at the cashier on your way out, you bolted out of the store, this time darting your head left and right as you searched desperately among the sea of other dark-haired pedestrians. You were considering giving up as you began to get dizzy, but then you saw him--the only tall, muscular figure outfitted in a T-shirt in this weather. You continued to run after him and, thankfully--since you opted for flats over heels today--you were able to catch up with him before the pedestrian light turned red again. He was already halfway through the crossing, but he stopped in the middle of the road, eyes widened in shock as you were bent over, leaning on your knee as you panted and held the jug of milk up towards him.

Realizing that you'd bought it for him, he took it from your hand and awkwardly obliged: "...Thanks."

You were able to stand up straight now, but your breathing was still somewhat labored as you spoke: "At least... let me know... your name..."

He hesitated for a moment, as if he didn't even know what his own name was.

"You know mine," you reminded him, impatiently putting a hand on your hip. "It's only fair."

His face was grave, but his eyes were narrow as they jumped everywhere around you: at the passing taxis and vans, at the salarymen flocking from their building, at the park fenced in. It seemed he found his name somewhere, but it wasn't as comically artificial as you might think: "It's Zenin. Zenin Toji."

"Zenin?" you confirmed.

"Yeah," he replied, swallowing away the dryness in his throat. "But what do you say we skip the formalities? Just call me Toji."

"Oh, um. Okay, then. Toji," you repeated, testing it out on your tongue.

A loud honk brought the two of you back to the reality of where you were, prompting you to finish crossing the street. Now back on the curb, you turned to him again.

"Um, Toji," you spoke, still getting used to the syllables.

"Yeah?" he answered.

"I, um... I want to make it clear I'm not looking to do anything tonight," you enforced, projecting as much as you could muster. "But I have one more thing to take care of, if you'd like to come along."

You had your eyes focused on the tips of your flats, so if he was in disapproval-which you assumed from his silence-he didn't need to do much with his expression to hide it. But eventually, you heard his voice, relenting with an exhale that could've been interpreted as both disappointed and relieved: "Sure."

And so, silently, he followed behind you as you traversed the city, inferring it was a path you traveled often as you didn't stop your pace once to look at a map or even the street signs.

It wasn't far from where you'd started; a few corners later, the two of you were in a residential area that he didn't recognize, although the shady alleys between dingy apartment buildings weren't much different from where he lived. He knew teaching didn't pay much, but he was still surprised that you brought him here.

"Just wait here a moment," you told him, and he did as you knocked on the nearby door with the small bag of groceries in your other hand. He waited patiently and, watching you do the same in front of the grimy door, he considered the possibility that you two weren't so different after all.

But then the door opened, and you said something, and you were only a couple feet away so he heard, but it was as if all of a sudden there were miles between you two.

"Hi!" you'd chirped. "Is Megumi home?"

Everything else faded into muffles. He watched, paralyzed, as you handed over your groceries to a young brown-haired girl who looked vaguely--uncomfortably--familiar, but he didn't process a single thing either of you said. All he could hear was that M-word ringing throughout his head.

Meanwhile, you continued to converse in front of the drab doorway, telling the girl that you had to get going because you had some business to attend to, unconsciously pointing your thumb in the direction of where you had left Toji. You bid farewell to her with a smile and turned to where you were just pointing but, immediately, your smile dropped, as did your eyes to the corner on the pavement where he'd just stood-as if you'd find him there, hidden among the weeds sprouting from the cracks in the sidewalk. But, no-it would seem that the man named Toji was already long gone.

***

previous | series masterlist | next - should b available by next week :')

#jjk x reader #jjk #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #fanfic #my writing #writing #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #toji x you

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yunalinwrites · 1 year ago

Text

saved by the bell (chapter 1) | fushiguro toji x reader

series masterlist | next

available on wattpad

summary: fushiguro toji never makes first moves--until he happens to meet the teacher of the son he hasn't seen in years.

strangers -> fwb -> lovers

takes place in 2006 around the star plasma vessel/hidden inventory/premature death arc; megumi is a first grader

about reader: female, around 30 or older, teacher, has a soft spot for megumi, speaks kind of formally, has daddy issues + abandonment issues

warnings: eventual smut, cursing, alcohol, smoking, daddy issues, abandonment issues, mention of child abuse/trauma, toji is initially kind of an ass, spoilers for the season 2 arc mentioned above

He'd only just stepped out of the FamilyMart, been on the street for all of two seconds before he heard the call of his name.

"Fushiguro?"

It was tempting, given the desperation in the repeated shouts, but he didn't bother looking towards their source. It's not like he really recognized the voice, and he sure as hell wouldn't recognize her face; he made it a point to never look them in the eye.

"Fushiguro?"

It was starting to become irritating, though. It was nasal, kind of sounded like the one from last week... No, a broad like that would know better; she played the same games he did. So, maybe the one from last night? Yeah... Didn't seem like she knew how to keep her strings to herself.

"Fushiguro!"

Well, whoever it was, she was only getting closer. The calls were getting louder, and so was the splash of her heels against the wet concrete. Realizing this, he shut his eyes and drew a deep breath through his nose, letting the rain run down his dark hair, over the scar on his lip, and into his mouth as he opened it and whipped his head around in annoyance.

"Thought I told you not to--"

"Sorry, excuse me!"

You shoved past him, catching his widened eyes with yours for but a moment before continuing to run frantically and nearly slipping when you came to a halt and crouched down.

"Fushiguro!" you exclaimed, adjusting your umbrella to accommodate the little boy. "There you are. I told you not to run off like that!"

The boy kept a fixed gaze ahead of him, only interrupting it to wipe his eyes as the rain dripped into them, his usually spiky black bedhead weighed down completely against his face.

"Where on earth did you go?" you asked, examining him for clues.

"There's a monster," he replied plainly.

Finding nothing of note, you checked your watch with one hand and used the other to hastily grab his, barely registering his claim.

"Well, there certainly aren't any monsters on the bus. Not to mention, it's warm and dry. Doesn't that sound nice?"

Your phone vibrated in your coat pocket with a wave of texts--the faculty group chat, you figured--as you moved to obstruct his view with a smile. "Your classmates are wondering where you went."

Still unfazed, he tugged on your blouse and pointed. "Can't you see it?"

You didn't really have time to humor him--the incessant pings now replaced by your melodic ringtone--but still, your eyes followed the end of his little pointer finger, looking hard for a monster but finding only a man.

You scanned the sight as much as the umbrella would let you, the spokes ending just below his eyes. There wasn't any "big purple worm" that you could see, like the boy was mumbling on about, but you weren't really listening; what you were looking at at the moment didn't make you feel much safer--a bulky, brick wall-like frame hidden behind a black T-shirt and gray sweats, a fist clenched tightly around the handle of a milk jug, and, most notably, a rugged scar running perpendicular to scowling lips.

Quickly, you pushed the boy's hand down, not even thinking to correct his rude gesture as your voice darkened, "Come on, we need to go."

You stood up from your crouch, pulling the boy along with urgency and speeding up as you passed the stranger, the umbrella angled so it sheltered the boy and covered your face.

The man watched you walk away, staring at your polka-dotted umbrella, trying to burn holes into it, but to no avail; you simply disappeared into the crowd of the street without so much as a glance back. When he was sure you were gone for good, all he could do was look down at his clenched fist. All he could do was look at the milk jug it held, and think about what just happened, how comical it was.

