dimi˚⁎⁺˳✧

𝓢𝔂𝓷𝓸𝓹𝓼𝓲𝓼: what happens when you fall in love with a man who’s so enclosed you’d need to go through the trenches to get him to let his guard down? that’s exactly what it feels like having feelings for megumi fushiguro. but with a little bit of help from your mutual friends, it wouldn’t hurt to try, right?

a/n: sorry yall i went the cliche route😔 also apologies for the hana stray i just need a plot yo

series masterlist , ch. 1 , ch. 2 , ch. 3

nanami with reader whose had to be her own supporter, parent, sibling and best friend all in one.

you don’t even question it, it’s a second nature at this point; driving your little brothers to their practices when your parent couldn’t, carrying the quiet burden of trying to help your mom, sitting through an argument with your sister who you know should be handling it herself but you can’t help it; there’s a part of you that needs to be there for them.

nanami doesn’t think you even understand the word boundaries when it comes to yourself- always giving, even in friendships where you know they clearly don’t value your time the same way as you. it always ticked the man off, being someone of orderly fashion and who analysed people the same way he would the broad spreadsheets on his screen everyday, it was a blessing and a curse to be able to read people so clearly. he just didn’t understand why you couldn’t do the same - if the edges blurred when you saw it from a different perspective, or if you were choosing to be ignorant.

it’s not until you move in with nanami you realise.

“Yeah, I can try and squeeze in time to pick him up, but are you sure you can’t— No, no I get you’re busy but I’ve also got to pick up my package halfway across town-” you’re speaking into the phone with your mother, phone wedged between your cheek and shoulder, blowing a strand of your hair out your face as you scrub the dish in front of you, frowning as she explains how she can’t pick up your brother again for the third time this week. You’re slightly irritated, the clothes on your body feeling too tight, soap suds on your forearms, and the deadline for your work is creeping slowly and you hadn’t even started it yet—

“Sweetheart, I’m home.” A quick, swift shut of the door brings your attention to the tall blond by the doorframe and you’re about to apologise for leaving the room a little messy, but your gaze falls on the pink package tucked in his arms.

Your package.

He doesn’t say anything, effortlessly hanging his grey coat up and sliding his shoes off, cool honey eyes studying you. You’re still blinking in surprise when he’s managed to get you sat on the couch, knees scooted up as your mother’s voice droned on through the line.

You didn’t even tell him you had a package, you think, staring at the broad expanse of Kento’s back, the muscles shifting under the blue material of his work shirt as he washed the dishes.

And it didn’t even stop at that. You’ll catch yourself attempting to complain but there it is - the keys you needed on the desk he settles down with a curt nod, a sweet kiss to your cheek before he leaves for work. The laundry pile growing in the corner of the room? Done and folded by the next day. Your friend group were acting strange? It’s fine, he’ll draft up a message for you to send. One night you’re sighing over the deadline and there’s a mug of tea in your hand, large hands massaging your shoulders. You ease into it so comfortably. It’s like you’ve forgotten how it feels to be taken care of.

“Shoot— Sorry, Ken, I was gonna make dinner for us— Oh.” Your shoulders slump, the weariness and fatigue from work leaving a little when he enters the door again with a bouquet of roses in his hand, and a takeaway bag in the other.

How? How the hell does he just know?

“It’s alright, honey. Here you go, I bought these from the new florist in town. Thought you’d like them.” The sweet, deep tone of his voice fills the room, and you feel it sink and sweep into your veins, a weight lifted off. A light pink dusts your cheeks when you take the bouquet in your hands, and when you’re looking up at him, studying the subtle quirk of his lips, it’s like you’re seeing him for the first time.

For the first time in months you feel shy around your boyfriend.

“How the hell do you even have time for a relationship nowadays? I swear I come off my shift and I get annoyed if my man breathes near me,” Your friend is scoffing with an eye roll and she sips from the matcha on the table. You usually agree, reply with a quick quip of ‘Yeah, men suck’, but you’re just smiling a little to yourself, shrugging, a newfound glow to your face that she catches. It only amplifies when you stare at the text message he sends you.

Kento 🩷 : Hope you’re having fun, sweetheart. Just letting you know I’m picking up Ethan for his game, don’t stress about it. I love you.

“Oh, you’re so whipped,” she laughs at you, leaning back in the sun chair and you don’t even care, a grin growing over your face as you hunch over the screen, typing away with the manicured nails he paid for.

