satoru shows up at your door at 2 am with a bouquet so huge it looks like he robbed a botanical garden.
he’s still in his uniform, hair a mess, looking way too proud of himself for someone who hasn’t texted you back since morning. he doesn’t even knock properly—just sort of headbumps the door with his forehead until you open it.
“special grade,” he says, waving a hand, like that explains everything. “ugly guy, so rude, wouldn’t die, ugh, i’m exhausted. but i bought you something.”
and by “something,” he means a bouquet that could physically crush you if it tipped over. this is the third bouquet this month. ever since you mentioned you liked getting flowers, he’s been treating it like a personal challenge—bigger bouquets, brighter colors, borderline dramatic entrances.
you take the flowers, trying to hold onto at least a little annoyance, but he leans against your doorframe with that soft, tired smile he only ever uses on you.
“sorry,” he murmurs, nudging his shoulder against yours. “couldn’t message. thought maybe this would make up for it?”
you roll your eyes, but you’re already pulling him inside, scanning for any injuries even though you know it’s impossible, “you don’t have to buy half a greenhouse every time.”
“i absolutely do” he says, brushing a petal off your hair, “nothing but the best for my girl. and you like them.”
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𝗦𝗬𝗡𝗢𝗣𝗦𝗜𝗦 ── Genius profiler, Gojo Satoru, is the FBI's resident boy wonder, human Wikipedia and the reigning king of tragic cardigans. He can read a killer's pysche in seconds, but you can't figure him out. A grudge that's half a decade old, a stakeout, and a virgin all collide in the front seat of your car.
𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘 ── kisses to all who can recognise the muse for gojo in this fic
The office carries the scent of burnt coffee, and old filings. It's the kind of place that wears its years proudly, with scuffed desks, walls washed pale by fluorescent light, and the constant clatter of keyboards and phones. A new espresso machine hums in the corner, already claimed territory, for half-empty mugs and discarded sugar packets are scattered around it. Like offerings to the temperamental god of caffeine.
You pull your new (itchy) blazer tighter around yourself as you step inside. This is it, the Behavioural Analysis Unit. Your new home, and the result of a decent few years clawing after case files and letters of recommendation.
You've always been told you were a prodigy in the field. Sharp, quick and too intuitive to be stuck doing desk work in the downtown city offices. The BAU was always looking for brains that could pluck patterns out of the noise, to predict a potential criminal's next move before they even made it.
And now? You finally got to prove it.
"Oi, you're the new hire?" A voice barks, sharp enough to slice through the buzzing office noise.
You turn, resisting the urge to ask why he feels the semantic need to ask that question, considering he was the one who stamped the approval on your unit transfer. But you doubt that your new boss is the sort of man you want to cross, on your very first day no less.
Ryomen Sukuna is a lesson in not judging a book by its cover. Wheat-golden skin, lined with streaking dark tattoos over his cheekbones and jaw. A shock of peach and raven-black hair streaked in a rough undercut. He looks as though he should be running a biker gang, not a federal unit, but there's something in his maroon stare. Hard and cutting, that makes you stand a little straighter.
"Don't slow us down," he grunts.
No handshake, no warm welcome. Just a warning, but you can understand why.
Time is of the essence in the Behavioural Analysis Unit, as is the ability to stomach the uncomfortable.
You pad after him, doing your utter best to not scuff the linoleum floors as you dodge strewn cables near the heavy glass doors. The entrance leads to a smaller nook, a quiet room with an oaken, circular table stacked with flimsy files, bulging with stamped papers. Worn chairs are scattered across the circumference, and you do your best to flatten yourself against the wall as others filter in.
Great. Meeting new people, your favourite hobby, right?
Although, that being said, you had studied all of their case files, with the sole benefit of not fumbling your way through first impressions.
You begin to match names to faces, hesitantly lowering yourself into your cold seat, in an attempt to look busy.
Nanami Kento was the first one who entered, and to your chagrin, he gets a brief handshake from Sukuna. Fuck, why didn't you get one? But Nanami's presence seems deliberate and measured, for he's tall, with every inch of him pressed into a well-tailored steel blue suit. His honey-blonde hair is neat, his face solemn yet thoughtful.
He's flanked by two others. The first being a woman with cinnamon-brown hair, twirling a flat lock idly between violet, chipped nails. Nicotine and cheap beer, threaded through with something unexpectedly floral.
Shoko Ieiri.
You know from pouring over her file that she has more years of medical knowledge than anyone else on the team, but right now, she looks like she'd rather be anywhere else.
The man pulling himself into the chair on the other side of Kento is, frankly, a perfect candidate for a haute couture ad. Long, dark hair pulled loosely back, with strands falling around his face in delicate arcs, like the petals of a spider lily, brushing the dark stud that glints in his ear.
Suguru Geto. Built like a bear, broad enough to block the doorway, his strong frame draped in a scuffed indigo racing jacket that looks permanently fused to him. Hie flips through a case file with the kind of casual detachment that comes from too many years doing this job. You've heard he's been here the longest, and from the way the others glance at him, shoving their own files to him, you can tell it's true.
The fourth new face nearly barrels into the table, gaze glued to his phone. He looks up just in time to scowl, as though it's everyone else's fault he wasn't looking where he was going.
Floppy sandy-blonde hair falls over the man's amber eyes, messy enough to look intentional. Dark roots peek through at the top, while moss-green tips dye the ends in a streak of rebellion. That Prada suit is a slim, toned fit and you know it costs more than your car insurance.
You don't need a file to place Naoya Zen'in. One could argue he only scored this job thanks to his father, who sits pretty high on the federal chain, pulling strings. But apparently, he isn't exactly dead weight. For what he lacks in tact and brawn, he makes up for in sheer agility.
That, and his reputation of being an utter jerk.
"I see you people way too much," Geto is grumbling, though his arm is already stretching around Kento to snag a glazed doughnut. He shoves the doughy confectionary into his mouth, smacking his lips shamelessly, as he muffles around sticky crumbs, "How is it we're already being assigned another case? We only just flew back in yesterday."
"The beauty of this is that it's a gift that keeps on giving," Sukuna's voice rumbles like gravel as he drains the last of his mug, "Sick fucks always findin' new ways to hurt each other." He slams the empty mug down the table, tattoos flashing like black cuffs around his wrists. His russet eyes flick up, catching your stare.
You grimace, pretending to admire the lead pencil in your hand, as though you were looking at literally anything else.
Sukuna rolls his eyes, "And lookie here, we've got fresh blood." He jerks a thick finger in your direction, "Department approved a new transfer since Kashimo ditches us for whatever adrenaline-junkie bullshit he does now."
"Probably bungee-jumping into a volcano," Naoya mutters, not bothering to lift his eyes from his phone.
A round of quiet nods and murmurs of ascent follow, resigned as you gather this must track for the famed, impulsive Hajime Kashimo.
"That, and the fucker kept tryin' to take my job," Sukuna growls, but his sharp eyes swing back to you, "So, kid. Tell us where you crawled out of."
You shift, suddenly wishing you'd spent a little more time preparing a decent show-and-tell, "I – uh, spent some time after the academy in Cyber. Worked cases involving data trafficking, predictive algorithms, behavioural mapping and —"
The doors bang open as a ridiculously tall man blows in, alongside a rush of cold air, balancing a pastry bag and an oversized coffee, as though he's walked through a hurricane. His tie is loose, white hair windswept, and his glasses are a little askew.
"Sorry, sorry — I'm late," the man blurts, breezing in like a hurricane with a coffee cup in one hand and a pastry bag in the other. He cuts across the room in long, careless strides, clapping Kento on the shoulder as he passes, "Don't start without me."
"Oh, no, your majesty," Sukuna mutters, voice dripping with snide disdain, "We were all waiting for you to grace us with your presence. What, fifteen minutes late? Wouldn't want our little genius missing the fun."
The man flushes mid-step under Sukuna's glare, shoulders stiff, "Look, man — "
Sukuna raises a thick brow.
"Uh, I mean, sir. Yes, sir. No, sir. Won't happen again, sir."
"Get your ass in a chair."
Geto presses a hand valiantly to his chest, and it takes all your Herculean effort to not stare at the counter of his sculpted chest beneath his top. But the man is as solemn as a priest, "He won't do it again, boss. Nope. I'll personally buy him an alarm clock."
Shoko snorts into her ocean-blue turtleneck, tugging it tighter around her throat, "He doesn't need you to suck up for him."
"Welcome to the team," Naoya finally drags his amber eyes away from his glaring phone screen, pinning you with an exhausted stare, and once again, that look that blamed all of his displeasure on others, "Not too late to hand in your two weeks' notice."
God. You should have read that case file one more time. Should've done a single ounce more of snooping into your new team. Then, maybe, just maybe, you would have been more prepared.
If you had just bothered to read the last and final page on the current members of the Behavioural Analysis Unit, you would have picked up on this.
Gojo Satoru.
He's sinking into a wheeled chair, flipping through a file and shuffling stacks of crisp paper. Loose navy cardigan over crisp slacks, and a cream button-down, with sleeves rolled to his elbows. White hair a little too long, falling into his glacial blue eyes, hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses that look devastating on him now.
The last time you saw him was, when? High school?
He had been a mess back then, composed of crumpled Lord of the Rings hoodies from Hot Topic and a ramble of babble that everyone attributed to him being, well, an absolute nerd.
Gojo Satoru, the valedictorian. The boy genius with a scraggly bowl cut and round, prescription sunglasses. The guy who could speak a dozen languages, and pass an exam without cracking open his book once. Eidetic memory, and all that.
But he had always been a bit of a social pariah. If he wasn't alone, mumbling over textbooks in the library, he was probably exchanging Pokémon cards with some friend of his, like the bumbling, dark-haired Ijichi.
And now? Well, it's an ironic choice of words considering your line of work, but he looks criminal. Still a nerd, but in that hot way that Pinterest girls swooned over. Tall, broader than you remembered, sharp-jawed and somehow pulling off a cardigan better than you right now.
Your mouth is already open before you can stop yourself, "When the hell did you get so hot?"
Gojo's head lifts quickly, blinking at you like you're an anomaly in a code that he was clueless about. No recognition, no faint spark of memory in those jewel-toned eyes. He adjusts his glasses, pink lips quirking, "I'm sorry, have we met?"
Every cell in your body goes into system shutdown. Somewhere in your periphery, Kento's face flattens, as though he's embarrassed to have spent time in your presence. Across the table, Shoko slips a twenty into Geto's waiting hand. You catch Naoya sliding in a crisp fifty with the same bitter grace as tossing meat to a dog.
You cough, cheeks puffing as you scramble for rapid damage control, "I mean, wow. When the hell did it get so hot in here? I'm sweltering. Are you guys hot? Because I'm hot. Like, wow, summer's already here? Global warning, am I right?"
"It's the middle of winter," Sukuna throws you a look of mild disgust, as though you're contagious with a brand of idiocy he wants to avoid.
"Phewwww." You wipe your brow theatrically, refusing to die in utter shame, "Must be just me then. Because I'm boiling in here."
Naoya leans back, eyes dragging over you with lazy, bored curiosity, lips curling just enough to flash his fangs, "You do know all BAU agents have to pass a psych eval, right? You didn't bribe the assessor?"
Shoko perks up suddenly, leaning forward with the first glimmer of interest in her doe-copper eyes, "Could be medical. Hyperthyroidism, maybe. Or pheochromocytoma. Seen an endocrinologist lately?"
"Uh..." You falter, because Gojo is frowning at you with real concern over his puzzled face, "I'll get it checked out. Thanks."
You hear Sukuna grunt something about 'fuckin' idiots' before he's already sliding individual files towards everyone. His huge hand click the pointer, and the wall-mounted screen flickers to life.
"Remember our mystery case from last year?"
"Flat-top weirdo who set people on fire?" Geto frowns, pushing your file towards you, from where Sukuna tossed them onto the middle of the table. You murmur a quick thanks, careful not to meet Gojo's eyes, the gaze boring into you from across the table, suddenly quite stern.
"The unsub was found not long after. Jogo, wasn't it?" Kento murmurs.
Naoya wags a finger towards the screen, "Then there was that freak with the bio-warfare. Something about flowers and shit?"
"Hanami. Also caught. Do you even pay attention to what we do?"
Naoya just shrugs, golden hair fluttering as he tilts his head with little regard for Kento's disapproving stare.
"Eyes up here," Sukuna warns, his tone like barbed wife. He clicks, and the next slide makes your stomach lurch. You'd braced yourself for crime scenes photos, comes with the job, obviously.
But nothing quite prepares you for the patchwork grotesque on the screen. Stiff sheets of human skin, stitched together with light blue-grey thread in patterns so deliberate it makes your chest crawl.
You swallow hard, throat tight as you hold onto your breakfast. But the others? Entirely unfazed.
"Yeah, that's the telltale M.O, it's poppin' up more and more," Sukuna shoves his hands into the pockets of his charcoal-grey denim.
"Oh man, yeah," Shoko says, leaning back in her hair as though this is a casual conversation about the weather, "That case has been open for months, I thought the unsub had stopped acting, and we had to put the investigation on hold?"
"Nah." Sukuna sums it up eloquently, "This is from two days ago. Something's triggered the killings again." He drops the pointer, tossing it onto the table with a thunk! Your boss jerks his chin towards the far side of the table, "But I'll let boy genius tell you more."
Every head swivels towards Gojo Satoru, except for yours. You keep your eyes firmly trained on the stacks of paper in front of you, the coordinate grid maps of where the unsub had previously struck last year.
Gojo's pushing his glasses up the bridge of his hawkish nose with one long finger. The glow of the projector washes his pale skin in sterile blue, catching on the sharp edge of his jaw. For half a second, the thinnest sliver in time, you could swear he looks at you, watches for your attention.
"Okay, so — " He claps his hands together once, quick and sharp, and you swear the sound reverberates through your bones, "Our unsub. Male, mid-twenties to mid-thirties. We could assume he's highly organised, almost meticulous with what he does, but impulsive to a fault. He does what pleases him, and gambles on what he thinks will give him a thrill."
"Like Kashimo," Shoko mutters, rolling a strand of flat, chestnut hair between her fingers once more.
Geto shakes his head solemly, "True that."
"The victims are skinned postmortem. And we've consistently found that pale blue thread is used to stitch pieces together. The shade of blue is consistent, almost ritualistic. The nylon fibres were analysed in the lab, and our unsub uses the same brand. It's cheap, easy to get at specific convenience stores so we can track his location as a path."
"You gettin' this?" Sukuna peers over at you, startling you out of your mild reverie. You fumble for the nearest Sharpie, already creating crosses over the past locations, wincing at the sound of the marker squeaking across paper.
"And like I said earlier, his stitches really are meticulous. Cross-stitch, blanket stitch, whip stitch. It's like he's experimenting with technique. I doubt it's random."
"Who spends time learning this shit?" Naoya mutters, reclining in his chair, but straightening up once Sukuna levels a shark-like flat look at him.
"Shut up, you wouldn't know a running stitch from a running nose," Gojo scowls, firing back without missing a beat, and he's pacing now. Voice picking up speed, words tumbling like dominos, "Locations? Spread across three prefectures, but always within walking distance of either a fabric store, or get this, cinemas? Something personal, perhaps?"
"Last time, agents found notes he had left behind, a manifesto?" Kento wonders out loud, dark eyes narrowed as he peers at the illuminated screen.
"Yeah, but it was nothing useful," Shoko shrugs, before pointing to Gojo, "Sorry, hang on. I'll get back to you. But there were no fingerprints left, not a speck of DNA to trace. And most of his ramblings made no sense, something about 'Idle Transfiguration' and his motivations, like humans hating and fearing each other."
"Like that's anything new," Sukuna grumbles, "Most people are like that."
"You're an optimist, boss," Geto notes, broad shoulders rippling beneath his jacket, "Anything about victimology?"
Gojo pushes his glasses up once more, glancing at you briefly. You loathe the feeling that pushes against your ribcage, and force your buzzing mind to actually focus on his words, "See, this is an anomaly. For someone so driven and focused on what he considers his craft, his victims seem to be chosen at random. Complexion and – uh, texture seem irrelevant. So, he's not really chasing consistency for his patchwork."
"But you guys caught him on your radar last year? You didn't find patterns?" You ponder, and while you know none would believe your words, you could swear that Gojo flinches at your voice. Ugh.
But the white-haired man gnaws his lower lips, "Yeah, yes. Patterns, yes. He disappeared for weeks, sometimes months, then resurfaced. That's typical cooling off period in disorganised killers, but this is the one part of his behaviour that doesn't seem as impulsive. He seems to hunt deliberately after mass public events. Tragedies, natural accidents, moments where there's a lot of negative public sentiment in the air. Like that's his time to source the right..." Gojo snaps his fingers, suddenly grinning, "Like sourcing the right fabric."
Naoya pulls a face, idly picking at a raw cuticle, "That's disgusting."
"Yeah, don't you love our job?" Gojo pushes his sleeves up, revealing toned forearms, dusted with light hair. He's clicking to the next map overlay, a string of red pins dot the screen, matching the marks you've made on the map in front of you.