He'd only just stepped out of the FamilyMart, been on the street for all of two seconds before he heard the call of his name--his son's name--for the first time in three years.

***

There were very few things as draining as manning a four-class field trip of seven-year olds, but the walk you found yourself on the following weekend was proving to be up there.

It could've been a word problem: "If there were 6 couples on every block and 2 blocks to the bar, how many sickeningly sweet smiles did Miss L/N see on her way?" Or, alternatively: "If there were 11 restaurant windows with 3 nuclear families in each one, how many drinks will she need tonight?"

You grabbed the bar entrance's handle and swung it open, the resulting wind moving the flowy skirt of your maroon dress. Searching the place briefly, you decided on one of the leather barstools in the corner. You made your way over and tucked your coat under yourself before freezing at the ashtray in the corner of your eye. Sighing deeply at the revelation, you ran your fingers through your hair.

You tried reminding yourself about how it was a Sunday. How, tomorrow, bright and early, you'd have to begin multiplication; how one would turn into two and two would turn into four, and no duration of showering would solve the smell following you all the way to the chalkboard. It was wrong. It wasn't the right answer at all. Shaking the idea out of your head, you turned towards the bartender to try and catch eye contact.

But then you decided that actually, the correct answer was 13 couples, not 12, because the bartender was leaning into that customer's ear too close for comfort. And so, reaching into your purse was definitely the right answer because you needed some kind of relief--one that the bartender clearly wasn't going to be giving you anytime soon--if you wanted to get through grading those tests later tonight. You'd already pulled out your lighter by the time he came over to take your order.

It had been all of two seconds since he sat down at the bar, and a female voice was ringing a bell:

"I'd like a beer, please. The cheapest you've got."

He could just barely hear the short sentence, but even so, he found his gray pupils darting as far left as they could go. At the edge of his vision, he was met with a considerably pretty, though still unfamiliar sight: your dainty fingers tracing the rim of your freshly poured pint, your collarbones somehow still pronounced under the dim lighting, and your lipstick, your dark red lips were as far as he would let his eyes go.

He continued to observe quietly as you leaned your head on your free hand, the thin strap of your dress threatening to slip down at the movement as you stared off and took a drag. You didn't seem to recognize him, at least not yet, and he could say the same about you. But he just couldn't shake the feeling that he'd seen you somewhere before. Usually, that was his cue to find a different seat, sometimes even an entirely different bar, but he figured you were easy enough on the eyes that he wouldn't mind taking you home, even if it happened to be for the second time. Plus, as much as he hated to admit it, tonight he was a little restless--maybe even desperate.

He cleared his throat. "Mind if I bum one?"

Tensing up, you straightened your back and turned to him. "Um, yeah, sure," you answered dismissively, reaching into your purse and extending the pack towards him, one stick peeking out.

Grabbing it with a grumbled thanks, he further considered the possibility of you two having slept together before. You were clearly uncomfortable around him, continuously shifting in your seat and avoiding eye contact, whereas female strangers in places like these often did the former but not the latter, starting on his muscular chest and ending with their eyes looking lustily for his, batting their lashes with a lick of their lips. It was only the non-strangers that would try to be one.

Now, if it were any other day, he'd let the poor girl go back to playing her role like she was supposed to. But, again, tonight was different--he was different. It had been a strange past few days.

He brought the lighter to the end of the cigarette and slid it across the counter when he was done. Taking his first inhale, he began his attack.

"I'd buy you a drink," he began, "but if I could afford that, I think I'd be smoking my own cigs."

You perked up at his unexpected joke, struggling to decide on how to respond to that as your cheeks began to heat up. "Oh, um... that's alright," is what you managed to come up with. "I'm... I'm not really that kind of woman."

He squinted his eyes at you. So, you definitely hadn't slept together, then--unless you were really dedicated to the stranger bit. Although, it would make sense if you hadn't; crude as it was, he wasn't familiar with the way your lips enveloped the cigarette, nor with how your fingers wrapped around your glass. But that only fueled him further; if he wasn't already familiar, then he wanted to become familiar.

"Yeah?" he challenged. "What kind of woman are you, then?"

You sighed. "The kind that shouldn't be here."

The man looked around the bar--it was late enough that all the lively celebrants and sports enthusiasts had left already, leaving only corpses slumped next to their empty rounds. He shrugged, returning his gaze to her.

"Don't see anyone that should," he countered.

You took a sip from your glass. "I suppose that's a good point."

"So what's different about you, then?" he asked, bringing the cigarette to his mouth.

Caught off guard once again, you looked at him with your mouth open, about to say something but then closing it, deciding against it. Instead, you took your time to examine him carefully. The dim lighting made it a bit difficult, but you could make out enough thanks to the sharpness of his features; his jawline keen and his eyes hooded, fine black hair falling into them. It wasn't the only thing fine about him--that you couldn't deny, but you also couldn't help but feel uneasy. Even through his hoodless jacket, and even through the gray sweatshirt beneath that, you could tell how hefty his build was, an assumption that was further supported by the sheer size of his hands. It was the exact kind of man your mother told you not to talk to.

"You there?" His voice was deep, alluringly nonchalant as a long cloud escaped his mouth, your attention caught on his sensual breath.

You took another sip--or, rather, a gulp--and set the glass down with a clink, drinking away the consideration of your mother. "I have an image to uphold."

He scoffed with a smirk. "What, you some kind of princess?"

"No," you laughed lightly. "I just... want to set a good example for my kids."

His eyes flitted to your left hand, brows furrowing for a moment. You noticed and, in hindsight, probably should've just let him believe whatever he was thinking. But, alcohol on your breath, you elaborated anyway: "My students, I mean. I'm a teacher."

"Oh," he acknowledged, looking straight ahead again. "Good to know."

An awkward pause followed.

"It's not like they'd ever find out," he suggested, eventually. "You didn't bring 'em here, did you?"

"Oh, God, no. I just..." You bit your lip. "I don't know. I still feel guilty about it."

You traced circles on the dirty counter, feeling each groove of the wood with the pad of your finger.

"I know it's a little stupid, but... Sometimes I worry that they can still smell it. That somehow, the nicotine's still on my skin, and that they can inhale it." You dug your painted nails into your palm. "And I hate imagining them growing up and coming to a place like this and doing these same miserable things because of me."

"I can't imagine you're paid enough to care that much," he argued. Gesturing up and down to your figure, he continued: "You could be a model, you know. Don't know if the pay's much better, but you'll feel like a saint if cigs and beer are all you do."

You chuckled briefly, a softened expression following. "Don't get me wrong--it's as thankless as you've probably heard, but I love my job more than anything," you assured. "But even if I didn't, I'd still do it for free."

"Well, damn. Being around brats all day must be messin' with your head, 'cause that's fuckin' crazy."

"Hey, someone has to show up for those kids," you defended, a firmness in your voice. "I wouldn't forgive myself if I didn't."

He didn't say anything to that. Just pondered it.

You tilted your head to the side, relaxing against your palm. "And what about you? What do you do?"

He sat up a bit, blinking away his train of thought. "Physical therapy," he lied. He took a drag and began another falsity, "And I don't have any--" but stopped at the pang of guilt in his chest.

