que que sera sera

“That bad?” he asks quietly.

You nod against his chest, breath shaky. “It genuinely feels like my body is tearing itself apart.”

His hand presses a little more firmly against your abdomen, thumb brushing slow, deliberate strokes over your hip.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “Slow. With me.”

He inhales deeply, exaggerating it just enough for you to follow. His chest rises beneath your forehead. You match him without thinking.

“There you go,” he says, softer now.

You sniffle, pressing your forehead against his chest. “What time will your class be done?”

“At four, baby.” His thumb rubs slow circles against your hip. “I promise I’ll go straight home the second it’s done, and then I’ll take care of you properly, yeah?”

His fingers slide up to tilt your chin gently so you have to look at him.

“And until then, you sit still. Don’t forget to use the heating pad. Text me if it gets worse. I don’t care if I’m in the middle of something.”

Your lashes flutter. “Okay.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead before he leaves.

What Sukuna doesn’t expect when he gets home is complete silence. No TV. No footsteps. No sleepy voice calling his name. No you. So he walks toward the bedroom—and pauses at what he sees.

You’re kneeling beside the bed. There’s a damp towel clutched tightly in your hand. The bedsheet is stripped halfway off the mattress. Your shoulders are shaking. You only notice him when his bag hits the floor. You flinch and look up.

“Kuna, please don’t be mad,” you blurt out before he can even say anything.

His brows knit together.

“Mad?” His voice is low.

“I—I bled through your bedsheet…” Your fingers tighten around the towel. “I’m sorry, Kuna…”

You look devastated—mortified, even—as if you’ve just committed some unforgivable crime. For half a second, Sukuna just stands there, taking in the scene. He notices the stain on the mattress, already starting to fade from your attempts to clean it. But he can’t really focus on anything except the fact that you look so small, and he doesn’t have the heart to leave you like that any longer.

You keep rambling, words tumbling over each other.

“I’ve been trying to get rid of the stain, but it’s still there—it’s faint now, but it’s still there. It just won’t disappear completely. I don’t know what to do. I didn’t mean to, I thought I put enough layers down, I—”

Sukuna walks forward carefully. In two strides, he’s in front of you. He gently takes the towel from your trembling hand and sets it aside. Then he crouches down so he’s eye level with you.

“Look at me.”

You hesitate.

His hand comes up, firm but gentle under your chin.

“I said look at me.”

Your eyes meet his.

“Baby, you seriously think I care about a damn sheet?” he asks quietly.

You blink at him, tears clinging to your lashes.

“But I ruined it?” you whisper.

He exhales softly—almost a huff, but there’s no annoyance in it.

“You didn’t ruin anything.” His hands come up to cradle your face, his warm palms steadying you. “It’s fabric. It can be washed. It can be replaced.”

His thumbs brush under your eyes, wiping the tears away.

“You,” he says firmly, “are not something that can be replaced.”

Your lip trembles.

“I just didn’t want you to be mad…”

His expression shifts—softens in a way he rarely lets anyone see.

“Mad?” he repeats. “At you? For bleeding?”

He presses his forehead lightly against yours. “Baby. You’re in pain and you’re apologizing to me over laundry?”

Your breath stutters.

Without another word, he scoops you up effortlessly and sits down on the edge of the bed, settling you in his lap like you weigh nothing. Your face buries into his chest automatically. He holds you tight. One hand rubs slow circles into your back. The other threads through your hair.

“Listen to me,” he says gently. “You don’t ever apologize for this. It’s natural. It happens. And if it happens on my bed, then it happens on my bed.”

A small, shaky laugh leaves you. He presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“I’ll buy new sheets,” he continues. “Better ones. Softer ones. Darker ones if it makes you feel better. Whatever stops you from looking at me like I’m about to scold you.”

You sniff. “You’re really not mad?”

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“I care about you, doll,” he says plainly. “Not the damn mattress.”

Suddenly, all the worry you’d been feeling is gone, and you feel safe in his embrace.

“You think I’d ever make you feel ashamed for something your body does?”

Your eyes well up again, but this time it’s not from embarrassment. Being on your period makes you feel a thousand times more sensitive and sentimental, and seeing how caring and patient your boyfriend is makes your heart swell with nothing but pure joy and love. Sukuna kisses your forehead. Then your temple. Then the corner of your eye.

“Now,” he says gently, standing up with you still in his arms, “you’re going to sit down. I’ll handle this.”

Sukuna carries you to the living room and sets you carefully on the couch. He tucks a blanket around your legs, presses the heating pad back into your hands, and adjusts it himself so it sits perfectly against your stomach.

“Don’t move, okay?” he orders quietly.

You watch him from the couch as he goes back to the bedroom. From the wide-open bedroom door, you watch as he strips the rest of the sheets—completely unbothered. He sprays stain remover, tosses everything into the hamper, and replaces the bedding with clean sheets.

When he’s done, he comes back to you immediately.

“Come here.”

You lift your arms without hesitation. He gathers you into his chest again and settles onto the couch this time. Your back against him, his legs caging you in protectively. His hand slides over your lower stomach once more, warm and steady.

“Next time,” he murmurs into your hair, “you call me.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Even if you’re in class?”

“I don’t care where I am.”

His grip tightens just a fraction.

“If you’re hurting, I’m coming.”

You smile faintly. “You’d leave?”

“For you?” His nose brushes your temple. “Without thinking.”

You giggle softly and press a small kiss to his lips. “But I don’t want you skipping class just for me. You need to focus and learn.”

He huffs softly against your hair.

“We’ll argue about that later.”

His thumb keeps tracing slow circles over your stomach. You sink back into him instinctively, and he tightens his arms just enough to keep you there.

“Wanna watch something and drink hot chocolate?” he says after a moment, brushing his nose lightly against your temple.

“Yes, please.”

“It’ll be 4.”

“Then leave at 4.”

Nanami looked up.

The man smiled with only the corners of his mouth. Mid-fifties. Expensive watch. Yellowed eyes. He kept one hand in his trouser pocket when he wanted to sound relaxed and the other flat on people’s desks when he wanted them to feel owned.

“You’re a smart man, Nanami. Don’t make me explain hierarchy to you again.”

“You want the Osaka meeting, the Yamada revision, and the Singapore memo before dawn.”

“I want the work done by the man who told me he was built for pressure.”

The hand lifted off the desk. The smile stayed.

“You got married, didn’t you? Mortgage now. Stability. Men get soft when they think they’ve built something outside the office.”

Nanami said nothing.

His boss bent a little closer. “The firm isn’t your mother. Nobody pays you to be tired. Finish the work.”

He moved on.

The floor swallowed him.

For a while there was only the terminal glow and the small dry click of Nanami’s mouse. Then, behind his eyes, somebody laughed.

Not in his ear. Not in the room. Under the bone.

“Kill him.”

Nanami’s hand stayed on the mouse.

“The old one first,” Sukuna growled. Then the white-haired bastard.

Nanami dragged a cell formula across 6 columns.

You let lesser men spit in your face all day. I could tear his jaw off with your right hand before the cleaners reached the lift.

Nanami saved the file, stood, and walked to the washroom at the end of the corridor.

The mirror over the sinks caught him in pieces. Blond hair flattened from too many hours under office air. Skin gone pale under fluorescent white. He opened his collar with one finger and pressed his palm into the place beneath his ribs.

The mark there had changed again.

It had started as a bruise the size of a coin, a dark pressure point under the skin where the finger had gone in and stayed. Now black veins ran outward from it in a branching fan, thin as ink cracks beneath glass.

He felt his throat closing up suddenly.

Leaned over the sink and spat blood.

It hit porcelain in a narrow red thread.

“That’s new,” Sukuna said.

Nanami rinsed the sink clean, stood straight, and buttoned his collar.

The phone in his pocket vibrated.

He looked at the name and answered on the second ring.

“You’re late,” Gojo jeered. Nanami could hear his feet impatiently tapping.

“I can’t get out of work.”

“It’s still Thursday.”

Nanami looked at the stall doors, the grey tile, and his own face in the mirror. “I have multiple deadlines.”

“Leave.”

“No.”

A breath. Cloth moving over a receiver. Traffic somewhere on the other end.

Then Gojo’s voice went flat.

“If you miss tonight, I call the school. They drag you in alive if you’re lucky. If you’re unlucky, the higher-ups make an example out of you before your wife gets through breakfast.”

Nanami closed his eyes.

“Or I’ll spare them the paperwork and kill you myself.”

“You use her every time.”

“It works every time.”

Nanami hung up.

He went back to his desk, sent three emails, exported the Osaka deck, and booked a car for midnight. At 11:40 PM he put his jacket on, took the private elevator down, and stepped into Tokyo with the taste of blood still in his mouth.

The apartment smelled like rice and soap.

His wife had left the kitchen light on. The rest of the place was dark. Two bowls sat covered on the counter. A note beside them, written fast.

Heat it. Don’t pretend you already ate.

Nanami stood with one hand on the back of a chair.

The room was small. Rental. Good station. Thin walls. A low shelf of books under the window. Her cardigan over the sofa arm. A ceramic dish by the entrance full of coins and train cards and the keychain she kept breaking and replacing.

Sukuna went quiet as soon as Nanami had crossed the threshold.

He always did in her vicinity for reasons Nanami didn’t know nor cared to find out.

Not because of any barrier she had. No cursed energy. No technique. No training. She just moved through the apartment like it belonged to the living.

She came out of the bedroom barefoot, hair loose, sleep at the corners of her eyes. She stopped when she saw the clock on the microwave.

“You came back before 2 AM.”

“I said I would.”

“You said that Tuesday too.”

He took his coat off. “I’m here now.”

She looked at him for a long second and came closer. Her fingers went to his collar. Familiar warmth underneath. She touched it, then frowned.

“You’re hot.”

“It’s the office.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

He touched her wrist once, just above the pulse.

“I have to go back out.”

The look she gave him had no drama in it. That made it worse.

“At 1 in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“For office?”

“No.”

That made her hands still.

He took a sealed envelope out of his briefcase and set it on the table between them.

“If anything happens to me at work, call the lawyer whose card is inside.”

She stared at the envelope, then at him. Her sleepy eyes now panicked.

“Kento, what are you talking about?”

“Keep it.”

“What happened?"

“Nothing.”

The apartment was quiet enough that he could hear the fridge motor kick on.

She did not raise her voice. She did not ask the same question twice. She pulled the envelope toward her and set it beside the rice bowls.

“You’re frightening me, baby.”

Nanami took his watch off and laid it down carefully beside the note she had written him.

“I know.”

She stepped into him then, sudden and hard, arms around his waist before he could decide whether to permit it. His body locked on the first beat. Then it gave.

He put one hand behind her neck.

Sukuna stayed quiet in his head.

Her cheek was warm through his shirt. She spoke into the fabric.

“If this is some noble husband routine, I don’t want it.”

“It isn’t.”

“Then stop leaving me with paper.”

Nanami’s hand tightened once at the back of her neck.

“I’ll try.”

---

That was all he had.

After Suguru, Gojo kept the apartment in Azabu because nobody on the records could connect it to him.

The building had concierge staff, imported stone in the lobby, art nobody looked at. The unit on the nineteenth floor had almost no furniture. A sofa. A low table. Floor-to-ceiling glass. City lights laid out below like circuitry.

Nanami entered without knocking. Gojo was standing by the window with his blindfold off and a drink in his hand.

“You’re bleeding.” Gojo set the glass down.

The room changed when he crossed it. Not because he moved fast, but because everything in him was built like an oncoming thing. Height, reach, confidence, and that ugly natural ease gifted to men who had never been physically denied anything in their lives.

“Sit.”

Nanami stayed standing.

Gojo smiled. “That stubborn act stopped impressing me weeks ago.”

“You threaten civilians to get me here.”

“I threaten one civilian. Don’t dress it up.”

Nanami took his hoodie off and folded it over the arm of the sofa. Gojo watched him do it.

“Shirt.”

Nanami undid the buttons.

The skin over his ribs was turning bad. The black lines had spread low across his abdomen and up toward his chest. There were days they looked like bruises and days they looked like something rooting through him from the inside.

Gojo’s mouth lost its shape for half a second.

Then it was gone.

“You should have told me.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Take the rest off.”

“No.”

Gojo stepped in close enough that Nanami could smell the alcohol on him. Sweet. Clean. Disgusting.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Nanami held his gaze. Gojo held it back.

Neither moved.

Then Gojo lifted a hand and pressed hard into the mark beneath Nanami’s ribs.

Pain cracked through him, white hot and immediate. Nanami’s shoulders jerked. His hand hit the chair edge.

Inside him, Sukuna laughed.

“There he is.”

Gojo kept his fingers there, cursed energy bright and surgical, cutting into the place where the foreign thing sat lodged inside the body that refused to split open for it.

Nanami’s breath went rough.

“Still think you can manage this alone,” Gojo muttered.

“Been managing.”

“You’re worse.”

Nanami slapped Gojo’s hand away. “I said I’m managing it!”

Gojo grabbed him by the throat and leaned closer. His voice dropped. “You don’t get to die because you’re tired of being handled.”

Nanami’s face went still.

From outside, traffic moved like a bloodless river under the windows.

Gojo’s hand left his throat. But he did not step away.

“You come here once a week. You answer when I call. You go to work, you come home, and you do not let that thing get one inch more than it already has.”

“It won’t.”

“That isn’t confidence. That’s arrogance.”

Gojo took the blindfold from the table and tied it on Nanami. “When you stop being useful, the school will kill you. Until then, you’re mine to manage.”

He said it like policy.

Gojo unbuttoned his shirt with careful fingers.

“Then manage faster.” Nanami was too tired for Gojo’s blackmail; all he was still working for was so his wife wouldn’t be homeless after he was gone.

After all, his body wasn’t meant to house Ryomen Sukuna.

---

By quarter close the office stopped pretending to be modern and became what it was.

Men asleep in conference rooms with their ties around their necks. Analysts brushing their teeth in the disabled washroom before market open. Senior staff conducting humiliations in glass boxes with the blinds half-drawn. Women walking to the copier with their heels in their hands at 2 in the morning and putting them back on before dawn so the floor looked disciplined.

Nanami worked through all of it.

He rode the first train to Osaka, revised the numbers in the car, pitched the family office, came back standing, and went straight to a compliance call where his boss asked, in front of twelve people, whether marriage had affected his aggression.

He answered the question. He did not answer the insult. He still had his pride.

At 4 that afternoon his boss stopped at his chair and dropped a draft agreement on the desk.

“You’re taking this home.”

“I’m not billing midnight again.”

“Then don’t bill it.”

Nanami looked up.

The man’s voice softened. That was always worse.

“You have a reputation for discipline. Don’t damage it now. You think there’s somewhere better to go at your age. There isn’t. The market is full of men who can stay awake and lie with a straight face. I picked you because you looked honest. Don’t become expensive.”

He tapped the job agreement with one finger.

“There are clauses in there that would be unfortunate if a wife ever had to read them after an inquiry.”

Nanami’s expression did not change.

“You’ve been placing personal assets,” his boss said. “Quietly. Nicely. Shares, beneficiary amendments, a little apartment search in Setagaya. You think nobody sees. I see everything on this floor that costs money.”

The finger lifted.

“If you mean to leave, leave after I’m done with you.”

He walked away.

Under Nanami’s skin, Sukuna stretched.

“Now.”

Nanami stood so quickly the chair rolled back and hit the partition.

A few heads turned.

He took the agreement, the file from his drawer and followed his boss into the emergency stairwell.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Concrete. Painted railings. The hum of building air.

His boss turned, irritated first, then annoyed.

“What!”

Nanami handed him the agreement.

“You threaten my wife again, and I’ll break your spine.”

The man stared at him, then laughed once.

“Look at you.”

He stepped closer.

“This is why men like you need the office. Without structure, you’re just another violent little animal in a suit.”

Nanami’s hand closed around the stair rail.

Sukuna’s voice came up under his heartbeat.

“Take the head off first. He won’t finish the sentence.”

His boss leaned in, breath stale with coffee.

“You’re not special, Nanami. You’re just marketable. When that goes, I’ll have your seat filled before your security pass dies.”

Nanami hit him.

Not with cursed energy or with the thing inside him.

His own hand. His own shoulder behind it.

His boss went into the wall hard enough to leave a dull print in the paint. Skull cracked. Blood came out of his nose at once.

The man made a sound, small and shocked. He had forgotten bodies worked like that.

Nanami grabbed him by the front of the shirt and held him there.

The black lines under his own skin burned.

“Do it.”

His boss’s feet slipped on the concrete. He looked, finally, afraid.

Nanami bent close enough for the man to smell the venom in his throat.

“You will transfer the Yamada account. You will sign the compensation adjustment. You will stop speaking my wife’s existence out loud. If you use her again, I’ll come back and finish this in the stairwell where nobody important can hear you.”

He let go.

The man hit the wall, then the landing rail, breathing through his mouth.

Nanami opened the door and stepped back into the office.

No one asked why there was blood on his cuff.

---

That night he brought home the signed transfer forms.

His wife sat at the table in one of his old shirts and her own sweatpants, reading through the apartment papers with her mouth slightly open.

“You already put the deposit down.”

“Yes.”

“When.”

“Last week.”

She looked up at him over the top page.

“You bought us an apartment without telling me.”

“I secured one.”

“That isn’t better.”

He took a seat across from her. The table between them was crowded with documents now. Mortgage preapproval. Beneficiary forms. Insurance amendments. A neat stack of things that would keep her indoors and fed and legally protected if his body stopped obeying him.

Her fingers rested on the papers.

“You look terrible.”

“I know.”

“You smell like smoke.”

“Stairwell.”

That drew the smallest flicker at the corner of her mouth. Then it was gone.

She set the papers down. “Are you leaving me?"

“No.”

“Are you dying?"

Nanami looked at her.

Sukuna, quiet until then, opened his eyes somewhere deep and watched.

Nanami reached across the table and turned the apartment plan toward her, tapping the bedroom window.

“Morning light,” he smiled, small and domestic. “The station’s six minutes. The walls are thicker. Safe neighborhood."

Her face changed very little. He had loved that from the start. He had loved that she never performed understanding when she did not have it.

“You didn’t answer.”

“No.”

It was not the truth. It was what she could survive tonight.

She stood, came around the table, and sat on his lap facing him, knees on either side of his legs, taking his face in both hands as if he had come back from war and thought he could pass for uninjured under bad apartment lighting.

“You’re burning.”

“I’m tired.”

“You say that every day like it explains anything.”

He looked at her mouth, then up at her eyes.

“It explains enough.”

She kissed him once, slow then angry.

---

The call came at 2:13 AM.

Gojo answered before the second ring ended.

Nanami’s voice was quiet.

“Come get it.”

Gojo was already standing.

“Where?”

“Office.”

“What happened?"

A pause. Breathing. Something wet.

“I finished the transfer.”

Gojo was dressed and out the door before the line cut.

---

The trading floor was dark when he arrived. Security let him up because money trained people not to ask the right questions. Nanami was in a conference room at the end of the corridor, seated upright at the table with both hands folded over a stack of signed documents like he was waiting to begin a meeting.

There was blood in the seam of his mouth.

Gojo shut the door behind him.

Nanami looked at him once.

“You took your time.”

Gojo crossed the room in three strides and got a hand to Nanami’s throat, then chest, then the mark beneath the ribs.

The cursed energy there was wrong.

Not unstable.

Ending.

Gojo’s voice dropped into something stripped bare.

“How long?"

Nanami’s head tipped back against the chair.

“Long enough.”

“And you said nothing.”

Nanami’s mouth twitched. Not a smile.

“You weren’t interested in answers. You were interested in blackmail because you are too much of a coward to go after the man you actually want in your bed.”

Gojo didn’t rise to the bait; instead, his hand stayed pressed flat to Nanami’s ribs, energy pouring in, cutting, sealing, forcing. It slid off blood and failing tissue and something older and filthier buried in the core.

Sukuna opened one eye through the slits under Nanami’s, then a mouth appeared, stretched with a vile grin.

“Too late.”

Gojo hit the table so hard the wood cracked under his palm.

“Shut the fuck up!”

The eye closed. But the mouth bled.

Nanami’s breathing had gone thin. He turned his head with effort toward the documents. “Top file. Insurance. Shares.”

Gojo did not look away from him. “Don’t you fucking dare, Kento!”

“Keep her out of it.”

“I said don’t.”

“She gets the news tomorrow.”

Gojo bent close, furious now in the way only powerless men ever were. “You don’t get to hand me chores and leave.”

Nanami’s gaze settled on him. Clear. Exhausted.

Almost kind, which made it crueler.

“You were always going to lose this one.”

Gojo’s jaw locked.

The glass walls of the conference room broke with Gojo’s frantic scream.

Nanami spoke once more, barely above breath. “Don’t let them take my body.”

Nanami hadn’t said it to Gojo, but Gojo took it anyway.

Then it was over fast.

A small hitch in the chest. A final spill of blood at the mouth. The hands loosening over the file. The face settling into its ordinary severity as if the body had decided to stop pretending there was any work left worth finishing.

Gojo stood with one hand on the dead man’s ribs.

The room was very still.

Morning pushed a weak grey line into the edge of the glass.

Gojo looked at the stack of papers, the careful signatures, the apartment file squared exactly to the table edge, the beneficiary forms clipped in order, and the lawyer’s card tucked on top where a civilian hand would find it first.

Gojo dialed, the call was picked up immediately.

There was a small silence on the line, then her voice.

“Who’s this?"

Gojo looked at Nanami’s body and at the blood drying in the cracked grain of the conference table.

He took a breath and asked her where she was and if he could hand over something of her husband’s.

Nothing else.

Because there was nothing else he could say that would make sense.

She gave him an address in Setagaya.

Gojo reached the apartment a little after six. The corridor still smelled faintly of damp concrete and somebody’s breakfast rice. He stood outside her door with Nanami’s envelope in one hand and the lawyer’s card tucked beneath his thumb.

When she opened, she looked smaller than the room had made her sound over the phone.

Slip dress. Hair pulled back badly and already coming loose. No makeup, no slippers, no performance. She had Nanami’s caution in the way she kept one hand on the door and most of her body behind it.

“You’re his recent associate.”

Not a question. She had already decided that was what he was.

Gojo gave her the envelope first. “Recent enough.”

