satoru is so mean! (╥﹏╥) (nsfw under the cut!)

your boyfriend is evil.

not in the way you’re thinking—no, he doesn’t kick puppies or steal candy from children (as tempting as that sounds). he just finds creative, deeply personal ways to ruin your day for his own amusement.

like when you’re running late for work and you open your sock drawer to find every single pair has been replaced with mismatched ones. you stand there, staring at the chaos, while satoru leans in the doorway with that insufferable grin.

"what’s wrong, baby?" he asks, all fake innocence. "can’t find a match?"

you throw a sock at his head. he dodges, laughing. "you’re the worst," you mutter.

or when you’re trying to study, your notes spread across the kitchen table, and he decides it’s the perfect time to test your focus.

he sits across from you, silent, watching. you ignore him for twenty minutes before you finally look up. "what?"

he’s holding a single grape between his fingers. "nothing," he says. then he flicks it. it bounces off your forehead.

you stare at him. "did you just—" another grape. you duck. "satoru gojo!"

he’s already reaching for a third. "what? i’m bored."

you slam your book shut and chase him around the apartment, your highlighter in hand like a weapon. he lets you catch him eventually, laughing as you tackle him onto the couch. "you’re insufferable," you pant, straddling him.

he grins up at you. "but you’re smiling, aren't you? i'd do anything to make you happy."

or when you’re on the phone with your mother, trying to have a normal conversation, and he decides to make it impossible. you’re sitting on the edge of the bed, your phone pressed to your ear, when you feel his hands on your waist.

"satoru, not now," you whisper, covering the receiver.

he doesn’t listen. he drops to his knees in front of you, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts.

your eyes widen. "mom, uh, can you hold on a second—"

he yanks your shorts down in one smooth motion. you’re trying to kick him away, but he’s stronger, his mouth already pressing hot kisses to your inner thigh.

"sorry, mom, i just—i need to—" his tongue drags over your panties and you nearly drop the phone. "i’ll call you back!" you hang up, breathless, and glare down at him. "you’re going to get me in trouble."

he looks up, his eyes gleaming. "it'd be worth it."

or when you’re trying to cook dinner, following a recipe, and he keeps stealing the damn ingredients. you turn around for two seconds and your onion is gone.

you turn back and your garlic has vanished. "satoru," you warn, spinning around to find him leaning against the counter, chewing.

"what?" he asks, mouth full. "i’m hungry."

"i’m trying to make us dinner," you snap, reaching for another onion. he intercepts, his hand wrapping around your wrist.

"or," he says, pulling you closer, "we could order takeout. and i could eat you instead."

you stare at him. "that was terrible." he grins.

"and yet, you’re smiling again."

but the worst part is when he gets you into bed, because that’s when his particular brand of cruelty really shines.

sfw. waitress! reader. pining. touch of angst? resturant au. unedited. just something i whipped up quick tehehe. nsfw version????

the guys in the kitchen were always nice—at least to you they were. they were often spatting, throwing around insults, always on the verge into breaking into a fist fight or dramatically quitting. they became especially rowdy when a waiter came back with a messed up order. 

toji and sukuna were the worst out of the staff, and not just in their individual attitudes, but the way they acted to each other—their strings of curses knew no bounds, and the kitchen was lucky if by the end of the night every line cook still had their fingers. 

“the fuck it’s wrong,” sukuna would mutter under his breath, “this is medium rare—do they wanna be chewing on leather?” 

his sneers were strong, and the way his tattoos wrinkled up with every exaggerated emotion. he’d swear under his breath, turning to the vegetables he’d been chopping, using his knife with such precision it was almost deadly. for someone who was always in a bad mood, though, he seemed to be passionate about what he did—maybe that was why he got so offended any time anyone questioned the food they had received. 

toji, on the other hand, was there for the paycheck and the paycheck alone. he found any excuse to slip out of the kitchen, sometimes pawning a cigarette and taking as long as possible to smoke it. he showed up half-awake, always looking a little scruffy, and with a blunt attitude. 

“stop fucking standing in the way,” he’d grumbled at waiters that rushed in, and worming they way through the kitchen. he’d roll his eyes and get back to half-assing his job. sukuna could sense the laziness from across the room, and within minutes the two were bickering. 