He bit his cheek, stilling as images of that little boy flashed in his mind--in particular, the picture of him pointing at the man accusingly with a woman by his side.

He looked down and cleared his throat again. "I... I have a son."

This time it was your eyes shooting to his ring finger as he lifted the nearly finished cigarette to his lips. And like before, he noticed your glance as he exhaled. "His mom's not around anymore."

"Oh... I'm sorry," you reacted, though admittedly a bit more at ease at both the fact that he had a son and that he was... available.

Another awkward pause sat suffocatingly between the both of you, but not for long.

"Hey, you two," the bartender warned, swiping a wet rag over the counter. "Wrap it up."

In unison, you and the man looked up and realized that the only other person there was the woman the bartender was courting, waiting patiently as he began to put the barstools up.

With one final puff, the man stubbed out his cigarette and you copied, grabbing your coat from your seat and following him out as he held the door for you. Outside, you were met with blinding streetlights and a chill breeze. You moved under the awning, throwing on your coat and, upon realizing he was still there, you took advantage of the better lighting.

It wasn't much you hadn't seen already--again, his features were razor-like--but during your time in there, considering that your seat was to his left, you had only gotten about three-quarters of him, not to mention his lower half. But when you saw him, his face in particular and it in its entirety, one glaring detail caught your eyes, making them go wide: there was a scar across the right corner of his lips.

Your heart dropped, beating and breathing speeding up at the realization of who he was. Your chest got tighter and tighter as you examined his, recognizing the scary figure from three days prior. He turned in the other direction, pretending to look for somewhere to go, so he didn't see the color drain from your skin.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced briefly at the ground. "So, how 'bout it?" he asked, looking up at you smugly. "You waiting on a carriage or are you gonna let me take you home, princess?"

Whatever color had escaped your face before rose right back to your cheeks at his question, burning with both arousal and fear, the two feelings sharing a common denominator of panic. You were seeing his whole body now, and he looked even bigger than before. Standing instead of sitting, and doing so right next to you, he towered over you, just like he did over your umbrella that day. And you couldn't help but remember how icy his glare had been when you bumped into him, and how, equally as cold, he'd barked something angrily at you for it.

And then your mind started to drift into events you couldn't have possibly recalled but could only imagine: perhaps it was from an ugly knife fight on the street, or the shattered glass crossfire of his own bank robbery, or even him taking assignments from the Yakuza and, somehow, through some unimaginably horrific mission, earning that scar. You inferred the likelihood of there being other wounds--other stories that you couldn't see--and that, this time, your mother was probably right.

"I-I," you stammered. "I can't, um..." You swallowed thickly. "I should really go home."

The neon "Open" sign behind you had flickered into nothingness, and, slowly, a drizzle had begun tapping rhythmically against the awning.

Moving closer to you, he persisted. "But it's already past midnight, isn't it? And you're only getting prettier."

That, as soon as it left his lips, he couldn't help but cringe at. He knew he was desperate tonight, but, jeez, he wasn't even drunk and he was saying things he wouldn't be caught dead saying in the daylight. But he couldn't tell if that meant his act was too strong or the opposite: that it was slipping.

Either way, you clearly didn't like it, because you flinched at his approach, and now you were beginning to take slow steps back.

"I'm sorry, I have to go," you said before turning your back to him and picking up your speed. You kept your strides long as you dug into your large purse feverishly until, finally, you felt the nylon of your travel umbrella.

Thanks to your pace, you'd made it a substantial distance by the time you pulled it out, stopping to fiddle with the clasp that kept it shut. You tried catching your breath, your thoughts bouncing around your skull until they landed on a realization. His jacket had no hood.

Yes, that was right, you recalled against your will. When you were talking, when he was saying all those subtle-but-there flirtations in his low voice, eyeing your figure with those hooded eyes and smoking your cigarette so sultrily, you were eyeing him right back in that perfectly fitted black jacket. But, unlike yours, it didn't have a hood.

The shower was coming down harder--it was spring, after all--but you were frozen. Your stilettos were seemingly glued to the sidewalk. Licking your lips before sinking your teeth into them, the taste of rainwater and lipstick mixed with the flavor of alcohol and smoke in your mouth. Slowly prying your heels from the ground, you began to make your way back to him, still standing in front of the bar window and waiting for you with a satisfied grin. Back under the awning, you planted yourself next to him, daring to look at his face, his eyebrows raised.

You pulled up your hood with one hand and extended your umbrella with the other, speaking one final time:

"Don't worry about buying me a drink, okay?"

And with that, you had already taken off, having placed the umbrella against the wall next to him long before he even registered your question. He gawked at the back of your hooded head as you scurried away, heels splashing against the wet concrete as you tried not to slip.

When he was sure you were gone, he bent over and picked up the umbrella. He ran his fingers over the polka-dotted nylon and studied it incredulously, knowing--for certain this time--that he'd seen it before. And yet, he was acting like he didn't even know what the object was, tilting it back and forth as if it weren't the same pattern and shape all around.

The bar door rang with a bell as the bartender and his girl left hand and hand, and the man tried to convince himself he was done studying the item in his.

Eventually, he went to open it, having to fuss with the mechanism that kept the spokes contracted, but as it would turn out, his hunch was right; he hadn't seen all of it. For, when he opened his closed palm and revealed the plastic black handle, he found two lines of cursive handwriting written in silver permanent marker:

If lost, please return to L/N Y/N

xxx-xxx-xxxx

***

series masterlist | next

#jjk x reader #jjk #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #fanfic #my writing #writing #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro #jjk toji #toji x reader #toji smut #toji x you #fushiguro toji

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yunalinwrites · 1 year ago

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saved by the bell (series masterlist) | fushiguro toji x reader

available on wattpad

summary: fushiguro toji never makes first moves--until he happens to meet the teacher of the son he hasn't seen in years.

strangers -> fwb -> lovers

takes place in 2006 around the star plasma vessel/hidden inventory/premature death arc; megumi is a first grader

about reader: female, around 30 or older, teacher, has a soft spot for megumi, speaks kind of formally, has daddy issues + abandonment issues

warnings: eventual smut, cursing, alcohol, smoking, daddy issues, abandonment issues, mention of child abuse/trauma, toji is initially kind of an ass, spoilers for the season 2 arc mentioned above

notes: so far this is looking to be around 9 chapters lol. hopefully i can post consistently but sorry no promises haha

(cover by me)

chapter 1

chapter 2

#jjk x reader #jjk #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #fanfic #my writing #writing #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #toji smut #toji x you #fushiguro toji #jjk toji #fushiguro

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yunalinwrites · 1 year ago

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saved by the bell (sneak peek) | fushiguro toji x reader

summary: fushiguro toji never makes first moves--until he happens to meet the teacher of the son he hasn't seen in years.

strangers -> fwb -> lovers

takes place in 2006 around the star plasma vessel/hidden inventory/premature death arc; megumi is a first grader

about reader: female, around 30 or older, teacher, has a soft spot for megumi, speaks kind of formally, has daddy issues

warnings: none rlly rn, toji's kind of an ass

notes: not sure how many chapters this'll be total but this is only the beginning of the first chapter; currently working on the third. also familymart is a japanese convenience store chain

hope u like!