"Notice the clusters. Each crime scene radiates outwards from a central hub. That hub? Abandoned textile factory in the south quadrant. It's a line of vast sewer tunnels, and I'd guess that's where our unsub probably feels safest returning to?"
Gojo coughs into his fist, finally lowering himself into his chair, as though he's just remembered that oxygen exists, "So. Yeah, that's – uh. That's what we're dealing with."
"Yeah, I knew all that," Sukuna snickers, slapping his thighs as he stands, "But now — "
"What?!" Gojo's head snaps up, scandalised.
"I knew, 'course I read the profile. You think I don't do my job? Just wanted you to get it out of your system, so maybe you'd get the chattering out of the way and I'd get five blessed minutes of silence at least."
Gojo mutters something under his breath that is absolutely not HR safe, folding his arms sullenly over his cardigan. Geto reaches over to pat his sulking friends shoulder in slow sympathy, "There, there. You'll always be my favourite profiler."
Shoko rolls her eyes skywards, sharing a long suffering look with Kento.
"Anyway," Sukuna grumbles, "We've got enough agents to stake out the predicted strike zone. We'll be in the field, but I want two of you pulled back a little, car surveillance, eyes on any movement in the surrounded abandoned area."
"I'll do it," Geto offers smoothly, putting his palm up. But the reaction is immediate and violent.
"No way."
"Impossible."
"You better not even fuckin' think about it."
"Not after Kenjaku-gate."
You frown, brows furrowing, "I'm sorry. Kenjaku-gate? This was some...incident?
"Don't," Geto warns sharply, stuffing another helping of glazed dougnut into his mouth.
"Please do," Shoko encourages, propping her chin upon her fist with wicked interest.
Naoya leans in, and you're struck by his immense resemblance to a hyena, "Yeah. There was this guy, Kenjaku. His whole M.O was identity fraud, always swapping bodies, new disguises, different lives. Shit got real sticky, he even wore Geto once."
You wonder if you heard that correctly, glancing at Geto, who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else, "Wore? As in — ?"
"Right," Naoya continues gleefully, "So for a hot minute, everyone thought he was guilty of all these weird crimes. Big mess, and the higher-ups in the government had to get involved. They were foaming at the mouth and all."
"Mhm," Sukuna huffs, leaning back in his chair, and jerking a thumb towards Geto, who was currently scowling daggers at no-one in particular, "He's been cleared now and all, but that bastard caused a lot of problems. Nearly sank the team."
Your eyes flick to Kento, who hasn't said a word, but who looks far more strung. You mouth, something personal?
The golden-haired man hesitates, then gives the barest nod, Don't ask. Something about his twin brother.
You file that away, stunned. You frankly can't picture your new boss having friends, let alone a brother. But before you can prod, Sukuna's sharp eyes cut back to you like a blade.
"Well, how about this then?" His voice is slow, dripping with challenge, "I'll send ya' out there. You and boyband wonder, hmm?"
"Me?" You freeze, sudden heat climbing your neck.
But Gojo, mid-sip of coffee, sputters, "Boyband? Man, what the fuck?" He runs a nervous hand through his hair, pushing it up self-consciously.
"Shiny teeth, tragic wardrobe, zero substance?" Naoya offers with venomous glee.
"I have so much substace," Gojo sinks further into his cardigan, "Like, layers. Onions-level."
"Enough," Sukuna cuts through Gojo's muttering like a blade, voice sharp, and the casual chatter dies instantly. "I'm not your fuckin' babysitter. So, let's focus before I do lose what little patience I have left."
Gojo winces, lips quirking into an awkward grimace, but Sukuna ignores him and taps the case file with a thick finger, "We've got fresh dumpsites with consistent signatures. Stitching patterns, the pale blue thread. Most recent was two days ago, meaning we've got a live unsub working fast. That puts us on the clock."
You feel Gojo's eyes flick to you again, quick and unreadable, and your stomach twists. He still hasn't said anything. Not a flicker of recognition. Not even a hey, long time no see. Just nothing.
It pisses you off more than it should, irritation welling up in your throat.
"Fine," you blurt, before your brain can catch up, "I'll do it. Stakeout. Whatever you need."
There's a faint quirk at the corner of Sukuna's mouth, like he can smell the edge of desperation under your words, that urge to prove yourself. But his eyes are colder, "We'll see about that."
"Kento, Ieiri. You canvas the medical angles. Hospitals, ER admissions, anyone who might've stitched somethin' suspicious together. You'll get the most traction."
"Geto, Zen'in, go after witnesses and locals. Hit the perimeter, dig for chatter. And don't give me excuses about your personal vendettas gettin' in the way."
At this, Geto and Naoya give each other nasty, defeated looks. You briefly wonder the dynamic between them is.
But Sukuna's glaze cuts back to Gojo and you, "Which leaves you two. Surveillance car. Abandoned industrial area on the south side. Keep ya' eyes open, and if you get trigger-happy, I'll have your badges before you can blink."
The team starts gathering files, muttering, scraping chairs against the floor. You catch Geto purposefully knock his elbow into Naoya's ribs, but one by one, they filter out. You're slow to move, waiting till Gojo gives you a hesitant look and pushes the door open.
But you're absolutely aware that Sukuna's gaze is still pinned on you.
"Stay a minute," he orders.
Your spine stiffens, wilting under his maroon eyes. Oh, god. What did you already screw up?
But Sukuna doesn't waste time, "You want to prove yourself? Do it out there, not in here." His arms cross over his vast chest, tattoos shifting with the movement, "This isn't a playground. People die if you fumble, or freeze."
You swallow, throat tight, "Yeah, I know. I mean, understood."
"For the record..." Sukuna pauses, eyes narrowed as he seems to search your face for something, "The only reason you're here is because someone vouched for you. Usually I don't take rookies without field scars."
"Someone vouched?" Your heart stutters, thudding beneath your sternum.
"Yeah," Sukuna's lip curls, like the whole thing is a nuisance, "Gojo. Said you were worth the risk."
Your jaw practically unhinges, in the most unflattering way possible. Gojo? The same Gojo who looked you dead in the eye, and treated you like a stranger, while you babbled on about global warming?
Sukuna seems to read your silent expression, rolling his eyes, "Don't get sentimental. Whatever history you've got with boy-wonder, that's your problem. Out there, I only care if you can keep up." He jerks his chin toward the door, "Now get outta' here before I change my mind."
You nod quickly, fighting the ridiculous urge to kowtow, and grabbing your file before scurrying away with a spinning head.
"...So, you like jazz?" Gojo offers, peering low over his glasses, voice low in the hush of the car. His breath clouds in front of him, puffs in the winter chill.
You throw the white-haired man a sullen look, "Are you quoting the Bee Movie right now?"
Gojo's brows crawl up his face, "What? No." He wiggles in his seat, reaching into the pocket of his corduroy jacket. Producing a battered stack of discs, each one labelled in his crooked scrawl, "I bought jazz. Miles Davis, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald. All the greats."
You must look gobsmacked, because flushed colour creeps across his cheeks. Gojo coughs and fumbles them back into his jacket, like contraband, "Sorry. Didn't know what you liked. If you don't want — "
You wave his stumbled fragments off, eyes darting to the frost-laced window, "No, it's fine." You gesture at the ancient CD slot on the dash, "Yeah, put whatever you want on."
Gojo perks instantly, sliding a CD in, and soon the tinny trumpet of Miles Davis fills the stale air of the car. You fold your arms, not looking at him, jaw clenched against the silence that starts to stretch.
For several minutes, the only sound is jazz, the occasional creak of your gloves as you flex your hands against the chill, and the scrape of Gojo's graphite pencil as he pulls through a crossword puzzle.
"So, first official stakeout. Excited?"
"Thrilled."
Gojo drums his long fingers against the steering wheel, "You know, these stakeouts are a rite of passage. It's the long hours, bitter coffee, and the leg cramps from being stuck in the car." He glances at you, smiling faintly, "Builds character."
"I can't wait," you mutter, eyes flicking over the dim, warm street lights casting long shadows across the pavement.
More silence. A car passes down the far end of the abandoned street, headlights sweeping briefly across the dashboard.
"You think he'll come tonight?" You ask finally, if only to give Gojo something else to do, other than throwing you confused looks.
"The unsub?" His voice sharpens, "Maybe. The dump site pattern isn't perfect, but this location fits his trajectory. High likelihood he'll circle back tonight."
"Guess all we can do is watch, no?"
Gojo hums in agreement, pink lips pressed together, before pulling his battered, cracked phone out of his pocket, "Naoya said he would send through any witness statements, I just hoped he stayed on task enough to remember."
You snort, "Has he always been this insufferable?"
Gojo smiles, and his expression is surprisingly warm, "He wasn't always. We grew up together, actually. Naoya was — " Gojo shrugs, eyes flicking to the windshield, " — pretty cool, back then. Somewhere along the way, he just became a jerk."
The bitter edge of jealousy curls in your chest, faster than you can halt it, "Well, it's nice you remember him."
Gojo's head jerks towards you, as though he's baffled by the sudden venom coating your tongue, "Uh, what?"
You moodily jab the dashboard a little harder than intended, "Seriously? You've been pretending not to know me this whole, like I'm some stranger you've never met, and I know it's not that deep, but it's — " You choke on the words, cheeks suddenly burning, "It's embarrassing. It hasn't been that long since high school, Satoru. Did I do something to you, or what?"
It seems that the air in the car has gone very still. Jazz murmurs faintly from the speakers, a trumpet line winding upward like smoke.
Gojo just blinks at you, stunned, lips parted like a fish out of water. But his expression shifts, sours suddenly. White brows knit together, that plush mouth pulling into a scowl.
"Are you asking me that?" His voice isn't loud, but the irritation in it cuts sharper somehow.
You gape at him, "What? Me? It's not like we were best friends or something, but a 'Hi, hello, how are you?' would have been nice in that team room. You practically ignored me."
"Yeah?" Gojo's laugh is humourless, bitter, "Well, it's better than tearing someone down, isn't it?"
Your heart stutters, confusion blooming, "What the fuck are you talking about?"
Gojo shifts in his seat, huncing in a way that looks wrong on his tall frame, pulling out his phone. You catch sight of the battered case, corners fraying, as though it's the same one he carried back in high school. He's frowning as he scrolls, before flipping the dim, cracked screen towards you.
Huh. A text message, addressed to you.
The date is old, years old, but your name is right there in the contact header. You drag your eyes over the clumsy words.
Hey, I was wondering if maybe you wanted to go out sometime? nothing fancy. maybe that new burger place by the train station? i’ll even pay. (don’t laugh at me too hard, ok?) >_<
Your stomach flips, as you take in the following reply. Short, cruel. Mean in a way that only teenagers could manage.
"Wow. That's...wow. That's mean."
Gojo's throat bobs as he swallows, and he opens his mouth, but you sharply cut him off, "But that wasn't me."
"Huh?"
You force yourself to meet his eyes, hidden behind thick frames, startling blue, wide and wounded, "That wasn't me. I never saw this. I never replied to this."
"But —"
"Yeah," you blurt, "I changed numbers. Utahime dropped my phone in a pool, on a senior trip. I ended up just getting a new one, even a new number. Whoever did this just thought they were fucking with you, I mean, it's messed up, 'cause I never would have said that."
You swallow, the weight of the sudden silence pressing on your chest, but Gojo suddenly breaks it, blurting, "So, you think I'm hot now?"
Your head whips towards him, startled, as heat crawls up the back of your neck.
Gojo immediately winces, shoulders caving in as though he's trying to fold his giant frame into the tiny car, "Sorry. Just tryna' think of something to say. I didn't meant to embarrass you earlier. I don't know, I was just —" He waves his hand vaguely in the air.
You shouldn't lose focus, but your eyes linger anyway. His hands are elegant. Long, tapered fingers. Neat nails, calluses just barely catching in the dashboard light. Hands probably steadily enough to wield a scalpel or...
No. Don't go there.
Your breath hitches, and you drag your gaze away, desperately praying he didn't notice the temporary loss of your composure.
"No, it's fine. I mean..." You stumble over the words, trying to find stable foot, "I heard, well, Sukuna said that you vouched for me. Which is nice. I appreciate that."
Gojo's expression softens, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his features, "Yeah, well." He shrugs, defensively, "I asked Sukuna to keep it a secret, but figures he sold me out."
You almost smile, "Doesn't change the fact that you stuck your neck out."
"Guess I did," Gojo scratches at his jaw, over the faintest hint of stubble, glancing away, "Thought you were worth it."
Your heart stutters.
The car feels smaller suddenly. The cold air outside fogs the windows, but inside, it’s warm, too warm, the kind of heat that sticks to your skin. The mournful trumpet fades into a husky croon, and every note seems to hang between you like a dare.
You shift in your seat, knees brushing his by accident. He tenses, just barely, but doesn't move away. And maybe you're imagining it, but his gaze drops, to your mouth, then back to your eyes. Quick. Guilty. Like he hadn't meant to.
But you'd seen it.
The silence between you grows roots, tangling around the both of you. You can still feel the phantom brush of his knee against yours, the way his eyes had flicked to your mouth. It lingers, heavy, like the saxophone whispering from the CD.
Gojo clears his throat, Adam's apple bobbing. Then he clears it again. And then he blurts, "You know, statistically, unresolved tension like this usually results in impulsive decisions that compromise stakeouts."
"…What?"
"I mean," Gojo gestures helpless, corduroy sleeve slipping down his wrist, "It's – it's basic psychology. Two people with history, recent emotional clarification, physical proximity." His voice is speeding up, rambling now, "That kind of cocktail basically rewires your brain chemistry and then, um, then you end up, you know, uh —"
Gojo swallows, blue eyes fixed straight ahead, "Kissing."
You just stare at him.
Gojo winces, palms pressed to his knees like he's bracing for you to laugh in his face. "Not that I'm saying we should, I mean, I am saying that, but not in a creepy way, I just – " He cuts himself off, groaning, pressing a hand under his glasses, "God, I sound insane."
Something in your chest twists. Because under all the words spilling from his mouth, he looks…nervous. Really nervous. The kind of nerves that can't be falsified.
Then, like the world's clumsiest miracle, he drops his hand, and his blue eyes meet yours, wide and shining and sincere. His cheeks are flushed pink, breath puffing in the cold air.
"Please, I would like to kiss you," Gojo says softly, before stiffening, "Only if you want to, uh, doesn't have to be now."
The world tilts, blood roaring in your ears. You're frozen for a second, but before you can second guess yourself, you lean in, heart hammering as you press your lips to his.
At first it's tentative, testing the waters, your mouth brushing his like a question. But then Gojo's warm hand comes up, hesitantly cupping your jaw, and the way he exhales against your mouth, like he's been waiting years for this, answers it for both of you.
The trumpet solo wails on, high and bright.
The kiss should've ended at that. A brush, a sigh, a fragile thing left untouched. But Gojo makes this soft sound in his throat, half whimper, half groan, and suddenly you're tipping forward, hand fisting in his cardigan to drag him closer.
He kisses like he talks; too much, too fast, spilling over himself. His teeth click against yours, and when you gasp, Gojo's tongue darts in shyly, then a little bolder, like he's cataloguing the exact angle, the exact pressure that makes your breath hitch.
"F-fuck," he murmurs against your mouth, voice cracking, "I didn't –I've never actually..."
You pull back a fraction, dazed as you stare the swell of his glossy lips, "You've never…?"
Gojo's ears are pink, his white lashes trembling as his nose brushes yours, "I read about it. But I've – uh, not, you know. This, or anything like this. Not with anyone."
Oh. Suddenly, the fumbling, the eagerness, it all clicks. And your chest squeezes at how earnest Gojo looks, like he's terrified you'll ridicule and mock his inexperience.
"Relax," you whisper, sliding closer, your thigh brushing his., "You're doing jus' fine."
Gojo's groan is strangled, raspy as you press your lips to the juncture of his neck, "The fact that I'm even here, doing this with you is a-amazing, actually."
Then he kisses you harder, messy now, a little greedy. His hand finds your waist, hesitant at first, then tugging you practically into his lap.
Fuck.
You feel it straightaway, the thick, solid press of his cock straining in his slacks. Gojo jolts like he's embarrassed you noticed, but you grind down just a little, chasing after some friction between your legs, and he breaks the kiss with a loud gasp, forehead thudding against yours.
"Jesus Christ —" Gojo's voice is wrecked, wrecked in a way that makes heat curl low in your belly, pool between your thighs, "I'm – fuck, I'm so hard right now, this is, oh my god."
You giggle, breathless, nipping at his berry-pink lip, "Focus, genius. Stakeout, remember?"
And as if on cue —
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The car door rattles violently, as though someone has pounded their first on the window. You both jolt, scrambling, your thighs jostling as you clamber off Gojo's lap.
Sukuna, arms crossed in his windbreaker uniform. Face twisted in a scowl so utterly disgusted and sour that could curdle milk. The type of expression that promises consequences so severe that medieval executioners would tremble in fear.
Your head falls back against the seat with a groan, as you kick the door open, taking in the swarm of federal agents rushing past your stakeout car, most likely to chase after your unsub, "Oh, you've got to be fuckin' kidding me."