She looked at the handwriting on the front, and everything in her face changed at once. He saw the recognition land. Nanami’s hand. Nanami’s neat pressure. Nanami’s habit of leaving order behind him wherever he thought he might not return.

Her fingers tightened around the paper.

“What happened?"

Gojo did not answer at the door. “You should sit down.”

She let him in because Nanami’s writing was in her hand and because terror made civilians do practical things first.

The apartment was exactly the kind of place Nanami would have kept without admitting he cared about it. Clean sink. Shoes paired neatly. A cardigan over the back of one chair. Two bowls on the counter washed and turned upside down to dry. The domestic life of a man who never gave anybody enough of himself at work and had still found somewhere to put the rest.

Gojo stood in the center of it and hated him all over again.

She sat at the table, the envelope already torn open. The insurance packet slid out. The beneficiary forms. The apartment papers. The list of account numbers and passwords Nanami had written in that disciplined hand, each item aligned to the right margin as if grief could be handled by formatting.

Her breathing went uneven.

“What is this?"

Gojo set the lawyer’s card beside the papers. “If the company starts stalling, call Higuruma Hiromi. Don’t waste time arguing with their first adjuster. Make them move immediately.”

She looked up sharply. “What happened to my husband?"

Gojo took off his sunglasses.

That always unsettled people more than the blindfold. There was something indecent in letting them see his eyes when they had already braced themselves for distance.

“He died at work.”

The words were clean. Yet, she had no place to put them.

He watched her try.

Her hand left the papers and went to her mouth. Then her throat. Then nowhere at all. Her chair scraped once against the floor when she stood too fast and nearly knocked it over, and she caught herself on the edge of the table with the same hand that still held Nanami’s envelope.

“No.”

Gojo said nothing.

“No.”

The second one tore on the way out.

She bent over the table as if she had been hit there, one hand splayed over Nanami’s careful stack of documents, the other covering her face too late. Her shoulders started to shake. The sound that came out of her after that was low and animal and humiliating. The kind people only made in rooms they thought were private.

Gojo had heard women cry before. He had heard men do it too. He had heard dying people do worse.

This one pleased nothing in him.

He watched anyway.

She lowered herself back into the chair because her knees had gone weak. Tears were running down through her fingers. Her voice came broken through her hand.

“Did he say anything?"

Gojo thought of the conference room. The blood on the table. The final stubborn line of Nanami’s mouth even after death had finished with it.

Don’t let them take my body.

“He left this,” Gojo lied because he did not feel for this wretched woman, nor would he ever give her the body back. He’d known Nanami first. He’d been left behind. He would have dragged Nanami back if this wrench hadn't been holding him back. Because Nanami was all Gojo had left, he wouldn’t have fallen even if Gojo would have.

“That isn’t what I asked.”

He looked at her properly then.

The grief had made her open in all the places Nanami had kept protected. Red around the eyes. Mouth shaking. One side of her hair stuck damply to her cheek. Even like this, she still had the insolent thing Nanami had died wrapped around: an ordinary life, ordinary hands, an ordinary table, all the quiet choices he had never given Gojo.

Nanami had been dying and had still spent his last strength on mortgage papers, insurance clauses, and a civilian’s future.

Not on Gojo.

Not once.

Her breathing went ragged. “How did he die?"

“At work.”

“You already said that.”

“He collapsed.”

That was truer. Still not true enough.

She stared at him through tears, and for the first time there was fear in it that had nothing to do with death.

“You don’t sound sorry.”

Gojo’s mouth moved faintly.

“He spent his last week arranging your accounts, your apartment, your legal contacts, and your insurance coverage down to the decimal place.” He tapped the top file once. “Feeling sorry wasn’t really his style.”

She wiped at her face angrily with the heel of her hand. “Leave.”

He did not move.

“I said leave.”

Gojo looked around the apartment again. The dish of keys by the door. The tea tin on the counter. The note under a magnet on the fridge in Nanami’s hand reminding her to call the building manager about the bathroom vent. Evidence everywhere of a man who had split his life in two and given the living part to somebody else.

“You were the only thing he protected properly.”

Her hand dropped from her face. “What..”

“He let his boss use him. Let the company grind him down. Let the city have him in pieces.” Gojo’s voice stayed level. “He gave his body to work, his time to paperwork, and whatever was left after that landed here.”

She pushed her chair back and stood. “Get out of my house.”

Gojo lifted one hand.

The city sound outside the apartment went out all at once.

Traffic, hallway noise, the faint rumble from the train line three blocks over. Gone. Not muffled. Erased.

She froze.

Gojo stood very still in the center of her kitchen and let the curtain settle into the walls, the ceiling, the floorboards, sealing the room until nothing inside it could reach the neighbors and nothing outside it could matter.

Her eyes moved once to the windows, then back to him.

“What are you?"

“Nothing you would understand.”

He stepped toward her, and she stepped back so fast her calf hit the chair.

“Stay away from me.”

He ignored it. The apartment had become too small for polite distance. Too full of Nanami. Too full of the life Nanami had chosen instead of him.

“He left me with your paperwork. Even dead, he made me useful to you.”

Something in her face sharpened despite the tears. Her voice thinned.

“What were you to him?"

Gojo stopped just in front of her.

The answer was nowhere he could say it.

Not colleague. Not friend. Not lover, not even when he had been taking that body by force of circumstance and threat and meanness and called it management because the real word would have made him sound smaller than he already was.

Nanami had never once confused obedience with love.

Gojo reached up and caught a strand of tear-wet hair where it clung to her cheek, smoothing it back with the same hand he had used on Nanami’s cooling body. She flinched so hard her shoulder hit the cabinet behind her.

“Nothing he kept.”

Her breath caught.

Then she understood enough.

“You sick—”

His hand closed around her throat before she finished it.

Pinned her against the cabinet and felt how quickly a mortal pulse leapt under frightened skin.

He leaned close enough that she could see the hatred properly.

“He died choosing you,” he spoke softly. Apartment, insurance, lawyer. Every last tedious line pointed to you. He would not even leave you badly.”

She clawed at his wrist, her face turning blue.

Gojo’s expression did not change. “So I thought I’d take the only thing he died for.”

The hallway light by the door flickered.

Gojo did not look away from her immediately. He felt it first: a wrongness in the air, old and filthy and sudden.

Then the dish by the entrance rattled.

Coins jumped. Keys struck ceramic.

Gojo turned.

The apartment door was still locked.

Something stood in the narrow strip of hall beyond the kitchen, just past the edge of the living room light. Bare feet on the wood. Suit trousers. Belt. Torn white dress shirt hanging open in strips from a broad chest gone white with death and marked over now in thick black bands and jagged lines that cut across collarbone, throat, jaw, cheek.

His face, but not at peace anymore. Not closed. Not human in the way she knew it.

The mouth curved first.

Her husband’s body had someone else inside it.

Gojo let her go.

She dropped against the cabinets, coughing, one hand flying to her throat, the other reaching blindly for the counter behind her.

For one suspended second nobody in the room moved.

“So that’s what he meant.”

Ryomen Sukuna stepped into the kitchen.

Tore off Nanami’s ruined shirt with one arm. The black markings climbed over the muscle of the chest, down the abdomen, and into the waistband. His blonde hair had come half loose from whatever death and revival had done to it. Blood was still dried darkly at one corner of his mouth.

He looked at Gojo once. Then at the hand Gojo had just had around her throat.

The smile changed.

Gojo’s posture altered in an instant. Technique rising. Shoulders set. Infinity about to climb back over skin and air and space.

Too slow.

The first slash took his wrist off at the joint before the barrier between bodies fully came up. It hit the floor still open, fingers curled from the interrupted reach.

The second opened him from the side of the throat down across the chest.

No sound left the apartment. The curtain held.

Gojo staggered back into the table, blood hitting the insurance packet, Nanami’s final signatures, Higuruma’s card. His eyes widened with something uglier than pain.

He looked from Sukuna to her and understood, at the very end, that Nanami had slipped him one last humiliation: even this body was no longer his to keep.

Gojo tried to raise his infinity.

Sukuna was already there.

He drove him down hard against the table edge. Wood split. Papers jumped. The third slash was small and exact and deep enough that Gojo’s body stopped trying to continue.

The strongest sorcerer in the room died with Nanami’s paperwork under his blood.

Sukuna straightened.

The apartment smelled metallic now. Hot. Fresh. The morning light at the window had gone brighter without warming anything.

She had slid down the cabinet to the floor. One hand still at her throat. The other braced flat on the boards beside her. She was staring at Nanami’s body wearing those marks, at the chest she knew, the mouth she knew, the crimson eyes she did not.

Sukuna turned to her.

He did not step closer.

For a moment he only looked.

Not with pity or even interest that could be called human. He looked at her the way a predator looked at a boundary stone it had already agreed not to cross.

The binding vow sat bright and hard behind his teeth.

He left her breathing.

Left her untouched.

He bent once, picked Higuruma’s card up from the blood-splashed papers, and set it back on the cleanest corner of the table.

Then he dragged Gojo’s body out.

The corridor outside still held the shape of morning. Somebody farther down was unlocking their bicycle. A child laughed in another apartment. The city had not noticed anything.

He tipped Gojo’s body toward the back-alley side of the building. It dropped with a wet crack, the sound rang grotesque in the narrow space. It sang to Sukuna, brief and amusing.

He had aimed it well. The body landed on the raised railings, skewered cleanly so nothing pointed back toward her.

The bars protruding from the rat’s throat brought him a flicker of a fleeting feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Satisfied, he turned.

Behind him, the curtain broke and sound rushed back into the world.

Sukuna took the stairs instead of the lift. Bare feet silent on concrete.

Inside the body, beneath the marks and the revived ruin of muscle and bone, Nanami said nothing.

He had made the bargain in the instant Gojo’s hand closed around her throat.

Everything after had been simple.

The body for her life.

The silence for her safety.

Sukuna rolled Nanami’s shoulder once as he descended, testing the joint, then clicked his tongue.

“For a man who lived in ties and meeting rooms,” he said into the quiet between them, “you were not such miserable lodging.”

Nanami did not answer.

Sukuna’s mouth pulled wider.

“At least you know how to shut up.”

He stepped out into the street bare-chested in Nanami’s body, morning traffic starting to move around him, and did not look back.

A/N: Do you think Gojo deserved it? Or should Sukuna have carried you off into the sunset? I fear Sukuna doesn't hate wife.

All dividers are from @saradika-graphics, and the header's from Pinterest here.

Her silhouette sat curled near the balcony door, back to the room, cheek pressed against her knees, hands dug into the sleeves of her oversized shirt. The city’s failing neon lights flickered across her hair in slow, uneven rhythms. She looked like someone waiting for a disaster she’d already lived through twenty times over.

Nanami loosened his tie. He’d learned long ago to be quieter, because anything louder made her flinch.

He slipped off his glasses and stepped closer, each movement measured and predictable, a choreography he had perfected not because he was a romantic but because he genuinely saw her with the kind of patience born out of loving someone who didn’t know how to be safe around anyone. Even him on rare occasions.

Today, she didn’t look up when he entered the room.

Her breathing was shallow and far too controlled, the way people breathed when they were holding back the edges of panic. Or when they were trying to look “normal” for someone else’s peace of mind. Her shoulders were stiff and rigid, masking, he realized, not for him specifically, but out of habit, as if she didn't know there was another option.

He sat on the floor beside her, not touching.

Because touch, he’d learned, could feel like a hurricane to a nervous system already fighting the world.

So he waited.

It took her a full minute before she whispered, “I think something’s wrong with me.”

Nanami closed his eyes for a moment, just a moment, because the sound of her voice like that, raw and cracking, sliced him in a way curses never could.

When he opened them again, his face was steady. “What happened?”

She shrugged, small and tired. “Everything. My entire life. Every relationship. Every job. Every… meltdown. I thought it was my upbringing or my trauma. Maybe it’s still trauma. But maybe it’s,”

She stopped. Words tangled. The way they did when emotions became heavier than language.

Nanami didn’t finish her sentence for her. She hated that, people assuming her thoughts. People summarizing her feelings like she hadn’t spent years struggling to articulate them in the first place.

She took a breath so sharp it sounded like pain. “I think I might be neurodivergent. Like… autistic.” She laughed once, brittle. “At this age. Suddenly the universe pulls a plot twist, and I’m the joke.”

He watched the tremor moving through her shoulders. “You’re not a joke.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Nanami said simply. But there was conviction in his tone, as if the idea was as absurd to him as pigs flying.

She looked away, embarrassed. He could see it, that instinctive recoil, the reflex to shrink, the regret of speaking at all, the fear that she’d overshared, said something stupid, or opened a vulnerability she couldn’t close, and the bracing for judgment that never came. Years of being punished for emotions had carved those reflexes deep into her. Even crying in front of others was treated like an offense. So she learned to save it for the nights when she could bury her face in a pillow and choke down the sound before the misery swallowed her whole.

Nanami knew. Of course he knew. The first time he tried to comfort her, she reacted like she’d been struck, stunned and defensive, then vanished from his orbit for three weeks. He realized then that she might never feel safe enough to hand him all the sharp, broken pieces of herself; too many people had taught her that trust was a trap.

So he didn’t push. He just stayed close enough for her to reach if she ever decided to.

She pulled inward, shoulders tight. “Only predators ever noticed something was off. No one else.”

Nanami’s jaw tightened. He didn’t need details. He carried enough fury in his ribs to destroy the world twice over if it meant she never had to say anything aloud that she didn’t want to.

Instead, he asked, vulnerable only with her, voice lowered like he was setting down a weapon, “When did it start feeling like this?”

She paused, then exhaled like the answer had been waiting behind her teeth for years. “Always? I think? I never liked when people stood too close to me. I stopped speaking when someone interrupted me. I walked in empty places for hours, alone. Pattern recognition and being alone were the only things that calmed me. Well, water calmed me the most, but I didn’t grow up near anything big enough to drown my thoughts.”

He listened without blinking, shoulders tightening the longer she went on. Not uncomfortable. Protective.

She continued, voice wandering because it needed to. “My family took me on a trip once, and I saw the ocean for the first time. It scared me and calmed me in a way my brain wasn’t designed for. Ten-year-old me just stood there staring at the waves for hours. And for the first time in my life, everything went quiet.” She gave a small, self-deprecating snort, shaking herself back to the present. “Sorry, I’m getting off topic. My point is… people never felt safe or calming until I met you. You made me realize men could be predictable. And safe. Too safe, sometimes.”

Nanami’s jaw flexed, barely, but it was the kind of movement that came from someone swallowing something sharp. Her words hit him like impact, not flattery.

She sank further into herself. “I thought I was dramatic. Or broken. Or stupid. Like I was faking my emotions even when I was crying. Faking my intelligence. Faking my love for superheroes because the girls where I grew up weren’t like me. They didn’t like games. They didn’t like me, no matter how polite or kind I was.”

He didn’t interrupt. He looked like he wanted to, but he didn’t. His hand curled once against his knee before he forced it still; restraint felt too hard for him. Overrated, in fact. But he held on to it anyway because she needed him to.

“You are none of those things,” he said, quiet but unwavering.

Her breath trembled again. “I don’t get jokes half the time. I say weird stuff. People leave. Or they take advantage. And I never know why.”

Nanami finally shifted, just enough to tilt his body toward her in a way that wasn’t aggressive, just deliberate. The kind of move meant to counter the weight she was carrying without touching it yet. “You survived by studying people instead of trusting them. You learned to mask everything because you had no other choice. Anyone would misinterpret you when you’re only showing the version that keeps you safe.”

Her eyes flickered, hope, doubt, fear crowding each other. “So you think I’m right?”

He hesitated for the first time, not because he disagreed, but because he hated that she had to ask.

“I think,” he said slowly, “you’ve been fighting battles alone that you never should’ve been left to face. And now you’re finally finding language for the way your mind works.”

He exhaled, a quiet, controlled thing that still betrayed him. “That isn’t being dramatic. That’s clarity. And you deserved it years ago.”

She swallowed, throat tight, and whispered, “Why didn’t anyone else notice?”

Nanami breathed out slowly.

He wanted to tell her the truth:

People rarely notice what isn’t convenient for them.

They only notice things that benefit them: the girls who comply, the girls who over-give, the girls who hurt quietly, the girls who never protest until it’s too late. People who are hyper-literal, hyper-empathic, and exhausted from performing “normal” are the easiest to ignore.

But Nanami Kento wasn’t a man cruel enough to give her the world’s cruelty. 

Instead, he gave her what she needed:

“Because no one ever looked closely enough,” he said. “Except the ones who wanted to use you.”

He watched her face crumple, not fully or even dramatically, but in the small, sharp way people break when they hear a truth they already suspected.

Then he added something else, not just because he loved her and that made him biased but because she didn’t deserve the things that weren’t her fault.

“You’re not difficult. People just weren’t gentle.”

Her breath caught.

He let the silence stretch; she was finally letting him witness her edges when tears came faster than she could wipe them.

“You always notice,” she murmured finally, voice small. “Why?”

Nanami glanced at her hands, clenched, nails digging in, then back to her face, where she was avoiding his eyes out of habit. Not fear. Just… overwhelmed.

“Because I pay attention,” he said. “To you. To the way your eyes get glossy when you’re overstimulated. To how you study social cues before responding. To how you regret past conversations in your head without realizing it. To how you tuck yourself into silent smiles when you’re afraid you’ll say something strange.”

Her breath trembled. “That’s embarrassing.”

“It’s human,” he corrected. “And it’s you.”

She hugged her knees tighter. “I hate being me sometimes.”

Nanami leaned back against the wall, gazing at her with the kind of tenderness that didn’t soften him but deepened him, like gravity, quiet and relentless.

“You lived through decades of misunderstanding yourself,” he said, softer still. “Of course you’re tired.”

Her lips pressed together. “Do you think I’m too much?”

“No.”

“Too broken?”

“No.”

She looked at him then, eyes wet but focused, trying to read him, trying to understand why he wasn’t pulling away the way people always did when the mask slipped.

“Then what am I?” she whispered.

Nanami didn’t move closer, didn’t touch her, and didn’t make any sudden gesture that could overload her system. He just spoke with the calm certainty she loved him all the more for.

“You’re someone whose brain was built for depth, not speed. For intensity, not superficiality. For survival, not performance.”

Her face wavered. “Sounds like a curse.”

“It’s a strength.” His voice was steady as water flowing over small stones. “But you were never taught how to use it without bleeding yourself dry.”

She let out a breath that sounded like an entire childhood unraveling.

Nanami continued, more quietly this time. “You make sense to me.”

Her throat worked. “Even when I don’t make sense to myself?”

“Especially then.”

She stared, not scared. Never that with him, but startled, as if the idea of being understood without performing was foreign.

“Why do you… stay?”

Nanami almost smiled, not a soft smile, but a tired one, the kind that came when someone finally admitted to a wound they’d been hiding too long.

“I didn’t marry a performance. I married a person.”

Her breath hitched; her tears were flowing freely now. “But what if I get worse? What if I shut down again? What if you get tired of handling me?”

Nanami looked at her the way a lighthouse might look at a ship returning in a storm: slow, deliberate, and immovable.

“You are not something to be “handled,” and I won’t get tired,” he smiled a little more. “I get frustrated at the world, not at you.”

“But I’m messy,” she whispered. “And inconsistent. And intense. And sometimes even a little hypocrite. I get overwhelmed. I panic. I…”

“You’re human,” he interrupted gently. “And you’re learning who you are as an adult. That takes courage most people will never have.”

Her shoulders loosened enough that he could see the armor cracking.

Nanami waited a few beats, then held out his hand, not touching her, just offering.

She stared at it like it was a foreign object.

Touch wasn’t something she handled on command.

But after a long second, she slowly placed her fingers into his palm, light, trembling, and hesitant.

Nanami held her hand with the gentleness of someone who knew that too much kindness could feel like violence to a raw nervous system.

“You’re safe,” he said eventually.

She exhaled long and shakily, as if the safety was something her body didn’t know how to hold yet.

He shifted closer, just an inch, until their shoulders nearly brushed.

“This isn’t a flaw,” he said. “It’s a framework. And once you understand it, you’ll stop blaming yourself for surviving.”

She stared at their hands, fingers already intertwined like muscle memory, voice breaking. “It feels like I wasted so many years.”

Nanami’s tone softened in a way only she ever heard. “You didn’t waste anything. You endured things most people can’t comprehend. That’s not waste; that’s your resilience.”

Her eyes filled again, but this time the tears didn’t fall. They hung there, shimmering.

Nanami leaned his head back against the wall, voice lower now. “You’re not alone in this.”

“Even if it takes years to fix myself?” She whispered, resting her head on his shoulder.

His fingertips brushed her knuckles, barely there, like he was afraid of startling her. “You’re not something to fix.”

She swallowed. “Then?”

He turned toward her, meeting her gaze without a flicker of doubt.

“You're mine. And worth putting in the effort to understand.”

Something in her chest cracked, not beautifully or even neatly like the movies talked about. Just the brittle edge of someone realizing she didn’t have to hold the entire world by herself.

She exhaled, slow and uneven.

Nanami didn’t rush to fill the silence. That wasn’t him.

He just stayed beside her like a quiet pillar planted in the middle of a chaotic city, and his presence alone was enough to pull the air back into her lungs.

And for the first time in longer than she cared to admit, she breathed like someone who wasn’t in the middle of drowning.

Not healed or whole or even something to fix… just understood.

And for Nanami, that was the start of something real.

He let the moment settle, then exhaled through his nose, practicality returning like muscle memory. “You haven’t eaten.”

She made a face, burrowing deeper in his chest. “I forgot.”

“I noticed.” His voice stayed soft, but a faint dry edge slipped in as his arm slid around her back, rubbing slow circles. “Do you want something delivered? Preferably before Gojo realizes I’m off-duty and attempts to involve me in whatever disaster he’s cultivating.”

She huffed into his shoulder. “He’s definitely blowing something up.”

“Or Yuji is,” he sighed. “Gojo is only supervising the explosion.”

She shifted then, slowly, exhausted, and instinctively climbed into his lap, arms looping around his shoulders as she tucked her face against his neck. “Can we get fries? Like… irresponsible amounts.”

Nanami let out one low chuckle, already reaching for his phone with his free hand. “Of course. Enough for you, and enough for me to pretend I didn’t also want fries.”

A laugh slipped out of her, thin and uneven, tangled with the remnants of crying, but undeniably real.