He'd only just stepped out of the FamilyMart, been on the street for all of two seconds before he heard the call of his name.

"Fushiguro?"

"Fushiguro!"

"Thought I told you not to--"

"Sorry, excuse me!"

You shoved past him, catching his widened eyes with yours for but a moment before continuing to run frantically and nearly slipping when you came to a halt and crouched down.

"Fushiguro!" you exclaimed, adjusting your umbrella to accommodate the little boy. "There you are. I told you not to run off like that!"

The boy kept a fixed gaze ahead of him, only interrupting it to wipe his eyes as the rain dripped into them, his usually spiky black bedhead weighed down completely against his face.

"Where on earth did you go?" you asked, examining him for clues.

"There's a monster," he replied plainly.

Finding nothing of note, you checked your watch with one hand and used the other to hastily grab his, barely registering his claim.

"Well, there certainly aren't any monsters on the bus. Not to mention, it's warm and dry. Doesn't that sound nice?"

Your phone vibrated in your coat pocket with a wave of texts--the faculty group chat, you figured--as you moved to obstruct his view with a smile. "Your classmates are wondering where you went."

Still unfazed, he tugged on your blouse and pointed. "Can't you see it?"

Quickly, you pushed the boy's hand down, not even thinking to correct his rude gesture as your voice darkened, "Come on, we need to go."

You stood up from your crouch, pulling the boy along with urgency and speeding up as you passed the stranger, the umbrella angled so it sheltered the boy and covered your face.

When he was sure you were gone for good, all he could do was look down at his clenched fist. All he could do was look at the milk jug it held, and think about what just happened, how comical it was.

He'd only just stepped out of the FamilyMart, been on the street for all of two seconds before he heard the call of his name--his son's name--for the first time in three years.

***

plz follow for more! hopefully i can post the rest soon :)

#jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujustsu kaisen x reader #fanfic #my writing #writing #toji x reader #toji x you #toji x y/n #toji fushiguro #toji fushiguro x reader

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yunalinwrites · 1 year ago

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srry if u keep seeing test posts from me i just rlly wanna b put on the tags already LOL

i think it's working now tho so id love it if u checked out my first fic :) available here on tumblr or on wattpad

#test #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujustsu kaisen x reader #fanfic #my writing #writing

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yunalinwrites · 1 year ago

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AHHH SAYS U ML

kids on christmas eve | g. satoru x reader

summary: you learn about what happened with geto suguru and make him talk to you about it

about reader: gender neutral, relationship to gojo is unclear but they're close, on a first name basis + implied to be romantic

warnings: sad (if i did my job right), mild cursing, spoilers for jjk 0 + gojo's past/hidden inventory/star plasma vessel arc

notes: i know this is really out of season bc christmas has long passed but its for the plot lol as u prob know dec 24th is an important date

anyways i prob could've edited more but tbh i just wanted to post it already lmao hope its not cringe cuz i didn't shower to finish it (avg jjk degenerate) also im angry this was correctly formatted in google docs but tumblr ruined it and i cant b bothered to reread it under the new formatting so srry if theres smth wrong

***

"Gojo-sensei, that's not fair!"

Itadori had his bottom lip stuck out, his arms crossed tightly and his feet stomping against the snow.

"Yeah, come on!" Kugisaki agreed, mitten-clad hands full of the cold ammunition. "Turn it off, will you?"

You looked over to where Satoru stood. The snowballs that floated around him made it a little hard to see, but you could still tell his face was like it always was: smiling, the only deviation from its usual state being the pink on his pale nose. The rosy shade was just like his tongue when he stuck it out.

"Come and make me," he taunted.

"Why, you little..." Kugisaki grumbled. "Okay, Itadori, Formation B!"

"Roger!" Itadori yelled back.

The pair performed a number of flashy poses--as if they were trying to imitate something they'd seen in a cartoon--and before you knew it, they were charging at Satoru from two sides, arms fully loaded and wound back with mounds of snow. But it seemed Satoru knew it before you, because he just tsked--didn't even bother catching the snowballs, just let them fall apart against his forcefield.

"Gojo-sensei!" the two groaned in unison.

"You're no fun!" Itadori complained.

"It's not supposed to be fun," Satoru countered with a playful shrug. "Just because it's a snow day doesn't mean you can stop training."

"But... but... But what about...!" Kugisaki sputtered, a vein popping out of her forehead as she struggled to come up with an argument. You could almost see the lightbulb pop up above her head as she pounded her fist in her palm. "But what about global warming?"

"Yeah!" Itadori followed, not thinking. "What about--Wait, what?" Scratching his head, he tilted his head at Kugisaki.

"It could totally be the last day it ever snows, you know," she claimed matter-of-factly, her hands on her hips. "And I would so hate you forever."

Itadori's mouth formed a silent "Oh!" as Kugisaki elaborated. Nodding his head in accord, he added on: "Yeah, Gojo-sensei. I don't think I could respect you after that."

Satoru put on a dramatic pout at that last sentence, but he soon returned to a smile and gave in with a sigh. "Alright, just this once."

You could see the two students loudly jumping for joy from behind him as he made his way towards where you were sitting. You smiled warmly at the sight.

"They really are something," you commented.

"Tell me about it," Fushiguro grumbled, leaning boredly against the wooden armrest of the park bench. He observed quietly as his friends built a snowman in the distance until Satoru's towering shadow prompted him to look up.

"Megumi!" Satoru called, his voice high-pitched and sing-song. "Go play with the others."

The boy scowled in response. "I'm too old for that stuff."

"You think you're old?" Satoru challenged. He pointed at his hair, at the white color it's always been. "What does that make me?" He hunched over and put his hand on his lower spine, feigning back pain. "C'mon, listen to your teacher. Let me sit next to Y/N."

Fushiguro squinted at him for a moment before finally getting up."Gross."

You chuckled, watching the boy begrudgingly drag his feet through the snow towards his classmates, but your laughter hitched as you felt something push against you. Turning to your right, you saw his lanky teacher. At first the sensation didn’t make sense, considering that there was a considerable amount of distance between the two of you, but you soon recalled the defense measures and the complaints they had garnered.

Not noticing your discomfort, he stared up at the cloudy sky for a moment before turning to you.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

You shook your head. "I should be asking you," you replied, referencing his lack of winter wear. "Why didn't you wear a coat?"

"Well, it would ruin my outfit, of course," he stated perkily. He wore a confident smirk on his face, but looking closer you could tell he was shivering beneath the thin fabric of his uniform.

Taking a deep breath in disapproval, you reached for your scarf. "Here," you offered, unraveling the knot you’d made earlier. But when you reached to wrap it around his neck, you felt the resistance of his invisible force.

His smile eased. "It's okay," he obliged, sniffling. "Thank you, though."

You hesitated before tying your scarf back around yourself, but you still weren't satisfied. You looked around your snowy surroundings until you spotted something in the distance: a cafe, just down the street from where you were.

"I'll get you some hot chocolate," you decided, standing up and brushing the snowflakes off your coat.

"You don't--"

"Shh!" You pointed your finger threateningly at him before turning around to begin your walk. "Somehow you've bent logic so far that you'll end up sick if you don't drink it. So just take this as an excuse to have more sweets, alright?"