Gojo, meanwhile, is fumbling with his seatbelt, sliding his cardigan off to pull his windbreaker on, doing little to cover his very obvious erection, whining under his breath, "I can't go out there like this, holy shit, he's gonna kill me. W-wait, don't leave me, tell Sukuna I've caught the flu and —"
You shove yourself out the car door, shooting Gojo a look, "I'm sure he just saw that. Can only pray he doesn't send us to be hung, drawn and quartered."
Gojo follows, still muttering, still rock-hard, but trying desperately to stand up straight, "He's really gonna' kill us."
"Kento got a lucky shot, didn't he? They're gonna' have, uh, what's his name? Mahito? They're gonna' have him put away for life." Gojo buzzes, as the motel door clicks shut behind you, the muted clamour of the hallway falling away. You toss your duffel bag onto the bed, exhaling hard.
"So," you sigh, pushing off your shoes, groaning at the ache in your ankles, "How much paperwork do you think Sukuna's gonna bury us under? Forty hours? Fifty?"
Gojo groans dramatically, collapsing face-first onto the other bed. His muffled voice filters through the sheets, "I can still hear him yelling in my head. Like a banshee with a nicotine problem. I've never seen him so mad."
You laugh, unzipping your flimsy jacket, tossing it on the cheap sheets, "At least he didn't bench us completely."
"I thought he was gonna' shove my badge down my throat."
Gojo flips over, messy white hair fanned across the pillow, glasses crooked. He stares at you for a long moment, his ears pink, before he says it. Quiet. Too quiet for Gojo.
"…It was still worth it."
You freeze, turning slowly, "What?"
His hand scrubs over his face, as he pulls his glasses straight once more, "Not the badge down my throat part. The stakeout. Car. You. I don't –" he breaks off, sits up abruptly, ocean-blue eyes bright with nerves. "I've never felt anything like that before. And if Sukuna yells me into the ground every day for the rest of my life, it'd still be worth it."
The room goes hushed. Your chest tightens at how serious he looks, this tall, awkward genius who's always been a little too much, suddenly stripped down to something raw.
You cross the room slowly, settling onto the edge of his bed, "Satoru…"
Gojo's throat bobs, and the tips of ears are flushed, "Can I —" He stops, shakes his head, tries again, quieter, "Can I have this? With you. Tonight?"
Your heart lurches. He's never done this before. You can see it in the way his fingers twitch on his knees, in the unpracticed tremor of his voice.
You lean in, brushing your lips against his temple, "Yeah," you whisper, "I really want that."
Gojo's exhale is shaky, relief and hunger all tangled together. When he kisses you this time, it's clumsy but desperate, his hands hovering, not sure where to land until you guide them, pressing them to your waist, your thigh, your chest.
And then it breaks open, heat curling, restraint snapping. Gojo groans into your mouth as you push him back against the pillows, his long body sprawling, his cock already stiff and aching against his plaid slacks.
"F-fuck, I don't, 'cause I've never…" Gojo pants, face flushed, "Just tell me what to do, please, I'll do anything —"
You take in the fine sculpt of his nose, the long lashes framing his eyes, the broad press of his shoulders against the woven fabric, "I can't believe you're a virgin, Satoru."
"Hey! I've been too busy to get laid."
The laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it, warm and teasing all at once, "It's a compliment, I don't know if anyone tells you this enough, but you're hot."
Gojo groans, flopping back on the bed like he wants the carpet to swallow him. You rake your nails beneath his shirt, feeling his toned abdomen, lightly dusted with fine hair.
And oh, the noise he makes. Like his soul is trying to claw its way out of his throat.
You lean down, kissing him again. Soft at first, then not at all, because Gojo is hungry, fumbling hands tugging at your hips, and then over your ass, groaning into your mouth like he's been starved of this forever. And maybe he has.
It's clumsy, teeth knocking once, but then Gojo moans. Loud. Like you've just discovered a frequency that short-circuits his neurons. His cock twitches under you, hard already, "S-sorry," he gasps, pulling back, blue eyes blown wide, "I can't, it's so – this is so embarrassing, I'm already —"
"Hard?" you tease, grinding your hips down so his cock presses right against your building heat, "Good. Means you want me."
Gojo whines, white hair tipping back against the pillow, throat flushed pink, "Of course I fucking want you. I've wanted you since — " He breaks off with a strangled groan when you rock against him again, "Shit-shit-shit, don't stop. Please don't stop —"
Gojo's rambling, babbling like he does at case briefings, but instead of statistics, it's just desperate filth, "Y-you're so warm, I can feel you even through my pants, I think I'm gonna die, – wait, am I supposed to – should I —"
You cut him off with another kiss, tugging at his worn belt until it clatters open. Gojo's shaking, half-helping, half-getting in the way because his large hands are trembling too hard. But finally you shove his slacks down enough to free him —
And oh, he's big. Thick, veined, dripping already, precum beading at the fat tip. Virgin, sure, but blessed in ways unfair to humanity.
Gojo gasps when your hand closes around his flushed shaft. Loud. Shocked. His head knocks back against the headboard, glasses sliding askew, "Oh my god, you're – holy shit, I'm gonna cum just from this, don't make f-fun of me —"
"Not making fun," you murmur, stroking him slow, savouring the way his soft, velvety cock kicks in your grip, "I'm impressed."
Gojo groans like you've shot him through the heart, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets, hips jerking up into your hand helplessly, "Impressed —fuck, oh god, I think I l-love you, wait, shit, did I just say that out loud?"
You laugh against Gojo's throat, kissing down the column of his neck as he trembles under you, whining like he’s already on the edge, pearly slick already staining your hand.
"Relax, Satoru," you whisper, lining him up with your own slick entrance, pushing your panties to the side, feeling the thick, hot throb of his fat head near your core, "I'll take care of you."
And when you sink down, slow, tight, inch by inch, his groan could wake the entire floor.
"Oh, fuck, you're – you're t-tight, fuck, you're gonna break me —" His hands are everywhere, gripping your waist, sliding helplessly up your sides, pushing his glasses entirely off, "I-I'm inside, I can feel everything, I'm – oh my god."
You clamp a shaking hand over his running mouth, leaning in close. "Shhhh. Walls are thin, baby."
He nods frantically, eyes wet, muffling little cries into your palm as you bottom out, feeling every hot inch swab your gummy walls. His cock twitches inside you, already dripping, already too close.
And when you start to move, rolling your hips slow, grinding down until he's gasping into your hand, he nearly comes undone on the spot.
You barely get three swivels of your hips before he loses it.
"F-fuckfuckfuck, oh god, no – wait, shit —" Gojo's whole body seizes, hands clawing at your waist, voice cracking into a sob as his cock jerks inside you, thick head prodding dangerously close to that sweet spot, "I'm, oh no, I'm —"
And then Gojo's already climaxing, thick, creamy spurts spilling into you, thighs trembling, glasses long discarded on the thin sheets of the motel bed.
You blink down at him, stunned, feeling a heavy throb in your cunt, clenching around an overstimulated Gojo, "Did you just — "
"Don't say it," Gojo covers his face with both hands, chest heaving, still twitching weak spurts inside you, "Don't say I just came in thirty seconds. I know. I know. I —" His voice breaks into a whimper, muffled behind his palms, "Fuck, I'm so sorry, I didn't, wasn't even, fuck, it's like the data didn't predict this outcome."
You laugh, despite the fading ache between your legs, eager for some friction. Because only Gojo Satoru would be blushing and pulling out scientific metaphors while still buried heavy balls-deep in you.
"Baby," you coo, stroking a hand down his flushed chest, thumbing over a pink nipple, and the action makes him keen, "We're not done. Not even close."
Gojo peeks out from behind his fingers, cerulean eyes wide and wet, "Wh–what do you mean? I already —"
"Yeah," you purr, tightening around him just to watch his jaw drop, to feel that delicious ache purr back to life as your groin tacked across his sticky hips, "And you're still hard."
And Gojo is. His thick cock, flushed angry-red, still twitches inside you, leaking, pulsing like it hasn’t gotten the memo.
He makes a broken noise, "That's not biologically s-supposed to happen. Well, sometimes, it c-can."
"Guess you're pretty special then, aren't you?"
Gojo arches, loud and shameless, like you've just electrocuted him. "It's too much – wait, wait, I — fuck, I can feel everything, you're so wet, so tight, god, I can feel your pretty pussy's heartbeat around me."
You press your lips to the shell of his ear, nipping the sensitive skin. “Then c-come on, fuck me more, Satoru. I know you can do m-more than thirty seconds. Show me what you've got."
Gojo whines, rasping, "I don't, – fuck, I've only read about positions. And everyone knows the Kama Sutra actually wasn't o-originally about s – woah, mmph!"
You shut him up with a kiss, rocking down harder, grinding his cock deeper into your sticky, drooling walls. He moans into your mouth, a desperate mess of teeth and tongue as he chases after your lips, his hips finally jerking up to meet yours.
"There ya' go," you pant, breaking the kiss to bite his jaw, "Just like that. F-fuck me back."
And something finally clicks. Some primal gear in Gojo finally slots into place, and suddenly he's gripping your hips with surprising strength, thrusting up into you with a rhythm that makes your breath catch. Hitting that sweet, roughened spot over and over in a way that makes you squeal.
"Shit, shit," Gojo gasps, white hair plastered to his forehead from sheer exertion, "I'm doing it, right? Like, I'm actually f-fucking you. It's so good, is it good for you? Tell me it's g-good."
"It's a-amazing," you whine, crescent-tipped nails digging into Gojo's shoulders as your own head tips back, "Fuck, 'Toru, you're so d-deep."
He groans like you’ve just told him he solved the world’s hardest equation (knowing him, that's probably the type of shit that gets him off).
"Deep, yeah, I read average vaginal length is l-like three to four inches but your cervix can actually – fuck, fuck, fuck, you're clenching – holyshit — "
You cut him off with another grind, walls fluttering around him until Gojo groans, head tipping back against the pillows once more, flushed and writhing.
"C-can't – can't take it,” he babbles, hips snapping frantically, the sound of skin slapping sticky echoing through the room, "Too good, too hot – fuck, your pussy's gonna kill me, I'm actually gonna die a virgin after all, oh god — "
You laugh breathlessly, tightening your quivering thighs around him, pinning him to the mattress as you ride him through another orgasm. He spills again inside you, creamy and opaque, drooling down your thighs, gasping your name, shaking under you like he's unraveling thread by thread.
And still, still — he's hard.
But Gojo looks wrecked. Vibrant blue eyes dewy, cheeks wet with sweat and tears, lips kiss-bitten and swollen, "Why, why won't it go down," he moans, almost panicked, pulling his cock out to slap at your wet folds, and the stimulation over your throbbing clit makes you squeal.
You cup his face, leaning close, "H-hey, we got plenty of time to practice now, right?"
Gojo breathes out one last shattered plea, voice cracked and raw, abdomen heaving with splattered release, "Teach me again tomorrow?"
The first thing you register is sheer heat. The second is warm weight, Gojo's ridiculously toned body pressed against you. Half on top of you, and half spooled around you as though he's afraid you'll vanish.
The third thing you notice is something hard rutting insistently against your hip. Smearing warm slick over your soft flesh.
"S-sorry, pretty girl," Gojo blurts, voice hoarse, and you don't miss the mild crack at the end, "Didn't meant to wake you, fuck, where are my glasses? I just, uh, well, morning wood is biologically inevitable due to nocturnal penile tumescence cycles but this feels way better than when it just happens randomly in my sleep."
You cut him off with a lazy roll of your hips, grinding back into his cock, just at the right angle so it slips between your thighs, curving upwards deliciously. Gojo yelps, biting the edge of your shoulder.
"Please," he whimpers, eagerness thrumming in his voice, "Round two? I read that recovery time after multiple orgasms is supposed to be, like, hours but I think maybe last night recalibrated me — "
You turn onto your back, grabbing his face and dragging him down into a messy kiss. He's still nervous with it, teeth knocking, lips wet, as though he didn't carve his way through your pussy last night, but he's so adorably desperate it makes your heart ache.
"Satoru," you murmur against his sweet mouth, "Just fuck me.”
His whole body jerks, like you've just flipped every circuit breaker in his brain. Gojo pushes in deep, groaning like he's dying, hips stuttering as your glossy folds envelop his thick shaft once more, that delicious stretch making you quietly keen.
"You're so – oh my god, you're so warm, and s-so wet. It's better than anythin' that I've ever – fuck, you're squeezin' me so good."
You laugh into Gojo's mouth, clenching around him just to hear him scream, "God, you're cute. S-shut up and keep moving."
And he does. Frantic, erratic, messy, his big hands gripping your hips like lifelines, flushed cock driving into you with the enthusiasm of a man who's just discovered heaven is real and he's the only one inside.
When you finally come, with a quiet moan, stars glittering in the peripherals of your vision, heart racing as your pussy's clenching tight around him, Gojo breaks, face buried in your neck, babbling ironically sweet nothings as he spills into you again, cock plugged thick up in your walls.
His blue eyes are bright as he slumps against you, sweaty and trembling, whispering into your skin, "…So, I should have asked you this earlier, but if I asked you to go out with me, like a real date, would you say yes?"
You blink up at him, breathless, taking in the sight of the gorgeous. man hovering above you, earnest and wide eyed, "…Yeah. I would. 'Course I would, Satoru."
Gojo's grin splits his whole face, stupid and boyish and beautiful.
The entire team is staring, and Shoko's cigarette falls from her elegant fingers, "No way." She's staring between you and Gojo, copper eyes narrowed, "So if you two ended up –," she pulls a face, "I can't even say it. But that means he won, fuck me."
Sukuna's grin is all fanged teeth, and he barks out a rough laugh, "Called it."
Naoya scowls, slamming a crumpled fifty onto the table, "Bullshit."
"Pay up," Sukuna orders, already extending one tattooed hand. Geto groans and drops a twenty, shooting you a dirty look that implies you deprived him of his lunch money. Shoko sighs and pulls a fifty from her wallet. Even Kento slides over a neat fifty-dollar bill.
Sukuna collects them all with a grin sharp as broken glass, whistling as he counts the notes, "Easy money. I told you boy-wonder was gonna' crack first."
"Hey," Gojo protests, cheeks blazing, "We – we did not crack, thank you very much."
Naoya sidles past towards the churning printer, snickering "No, you got cracked."
"That's a bit unfair."
"Please," Sukuna cuts him off with a sneer, "I sent ya' on a stakeout for a serial killer, and I caught you cryin' over a boner. You're lucky you got off this easy."
"Heh, got off," Geto murmurs, and with all past rivalries apparently forgotten, he receives a joyous high-five from a gleeful Zen'in.
You groan, dropping into your chair, "Can we not?"
But Sukuna leans back, shuffling his new wad of cash with a victorious hum, stuffing the roll into a suspiciously expensive Italian leather wallet. You privately wonder if your surly boss has a private side-gig in any less illustrious black markets.
"Nah, it's deserved. But still, it's a good welcome to the team. First rule of the unit, everybody fucks up. Second rule, don't fuck during an assignment. And third?" Sukuna whistles, pushing through the doors of his office, "Don't bet against me."
Gojo leans over to whisper in your ear, mortified, "This is the worst day of my life."
But you only smile, pushing a strand of soft, white hair out of his glasses, "Relax. You're still the one taking me out tonight."
The way Gojo's ears go pink? Worth every cent Sukuna just pocketed.
You know that one guy who interviews random people in Japan until he becomes fluent in Japanese? Yeah… that’s basically you now. You’ve just moved to Japan for university, barely scraping by with the basics of the language, but you’re getting better, one awkward conversation at a time.
Which brings you to him.
You spot him on the street, tall, blindingly pretty, sunglasses perched on snowy hair. You muster the courage to ask for an interview for your language class project. Your Japanese is wobbly at best, but you’re determined. You bow politely, notebook clutched to your chest, and ask as clearly as you can.
Satoru points to himself, brows rising, then breaks into the biggest grin. “Me?” he asks, pointing a finger at his chest. “You wanna talk to me?”
He thinks you’re flirting. You think he’s just being nice.
But the interview begins, with him trying to answer in English to “help you,” and you fumbling your way through Japanese to “practice.” Neither of you fully understands the other, but there’s so much smiling and laughter that it hardly matters. Every other sentence is a soft "Eh?" or a giggly, “Ahhh! Wakaranai!”
Still, somehow, the conversation flows.
At the end, after you’ve closed your notebook and bowed in thanks, he looks at you, cheeks a little pink, and carefully says: “Ano… boku to… dēto shite kurenai…?”
The words come out a little fast, a little shy, almost like he’s scared he messed it up. Then, seeing your puzzled look, he switches to English with a hopeful little bounce: “Date! Da-te? You and me?”
And god, he’s so proud of himself. Beaming when you hand him your email. A tad bit confused why it's not your number but the man will take what he can get.
୨୧ — "Where is she?" Sukuna demanded, crimson eyes scanning your floral shop with predatory focus.
You glanced up from where you were arranging a vase, not bothering to hide your smile at his agitation. Five years together had taught you when his rage was genuinely dangerous and when it was… well, this…
"Good morning to you too," you replied calmly, tucking a spring of baby’s breath into the arrangement.