He didn’t mention it. He simply placed the order one-handed, the other moving in quiet, rhythmic circles along her back, more grounding than comforting.

When he finally set his phone down, he rested his head against hers, the contact light but intentional. Close enough for her to reach for him again if she chose.

She did when he asked if she wanted to move to a city near the sea.

A/N: You'd make sense to Nanami.

Hygiene: Don’t repost without permission, lift, or 'AI remix' my works.

Masterlist

Beta: @blackrimmedrose

Mei Mei, bribed with a year’s supply of KFC biscuits, strutted forward holding a bedazzled megaphone. “Humans, sorcerers, half-cursed spirits, and freeloaders, welcome to the reenactment of a legend! This evening, you’ll witness heartbreak, betrayal, and fried chicken. Starring Yuki Tsukumo as the undeniably silliest sorcerer Gojo Satoru and Shoko Ieiri as everyone’s favorite broody malewife, Suguru Geto!” She winked, earning groans from the crowd—except for Panda, who whispered to Yuta, “Prepare for war crimes.”

In the background, a fake window opened behind a counter littered with what might have once been chicken or rubber ducks. Sukuna, sporting a crumpled paper hat reading ‘SukuFry King’ and a greasy KFC apron, stuck his head out to advertise. “KFC—get your crispy, juicy pieces right here, while the drama unfolds!”

Hakari leaned back in his chair, a mischievous grin on his face, and shouted, “Twenty bucks says this joint goes up in flames before the credits roll! Who’s in?”

Panda nodded.

In the center sat Toji Fushiguro, chained to his chair. His usual mysterious aura seemed muted by the sheer absurdity of the situation.

“I don’t even like chicken that much,” he muttered, his voice flat. A sign taped to his chest read ‘DO NOT FEED THE MURDERER’, as if that was the real threat here. Most people didn’t recognize him, so they eyed him with suspicion.

Across the room, Sukuna held out a pink Barbie phone to his ear, pretending to call Toji while looking in another direction. “Shut it, Fushiguro Daddy. No one invited you to the feast; you’re just here for the vibes.” He spoke only loud enough for Toji to hear and scowl.

Suddenly, the Barbie phone blared “tunk tunk tun ta ra ra!” at full volume in his ear, echoing through the room. Sukuna jumped, nearly dropping the phone in the very real fryer, shooting a glare at it.

Just then, Yuki, playing Gojo, stormed onto the stage wearing a baby blue crop top that read "Being an atheist got boring, so I shall now be God" and a dollar-store ‘eyelash game savage’ blindfold beneath dark fake glasses. Her fluffy flip-flops slammed against the floor like she was declaring war and fighting on bad fashion’s side. “Everyone loves me,” she announced, arms outstretched like a runway model, pausing for effect. “But no one loves me like KFC chicken does—crispy, juicy, and always there for me!”

She then turned sharply, accidentally addressing the wrong side of the room, i.e., Sukuna, who turned her the right way with one hand over her head. “Suguru,” she intoned, dragging the name out like an eighties villain. “You promised to share in my eternal quest for... fried enlightenment! And if you don’t, I’ll unleash my secret weapon: the extra crispy dance!”

Todo, who had showed up uninvited (again), let out an enthusiastic whistle as Yuki flipped her hair—only for her white hair wig to fly off, revealing the shiniest bald cap anyone had ever seen. He leaped to his feet, clapping. “YES, QUEEN! SLAY!”

Meanwhile, Sukuna pulled out a megaphone he’d stolen from Inumaki. “KFC: Where chicken meets tragedy. Get your two-piece meals at the concession stand!”

Kusakabe raised a hand. “Uh, I thought this was a strategy meeting?”

Todo turned to him. “Kusakabe, my brother! Witness their youth!”

Kusakabe glared. “I will fail you.” Making Todo slump back into his chair.

Yuji leaned over to Megumi, whispering, “Did Todo hit his head again?”

Yuki, now firmly reattached to her wig, struck another pose. “KFC is my soulmate,” she declared, voice dripping with faux heartbreak. “But Suguru—Suguru thinks it’s Mid-FC! The betrayal!”

Sukuna, leaning forward like the Colonel’s most unhinged employee of the month, sneered. “Are you ordering chicken, or am I committing mass murder in five seconds?”

“No one asked you, Sukuna!” Yuki snapped, flinging a napkin at him. Sukuna caught it mid-air, incinerating it with a clawed hand.

From the side, Shoko shuffled forward, cosplaying Suguru Geto with a fake tattoo sleeve, red sparkly buttons on her earlobs, and a tangled, dusty wig being held together with thoughts and prayers in a hoodie titled ‘Cuntest sorcerer of the modern era’. She was carrying a KFC bucket. “Gojo, we need to talk,” she said, forcing her voice deepen into a raspy purr that sounded more I-smoked-all-week than brooding.

Yuki (Gojo) whirled around, her flair so exaggerated she smacked the bucket out of Shoko’s hands. “But why, Suguru?! Is it because I always steal the best pieces of chicken?”

As Shoko (Geto) began her breakup monologue about emotional neglect and chicken, Higuruma (playing Toji) crawled across the stage, like a centipede, toward the fallen chicken bucket. Toru hung around his neck playing wormie. "So... no one’s gonna eat that? Can I—?”

Shoko (Geto) slapped his hand away with disdain. “No, Toji.” She kicked the bucket out of his reach.

Panda’s laugh sounded suspiciously like a car backfiring.

Shoko (Geto) rubbed her temple, "Gojo, why do you always have to be like this? Why can’t you just order a normal meal like everyone else?" She was trying to keep a straight face but kept glancing at the beer can she’d snuck in.

Yuki (Gojo) looked at her, adjusting her blindfold and fake sunglasses, with betrayal. "Because I’m not like other boys, Suguru."

Junpei staired wide-eyed, muttering, “Is this normal?” Mimiko and Nanako patted his shoulders comfortingly.

“Yes,” Mimiko said, deadpan. “Everyone knows about this except for Gojo and Geto-sensei.”

Shoko (Geto) grabbed the bucket from Higuruma’s hands—he’d managed to pluck it from the floor—and tossed it into the audience, where it hit Ijichi square in the face.

Shoko (Geto) yelled, "Gojo, it was NEVER about the chicken. It was about YOU. Always YOU."

Sukuna (KFC employee) sounded suspiciously like a Keren out on hunt, saying, "Are you two gonna order something, or do I have to call homeless control? We have a literal two-piece deal even your broke sorcerer asses can afford—trust me, it’s more fulfilling than your entire life’s purpose!” He paused, raising an eyebrow. “And it comes with a side of regret!”

Yuki (Gojo) scowled at him, "Oh, this isn’t about chicken, King of Ass-Pull techniques. This is about principle!”

She turned to face Shoko, nearly knocking over the cardboard counter in the process.

Megumi groaned into his hands. “Why?”

Nobara slapped his back. “Shut up. This is the best thing I’ve seen all week.”

Ino (as Shoko), fully committed to his role, burst through the side door, a fake cigarette dangling from his lips, looking incredibly done in Shoko’s high-school uniform that revealed his gorilla-level hairy legs. "I can’t have more of you both not communicating with each other and then coming to me crying about your feelings!" he bellowed, waving the fake cigarette around like a deranged conductor's baton. "I’m moving to med school to fake my studies.”

He propped one foot up on a chair, chest puffed out. "Next time you have a meltdown, try punching a wall or something! Seriously, I didn’t sign up for ‘Days of Our Lives: Extreme Oblivious Edition!"

Miguel (playing Ijichi), lugging an absurdly oversized notebook even for his frame, stumbled in after him. “Sensei! I’m taking attendance—oh no. Not again.”

Then from the other door, Choso (playing Nanami), in an absolutely horrendous business suit from the clearance bin, stormed in. "I’m DONE, Gojo. I quit Jujutsu Tech. I’m joining corporate and selling my soul. I don’t have time for fried chicken skits; I want to wake up eight years later and look at my balding head, then wonder where my youth went."

Yuki (Gojo) pointed at him. "You wouldn’t dare ruin my sunflower garden on your head!"

Maki, unimpressed, sighed, “This is why no one respects them.”

Sukuna (KFC employee) adjusted his crumpled paper hat, radiating despair. "Can someone please exorcise me already? No one appreciates the Colonel."

Yuki (Gojo), now focused again after her moment of ADHD, said, "You betrayed me when you ordered boneless chicken wings, Suguru."

Shoko (Geto) shot back, "They’re practical, Satoru!"

Higuruma (Toji), now sitting on the ground, held a cup out toward the audience. "Spare change? Anyone? Please. I’ll take KFC gift cards at this point." He paused, leaning toward Shoko. "Geto, buddy, a nugget? Anything? I’m starving."

Shoko (Geto) shot him a withering side-eye. "Not now, Toji. I’m having a quarter-life crisis."

Higuruma (Toji) nodded solemnly, then held the cup higher toward the crowd. "No worries. Continue. But seriously, just a bite?"

The real Toji groaned in the background, making Sukuna chuckle.

Panda tried to sneak some popcorn from Kirara’s stash, only to be slapped on the paw. Inumaki and Yuta sighed, sharing some shrimp chips with him.

Shoko (Geto), stormed to the counter and slapped down a crumpled 500-yen bill. "Satoru, for the last time, we are NOT ordering bones-only."

Across from her, Yuki (Gojo) leaned on the counter, radiating the kind of energy that came from seven whiskey shots too many. "It’s about the morals, Suguru,” she declared, wagging her finger. "Bones are the soul of fried chicken! How can you betray me by ordering—” She spat the words like a curse, “boneless chicken wings?”

Sukuna sighed from behind the counter, poking at a rubber chicken on a spatula. "This is KFC, not marriage counseling."

“Why am I here again?” Toji growled, tugging at the chains around his ankles, hoping they’d break and he’d make a run for it.

“Because you lost at Uno! Haha Loser!,” Sukuna mocked, a little too unhinged and happy, tossing a handful of napkins into the deep fryer for fun.

Yuki (Gojo) dropped to her knees, hands clutching at thin air like she was performing in a Shakespearean tragedy. "Suguru, don’t leave me! We’ve been through everything together—Mochi! Nanami’s bangs! Chicken!” Her voice cracked, as if each word was ripping her apart.

Within moments, she was sprawled on the floor, flailing her limbs like a soap opera actor who’d just discovered their long-lost twin was actually a disguised alien. "Think of the Nuggets, Suguru!" she wailed, her melodrama reaching new, uncharted heights.

Shoko (Geto) rolls her eyes, stepping back. “That’s exactly the problem, Gojo! You only think about yourself... and chicken!” She picks up the fallen bones-only KFC bucket, shaking it. “This... this symbolizes everything wrong with us.”

Sukuna (still KFC ambassador), now fully leaning out the KFC window, clicks his tongue. “Should’ve gone with the spicy tenders, Suguru. More flavor. Less heartbreak.”

Yuki (Gojo) stands, dusting herself off, looking stoic now. “Fine, Suguru. If you wanna leave... then go. But don’t come crawling back when you realize that no one, NO ONE, makes better chicken-related decisions than I do!”

Shoko (Geto) flips her dusty fake hair, then coughs as it spins around only to land in her mouth. “It’s over, Gojo. You’ve... changed. And it’s not just about the chicken anymore.” 

Somewhere in the back, Todo yelled, “Even Takada-chan loves bone-in chicken.” Earning side-eyes from everyone.

Then Dhoko (Geto) turned her back and continued, “Are you Gojo Satoru because you like bone-in fried chicken, or are you chicken because you hate boneless?" Weirdly enough, making Mimiko and Nanako shed a tear as the rest of the students eyed them awkwardly while Maki and Junpai rubbed their backs.

Higuruma (Toji), crawled back to his spot and sighed. “Breakups are hard, huh? To gain heavenly restriction against ‘em, spare a wing for a guy in need?” He sounded suspiciously like a sleazy pyramid scheme salesman peddling floor cleaner.

“Honestly,” he continued, with a mock-serious tone, “for just five easy payments of emotional trauma, you too can avoid heartbreak forever! Act now, and I’ll throw in a free set of emotional baggage, making you top tear Red-Flag!”

Kashimo (Haibara) floated aimlessly as a poorly conceived ghost prop, holding up a sign that read "Nanami’s fault."

Beside him, Choso (Nanami) buried his head in his hands. “Haibara, you lucky little shit, must be glad you died before witnessing this.”

The door slammed open again, hinges screeching like they were about to quit, as Yourozu (channeling Sukuna with the energy of a feral cryptid) covered in sharpie tattoos burst in, dual-wielding two buckets of KFC. “Yo, these trash humans should ditch the chicken and sell fried human toes!” She howled, spinning one bucket like a fidget spinner.

Before anyone could process the culinary war crime, Kashimo (Haibara), still in a white bedsheet covered with mysterious stains, phased into existence next to her like a glitch in the Matrix. “Honestly? This is the most alive I’ve felt in decades,” he muttered, chewing one enthusiastically.

Yourozu’s (Sukuna) eyes gleamed. “Picture it! Toes—crispy nails on the outside, chewy fleshy core on the inside—portable protein and calcium for cursed spirits on the go!”

Kashimo (Haibara) nodded, as if possessed by the spirit of a business bro (or just Nanami?). “You’re onto something. Pair it with sauces—spicy teriyaki, miso glaze, a dab of mayo. Go full Michelin.”

“‘Sukuna’s Special Toes’!” Yourozu (Sukuna) roared, arms raised like she’d just invented sliced bread. “Limited edition. Toes freshly cursed, aged for maximum crunch. Hurry up for Sukuna’s Toes Cumming near you.”

Kashimo (Haibara), still glowing and looking like a horror movie side character who’s about to narrate the end of the world, declared, “I’d throw my life savings at that. Beats playing ‘haunted tag’ for eternity.”

The room was silent—in horror—as they stared at Yourozu mimicking Sukuna’s trademark smirk, now directed at a chicken nugget she was calling “toe prototype.”

In the middle of it all, Toji was the only one snickering, making real Sukuna chuck his Barbie phone at him from the KFC booth. The phone broke into a million pieces on impact with Toji’s skull before scattering on the floor.

Higuruma (Toji) slides over to real Toji, holding up his empty cup. “Spare change?”

Real Toji handed him a KFC coupon from his back pocket. “Here, go nuts.”

Higuruma’s eyes light up, holding the coupon like it’s a winning lottery ticket. “Now this is the kind of happy ending I deserve.”

Miguel (Ijichi) muttered to himself like a malfunctioning NPC. “One day... one day I’ll grow up to be big and strong... like my amazing senpais…” His voice wobbled, trembling like he was on the verge of tears—or self-combustion—but the sheer tension radiating off him made him look less like a sad little intern and more like an excavator about to explode in the middle of rush hour. His hands shook as he clutched a clipboard for dear life, but his expression screamed, ‘Please don’t ask me how I’m doing,’ while his aura screamed, ‘Ask and you’ll die.’

Real Ijichi looked at him like he was regretting life decisions. “Was I really this pathetic as a junior?” he whispered to himself, trembling. Akari nodded next to him.

Kusakabe folded his arms. “I was told this was a cursed spirit seminar. Where’s the educational value?”

Todo shouted from the back, "The only education you need is learning what kind of woman orders boneless chicken!”

“That’s it! You will be failed AND SUSPENDED from the Sister School Exchange Event. I’ll also ban your entry here so you can’t see Itadori!” Kusakabe yelled while Ijichi tried to calm him down.

Without another word, Todo sat back down. Yuji breathed a sigh of relief.

Back at the counter, Yuki (Gojo) had fully climbed onto the counter, pointing at Shoko (Geto).

“You call yourself my best friend—my soulmate, Suguru—and you order BON—" she choked on the word, “—LESS?!”

Shoko (Geto), completely unfazed, popped a cigarette into her mouth and lit it with the fire emanating from Sukuna’s deep fryer. “They’re practical, Satoru. You don’t have to deal with bones when you’re hungover or just returned from swallowing balls.”

Yuki (Gojo) bellowed.

Panda leaned over to Hakari and whispered, “This is why mammals don’t need wings.”

Hakari nodded.

Yuta stared blankly at the scene unfolding before him, slumped between Panda and Inumaki. “I thought turning my ex-girlfriend into a curse was the lowest point of my life,” he said.

“Same,” Maki replied from the front, rubbing her temples.

Megumi groaned. “This is an insult to women and fried chicken.”

Yuki (Gojo) turned her attention to Sukuna. “You’re the employee here! Tell him he’s wrong!”

Sukuna, now wearing his KFC hat at a jaunty angle, barked out a laugh. “Listen, ‘Delulu iz D Solulu’ ambassador, I just work here.” He sneered, pointing a rubber chicken drumstick like a scepter. “But let me tell you this—no one who orders boneless chicken respects themselves. Or anyone else. They’re the spiritual equivalent of someone who microwaves ice cream.”

The room gasped in collective horror, except for Yuji, who looked genuinely curious about microwaved ice cream. “Does it melt faster?” he whispered to Hakari, who groaned and rubbed his temples.

Real Toji, visibly done with everyone’s nonsense, muttered, “I’ve killed men for less.”

“Shut up, Toji,” Yuki snapped, chucking a ketchup packet at him. “You’re only here because Sukuna thought it’d be funny.”

“Damn right, it’s funny,” Sukuna quipped, flipping rubber ducks in the fryer.

The crowd noise reached a crescendo when Shoko (Geto) grabbed a tray of fries and shoved them at Yuki. “Fine! If you’re so obsessed with bones, why don’t you eat these? They're BONES of the potato world!”

The insult hit harder than expected. Yuki (Gojo) gasped, clutched her chest like she’d been stabbed, and fell onto the counter.

“I—CAN’T—BELIEVE THIS—” she wailed.

Choso (Nanami) yelled from the audience, “Haibara, take me now!”

Kusakabe muttered, "You idiots called me from Kyoto for this?"

Akari sighed. “It’s a recurring nightmare; just go with it. It’ll be over soon.”

Soon Shoko (Geto) threw her cigarette into the fryer. The grease exploded.

Ino (Shoko) yelled from the door, “The principal’s on the way! Save yourselves, peasants!” He bellowed then, without missing a beat, hitched up his (Shoko’s high school) skirt like a Disney princess mid-escape and yeeted himself out the nearest window, purple boxers on full display like a chaotic pride flag. He landed in a somersault that was either pure James Bond or budget Brokeback Mountain, depending on how you squinted, before taking off with all the grace of a pigeon dodging traffic.

Sukuna burst through his cardboard KFC window in a single fluid motion, like an Olympian who moonlighted as a feral mothman. With zero hesitation, he grabbed Real Toji by the collar and yeeted him like a human projectile. The chair and Toji soared through the air in cursed synchronization before crashing into the nearest bush with a sound so loud it startled three crows into orbit.

Quickly turning around, Sukuna then yelled out. “Alright, that’s it. Everyone get out before I curse this entire campus for being budgetarily impaired. I swear, even the vending machines are in a dollar drought.”

Todo stood up. “You can’t curse me; I’m too strong.”

“Shut up, best friendo,” Nobara snapped, kicking the back of his chair.

Yaga stormed in, looking like he’d aged ten years in ten seconds, forced to babysit an entire fraternity. “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU ALL DOING?!” he roared, veins on his forehead threatening mutiny.

Higuruma (Toji but with none of the chill) bolted upright like a startled meerkat, clutching his KFC coupon like it was the last horcrux. “I’m out!” He ran offstage, tripping over Yuki, who was sprawled out on the floor. Making Toru abandon him for Megumi.

Meanwhile, Shoko—now in a baldcap (she had flung her Suguru wig without looking, making it land atop Todo)—was casually guiding Yuki offstage by dragging her flip-flop-clad feet, as Yuki grabbed random stage props since she still couldn’t see through her Hellen Killer blindfold and fake sunglasses combo. “Just... pretend you had cataract surgery,” Shoko whispered. “But don’t quote me; I’m not an ophthalmologist.”

Todo, now crowned by the discarded rag-like wig, was deep in character as Takada-chan’s split personality, striking a pose. “Shake ‘em buns,” he intoned with grave sincerity, the words heavy with meaning only he could comprehend.

Mei Mei, still holding the megaphone, announced smugly, “And that concludes tonight’s performance! Tips are accepted in cash or chicken.”

Sukuna tips his paper KFC hat. “Always a pleasure, Yaga. If you ever need us for another reenactment—”

Yaga cuts him off, pointing to the door. “I’d rather face Mahito.”

As the “actors” leave the stage, Higuruma (Toji) waves his KFC coupon in the air, victorious.

“Take that! Student Debt!” then turns face and runs away when Yaga gives him a death glare.

Yaga sighed as the students scrambled to leave, laughter echoing down the halls.

“Next time,” Yaga growled in the hallway, “I’m calling the Zen’in clan to babysit you all.”

Sukuna shrugged. “Good luck with that; strong ones are already here.”

But before Yaga could question him, the curtains fell—they really fell because Yuji decided to lean on them like they were a support group for his Paranormal Finger Munchies. “...My bad,” he muttered, slowly backing away.

Megumi sighed and turned away in embarrassment, with Toru, who was apparently the real protagonist of this story (in her mind), and began walking off in silent protest. Toru, nestled in his arms, purred loudly while striking poses that screamed, Servant, paint me like your French girls, her little primordial pouch hangin out like it’s own cursed womb.

“HEY! My turn to hold Toru!” Nobara yelled, storming after them with the energy of a rabid raccoon. She grabbed at Toru’s tail, but Megumi expertly pivoted, keeping the cat out of her reach like they were playing keep-away with a sacred relic. Panda tried to go after Nobara to stop her but was tackled by Maki and Kirara for lunch money he promised he’d pay them back.

Toru winked at Nobara. If cats could flip people off, she absolutely would have.

Meanwhile, Inumaki had somehow managed to snatch Toru’s tiny sunglasses and was attempting to wear them over one eye. The result? He looked like a certain one-eyed cryptid who’d stumbled out of the depths of urban legend forums.

“Shake!” Inumaki declared, striking a pose.

“Give those back before you snap them,” Yuta ran after him, diving to wrestle the sunglasses out of Inumaki’s hands. But Inumaki was faster, shimmying his shoulders like a little gremlin, the glasses barely hanging on as he cackled in triumph.