“quit standing around, you little shit,” sukuna would order, although toji was anything but little. 

the older man stood there with a grimace, looking up from the vegetables being sautéd on the pan. toji narrowed in his vision. 

“i’m fucking cooking here,” he claimed, gesturing to the meal being prepped. sukuna scoffed again—making his emotions known to the whole kitchen—a clear sign to steer clear of the two of them. unless you wanted a rolling pin thrown at your head, of course. 

yet, as soon as you walked through the kitchen doors to pick up the next order, their behaviour seemed to improve drastically. 

“um sukuna,” you started, looking down at the plate with a bit of a pout. “they ordered the sweet potato fries. these are just the regular ones.” 

you held up the plate to show him, voice small, clearly not wanting to inconvenience him. sukuna only stared, eyes widening slowly, studying the way you stood there. if it had been anyone else he would’ve chewed their head off. but, it was you, and slowly, he pulled the ticket up to inspect it. he then eyed the plate once more, drawing his conclusion. his lips pressed together, and he took a deep breath. 

the rest of the kitchen held their breath for you, hoping that he wouldn’t take it out on you. just last night he and another waiter nearly poked each other's eyes out over a mixed up order. so as they watched sukuna, it was as if the whole room fell silent. 

“my mistake,” he grunted, taking the plate from you, surprising everyone with his lack of outburst. it was like a blue moon experience, especially as they heard the following words slip from sukuna’s mouth: “i’ll fix it—sorry about that.” 

his subtle kindness went right over your head, and everyone could see the way he softened up, yet no one wanted to be the one to point it out—they didn’t want to deal with an angry sukuna while he held a knife. it was painfully obvious to the whole kitchen staff that you were his favourite waitress, and they wondered when you would finally notice it. 

“hey were are you heading off to?” sukuna would ask as he saw you pacing towards the punch-clock. he almost lost track of the meat he was grilling, focussed on the way you seemed to be in a rush. 

“oh i got cut, so i’m heading home,” you said, smiling. although, sukuna’s face was far from mimicking that reaction. 

he knew that you going home meant that he wouldn’t get to see you for at least another week, which felt like an eternity away. he contemplated switching his availability just to raise the chances of being scheduled at the same time as you. he sighed internally, nodding at your words, even though he didn’t want to accept them. 

“right,” he said, confirming what you said as if it was a question. “have a good night.” 

he wasn’t a strong flirt, or a smooth talker—not by any means. he hoped that you noticed his kindness—or, at least, his attempts at kindness. 

“you too,” you smiled at him, making his heart thump. “see you later, suki!” 

sukuna wasn’t sure if it was the heat from the kitchen that was making him feel so hot, or the fact that you had a little nickname for him. either way, his cheeks were burning, and if anyone else looked close enough they would see a playful pink tint added to his face. 

toji wasn’t any better at hiding his intrigue in you. 

he could spot you dotting around the kitchen, sticking out like a sore thumb. clearly you were too caught up in your own work to notice the chaos of the kitchen, which often made him snicker. 

every now and then, when he would wait outside to smoke, you’d stumble out carrying a heft garbage bag from the kitchen. with both your hands gripped the black blastic, you were barely able to hold your own balance. 

“what fuckers made you take this out?” he’d question with a scoff, shaking his head at the thought of the boys in the kitchen making a pretty little thing like you do such a tough task. 

“it’s okay, i got it,” you replied with a false sense of confidence. 

only, the bag most definitely weighed as much as you did, and although toji didn’t want to be rude he was sure that you didn’t have the strength to haul it up into the big, rotting bin they kept in the back. especially with the way you were already huffing and puffing as you tried to haul it. 

he took a step forward, leaning off the wall he’d been resting against and reached his hand forward. 

“here,” he said quickly, his fingers brushing over your knuckles as he took the bag from you. you didn’t fight him, though, feeling flustered at the contact. toji took a few steps over and threw the bag into the garbage like it was nothing. 

he wiped his hands against the back pocket of his jeans and then smirked back at you, “see, it was no trouble.” 