As he moved past you, you noticed a small splotch of blood on his cheek. Without a word, you reached out, catching his sleeve to stop him momentarily- his eyes flashed down at you, but he allowed it. He watched as you dabbed at the smeared mark with a wet cloth you’d been using to wipe up the counter… Wiping away the evidence of whatever or whoever he’d encountered before coming home.
Releasing his sleeve once his face was clean, you pressed a sweet kiss to the corner of his lips, "Last I saw her, she was out in the back garden counting butterflies."
"She called me," he growled, "Said she needed me for 'urgent business."
Your chuckle only darkened his scowl, "I told her, not to use your emergency number unless it was an actual emergency."
"But this IS an emergency!!" A tiny voice piped up from the garden doorway.
There she stood, his five year old daughter, a miniature mirror of himself. Even at her young age, she commanded attention with the same natural authority as her father, though her methods relied more on charm than intimidation.
"Someone stepped on Mr. Squiggles…" she announced, crimson eyes -identical to Sukuna’s- already brimming with tears.
Your heart broke at the sight, and you instinctively moved towards her. However she completely dodged your approaching form, instead running straight to her father, her small flip-flops slapping against the wooden floor.
Sukuna's brow furrowed as he looked down at her, towering over her tiny frame, "Who the fuck is Mr. Squiggles?"
"Language," you murmured, though the truth is you accepted long ago that battling Sukuna’s vocabulary was a losing war.
"My caterpillar!" She whined, grabbing her father’s much larger hand and tugging with surprising strength, "You have to fix him!"
Sukuna’s eye twitched at the fact he was called from what he was doing to come home to this, but still he allowed himself to be led through the kitchen and into the garden. He shot you a look over his shoulder that clearly said, This is what constitutes an emergency?
You merely smiled, following them outside where the morning sun warmed the small garden.
"There!!" She pointed dramatically to a small patch of milkweed where, upon closer inspection, a slightly squashed monarch caterpillar lay motionless…
Sukuna crouched down, his massive frame folding with surprising grace as he examined the tiny creature. His hands -those same hands capable of unspeakable violence, hands that had broken bones and drawn blood without hesitation- hovered with unexpected gentleness over the crushed caterpillar.
"Who stepped on him?" He asked, voice deceptively calm in a way that made you tense slightly.
"It was mama’s helper," she sniffled, wiping a tear from her cheek...
"Mama's helper, huh?" Sukuna growled, his eyes sliding towards you, a dark glint in his gaze, "I'll have a nice little chat with them later, sweetheart."
Sweetheart. The endearment rolled off his tongue in a way that seemed to go against his very nature, but that's precisely how you knew he was serious. When Sukuna used terms of endearment, it meant he would make sure this person paid for making his little girl cry.
His attention turned back to the caterpillar, and he gingerly poked it.
"Can you help him, daddy?" She pleaded, with complete faith in her father’s abilities shining in her bright little eyes, "Make him all better?"
"He’s pretty fucked up" he said bluntly…
"But-" She looked up at him, little hands clutching his sleeve, wrinkling the fabric, "You fix everything… mama told me lots of times how you make everything better!"
Something tightened in Sukuna's chest- that familiar, uncomfortable squeeze that happened whenever his daughter looked at him like he hung the fucking moon. Like he wasn't the same man whose name made certain parts of the city go silent with terror.
"Not everything can be fixed, kid," he said, gentler than most would believe him capable of.
"Mr. Squiggles is hurt pretty badly, sweetie." Your voice was soft as you kneeled beside the two of them, the grass cool against your knees.
Her eyes started to well up again, tears spilling over, "B-but… Daddy makes us better when we get sick… an- and when my tooth fell out… an- an-"
Sukuna gave you a look that asked for backup, but you merely smiled sympathetically, leaving him to navigate this particular minefield alone.
Traitor.
Sukuna's jaw tightened the moment he looked back at his daughter, "Fuck," he whispered under his breath, a muscle working in his cheek as he carefully scooped up the flattened caterpillar onto a leaf, "I’ll try... No promises though."
It was a strange sight, watching Sukuna- this feared and powerful man, gently cradling this little creature in his hand. His expression was stern, yet focused as he brought it close to his face, examining it intently.
"Ah! Thank you, daddy!!" his little girl threw her arms around his neck, nearly toppling him backwards.
"Yeah...," Sukuna murmured, "No problem." His large scarred hand came up to steady her, patting her back with affection that had become less awkward over the years, "Now go get me a box, brat."
She beamed at him, eyes practically sparkling at the use of her favorite nickname before darting off, her footsteps quick and excited.
Sukuna remained crouched over the very much dead caterpillar, feeling rather foolish.
"How's the patient?" You asked, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders, kissing the nape of his neck.
"You told her I make everything better?" his tone almost accusatory.
"I mean, you do~" you replied sweetly, and he snorted, turning his head just enough to give you a warning look, which only made you giggle. "Think of all the things you fix and make better. My life is significantly better with you in it,” he rolled his eyes as you continued, “and you fixed that leaky faucet, broken toys, scraped knees… Your motorc-"
"Not dead bugs."
"Mm… Yeah… Well, maybe Mr. Squiggles is just stunned…" You glanced at the small green body still unmoving on the leaf, "I'm sure if anyone can wake him up, it's you."
"It's fucking flattened," he muttered, examining the leaf in his palm.
Your daughter returned with a small pink box lined with fresh leaves, her face scrunched in concentration as she focused on not tripping, "Here, daddy!! The bug hospital!"
She leaned in close, her small hands braced on her father's knee as she watched him place Mr. Squiggles in the box. The contrast between them was striking- his hands scarred and powerful, hers tiny and unmarked. Yet there was no fear in how she pressed against him, no hesitation in how she invaded his space.
"Is he going to be okay?" she asked, voice ever so small and hopeful.
Sukuna's eyes remained fixed on the container, his mouth set in a hard line, "Don't know. Might take him a while to recover."
"So we have to wait?" she sighed, and you smiled at the familiar sound.
Sukuna nodded, and you felt a rush of affection at how patiently he was trying to deal with this.
"Oh..."
Then, without any kind of warning, she looked up at him, "Daddy," she asked with the sudden, left field logic that only children possess, "would you still love me if I was a worm?"
Sukuna went absolutely still, his entire body tensing... The leaf he'd been adjusting tore slightly under the sudden pressure of his fingers. He turned his head slowly to look at his daughter, eyes narrowing as if she'd just asked him a trick question.
"The fuck kind of question is that?" his voice was rough, but his tone lacked any real bite.
She didn't flinch at his harsh tone- she never did. Instead, she just blinked those crimson eyes -so like his own- and repeated herself with the stubborn persistence only a five year old could muster, "If I was like Mr. Squiggles… I- If I got stepped on and turned into a worm. Would you still be my daddy?" her little eyebrows scrunching up in worry.
Shit… It was a serious question.
He ran a hand over his face and then back through his hair, a gesture you recognized all too well… he was thinking, very hard. You'd never seen him so thrown off, and you couldn't help but hide a smile behind your hand.
"Listen," he said finally, setting the box aside and turning to face his daughter fully.
"B-Because, maybe you wouldn't-" a small hiccup interrupted her, "maybe you wouldn't l-love me anymore."
You moved to step in, but Sukuna held up a hand, stopping you. His eyes never leaving his daughter's face, "Look at me," he commanded, his voice low but steady as he dropped to one knee, brining himself to her level.
It was a position he would allow with no one else, an exception he only made for her. "Listen carefully, because i'm only saying this once," his finger hooked under her chin, tilting her face up, "You're mine. My blood. You don't get to escape from that." his tone was deadly serious, the same tone he used when making promises that would be kept regardless of cost. "So," he continued, thumb swiping across her cheek to wipe away a stray tear, "worm or not, you're still my brat. That clear?"
Her red rimmed eyes widened, "Really?"
"Really." taking his thumb from her cheek he lightly flicked her forehead, making her giggle, "And if anyone tried to step on you…"
"You'd protect me?" she leaned against him, arms coming up around his neck, hugging him tightly, "Just like always, right?"
Over her head, his eyes met yours, and something passed between you… "I’d burn this whole damn city to the ground," his words carrying the unmistakable weight of truth, "Anyone who touched you would die screaming."
What should have been horrifying was instead comforting- the absolute certainty that this man, this monster who had chosen to be your protector, the father of your child, would tear apart the world to keep his daughter safe. To keep you both safe.
"I knew it," her tiny voice was muffled against him, "Mama says your heart is bigger than you pretend…" nuzzling into him, she added those three little words that made his throat visibly tighten, "I love you, Daddy." and you saw the moment Sukuna's eyes softened as they did only for you and her.
"Yeah well… Your mother talks too much," he grumbled, his hands moving to throw her over his shoulder.
"Daaaaadddyyyyy" she squealed, tiny legs kicking playfully against him, but there was no real resistance, no fear when he was the one holding her.
Sukuna turned to leave the garden, pausing by your side. His large hand reached out, grabbing a handful of your hair to draw you in with controlled force for a rough kiss. It was his habit- the physical equivalent of an ‘I love you.’
"Love you too," you whispered against his lips.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Later that night, after Sukuna had tucked his daughter in bed, you found him sitting out in the garden, nursing a glass of alcohol and staring at the pink bug hospital.
You slid onto the bench beside him, and he lifted his arm automatically, allowing you to tuck yourself against his side. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, content in the quiet and each other's warmth.
"I replaced it," he broke the silence first, his voice rumbling in his chest against your ear.
You blinked in confusion as you looked up at him, "Replaced what?"
"The flattened bug. What else? It was dead as shit. Found another on a bush at the edge of the garden."
A small laughed escaped you, "Of course you did."
He shot you a look that was both irritated and slightly embarrassed, "Don't start with me."
You trailed your fingers along the tattoos marking his chest, feeling his heart beat steady beneath your touch. "You know," you murmured, "for someone who claims to care about nothing, you’ve gotten awfully good at caring for everything that’s yours." You pressed your lips to the hollow of his throat, feeling his pulse quicken.
"Tch," he clicked his tongue, "fucking ridiculous." he grunted, but his arm tightened around you, "This is what i've been reduced to. Hunting a replacement bug for a five year old..." His expression sobered, "You ever regret it? This life?"
The question surprised you, Sukuna never voiced uncertainty about your relation, ever... "Not for a second," reaching up to caress the mark beneath his eye, "I knew what I was getting into."
He caught your hand, pressing a rare, gentle kiss to your palm, "No you didn't."
"I knew enough," you insisted, "I knew I was in good hands when it came to you, and that's all that mattered."
His eyes, crimson and sharp, searched yours, finding nothing but absolute certainty and trust, "And you're still not afraid?"
"Not of you. Never of you."
He made a sound low in his throat, pulling you into his lap with an ease that still thrilled you to this day. His hands -the same hands that cupped his daughter's face with tenderness, the same hands that would come home time to time stained with blood- framed your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones.
You smiled, leaning into his touch, "And I’ll always be yours, even if you turned into a worm."
A startled laugh escaped him, genuine and unguarded, before he captured your mouth in a kiss, deep and possessive- promising things no words could quite capture and a lifetime of protection.
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You glance up from the bed, blinking at Satoru, who’s standing in the doorway with his arms crossed like he’s confronting a cheating spouse. On your chest, Satoru Jr. purrs contentedly, a little white marshmallow curled against your heart. His little tail flicks once, all too smug for that tiny body.
“You're the one who literally bought him for me.” You remind him.
“Yeah, well. I thought he’d be cute. I didn’t think he’d replace me.”
You stifle a laugh as Jr. nuzzles under your chin, warm and weightless. His purring gets louder. You coo and scratch behind his ears.
Satoru storms over like a man scorned, dramatic steps heavy with betrayal. He flops down beside you with a huff, then leans in close. “Hey,” he says, voice low and enticing. “Wanna pet something tall and handsome instead?”
You don’t even look at him. “Shh, you’ll wake him.”
He stares at you. Stares at the kitten. Back to you. The audacity.
“I’m the original.” He utters, nose wrinkling in offence. “He’s just some cheap knockoff with zero rizz.”
You glance at him, finally amused. “You named him after yourself, so you can't call him a knockoff now.”
“That was before I knew he’d seduce you with his baby meows and his fluffy paws.” He sulks, visibly offended as Jr. starts licking your finger. “Look at him. He’s flaunting it.”
You giggle. And that’s when Satoru goes deadpan, eyes locked on you. He clears his throat-
“Meow.”
You blink. The kitten blinks. Satoru leans in closer, louder this time.
“Meow. Pet me.”
You burst into laughter, almost dislodging Jr, who gives a sleepy chirp in protest.
“Oh my god.” You wheeze. “You’re jealous of a literal kitten.”
“I’m jealous for your attention.” He pouts, resting his head on your shoulder with a theatrical sigh. “You never scratch my chin and call me a sweet baby angel.”
Jr. lets out a soft little mrrrp, annoyed, and bats at Satoru’s face with one paw.
Satoru recoils like he’s been slapped. “He has no respect for his elders.”
"Do you think we would ever have a baby?" you mumbled, words pressed against the material of Satoru's thick sweatshirt.
The hand on your head paused its motion through your hair. "Do you want a baby?" Satoru carefully asked.
You hummed, the throes of sleep tugging on each of your senses. Satoru had plucked you from your office downstairs only minutes ago, the all-nighter you had pulled making you delirious and hardly effective in your work.
"Maybe," you relented. "I think if it looked like you."
"I think my baby's a little tired," he teased, moving his hand down to rub circles in your back.
"Not any more than you. You never sleep."
Lips met your hairline, pressing several kisses across your skin. His actions worked in tandem to lull you to sleep, a tactic that always worked—one he had honed over the many years of your relationship.
"Deflecting," you accused.
Satoru breathed a barely-there laugh close to your skin. "I don't hear you complaining."
He kept going, interwining his legs with yours on the bed. His hands shifted from your back, along the skin of your arms, to your head, a clock somewhere in the room making your eyes droop further.
When the pull of sleep became too difficult to resist, you gave in to the darkness and the weight it brought, retaining enough consciousness to feel lips on your cheek and the soft admission, "I'd give you anything."
exigent circumstances | fushiguro toji, geto suguru, gojo satoru, kamo choso, kong shiu
╰►you were theirs—once. and maybe that should’ve been enough. but time’s a cruel thing, and distance doesn’t make the heart grow anything but restless. now you're just the ghost in their playlists, the contact they never delete, the dream they still wake up reaching for. they're trying to move on, really. but they see you everywhere. and god help them—they want you back. 13.4k words
a/n: ladies if a man ever does something that makes you want to break up with him...do it and don't take him back. however, this is not real life, so enjoy <3 also!! before anyone asks, I know I usually include nanami in these kinds of headcanons, but bsffr you would never break up with that man. I kinda feel the same about suguru, but I get a lot of requests to include him more in my posts, so I tried :] warnings: toxic relationships, kissing, cussing, mental health, eating habits. writing suguru in a way that isn’t at least vaguely yandere is hard for me, but I tried my best!! shiu's kind of giving stalker as well.......ignore pls....or don't if you're into that sort of thing.....
the breakup hadn’t been amicable, per se. there were no screaming matches. no shattered plates, no cruel words hurled like knives across the room. that wasn’t toji. not anymore. maybe a younger version of him—one with more hair-trigger rage and less to lose—would’ve made a scene. but this version? the one that had you in his bed, in his arms, in his life? he didn’t yell. he didn’t beg. he didn’t stop you. and that might’ve hurt more than if he had. because toji wasn’t a complete asshole. not to you. not really. he just…couldn’t be what you needed. and worst of all, he knew it.
he loved you. that wasn’t the problem. the problem was—he didn’t know how to show it. couldn’t accept it when it was offered. love wasn’t a language he spoke; it was one he flinched from. one he turned his back on. so when you left, he let you go. and somehow—somehow—he’s still living with that. if you ask him how, he won’t be able to give you an answer.
he’s always been a prideful man. it’s the closest thing he has to a constant. pride was what kept him standing after every job that should’ve killed him. what kept his back straight even when it felt like the weight of the world had settled between his shoulder blades. what drove him to perfect the art of surviving. of staying just dangerous enough to keep everyone at arm’s length, and just charming enough to keep someone like you in his bed. but pride is a fatal flaw. one day, it’ll be the reason he dies.
you knew that about him. you knew what he was when you started sleeping with him. he never pretended to be anything else. he was a killer, a ghost, a name spoken in half-whispers and urgent hushes in criminal circles. he lived on the edge of ruin, always one wrong move away from bleeding out in a stairwell somewhere. assassins don’t live safe lives. they don’t fall into routines, and they sure as hell don’t do domesticity. so maybe that’s what drew you in at first. maybe it was the thrill, or the way he flinched when you patched him up. maybe it was how he softened just a little—almost imperceptibly—when you made him dinner or let him sleep longer than he meant to.
you didn’t fall in love with what he did. you fell for the rare slivers of vulnerability he tried so hard to hide. you just wanted to love him. that’s it. simple. stupid. human. you wanted to cook for him, care for him, wrap his wounds and hold his hand while he drifted off to sleep. but toji didn’t love himself. chances are, he never would. and as much as you tried to tell yourself that your love could be enough—just maybe—it wasn’t.
he never let you take care of him. you’d bring him leftovers from that place he liked, and he’d wrinkle his nose and say he wasn’t hungry. you’d run him a bath and he’d pretend not to notice. you’d cuddle up beside him in bed and whisper that you loved him, and he’d grunt. or nod. or roll over. at first, it was almost…endearing. the gruffness. the tough guy routine. you could see through it. you knew him—better than he knew himself, sometimes. that scared him. made him shut down. push you away. maybe that’s what hurt most. not that he didn’t love you because he really did, in a way he never had with anyone else. but that he wouldn’t let himself accept your love.
it was a rainy night when it all fell apart. you knew he was just getting off a job. you hadn’t heard from him in hours, which wasn’t unusual. radio silence was part of the deal. but something told you—something nagging and insistent—that he’d need patching up tonight. so you went over. you packed a small kit. some bandages, antiseptic, painkillers. the leftovers were still warm in your bag. comfort food. nothing special. just something small to say, I care about you. I want you to eat. I want you to rest.
when you let yourself into his apartment, he was already there. shirt off, bruised, bloodied knuckles, maybe something fractured in his shoulder from the way he was favoring it. he looked exhausted. and fuck, he looked beautiful. even now. especially now. but you knew that look in his eyes before he even spoke. that cold, hardened thing. the wall slamming down.