The scene devolved further when Nobara tackled Megumi, sending both of them—and Toru—tumbling to the ground along with Maki, Kirara, and Junpei. Hakari took pictures for blackmail later. Toru leapt out unscathed, jumping into Ijichi’s arms, who held her like a bomb waiting to explode before passing her off to Kusakabe, where she purred like she’d planned it all along.

“Finally, someone in this room with taste,” Sukuna muttered, placing the KFC paper hat on Toru’s head. Akari leaped into action like a caffeinated kangaroo, ready to snap pictures of Toru: the Kaisen to our Jujutsu’s official Instagram page; yes, Toru had an Instagram page now in only 12 hours of arrival.

Yuji whispered to Nanako and Mimiko, “Do you guys think Toru likes boneless chicken?”

Sukuna turned sharply, his glare a thousand curses being unleashed at once. “Don’t you dare, brat.”

Choso and Kashimo sprinted into the practice grounds. “Take me now, best friend!" Choso (Nanami) yelled at Kashimo, who tried to float away only to bump into a pole with a reverberating clang, due to him still being in the white bedsheet.

The chaos reached a fever pitch, props flying and nonsensical shouting echoing across the school grounds. Then, the intercom crackled to life with Gojo’s unmistakably irritated voice.

“Whoever’s using my name for this nonsense,” he drawled, his tone sharp enough to cut glass, “meet me on the roof in five minutes. I’m bringing purple.”

Dead silence fell over the scene, everyone frozen mid-chaos like cursed mannequins.

Then, another voice rang out, smooth and resonant, with a cadence that could only belong to one person. “I’ll bring Ratio.”

Before anyone could process, another voice—Geto’s—purred smoothly through the speakers. “And you know what I’ll bring.”

From the far end of the grounds, Yuki, still being dragged unceremoniously by Shoko, cheered loudly, “Spicy Cunt!” Then proceeded to clap like she had won Family Feud, her whiskey count showing.

Shoko groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose as she dragged Yuki faster. “Why are you making this harder, woman?!”

Panic erupted. Every actor scrambled like rats off a sinking ship, tossing clothes, props, and fragments of dignity to the wind as they bolted in random directions. Each was determined to pretend they had absolutely nothing to do with whatever Gojo was about to obliterate from existence.

A/N: I was new at writing crack back then; this still makes me laugh if I'm high enough. If one part of this disaster deserves its own follow-up, tell me which.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics.

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

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

Sukuna & Nanami

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

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

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

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

It became a ritual.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t flirtation in the traditional sense.

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

Kashimo & Hiromi

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

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

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

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

They were natural enemies.

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

Toji & Atusya

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

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

Toji’s idea of courtship?

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

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

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

Atusya’s idea of romance?

Sleeping through all of it.

Gojo & Suguru

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

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

Example:

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

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

---

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

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

Every. Single. Rally.

Kashimo materialized like a politically funded ghost.

Not protesting. Not heckling. Just… observing.

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

Sukuna and Gojo were his backup dancers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It didn’t deter him.

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Atsuya facepalmed so hard he nearly napped mid-motion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hiromi lunged.

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

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

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

“Aww, you taglined it!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is not helping,” Hiromi snapped.

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

Suguru grinned smugly from behind Gojo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

Then They Came to You

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You mouthed back, “Earn it.”

Ten minutes later, you were considering locking the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nanami glanced at you with something almost like gratitude.

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

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

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

“Can I leave?” Atsuya asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suguru snorted coffee out his nose.

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

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

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

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

Atsuya muttered, “For war crimes maybe.”

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

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

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

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

“Accidentally.”

“You yelled ‘watch this’ first.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sukuna grinned. “His tits are immaculate.”

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

“He brings me food,” Atsuya mumbled.

Toji smirked. “Progress.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hiromi looks cute in handcuffs,” Kashimo said.

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…Congrats?” you tried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door swung open again.

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

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

Hiromi’s eye twitched. “You knew?!”

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

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

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

“Romantic,” Kashimo sighed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kinky,” Gojo approved.

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

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

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

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

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

THE KASHIMO-HIGURUMA NON-AGGRESSION PACT

Article 1: No arson during marital disputes.

Article 3: Mutual veto power on hideous wedding china.

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

Hiromi stared. “This is insane.”

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

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

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

“Almost?” Hiromi snapped.

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

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

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

---

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

It had just… evolved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suguru shrugged. “Apparently not.”

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

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

Nanami deadpanned, “Functional adults.”

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

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

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

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

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

Gojo brightened instantly. “Exactly!”

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

Suguru coughed into his fist to hide a laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

“It’s called accuracy.”

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

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

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

“Maybe I will,” Sukuna said.

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

“Exactly.”

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

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

They took that to mean:

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

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

Suguru carrying a sketchbook for ‘cover.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Boring,” Gojo declared.

“Functional,” Nanami corrected.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yuji blinked. “Uh… hi?”

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

Ino squinted. “Aren’t you—”

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

On the bench, Sukuna stiffened.

All four heads turned toward him.

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

“No,” Sukuna said. Way too fast.

“Sure looks like it,” Ino muttered.

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

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

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

“Looks like one,” Ino muttered.

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

“Subtle surveillance,” Suguru said dryly.

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

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

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

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

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

“Apparently,” Nanami muttered, “envy.”

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

“Research,” Sukuna corrected.

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

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

You snorted. Loudly.

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

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

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

“Not helping,” Suguru muttered.

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

“Am not.”

“Sounds like jealousy,” Yuji said.

“Am not!”

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

“Don’t tell Mom. I’m not jealous.”

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

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

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

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

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

Sukuna gestured wildly at Nanami. “I am—”

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

Megumi deadpanned to Yuji, “Healthy.”

You laughed again—not even trying to hide it.

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

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

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

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

Then you turned and awakened off.

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

---

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

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

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

Meanwhile, Hiromi and Kashimo dominated the society pages again.

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

The caption read: Love’s Bitter Pill.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks for nothing. See you Thursday.

– The Happy(??) Couples

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

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

---

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

The empty ninth chair stayed empty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A/N:This is for my Sukuna x Nanami agenda along with Choso x Ino, Toji x Atsuya & Kashimo x Hiromi with SatoSugu & ItaFushi for morale support. FYI, I normally don't write this much out of script but its kind of a destress project. Sukuna/Nanami (a feral pigeon gangster with a toxic obsession on a tsundere), Kashimo/Hiromi (enemies to lovers), Toji/Atsuya (himbo x tired catboy), & Gojo/Suguru (chaotic yaoi bystanders). Thank you for reading this experiment. The counselor deserved hazard pay, but at least she got a nap pod key.

Masterlist

He thought he was being a great boyfriend.

That was the real tragedy.

He was loving. Tender. He worked long hours and came home with your favorite snacks. He told you you were beautiful even when your eyeliner was doing algebra across your temples. And in bed—

Well. That was the problem.

He loved the buildup. The tension. The foreplay. The endless goddamn teasing.

You’d have one leg over his shoulder and a pulse rate that could kill a goat, and he’d suddenly pause to kiss your ankle or say something like, “You look like you’re suffering. That’s cute.”

Cute? No.

What was cute was how you didn’t kill him.

What was cute was the fact that he had the audacity to edge you for thirty-five minutes, refuse to fuck you, and then when you passed out, he went and rinsed off in the shower like he’d just painted a shed instead of denying you your reason for existence.

You loved him. You really did.

But you were going to snap.

And you did.

It started, ironically, because he took a half day. He came home early. You were in a good mood.

You’d been waiting for this. You’d been wet since breakfast and had texted him things like “You’ll be lucky if I let you live afterward” and “Cancel your credit cards because I’m going to bankrupt you in aftercare.”

So when he walked in the door, coat slung over one shoulder, you practically pounced.

You kissed him.

Bit his jaw.

Palmed his crotch.

Pressed up on your toes, whispered in his ear.

And he smiled. That infuriating half-smile, like he was a wine snob who’d just smelled the faintest notes of your desperation and planned to swirl it for three hours before drinking.

He kissed you back, slow and maddening. Hands on your waist. Gripping just hard enough to make you hope—

Then he pulled back and said, “Let me just finish a few work emails first.”

Emails.

Emails??

You could see the outline of his erection.

 It was like being ghosted by a hard-on.

You nodded. Fine. Sure. Whatever.

You waited.

He sat on the couch. Typing away…

You waited more.

Finally, he called you over.

Beckoned you with one finger like a Bond villain.

And instead of fucking you, he made you straddle him, grinding against his thigh while he murmured filthy little things like, “You’re always so needy when I work. Is this how desperate you are?”

You almost cried.

You were seconds away from unhinging your jaw like a snake and devouring him whole when he stood up, kissed your temple, and said—

“Let me make dinner. You deserve a good meal first.”

A good meal.

You didn’t want pasta.

You wanted to forget your own name.

You wanted to black out and wake up in a different tax year.

You stared at his back as he moved into the kitchen. Heard the pan clinking. A sizzle. The smell of garlic butter.

And something in you just… broke.

So here you were.

In the walk-in closet.

With one fuzzy cardigan-blanket, half a melted gummy, and a YouTube video deep-dive that now felt a little too close to home.

You’d texted him, “I’m not home. Carry on without me,” which was how he knew you definitely were mad because his sorcerer senses could fucking feel you in the house.

You weren’t even a good liar. But atleast you weren’t out cheating.

You weren’t trying to punish him. You weren’t even trying to be dramatic.

You just… couldn’t anymore.

It was like edging had become emotional, too. Like every time you tried to touch him and he withheld, a little part of you got rejected with it.

And the thing was, Nanami didn’t even realize.

Outside, he paced the hallway.

He’d knocked once—tentative, then silent.

Then again, more hesitant. “Darling?”

You said nothing. Not out of spite, but because if you opened your mouth, you’d either scream or sob or say something like, “Do I have to beg like a whore every time, or do you actually want to fuck me like you say you do?”

Which was not a constructive sentence.

He paused again. “I didn’t realize you were that upset.”

You sniffed.

Adjusted your phone.

Patrick Star was currently being tried for crimes against fishmanity.

The door creaked. Locked, obviously. You weren’t a coward.

You heard him exhale, soft and tired.

“I thought you liked it,” he said, quieter now. “The teasing. The build-up.”

You shifted under the cardigan-blanket.

“I thought I was making it better.”

You turned up the volume. Let the courtroom theme of Bikini Bottom drown him out.

Because here’s the truth:

You did like the teasing. Once.

At first. When it was mutual.

When he still finished what he started.

When it felt like play, not punishment.

But lately it was like every encounter was a chess game, and you were always left in check. Always half-undone. Always dismissed with a kiss and a promise to “make it up to you” next time.

You didn’t want next time.

You wanted him.

Nanami stood outside the door for a long while.

Then he left.

You expected that.

What you didn’t expect was that two hours later, when you woke up from your gummy-induced nap, your phone would buzz with a note.

It was a photo.

Of him.

In your shared bed.

Looking miserable.

Fully nude.

Hard.

With a sticky note on his chest that read, “No foreplay. No teasing. Just come ruin me.”

You stared at it.

The SpongeBob video paused.

And for a long time, you just… stared.

Because it wasn’t just hot. It was honest. It was Nanami swallowing his pride, giving up control, offering himself like a gift wrapped in regret.

You wiped your eyes.

Then unlocked the closet.

You didn’t run to him.

You walked. Slowly. Quietly.

When you entered the bedroom, he sat up—eyes wide, hair mussed, shoulders tense.

You climbed onto the bed.

Straddled him.

Held his face.

“You have three minutes to fuck me into oblivion before I change my mind,” you said, voice hoarse from crying.

He exhaled like he’d just been granted absolution.

And this time, he didn’t tease.

He didn’t kiss your shoulder.

He didn’t trace your thighs or whisper about how good you looked flushed and needy.

He grabbed you.

Rolled you under.

Fucked you like a man on borrowed time.

There was nothing sweet. Nothing slow.

He didn’t stop when you cried out.

Didn’t pause when you clenched too hard or begged for more.

He was ruthless. Raw. Worshipful in the way a starving man devours.

And when you came—screaming, sobbing, shaking—he kept going.

Because you deserved to forget your name.

And when it was over, when you were both breathless and trembling, he kissed your forehead and whispered—

“I’m sorry.”

You didn’t answer.

You just pressed your face to his chest, heart hammering, and thought:

Delayed gratification is a scam. But maybe repentance isn’t.

A/N: ✨Thank you for coming to my TED Talk on “Please Rail Me Without a Five-Act Structure." If Nanami has ever edged you into a spiritual crisis, sound off in the comments. ✨

Masterlist

“Damn right I did,” Ryomen Sukuna said proudly, rubbing his own faint bump with the solemn reverence of a cult leader mid-sermon. “Powerful kick. And mine have probably developed claws already.”

Satoru clasped his hands together like an excited kindergarten teacher. “They’re gonna be soooo strong. Our cursed hybrid angel-demons!”

“I already bought matching onesies that say ‘Spawn of Chaos’ and ‘Sorcerer Supreme.’”

Toji twitched.

Kento closed his eyes like a man praying for death by vending machine.

“I’m going to throw up,” Toji muttered.

Kento silently dabbed the milk splotch on his chest with a pocket square, the quiet dignity of a samurai bleeding out in beige linen.

They took their seats on the floor. Sukuna farted. Blamed Satoru. Satoru blamed the twins.

Kento whispered, “I used to be respected.”

---

Flashback

It started where all disasters start: the teacher’s lounge.

Kento was sipping his black coffee like it owed him child support. Toji was halfway through a protein bar shaped like a kunai. Satoru had just floated by, humming “Like a Virgin,” shirt hiked up to flaunt his bump at the vending machine.

“Don’t look at him,” Kento said flatly. “It only encourages him.”

Toji snorted. “You mean ‘them.’ Sukuna wants to get prenatal Pilates added to mission training.”

Kento’s brow twitched. “Is it contagious? This has to be spiritual mass hysteria. First Satoru. Then Sukuna. Then Kashimo showed up to the faculty meeting in maternity overalls. With braids.”

“Kusakabe cried during the safety briefing,” Toji added. “Said the fire exit triggered his ‘nesting anxiety.’”

“And don’t even bring up Suguru,” Kento snapped. “That man performed a fetal blessing in the hallway. With Haibara and Choso. In matching robes. During lunch.”

Toji grunted. “Ino fainted when Takaba rubbed his stomach. Called it a sacred orb.”

Kento exhaled slowly, like his soul was trying to evacuate his body. “What is happening to the men in this school?”

Satoru re-entered with a grape Fanta in one hand and a prenatal chocolate bar in the other. “Jealous much?” he chirped.

Sukuna slid in behind him, smug as a curse with tenure. “Don’t worry, Kento. Not everyone’s emotionally fertile enough for the miracle of life.”

Satoru took a sip. “Some people just lack that nurturing aura.”

Toji leaned forward. “You’re literally growing demon spawn inside you. Aren’t you terrified?”

“They kicked this morning,” Sukuna said proudly. “One of them has fangs.”

Kento blinked. “That’s not a brag.”

“Anyway,” Satoru sing-songed, “you two better watch out. We thought it was a joke too. Then—boom! Belly. Blasted full of her cursed energy. Conception via spiritual backshots.”

Toji made a face. “That’s disgusting.”

“Romantic,” Satoru corrected. “We were spiritually raw-dogged.”

Kento stood and walked out.

Toji followed.

Both privately swore it could never happen to them.

Then it happened on a Tuesday.

Kento woke up thinking he had an annoying gas bubble. By Thursday, he was crying into a croissant in your kitchen and dabbing colostrum off his chest like a disgraced milkmaid.

“Is this what Satoru felt like?” he whispered, cradling his own torso in horror. “Why are my shirts damp?”

Toji puked into the sink and glared at you like you’d personally hexed his sperm.

“You said you were on birth control,” he hissed.

You blinked. “I said I was using barrier methods.”

“YOU ARE THE BARRIER.”

Meanwhile, Satoru and Sukuna showed up the next day to the infirmary like it was fucking Christmas and they were Santa.

Satoru threw glitter. Sukuna brought nipple balm.

“Well, well, well,” Satoru purred, perched on the windowsill like an overgrown, pregnant albino raccoon. “Looks like Daddy Nanamin’s joined the club.”

Sukuna leaned over Toji with a smirk. “I hear your pecs are swelling. Congrats on the mammaries.”

Toji tried to swing a chair.

Got dizzy.

Missed.

Fell over.

Cursed everyone.

Kento lay stiff in the nurse’s cot, staring at the ceiling with the hollow look of a salaryman whose entire stock portfolio just turned into ultrasound photos.

“You’re not real,” he muttered. “I got taken out by a shikigami. This is a coma dream.”

Satoru handed him a pastel onesie that said “Ratio Baby.”

“Thanks to your girlfriend’s hyper-fertile long-range cursed technique,” he said sweetly, “the entire Tokyo Jujutsu Tech is due in October.”

Kento covered his face with the onesie.

The night they discovered they were pregnant, Kento stared into his tea like it held the answers to every poor life decision he’d ever made.

Across the room, Toji lay sprawled on the couch, eyes closed, pretending to be asleep.

The intervention had started twenty minutes ago.

No one had left. No one had cried.

Yet.

“She told me not to climax during her domain expansion,” Kento said flatly. “I didn’t listen.”

Toji didn’t open his eyes. “She bit my neck during resonance sex. My chakra opened like a trash can lid.”

Kento took a slow sip of tea. “She looked me in the eye and said, ‘Womb curse transference isn’t real.’ Then she growled something in Latin.”

“It was a summoning glyph,” Toji added grimly.

From the corner, Satoru burst out laughing. “She marked you like a cursed Pokémon!”

Sukuna, lounging with all the smugness of a man who had never used protection in his life, grinned. “Breeder class. Shiny variant.”

Toji cracked one eye open. “Shut the fuck up.”

You sipped your espresso, perfectly calm, perfectly unbothered.

“I warned you both,” you said. “It was in the contract. Page seven, footnote three: ‘Unprotected domain sex may result in paranormal gestation within a 100-mile radius. All strong enough beings will get knocked up.’ You both still initialed.”

Hence why most of the Jujutsu Men were currently knocked up even though you’d only slept with two of them.

Kento looked like he was reconsidering every decision that had led him to this moment. Toji closed his eyes again and muttered something that sounded like a prayer—or a curse.

Either way, it was too late.

The next day, in the staff break room, things escalated.

Kento was typing like a man possessed.

“I’m filing for prenatal disability,” he said. “And submitting a sorcery ethics violation. I refuse to be deployed while incubating.”

Toji was pacing. “I Googled it. No male sorcerer has ever survived a triplet birth. No one. I don’t even know how many are in there. The doctor said it looked like a cluster. A goddamn cursed womb bouquet.”

“I’m not going to a baby shower,” Kento said sharply. “I don’t care how many times Satoru says there will be shrimp cocktails.”

Toji stopped pacing. “Do you think she’s gonna leave us?”

Kento paused.

They both turned toward the window, where Satoru and Sukuna were waddling across the lawn in matching pastel hoodies that said “Milk Daddies 4 Life.”

Their wife stood beside them, clipboard in hand, managing the chaos like an exhausted assistant coach mid-season. Meanwhile, you were still inside, locked in another petty argument with Yaga about whether your overseas mission counted as “light duty.”

“Ours is still here,” Kento said after a moment. “For now.”

Toji squinted, visibly judging the domestic disaster outside.

Satoru had stopped to do a hip stretch. Sukuna was trying to kiss their wife’s cheek while she blatantly leaned away. Which was fair, considering that since the pregnancy, he had been mean to her 99% of the time, while Satoru only cared about himself.

“They’re all so... affectionate,” Toji muttered. “Cuddly.”

Kento side-eyed him. “You stabbed a vending machine yesterday because your tuna sandwich got stuck.”

“I HAD A CRAVING.”

Satoru suddenly leaned through the open window.

“Kento,” he said, “what does it feel like to be absolutely humbled by the womb?”

Kento didn’t look up. “I’m going to sue you.”

“You’ll have to catch me first, and let’s be real—your feet are probably too swollen for that now.”

Kento threw a binder at him.

Satoru’s infinity blocked it. “Such aggression. The hormones are definitely kicking in.”

Later that night, in your apartment, you came home to find Kento and Toji lying side by side on the living room floor under separate heated blankets, watching a documentary about endangered whales.

“I relate to them,” Kento mumbled. “All I do is float and carry emotional weight.”

Toji didn’t look away from the screen. “You only like them because they mate for life.”

You paused in the doorway. “…Why are you two wet?”

Kento held up his thoroughly soaked linen shirt. “Your cursed aura is destabilizing my fabrics.”

Toji pulled a second heating pad out of his waistband like a cursed magician. “You need to fix us.”

You inhaled. Slowly. Deeply. The breath of a woman trying not to throw herself into the garbage disposal.

Then you turned and walked into the kitchen without a word.

Behind you, twin voices—Sukuna and Satoru’s—rang out through the window.

“We brought belly oils!”

“AND ice cream!”

Toji hurled the heating pad at the wall.

Kento simply cried.

---

Beck to Present Day: The Community Center. 11:10 AM.

Kento didn’t want to be here.

He didn’t want to be anywhere, really—not since he started leaking through his shirts like a haunted Capri-Sun. His formerly pristine linen wardrobe had been betrayed by betrayal in mammary form, and now?

Now he was sitting in pastel hell.

Surrounded by beanbag chairs, laminated uterus diagrams, and Fushiguro Toji—who looked like he’d rather crawl back into the cursed swamp that birthed him than be stuck here chest-leaking beside him.

“You’re not even showing,” Toji hissed, arms folded so tightly across his chest that his gym shirt was visibly dampening. “Why the fuck are you here?”

Kento’s jaw tightened. “Our girlfriend made me come.”

Toji snorted. “Same. Said I needed to ‘bond with other carriers.’ Like I’m an Amazon drone with emotional range.”

Across the studio, Satoru and Sukuna had monopolized the best yoga mats and constructed what could only be described as a Soft-Boy Dad Shrine. A candle flickered dangerously close to a glitter sign reading “Namaste In The Womb.”

Sukuna was aggressively rubbing cocoa butter into his own stomach while Satoru monologued about fetal chakra alignment. Loudly.

“This one’s kicking in Morse code,” Sukuna declared. “I think it’s asking for chili oil.”

Satoru gasped. “Mine wants katsudon! I knew they'd inherit my refined palate!”