“thanks, toji,” you hummed, still catching your breath. 

there was a nice breeze, and the moon was out. it didn’t help that your feet were starting to throb. maybe you could join toji while he was out there? 

“it’s good to get some fresh air every once and a while, y’know?” he interjected, as if he could read your thoughts. he dug into his pocket and pulled out a pack of marlboros, sliding out a cylinder and slotting it between his teeth. next, he fished for a lighter and cupped his hands in front of the cigarette’s tip, lighting it carefully. 

you couldn’t help but watching, catching the way his arms flexed ever-so-slightly. you had never looked at toji in that light and as he locked eyes with you, any thoughts about work or the tables that were being waited on slipped from your mind. 

“you want a hit?” he questioned, a little rasp in his voice. 

tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, you shook your head softly. 

“i don’t smoke,” you replied, and toji realized then what sukuna was seeing in you. that soft, sweetness, that even though the business could be a little cut throat at times, you were still an optimist. 

“probably for the best, sweetheart” he hummed along, letting you stay by his side regardless. 

time seemed to pass differently outside, and before you knew it, you had been gone longer than you had anticipated. laughing along with the jokes that toji made, you heard the door creep open, and turning your head you quickly noticed sukuna standing there. 

“it’s getting busy,” he stated, although he seemed a little pale—like there was a lingering disappointment in his eyes. “manager’s been looking for you.” 

“shoot,” you frowned, looking down at your watch, rushing back into the kitchen and praying that your tables weren’t getting angry. you ran past sukuna without saying anything else to either one of the men, trying to get back on track for the rest of your shift. 

hiromi is just like your dead husband nanami (っ◞‸◟ c)

it's in ways that make your chest ache.

it’s the way he loosens his tie when he walks through the door—two tugs, then a slow pull, the same exact rhythm your kento used every evening. 

you’re standing in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove you already can’t taste, and for a second you forget. you turn, expecting to see that tired, gentle smile, the one that always made you feel like coming home was worth it. but it’s higuruma. his tie is draped over his shoulder now, and he’s looking at you like he knows exactly what just happened in your head.

"long day?" he asks, his voice low and careful. you nod. he doesn’t push it, he just steps behind you and rests his hand on your lower back, the same spot your kento always touched when he wanted you to know he was there without crowding you. your eyes burn. you keep stirring.

"you’re doing it again," he murmurs after a moment. 

"doing what?" 

"stirring the same spot. you used to tell him it helped you think." 

you stop. the wooden spoon hovers above the pot. "i didn’t realize i was doing that." 

"i know." his thumb traces a small circle against your spine. "it’s alright."

he reads the newspaper at the table the way your kento did—pages folded neatly, one hand resting on his chin, his brow furrowed in that particular way that made him look older than he was. you watch him from the doorway sometimes, your arms crossed, your heart doing something complicated in your chest. 

your kento used to mutter under his breath when he disagreed with an article. higuruma does the same thing. same cadence. same quiet disdain. you wonder if he knows he’s doing it. you wonder if you’re slowly erasing nanami by noticing these things, or if you’re keeping him alive by seeing him in someone else.

"this writer’s an idiot," higuruma mutters, flipping the page. 

"what’d he say?" 

"that overtime is a sign of dedication." 

you smile despite yourself. "how stupid."

when higuruma makes tea, he always pours yours first. he always lets it steep exactly three minutes, the way you once mentioned liking it. your kento had done that too—quietly, without fanfare, like it was the most natural thing in the world to remember how you took your tea. 

you sit across from higuruma at the kitchen table, steam rising between you, and you don’t know whether to thank him or cry. so you just sip, and he watches you over the rim of his own cup, his eyes dark and knowing and unbearably kind.

"you’re quiet tonight," he says. 

"just thinking." 