"I told you not to come by tonight.” that was how it started.
you tried not to take it personally. you were used to this version of him—the one who needed space after a job. the one who pushed before he could be pulled. you sat down the food, offered to help him clean up. he said he’d handle it himself. you moved to tend to his wounds anyway, and he swatted your hand away. not hard, but enough to make you freeze. "I said I'll handle it.”
your jaw clenched. the room felt colder than it had when you’d walked in. “you haven’t eaten all day,” you said, a quiet offer laced in concern.
“I'm not hungry.” the same damn routine. but tonight, it wasn’t just frustrating. it was heartbreaking.
he was digging in deeper. not softening. not melting beneath your presence like he usually did. you tried—god, you tried—but it was like slamming into a wall over and over and pretending you weren’t bleeding. finally, you stepped back. "I can’t help someone who won’t help themselves.” you hadn’t planned to say it. but once it was out there, hanging in the air between you, you couldn’t take it back.
toji blinked. that hit harder than any punch he’d taken tonight. “is that what you think I am?” his voice was low, rough, disbelieving. “some helpless fucking case?” and he was. so obviously, he was, but the last thing he wanted was your pity.
“no,” you said, and meant it. "I think you’re scared. I think you’re used to being alone. I think being loved makes you feel like you’re going to lose something.” he didn’t answer. didn’t blink. didn’t move. you reached for the bag by the door. “if you don’t wanna be loved, I won’t force it on you, fushiguro.” you didn’t even call him toji. that was how he knew it was over. the door clicked shut.
he didn’t move for a long time. eventually, in true toji fashion, he punched something. the wall closest to him. the drywall cracked, groaned under the force of his fist. his knuckles split open again. he didn’t even flinch. he didn’t sleep that night. and when he finally picked up his phone to call you—because fuck, he needed to—you didn’t answer. you didn’t answer the next time he called. or the next. or the one after that. eventually, he gave up. he’s never been good at chasing things. not people, not dreams, not feelings. but you—you made him want to try. still, he let you go.
but he didn’t let go of worrying. he made shiu check in. quietly. casually. never anything that would alarm you. no weird shadows outside your apartment window. just enough to know you were okay. lights on. you walking to work in the early morning, head down, headphones in. cold, but well. unbothered. unreachable.
toji was breaking into fucking pieces. how did he let that happen? how did he have you—warm and real and kind—and still fuck it all to hell? he thinks about it every day. every hour. he hasn’t taken a job since. can’t. not like this. he knows if he tried, he’d get his ass handed to him. his head and heart are still on the floor of his kitchen from the night you walked out. they haven’t gotten up since.
"if you don't wanna be loved, I won't force it on you, fushiguro." it echoes in his head a billion times a day. fushiguro. you hadn’t called him toji. and you hadn’t been angry. you’d been hurt. and that’s so much fucking worse. anger he could take. he was used to anger. he knew how to fight that. but this—this soft heartbreak in your voice, this quiet grief, this sadness… it gutted him. you weren’t yelling. you weren’t blaming him. you were hurting for him. and because of him.
when he finally goes back to work, he keeps it simple. easy. safe. safe in a way toji fushiguro has never been. bodyguard gigs. escorting some teen sorcerer to-and from schools. roughing up punk kids who harass girls outside clubs. low-stakes shit. nothing that would get him killed. nothing that would leave him too bloodied for reflection.
you never asked him to quit. not once. not even when he showed up at your door with busted ribs and a slash across his chest. you never demanded it. but maybe you should have. toji thinks you deserved better. more. everything. and if he couldn’t be it then, he’ll try now. even if he never gets you back, he’ll try. because it’s what you’d want for him. and now, all he wants is what you want.
you told him once that you just wanted to love him. that all you wanted was to make him happy. and the fucked-up part is: you did. you made him happy in a way he never thought possible. and he squandered it.
he doesn’t eat much these days. works out like a lunatic. trains until he can’t think. runs until his lungs scream. anything to keep from feeling. he goes to bed early. wakes up before the sun. starts learning how to cook—simple things. tries to make onigiri. burnt the rice the first time. it stuck to his hands. didn’t know you had to wet them first. he still ate it. didn’t taste like much. not the food. just…memories. you laughing in the kitchen, your hands wet, the rice perfect. he remembers you patting the little triangle into place, offering it to him like it was a love letter made of carbs. he goes to the store and buys a case of your favorite soda. downs it while it’s cold. doesn’t taste it either. he tastes you. the memory of you. what it felt like to be loved. and despite how hollow he feels, how gutted and aching and fucking lost—he’s getting better. slowly. quietly. imperceptibly. maybe not whole. but better.
he thinks about you and what you’re doing now. you weren’t really the boyfriend type. even with toji, date night usually consisted of takeout on his couch. so at least there was that: the knowledge that, even if you had moved on—as much as it fucking ached to think that—you probably weren’t dating anybody else. shiu says he hasn’t seen anyone at your place, but who knows. well, toji knows. knows you. he thinks back to the things you said. he helps himself now. loving himself might be pushing it, but he’s learning to swallow that pride-shaped lump in his throat. take care of himself. maybe, maybe, maybe. maybe you’d have him back.
he texts one night, late. he’s drunk; you’re probably asleep. hey. he doesn’t expect a response. he watches typing bubbles appear next to your contact info. disappear. reappear. and then they go away, and they don’t come back.
it comes to a head on a too-bright sunday morning in june. two full months since he last saw your face. he’d thought about running into you at the store. on the street. at that little ramen place you liked. but you’ve been ghost quiet. no texts. no calls. no sighting. for all he knew, you’d moved on. irony is, he hadn’t had a single thought that wasn’t about you since you left. your cooking. your perfume. your stupid cotton sleep shorts. the way you smiled at him like you saw through all the shit and liked what you found anyway. he’s walking down the street, half-asleep. planning to buy rice and seaweed and maybe, if he’s feeling brave, some umeboshi. he’s getting the hang of onigiri now.
that’s when he sees you. just—walking. headphones in. face soft and faraway. you’re not going to work—it’s sunday, and you're dressed casual. you’re headed toward a little shop that sells coffee grounds and handmade mugs. you used to drag him there once a week. called it your “coffee church.” you look peaceful. you look like you’ve moved on. and toji, idiot that he is, considers hiding. ducking into an alley. pretending he’s not there.
but then—your eyes meet his. it’s not dramatic. no gasp. no stumble. just a slow blink, a slow breath, and a look that crawls over him like you’re taking him in from scratch. like maybe you forgot just how good he looked. and yeah, the caveman part of him roars a little at that. she’s looking at me. she likes what she sees. my girl.
but the rest of him? the human part? the part you once held in your hands so gently? he just feels sad. pathetic, maybe. but that’s the word. he wants to cry, almost, and it’s so fucking embarrassing. he’s standing awkwardly, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. which is rare for toji. he’s all swagger and confidence on a good day. this is not a good day.
“...toji,” you say.
flat. noncommittal. but hey—at least it’s toji and not fushiguro. two months, and all you have to say is his name. he gives you a little nod. casual. like this isn’t the moment his entire world shifts back into orbit. “hey.” silence. you look like you could walk away. he wouldn’t stop you. he’d let you go again, even if it kills him.
but then—“wanna walk with me?” he asks. you hesitate.
he shrugs. “just…a few blocks. I won’t talk your ear off.” and you agree. and toji loses his fucking mind. you’re here. you’re real. you’re alive and well and in front of him. not a dream. not a memory. not a cruel, waking hallucination. his chest squeezes so tight he thinks this might be what a heart attack feels like. he’s pretty sure you just looked at him like you used to. soft. sweet. a little amused. like you saw him—not the body count, not the paycheck, not the devil-may-care smirk he wore like armor. you looked at him like you remembered.
and he panics. internally, at least. externally, he’s trying very hard to stand still and look cool, which is ironic because inside he’s already on his knees, forehead pressed to the fucking pavement, begging you to forgive him. he’s scrambling through every sentence he rehearsed in the mirror. all the words he’d never said right the first time. please. I didn’t mean to push you away. I didn’t know how to let you love me. I'm trying. I've changed. I still—he moves before he realizes it. a step forward. his arm halfway raised. his mouth opening around the start of that well-crafted apology—"I don’t want apologies, toji.” your voice stops him cold. soft. firm. unshaking.
and maybe it’s not anger in your voice—but it’s not yearning either. you cut the legs out from under him with four words, and he stands there, empty-handed, heavy-hearted, caught in the spotlight of his own regret. all that buildup. all those speeches. all that pain, coiled tight in his chest. and you don’t want apologies. you want something else. and toji has no idea if he’s capable of giving it. but god, he’s going to try.
you walk side by side. it’s quiet. easy. tense, but not painful. “I'm not…trying to push anything,” he says after a few minutes. "I just… been thinkin’ about you. a lot.” you don’t respond. just let him keep going. "I fucked up. I know that. didn’t even try to say I didn’t. I wasn’t good to you. not how I should’ve been.” he rubs the back of his neck. avoids your eyes. looks almost… boyish, for once. "I never really learned how to let someone love me. not until you. and by the time I figured out what that felt like…I'd already ruined it.” the sidewalk stretches out in front of you like a lifeline. you don’t say anything. he doesn’t expect you to.
“I've been workin’ on it,” he says quietly. “on… me. not for anyone else. just… if I ever got the chance to see you again, I wanted to be better. not just say it—do it.” he looks at you now. eyes soft. vulnerable. none of the sharp edges you used to cut yourself on. "I don’t know if you’d ever…want me again. but I'd be good to you. if you did.” your throat feels tight. the sun is warm on your face, but your eyes sting. “and if not,” he adds, “that’s okay. just glad I saw you again. you look good.” it’s not okay, but he can’t say that. he can’t force you to care. he doesn’t have to.
you stop outside your building. look up at the steps. you could walk up them right now. close the door on this chapter again. it would be safe. logical. expected. but love isn’t logical. and neither is hope. you turn. eyes on him. no invitation. just possibility. the door doesn’t latch behind you. and that’s enough.
toji stands frozen. a long, slow ache blooming in his chest where all the sharp things used to be. you left the door open. you. left the door open. he doesn’t think. doesn’t weigh it. doesn’t ask what it means. two strides and he’s following. the stairwell light flickers. you’re one step up, just far enough away to still leave him behind. he reaches for you—your wrist, soft and sure in his palm—and you turn. eyes wide. lips parted. surprise written across your face like you didn’t expect him to chase you. like you didn’t know he still would.
and then he kisses you. not sweet. not slow. like he’s trying to breathe you in before the door closes after all. one hand grips your waist. the other steadies him against the wall. he pours it all into the press of his mouth—everything he can’t say. sorry. please. don’t go. not again.
you gasp once, but your hands are already sliding up his chest, curling into his jacket. you kiss him like you never stopped. maybe you didn’t. when he pulls back, it’s barely. his breath trembles. your nose brushes his. you’re still close enough to ruin him. "I love you,” he says, barely a whisper. raw. wrecked. your eyes widen. and fuck, that kills him. that surprise. like you didn’t know. like he ever made you doubt it. he wants to gut himself. carve out the parts that ever let you feel that unloved.
but you don’t look away. you stare back at him like you’re seeing something new. or maybe something old. something forgotten. you don’t say it back. not yet. you don’t have to. your hand lifts. fingers press to his chest. not pushing. just grounding. you glance toward the door—still ajar. just enough. then back to him. you nod once. and he gets it.
geto didn’t do casual. that was never on the table. not with you—not with anyone. and certainly not with the two of you together. at least, he wouldn’t have used that word. you wouldn’t either. but still—relationships didn’t come naturally to you. they didn’t come naturally to suguru either, maybe, but he wore them like they did. like muscle memory. like he’d practiced in secret until he could do it flawlessly. you tried not to let that make you envious.
but he was just so good at loving you. he texted before grocery runs to ask if you needed anything. he remembered every birthday. every soft anniversary. even things you didn’t celebrate. he left bouquets of your favorite flowers in the kitchen each week without fail. always the right colors. always the right stems. he drove you everywhere. kept your fridge stocked. learned how you took your coffee.
and he never expected anything in return. he did these things like breathing. like loving you was second nature to him. your love for him was never in question. not really. but returning that love—mirroring it—felt like trying to dance in shoes two sizes too big. awkward. sloppy. off-tempo.
suguru dated like someone who knew you long before he ever kissed you. like the romance was inevitable. fated. and maybe that’s what scared you. the inevitability. the certainty. because now, you felt like you had to perform. to be on all the time. to earn what he gave so freely.
you tried to explain it once—quietly, in his car. he’d driven you home after dinner, parked outside your building. his fingers loose on the wheel. the engine idling low beneath the hum of cicadas. “it just feels like I'm constantly…behind,” you said, eyes on your lap, hands twisting in your sleeves. “like you’re already halfway through a thought I haven’t caught up to yet. like I'm supposed to be someone I'm not.”
he blinked, slow. “is that something I've made you feel?”
“no.” and that was the worst part. “that’s the problem.” because suguru’s love was gentle. steady. unrelenting in its patience. and all you could give back was effort. small thank-you texts. an awkward smile when he brought you coffee. a hand reaching for his beneath the table—sometimes. when you remembered. you didn’t move like a girlfriend should. you didn’t wake up and feel at home in someone else’s arms. you never had.
but suguru did. he was home. he was always all in. “I'm not trying to make you earn it,” he said then, turning toward you. his voice was so soft it hurt. “you’re not behind. or broken. or whatever story your head is telling you. you’re just… you. that’s all I want.” and you believed him. you really did. but love doesn’t land when you’re made of broken receivers.
a week later, he brings it up. you're curled on his couch, full and sleepy after dinner. he’d made jasmine rice—your favorite. the apartment still smells like garlic and toasted sesame. your phone is somewhere deep in your bag. for once, you’re not thinking about it. and then he says it. lightly. offhand. like it’s a logical next step. "I was thinking,” he begins, “maybe you should move in.” you freeze. you don’t gasp, don’t act dramatically shocked. but you go still. and when he sees it—that flicker of fear you didn’t hide fast enough—his smile falters."I mean,” he adds gently, “only if you want to. I just thought… we already spend most nights together. it might make things easier. more…natural.”
natural. there’s that word again. you nod too quickly. “yeah. maybe.” and that’s where it ends. you don’t talk about it again that night. but something in you cracks open, quiet and trembling—and it doesn’t close again.
you start counting his kindnesses. like tally marks. like debt. you keep wondering when he’ll stop. when he’ll see how clumsy you are with soft things. when he’ll finally realize: you love him. but you don’t know how to be someone who deserves him.
it’s late. raining. your sleeves are soaked through by the time you buzz his apartment. he answers in sweatpants and no shirt. eyes bleary with sleep and something like worry. “hey,” he says. instantly awake. “what’s wrong?”
you take a breath. you’ve already decided. "I can’t do this anymore.” the look on his face is devastating. you try again. "I don’t think I know how to be loved like this.”
he steps forward, slow and careful, like approaching a wounded animal. “you don’t have to know how,” he says. “you just…are. I'm not going anywhere. I'm not asking you to change.”