With his efforts and the small kisses he drops everyday, you manage to multitask working and your deadline in time. You find it in yourself to cook him a dinner, wear something pretty and wait patiently till he comes home but the next thing you know you’re having a screaming match with your mom on the other end of your iPhone.

Nanami’s day at work goes by smoothly. Being a salesman had honestly become the worst part of his day but it was manageable. It got a bit easier as he sipped his cup of coffee at his desk, every now and then glancing to the lock screen of you both. It gets easier when he hears your voice through the panicked, rush voice note you send throughout the day. He imagines your smile and eyes during certain parts and works just a little harder.

It gets a lot easier when he steps out his car and unlocks the apartment door. Except you’re not standing by the fridge, or laid out on the couch. There’s two plates of smoked salmon and hors d’œuvres surrounding the ceramic plates, a bottle of wine unopened.

It didn’t feel easy though when he pushes the bedroom door open, a frown bracing his features as you, his dear sweet girlfriend, perched on the end of the bed, hastily wiping your tears. His heart lurches, eyes dropping from the iPhone to the little milkmaid dress on your hunched over form.

“Oh, Ken — ‘m so sorry, I just—“

“Enough.”

Your wide eyes peer up at the blond man who shifts down beside you, kneeling, dark brows lowered over sharp honey, holding a deep affection. You sniffle, cheek hot under his cool fingertips that wipe away the tears. You can’t help but wonder why he was so insistent on being with you, someone so easily distracted by everyone else around her, someone who couldn’t even do something nice back—

“I’m sick of seeing you being pushed around. Do you understand what I mean, my love?”

You shake your head but he raises a brow and you shuffle before nodding. The subtle hints of his cologne intrude your space and you melt when he sighs, his large hand framing your face.

“What happened? Did you argue again?”

“Yeah— I just, I’m so sick of it, Ken. It’s like I’ve got to do everything, and I know I can do it but they— they don’t care. They don’t care.”

“I care. I see what you do. For everyone.”

You don’t realise you’re still crying until he presses a kiss to one of your tears.

“And that is more than enough. You can’t push yourself too much. You have a limit. And honestly, Im getting a little tired myself watching you do everything.”

“You don’t have to.. You’re just saying that because you have to.” You mumble, lashes dark and slick with tears. Nanami hums.

“Have to what? Support you? Love you? Please, sweetheart. It’s my job.”

“Ken—“

“Take a few days off work. We’ll just relax together, yes? What do you call it — bedrotting? You need to put this all behind.” The warmth of his voice bleeds into your veins again and you nod slowly, subconsciously leaning into his touch when he strokes his thumb against your cheek.

“I love you. Im sorry I’m a mess.”

Nanami chuckles, and there’s no malice behind it, light and warm, encasing you in its briefness.

“I just want you to understand I’m here. Okay?”

simon reads your letters from home.

> no NSFW, just a small scrap i wrote after a headcanon i read :)

He’s read it about a hundred times.

Gloved fingertips tremble against the crumpled paper, withdrawing a breath sharply. You’re waiting for him downstairs, he knows he only has a few minutes to spare, but he reads it anyway. Drinks the words in, flipping and twisting the scribbled letters in his head.

At first, he’s a little suspicious. You didn’t show him the letter, and made no effort to mention it. Simon wasn’t one to meddle in your private business, after all, he was familiar with secrecy. But a letter? From your Mum? When he had brought it up gruffly, you paled a little and mumbled about it being some sort of phone bill.

For one, he paid for the damn thing.

He found it on the bed. Well, sort of. Simon had eyed the paper poking out of your leather handbag, pausing with furrowed brows. He wasn’t even sure why he stopped to take it out, but next thing he knew he’s locked the bedroom door and unfolded the paper carefully, eye-black slipping over the words. For a moment, Simon rests his neck against the headboard and allows himself to drown into the comforting words.

I really hope all is well. Farley misses you lots! The living room doesn’t feel the same without you.

A fumble, a crinkling of paper - his heart is in his throat as he skims over the sheet.

Hope Simon’s taking care of you. He’s a good man, I know he is. A gentleman, that’s what your uncle had said. You seem happier.

Simon almost wants to scoff - so many moments of sitting beside your mum, innocent conversations exchanged between the two, his hands shaking hers. Same bloody hands that kill for a living. Strangle, hurt. Mark. Defile. He wonders, what your mother would think of the sins carved into his legs, his arms. The staining of red on almost every piece of clothing he owns. He wonders what his own mother would think.