You were just about to make your first step away from the bench, but then you felt a firm grip wrap around your arm. "Wait, Y/N--"

Before he could finish his protest, he was cut off by a particularly firmly packed snowball striking him right in the middle of his face, highlighting his nose with the sparkling white powder and dislodging his blindfold. With his cerulean eyes now exposed, he turned his head and saw the three of them: Itadori pointing and cackling on the left, Kugisaki doing the same keeled over in the middle, and even Fushiguro, on the right, had the ends of his mouth perked up as he shook his head hopelessly.

You saw Satoru grin at the picture, but it was contradictory to what you were feeling. He had let go of your arm, but not by relaxing his hand--you felt him, as if brick by brick, build that invisible wall right back up between you, seemingly stronger than ever. You could still feel it, even as he walked away towards the trio, tying his blindfold back on. Sighing, you sat back down and watched him make snow angels with the others, his head blending right in with the scene as he drowned himself in the blinding whiteness. With his blindfold now fully on, you could only imagine what it was like when he smiled with his eyes.

***

"I can't feel my toes."

Twirling her brown hair between her fingers, Shoko spun around in her chair to face the doorway.

She darted her eyes between you and Satoru for a second before a calm, amused expression painted her face. Despite knowing it was his voice she heard--though it was more nasal than usual--she directed her question at you: "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I told him to wear thicker socks!" you exclaimed, your arms crossed in frustration. "But look! Show her."

Rolling his eyes behind his blindfold, Satoru pulled the fabric on his thighs, lifting the hems of his pants so that they revealed his ankles. They were barely covered by the cheap red and green striped polyester; it was the kind of thing you'd spot on sale in packs at the checkouts during Christmas season.

“So I forgot… Big deal!”

“I could fill a library with all the things you forgot,’” you complained. “I mean, what are you, a fish?”

Unfazed, Shoko chuckled. "You're telling me the strongest--the one powerful enough to rival the King of Curses--was defeated by a case of frostbite?"

The both of you responded simultaneously: "Exactly." "No!"

"I was not defeated," he insisted, earning a glare from you. "Barely a scratch. She's just being dramatic."

"I am not--"

"Is there a reason you can't heal yourself?" Shoko interrupted, now turned to Satoru.

He pointed his thumb in your direction accusingly. "She wanted to come here, not me."

"Wait," you interjected. "You can heal yourself?”

“Of course, duh.”

“Since when?"

"High school," he answered dismissively, wiping his nose with his sleeve. "See, look!"

He pointed down to his shoes--through the leather of his dress boots, you could see the movement of his wriggling toes.

You held your hands up to hide his feet from your sight. “Ew, stop that--" you grimaced. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He shrugged, smirking smugly. "My talent should go without saying."

You sighed. “Your talent to bewilder me?”

"You know it,” he asserted proudly. "But anyways–Can I go now?"

Before you could even answer, you could sense him already moving in your peripheral vision.

"Satoru, wait--"

"If you don't believe I'm fine, I'll show you my toes," he threatened, halfway out the door.

"Satoru--!"

"Go on, catch me if you can!"

You listened, trying to grab onto him but, once again, his Infinity blocked you, making you stumble into Shoko's arms as it pushed you backwards. By the time you regained your balance and rushed into the hallway, his long strides and newly healed feet had already carried him beyond your sight.

You sighed and re-entered the room, brushing yourself off. "Do you have anything for a cold?" you asked.

"I should," Shoko replied, opening up one of her medicine cabinets. "Why, are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah, no, it's for him," you explained. "He's had a runny nose all week. I told him not to go out in the snow with the kids, but... You know how he is."

She hummed in acknowledgement with an understated smile, picking out a bottle of Acetaminophen capsules. Making her way over to you, she held up the container.

"I have these," she told you, but she didn't hand them to you; she just kept holding it up as she continued, "but, in my professional opinion, I don't think he has a cold."

"What do you mean?" you asked, your brow raised.

"Y/N, do you know what tomorrow is?"

"It's... the 24th."

"Mhm."

"So... Christmas Eve?"

She looked down at the floor, placing the bottle on a nearby counter and leaning back against it, getting comfortable. She stayed quiet for a moment, biting her lip in deep thought as she continued to stare at the floor with her arms crossed. But then, finally, she sighed, and reached into her coat pocket for a cigarette.

"Would you like one?" she offered, flicking the lighter at the end of the stick

"Um... No thank you..."

"Have a seat." She gestured to the metal seat against the wall.

Still thoroughly confused, you did as you were told. You felt as if your parents were about to have a stern "talk" with you--as if you had broken a vase or--arguably worse--it was time for you to understand the birds and the bees. That thought, along with the cold steel beneath you, sent chills up your body.

In an attempt to quell your anxiety, you beat her to the punch and spoke up: "You went to high school together, didn't you?"

She blew out a lengthy tangle of smoke strings. "That's right," she answered.

You shifted in your seat. "Has he always been... like this?"

"No,” she chuckled, bringing the cigarette back to her lips. "He used to wear glasses."

Your eyebrows shot up as you leaned forward in shock. "Seriously?"

She reached into her coat pocket again, this time producing a small print of a photo.

You took the glossy sheet from her hands and studied it, your mouth agape. Sure enough, there he was, on Shoko's right, smiling widely with his hair down and a pair of round sunglasses, both of them holding up peace signs. But, while Shoko's arm was clearly holding up the camera for the selfie, one of Satoru’s arms appeared to be wrapped around the shoulders of a black-haired man you didn't recognize.

Your brows furrowed at the sight. "Who's the one on the left?"

The scent of the nicotine got stronger as she took her time to ponder her answer, staring blankly into the back of the photo beneath your thumbs.

"That's Geto Suguru,” she finally told you.

You scanned his portrait meticulously. The man wore a grumpy expression with dark bags under his eyes and, contrary to the cheerful pose of the other two, he was flipping off the camera.

“Was he an upperclassman?” you asked.

She shook her head. “He was our classmate.” She gestured towards the photo with her cigarette. “We were all second-years there.”

“No way…” Holding the photo closer, you could have sworn you saw the outline of ear gauges behind Shoko’s head. “He looks so much older.”

You returned the photo to her and she slipped it back in her pocket, not taking even a glance at it as she did. She just spoke plainly: “He’s Satoru’s best friend.”

You tilted your head to the side. “Really? I wonder why I haven’t heard of him, then."

She took another puff, turning her face away from you as she let it out. “Tomorrow is his death anniversary.”

Your eyes widened before falling to the floor. “Oh… I see…”

You fell into a solemn trance, not knowing what you should or shouldn’t say and, consequently, opting to stay quiet out of respect. But, suddenly, you were interrupted by the sound of light laughter.

“Even if he were still with us, I doubt you would’ve been able to tell. They bickered so much you’d think they hated each other.”

She walked around to the other side of the counter, leaning forward on it as she rested her hand on her palm.

“Who could get to class faster… Who could shoot more hoops in a minute… Who could make a bigger crater in the courtyard…”

You tried to imagine the pair wreaking havoc on an older version of the Jujutsu Tech Campus, but while it was easy to fit Satoru’s cheeky grin into all of these scenarios, it was hard to see such a mature-looking person as Geto doing these childish things.

“Ah, but you know, Y/N,” she started, looking up at you with a smile. “I think you would have been able to tell that Suguru was actually younger.”