"I know.” your voice is raw. “that’s why it’s worse.” because he deserves someone who says yes when he asks her to move in. someone who doesn’t flinch at long-term. someone who doesn’t look at his love like it’s a test they’re bound to fail. "I love you, suguru,” you whisper. “but I think I'm just going to keep hurting you if I stay.”
he shakes his head. his voice cracks. “you’re not hurting me. this—” he gestures helplessly, “this is what hurts.” then his hand lifts, just a little. not to hold you. just to remind you: I'm still here. you take a step back. he falters.
this is how you leave a man who would never leave you. not with shouting. not with slammed doors. but with too much silence. with fear so old and rooted that even love can’t pull it loose. you think of the woman who will come after you. she’ll be open. easy. warm. she’ll say yes. she’ll laugh easily. kiss him in the cereal aisle. she’ll never make him doubt. he’ll move on. eventually. and you’ll always wonder if he loved her the same way he loved you. quietly. fully. with everything.
your hand finds the doorknob. he doesn’t stop you. but just before it clicks behind you, you hear it. soft. almost swallowed. your name. that’s all. you close the door before you can turn back.
suguru tries to give you space. tries. but geto suguru doesn’t do anything halfheartedly, least of all love. he was all in from the first moment. the moment you looked at him like he wasn’t too much. like he wasn’t a man with too many ghosts in the passenger seat. he’d fallen fast and hard—and even now, weeks later, he still feels like he’s falling. only now, the landing is gone. he doesn’t understand it. not fully. he’s tried to walk himself through it, a hundred times over, pacing the floor of his apartment in the early hours of the morning. you were in his arms. in his life. in his fucking bed. you were his. so what scared you away?
he doesn’t want to blame you, so he blames himself. he always has. maybe it was asking you to move in—maybe that was the moment it all shifted. that wasn’t supposed to be pressure. that was supposed to be comfort. that was supposed to be him saying: you don’t have to do this alone anymore. he just wanted you close. wanted to know where you were when it rained. wanted to see you there when he got home. wanted to kiss your temple in the morning and not watch you slip out the door like a ghost. but now? now he’s alone. with his silence. with his certainty. because suguru’s not confused about how he loves you. he’s just broken over the fact that it wasn’t enough to make you stay. he doesn’t reach out at first. respects the boundary. tells himself it’s better this way. that maybe you need time, maybe space will do what words can’t. but it eats at him. the not-knowing. the quiet. you’re like a song stuck in his teeth. a scent in his sheets that refuses to fade.
he tries not to text. fails. types and deletes messages by the dozen. thinks them, but doesn’t send them. you okay? did you eat today? are you cold at night without me there? instead, he checks in through your friends. nothing direct. just soft, careful questions. how’s she doing? is she okay? she’s still going to work, right? they’re kind. some of them know the truth. some of them don’t. one of them tells him, “honestly...I thought you broke up with her.” he almost laughs. almost. that would’ve been easier. cleaner. at least then he could hate himself for something he did.
but no. this was worse. you left because he loved you too much. because you didn’t know how to accept that love. that thought guts him. he should’ve seen it. should’ve known. you’d always been a little hesitant when he praised you. always stiffened when he touched your face too tenderly. always flinched when the compliments came too close to your ribs. he thought you were just shy. or slow to trust. he didn’t realize it was you. your head. your story. that old lie, the one that clung to your bones like rot: I don’t deserve this. god, he’s furious with himself. how did he not dig deep enough? how did he not notice that the woman he loved more than anything was still looking for reasons not to be loved back?
it’s a long couple of weeks. he doesn’t take care of himself. doesn’t really sleep. stares at the messages he never sends. works half as hard, trains twice as much. his body aches. not nearly as much as his chest. he sees you once. from across a busy intersection. you’re walking with a coworker, maybe a friend. someone smiling at you, telling you a story. you’re nodding. but you’re not there. your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. your shoulders are hunched forward like you’re bracing for a hit. you still walk like the world expects too much from you and you’re afraid to disappoint it.
and suguru realizes: you’re not okay. you’re not better off. you’re surviving. not living. just like him. and that breaks something in him all over again. because he let you walk away thinking you were the problem. thinking you’d hurt him by leaving. when really, all he’s ever wanted was to love you in a way that made you feel safe. not cornered. not small. not wrong. and now he wonders if you’re curled up on your couch, pretending you're okay. eating less. sleeping worse. pushing yourself too hard. telling yourself it’s what you deserve.
and it makes him want to scream. because no. no, you don’t. you deserve everything. every flower. every hand held. every quiet night with someone who loves you fiercely and doesn’t make you earn it. you deserve him. and he's going to prove it. but not with flowers. not with soft words. not with a love so loud it scares you all over again. he’ll do it gently this time. he’ll knock before coming back. and he’ll wait for you to open the door. and you open the door for him.
it’s a well-timed flu that breaks the ice. he’d texted a few times—half-hearted replies from you, then nothing. but when you finally call, he doesn’t even let it finish ringing before he’s answering with a breathless, “hey.”
it hits fast. a fever that lays you out like a truck hit you. skin hot, bones aching, room spinning. you tell yourself it’ll pass. that you can sleep it off. but by morning, you’re worse. dizzy when you try to stand. your hands won’t stop shaking. you can’t think straight. you don’t remember pressing call, but suddenly, you’re whispering his name into the receiver like it’s a prayer.
and he answers. “it’s okay,” he says immediately, steady and calm. “I've got you.” he’s there twenty minutes later. you hear the key in the lock—his key, the one you never asked for back—and then he’s in the doorway, rain in his hair, jacket dripping, eyes scanning until they land on you, curled and sweating on the couch like something wilting. “jesus,” he breathes, kneeling beside you, palm to your forehead. “you’re burning up.” you try to sit up. you don’t make it. he catches you like he always does. “you should’ve called sooner.”
you want to say I didn’t think you’d come. but all you manage is a whisper: “didn’t know who else to call.”
he doesn’t blink at the mess. doesn’t flinch at your clammy skin or the sweat-soaked blankets. he just sets his bag down and gets to work. suguru doesn’t move with panic—he moves with purpose. “let’s get you into something clean, okay?”
you nod, barely conscious. he undresses you slowly, carefully, his eyes on your face the whole time. soft apologies leave his mouth when you wince. he finds your favorite sleep shirt, pulls it gently over your head, smooths the fabric over your spine like he’s memorizing you again. not with hunger, with reverence. he changes the sheets one-handed while the other keeps you steady, propped against his side like something precious. he works fast, efficient. like he’s done this a hundred times before. because he would, wouldn’t he? he’d do this every day if it meant being near you. you spill tea and he doesn’t blink. just steadies your hand, presses the mug back to your lips. “it’s the good kind,” he murmurs. your kind. the one from that little store across town. he’s kept some in his bag.
later, when your fever spikes again, he’s already ready—cool cloth pressed to your temple, thumb stroking gently down the bridge of your nose. when you start to shiver, he crawls into bed behind you, wraps himself around your body like armor. you make a small sound in your sleep and his hand spreads over your stomach, warm and wide and grounding. “you don’t have to do anything,” he murmurs. “just rest.” and you do. you drift, wake, drift again. every time, he’s still there.
you catch him watching you once, just after the fever breaks. you’re pale, eyes glassy, but when they meet his, something cracks in his chest. his breath shudders. “missed you,” he says, quiet as a confession. you don’t answer. just reach for his hand. weak, but steady. he squeezes back. you’re miserable. fragile. barely holding together. and he’s never looked more whole. not because you’re suffering—god, never that—but because even now, even after everything, you still chose him. still called. and he came. of course he came.
you wake to light. soft, gray morning light bleeding through the curtains—quiet and cool. you're warm, dry, and blanketed in the stillness that only follows a fever. your head no longer feels like it’s splitting open. you can breathe again. your mouth tastes like sleep and medicine. your first thought: better.
the second: he’s still here. suguru is sitting at the edge of the bed, back to you, scrolling through his phone. he’s changed—probably sometime in the early hours—but everything else about him is the same. still close. still watching over you. you shift beneath the covers. he turns immediately, like he’s been waiting for you to stir. “how do you feel?” he asks, voice low, soft around the edges.
you hesitate. because now that your mind is clear, so is the guilt. the shame. the clarity that always comes after a storm—seeing the wreckage, realizing what you've done. who you let in. how much you still want him. “I'm okay,” you say, barely above a whisper. “thank you.” he nods. you push yourself up slowly. “you should go home.” he blinks—slow, confused. “you’ve been here for two days,” you say, forcing a lighter tone. “you must be exhausted. go sleep in your own bed. I'll be fine.”
his brow pulls just slightly. “you want me to leave?”
you don’t answer. because you don’t. but having him here—loving you so gently, so completely—only reminds you of what you gave up. what he could have had if you weren’t so twisted up inside. “it’s okay,” you say, eyes locked on the blanket in your lap. "I can take care of myself now. you don’t have to keep doing this.”
his voice is calm, sure. "I want to.”
you shake your head. “that’s not the point.”
"I think it is.”
you exhale. “you shouldn’t have to take care of someone like this. someone like me.”
that hits him. he’s quiet. his hands curl slightly in his lap. his jaw tightens, then eases.
“you’re not a burden.”
you flinch. "I didn’t say I was.”
“you didn’t have to.” silence. heavy. close. you don’t mean to cry. but the tears come anyway—quiet, slow, unwelcome. you swipe at them fast, but he notices. of course he does. he shifts closer, still not touching. just steady. present. “you don’t have to be perfect for me to stay,” he says, gentle and resolute. “you don’t have to be better first. you don’t have to earn this. I'm not here because I should be. I'm here because I love you.”
you shut your eyes. hard. "I don’t want to hurt you again.”
“then let me stay,” he says. “let me love you the way I want to. let me be here—even if it’s slow. even if it’s hard. even if you’re scared out of your mind. I'm not leaving. not unless you tell me to.” you finally look at him. he looks tired. he looks beautiful. he looks like he’s never been more certain of anything. you open your mouth. to argue. to apologize. to give some noble, fractured reason why he shouldn’t do this to himself. but before you can speak, he reaches out—gently bracketing your hands in his. “no more pushing me away. not for my sake. that’s not your job.”
your lip trembles. “you don’t know what you’re asking.”
"I do,” he says. “and I want all of it.”you collapse into him before you can change your mind. he catches you instantly, pulls you into his chest, arms locking tight around you like he’s anchoring the both of you. you feel his breath stutter. one hand slides into your hair. the other rubs soft, slow circles into your spine. he’s shaking too. he missed you. god, he missed you. and now that he has you again—this time—he’s not letting go.
your relationship with gojo is fun. that’s how most people would describe it. hell, that’s how you would describe it. he’s the life of the party. mr. fun. mr. loud-laughs-and-bad-jokes. everything with him is light, fast, full of motion. and you love that about him. you do.
you’ve known mr. perfect a long time.
but you’re in love with satoru. the man underneath. the one he barely lets anyone see.
and sometimes—only sometimes—you catch glimpses.
like now.
he’s lying on the couch in full daylight, arm slung over his eyes like a magician halfway through a disappearing act. he hasn’t moved in hours. the tv is on mute. his water bottle is unopened. his phone keeps buzzing.
you know what this is. he’s having one of his migraines—the kind he pretends he doesn’t get. the kind that slips in after too many days with infinity up. the kind that only hits when he forgets to be invincible.
you stand in the doorway, watching.
then you pad across the room, sit gently beside him.
“satoru.”
his arm stays where it is. “m’fine.”
“you’re not.”
“sure I am,” he says, voice light. dismissive. that fake-casual tone he’s mastered over the years. but it doesn’t land. it sounds like a lie. like a tired echo from someone who’s always supposed to be okay.
you’re quiet for a moment. then you say, “you can take it off. with me.”
he hesitates. then lifts his arm, just a little, to look at you. his eyes are bloodshot. his smile is faint. "I don’t know how.”
it’s the closest thing to a confession he’s ever given you. and it shatters something in your chest.
but it doesn’t change anything.
later, you’re washing dishes. he’s pretending to help—towel tossed over one shoulder, phone in hand, dry plate in the other. he keeps showing you dumb tiktoks. keeps laughing like he’s okay.
and you keep smiling, because that’s what you do. you perform together. that’s the deal.
but halfway through a plate, your smile cracks. and he notices.
“hey,” he says gently. “what’s going on?”
you shake your head. “nothing.”
“come on. don’t go quiet on me now.”
you dry your hands. lean against the counter. “do you ever turn it off?” you ask. “the jokes. the mask. the perfect guy act.”
he blinks. like the question caught him off guard. like no one’s ever asked.
“not really,” he says, after a pause. "I don’t think people would like what’s underneath.”
"I would.”
silence. thick. sharpened at the edges.
“would you?” he asks, voice suddenly low, stripped of charm. “even if it’s not fun anymore?”
you meet his eyes. “I'm not asking you to be miserable. I'm asking you to be real.”
“I'm trying,” he says. his voice cracks. and that’s how you know: he means it. he really does. but he’s terrified. he doesn’t know who he is without the shine. doesn’t know if there’s anything under all that glow still worth loving. and you’re just so tired of waiting for him to trust you with it.
that night, you sit at the edge of the bed. he’s quiet. legs stretched in front of him, back hunched like he’s trying to take up less space. like even his body knows how heavy his name is. you reach for his hand. he lets you take it. "I don’t want to break up with you, satoru,” you say. satoru, never gojo. never.
he laughs—small, humorless. “but you’re going to.”
you nod. "I don’t know what else to do.”
he doesn’t argue. no grand gestures. no sparkly, last-minute charm. he just presses your hand between both of his. holds it like it’s the last thing anchoring him here. “you could stay,” he says, exasperated. pleading, even.
"I can’t, satoru. not if it’s not real.”
“I'm sorry,” he whispers.
you close your eyes. "I don’t want sorry. I want you.”
"I don’t know how to be him.”
"I know.” you lean forward, kiss his temple. one last touch. one last mercy. you leave before sunrise. quietly.
it’s hard to hide. gojo tries. god, he tries. he cracks the same jokes. wears the same shades. laughs too loud, too early in the morning, like if he can just be enough, no one will notice the hollow ringing in his chest. but it’s different now. forced. empty. a shell of joy. everyone sees it.
you used to be everywhere—tucked against his side during late-night hangouts, teasing him over mispronounced takeout orders, dragging him outside to look at stars he pretended not to care about. now you’re just…gone. quietly. no blow-up. no ugly goodbye. just a clean vanishing act. and the absence is deafening. shoko doesn’t ask. nanami doesn’t ask. even yuuji, bless him, doesn’t ask. but they all know.
the migraines come more often now. he doesn’t mention them. just disappears—locks himself in his apartment, blinds drawn, phone face-down, fists curled against his temples like pressure might keep you from slipping through his fingers a second time. there’s no one to tell him to put his blindfold back on. no one to scold him for overusing those bright, beautiful eyes. he stares at the sun anyway. punishment. self-inflicted. as if your absence wasn’t already sentence enough. sometimes, he falls asleep in yesterday’s clothes. on top of the blankets. phone clutched like a lifeline, screen cold against his cheek, waiting—for a text that never comes. you don’t reply. you don’t even leave him on read anymore.
but he still leaves voicemails. never long. never dramatic. just soft little echoes of you: “hey. saw this tree on my run this morning. leaves are turning. thought you’d like it. you always got weird about fall, remember?” “you made me start drinking coffee like you. less sugar. I get it now. it’s honest. doesn’t try too hard,” "I miss you. every day. even the good ones. especially the good ones.” he doesn’t know if you listen. sometimes, he calls just to hear your voicemail greeting. you still haven’t changed it. you sound happy in it. that’s the part that kills him most. he texts too. not memes anymore. not anything funny. photos. snippets of a life that keeps happening without you: a sunrise over the skyline, a flyer for a new cat café that made him think of you, his hand wrapped around your mug—the girly ceramic one with the little strawberries. you hated how cute it was. he never let you throw it out. “sunrise wasn’t as pretty as you,” “the mug’s still here. not washing it until you come get it,” “did you ever finish that book you were reading?”
no replies. not even read receipts. still, he sends them. because what else is he supposed to do? he doesn’t date. doesn’t flirt. doesn’t try. wouldn’t be fair. he’s not over you. he’s not even out of the wreckage. he thinks about the night you left. not the tears. not the silence. just the moment you said his name—satoru, not gojo, not babe, not anything easy or playful. just satoru, like you were begging him to be real, just once. and he couldn’t. not fast enough. not deep enough. so you left. and it didn’t just break his heart. it ruined him.
you were the one person who didn’t care that he was the strongest. who didn’t love the spectacle. who stayed when the glitter faded and his smile cracked. who saw him—bone-tired and bright-eyed and broken—and still wanted him anyway. and he couldn’t meet you there. he couldn’t show up. and now you’re gone.
it’s been a month. a month without your voice. without your laugh echoing through his apartment. without your toothbrush next to his, your fingers in his hair, your presence anchoring him to something real. he starts showing up late to meetings. stops wearing matching clothes. eats poorly or not at all. his sunglasses sit untouched on the dresser. his phone stays glued to his hand, never ringing.
shoko notices first. starts bringing coffee again—the way you used to. sometimes it’s bitter on purpose. sometimes there’s a muffin. she never stays long. just enough to look at him and leave aspirin like a warning. suguru lingers longer. he brings groceries. rearranges the fridge. cooks one night, flips through channels on the tv until satoru sinks beside him like gravity’s gotten stronger. another time, he leaves two tickets on the table. they go unused. no one pushes. but they see it. he’s a dying star now—still bright, if you squint. still warm. but folding in on himself.
it gives way at a party. shoko’s house. too many drinks, too many eyes, too much noise. satoru slips away. orders a car. doesn’t remember the ride. remembers your building, though. the numbers on your door. the way your name still makes his heart bruise.
you answer on the third knock. barefoot. tired. not surprised. not quite angry. just done. he tries to smile. tries to speak. the words come wrong. slurred. too much or too little. he ends up on his knees, face pressed against your stomach like it might hold him together.
you sigh. frustrated. your hands twitch toward your temples. “satoru.”
he grins. lopsided. broken. “hi.”