The realisation dawns on him slightly, back straightening so his shoulders broadened. He pauses, glancing towards the door.

Either way, I love you lots. And Dad does too. You’re going to have to write back quick, he’s quite worried for you. Thinks you’re gonna ‘lose yourself’ in the US. Told him he was a nutcase.

He reads the first few words again. I love you lots.

“I love you, Si.”

A guttural groan, bone flicking in his jaw. He reads it again, and again, and once fucking more till the words echoe a little more like his own mother’s.

Simon imagines it’s his own mother writing back.

“I love you lots, Si. Write back quickly, they’re waiting for your stories in Mazrah. Joseph is absolutely smitten over the Lego Set you got him.”

“Dad’s worried about you. Thinks you’re gonna lose yourself in the US.”

“I love you, Si. We miss you.”

The door opens. Simon isn’t one to nervously putter about, but he jerks his shoulder back, head lifting to meet your gaze. You frown a little, the white around his whiskey irises contrasting starkly against his balaclava.

“Got the reservation, at last,” You chime, walking into your room to peer at the closest mirror. Simon’s fucking sweating it, the letter still trapped between his fist. He hopes to God you take an extra few minutes to fuss over your hair or something -

“What’s that?” Voice sharp and soft, like a flowery sting, Simon’s head snaps up to you again, a little jolted. You narrow your brows, arms crossing over your chest. The letter in his hand, slightly stricken expression, tense shoulders - it all clicks.

“You’re reading it?”

“Wha’s it look like?”

You laugh a little evenly. “No need to be so defensive, just asking.” You pause and Simon swears he wants the ground to swallow him.

“She misses you, y’know.”

He says nothing.

You take that as a cue to purse your lips and speak anyway, turning to run a hand through your tousled hair. “Won’t stop calling too. Asking me how I am, how you are.”

His grip tightens on the letter but he wordlessly lets go of it, the crinkled white flat against the bed. ‘Course she was asking, always bickering and fussing. He thinks maybe there’s where you get it from, the thought causing him to pause for a second.

“Do you wanna write back?”

“Not my letter, love.” He remarks, reaching for the boots by the side of his bed. A pang hits your chest, brows sloping again. Sometimes you worry for your boyfriend. This was partly why you don’t want to show him.

It was more a way to protect him. You weren’t completely blind, you saw the way he shifted in his seat when your Dad had clapped his shoulder with a comment of appraisal, nothing but admiration in his eyes. You saw how his expression narrowed a little cautiously, eyeing the uncles and relatives beside the BBQ who were chatting happily to the kids on their ankles. You took note of how softer he looked, those same unreadable eyes glazing when your Mum fussed and crooned over the scars on his hands.

“No, ‘m being serious. You should write back. I’d know for a fact she’d pin it up and everything.” You say softly with a half eye roll, watching him through the reflection of the mirror as you pinned up your hair. Simon tied his boots slowly, movements a little lagged.”

Silence again. “Well, just letting you know you can write. I get her WhatsApp messages can be a lot, but, I’m sure she’d love it.”

Your words settle into the air. Simon is tensing his jaw over and over, a little frustrated at his lack of initiation. But it was different. It was all foreign to him. How could he tell you he had memorised the damn letter word for word? That he wished it was his own mother speaking back to him?

“Mum used to write.” Simon grumbled a little. You eyebrows raise into your hairline.

“‘Bout my nephew. An’ home. Kept them all. Till they burned at base, obviously.” He adds, his tone quiet but coated in familiar sorrow. When you look at him, you knew. Simon’s eyes held waters of pain, a depth of understanding for it.

Fingers curl around the laces lazily. You don’t say a word, neither of you do.

“She’d be proud of you, Si. I know damn well she would be.”

He thinks you’re lying for shit. That you’re sugar coating the truth in a layer of false hope, and he’s not sure what’s worse, the fact you’re lying or the fact he believes it. Simon allows himself, just for once, to be misguided. He didn’t know his threshold for pain, but the searing hot shame pouring over his heart right now is punishing.

You’re smiling. Soft, demure, inviting. You’re smiling at him, looking almost blessed with damaged goods, wide eyes deep and knowing. His fingers twitch, itching to hold you in his palms.

simon riley x chubby!female reader

just something quick i wrote after i saw this ghost headcanon on tt :,)

“Nothin’, just don’t like how my stomach sticks out.”