"about him?" 

you hesitate. "sometimes i kiss your mole and forget whose face i’m looking at." 

higuruma touches the small dark spot on his left cheek without thinking. "it’s still mine. even when you forget."

even at night, when he touches you, it’s almost too much.

sukuna is not happy about piercing your daughters ears :c (reposted from mimuju! art by @/sgtbake_r on X)

"no. absolutely not. you're not touching her."

sukuna's voice is a low growl, his massive arms wrapped protectively around your toddler daughter in the piercing chair. the lady with the piercing gun pauses, eyes wide at the tattooed giant glaring daggers from his spot beside you. 

she's tiny, maybe 2, all chubby cheeks and wild pink hair like her dad's, dressed in a frilly dress you picked out for her "big girl day," complete with little mary janes. you've been hyping it up for weeks—tiny sparkly studs, nothing crazy, just simple diamonds to match her eyes. but sukuna? he's been grumbling since you suggested it, muttering about "barbaric customs" and "ruining perfection."

"baby, it's just earrings," you say softly, squeezing his knee under the counter. "she'll look so cute! and it'll heal fast. millions of girls get this done."

he shoots you a look, all four eyes narrowing under those sharp black brows. "she's a baby. babies don't need holes poked in their heads. what if it gets infected? what if she hates it?" but he doesn't move, holding her steady on his lap, her little hands clutching his black shirt, babbling happily at the shiny gun like it's a toy.

the piercing lady smiles nervously, gun ready, trying to lighten the mood. "it'll be quick, sir. one little pop on each side. she's been great so far."

sukuna huffs, his breath ruffling your daughter's hair, but he nods once, jaw clenched so tight you see the muscle tick. "fine. make it painless or i'll make you regret it. i am unlike my wife, i have no mercy for mortals."

you bite back a laugh, watching him brace like he's facing a battlefield. the lady counts down—three, two, one—and pops the first stud through your daughter's earlobe. instant wail. a piercing cry that echoes in the small shop, her face scrunching up beet red, fat tears rolling down her chubby cheeks, little legs kicking wildly.

sukuna freezes, body going rigid, then twitches like he's been shot himself. "what the fuck was that?!" he snarls, his free hand slamming the counter hard enough to make the jewelry displays rattle, tattoos rippling across his skin like living shadows. all four eyes lock on the lady like he's about to curse her into oblivion right there. "do that again and you're fucking dead, you hear me?"

the poor woman stammers, the cheap piericng gun trembling in her hands, face paling. "i-it's normal! just the shock! she's fine, look—the second one's done already, see?" she pops the other ear quick as lightning, and your daughter's tiny fists flailing at the air, her cries turning into quiet hiccups.

you can't help it—you burst out giggling, hand over your mouth, tears in your eyes from laughing. "kuna, oh my god— she's fine! look, sparkles already! she's got her earrings, see how pretty?"

he ignores you completely, scooping her up fully into his massive arms, cradling her against his broad chest like she's made of glass. his glare stays pinned on the lady for a long beat, utterly murderous, promising vengeance, before it softens instantly on his girl. 

"shh, shh, my little princess. daddy's got you. that mean lady's gone forever, i swear it." he rocks her gently side to side, his huge hand patting her back in slow circles, the other stroking her wild pink hair with surprising tenderness. her cries taper to sniffly hiccups, soothed by his deep rumble of a voice humming some ancient, gravelly lullaby from his cursed past, the kind only you know about.

you lean in, kissing his stubbled cheek, still chuckling softly. "she won't even remember this tomorrow. but you'll be telling the story for years, won't you, kuna?"

he grunts, still shooting one last glare over his shoulder at the lady as you pay and gather her things. "no more piercings. ever." but he presses a soft kiss to her tiny forehead, her sparkly new earrings catching the shop lights like stars, and you know he's already melting inside, utterly whipped for his perfect little girl.

olderbf!nanami headcannons ! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

olderbf!nanami who never rushes you, no matter how impatient you get. you’re standing in front of your closet, frustrated, pulling out dresses and tossing them onto the bed.

"i have nothing to wear," you groan. he’s sitting in the armchair by the window, his tie already loosened, watching you with that calm, steady gaze.

"we have forty-five minutes," he says, his voice low and even. "take your time."

you huff, turning to face him. "you’re always so patient. it’s annoying."

he smiles, small and fond. "i’ve waited forty years to find you. i can wait forty-five minutes for you to pick a dress."

olderbf!nanami who always makes sure you eat before you leave the house. you’re running late, your heels clicking on the kitchen floor as you grab your purse.