Toji blinked slowly. “Why are they proud?”

“They shouldn’t be proud,” Kento hissed. “They should be at home. Hiding. Like shameful men.”

But Satoru was no longer hiding.

Not since their wife had called them “glowing” that one time and accidentally boosted their ego into the stratosphere.

So naturally—he lifted his shirt to the room.

“Just popped last week!” he beamed. “I’m gonna be huge! Want to feel it? It’s like a cursed jellybean!”

Sukuna leaned back on his elbows. “Mine already have eight limbs. Special-grade cursed zygotes. We’re starting prenatal combat drills next month. By week thirty, they’ll be sparring in utero.”

Toji visibly cracked. “I fought in actual wars. I’ve been hunted by Zenin assassins. Now I’m lactating next to a war criminal who just said the phrase ‘cursed zygotes’ like it was cute.”

Kento pinched the bridge of his nose. “They’re not just happy. They’re gleeful. They brought stickers, Fushiguro.”

Toji turned, baffled. “How do they have matching shirts?”

Said shirts: pastel pink and powder blue. One read, “Miso Soup for Three (Me & My Twins)” and the other, “Cursed Daddy’s going to be a Mommy Energy”—in rhinestone glitter font.

“I’m going to commit a felony,” Kento muttered, subtly blotting his chest with a monogrammed handkerchief. “If he asks me how many centimeters dilated I am one more time—”

“You’re glowing, Nanamin!” Satoru called from across the studio. “Breastfeeding’s gonna be so natural for you! I can just tell!”

Kento glared. “You say that like you don’t look like a six-foot seahorse.”

Satoru—6'3", radiant, and utterly shameless—twirled like it was a compliment.

Sukuna chimed in, eyes twinkling with cruelty. “Toji, ever thought about a sports bra? That top’s hanging on by prayers and delusion.”

Satoru added, “Kento, I say this with love, but you’re one bounce away from a wardrobe malfunction and a viral video.”

Toji growled, “Don’t speak to me. Or my unborn spawn.”

Just then, the prenatal coach clapped her hands like she was about to summon a demon.

“Alright, everyone! Let’s go around and share your names, how far along you are, and what excites you most about becoming a parent!”

Toji’s jaw clenched. Kento sighed like a dying oracle.

Toji leaned over. “Let’s fake a contraction.”

Kento didn’t blink. “We are too early for that, but if we go down, we take them with us.”

“Hi!” Satoru chirped, already too loud. “Satoru. Three months. And I’m most excited to teach my babies how to violate the laws of physics!”

“Ryomen,” Sukuna drawled. “Also three months. Looking forward to watching mine devour the weak in daycare.”

“Fabulous,” the coach beamed. “Kento?”

Kento stared at her blankly. “No.”

She hesitated. “Okay… And you, sir?”

“Toji. Most excited to leave this room and commit a crime.”

Satoru giggled. “Nanamin! You’re leaking again—but radiant!”

Kento turned slowly, neck cracking like old wood. “You’re leaking too.”

Satoru clutched his pecs with reverence. “That just means my ducts are thriving.”

Sukuna, now reclining like a bored deity, crossed all four of his arms over all four of his pecs. “Our wife said my nipples look majestic.”

Satoru nodded gravely. “She said mine looked like planets.”

Sukuna glared. “You stole that line from me.”

Toji stood abruptly, vibrating with rage, and stormed toward the exit. “I’m done. I’m going home. I need meat.”

Kento followed in silence, one hand pressed to his chest like a samurai mortally wounded in battle—by honor.

Outside the community center, a matte black car waited at the curb like a luxury getaway vehicle. Tinted windows, purring engine, ominous dignity.

The back window rolled down. Their driver, in a pristine suit, stepped out and opened the doors without missing a beat. “Mr. Fushiguro. Mr. Kento. There’s organic fenugreek tea and aloe-infused breast pads in the cooler.”

Kento blinked. “…I’m not wearing the pads.”

Toji was already halfway into the cooler. “Shut up. They’re aloe-infused.”

He held up a tea bottle like a Molotov.

Kento sighed like a man who had survived four divorces and a tsunami.

---

Later at Home

The butler opened the door.

You didn’t look up right away. “Welcome home, babygirls. How was it?”

Toji and Kento trudged in, sweat-drenched, hollow-eyed, nipples outlined like war crimes under their shirts.

They did not answer.

They did not blink.

They just sat.

Their faces blank.

Their souls gone.

Milk stains prominent.

Dignity murdered in cold blood.

You glanced up from your tablet, frowning, instantly on alert. “Why do you both look like you were cornered by an MLM Facebook mom group and robbed of your will to live?”

Kento sank into the couch. Slowly. “They... were there.”

“Toji?” you prompted.

Toji said nothing. Just stared at the wall.

You pressed further. “Who was there?”

Kento answered with the cadence of a man recounting a trauma dream. “Satoru. Sukuna. Pregnant. Proud. Matching shirts.”

Toji added, low and deadpan, “Said the phrase ‘womb energy’out loud. Unironically.”

“Oh hell no.” You stood, grabbing your phone with the speed of vengeance. “I’m calling their wife.”

Satoru and Sukuna’s wife—already aware due to the psychic cursed energy rage flare you emitted—answered on the second ring.

You: “Call your gremlins. Intervention. Tonight.”

Her: “Already packing a PowerPoint.”

---

The Intervention that Night

Satoru and Sukuna sat on the couch like two toddlers in time-out, visibly rattled. You and their wife stood in front of them, arms crossed like matching judges on Hell’s Kitchen: Prenatal Edition.

“You made them leave class like that?” she demanded. “You mocked them?”

Satoru pouted. “I said Kento was radiant—”

“HE LEAKED THROUGH LINEN!” you snapped. “He is dignified. He wears monochrome. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be reduced to wet circles on beige? What beige water damage does to a man?!”

Sukuna rolled his eyes. “Toji’s got that ‘feral dad in crisis’ energy. I thought it was a compliment.”

Toji lunged. Kento stopped him with one hand and a dead stare. “He is not feral; he is traumatized!”

Satoru frowned, then looked at Sukuna. “Wait… are we the mean girls?”

“Yes,” both you and their wife said in unison.

Satoru gasped. “Oh my god. I’m Regina George.”

Sukuan crossed his arms and ordered his own wife, “Tell him I’m Regina. He can be Karen Smith.”

Sometime later, the living room was dim, serious.

An hour later. Four men. Four beanbags. Four thousand-yard stares.

Their wife clicked the TV over to slideshow mode. A diagram of the male pelvic floor popped up behind her.

“Toji. Kento. You are valid pregnant men with very real emotional needs.”

Kento visibly flinched. “Please don’t say ‘pregnant men’ again.”

“Toji, your feelings matter. And your nipples are beautiful.”

Toji groaned into his hands. “Kill me.”

She clicked the next slide.

“Now. Satoru. Sukuna. You are not helping.”

Sukuna laughed. “He was glowing.”

Satoru joined. “His stretch marks are kinda cute.”

Kento turned to you. “I’m going to open the window and walk into traffic.”

You held up a hand. “From now on, no more commenting on fluids. No more surprise bump comparisons. No more impromptu onesie fashion shows.”

Sukuna slouched. “Tch. Fine.”

Satoru pouted. “But our belly bump selfies were aesthetic...”

Toji glared at Satoru. “I swear to God, I will burn your entire iCloud.”

---

Later, Kento and Toji lay on the couch, wrapped in heated compresses, their heads in your lap. You fed Kento pickled radish with chopsticks while he sulked like a Roman senator betrayed by his toga.

“I hated every minute of that class,” he muttered.

You kissed his temple. “You don’t have to go back.”

You were also rubbing slow circles into Toji’s scalp. “You can train at home. You’re already doing amazing.”

Toji, grudgingly softened, mumbled, “…I liked it when you threatened Satoru.”

You smiled. “I always will, baby.”

Outside the window, Satoru and Sukuna were trying to tape their ultrasound pictures to the neighborhood bulletin board using washi tape and false confidence.

“PUT THOSE DOWN!” Kento barked.

“We’re just proud dads!!” Satoru hollered.

“Let us celebrate the miracle of life!” Sukuna added.

Kento buried his face in your stomach. “Please kill me.”

You snorted. “Nope. You’re living long enough to breastfeed in public just to spite them.”

Kento sighed. “Fine. But I’m wearing a blazer.”

Toji, mid-bite into a sheet of raw seaweed wrapped around a lone anchovy, muttered, “And I’m not talking to anyone.”

You all nodded solemnly.

Love wins. Nipples leak.

The curse of male pregnancy persists.

---

One Week Later

Toji now owned four discreet maternity gym tanks in “aggressive neutrals.” Kento had a reserved yoga mat with a privacy screen and noise-canceling headphones. Satoru and Sukuna were banned from saying the words “tummy chakra” in public.

Meanwhile, their shared wife—Satoru and Sukuna’s—was ordering chili oil and katsudon at 3 AM while five unborn monsters demanded snacks in stereo from two different wombs.

God help her.

---

Some days later, Toji lay face-down on the velvet chaise lounge like a cursed Greek statue left out in the rain, limbs splayed, shirt somewhere between the penthouse elevator and the living room. He exhaled like dying royalty.

“I feel like a bloated corpse,” he muttered into the cushion. “You should’ve just let me rot in the parking garage.”

You sat beside him, tablet in hand, Bluetooth headset crackling softly in your ear. Your other hand absently kneaded the arch of his foot, business as usual.

Toji groaned, shifting his weight like a beached animal. You didn’t look at him—just adjusted your grip and kept rubbing.

“Yes,” you said into the headset, voice cold and calm. “Liquidate the holdings. The merger’s not going through. Tell Kunikida to stall them with litigation.”

Then, finally, you glanced down at him.

“No, baby,” you added softly, just for him. “You’re not a failure. You’re just bloated from sodium. Drink the fenugreek.”

Toji reached for the bottle like it owed him a bounty and downed it in one dramatic pull, face twisted in betrayal.

You didn’t comment.

Just swiped to the next report and kept rubbing his foot like it was the most natural thing in the world.

---

One morning, the penthouse was quiet except for the soft clack of your keyboard. You were reviewing emails at the kitchen island, coffee untouched. Across from you, Kento stared at his phone like it just served him divorce papers.

“Maternity leave is unpaid,” he said slowly, voice tinged with existential horror.

Without looking up, you spoke, “I already wired a monthly stipend to your account. With hazard pay.”

He blinked. “And my maternity health insurance?”

“I asked Yaga,” you replied, scrolling. “You’ll have insurance in platinum.”

He went quiet for a moment, then asked, more softly, “What if I hemorrhage and get laid off? What if the babies need cursed daycare?”

You finally looked up. “Kento. I own half of Roppongi.”

He frowned. “Rent’s high.”

“You own a building. I gave it to you last summer.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Went back to scrolling.

Then he froze.

🍼 “Got this sakura wood crib blessed by six shrine maidens and one yandere ghost. It glows in the dark. Luv u @gf 😘”

Kento stared at Satoru’s post like it had personally spat on his taxes.

“I was just going to use a drawer,” he whispered.

---

It was 3 AM when the kitchen was quiet. Cold tile under your feet. The fridge hummed softly in the dark.

Toji was crouched on the floor like a man mourning a fallen comrade. A baby bottle dangled upside down from his fingers, swinging slightly.

You blinked. “…Did you eat all the seaweed again?”

“It’s not the seaweed,” he said, low, still not looking at you.

He didn’t move. Just hunched there in the dim fridge light, looking like a broken Renaissance sculpture with milk fatigue.

Then, quietly said, “What if I’m defective?”

You stepped closer, confused. “What?”

“My abs are gone,” he said flatly. “I can’t do leg day. I lose my breath on stairs. I can’t even chase a burglar anymore. I’m just... I’m just a liability with tits.”

You sat beside him on the floor, the cold seeping through your clothes. Quietly, you leaned in and kissed his shoulder.

“Sweetheart,” you said gently, “you’ve always been a liability. But now you’re a cute one.”

He inhaled sharply—like he might cry.

Instead, he reached into the fridge, pulled out a whole anchovy, and bit into it like a man declaring war on vulnerability.

You let him have that win.

“They’re just like me,” Kento sniffed from the living room, watching the whales documentary with tears in his eyes. “All they do is carry weight and float.”

Toji snorted, chewing on raw seaweed like it was jerky.

You raised an eyebrow and asked loud enough for Kento to hear too. “Do either of you want ice cream or a weapon?”

“Both,” they said in unison.

Satoru burst through the door. “KUSAKABE IS CROWNING—WHO HAS THE ESSENTIAL OILS?!”

You frowned. “He can’t. He’s just four months, like the rest of ya’ll.”

Kento threw a pillow.

Toji screamed into a blanket.

And outside, Sukuna taped an ultrasound to your car windshield with washi tape.

---

Kento said it first. “I think she’s going to leave us.”

Toji didn’t respond. Just stared at the ceiling like he was watching his own obituary scroll past in Comic Sans. Legs up the wall in a circulation pose, one hand clutching a can of magnesium spray, the other cradling his bump like it had defaulted on a loan.

“She’s been working late,” Kento added, voice grim. “Three nights in a row.”

Toji sniffed. “She has to. Both of us hate corporate.”

“She’s incubated cursed children inside us, and we’re out here lactating in silk robes like unfinished side quests.”

That got a nod.

Silence.

Somewhere in the distance, a maid delivered a fourth tray of hibiscus tea and seaweed cookies.

Neither of them moved.

It was the fourth tray today.

Toji’s phone buzzed.

A photo from Satoru: matching maternity loungewear, one hand lovingly cradling his glow-in-the-dark bump, the other holding Sukuna’s ankle in a bubble foot soak.

Caption: “Spa night with the real ones 💅💞 sorry you two got abandoned 🥺✌️”

Toji stared. Kento stared.

A single vein in Toji’s forehead bulged like a cursed artifact trying to awaken.

“We need to do something,” Kento said. “I can’t let Satoru be more emotionally supported than me. Not during my birthday week.”

Toji sat up like he’d been exorcised. “What if we fake a contraction?”

Kento blinked. “That’s psychotic behavior.”

“I’m a Zen’in.”

Kento tightened the compression band under his robe. “Fine. But only if you swear not to punch the butler again.”

---

The plan was simple: lure you out of your office using baby-related chaos.

The execution? Unholy.

Toji staggered into the hallway mid-meeting while your assistant was on a Zoom call with your finance team. He collapsed against a potted plant, groaning theatrically and clutching his bump like he’d just taken a cannonball to the uterus.

Kento shouted, “SOMEBODY HELP!” while pacing in circles, moaning about Braxton Hicks contractions despite being only four months along.

Your assistant didn’t even flinch. She held up one finger to the camera. “Apologies, ma’am. The fathers are malfunctioning again.”

Toji, face pressed to the floor, rasped, “I SEE STARS.”

Then kicked over the vase.

“I think I’m leaking amniotic regret,” Kento added.

You arrived ten minutes later.

Not running—striding, heels sharp against marble, tablet under one arm, phone pinned to your shoulder mid-conference call. A junior doctor trailed behind you like an anxious duckling.

“What now,” you asked flatly, barely glancing at the destruction.

“You don’t love us anymore,” Toji muttered from the ground.

“You’ve missed prenatal yoga for four weeks,” Kento added, monotone. “Last time, they made me partner with Satoru.”

Your eyes finally lifted from your tablet.

First to Kento—rumpled, milk-stained, looking like a haunted librarian. Then Toji—covered in hibiscus tea and unspoken betrayal.

“I’m running a multi-billion yen logistics empire during an economic spiral,” you said. “I’m not skipping yoga because I don’t love you. I’m skipping it because I’m paying for your imported massage oils and that womb crystal Sukuna said would ‘align your fetus with Mercury.’”

Kento looked away, ashamed.

He did like the crystal.

Toji curled tighter on the floor. “Satoru and Sukuna’s girlfriend makes them soup.”

You exhaled. Hard.

Then gestured sharply to your assistant.

“Clear my schedule. Cancel the Singapore meeting.”

Your assistant blinked. “Ma’am. The Singapore merger—”

“I said, ‘Clear it.’”

Silence.

Toji looked up in awe. Kento’s eyes welled up.

You crouched beside them like an exhausted single mom attending a PTA meeting for kids who got kicked out of daycare for starting a turf war over graham crackers.

“You two,” you said, brushing hair from Toji’s face, “are deeply annoying. And I love you. But I am not Satoru’s wife. I do not have time to be an emotional jungle gym for two men who panic when their belly lotion isn’t certified organic.”

Toji sniffled. “It was itchy.”

Kento, voice breaking, “You… mean it?”

“I’ve invested too much in your therapy bills to abandon you now.”

Toji wiped his nose on his robe sleeve. “Even if I don’t have abs anymore?”

“I’ll buy you new ones.”

Kento brightened. “With sculpting?”

You cupped his cheeks. “Only the best, baby.”

---

Later that night, you hosted an intervention.

The spa room reeked of lavender oil and accountability.

Satoru and Sukuna sat cross-legged in pastel robes that read “Namaste the F* Away” while your assistant ran a PowerPoint titled:

“Not Everything Needs To Be a Competition: Let Other Dads Exist.”

Satoru raised a hand. “But Nanamin’s nipples are so expressive. It’s hard not to comment.”

You shut him up with one look.

Sukuna leaned back, arms crossed. “Toji’s got lactating beast energy. He should own it.”

Toji launched a bottle of prenatal vitamins across the room.

It hit the gong.

---

Epilogue: Whole Jujutsu Tech Maternity Wing is due in October

Kashimo: Due first. Denies crying. Cried anyway. Has started knitting baby mittens out of his own hair.

Higuruma: Has the biggest belly. Suing you for reproductive war crimes while eating his fifth lunch in the closet.

Choso: Calls his fetus “Little Brother number 18.” Cries daily. Yuji is his emotional doula.

Kusakabe: On bedrest. (It’s an excuse to sleep and not go on missions.)

Ino: Smallest bump. Biggest kicks. Likes knocking over little children with it.

Takaba: Won’t stop narrating his own contractions like a sports commentator.

Haibara: Leaks the most. Is trying to adopt Junpei.

Suguru: Personally curating a cursed lullaby playlist.

Satoru: Designing group maternity robes. Banned from appointments for gifting fetal plushies with Six Eyes. Runs a group chat titled “Womb to Tomb 💬💞”

Sukuna: Ate the baby shower cake two weeks early. Unapologetic.

Kento: Filed a 37-page parental leave form. Will cry if not given daily foot rubs.

Toji: Bit a midwife. Now owns three pregnancy girdles he calls “armor.” Will receive a new six-pack, by appointment only.

All their partners: Tired. Terrified. Planning a mass vasectomy ritual. Pre-approved by the elders.

You’re... not sure if this is what being a career woman sorcerer was supposed to look like.

But you’re too deep now.

And every Sunday—without fail—you cancel all calls, silence the chaos, and take your scared, leaking, emotionally unstable war criminals to karaoke.

Where they hold your hand.

Sing terrible 2000s J-pop ballads.

And cry into their mocktails about love.

Because rich girl love does not abandon.

Even if your boyfriends are hormonal, milk-dripping, emotionally unstable war criminals.

A/N: This fic began as an unholy shitpost and somehow became a year-long love letter to hormonal war criminals who cry during whale documentaries. Thank you for voting on Tumblr. Nanami won (barely—Toji was feral). So I gave you both.

Previous Oneshot - Help! I'm a Woman & I got my two Male Husbands Pregnant - Ryomen Sukuna x F!Reader x Gojo Satoru - [Tumblr/Ao3]

Want more - In Ratio Veritas: Someone got Nanami Kento Pregnant - [Tumblr/Ao3]

All Works Masterlist

The entire café turned. An old uncle coughed so hard he nearly choked on his samosa.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “…Where did you even hear that?”

“Movies,” Gojo said proudly. “I studied the art of Indian cinema. Method acting. Immersion.”

Her face did that dangerous thing: trying not to laugh but failing. “You watched Bhojpuri movies, didn’t you?”

Gojo leaned back, smug. “Is that what they were? I just typed ‘Hindi romance movie full’ on YouTube. They had subtitles. Sort of. Sometimes the subtitles just said [angry yelling].”

She buried her face in her hands. “You’re… quoting Bhojpuri heroes to me?”

“Don’t women like it when a man shows initiative?” Gojo asked, dead serious. “Besides, I’ve mastered the language of passion.” He dropped his voice again, leaning in, “Raja babu, hum aap ke liye jaan de denge.” (King baby, I will even give my life for you.)

The barista actually snorted.

She looked up at him slowly, like staring into the sun too long. “…You just called yourself Raja Babu.”

“Dear King, right?” Gojo winked.

“It’s more like… tacky 2000s hero who fights twenty men with a plastic chair.”

“…So still sexy.”

She choked on her chai. “No. Absolutely not.”

---

That night, she texted him:

Please, for the love of god, stop watching Bhojpuri movies.

Gojo: ok. i’ll broaden my horizons. trust me babe 😎

---

The next date, he showed up in a kurta two sizes too big, still wearing his shades indoors.

He sat down, cleared his throat with the gravity of someone about to recite the Gita. “Ready?”

She braced herself. “No.”

Gojo smirked and delivered, “Evandi cheppanu ra nenu!”

Silence.

She blinked. “…That’s Telugu.”

“Yeah! South India! Broader horizons, remember? I picked Arjun Reddy.”

“That’s not even Hindi!”

“Details.” He leaned in again. “So? Did it work? Are you swooning?”

“India has, like, twenty-two official languages and over one thousand nine hundred dialects bumping into each other,” she said, poking him in the cheek. “And I don't even know Telugu, but I feel like I'm pretty sure you just called me ‘ra.’ And not the nice, respectful ‘ra’ you use for your grandma.”

“Ra means queen?”

“It means… dude.”

Gojo slammed the table like a tragic hero. “DAMN IT. Why is love so complicated?!”

“Because you’re insane,” she muttered.

But she was laughing, hand over her mouth.

---

By their third date, Gojo had gone completely off the rails.

They were at the park. Families strolled by. Gojo stood on a bench and bellowed in his deepest Bhojpuri-hero voice:

“Ae chhath puja wali maiya ke kasam! Hum tumse vivah karenge!” (I swear on Goddesses of Chhath, I WILL marry you. [Threntningly])

Birds flew off the trees. Children screamed. Someone’s grandma muttered a prayer.