Simon pauses, his expression neutral. He glances towards you, drinking in the sight of your features drawing into a small frown as you studied your reflection, hands supporting the small pudge around your belly. He notes how bloody beautiful you look in red, but looks back to his own shoes, urging back a grunt of frustration.

You never complained about your belly.

He’s been around you long enough to be aware of your insecurities, watching you pad towards the bathroom mirror and prod at your pimples, grumbling at the bump on your nose bridge, sometimes sat beside him in bed with a sparkly face mask on - it was second nature to know you, and although it pissed him off to no end, he also understood insecurities were normal.

But this - this was different. You embraced your body, curves, blemishes and all, the crooks and crevices denting your flesh - you didn’t care for the sly looks or judgemental comments, you wore whatever the hell you wanted. And if anyone had a problem, Simon would have fixed it in a heartbeat. This wasn’t your insecurity, this wasn’t a flaw, it was a part of you you loved.

Simon couldn’t handle your expression.

A sigh, a clacking of heels - you had torn your gaze away from the mirror, face scrunched up into one of those mopey frowns Simon adored, and grabbed the leather coat from the rack. It’s almost suffocating, the silence, and he does realise he needs to say something, but talking wasn’t always his strong suit. So his jaw clicks into place, shoulders broad and unmoving, gloved hands resting on his thighs.

Suddenly Simon is sixteen again and sat in front of his headteacher.

He runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek, whiskey irises boring into the back of your head before you turn with a half assed smile. Ha. He’s glad he can understand your little moods now, or else this night would’ve turned for the worse.

“Come.” The baritone of his voice draws you out of your darting thoughts. You sigh, stepping forward.

You’re not prepared for when his large hands latch onto your hips gently, pushing you forward so his head could rest on your stomach.

“Si-”

And again. You’re doing things you’ve never done before - you always let him rest on your stomach, it was never something you panicked about. A beat passes and your boyfriend lifts his head, penetrating eyes contrasting starkly against the red of your dress.

“What’s up with you?”

You purse your lips, mulling over his tone. “Nothing, just - this dress wasn’t always so… fitting.”

Simon hums roughly, and you inhale sharply at his hands stroking against your hip tenderly.

“Look’s fine to me.”

Neither of you say anything. Not a lot of words needed to be said around him, but then again, not a lot of men were like Simon. Your eyes soften, and you let your palm rest on the back of his neck, your touch making him hum again, the vibrations against your belly causing you to shudder.

“Ev’ry big boy needs his big girl.”

You laugh sweetly, and finally, he exhales quietly, welcoming the feel of your nails against his neck. He supposed it didn’t matter what the hell you thought about yourself.

“Once again, I don’t entertain myself with that sort of… calibre of content anyway. It is for children.” Kento is saying to Yuji as they stroll through the garden, the pink haired boy nodding in blind agreement, arms behind his head as he grins. The lake is wide and stretches out beyond the training camp with the other sorcerers, night sky simply a canopy for the two discussing their day. Kento seemed to grow closer to Yuji as the year went on by, a sort of mentor-student-father-son dynamic going on. At least, that’s what Gojo described it as.

“Yeah, I totally get that Nanamin, but you gotta try it before you bash it!” Yuji is punching the air in boyish excitement. Nanami holds the urge to sigh deeply and roll his shoulders but he simply nods a bit stiffly. He didn’t understand the new lingo thrown about when Gojo and the others would appear by his side, peering over his book in quiet interest hidden by a raised brow.

“It’s not only the best game of the season this year, but it’s won tons of awards and—“

“Video games can be addictive if played too much,” Kento chimes in smoothly, stepping suavely over the large rock in the paved pathway. The cicadas buzz quietly, and he noted how nice it looked that evening, small ripples of the lake water gently crashing against the pebbled rocks by the foot of the bridge nearby. Yuji shrugs unbashedly.

“I dunno, Nanamin, your girlfriend seems to like the game a lot.”

Oh.

Right. His girlfriend.

Kento loses the slight chip in his walk, blinking behind his goggles as he processes Yuji’s words, attempting to keep his walk smooth. Yuji is grinning. Kento notes to keep change the break time schedule, since that smile is eerily similar to Gojo’s.