"we’re going to be late," you say, already halfway to the door.

he steps in front of you, a plate in his hand—toast with avocado, a soft-boiled egg, sliced fruit arranged neatly. "eat first."

you stare at him. "nanami, we don’t have time—"

"we have time," he interrupts gently, setting the plate on the counter. "you’re not leaving this house on an empty stomach. sit."

you sit. you always do. because when he looks at you like that—like taking care of you is the most important thing in the world—you can’t say no.

olderbf!nanami who never raises his voice, even when you’re being difficult. you’re arguing about something stupid—where to go for dinner, maybe, or whether you should cancel plans to stay in—and your voice is getting louder, your hands gesturing wildly.

he just stands there, hands in his pockets, watching you. "you’re not even listening!" you snap.

"i am," he says quietly. "i’m listening to every word. and when you’re done, we’ll talk about it calmly. like adults."

you deflate, your anger fizzling out. "you’re too kind to me," you mutter.

he steps forward, his hands finding your waist. "you’re worth the kindness."

olderbf!nanami who takes his time undressing you, like every layer is a gift he’s unwrapping. you’re in his bedroom, the lights dimmed, and you’re already reaching for his belt, impatient, wanting him now.

"slow down," he murmurs, catching your hands. "we have all night."

you pout. "i don’t want to wait."

hiromi is just like your dead husband nanami (っ◞‸◟ c)

it's in ways that make your chest ache.

it’s the way he loosens his tie when he walks through the door—two tugs, then a slow pull, the same exact rhythm your kento used every evening. 

you’re standing in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove you already can’t taste, and for a second you forget. you turn, expecting to see that tired, gentle smile, the one that always made you feel like coming home was worth it. but it’s higuruma. his tie is draped over his shoulder now, and he’s looking at you like he knows exactly what just happened in your head.

"long day?" he asks, his voice low and careful. you nod. he doesn’t push it, he just steps behind you and rests his hand on your lower back, the same spot your kento always touched when he wanted you to know he was there without crowding you. your eyes burn. you keep stirring.

"you’re doing it again," he murmurs after a moment. 

"doing what?" 

"stirring the same spot. you used to tell him it helped you think." 

you stop. the wooden spoon hovers above the pot. "i didn’t realize i was doing that." 

"i know." his thumb traces a small circle against your spine. "it’s alright."

he reads the newspaper at the table the way your kento did—pages folded neatly, one hand resting on his chin, his brow furrowed in that particular way that made him look older than he was. you watch him from the doorway sometimes, your arms crossed, your heart doing something complicated in your chest. 

your kento used to mutter under his breath when he disagreed with an article. higuruma does the same thing. same cadence. same quiet disdain. you wonder if he knows he’s doing it. you wonder if you’re slowly erasing nanami by noticing these things, or if you’re keeping him alive by seeing him in someone else.

"this writer’s an idiot," higuruma mutters, flipping the page. 

"what’d he say?" 

"that overtime is a sign of dedication." 

you smile despite yourself. "how stupid."

when higuruma makes tea, he always pours yours first. he always lets it steep exactly three minutes, the way you once mentioned liking it. your kento had done that too—quietly, without fanfare, like it was the most natural thing in the world to remember how you took your tea. 

you sit across from higuruma at the kitchen table, steam rising between you, and you don’t know whether to thank him or cry. so you just sip, and he watches you over the rim of his own cup, his eyes dark and knowing and unbearably kind.

"you’re quiet tonight," he says. 

"just thinking." 

"about him?" 

you hesitate. "sometimes i kiss your mole and forget whose face i’m looking at." 

higuruma touches the small dark spot on his left cheek without thinking. "it’s still mine. even when you forget."

even at night, when he touches you, it’s almost too much.

choso hates your vibrator ! (ｰ̀⤙ｰ́ )

choso has developed a very specific grudge against your vibrator.

it started when he found it by accident—tucked in the drawer beside your bed, pink and unassuming, looking about as threatening as a tube of lip balm. he picked it up, turned it over in his hands, pressed the button once. it buzzed to life with a cheerful little hum, and he just… stared at it. like it had personally offended him.

now he watches it. when you’re not home, when you’re in the shower, when you’re asleep beside him. he doesn’t touch it again, but he thinks about it. a lot.