She yanked him down by the sleeve, hissing, “Do you even know what you just said?!”

“Yes,” Gojo said confidently. “I just proposed to you. With holy festival vibes. Romantic, right?”

“You just swore on Chhath Puja! Do you know how insane that sounds?!”

“Insanely hot?”

“No! Insanely blasphemous!”

Gojo blinked behind his shades. “…So, like, points for drama though?”

She shoved his shoulder, trying not to smile. “Zero points. Negative points. Your Bollywood license is revoked.”

---

But Gojo, being Gojo, didn’t quit.

Next week he appeared at her door holding a dhol.

“Oh God No.”

“Babe,” he said, too solemn, “it’s time.”

“For what.”

“To serenade you. Bollywood style.”

Before she could stop him, he started banging on the drum, belting, “Lollypop lagelu!” (Look like a lollypop. [Absolutely vulgar in the filthiest way possible, no, not Tumblr filth with tee-hee "non-con" smut more like actual consent issues and possible rape threat filth.])

The neighbor’s dog started howling.

Her jaw dropped. “SATORU. That’s a Bhojpuri item song.”

“Item songs are romantic, right?”

“They’re… about… lollipops! In ways I can’t explain to you!”

Gojo froze, dhol mid-air. “…So not romantic?”

“Absolutely not.”

He blinked, then grinned. “Okay, but did you smile?”

“…I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

---

Which... wasn't wrong.

Every ridiculous line, every wrong word, every cringe attempt—it was still Gojo, shameless and luminous and trying, in his own broken way, to bridge a language he couldn’t master after somehow managing to get a girlfriend in his student exchange program in a country whose customs he didn't understand.

He sat across from her again, this time quiet, no theatrics. Just him fiddling with his coffee straw.

“…I really do like you, you know.” He looked up, sheepish. “Even if my Hindi’s a train wreck.”

She smiled into her chai. “…It is.”

“But you’re laughing.”

“…I am.”

He leaned forward, dropping the shades finally. His eyes were too blue, too earnest. “Then maybe I’m doing something right.”

Her heart betrayed her, warming despite herself. “Maybe.”

Then he ruined it,

“Babu, humke shaadi kara do.” (Infant! Get me married!)

She groaned into her hands. “…I’m never forgiving you.”

Gojo just grinned, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears.

His thumb lingers for a bit.

#2: Nanami vs. Lollypop Lagelu

The library was peaceful before the Internship Interviews. Nanami sat across from her, his posture conflicted, his tie slightly loosened as if that made him less intimidating. He was trying—painfully, visibly—to not look like he’d rehearsed whatever came next.

She adjusted her coat over her saree, narrowing her eyes. “…You’re staring.”

Nanami coughed into his hand. “I’ve been… studying your culture.”

Her face went still. “…Studying?”

“Yes.” Nanami folded his hands, serious as if he were about to deliver a financial report. “I came across a song.”

“Oh god.”

Nanami cleared his throat. Then, with zero expression, in the flattest voice possible, he recited:

“Lollypop lagelu.”

Her soul left her body. “No.”

Nanami blinked. “…No?”

“No. Absolutely not. You did not just—” She slapped the table with her palm. “That song is the bane of my existence.”

Nanami adjusted his coat. “But it seemed popular. The melody was… catchy.”

“It’s vulgar!” she hissed. “Do you even know what it means?”

Nanami paused. “…Something about candy?”

Her eyes burned holes through him.

He looked down at the floor, then back up, unflinching. “…It’s metaphorical candy, isn’t it?”

“YES. AND YOU JUST QUOTED IT TO ME IN A LIBRARY.”

A student three tables away snorted. Nanami closed his eyes briefly, as if contemplating early death.

---

The next day, he tried again.

They were at a street-side tea stall, steam curling around them, the clink of glass cups punctuating the evening air.

She was mid-sip when Nanami, out of nowhere, murmured, “Jab se dekhe hain tauhar khatiya, uhe din se chain na aawela.”

She spat her chai back into the cup. “ARE YOU INSANE?”

Nanami froze. “…Was that… wrong?”

“WRONG?!” She slapped her forehead. “Do you even know what you just said?!”

“…Something romantic?”

“You literally just said since you saw my rickety cot, you can’t sleep at night!”

Nanami stared, color draining from his face. “…Oh.”

“Oh?!”

“I… see how that may come across poorly.”

“Poorly?! That’s not romance, Kento, that’s harassment in a song!”

Nanami closed his eyes again. “…I will add this to the list of mistakes.”

---

By the third attempt, she was ready to strangle him.

They walked along the river. Lanterns bobbed in the water. For once, the world looked like a painting. Nanami’s hand brushed hers—hesitant, warm, real. For half a second, it felt perfect.

Then he opened his mouth.

“Tohar badan kurkureya, tohar gaal gulabi…” (Your body is crunchy and your cheeks pinky.)

She stopped dead. “…Nanami.”

“Yes?”

“…Did you just call my body Kurkure?”

He hesitated. “…Yes.”

“As in the chips?!”

“…Yes.”

She turned, grabbing him by the tie, dragging him down to her level. “Listen to me very carefully. If you ever—ever—compare me to crunchy chips again, I will bury you in Bihar myself.”

Nanami looked her dead in the eye, serious as stone. “…Understood.”

---

And yet.

He kept trying.

Not because he loved those songs (he did not, his Spotify history looked like a crime scene), but because when she got mad, when her eyes lit up with that furious fire, she looked alive in a way that made his chest ache.

So he stood outside her apartment one evening, hands in his pockets, staring at the window.

When she opened it, glaring down at him, he called softly,

“…Tumhra se badar kuchu na pyaara…”

Her anger faltered.

“…Kento.”

“It means… nothing is dearer to me than you.”

For once, it wasn’t crude. For once, he got it right.

She leaned on the sill, lips twitching. “…Finally. A line that doesn’t make me want to stab you.”

Nanami allowed himself the smallest smile. “…So it’s working.”

Her laugh floated down, unguarded. “Barely.”

Then she caught herself, scowling again. “But if you ever sing Lollypop Lagelu again—”

Nanami raised a hand. “Noted.”

“—I will set all your clothes on fire.”

“…Also noted.”

Meanwhile, Gojo was standing on top of a fountain, screaming:

“Ae raja babu! Humka dulhin banaw!” (Hey infant, make me a bride.)

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose, watching Gojo get pelted with coins by amused children.

“…I should have just bought a Hindi textbook,” he muttered to himself.

#3: Toji’s Ranbir Kapoor Delusions

The frat house smelled like sweat, alcohol poisoning, and Axe body spray.

Toji was sprawled on the couch, tank top clinging to his shoulders, scrolling through his phone with a frown.

His girl walked in, plopping down beside him. “I was watching Piku again. Irrfan Khan… god, what an actor.”

Toji glanced up, brain lagging half a beat. “…Ranbir Kapoor?”

She froze. “No. Irrfan. Khan.”

But this man, who’s built like a tank but has the memory retention of a teaspoon, did not disappoint.

Toji had already nodded, filing it away in his gym-bro brain. Ranbir Kapoor. Got it. Gotta impress her with Ranbir moves.

That night, he did his “research.” Which meant shotgunning Kingfishers while binging Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani (This youth is mad), Animal, and Kabir Singh back-to-back, muttering “so this is what romance looks like in India.”

By 3 AM, Toji had convinced himself that women here wanted a man who was toxic, controlling, broodingly hot and slightly unhygienic.

“Easy,” he muttered, flexing at his reflection. “I already got the hot part.”

---

Next day, he put it into practice.

They were walking through the college campus, sunlight dappling through neem trees. She was mid-story about fighting Naoya when Toji suddenly stopped, narrowed his eyes, and barked,

“Don’t talk to any other guy. Only me.”

She blinked. “…Excuse me?”

“I said,” he repeated, straight out of Kabir Singh, “you’re mine. No one else’s. Ranbir Kapoor said it.”

Her right eye twitched. “Toji.”

“Yes, baby?”

“That’s SHAHID, you idiot! And if you quote that misogynist garbage at me again, I will stab you with a compass.”

Toji scratched his head. “…So, uh, not hot?”

“TOXIC. It’s TOXIC.”

“…But he got the girl at the end?”

“That’s because mainstream Indian cinema hates women!”

---

Two days later, he doubled down.

They were in the canteen. She was eating Kadhi Kachori peacefully. Toji leaned in close, his voice dropping to a gravelly growl.

“You change your pads four times a month and think you know everything.”

The spoon clattered out of her hand.

“…WHAT did you just say to me?”

Toji smirked, flexing one bicep. “I’m being… raw. Honest. Like Ranbir.”

“Do you WANT to die today?!”

Heads turned. The whole canteen went quiet as she stood, hands clenched around her steel plate like a weapon.

Toji blinked, finally registering her homicidal aura. “…Babe?”

“Babe my ass. Stand up. Stand up right now so I can murder you in public. That will send a message.”

He held his hands up, backing away. “Wait, wait, wait—what did I do wrong?!”

“You watched Animal?! That’s what you did wrong!”

“I thought you liked Ranbir!”

“I SAID IRRFAN! IRRFAN KHAN! THE ACTOR WITH ACTUAL RANGE, NOT—NOT THAT TOXIC CLOWN!”

The plate whizzed past his head, embedding in the wall with a terrifying clang.

By the time she lunged for his throat, Choso had to step in, dragging his friend back like wrangling a drunk gorilla.

“For god’s sake,” Choso muttered, “stop quoting Bollywood shit before she kills you.”

Toji, bleeding from the lip where the spatula finally connected, blinked. “…So Irrfan Khan, huh?" Then grinned, "He hot?"

She shrieked.

Choso pinched his nose. “You’re hopeless.”

Thank god for his teaspoon memory, he hadn't said the actual dialogue or... [The actual dialogue: Mahine mein 4 baar pad change karne ke liye itna natak karti hai tu, main roz 50 kar raha hoon! = You create so much drama about changing pads 4 times a month, and here I am changing 50 a day!]

---

That evening, Gojo was now trying to serenade with "Bhatar Kare Malish," (Husband massages me [vulgar and derogatory]). Nanami had been banned from speaking Bhojpuri within a fifty-meter radius, and Sukuna was nursing spatula bruises, muttering “Naan ready da” under his breath. (I am ready, dude.)

And Toji was Googling Irrfan Khan clips at the gym, mumbling, “Why does this guy look... normal?”

#4: Sukuna’s South Indian Spatula Massacre

Earlier, the kitchen smelled of curry leaves and mustard seeds crackling in hot oil.

Sukuna leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, tattoos stark against the light. He watched her stir the sambar, lips twitching like he was about to say something catastrophic.

She glanced at him warily. “…What.”

Sukuna smirked. “You like South Indian movies, right?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

“I did some research.”

“Oh god.”

He swaggered over, snatched the spatula out of her hand like some tragic antihero, and growled in his deepest voice,

“Ninnu kalisedham anukuntunna.” (I will have you married to me. [Threateningly])

She froze. “…No.”

“Yes.” Sukuna smirked wider. “You like it?”

“NO.” She snatched the spatula back and smacked his arm with it. “That’s Arjun Reddy.”

“…And?”

“And it’s toxic masculinity fanfiction in Telugu! You’re literally trying to be Kabir Singh South Indian Edition.”

Sukuna blinked. “But he was… hot?”

“He was a walking red flag with anger issues.”

“…So me, but with less hygiene.”

She raised the spatula again.

---

Later, when he thought she’d cooled off, he tried again.

They were still at her place, TV on, muted. Sukuna leaned against the wall, arms folded, smirk dialed up to maximum.

Then he muttered, “Rowdy baby.”

She whipped her head around. “Did you just—”

“Yes.” Sukuna winked. “Rowdy. Baby.”

She chucked a pillow at him so hard it almost knocked his ear piercings off.

“Do you even know what that means in context?!”

“Yeah. It’s like… sexy?”

“It’s a dance song from a mass film. Not art cinema. Not romance. You absolute dumbass.”

Sukuna rubbed his jaw where the pillow hit. “…Still catchy though.”

“Catchy isn’t the same as romantic, you donky.”

---

By the third attempt, she was one spatula-swing away from homicide.

She was chopping onions, humming to herself, when Sukuna swaggered in, leaned on the counter, and purred,

“Naan yaaru daa nee yaaru daa.” (Who am I, huh? Who are you, huh? [Threat again.])

The knife stopped mid-air.

Slowly, very slowly, she turned. “…What did you just say.”

He grinned, all teeth. “Who am I, who are you, baby. Like Dhanush. Rowdy. Passionate.”

Her nostrils flared. “…That’s from Pudhupettai! He says that right before he beats a man to death with a bicycle chain for disrespecting him.”

“…Which is also kinda romantic?”

She raised the spatula again. “ROMANTIC WHERE?”

Sukuna backed up, hands raised. “Okay, okay—shit—”

She chased him around the kitchen with the spatula, yelling in three languages.

---

Later that night, Sukuna sat on the couch, cheek red from the flat end of stainless steel. He crossed his arms, sulking.

“…You’re too picky.”

She folded beside him, eyes still burning. “No. You’re just quoting trash cinema.”

“Trash cinema’s still cinema,” he muttered.

She stared. “…Do you even know Mani Ratnam?”

“…Is that a type of biryani?”

Her scream could have broken glass. "He's like Christopher Nolan if Nolan did romantic and socio-political films."

---

Across town, Gojo was again serenading his girl with "Humra Lehenga Ke Andar WiFi" at a bus stop. (WiFi under my marital skirt.)

She stared blankly. “…Are you comparing my love to internet inside a traditional skirt?”

“It’s about connection!” he said, waving his hands. “Deep, wireless connection!"

She sighed.

Jerked one heel off.

Bent and picked it up.

Gojo was already running, giggling.

Nearby, Nanami was trying to convince his girl that “Kurkure body” was romantic.

“It’s not about the snack,” he insisted calmly, pushing his glasses up with utter, misguided seriousness. “It’s structural integrity. Crisp. Reliable. Efficient curvature.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “You compared my waist to a fried potato stick.”

“A premium structurally superior fried potato stick.”

"Well then, your nipples are crispy too."

Nanami blue-screened.

"Doesn't feel so good, does it."

And Toji, slouched against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, was getting an impromptu earful from his woman, gesturing aggressively with a half-eaten samosa.

“Respect isn’t a side quest! We have layers! Dreams! We’re not NPCs waiting around for you to press ❌ to flirt!”

Toji blinked slowly. “…But what about the ‘headshot’ line from Dhoom 2? That was cool, right?”

The samosa was thrown.

All the while, Sukuna was still nursing a spatula bruise on his jaw, glaring at a nearby billboard of Arjun Reddy like it personally kept him a virgin.

India’s cinematic legacy would never recover.

The Starbucks smelled of hazelnut syrup and stale croissants. Four women sat at a corner table, their expressions a perfect blend of exhaustion and impending homicide.

Gojo’s girl broke first, dropping her head into her hands. “He stood on a public fountain yesterday. A fountain. Screaming ‘Chachi Ke Bachi Sapnawa Mein Aati Hain’ like some sugar-rushed peacock.” (Random auntie’s infant daughter appears in my dreams.)

Nanami’s girl gave a dry snort into her coffee. “At least yours is just loud. Mine waited until I was mid-orgasm, looked me dead in the eye, and said my silhouette had—quote—‘the perfect structural integrity of a Kurkure.’”

Silence.

Then a horrified whisper, “He compared your body… to deep-fried potato?”

“Not just compared. He said it was a compliment. Went on about the ‘air-to-crunch ratio.’”

Gojo’s girl groaned. “Could be worse. At least he didn’t call you 'Uncle Chips.' Or 'Mad Angles.' Or 'Hippo Munchies.' Mine would, if he knew enough English—or Hindi—to even order at convenience stores by himself. Instead, he drags me everywhere like a toddler, then hides his face in my hair for reasons I'm yet to decipher. Honestly, it’s a miracle how we communicate at all.”

Toji’s girl banged the table so hard the spoons rattled. “Kurkure?! Please. Try ‘You change your pads four times a month.’”

The table went silent.

“…That’s grounds for jail and... castration,” Sukuna’s girl muttered darkly.

“You think?” Toji’s girl snapped. “I almost killed him with a steel plate in the canteen. If one more person compares my favourite actor, Irrfan Khan, to fucking Ranbir Kapoor, I swear—”

“Irrfan Khan,” Nanami’s girl sighed dreamily. “God, can we just take a moment? Imagine if any of them even tried to watch one of his films.”

Sukuna’s girl muttered, “They’d probably fall asleep before the interval.”

Nanami's girl squinted in thought. "I think Kento might not. He'd like him."

“Or,” Sukuna’s girl said, voice sharp, “try to copy Arjun Reddy like some third-rate toxic bro.” She jabbed her thumb at her temple. “He literally growled ‘Naan ready da’ at me in the kitchen, while I was cooking for his goofy ass.”

The women groaned in chorus.

That’s when the fifth voice joined.

Suguru’s girl slid into the empty chair, setting down her iced coffee like she’d been waiting for this moment. She glanced around, arched a brow. “So… all your boyfriends are all idiots, huh?”

“Yes,” they chorused.

She smiled, slow and satisfied. “Mine isn’t.”

Four sets of eyes rolled.

“Oh, don’t start,” Sukuna’s girl warned.

“No, really.” She stirred her coffee lazily. “Suguru actually sat through them with me. We’ve been watching one movie a night after dinner.

I even started him strong with Maqbool—that modern Macbeth one—so he knows what’s up. No phone, no complaining. He even asked me questions in Hindi afterwards. Proper grammar. Good questions. Then immediately said, he'll be inhaling Tabu's Filmography once we are done with Irfan Khan's. I told him to add Shefali Shah after.

Then we watched The Lunchbox. He was way too intense about it—kept shushing me every time I tried to comment. Life in a… Metro, he liked too. 7 Khoon Maaf (7 murders forgiven), he liked maybe a little too much, but in a good way. Madaari (Puppeteer) wrecked him—he was depressed for days, so I had to distract him with 'Vikram Aur Betal,' and he said Betal reminded him of Gojo.

Later, I showed him Hindi Medium and Piku, and by then his Hindi was catching up—he even laughed at some of the jokes, said he liked how some Indian films feel domestic despite the absurd everyday humour and all.

Then he even went and found this obscure Japanese mini-series Irfan did, Tokyo Trial, so we could watch that together too.”

Gojo’s girl gaped. “That’s not even—”

“—humanly possible,” Sukuna’s girl finished flatly.

Toji’s girl narrowed her eyes. “…You’re lying.”

Nanami's girl was already threatening her man on text: “You. Me. Movie tonight. Clothes stay on. You sit in the opposite corner of the couch and watch whatever I put on like it’s a minimum-security prison.”

Nanami’s reply came a minute later: “Understood. Will bring movie food. Not Kurkure.”

Suguru’s girlfriend leaned back, smug. “I’m not. He even joined the film society on campus. Which, by the way, is how I scored us something special.”

The table leaned in, suspicious.

She smirked. “There’s a guest talk tomorrow. Film appreciation lecture. Guess who’s coming?”

Their breath caught.

“…No,” Gojo’s girl whispered.

“Yes,” she said.

Toji’s girl slammed her palm against the table. “You’re joking.”

“Not joking. And I have passes. For all of us.”

All four women lit up like kids on Diwali.

“Finally,” Sukuna’s girl said, eyes shining. “A man worth listening to.”

“A man who won’t call me Kurkure,” Nanami’s girl muttered.

“A man who’s not Ranbir Kapoor,” Toji’s girl growled.

“A man who won’t yell vulgar Bhojpuri confessions in public,” Gojo’s girl added.

---

Meanwhile, back at the frat house, the boys were in shambles.

Gojo was sprawled on the floor, hugging the dhol.

Nanami sat in a corner, quietly Googling “how to apologise for calling someone crispy.”

Sukuna paced the balcony, practising “Rowdy baby” lines in the mirror. (He was gonna die if he spoke them again.)

And Toji, bandaged from flying crockery, stared at his phone, searching “difference between Irrfan Khan and Ranbir Kapoor.”

Suguru walked in brushing cigarette ash off his sleeve.

“Why do you all look homeless?”

“Shut up,” Gojo groaned.

Suguru smirked, slipping a stack of event passes into his pocket. “Funny. Your women don’t think so.”

The frat house echoed with wailing.

---

Next day, the women sat in the front row of the auditorium, faces glowing as Irrfan Khan himself walked onto the stage.

For two hours, they listened to him talk about cinema, about stories that cut deeper than clichés, about how honesty matters more than theatrics.

By the end, half the girls had tears in their eyes.

And not once—not once—did anyone say the words lollypop, rowdy baby, or Kurkure.

It was bliss.

A/N: Please leave a comment if something made you laugh or even think. :)

Nanami winced at the memory.

It had started a few days ago.

A normal evening. A peaceful one.

Nanami had just returned home from a mission, exhausted but relieved to see his girlfriend—his strange, beautiful, extraterrestrial girlfriend—lounging on the couch, flipping through one of the books Yuki Tsukumo had given her about “modern human ethics.”

“Welcome back,” she said, not looking up.

Nanami hummed, loosening his tie, walking over to kiss her forehead—

Only for her to place a single hand on his chest and push him away.

“No.”

Nanami stared. “No?”

She nodded, dead serious. “Consent, Nanami.”

“…I see.”

He did not, in fact, see.

Yuki Tsukumo had given you The Talk.

Not the human birds-and-bees talk, mind you. The alien and humans talk. Specifically, a 45-minute PowerPoint titled "Consent: Earth’s Weirdest Social Construct (And Why You Should Care)."

You, an intergalactic diplomat with the emotional subtlety of a sledgehammer, took notes.

The next few days were hell.

Nanami poured two glasses of wine after dinner. A ritual. A prelude.

You, perched on the couch like a nervous meerkat, watched him unbutton his shirt cuff. Your antennae (disguised as a very chic headband) twitched.

Step 1: Human male initiates a courtship ritual.

Step 2: Female must DENY.

Step 3: ??? Profit???

“Kento,” you blurted as he leaned in, his lips inches from yours. “NO.”

Nanami froze. “...No?”

“Correct.” You nodded solemnly. “Consent protocol. Denial is mandatory.”

He blinked. “But… you’re literally glowing.”