“What?” you gasped, surprised at both the fact that he was younger and that Shoko thought that would be clear to you. “There’s no way…”

“Well, for starters, Suguru is shorter, if you put them side-by-side,” she argued. “And… Hm…”

She stopped to contemplate how to put together her next sentence–or if she should even do so at all. But in the end, she brought her cigarette back to her lips and exhaled: “I think you would have agreed with me that he’s the more immature one.”

Your brows furrowed as you scoffed in disbelief. “That's impossible… Satoru could be ten-feet tall and not a single thing on this planet could make him seem more mature than another person.”

She chuckled, though you could sense a sadness behind the sound, and you realized that your comment might’ve come off as insensitive. Clearing your throat, awkwardly, you granted her the floor: “What makes you say that?”

She took another inhale and sighed out a long cloud. Looking out the window of her office, she saw the faint glow of the multicolored lights that decorated it on the outside. She took in the sight for a quiet moment before sinking into her swivel chair, puffing once more.

“I still don’t know much about his childhood,” she began. “I never asked, and I never got to meet his parents. But I can tell you for certain that Suguru was the sort of kid who threw a tantrum when he didn’t get what he wanted for Christmas.

“I’m sure he had wishlists a mile long, but he wouldn’t be the kind to write even a single letter about it to Santa. Of course, that’d make it difficult for his family, and maybe they could've tried harder to figure it out–but he just wouldn't understand why what he wanted wasn't obvious to everyone.

“I can imagine one day someone told him the truth about Santa, and he was probably absolutely devastated. But, to him, it wouldn't be about the presents. It would be about the people around him: his mom, his dad, his teachers, his neighbors, everyone–the people who had been deceiving him his whole life.

“I don't think he ever forgave anyone for that, all the way up until he found himself as a seventeen-year-old at Jujutsu High.”

The air became thick–suffocatingly so–and your spine no longer fit right against the back of the bench.

“What exactly… did he do?”

She rolled her chair towards her desk and put out her cigarette, pushing and twisting it into the ashtray by her desk calendar.

“In a single night, he killed one hundred and twelve civilians–non-sorcerers–including his parents. He wanted to create a world where only sorcerers exist.”

“O-oh my God…” Your hand rose up to cover your gaping mouth. “Wh.. Why?!”

“By killing non-sorcerers, you stop curses from the source.”

“But you can't just–” You cut yourself off, thousands of words rushing and racing to your mouth. “Didn't anyone try to stop him?”

“Maybe Satoru could've. If Suguru decided to tell him, that is.”

Your face was wound up in concern. “That's horrible…”

“I know, right?” she casually agreed. “To want to be understood, but never willing to understand… Isn't it childish?” She even laughed. “Though, I suppose he was just a kid.”

“Just a kid?!” You stuck your head out in disbelief. “No, no… Satoru is childish. But that–that’s… inhumane!

You pointed to the door. “Satoru was a kid.”

You pointed to her. “You were a kid.”

Lowering your hand, you scrunched the hem of your shirt. “I might not have known you then, but I know you never would have done that.”

“To be fair, I'm not the strongest,” she defended plainly. “I'm just a doctor.”

The crease between your eyebrows deepened as you threw your arms up. “Okay–then Satoru! Satoru would never do something like that! And he… he's still a kid!”

“Satoru killed his best friend–his one and only.” She clasped her hands together on her desk. “A kid wouldn't do that, would they?”

You froze at the edge of your seat, blinking rapidly as you pieced together the puzzle.

“He… killed…?” you trailed off.

Shoko stared grimly at her hands as she tightened her grip on herself. “A kid wouldn’t have understood.”

You bore your eyes into her, waiting, begging for her to continue, to elaborate, to make it make sense, but she just stayed quiet, kept to herself.

You directed your eyes to the freshly polished floor tiles. As you stared into the blurry reflection of yourself, you tried imagining it again: Satoru, tall and white haired, and this kid grumpy little kid he called Suguru, wreaking havoc on the old campus of Jujutsu High: walking to class together, dribbling a basketball between each other, meeting up in the courtyard with one another.

“That…” you began hesitantly. “That still doesn't excuse what happened.”

Shoko looked up at you, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, and though she wasn’t as contented as she had been before your conversation, her expression was no longer grave; she seemed satisfied. Slowly, she put her palms on her desk and pushed herself up from her seat.

“To answer your question from earlier–properly,” she started, making her way over to you. “I think that Satoru has always been that way–the way Gojo Satoru has to be.”

“But if there were ever a time that he weren’t,” she interjected, sliding her hand into her coat pocket.

“It would have been thanks to him.”

***

Your footsteps echoed down the empty hallway, stopping every once in a while to slide open one of the stiff doors only to struggle to shut it a moment later. You increased the reach of your steps, and the thump of your shoes against the wood planks competed with the hooting owl perched on the snow covered roof.

Suddenly, you heard a new noise: a honking, like that of a goose, coming from the end of the hall and slightly to the left. Now picking up to a jog, you made a beeline for the door and jerked it open.

“Well, if it isn’t my long-awaited Christmas present!” he exclaimed. “Looks like Santa’s early this year.”

He rested against the corner of one of the student’s desks, already facing you with his hands in his pocket. From behind him, you could just barely see the white crumpled-up balls of tissue that scattered the surface.

“I guess some people do gifts on Christmas Eve though, right?” he considered, putting a finger to his chin. “But, ah… choosing gifts is so hard. I need all the time I can get.”

He didn’t acknowledge your entrance at all; his Six Eyes had seen it coming miles away, allowing him enough time to get into position to pick up wherever you’d last left off. You didn’t acknowledge him either, keeping a stone face as you stepped into the room.

“What’s with the face, hm? Did you not like your presents?”

“Satoru,” you said sternly.

“Did you ask Santa for anything this year?” he went on, continuing to pay you no mind.

You sighed. You couldn’t help but let the ends of your lips pick up, but you kept your eyes down at the dirtied pattern of the floor.

“I don’t celebrate Christmas,” you admit.

“What? Why not?” he questioned astonishedly, forming a pout. “Does that mean you didn’t get me a present?”

You shook your head lightly, making your way over to him. “I’ve always thought it was sort of weird. To celebrate the birth of a martyr.”

“Hm,” he sounded. “Well that’s no fun.”

Planting his hands on the surface, he hoisted himself up onto his desk. “Santa probably wouldn’t give anything other than coal to a non-believer,” he noted. “But since I’m so nice, I’ll get you something. Just tell me–what is it that you want for Christmas?”

His smile stayed in place as you darted your pupils around his visage, your own face beginning to fall. You took slow steps towards the desk next to him, getting as close as you could before you felt his Infinity push back

“Satoru, can you do me a favor?” you requested gently.

“Depends on what the favor is,” he chirped back.

Reaching your hand out, you traced your forefinger on the edge of the invisible barrier before applying pressure into it, testing the shield’s strength. You pushed with all your might, but all it did was whiten your finger tip and make your knuckles concave.

You retracted, looking back into his eyes. “Can you take it down?”

You could see the movement of his eyebrows raising beneath his blindfold. “You tryna kill me?”

Again, you shook your head, still solemn.

He crossed his arms and squinted at you, biting his cheek. Leaning back, he put his weight onto his hands behind him, loosely grabbing the edge of his desk, his expression becoming relaxed. “Alright. Here you go.”