"it’s not fair," he says one night, lying on his back with his arm behind his head. you’re scrolling on your phone, half-listening.

"what isn’t fair, cho?"

"that thing. it makes you cum in two minutes. i counted."

you pause, lowering your phone. "you counted?"

"yeah." he sounds genuinely upset about it. "i timed it. two minutes and fourteen seconds. i take twelve. minimum."

you bite your lip to keep from laughing. "choso, are you jealous of my vibrator?"

he doesn’t answer right away, staring at the ceiling like it holds the secrets of the universe. "…maybe."

the next time you’re in bed together, he’s different. focused. like he’s studying for an exam and your body is the textbook. his fingers are careful, tender , mapping every spot that makes you twitch. "tell me when it feels good," he murmurs, watching your face. "like, exactly when."

you’re already breathless, your hips rolling into his hand. "fuck— cho…! r-right there—"

"okay. don’t move." he stays right where you told him, his fingers working in tight, precise circles, and when you cum, it’s with your hand fisted in his hair and his name on your lips.

he looks up at you after, his expression unreadable. "how long was that?"

you blink, still dazed. "i don’t know. five minutes?"

his brow furrows. "better. but not enough." he’s already reaching for the drawer. "can i see it again?"

you sit up. "choso, what are you—" he pulls out the vibrator, examining it like it’s a cursed object he needs to understand.

"i want to watch how it works. on you. so i can learn."

you stare at him. "you want to… study my vibrator. while it’s on me."

"please?" he says it so earnestly you almost can’t say no.

"…fine. but if this gets weird, i’m taking it back."

it doesn’t get weird. it gets filthy.

he has you on your back, legs spread, the vibrator pressed to your clit while he watches with rapt attention. every time your hips jerk, he notes it. every time you moan, he adjusts the angle. "there," he says, almost to himself. "that spot. you like it here, baby?"

you’re gripping the sheets, your thighs shaking. "ch-choso! i’m gonna—"

"not yet." he pulls the toy away, earning a whine from your kiss-swollen lips. "i’m learning," he explains, almost apologetic. "i need to see how long it takes. how your body changes. what happens right before you finish." he does it three more times—brings you to the edge, pulls back, studying your reactions like he’s dissecting a curse. by the fourth time, you’re sobbing, your voice hoarse, your mind fuzzy.

"choso, please, i can’t—"

"okay," he says softly, finally pressing the vibrator back where you need it. "you can cum now. i’ve got you, there’s my pretty girl. doing so well for me."

you cum so hard your vision whites out. when you come back to yourself, he’s lying beside you, the vibrator turned off and resting on his chest like a trophy. "seven minutes!” he says, sounding pleased with himself. "i beat it."

you laugh, weak and breathless. "you’re insane." he turns his head to look at you, his expression soft. "i just want to be good for you. better than that thing."

you roll onto your side, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. "you already are."

he’s quiet for a moment. then, "can i keep it? for research."

you groan, burying your face in the pillow. "you’re never living this down." he just smiles, small and proud, already planning his next experiment.

i'd respond to your ask, but i love it sm i wanna keep it in my inbox and look at it every now and then, so im showing my gratitude this way!!

TYSM!!!!

Hi Hi! Im glad to know youve read my ask! Im Genuinely moved by the fic that I couldnt help it but really praise you for it (YOU DESERVE IT), I could not be anon to tell you how i felt about it because everything i said IS GENUINE!! I actually saved it as a comfort fic because those minutes it took from start to finish made me feel such a comforting sadness. The whole tragedy of it felt raw but good and the ending felt enough, it felt like it was the perfect ending, and that letter (UGH THAT LETTER) felt in such a way that just thinking about it makes me tear up and cry but makes me happy at the same time.

It all made me remember my gramps who had Alzheimers and thats a reason why I loved this fic and i felt it resonate with me so much.

It made me feel good (even after crying a lot) and im thankful youve written and shared it.

I give u another big ol’ smooch and thank you again