Your bioluminescent skin was pulsing neon pink, the universal sign of “I would like to interface with your reproductive organs, please.”

“Irrelevant!” You barked, sweating. “Yuki said always say no first! It’s empowering!”

The next few days were a blur.

Attempt 1: Nanami brought you coffee in bed. You karate-chopped the mug out of his hand. “NO SEDUCTION!”

Attempt 2: He complimented your hair. You screamed, “VERBAL COERCION DETECTED!” and hid in the closet.

Attempt 3: He looked at you. You threw a couch pillow at his face.

Nanami, being a rational adult, had respected your newfound boundaries.

But then, he started noticing something off.

You were actively avoiding being too close to him.

You would stare at him for long periods, looking extremely troubled.

You would sigh. A lot.

At first, he thought you were mad at him. Had he done something wrong? Were you tired of Earth’s customs? Were you planning on returning to space???

But then—

One evening, as he passed by the bedroom, he heard something suspicious.

A frustrated groan.

The sound of sheets rustling.

Then, a very pained, very dramatic—“UGH! WHY IS THIS SO DIFFICULT??”

Nanami froze.

Slowly, he opened the door—

And there you were.

Sitting on the bed.

Legs crossed.

A book in your lap.

And a very clear sexual frustration-induced meltdown written all over your face.

“…Darling?”

You jerked up, tossing the book aside. “K-Kento! What are you doing here?”

Nanami squinted. “This is my bedroom.”

“…Oh.”

Silence.

His gaze flickered to the book. It was one of Yuki’s.

The title?

“BASIC CONSENT AND HUMAN RELATIONSHIPS: HOW TO SAY NO”

Nanami sighed.

He was going to kill Tsukumo.

Nanami now sat in the corner of your and his apartment, wrapped in a blanket, eating cereal straight from the box. “I’ve been defeated by a PowerPoint,” he mumbled.

You, finally sensing distress, approached. “Kento? Why are you emitting ‘sad elevator music’ energy?”

He stared into the void (his cereal). “You’ve rejected me 30 times in 192 hours. I’m starting to think you’ve lost interest.”

“Nonsense!” You pulled up Yuki’s slides on your hologram watch. “See? Slide 12: ‘Consent = saying no until they write you a sonnet’.”

Nanami squinted. “That’s… not what that means.”

“But Yuki said—”

“Yuki also thinks monogamy is a scam and once tried to marry a beer vending machine.”

You paused. “…Ah.”

Sitting up, Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose as you sat across from him, looking incredibly confused.

“So,” he continued, “you’ve been avoiding intimacy with me because you think you have to say no.”

You crossed your arms. “Yes. Consent.”

“Consent,” he repeated, voice dry, “also means you can say yes.”

You froze.

“…Huh?”

Nanami blinked slowly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Darling. Consent is about choice. You are allowed to say no, but you are also allowed to say yes if you want to.”

You gasped.

Your entire worldview shattered.

Nanami, the patient king, drew a Venn diagram on a napkin:

Circle A: “Things Yuki Says”

Circle B: “Things That Make Sense”

Overlap: None.

You gasped. "So... when you touch my antennae and I say 'yes, please’, that’s allowed?”

“Encouraged, even.”

“You mean—” You leaned forward, gripping his hands, eyes wide with revelation—“I can consent to being railed??”

Nanami choked on air.

“…I—” He exhaled sharply, regaining composure. “Yes. That is exactly what I am saying.”

Your eyes lit up.

But then you squinted, “But what about Step 3: Profit?”

He kissed you, cutting off the PowerPoint forever.

And then you stood up so fast you knocked the chair over.

“Well, why didn’t you say so earlier?? Nanami, get in the bedroom. Immediately.”

Later that night, after several rounds of making up for lost time, Nanami lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.

You, his alien girlfriend, rested beside him, very pleased with yourself.

You stretched, “Humans are so complicated.”

Nanami didn’t even have the energy to argue. “You learned it wrong.”

“I learned something.”

He turned his head, exhausted. “I’m having a word with Tsukumo tomorrow.”

You snorted. “What, are you going to complain that your girlfriend was too respectful of consent?”

Nanami sighed deeply.

A/N: Yuki received a 1-star review on her consent seminar.

Dividers by @pixopix.

Masterlist

“Die. I want you to die.”

You were 31, CEO of Delhi’s fastest-growing AI coffee tech startup—something buzzwordy enough that investors threw money at it while knowing f*ck all.

You didn’t blame them.

Hell. You wouldn’t invest in a company where Gojo Satoru was head of partnerships and spent most of his time making Instagram reels with your espresso machine.

Inside, your office looked like a crime scene if the crime was startup dysfunction.

Nanami was already in his cabin, stiff as a stick and just as exciting. Dressed in that same shirt you’d seen on him Monday.

It was Friday.

"Morning," he said, calm. Which pissed you off more.

"Kento," you said, arms crossed. "Why do I have an 11-slide deck on bean origin analytics and not one signed vendor deal?"

He didn’t look up. “You said you wanted more thorough research—”

“I said sign the fucking deal, not send me a college thesis. Christ, were you doing sudoku in college or just staying a virgin by choice?”

He said nothing. Just opened Excel. You hated how smug his silence felt.

Then he finally answered when you kept staring at him and making things awkward. “Both.”

“Explains why you file expense reports like it’s tantric foreplay.”

He adjusted his glasses. "Your coffee tastes burnt."

"It tastes like my soul, loser. Burnt but efficient."

Ino walked in, stupidly smiling, which immediately earned your wrath.

"Wow, look at you. Diljit Dosanjh starter pack,” you muttered, sipping your coffee. “Tell me, Ino, how’s it feel being the dumbest person in a building that includes Gojo and Sukuna?"

He blinked. “I—uh—”

“Say ‘I’m a bimbo’ and I’ll let you have a sip.”

Then you heard "thump thump" from the hallway.

Of course. Sukuna.

You didn’t even look up as he passed you. "Oye, tattoo. We haven’t fought in two days. You're overdue."

He stopped. Looked at you with his usual I'm-an-absentee-brother stare.

"Bring it, BC," you said. “Parking lot, lunch break. And no brass knuckles this time. Coward.”

Suguru strolled in next, calm as ever, hair tied like a villain from a mid-budget Netflix adaptation of Ramayan.

You gave him a once-over. “How’s the serial killing going, Suguru? Any dismemberment plans for the weekend?”

He smirked, too used to your mouth by now. “No, but I am free Saturday. Dinner?”

You fake-gagged. “I’d rather eat from a U.P. railway station bathroom.”

Toji came in half an hour late. No explanation. No guilt.

You watched him open a packet of peanuts like he hadn’t slept with three HR interns and two accounts managers since Monday.

“What happened, Shaktimaan? Your gym ran out of steroids?”

He grunted.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re gonna get hemorrhoids from all that squatting with no brains.”

He looked at you. “Still got better ass than yours.”

You threw Nanami’s stapler at him.

Gojo slinked back in with a Red Bull. You snatched it from his hand and took a sip.

"You're fired," you said.

"You can't fire me; I'm your co-founder."

"Then kill yourself. That works too."

Nanami sighed from the corner. “I’m emailing HR.”

“Do it,” you snapped. “Tell them to add a line in my bio—Delhi girl, startup CEO, drinks god-level coffee, and fights men for fun.”

At lunch, you walked to the parking lot with your sleeves rolled and a band tied around your hair like a 90s villain’s muse. Sukuna was already there, rolling his neck.

"You ready, Madam?" he grinned.

You cracked your knuckles. “Always. Just know, if you break my nail, I’m breaking your neck.”

Gojo started live-streaming it for team morale.

Rules:

No hair-pulling (you)

No cheap shots (him)

No crying (Ino, who already was)

By round three, your knuckles were bloody (his nose), Nanami’s coffee was spilled (a crime), and Gojo’s Lamborghini had a new dent (accidental collateral).

By 4 PM, your shirt had coffee stains, there was blood on your knuckles (not yours), and Ino had accidentally called you "didi," which made everyone ten times more uncomfortable than necessary.

You slumped into your chair, finally opening the next funding proposal.

Nanami brought you a fresh cup of coffee. No words. Just resignation.

You sipped it with judgement, then muttered, “...This is actually decent.”

He sat down across from you.

You glared at him.

“Still a virgin, though.”

By 5 PM, Toji was in the break room. Shirtless. Again.

“Put a f*cking shirt on, you gym-bro NPC,” you snapped.

He didn’t move. Just peeled a boiled egg with one hand.

You stared. “Toji, what is your job? Genuinely. I forget sometimes.”

“I’m... head of logistics & inventory infrastructure?”

“You broke the coffee grinder last week because you wanted to see ‘if it could handle protein powder.’ I should break your jaw and see if it can handle HR.”

Ino walked in carrying a box labelled “marketing assets.”

He tripped.

Dropped the whole thing.

“Beta,” you sighed. “Are you okay? Or just terminally stupid?”

“It’s my first startup,” he mumbled.

You smiled, full shark. “No worries. It’ll be your last too.”

Suguru strolled back in like a man who’s never opened Slack.

“Sup, boss."

“You were supposed to schedule that investor call.”

“I... decided it would be more effective to wait for them to reach out—”

“I swear to God, Suguru. You’re not manifesting money. This isn’t Baba Ramdev’s MLM.”

Then came Sukuna. His fourth warning letter in hand.

“You punched the intern.”

“He looked at me funny.”

“You’re head of product, not Thanos.”

He crossed his arms. “Then maybe people shouldn’t look weak.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be on the company payroll when all you do is threaten delivery guys and fight me in the parking lot.”

“You keep showing up.”

“You keep being punchable.”

By 7 PM, you were the only one who’d actually done any fucking work.

Investors called you directly. Clients asked for you only. Every system, every bug, every metric—you were the one catching it. While Nanami copy-edited reports, Gojo flirted with PR, Suguru ghosted meetings, Ino cried in the toilet, Toji did pushups, and Sukuna got banned from Uber Eats.

You locked yourself in the meeting room. Sat down with your feet up. Shut your eyes.

You deserved better.

But no. You were here. Babysitting grown men. Giving India its first AI-driven, temperature-controlled coffee machine. While these assholes ruined your life one budget leak and logistics error at a time.

Nanami knocked.

"Yes?" you said without opening your eyes.

He slid a cup of your own coffee toward you. “Here. You forgot lunch.”

You sighed.

"...Thanks, loser."

HR filed another complaint. You threatened to uninstall Slack. The company grew 8% that quarter.

Everyone knows you’re the soul of the startup. They’re just scared to say it out loud.

A/N: Please comment your thoughts below; I'm very nervous.

Next Chapters are up on - [Ao3]

The palace was breathtaking, a relic of Rajasthan’s royal past, its sandstone walls glowing amber under the setting sun. Nanami Kento had never been one for grand romantic gestures, but even he couldn’t resist the allure of this Mahal, with its intricate mosaics and whispered legends. His wife had been the one to suggest the trip. “It’s a place for lovers,” she’d said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “And we could use a little adventure, don’t you think?”

They had been married for five years, a union that defied cultural expectations—a half-Danish, half-Japanese man and an Indian woman who had met in the unlikeliest of places: a student exchange in Tokyo. Their love had always been quiet but fierce, built on mutual respect and a shared disdain for the supernatural. They were atheists, both of them, grounded in logic and reason. Ghosts, spirits, curses—these were the stuff of fairy tales, not their reality.

Nanami adjusted his sunglasses. "It’s just a palace. You wanted to see something ‘haunted,’ right?"

She scoffed. "I was joking."

"You were not."

A smirk tugged at her lips. "Fine. Maybe a little."

The group paused in front of the arched entryway; the marble cracked and overgrown with creeping vines. A hush settled over them as the guide began to recount the tale:

“This story isn’t in most history books, but ask the locals, and they’ll all tell you the same thing. Hundreds of years ago, a foreign prince came to this land—as a conqueror, though he stayed because of a person who lived here. Some say it was a woman, others say a man. The details were lost over time, but what we do know is that he had wealth, power, and control over vast territories. Yet, despite all of that, he chose to stay here, in a kingdom that wasn’t of his customs.

The prince was renowned for his striking beauty—his unique hair and captivating eyes—a ruler of immense charm but even greater misfortune. He built alliances, settled disputes, even took on the customs of the land. He was even undefeated in wars, a genius strategist. Some say he did it all for them—for the one person he couldn’t bear to leave behind.

But love like that rarely ends well.

One night, he vanished alongside his lover, a woman likely, promised to another. Some say they were caught and killed before they could run. Others say the prince’s enemies set a trap, making sure neither of them left these walls alive. But the strangest stories come from those who claim he never left at all.”

Nanami’s wife rolled her eyes. "He sounds like a tragic anime protagonist."

Nanami exhaled sharply—a rare, barely-there laugh. "You watch too much TV."

She elbowed him, and he caught her wrist, pulling her closer. The air between them shifted—heavy, charged.

"Come on," she whispered. "Let’s go somewhere less... crowded."

His hesitation was brief, a flicker of logic against the pull of her hand. They drifted past a crumbling archway, slipping into the shadowed halls of the abandoned palace. The moment the voices of the group faded behind them, the atmosphere thickened.

It wasn’t fear. It was anticipation.

She tugged him into a hidden alcove, her back pressing against cool stone. "No one’s here," she murmured, fingers curling into his shirt.

"Careful, darling, you sound too eager," he smirked, his voice lower and rougher.

"Maybe I just believe in you more than the ghosts," she teased.

But the Mahal had other plans.

He kissed her before she could say anything more—slow, deliberate, consuming. The taste of sweat and dust mixed with the softness of her lips, and for a moment, nothing existed beyond this—just the weight of her body against his, the sharp intake of breath when he gripped her waist beneath her t-shirt, the warmth of her skin beneath his palms. Her lips kissing his with a hunger that made his chest ache.

They kissed like they were the only two people in the world, the cool marble at their backs and the faint scent of eucalyptus in the air.

When they finally pulled apart, she laughed, her voice echoing strangely in the empty hall. “This place is magic,” she said, her fingers tracing the patterns on the wall. “Can’t you feel it?”

Nanami smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I feel you,” he replied, his voice low. “That’s enough magic for me.”

And then—

The wind shifted.

A whisper of cool air, unnatural against the desert heat, coiled around them.

She shivered.

He pulled back slightly, brows furrowing. "Are you cold?"

She shook her head. “I just... felt something.” Her voice was soft, almost hesitant, as if she couldn’t quite put it into words.

A beat of silence hung between them, heavy and unspoken as he waited for her to elaborate.

Then she laughed, the sound light and airy, brushing it off like it was nothing. “Forget it. Let’s go back,” she said, her smile returning as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

Her lips brushing against his ear, voice dropping to a whisper. “I want us to start trying for a baby.”

He shivered, a mix of surprise and warmth flooding through him. He’d wanted to have a family with her ever since he’d laid eyes on her.

Without a word, he pulled out his phone and called the driver, his voice steady but tinged with urgency.

As she stepped away, though, she hesitated.

Just for a moment.

Her gaze flickered toward the shadows of the palace, her smile faltering.

But then she shook it off, linking her arm with her husband’s waist, who kissed her forehead and pulled her towards the exit.

---

The first time he noticed something was wrong, it was subtle.

She was quieter on the ride back. Thoughtful. Her fingers tapped against the car window, her gaze unfocused.

"You’re not feeling sick, are you?" he asked, eyes flickering toward her.

She turned to him too slowly, blinking as if shaking herself from a daze. "No. Just tired."

He accepted it. At first.

But the things were going to change forever.

The moment the words had left her lips—“I want us to start trying for a baby”—Nanami’s world had narrowed to her, like it already didn’t revolve around her. His hands, usually so controlled, had trembled as they gripped her hips, pulling her closer. His lips had found hers in a kiss that was equal parts desperation and reverence; his breath had hitched as she melted into him.

“Are you sure?” He’d murmured against her mouth as soon as they walked inside their hotel room, his voice rough with need. When she nodded, his restraint had shattered.

He had been everywhere at once—his hands roaming her body, his lips trailing down her neck, his teeth grazing her skin in a way that made her gasp. He was drunk on her, consumed by the idea of her carrying his child, and it showed in every touch, every kiss, every ragged breath. His composed demeanor was gone, replaced by a raw, primal hunger that left her breathless.

Nanami had been relentless, each thrust drawing a gasp or moan from her lips. He’d already brought her to the edge multiple times, his hands and mouth working in tandem to unravel her completely. But now, as he hovered above her, his hips moving with a rhythm that was almost possessive, he was focused on one thing: filling her. The thought of it—of her carrying his child—had him teetering on the edge of control.

“K…Ken…Ahh,” she had whimpered his name, her nails digging into his back as she arched against him. Her legs wrapped tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groaned, his forehead dropping to hers.

“I’ve got you,” he’d murmured, voice rough, breathless. His hand had slid between them, thumb circling her clit as he felt her tighten around him again. “Come for me one more time, love.”

She had, her body shuddering as she cried out his name. He was about to follow her over the edge.

But then, she had frozen. Her eyes wide, as she’d turned her head sharply toward the window. “Do you hear that?” she’d whispered, voice trembling.

Nanami had stilled, his brow furrowing as he tried to catch his breath. “Hear what?” he’d asked; his tone had been calm but tinged with concern.

“Music,” she’d said, her voice barely audible. "It's... it’s faint, but it’s there. Like a sitar or something.”

He had seriously listened but had heard nothing except the sound of their breathing and the faint rustle of the curtains. “I don’t hear anything,” he’d said gently, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Are you sure?”

She’d nodded, eyes wide with confusion. “It’s there, Kento. I’m not imagining it.”

Nanami had studied her face, his analytical mind kicking into gear.

He had known her well enough to recognize when she was serious, and right now, she looked genuinely unsettled.

“Alright,” he’d said softly, pulling out of her and sitting up. “Let’s figure this out.”

She’d blinked, surprised by his calm reaction. “You believe me?”

“I believe that you heard something,” he’d said carefully, his tone measured. “Whether it’s real or not, we’ll find out. But I need you to be honest with me—are you sure you’re ready for this? For us trying for a baby?”

Her eyes had been filled with tears, and she’d shaken her head. “I’m not lying, Kento. I want this. I want us. But I heard something, and it's...”

He’d sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, let’s take a breath and figure this out together.”

As he’d reached for his robe, she’d grabbed his hand, her grip tight. “I’m sorry,” she’d whispered. “I didn’t mean to ruin the moment.”

He’d turned back to her, his expression softening. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he’d said, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. “We’ll figure this out. But for now, let’s just... breathe.”

She’d nodded, but the unease in her eyes remained.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Nanami had muttered before walking away.

She’d sat there, alone and confused, the faint strains of music still echoing in her ears.

Later that night, as they lay in their bed, she had sat up abruptly, her eyes wide. “Did you hear that?” she’d whispered.

“Hear what?” Nanami had asked, already half-asleep.

“A voice. It was… singing.”

He’d dismissed it as a trick of the wind or her exhaustion, but the next day, she’d insisted they return to the palace, her tone urgent and her eyes wide with something he couldn’t quite place. “I need to see it again,” she’d said, her tone urgent. “There’s something there, Kento. I can’t explain it.” He had to spend two hours convincing her it was nothing and they’d stick with their itinerary with the hotel.

Maybe it was the stress of traveling. Maybe the unfamiliar environment was playing tricks on her senses. Or maybe, just maybe, she was overwhelmed by the idea of starting a family. He’d convinced himself it was temporary, something they could work through together.

But then it started happening every time.

Just as he was about to cum inside, she’d flinch, her body tensing as she turned her head sharply, her eyes darting toward some unseen corner of the room. “Do you hear that?” she’d whisper, her voice trembling. “Music. It’s… it’s faint, but it’s there.”

And every time, he’d stop, his patience wearing thinner and thinner. He’d listen, his brow furrowed, but hear nothing. “There’s no music,” he’d say, his voice calm but tinged with frustration. “It’s just us.”

She’d insist, her eyes pleading with him to believe her, but he couldn’t. Not when it kept happening. Not when it felt like she was pulling away from him in the moments they should have been closest.

Nanami was a logical man. He prided himself on his ability to analyze situations, to break them down into manageable parts, and find solutions. But this... this defied logic. He’d run through every possible explanation—stress, fatigue, even the lingering effects of jet lag—but none of them fully accounted for her behavior. And the more it happened, the harder it became to ignore the gnawing doubt in the back of his mind.

Maybe she doesn’t want this. Maybe she doesn’t want kids with me. Maybe she doesn’t want me.

The thought was like a knife to his chest. They’d been together for so long—twelve years of knowing each other, five years of marriage. He’d fought for her, convinced her family to let him marry her, to leave everything behind and build a life with him. He’d never doubted her love before, but now... now he wasn’t so sure.

He didn’t want to believe his intrusive thoughts; he really didn’t.

She loved him, right? She married him.

But then why did this trip feel like he was better off back home than traveling the world with the love of his life?

So next time he hadn't been as kind to her.

“Ken baby,” she’d breathed one night, fingers tangling in his hair as she pulled him closer. They had been in their hotel room, the soft glow of the moonlight filtering through the curtains. Her touch had been warm, familiar, and for a moment, he let himself believe everything was okay.

He’d kissed her deeply, his hands sliding under her thighs to lift her onto the bed from the table he’d been fucking her against. His movements were urgent but reverent, as if he couldn’t believe this was real. He wanted her, wanted this, wanted the future they’d talked about for so long.

But then, as he’d continued to roll his hips, tettering on the edge of her and his own release, his eyes dark with desire, she’d froze.

Her head snapped toward the window, her eyes wide with fear. “Do you hear that?” She’d whispered, voice trembling.

Nanami had stilled, jaw tightening. “Hear what?” he’d asked, tone clipped.

“Music,” she’d said. “It’s… it’s coming from somewhere.”

He’d stared at her, his frustration bubbling over.

“There’s no music,” he’d said flatly, voice tight. “Are you... changing your mind? Is that what this is?”

“What? No!” She’d protested, voice rising. “I heard something, Kento. I’m not lying.”

He’d clenched his jaw and pulled out and away, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “If you’re not ready, just say so. Don’t make up excuses.”

Her eyes had been wide, hurt flashing across her face. “I’m not making anything up! I heard music. Why won’t you believe me?”

“Because there’s nothing there!” He’d snapped, voice sharper than he intended. He stood, pacing the room, his frustration boiling over. “If you’re not ready for this, fine. But don’t play games with me.”