You took another small step into the newfound space until you were only inches apart. Slowly, you extended both your hands towards his face, but then suddenly reeled them back into a hesitant fist in disbelief, the lack of resistance uncomfortably foreign.

You inhaled deeply through your nose and exhaled the air shakily through your mouth, trying hard to slow the rapid beating in your chest. Ignoring the smirk on his face, you tried to reach out to him, one final time.

Letting your arms wrap around his head, your hands searched his silky hair for the knot that held up his eye covering. When you finally felt the bump, you took your time digging your nails into where the fabric held onto itself, carefully pulling apart its loops.

As the blindfold fell to his neckline, his signature grin stayed plastered on his face, but just about every other feature of his seemed to change completely when the white wisps came down to frame them. His azure eyes, for example, glimmered under the faint moonlight coming through the window, but not in the way that they usually did. They were shining like lacquer, but it was as if, from underneath that, their batteries had been taken out. In their dullness, you could see the reflection of the long white lashes resting on the eyelids above, forming sharp, unnatural shapes as they clumped together unevenly. Pink waterlines painted the bottom of his irises, and a faint red was seemingly airbrushed around the surrounding puffy skin.

You trailed your hands down the back of his head until they cupped his jawline, holding his face as you explored its entirety. Moving from his eyes to his flushed, leaking nose, his smirk grew when your gaze landed on his lips.

“Are you sure you want to use your gift on this?” he teased. “Kind of a waste, in my opinion–you could’ve just found a mistletoe.”

“Satoru.”

“Hmm?”

“I want you to stop smiling.”

For a moment, he listened to you: his mouth fell open, but then it fell back into its previous position as he flashed his teeth at you. “My bad. I didn’t mean to blind you.”

“Please?”

He kept still while your thumb gently stroked his powder-smooth cheek. He jolted slightly as his lungs forced out a nervous chuckle, but he trailed off as your touch continued on him. Realizing your relentlessness, he sucked in his lips and clamped them together with his teeth as if he was trying to stop any further laughter.

He stayed like this for a moment, waiting for you to let go, but your tender movements showed no signs of stopping–you only slowed down when your eyes flitted up to meet his. He tried his best to return your stare, but eventually, he accepted defeat in the contest. And so, little by little, he let his lips roll out and the muscles to dispose into a resting state.

His voice became low, a near whisper. “Is… everything okay?”

Finally removing your hands from him, you nodded. Returning them to yourself, you glided one into the back pocket of your pants.

Taking a step back, you held up the sheet of glossy photo paper side-by-side with his face. You could name a number of differences: the neckline of the teacher’s uniform was looser and higher, his bangs now were longer and a bit thicker, and, of course, he wasn’t wearing glasses, and he wasn’t smiling. But, somehow, now more than ever, you could see the resemblance.

“What have you got there?”

Moving towards him again, you handed him the photo. It felt strange, witnessing the rare sight of his pupils’ every rapid move. And in addition to that, ever so slightly, you could see his swollen under eyes rise as the softest of smiles pushed up his cheeks. It was nothing like the sickeningly-sweet beamings you were used to seeing from him, though; it was subdued, raw like the cacao in dark chocolate, undiluted by sugar or milk.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, incredulous.

“Like you said, Santa came early,” you joked mildly.

“No, really,” he persisted, his tone reaching a bass you’d never heard from him before. “Where did you get this?”

You sat yourself on the desk next to him. “Shoko,” you admitted.

“What did she tell you?”

Your shrug was subtle. “As much as she could.”

He continued to scrutinize the photo in his hands, his brows drawing together.

“Satoru,” you proceeded, hushed. “If it’s okay… I’d like it if you told me about it.”

He lowered the photo so that it no longer obstructed his view of you, but he didn’t take advantage of the space he gave himself; he kept staring at the photo as he spoke: “There’s not much to tell about. I was the strongest then and I’m the strongest now.”

You rested your hands on your lap and exhaled deeply. “That’s not what I mean,” you contested.

It was as if he couldn’t hear you, continuing to stare vapidly into the photo as if somehow your sentence didn’t make it to his ears. But that was impossible; you’d said what you said, and the room was dead silent.

“I… I want you to tell me about him,” you clarified.

He shifted in his seat, finally looking away from the photo and up at you. “You mean… Geto Suguru?” he asked, as if there were any other ‘him’ in that photo.

“Well… he’s the worst of all curse users,” he offered. He then shoved the photo back in your direction, a sudden grin straining itself on his face. “But it’s okay. He’s gone now.”

Ignoring his move, you asked, “Is it really okay?”

“I made sure of it,” he affirmed, impatiently nudging the paper at you.

He resumed his usual playful lilt. “Are you doubting me?” he tested.

“I don’t doubt you for a second–not in that sense. You’ve always been strong,” you reassured him. “But that’s exactly why I doubt you know how to be weak.”

He scoffed. “You think Gojo Satoru would know how to be weak?”

“No, I don’t. That’s my whole point,” you upheld firmly.

He folded his arms across his chest, his mocking tone sharpening: “Why would anyone want to know how to be weak?”

“Because even Gojo Satoru needs to realize he can’t just smile and laugh all the time,” you argued, feeling heat rise up your neck.

His eyes darkened, seemingly into a navy blue, and his inflection further condescended: “There are a lot of things you don’t understand.”

“Satoru, how on earth am I supposed to understand?!”

As your tone cut through, just as abruptly you pushed the desk behind you and dropped heavily to your feet.

“You’re right, I don't understand you,” you confessed frustratedly, pointing to yourself. “I don’t understand you at all. Because how could I possibly understand you? I can’t see your eyes, I can’t even get near you, and I’ve never seen you not smile.”

Your voice made gaps as your vocal cords threatened sobs. “And sure, I call you by your first name, and I laugh and I smile at all your dumb jokes and… and the idiotic games you play…

“But it’s–it’s… scary, Satoru. Creepy, even. How you know just about everything there is to know about me and yet… It's like I don’t even know who you are. You’re just a toy in the corner, watching everyone come in and out of the room, but I can never make you say or be or feel anything.”

“Feelings are what made him into who he was,” he stated coldly, his eyes fixed on the grimy floor. “It’s important for sorcerers to have a hold on their emotions.”

“So you know what happens, then,” you argued firmly, your shoes coming into his view as you stepped closer. “You know what it’s like to be shut out from them.”

You pushed his chin up, forcing him to witness the way you were holding on desperately to the tears that bordered your lower waterline.

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Do you always get Sprite?” he’d asked, looking down as his friend retrieved his drink from the bottom of the machine.

“I mean… yeah, I guess,” Suguru replied plainly. “Why?”

A pit formed in his stomach as he heard the crack of the can opening.

“Shit. I’ve been getting you Coke this whole time,” he’d mumbled. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Suguru shrugged, beginning to head in the direction of the classroom. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Dude, are you good?”

Suguru jolted awake, sitting up from the plush back of the couch and nearly spilling the bowl of popcorn in his lap.

“Do you wanna watch something else?” he’d suggested, but Suguru just shook his head.

“I thought you liked Digimon,” Suguru objected.

“Well yeah, but…”

The only lighting came from the flashing screen, but it was enough for him to see his friend yawn, making his eyes water, dark bags underneath them.