“you can’t just do this.”
"I know.”
“you don’t just crawl back when you're lonely.”
“I'm not lonely,” he says, then winces. “okay. I'm very lonely. but that’s not why I'm here.”
you cross your arms. “then why?”
he blinks slowly, lips parting. his chest heaves with the weight of it all. then—"I took it for granted.” his voice breaks on the word it. “you. us. I thought you’d always be there. like the sky. like—like air. I didn’t know I was suffocating without you until I was.” you scoff. but it’s soft. familiar. he hears the exasperation, but also the crack in your armor. he stumbles forward. trips over nothing. collapses to his knees and wraps his arms around your waist like a drowning man clawing at land. “I'll change,” he breathes, face buried in your stomach. "I swear. just—let me come home. I'll be better. I am better. I—hic—I'm your satoru. I'll be whatever you need.” you sigh. loud. frustrated. your hands move automatically to your temples like you’re trying to rub away the fact that this is happening.
but when his shoulders shake, when you realize he’s crying—actual, hot, humiliating tears soaking through your shirt—you curse under your breath. and then your fingers are in his hair. soft. soothing. so familiar that he melts. he breathes in sharp, wrecked, and exhales against your shirt like it’s the first clean breath he’s taken in weeks. you guide him to the couch. he’s heavy and clumsy, mumbling something into your shoulder about missing your laugh, your smell, your hands.
later, he’s on your couch. mumbled apologies fading into sleep. a blanket draped over him. water and tylenol on the table. you watch his chest rise and fall. then go to bed. in the morning, he wakes up slow. the worst hangover of his life. the apartment smells like your shampoo.you walk out in pajama pants. a tired look in your eyes. he sits up, wincing. you don’t speak. just pour two mugs of coffee. set one down in front of him without comment. he drinks it. bitter. familiar. no declarations. no more begging. just your knee bumping his under the table. and for the first time in thirty-one days, he breathes.
the next weeks aren’t perfect. but they are real. you're sitting on a bench in the park. his hand resting over yours. no crowd, no noise. he doesn’t perform. just sits, quiet and present. when you ask what he’s thinking, he opens his mouth. closes it. looks at your hand instead. you nod. that’s enough. suguru throws another get-together. normally, satoru would be the first to arrive. this time, he texts: “not coming. think I need to stay in.” he brings home your favorite takeout. doesn't explain. just climbs into bed beside you, your bowls in your laps, your toes tangled under the blanket.
one day, he gets a migraine. he doesn’t hide. texts you. “head’s bad today. can you come over?” you do. you sit beside him on the bed, fingers in his hair, lights low. he drifts off with your hand in his, the pain dulling at the edges. another night, he burns dinner so bad the smoke alarm screams. you find him waving a towel, swearing like it’s personal. you laugh. he sulks. you eat cereal in bed. later, when the lights are off, and your breathing is steady, he whispers into the dark: “I'm scared. that I'll mess it up.” you find his hand. squeeze once. he doesn’t say anything after that. just holds on. a little tighter. he’s still scared. he still shines too bright sometimes. still stumbles over the parts of himself he doesn’t understand. but he’s learning. slowly. bravely. and he’s real now. finally, finally real.
no one expected you and choso to become what you did. you were a sorcerer. quiet. capable. always exhausted. always moving like there was something chasing you—not just curses, but time, regret, grief. you’d seen too much too young. lost more than you could count. you didn’t love easily. didn’t trust easily. but choso made it feel…possible. he wasn’t like the others. not polished or loud or charming in the usual way. he was awkward sometimes. a little too still, a little too intense. but he listened. he remembered. he cared.
not just the big things. the little ones. the way you liked your tea. the way you twisted your hair when you were lying. the sound of your breathing when you slept, and how to match it so you’d feel safe even in dreams. he was gentle in a world that didn’t know how to be. he didn’t flinch at your scars. didn’t blink at your worst days. he just loved you—completely, without performance, like it was instinct. and you? you tried to let him in. you really did.
there were nights when you curled into his side, listening to his heartbeat like it might steady your own. afternoons where the world slowed down long enough to believe this could last. moments when you looked at him and thought: maybe I could stay. he made a home out of silence and small comforts. he was steady hands and slow mornings. a warm meal waiting for you after missions. a forehead kiss and, please be careful. you didn’t have to talk much. he always knew. and maybe that was the problem. because choso saw you too clearly.
he could tell when you hadn’t slept. when you were lying. when something inside you had splintered and you were trying to keep the pieces from showing. he asked you once, gently, what scared you more—dying, or watching someone else die because of you. you couldn’t answer. not then. maybe not ever. and then the missions got harder. the injuries worse. you started staring too long at your own reflection, wondering if the person in the mirror was someone you still recognized.
and slowly—without realizing it—you started pulling away. at first, he just thinks you’re tired. he’s seen the way the work drains you—how long the missions are, how bloody they get, how quiet you are after you come back. so when you stop texting him goodnight, when you stop leaning into his touch, when you stop meeting his eyes for too long, he gives you space. the kind of space he thinks love is supposed to give.
choso doesn’t know much about relationships. he’s lived long, but not lived much. this is his first time being in love like this. romantic love. tender love. terrifying, breathtaking, warm-in-the-chest love. and you’re the first person he’s ever wanted to give that to. at first, he doesn’t have the language for it. but he learns fast. he learns that you like to sleep with the window cracked, even in winter. that you can’t fall asleep unless you hear him breathing next to you. that you hate your laugh but he thinks it’s the most beautiful sound in the world.
he learns that love is quiet. it’s showing up. it’s bringing back your favorite food even when you didn’t ask. it’s not touching you until you reach for him first. it’s watching your favorite movie just to memorize the parts that make you smile. his love for you is total. it makes him nervous—every time you touch him, every time you look at him like he matters. he didn’t know he could be something soft. someone needed. he wakes up next to you some mornings and has to remind himself it’s real. and then you start pulling away.
it’s small at first. less physical touch. less eye contact. fewer I love yous—and when they come, they sound strained, like you’re saying them through a wall. he doesn’t know what to do. he panics in that quiet, internal way. his thoughts spiral. did he say something wrong? did he stop doing something he was supposed to be doing? is this just part of being human—losing things? he tries harder. tries cooking more, touching more, remembering more. he texts you twice if you don’t answer the first time. he leaves little notes around your apartment when he knows you’re too tired to talk. he doesn’t ask you what’s wrong because he’s scared of the answer.
and then, one night, you give it to him anyway. you sit him down. you’re calm, your tone measured—too measured. you tell him that it’s not him, it’s you. that your life is too heavy. that the work has taken too much. that you don’t know who you are anymore and it’s not fair to drag him down with you. you tell him you’re scared of losing him. that love like this isn’t meant to last for people like you. that it’s better to cut it off now before it hurts more later. he listens. because that’s what he always does—he listens when it hurts.
and then, quietly, softly, he asks, “did I do something wrong?” and when you say no, that this is just how it has to be, he nods. but his heart drops out of his chest and lands somewhere he can’t reach. because this love—his first—wasn’t something casual. it wasn’t something he expected or planned for. it was everything. it was you.
but if keeping you means hurting you…if his presence is too much, even if he doesn’t understand why…then he’ll do the hardest thing he’s ever done. he’ll let you go. he walks away slowly. like something ancient inside him is dying all over again. his hand lingers on your doorframe longer than it should. when he finally leaves, he doesn’t look back. and you don’t stop him. but when the door clicks shut, the silence that follows is unbearable. for both of you. because love like this doesn’t just vanish. it stays. it lingers. and for choso—who finally found something beautiful in a world that never gave him beauty—there’s no forgetting. only missing.
choso doesn’t understand. he replays your words over and over, trying to make them make sense. you left because you were afraid of losing him. that’s what you said. but what does that even mean? is loving someone not worth the risk of hurting? was he…not worth it? he doesn’t know. he tells himself you just need time. space. that once the fear passes—once the exhaustion wears off, once you remember what you had—you’ll come back. you’ll knock on his door, eyes tired, voice soft, ask him to hold you like you always used to. he checks his phone too often. trains harder than he needs to. lingers at the places you used to be, half-expecting you to turn the corner, scolding him for spacing out. you always noticed when his mind wandered.
but a week passes. then another. you’re not at the training dojo. you don’t show up to the weekly meetings with yaga. you don’t text. don’t send word. you’ve taken on mission after mission, burning through cursed spirits like you're trying to outrun something—maybe even him. he hears it from someone else. that you’re barely sleeping. that you’ve refused help. that you’ve come back injured more than once and insisted you were fine. it doesn’t fix anything. it doesn’t fill the space you left behind. you're not coming back to him, and that knowledge seeps into his bones like a poisonous molasses.
the ache doesn’t come all at once. it starts as a hollowness. a missing mug on the kitchen counter. an extra toothbrush that never got packed. a hoodie you forgot—he keeps it folded, untouched, like you might need it someday. he still buys your favorite snacks when he’s out. sees them on the shelf and grabs them without thinking. they sit unopened in his cabinets like artifacts. he doesn’t sleep well. his dreams are scattered—flashes of you in his arms, half-formed words that dissolve when he wakes. he reaches out instinctively in the dark sometimes, and his hand closes around nothing. it’s more than heartbreak. it’s devastation. it’s confusion.
choso’s never felt this before. this missing that sits under his skin like rot. this constant pressure in his chest, like he’s halfway through crying but the tears never come. he doesn't understand why he can't just get over it. you left. you said goodbye. you made the choice. so why does he still feel like he’s the one who failed? he doesn’t talk about it. not really. not in full. he just gets quieter.
he stops going to the markets with his brothers. he doesn’t eat much. doesn't listen to music. doesn’t really live—just exists in the spaces where you used to be. because you taught him how to love. and then you left. and now he doesn’t know where to put all of it—the warmth, the instinct, the want. it has nowhere to go. it just folds in on itself and festers.
every time he closes his eyes, he hears your laugh. the one you let slip when you forgot to hold yourself together. the one that made his chest feel like it might split open with joy. he’d do anything to hear it again. even once. he still hopes you’ll come back. that’s the worst part. not that he lost you. but that some small, desperate part of him still thinks he hasn’t. that maybe one day, you’ll show up again—tired and frayed at the edges, finally ready to be held. finally ready to stop running. finally ready to let yourself be loved the way he always wanted to love you. but until then, he waits. and the waiting becomes its own kind of grief.
he hears it late. a mission gone wrong. you, unconscious. bleeding out. shoko worked on you for hours. ijichi’s shirt stained with your blood. words like internal damage and nearly didn’t make it swirl around him like static, but only one thing matters: you're alive. barely. but alive. he goes to you. the med bay is quiet, lit in that sickly way only hospitals and sorrow know. half the lights are off, but the ones still burning are too bright. the place smells sterile and wrong.
and there you are. sitting upright in the hospital bed, knees pulled to your chest, blanket clutched in your fists like it’s the only thing tethering you to the earth. your eyes are unfocused. dull. tired in a way he’s never seen. you don’t see him right away. you’re smaller like this. fragile. faded. when you do look up, it’s slow. disbelieving. you don’t say anything. neither does he.
he just walks to you. each step deliberate. each breath heavier than the last. he stops at your bedside. you stare at him like you don’t know if you’re dreaming. like maybe you are. maybe this is another version of the nightmare. but he doesn’t fade. he’s here. and for a long time, that’s all either of you can manage—breathing in the same space again. then, his voice. low. barely there. “did you stop loving me?”
your breath catches. your whole body stutters. then, sharp and immediate: “no.” it guts him. that no—not hesitant, not thoughtful, just pain-soaked and instinctive. you look down like you regret everything except saying it. and that’s enough. he exhales. shoulders heavy. his hands flex at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them—hold you, fall apart, both.
you don’t look up. he doesn’t push. he just kneels. sinks to the ground beside your bed like gravity has claimed him. his head drops forward. his fingers hover near yours but never touch. his breathing is uneven now. tense. quiet. there are no more words. just a long, aching silence between you, where everything you both wanted to say—I missed you. I was scared. I thought I was doing the right thing. I didn’t know how to stay without breaking—exists without sound.
then, finally, your hand moves. to his hair. tentative. familiar. you curl your fingers through it the way you always did when you couldn’t sleep. and he breathes again. not fully. not freely. but enough. you don’t ask him to stay. you don’t have to. he pulls the chair closer, sits beside you. doesn’t let go of your hand all night. and when you fall asleep, his thumb is still brushing over your knuckles like a promise.you wake to the sound of quiet breathing and the gentle pressure of a hand still holding yours.
choso hasn’t moved much. he’s watching you. not startled, not relieved—just there, like he never left, like he never meant to in the first place. the light through the blinds is soft. not quite dawn. you’re tired in every sense of the word. body, mind, heart. everything aches. but somehow, it’s easier to breathe than it was yesterday. you sit up. he does too. the blanket slips from your shoulder; he fixes it. your eyes flick toward him. you don’t ask why he’s still here. you know.
later, you’re sitting at his place. it’s quiet. cleaner than you remember. or maybe it’s just emptier, and you notice that now.
he doesn’t press you to talk. doesn’t ask for explanations. just brings you tea in a mug he never got rid of, the one you used to claim even though it was chipped and ugly. you stare at it for a long time before taking a sip. he watches you from across the table, posture still, gaze unwavering. his mind is racing. you love him. you said you did. so why did you go? he’s scared too. of course he is. he’s always been scared. of loss. of blood. of watching something good die in his hands. but that fear made him want to hold you tighter. tuck you into his chest and keep you safe. your fear made you run. he doesn’t understand. but he wants to.
you speak eventually. few words. quiet. careful. like you’re placing glass on a shelf that might collapse. something about how loving him made you feel like you had something to lose again. something that made death real. how you were afraid that if it ended, you wouldn’t survive it. and how you left because you wanted to hurt less. choso listens. he doesn’t interrupt. doesn’t nod too fast or reach for you too soon. he takes it in. you love him, and it terrified you. that’s all he needed to hear. that fear—he knows it. he's lived in it. but now, it doesn’t push him away from you. it pulls him closer. he thinks about how easily you could’ve died. how close he came to losing you without even having the chance to fight for you. that won’t happen again.
you don’t speak. you just breathe. shallow, uncertain. your hands are folded in your lap, your shoulders hunched like you’re preparing for impact even now, even after everything. but choso doesn't let you float away. he sees it—the drift in your eyes, the way you keep slipping out of the moment, already retreating into that place where love is dangerous and endings are inevitable.
so he moves. not rushed. not shaking. he stands, takes two steps forward, and gently pulls you to your feet. your balance stumbles for a half-second, caught off guard—but his arms are already around you. warm. solid. steady. they lock around your shoulders like something anchoring. not desperate. not crushing. just real. your face presses into his chest. his heart is loud. not panicked—alive. he buries his nose in your hair. and everything slows down. he holds you like you’re the answer to every question he didn’t know how to ask. like if he lets go, you’ll be gone again. like this is the first moment he’s truly breathed in weeks. his hands splay against your back, not moving. not coaxing. just tethering. here. now. still.
you don’t say anything. you just lean into him. let him carry the weight. let him stay. and he does. because love isn’t loud. it’s this. it’s arms around your body when your mind starts to slip. it’s holding you here. with him. where you’re safe. where you’re home.
you weren’t supposed to be anything to each other. shiu was your handler. your point of contact. your superior. you were a weapon. clean, efficient, silent. the kind the criminal world likes best—sharp enough to kill, disciplined enough not to question why. it was never personal. not at first.
the missions were brutal. bloody. he sent you out and watched you come back half-alive. you’d give him your debrief like a soldier giving up a secret, every word delivered through grit teeth and bruised lungs. he rarely said much in return. just nodded. lit a cigarette. filed the report. but over time, things changed. he started waiting up. he started noticing the way you walked when you were favoring an injury. the way your voice went flat when a mission had gone worse than expected. the way you never sat with your back to the door.
you noticed, too. how he always had painkillers on hand. how he stocked your favorite drink without ever asking. how he stood just a little too close when someone tried to intimidate you. no confessions. no declarations. just long nights spent in low-lit rooms. fingers pressed to bandaged skin. the heavy silence that came after both of you had killed something that day. the intimacy was quiet. dangerous. fragile in a way neither of you acknowledged. it wasn’t love. not officially. not until it was. and by then, it was too late.
you’d been wanting out for months. the fatigue had crept in slowly—bone-deep, soul-deep. a crack in your armor that widened with every mission. every kill. every body. it wasn’t the blood that did it. it was the feeling—the numbness after. the knowledge that you'd become everything you swore you wouldn't.