She’d stared at him, her chest tightening. “I’m not playing games,” she’d said quietly, voice breaking. “I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m not lying to you.”

Nanami had sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to take a shower,” he’d muttered.

He’d grabbed his robe and left the room without another word.

She’d sat there, alone and confused, the faint strains of a voice singing her name still echoing in her ears.

Kento didn’t know that was the last time he was ever going to have sex with her.

---

Then, back in Tokyo, small things had began piling up.

She flinched at things he couldn’t see.

"You’re being ridiculous," he said one evening when she refused to step into their dimly lit living room. "It’s just shadows."

"You don’t understand," she whispered.

"You’re right," he snapped, patience thinning. "I don’t."

She recoiled as if struck.

Then she’d begun walking in the night, her side of the bed cold. She claimed she heard music, faint and haunting, like the strains of a sitar playing in another room. Nanami would check the apartment, of course, but there was never anything there.

“It’s stress,” he’d said one evening, his tone gentle but firm. “You’ve been working too hard. Maybe you should take some time off.”

She’d glared at him, her usually warm eyes icy. “You think I’m imagining this?”

“I think you’re exhausted,” he’d replied, reaching for her hand. She’d pulled away.

And then there were the whispers—half-heard murmurs when she thought he wasn’t listening.

She’d started to wake up in the middle of the night, staring at the corner of their bedroom. Sometimes mumbling under her breath, as if answering a question.

The fights started small—her frustration at his refusal to believe her, his exhaustion at her growing paranoia.

But resentment festered like a wound left untreated.

She’d insisted she wasn’t crazy and that something—or someone—was following her.

Nanami, the pragmatist, had suggested therapy. “Just to rule things out,” he’d said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Please, darling. For me.”

She’d agreed, but the sessions only seemed to make things worse.

The therapist diagnosed her with schizophrenia, a word that hung between them like a death sentence.

She stopped going to work, retreating into herself. She spent her days at home, staring out the window or pacing the apartment, her once-vibrant personality dulled to a shadow.

Then the arguments got more frequent.

When he suggested starting medication, she laughed.

It wasn’t a kind laugh.

"You think I’m crazy?"

"I think you need help."

Her lips curled. "Of course you do."

She stopped sleeping beside him.

Stopped talking to him unless necessary.

Work became a distant thing, then a nonexistent one.

Nanami tried to be patient, but the distance between them grew. He hated himself for it, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was losing her. The woman he’d married—strong, independent, full of life—was slipping away, replaced by someone he barely recognized.

And one day, he came home to find her in the dark.

---

Nanami had come home to the sound of laughter. It was a sound he hadn’t heard in months, and it stopped him in his tracks.

It had been rich and warm, spilling from her lips like it belonged there.

A weight had lifted from his chest, and for a moment, he allowed himself to hope.

Maybe she’d been getting better. Maybe they’d find their way back to each other. Maybe she’d been finally healing. Maybe—

But as he’d stepped into the living room, his heart sank.

She’d been sitting on the floor, her back to him, knees tucked beneath her, hands gesturing lightly—casual, intimate. Her shoulders had been shaking with laughter as she spoke to someone, voice soft.

Except there had been no one there.

“Darling,” he’d called, his voice trembling.

She’d turned then, still smiling, but the moment she’d seen him, her expression had shifted—a flicker of something unreadable before she’d schooled her features.

Her eyes had still been bright with a joy he hadn’t seen in so long. “Kento. You’re home.” She’d greeted him like he was an afterthought.

He’d forced a smile, though his pulse had thundered in his ears. “Who were you talking to?”

Her expression had faltered, just for a moment. “No one,” she said quickly. “Just… thinking out loud.”

“What was so funny?” he’d pushed.

She hesitated. Then, softly added, "you wouldn’t believe me."

His fists had clenched. "Try me."

Then her eyes had flicked—just slightly—to something over his shoulder.

And that was when he’d felt it.

The air had moved.

A cold breath against the back of his neck.

A presence too close, too real.

He’d turned.

And for the first time in his life, Nanami Kento saw a ghost.

Tall. Pale. Dressed in fine, outdated robes.

Beautiful eyes and hair.

Beautiful white hair and piercing blue eyes.

The man—the prince—was watching him with an unreadable expression.

Like a king appraising a pawn.

Like a conqueror surveying his land.

Nanami’s knees had buckled, and he’d fallen.

His wife had rushed forward, instinct taking over, her hands gripping his face, her touch grounding—alive, but her hands had been cold against his skin.

"Kento—!"

But he wasn’t looking at her.

He’d been looking at him.

And the ghost, Prince Gojo Satoru, had simply smirked.

Like he’d already won.

Nanami had realized then—this wasn’t just madness.

It wasn’t a break, a disorder, a cruel trick of the mind.

She hadn’t been losing herself.

She’d been taken.

And he had let it happen.

The pieces had fallen into place with cruel clarity.

The voice she’d heard in the palace, the laughter, the way she’d become distant—it wasn’t schizophrenia.

It had all been Gojo.

The ghost of a prince who had taken a liking to her, who had followed her home and woven himself into her life.

Nanami felt sick.

He had failed her.

He had dismissed her fears, convinced himself she was ill, when the truth was far more terrifying.

And now he was losing her to a man who wasn’t even alive.

“I’m sorry,” he’d choked out, his voice breaking. “I should have believed you.”

Her face had crumpled, and she’d pulled him into her arms. “It’s not your fault,” she’d whispered. “I didn’t want to believe it either.”

But as they clung to each other, Nanami couldn’t shake the feeling that it was too late.

---

In the weeks that followed, she’d grow weaker, her once-vibrant spirit fading like a dying flame.

Nanami watched helplessly as the woman he loved slipped further and further away, her laughter now a ghostly echo in their empty home.

And in the corner of the room, Gojo watched, his smirk never wavering.

But as he’d sat by her bedside, holding her hand as she slept, he’d make a silent vow. He would find a way to bring her back, even if it meant confronting the dead monarch himself.

After all, love was the only magic he had ever believed in.

Then Nanami had tried everything—doctors, therapists, even a desperate visit to a priestess who had taken one look at him and shaken her head. “There’s nothing I can do,” she’d said. “This is beyond me.”

And now, she was gone.

She died on a quiet morning, as if the universe itself was too ashamed to make a sound.

No violence, no struggle—just silence.

Nanami had left for groceries, and when he returned, the door was ajar.

The air inside was stale, thick, suffocating.

He’d called her name.

No answer.

He found her curled on their bed, her body unnaturally still, her hands resting lightly on her stomach as if she had merely dozed off. Her lips were parted, and for a moment, he swore he saw them move.

But she was cold.

Kento stood there for a long time, unable to move, unable to breathe.

It wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be real.

He shook her once, twice. "Darling."

Her head lolled to the side.

His fingers clenched around her shoulders. "This isn’t funny."

Nothing.

A sound escaped him—raw, broken.

They told him it was heart failure. A tragedy. Sudden. Unexplained.

But he knew better.

The days that followed were a blur.

Nanami moved through them like a ghost himself, his grief a heavy cloak that suffocated him.

He expected to see Gojo’s ghost lurking in the corners of their apartment, taunting him, but the white-haired figure was nowhere to be found. It was as if Gojo had vanished the moment his wife had taken her last breath.

Nanami hated him for it.

Hated him for taking her, for leaving him alone, for existing at all.

But most of all, he hated himself for not being able to save her. For not believing her in time.

The days stretched into weeks. He drifted, weightless, his mind full of echoes.

He stopped speaking to people. Stopped working.

The world became a distant thing, muffled and unreal.

But the pull remained.

---

It was a month after her death when Nanami stood in the shadow of the Mahal, its sandstone walls glowing in the afternoon sun, looming over him like a specter from a past he couldn’t escape. It didn't hold the same allure anymore.

Now, it felt like a tomb.

He didn’t know why he’d come. He hadn’t planned it.

He hadn’t planned on anything at all.

Maybe it was desperation, or maybe it was the faint hope that he could confront Gojo, demand answers, scream at him until his voice gave out.

But deep down, he knew the truth: he was here because he had nowhere else to go.

The palace was empty; no tourists.

Nanami wandered the corridors, his footsteps echoing in the silence.

He found the alcove where it had all begun—the place where he had shared that fateful kiss.

The memory was sharp, painful, and he clenched his fists to keep from breaking down.

There was no sound, no music, only the faint rustle of wind through the palace’s ancient halls. Nanami sank to his knees, his anger giving way to despair. He whispered, his voice cracking. “Why? Why her?”

Still, there was nothing. No ghostly figure, no laughter, no sign that Gojo had ever been there at all.

Nanami felt a surge of frustration.

Had it all been in his head? Had her illness been just that—an illness—and he had been going insane and started seeing it too?

As he sat there, his mind racing, the air got heavy with the scent of eucalyptus and decay, and a faint sound reached his ears.

It was music—soft and haunting, reminiscent of the tunes she had described hearing all those months ago.

But this time, it was accompanied by the gentle jingle of the anklets she’d worn on their wedding day and during Karwachauth ever since.

Nanami’s breath caught in his throat.

He stood, following the sound through the palace’s labyrinthine corridors until he reached a small, hidden chamber.

Inside, the walls were covered in intricate carvings, their details illuminated by the faint light of a single oil lamp.

And there in the center of the room—

She’d looked just as she had in life, her eyes warm and full of love, voice soft. “You shouldn’t have come.”

Nanami stumbled forward, reaching for her, but his hand passed through her like smoke. “Darling,” he choked out. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She smiled, but there was sadness in her eyes. “It’s not your fault.”

“What are you talking about?” Nanami demanded, his voice rising. “You didn’t choose this! He took you from me!”

She shook her head, her form beginning to fade.

“No!” Nanami shouted, lunging for her, but she was already gone, the music fading with her.

The next moment, there was nothing.

Only silence. Vast and consuming.

Then—a shimmer in the air, warping the space around it, like heat rising from the desert sand.

A figure materialized.

White hair. Piercing Blue eyes. Pale skin. A presence that did not belong.

Nanami could barely breathe.

Gojo Satoru stood before him, his gaze vacant, his posture relaxed in a way that felt unnatural—like he was here, but also elsewhere. His voice, when it came, was soft. Too soft.

"Why her?"

There was no malice, no satisfaction. Just neutrality. An absence of feeling.

Nanami swallowed, his throat dry. His fingers curled into trembling fists. "You really don’t know, do you, Kento?"

Nanami’s jaw clenched. "Enlighten me."

Gojo tilted his head slightly, as if considering the request. When he spoke, there was no anger, no cruelty—just a simple, unwavering truth.

"You married an Indian woman. Lived with her. Loved her. And yet, you never learned the most basic rule."

The air around them shifted, thick with something rancid. The wind through the broken palace walls carried the scent of decay, of age, of something that did not want to be disturbed.

Gojo’s voice remained even.

"In India, there’s an unspoken rule—one even atheists follow."

The air grew colder.

"You do not show off your women in ruins."

Nanami’s stomach twisted.

Gojo blinked slowly, like a creature that had forgotten how to mimic human expression. "You don’t dress them up and parade them around cemeteries, old buildings, palaces." His voice lowered. "People get possessed. Things follow them home."

Nanami felt his breath leave him.

The memory came back. The moment he lost her.

The way she had laughed in that alcove, her lips swollen from his kisses, her body pressed against his, flushed and breathless. The gold that had glinted at her wrists, her throat, catching the dying sunlight—making her glow. The way her voice, filled with love, with life, carried through the hollow halls of a palace where no living thing should have heard it.

They had looked so blissful.

But now, the memory felt like a knife twisting in his chest.

Because he’d been watching.

“You looked so happy,” Gojo murmured, his voice almost thoughtful. “So in love.”

There was no malice. No regret. No sympathy.

"And I…" Gojo’s voice barely wavered. "I wanted that."

Nanami’s heart threatened to crawl out of his throat.

Gojo blinked, his expression unchanging. "My love left me," he said. "Married another. Her family pushed her into it, and she stayed once she met him. I waited for her. I waited for her to come back."

His head turned slightly, looking out the window, gaze distant. Like he was watching a memory. Like he was watching something only he could see. "She never did."

The stillness in his voice was unbearable.

Nanami’s vision blurred with rage. "So you took mine instead?"

Gojo turned to face him, eyes boring into Nanami's.

His face was still empty. Void of anything human.

"Maybe I did," he said. "Maybe she left. Maybe she came back to me. Maybe you stole her from me in another life. Maybe she chose you. Maybe she didn’t love me as much as I thought. Or maybe—" Gojo exhaled softly. "Maybe I see why she fell in love with you."

Rage coiled in Nanami’s chest. His hands trembled, nails biting into his palms.

Gojo watched him without blinking. Without caring. "After everything I lost—after she left me to marry someone else because her family pushed her into it—I wanted what you had."

Gojo’s voice did not rise. It did not falter.

"So I took it."

Nanami’s body locked up, something primal and violent rising in his chest. His throat burned. His vision swam. His grief was a wildfire, an avalanche, a noose tightening around his own damn throat.

“You’re a monster.”

Gojo continued, reactionless. "Maybe," he admitted.

Then—Gojo’s head tilted ever so slightly.

"But you’re the one who brought her here."

The words slammed into Nanami’s ribcage like a hammer.

"You didn’t protect her," Gojo murmured. "You thought she was insane before you believed her."

The words hit Nanami like he was being set on fire. 

Because he knew.

He knew.

Deep down, he knew the truth in them.

He’d been so focused on their future, too confident in logic and reason, on starting a family, that he’d ignored the warnings—both spoken and unspoken—the unease in her eyes, the way her voice had shaken when she begged him to listen, to believe her.

And now she was gone.

He would never see her again.

She had slipped through his fingers like smoke, like an illusion he was never meant to hold onto in the first place.

He stood there, rooted in the ruins of a past that no longer existed, a future that had been severed clean from his grasp.

Gojo did not smile.

He did not mock.

He simply stood there, blank and unfeeling, watching as Nanami shattered into something that could never be put back together.

"Give her back."

Nanami’s voice cracked, raw and desperate.

It was not a demand.

It was a plea.

"Please." His fingers twitched, reaching for something that wasn’t there. "Just give her back."

For the first time, Gojo’s expression shifted. Not in pity. Not in regret.

Just something fleeting. Almost human.

"I can’t."

His voice was quiet. Unshaken. Final.

"She’s not mine to give."

And then he was gone.

No shadow left behind.

No footprints in the dust.

As if he had never been there at all.

And maybe he hadn’t.

Nanami never saw Gojo again.

Not in the palace.

Not anywhere.

And neither did he see her.

Not that day.

Not the next.

Not in the ruins where he had kissed her for the last time.

Not in the house where she had once lived, where the echoes of her voice had turned to silence.

But still, he searched.

Through the palace.

Through the crumbling ruins.

Through the empty villages.

Through the desert, where the sand swallowed footsteps whole.

Through the places where even the ghosts had grown tired of lingering.

But there was nothing.

There had never been anything.

No ghosts.

No answers.

Just silence—cold and unrelenting, stretching on and on until it hollowed him out from the inside.

Or maybe—maybe he had seen her.

Maybe she had whispered to him in the dead of night, her voice curled around his ear like a secret. Maybe he had caught glimpses of her in reflections, in the shimmer of heat rising from the sand, in the spaces between dreams and waking.

Or maybe it had all been in his head.

Maybe she had never been there at all.

The whispers started soon after.

Of the foreigner with blond hair who wandered through the ruins, his steps slow, his gaze hollow.

Of the man who murmured to the crumbling palace walls, who spoke to shadows, who waited for a love that would never return.

At first, people tried to help.

They approached him with cautious kindness.

“Are you lost, sir?”

“Do you have family we can call?”

“Here, drink this—eat something.”

But Nanami did not answer.

Did not acknowledge them.

Did not even seem to hear them at all.

He knew you’d be mad. 

You never liked when other women gave him attention.

He would sit in the dust, his fingers tracing invisible patterns into the stone, lips moving in silent conversation.

With whom, no one knew.

And slowly, they learned to leave him alone.

He became part of the ruins themselves.

A figure wrapped in dust and sorrow.

A cautionary tale whispered to children.

"Don’t wander too far, lest you meet the mad foreigner who searches for his dead wife."

The weeks passed. Then the months.

His hair grew long and matted, strands clumping together, dirt and sand tangled in the once-golden locks.

His clothes frayed at the edges, sleeves torn, fabric thinning from exposure to the harsh desert winds.

His face, once sharp with quiet confidence, sank inward—cheekbones too prominent, lips cracked, skin burnt raw by the unrelenting sun.

A living corpse.

The police and NGOs found him once, coaxed him into a rehabilitation center, gave him food, bathed him, handed him clean clothes.

But the moment they turned their backs, he was gone.

He ran.

Back to the palace.

Back to the ruins.

Back to the last place he thought he'd seen her.

He was twenty-seven, but to those who saw him, he was ageless.

A mad saint.

A lost soul.

A pagala baba, dressed in tattered rags, muttering prayers that weren’t prayers—just a name, her name, over and over again.

Still—he walked.

Because maybe, if he searched long enough—

If he wandered through the ruins until his feet bled—

If he kept looking, kept listening, kept believing—

Maybe one day, he would find her again.

Maybe she had just stepped away for a moment.

Maybe she would return.

Maybe one day, he would wake up and she would be beside him.

And the desert, mercifully, swallowed his grief whole.

Because one day—

He disappeared.

No one saw him leave.

No footprints in the sand.

No body was found.

Just gone.

But still—the whispers remained.

At night, when the wind howled through the ruins, when the air was thick with the weight of something unseen—

Some swore they heard it.

A hum.

A laugh.

A faint, lingering strain of music.

Some claimed they saw a figure—tall, blond, beautiful, with kind eyes.

A man, waiting. Searching. Wandering.

Still looking for the love stolen from him.

Still lost in the ruins, long after his body had faded into the sand.

Still hoping—

That maybe, this time, he would find her.

Or maybe he already had.

No one knew.

No one ever would.

But they all agreed on one thing—

That sometimes, in the dead of night, when the desert wind carried the echoes of the past, those who listened closely could hear it—

A faint hum of laughter.

The ghost of a love stolen.

Or the sorrowful strains of music that followed him wherever he went.

A/N: This is where Nanami loses the argument, the marriage, and eventually the rest of his life to a dead man’s fixation. If you have opinions about whether she was ever truly gone, whether Gojo actually won, or whether Nanami just kept walking until the desert took him too, let me know.

Header, engagement banners are mine and line dividers are from @pixopix.

You leaned against the doorway, trying not to laugh yourself. Geto, who had faced curses the size of buildings without flinching, was now being scolded by a twelve-year-old about hair parting symmetry. His long, black hair was being transformed — some sections braided, others curled around in loose knots — and flowers of every color imaginable were pinned haphazardly through it.

“Guys,” you finally said, raising an eyebrow, “what on earth are you doing to my husband?”

“Oh, hey!” one of them beamed, gesturing wildly toward him. “We’re figuring out hairstyles for Diwali! We can’t be wasting time on that morning when the aunties start yelling, right? So we’re using him as practice!”

Geto looked up at you with that helpless little smile that said he wasn’t sure what he’d signed up for but didn’t have the heart to say no. “They said it was for cultural preparation,” he offered, as if that explained everything.

“Yeah, cultural preparation,” one cousin repeated, twirling a strand of his hair thoughtfully. “And his hair is, like, perfect. It’s so shiny, I swear I can see my reflection.”

Another snorted. “Yeah, no wonder auntie always says it’s wasted on him.”

“Hey, don’t bully Uncle,” the youngest one said, clutching a flower clip like it was sacred. “He’s actually letting us braid it. My brother screamed the last time I tried to touch his hair.”

“Your brother’s a baby,” said the first cousin, rolling her eyes. “Uncle's chill. He doesn’t even complain.”

“That’s because he’s scared of us,” came the sly response. Geto snorted, halfway through another braid. “Should I be?”

“Depends,” said the ringleader cousin with a grin. “How much longer can you sit still without moving?”

“As long as necessary,” he said smoothly, though the twitch of his mouth betrayed him.

“Liar,” someone muttered, and the room erupted into giggles again.

You watched, arms crossed, utterly entertained. It was so unlike him — the composed, deliberate Geto Suguru — to be caught in such domestic chaos. And yet, there was no trace of irritation on his face. He nodded along to their nonsensical debates about fishtails versus French braids, about which color of flower clip looked “more aesthetic.”

He even asked, politely, “So… what’s the difference between a fishtail and a three-strand one again?”

The chorus of groans that followed could’ve brought the house down.

“Oh my god, it’s so obvious,” one exclaimed, tugging another section of his hair. “Fishtail looks more like — like scales! It’s thinner! Three-strand is just, like, normal.”

“I see,” he said seriously, nodding like he’d just been handed a vital piece of intelligence.

“No, you don’t,” said another cousin, snickering. “You’re just pretending so we stop explaining.”

He smiled faintly. “You’re very perceptive.”

By the time they were done, his hair was an artistic disaster — half braids, half loose waves, and decorated with a ridiculous number of flowers that would’ve made a garland jealous. You walked over, unable to resist running a hand through the chaos.

“You look like you lost a fight with a florist,” you teased. He chuckled, voice low and warm. “I think I won their trust, though. They’re… very thorough.”

“Thorough?” one cousin said, offended. “We’re artists. Say it right.”

Geto raised his hands in surrender. “Artists, of course.”

“Good. Now don’t move, I need to take a picture for evidence,” another said, grabbing her phone while the others dissolved into laughter.

He looked at you over their heads, his expression caught somewhere between resignation and quiet fondness. “You’re enjoying this too much,” he murmured, lips twitching.

“Oh, definitely,” you said, crouching down beside him. “This might be the most peaceful I’ve seen you look all week.”

“Peaceful?” he repeated, glancing at the girls still arguing about hair clips. “That’s one word for it.”

But even as another cousin tied a bright pink ribbon into his hair and proudly declared him “festival ready,” he didn’t complain. If anything, there was a softness to the way he looked at them — the way he laughed when they bickered, the way he let them fuss over him like he was just another big brother in the house.

And maybe that was what made your heart swell a little — that Geto Suguru, once a man surrounded by curses and shadows, now sat in a sunlit room filled with laughter, jasmine, and ribbons, smiling as if this was exactly where he was meant to be.