“You can turn it up if you want,” was all Suguru had to say, but even after doing what Suguru said, he couldn’t focus on his favorite TV show.

“I know you said you didn’t want anything,” he started, reaching into his bag. “But here.”

“What’s this?” Suguru questioned.

“Your Christmas present, duh.”

“But it’s Christmas Eve,” Suguru pointed out. “And I told you–”

“I know! But just open it.”

He watched as Suguru lifted the lid of the small gray box, revealing a small pair of white gauges.

“I didn’t really know what size to get… But I think they’d look cool on you.”

“Thanks, Satoru.”

He lit up, thinking that he’d finally done something right by his friend, but the way that Suguru looked up at him, the way Suguru smiled insincerely, told him he should’ve waited for Christmas Day.

The tears were warm as they rolled down his face, past his trembling lip and blooming into the blindfold that rested loosely around his neck.

“I just don't understand why he didn’t talk to me.”

You pulled him into a hug, carding your fingers in his hair as you rested his head on your shoulder.

“He thought I hated him,” he told you shakily, finding himself clutching onto your shirt. “I didn’t see him for ten years and… and that whole time he thought I hated him.”

He inhaled a sharp sniffle. “I… I don’t hate him,” he whimpered, his pitch jumping and his body beginning to tremble. “I don’t hate him, Y/N, I don’t, I don’t, I never, ever did.”

“I know,” you whispered, stroking his hair, holding him tighter as he jerked with sobs.

He placed his head on your shoulder, staring at the blindfold that had unraveled itself and fallen between you. “I hate myself.”

You pulled back, cupping his jawline and holding it in front of you.

“Don’t say that…”

“But he was my best friend, Y/N,” he insisted, gripping desperately onto your shoulders. “I saw him every single day… every single day, all of that was running through his head and I… I didn’t even know… I just watched and… and I made him think I hated him. I was supposed to be his best friend.”

“You did everything you could, Satoru.”

“It was all my fault.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why did it happen?” he whined. “It had to have been for a reason–It can't just hurt and be for no reason. That wouldn’t be fair.”

“It’s not,” you told him, shaking your head gently and looking deeply into his eyes. “It’s not fair at all.”

Indicating the breaking of a dam, a deafening, siren-like wail pierced the air. His face was red and scrunched up, his nose was dripping with snot, and his hands were coming up to swipe desperately at the tears on his cheeks.

You pulled him close to you again as he kept hiccuping and sniffling into the crook of your neck. His loud weeping wet your shirt with both the fluids from his eyes and nose, but you didn’t care; you just rubbed his back, caressing him tenderly.

His voice was suddenly clearer as he took deep breaths to try and recuperate himself: “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“Why are you sorry?” you asked, stiffening your hold on him.

“I just… I don’t know. I hate crying. I’m not a kid anymore, you know?” he tried laughing.

“Satoru,” you whispered delicately, turning your head so your words rested right by his ear. “You were never a kid.”

Gently, you pressed his head into you, stopping him from moving his lips in any way. “I want you to be one right now.”

You let him stay in your arms for a while until his tears subsided and his breathing steadied. You had moved to the floor at some point, allowing him to comfortably lean on you as you embraced him, his previous quivering replaced now by the calm rhythm of his rising and falling figure.

He hadn’t talked in a while, so you assumed he’d fallen asleep, but then, among his mellow breathing, a mumble came up right by your ear:

“Thank you,” he’d said.

Hugging him tighter, you patted him on the back softly. “Of course.”

As one hand traveled to intertwine its fingers in his hair, you reached for your phone with your other one.

You pressed the power button on its side, and flinched backward, squinting at the brightness your phone screen emitted. Despite your sudden movement, Satoru didn’t show any sort of reaction; he’d fallen asleep, for sure now.

You continued to comb through his white locks, a little more consciously now, as you made note of the time and date your phone’s clock displayed, changing right before your eyes:

December 25th, 00:00

You smiled, dragging your coat up to cover the both of you as you laid your head on his shoulder.

“Merry Christmas, Satoru.”

***

might do a toji x megumi's teacher reader if u wanna follow

31 notes · View notes

yunalinwrites · 1 year ago

Text

kids on christmas eve | gojo satoru x reader

available on wattpad

cover by me

summary: you learn about what happened with geto suguru and make him talk to you about it

about reader: gender neutral, relationship to gojo is unclear but they're close, on a first name basis + implied to be romantic

warnings: sad (if i did my job right), mild cursing, spoilers for jjk 0 + gojo's past/hidden inventory/star plasma vessel arc

notes: i know this is really out of season bc christmas has long passed but its for the plot lol as u prob know dec 24th is an important date

"Gojo-sensei, that's not fair!"

Itadori had his bottom lip stuck out, his arms crossed tightly and his feet stomping against the snow.

"Yeah, come on!" Kugisaki agreed, mitten-clad hands full of the cold ammunition. "Turn it off, will you?"

"Come and make me," he taunted.

"Why, you little..." Kugisaki grumbled. "Okay, Itadori, Formation B!"

"Roger!" Itadori yelled back.

"Gojo-sensei!" the two groaned in unison.

"You're no fun!" Itadori complained.

"It's not supposed to be fun," Satoru countered with a playful shrug. "Just because it's a snow day doesn't mean you can stop training."

"Yeah!" Itadori followed, not thinking. "What about--Wait, what?" Scratching his head, he tilted his head at Kugisaki.

"It could totally be the last day it ever snows, you know," she claimed matter-of-factly, her hands on her hips. "And I would so hate you forever."

Itadori's mouth formed a silent "Oh!" as Kugisaki elaborated. Nodding his head in accord, he added on: "Yeah, Gojo-sensei. I don't think I could respect you after that."

Satoru put on a dramatic pout at that last sentence, but he soon returned to a smile and gave in with a sigh. "Alright, just this once."

You could see the two students loudly jumping for joy from behind him as he made his way towards where you were sitting. You smiled warmly at the sight.

"They really are something," you commented.

"Megumi!" Satoru called, his voice high-pitched and sing-song. "Go play with the others."

The boy scowled in response. "I'm too old for that stuff."

Fushiguro squinted at him for a moment before finally getting up."Gross."

You chuckled, watching the boy begrudgingly drag his feet through the snow towards his classmates, but your laughter hitched as you felt something push against you. Turning to your right, you saw his lanky teacher. At first the sensation didn’t make sense, considering that there was a considerable amount of distance between the two of you, but you soon recalled his defense measures and the complaints they had garnered.

Not noticing your discomfort, he stared up at the cloudy sky for a moment before turning to you.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

You shook your head. "I should be asking you," you replied, referencing his lack of winter wear. "Why didn't you wear a coat?"

"Well, it would ruin my outfit, of course," he stated perkily. He wore a confident smirk on his face, but looking closer you could tell he was shivering beneath the thin fabric of his uniform.

His smile eased. "It's okay," he obliged, sniffling. "Thank you, though."

You hesitated before tying your scarf back around yourself, the garment's chunky knit giving it enough volume to nearly cover your mouth and even your ears, but you could still hear his teeth chatter. You searched your surroundings, looking past the dead snow-adorned trees and following the wet pavement until you spotted something in the distance: a cafe, just down the street from where you were.