“I.. know.” Nanami replied a little quieter, the small hint of pink on his ears not going unnoticed. Yuji grins a little wider and hums, feigning pure innocence.

“Yeah, man. She scores high every time on the leaderboard too. Beat mine and Toge’s. And Toge plays a looooot more than us all combined.” He sings, catching small glances to the tall blond whose mouth twitches a little.

“Does she now?”

“Yeah, she told me it’s her favourite game.”

“Right.” Nanami says shortly. A lot of questions weighed on his mind.

Maybe the game wasn’t too bad. You seemed to be okay with work and video games.

“You should come watch us all play sometime. Y’know when you’re not doin’ boring work stuff.” Yuji offers. Nanami is trying his hardest not to soften visibly at the memory flashing in his mind, his lovely girlfriend’s head against his chest as you both laid out on the couch, lamp dimly lit, illuminating the room, and you’re smiling up at him.

Playing video games.

“Well, she should cut down her hours. It could interfere with your missions.” Nanami opts for a response. Yuji shakes his head with a smile.

“Yeah, yeah. Will do, Nanamin.”

And it keeps happening.

Nanami will sit down on the leather chair by all the other Sorcerers, unamused by whatever Todo and Gojo are laughing at on their phones, opening his book, tucking the bookmark in his pocket. Yuji bursts in with Toge and they connect their switch or, whatever it’s called, to the TV. He’s about to get up and leave when the hype music plays loudly from the screen, but Yuji opens his mouth.

“Ohh, look! Nanamin’s girlfriend is online right now! I’m gonna invite her!”

“No.” Kento said a bit too quickly. Damn it, why are you playing video games when you told him you had an entrance exam to study for? His slightly narrowed eyes flit to the game on screen but Yuji is grinning and spamming the invite button. Gojo gasps.

“Oh, girlfriend you say? Oh, this is perfect! Add me! I have my switch too. Do look after my phone, Todo.”

“For christ sake.” Kento mumbles, reaching for his phone to text you. The white haired man, theatrical as ever, sighs blissfully as he connects his switch and leans back, smiling behind the blindfold, legs outstretched.

“Oh yeah. Watch and learn, Itadori. TheStrongest3ver is here. You do have me added don’t you?” Gojo asks smoothly. Toge nods.

“Yeah I do. Hey, Nanamin, can you tell her to join? She carries us every game.”

“No.”

“But why? Please? There’s a season finale badge I wanna win and she—“

“She has to revise for an exam. Why do you have my girlfriend added on your game anyway?” The blond man bristles. Gojo grins.

“Oh this is too good. Itadori, send me her tag!”

And just like that you’re on the game. You’re playing, and as a character that looks like a business man in a suit with a briefcase as a weapon. Your digital character is jumping up and down. Kento, for the first time, watches from the corner of his eye.

“Oh, she has aim bot. A hundred percent.” Gojo says under his breath. The game has gotten a bit more intense now, and even though Nanami has no clue what’s going on, by the looks of it you are playing pretty well. Gojo has leaned forward now, arms on his knees as he concentrates.

“Yes! Yes, get his ass! Nanamin, your girlfriend is a sweat!” Yuji exclaims.

Whatever.. that meant.

Honestly, he didn’t know how to feel. He tried to keep his love life private. Tried very hard. It just happened to be the one time he forgot he had Gojo on his messaging app, he changed his DP to a photo of you both…

And within the next week they had managed to find your profile on social media as well as the cafe you worked at.

“Yeah, how does failure taste?” Yuji cackles when Gojo is muttering under his breath, fingers moving quickly against the controls, slender hands gripping the controller a bit too harshly. Nanami can’t help but revel a bit in this.

Yuji groans and leans back. “Yeah, I’m done. She’s still going. What the hell?”

“Cheat. She’s cheating. Check the wifi, Yuji.” Gojo mutters, probably furrowing his brows behind the blindfold. Nanami is watching the screen as your supposed username glows on the screen with a trophy beside it. Gojo inhales sharply and covers it up with a huff of a laugh, putting the controller aside. A bit too harshly.

“So weird isn’t it? The controllers are so dodgy today. We should get them fixed — Todo, don’t click on that app—“

Yuji and Toge debate on how you managed to win single-handedly with a shit weapon. Nanami flickers his gaze to the username and to their faces. Huh.

He then smiles a bit when you then reply to his messages, phone vibrating on cue.