you stopped recognizing yourself. and the worst part? shiu saw it happening. he watched it take root in you. the dread. the weariness. the self-disgust. but he didn’t try to talk you down or sweet-talk you into staying. because he couldn’t. he knew the job better than anyone. he was part of it. you were part of it. it was a machine, and he didn’t know how to live outside of it.
so when the mission went bad—really bad—he wasn’t surprised when you broke. you came back covered in blood that wasn’t yours. limping. glassy-eyed. he patched you up in silence. tended to your wounds like he always did. you flinched when he touched your ribs. he noticed. said nothing. the room smelled like alcohol and metal. your eyes didn’t meet his once. he knew something was ending. he just didn’t know how soon.
you didn’t leave with ceremony. just a note on his desk. no explanation. no goodbye. just a few short lines, scrawled in your rough, clinical handwriting. I can’t keep doing this. don’t look for me. I won’t be back; you’ll survive this.
that was it. when he read it, he didn’t react. not outwardly. he finished his cigarette. closed the file on the desk. and stared at the chair where you used to sit during briefings, a towel slung over your neck, blood drying on your collar.
you were gone. and he knew—really knew—that you weren’t coming back. no one walks away from a life like this easily. unless they’ve already decided they’re willing to die for the chance to be someone else.
he gives it a week. not because he believes you’re coming back. but because that’s how long it takes to get your file pulled. where you were last seen. what apartments have utilities in your name. credit card traces. a parking ticket. it’s not hard.
you moved to a quiet neighborhood. the kind of place where people smile at you in the elevator. where nothing explodes and no one bleeds out in the stairwell. the building is nicer than your old one. big windows. soft lighting in the halls. a security system that’ll never notice him. you’ve probably been saving for a while. probably made this plan months ago. that part guts him the most. you were leaving the entire time you were still in his bed. still kissing him goodbye before missions. still telling him to pick up milk on his way home.
and now he’s just a phantom, watching from the street. every night, he sits in his car across from your building. engine off. cigarette lit. the cherry glows dim in the dark while he watches your window. you leave your lamp on late. always have. sometimes it’s a book in your hands. sometimes just you, curled in a blanket with nothing but your thoughts. he watches until the light goes out. then sometimes longer.
you got a job. a desk. a building full of civilians who don’t know your name used to be whispered in the dark by people who were afraid to die. he finds out you’re a low-level assistant. coffee runs. schedule coordination. filing paperwork in triplicate. he bets you hate it. you hate being told what to do. you hate small talk. you hate fluorescent lights and cheap coffee and 9 a.m. meetings.
but you’re there. every day. trying. so he makes sure it’s worth it. your manager’s a prick. shiu makes one visit—low voice, direct eye contact, a hand on the guy’s desk and the tiniest flash of steel. two weeks later, you’re promoted. shiu never considers calling you; telling you. he doesn’t want thanks. doesn’t want credit. he just wants you to have something good. even if it’s not him. plus, he doesn’t think you’d answer if he called.
he doesn’t sleep much anymore. drives the city in loops. makes toji take more jobs so he has something to do with his hands. something that isn’t reaching for someone who isn’t there. he schmoozes clients. drinks too much. smokes too much. stops going to the convenience store across from his place. the hot dog cart. the diner. your ghost is everywhere.
he thought you’d been soft for him. gentle. yourselves, in whatever stolen pieces you were allowed. he thought maybe you weren’t just fucking each other for the thrill or for comfort. he held you when you were too tired to stand. cooked for you. rubbed your shoulders until you fell asleep. he let you into his home. his life. the parts no one else ever got. and you gave him a sticky note.
toji makes fun of him a lot. rolls his eyes when shiu ignores calls. cackles when he sees him watching your window like a man mourning something he never named. "didn’t know you went for the sentimental ones,” toji smirks. shiu flicks ash onto the sidewalk. doesn’t answer. because you are obviously not the sentimental type, and maybe he wasn’t sentimental before you. maybe he didn’t believe in attachment. or softness. or permanence. but you ruined that.
you left, and now there’s a you-shaped crater in every part of his routine. and shiu kong—cold, composed, professional—lets himself ache. not in the ways people see. but in the silence. in the nights spent staring at a lamp across the street. in the cigarettes that never taste like anything anymore. and the worst part is—he’s not even angry. he’s just empty.
he doesn't expect to get you back. you’d have left the opportunity open for him if you’d wanted to rekindle. you hadn’t. it’d been radio silence for a whole season. that’s not why he watches. not why he checks your window at night, not why he listens for your footsteps on the stairs or tracks your walk to the station. you look okay. tired, some days. stressed. but… okay. you smile sometimes. even laugh. he can live with that. he doesn’t like it. but he can survive it. as long as you're breathing. whole. not bleeding out on some stairwell while he fills out paperwork and pretends he never cared.
he was never going to come back. not really. not until he saw the man. some fucking co-worker, shoulder to shoulder with you at the café near your office. laughing too loud. leaning too close. asking something that makes your mouth tilt—half-amused, half-caught off guard.
you don’t say yes. but you don’t say no. and that’s what breaks it. not the light in your window. not the sticky note. this. the idea that someone else might be trying to earn a version of you they didn’t bleed for. that someone might get to touch you—softly, clumsily, like they haven’t memorized your scars. it’s stupid. it’s petty. it’s enough.
he’s at your door before he can talk himself out of it. leaning against the frame like he doesn’t feel like he’s going to be sick. cigarette clamped between his lips, fingers twitching. the air is cold. his chest is colder. you answer in pajama pants and an oversized shirt, blinking against the hallway light.
you look surprised. not angry. and that’s almost worse. because it means you didn’t think he would come. and he can’t figure out if he’s insulted…or if you’re right. you don’t ask why he’s here. not at first. you just step aside. he walks in like it’s muscle memory.
different layout. same furniture. all new energy. everything smells like lavender and clean laundry now. it makes him want to set something on fire. he paces once. doesn’t sit. flicks ash into the sink because that’s the closest thing to control he has left. he doesn’t ask how you are. he asks about the guy. low. sharp. is it serious? are you seeing him? are you fucking him?
you flinch. the calm dissolves. and now, now, you’re angry. not because he asked. not even because he showed up uninvited. because it’s been ninety days. because he said nothing. because he let you go—like it didn’t kill him—and now he’s jealous?
now? it spirals in silence. the room heavy with all the words neither of you said when it might’ve mattered. he wants to apologize. he doesn’t. he wants to take it back. he can’t. so he just stands there. breathing too hard. looking at you like you might be the last thing that still makes sense to him.
you wait. and when he doesn’t move, you ask—quiet, bitter: “why are you here?” he doesn’t answer right away. just crushes the cigarette in the sink. stares at the cherry as it dies.
then finally, voice rough: “because I had to know if you meant it.” meant the leaving. meant the silence. meant that three months of an empty bed was what you wanted. because shiu can take a lot. but he can’t take not knowing. he doesn’t say anything else. doesn’t ask for you back.
he just looks at you, stripped down to nothing but need—raw, rotted, and quiet. the kind of hurt a man like him doesn’t know how to name. and waits. shoulders tense. jaw locked. ash on his fingertips and desperation in the way he’s breathing, like each second without you is an open wound. you should kick him out. kick his ass. kick something. you don’t.
instead—three steps. three steps across the kitchen and your fingers curl into his collar and you kiss him. hard. furious. starving. your chapstick smears across his mouth, warm and tinted and all over the cigarette taste he never bothers to hide. he tastes like cloves and burnt sugar and memory. like home. he makes a low, rough sound—guttural—and then he’s kissing you back like he’s drowning. one thick hand wraps around your waist, the other spreads wide across your spine, pulling you in like he’s afraid you might vanish again. he kisses you like you’re a secret he wasn’t supposed to learn—but can’t stop repeating. he kisses you like the world ended yesterday and you’re the only thing left worth saving. he kisses you like he’s praying and you’re the only god that ever answered. he kisses you like you're a promise he’s terrified to break.
you ache for him in a way that’s sickening. god, it’s been too long. too many nights alone. too many mornings pretending you didn’t miss him. you don’t know how you ever walked out the door. you don’t know how you ever looked at this man and thought I'll survive without him. you won’t. you can’t.
but the kiss breaks—like glass under pressure. reality crashes back in, cold and clean and cruel. your breath catches, mouth dragging away, body trembling. "I can’t—” you choke. "I can’t come back, shiu. I can’t be that girl again.” your voice cracks. your hands drop. your eyes blur. you never cry. and here you are, breaking open.
and shiu—hard, cold, untouchable shiu—drinks it in like water. this. this is what he came for. not sex. not closure. not revenge. this. your truth. your honesty. the part of you that still wants him but doesn’t know how to live with it. he leans in. nose brushing yours. and he shakes his head—slow, firm, final.
“you don’t have to be her,” he murmurs. rough, barely a whisper. "I just want you.” just you. not the weapon. not the girl who followed orders. not the one who could gut a grown man without blinking. just you. head tucked under his chin. bare and breathing. soft only for him. his arms slide around you like steel. you melt. and he holds you. the cigarette burns out in the sink behind him. and for the first time in months, the bed won’t be cold tonight. because you’re here. and you’re his again.
slice of life | fushiguro toji, geto suguru, ino takuma, kamo choso, kong shiu, nanami kento, sukuna ryomen, yuuji itadori
╰►you wouldn’t say you love being a server, but you do love tips and being able to afford rent. you also don’t mind your flirty coworker. 7.1k words
a/n: guys...do any of y'all watch bistro huddy on tik tok...is this too niche...have I finally niched myself out....just let me know...I'll be here...fr though, I actually hate working at a restaurant, but this is of course, a tumblr post, and not real life!! tragically...also some of these are like funny and cutesy, and then others quite literally had me in tears writing them (nanami, hello...?) so, yeah watch out for that. also, I am well aware that this is wildly unrealistic. no warnings I don't think, besides maybe some cussing, and a singular usage of my publicly detested "y/n" unfortunately it couldn't be avoided. enjoy <3
you wouldn't say you love being a server. no one really does. it’s a chaotic mix of remembering eight drinks at once, smiling through the pain of a toddler screaming into your soul, and pretending that the tip at the end of this tunnel is worth the psychic damage. but the money’s decent, your coworkers are tolerable, and—if we’re being real—toji makes clocking in a little too easy.
he's the line cook from hell. not in the gordon ramsay "this food is trash" kind of way—though he absolutely yells like that sometimes—but more in the "how did this man get hired with zero culinary training and the attitude of a convicted felon" way. he burns at least one dish a night, calls in late more often than not, and refuses to wear a hairnet even though the manager has told him twice. and yet, somehow, he never gets fired. probably because when toji isn’t being a menace, he runs the kitchen like a finely oiled machine, barking out orders and flipping pans like he owns the damn place.
and then there’s you. sweet, stressed-out server #7. you try not to like him. you really do. but he’s got that charm, the greasy line cook appeal, the kind of hot that’s more danger than it is attraction—and you're kind of into it.
toji doesn’t flirt like a normal person. he flirts like someone who’s trying to win a bet. he’ll stare at you through the kitchen window with those unreadable green eyes, one corner of his mouth lifted like he knows something you don’t. he doesn’t say things outright; he just makes you wonder what he’s thinking.
“order up. yours is the only plate that doesn’t look like shit,” he’ll say, sliding your food onto the counter with a wink. or: “don’t let that guy on table four look down your shirt again. I'll stab him with a thermometer.” you laugh, mostly because you’re pretty sure he’s not joking.
toji’s not nice. not in the traditional sense. he makes the new host cry twice in one shift, tells the manager to shove it at least weekly, and has a permanent scowl that could curdle milk. but when you’re sweating through a double, on your fourth round of waters, and the host stand sends you four parties back to back with no remorse, toji’s the one yelling at them to “get their heads outta their asses” and “quit drowning the floor staff.”
sometimes he has leftover fries. he never offers them out loud, just slides a basket your way and raises an eyebrow. you know better than to say thanks—he doesn’t like being made a big deal of. he just likes watching you eat them, then tossing you a smirk when you catch him looking.
the other servers think you're sleeping together. you’re not. not really. there’ve been a few moments—late nights after close when you both stayed to do inventory, his hand lingering too long on your waist, your laugh a little too soft, his eyes a little too hungry—but nothing’s happened. it’s a situationship, or pre-situationship, or whatever the kids are calling it when someone wants to get under your skin but also wants to stick around for the long haul.
and the thing is? toji’s patient. maybe surprisingly so. he doesn’t push. he doesn’t ask what this is or where it’s going. he just shows up—hungover or not, late or not—and makes sure your orders come out first. he throws out a guy’s number when he catches him trying to slide it into your apron. he doesn’t even tell you, just rolls his eyes when the dude “suddenly loses his appetite.”
you don’t know what to make of him most days. you hate him when he’s yelling at the dishwasher or putting the wrong ticket in the window. but then he saves your ass on a slammed saturday by grilling a steak in under three minutes flat and smirking like he didn’t just perform a culinary miracle.
you don't love being a server. but you do love the moment when you duck behind the line after a brutal dinner rush, your arms aching and your brain fried, and toji flicks a cold soda can your way without saying a word.
he's not yours. not yet. but damn if he doesn’t act like it.
you and suguru both clock in at 5 p.m. sharp—he in his crisp white shirt rolled at the sleeves, hair tied back in a sleek ponytail; you in the same black polo and slacks, hair up in a practical bun. you don’t say “good evening” so much as you arch an eyebrow at each other across the host stand. tonight’s the night you’ve challenged each other to the monthly $100 tip-off: whoever racks up the highest tips gets the bonus. the stakes aren’t just bragging rights. you need that cash; he knows it.
7:15 p.m.
you catch your first table—two businesswomen celebrating a deal. you’re charming but low-key (no geto-level razzle-dazzle), and they’re eating it up. you leave the table with a $15 tip. not bad.
geto swoops past, tossing his apron over your shoulder like a ribbon. “nice haul,” he drawls, “but those are rookie numbers.” he winks. the ladies at his table are swooning; one leaves him a $20. you grit your teeth—but you can’t help smiling when he slides the money into your apron pocket.
8:00 p.m.
a trio of frat bros waltzes in. they sidle up to your section. you brace yourself for unwanted contact—hands on your waist, a “you look hot tonight” too close to your ear. before you can whirl away, suguru materializes behind them like a polite bouncer. “actually, that table’s mine,” he says, voice cool.
they blink, shift into his section—hands off you. one of them shoots you a grateful thumbs-up before stumbling away. you mouth, “thanks,” and he just grins. “protecting my girl’s turf,” he says. why do you like the way that sounds?
9:00 p.m.
you’re drowning in plates. three tables triple-sat you by mistake, and there’s no end in sight. meanwhile, suguru’s section is empty, pristine. you feel a tug in your chest—guilt, annoyance, something like excitement. he strolls over, socks your hands playfully with a folded napkin, and says, “my chef back there took thirty-five minutes on that club sandwich you ordered. I went in and told them they can rediscover their souls or find a new career.” the grill staff visibly quiver.
your heart leaps—you hate that you can’t hate him. he leans in close. “sit tight,” he murmurs, “I've got a feeling about this next table.” and just like that, he’s back in action, leaving you to catch your breath.
10:00 p.m.
the final round. two businessmen slide into his section; the bigger tip potential you’ve both been waiting on. you glance at him: both of you know what’s happening. you move to intercept—but suguru’s already there, slinging napkins over his shoulder with that effortless swagger. they laugh at his jokes. you fume.
your last table for the night is a college student buying dinner with tears in his eyes—tuition woes, parents sick back home. you give him a warm smile, chat him up, send the house dessert on the house. you walk away…and he leaves you a $25 tip anyway because god loves you, or something like that.
11:00 p.m.
back at the host stand, you both dump your tips on the counter. $112 for you. $80 for him. he furrows his brow like you’ve just dealt him a personal blow—and that kind of look from suguru is…almost devastating.
you look back at him, triumphant. “winner.” you’re grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. he glances at your haul, then to his, then back to you, and—without saying a word—he slides $40 across so that his total matches yours exactly.
you jerk back, stunned. “hey!” he flips his dark hair back, flashing an absurd, infuriatingly charming smile. "I told you, I'm not about the money. I'm about you.”
your heart twists. he glances down at the pile of bills, then back at you, eyes soft. “go on home with a full tip,” he says. “and maybe, uh…celebrate?”
you swallow, stomach fluttering. “celebrate?”
“yeah.” he leans in. "I know a secret spot—if you’re up for it.”
later, you find yourself alone in the walk-in cooler. the hum of the fridge is comforting. suguru’s here, too, leaning against a shelf of bottled sodas. he grabs your hand and pulls you close, pressing your back to the chilly metal.
you laugh, breath misting. “the cooler?”
he shrugs with a wicked grin. “intimate. zero witnesses.”
your breath catches when he brushes hair from your face. his eyes are dark with something tender and wicked at once. you cup his jaw—warm, familiar. then you close the distance, lips meeting his. it’s feral and soft and utterly devastating. he tastes like salt—fries and sweat and something sweet.
suguru’s arms wrap around you, careful not to crush. “we make a pretty good team, huh?” he whispers.
you nod against his mouth. “the best.”
gojo satoru was meant to be a server.
some people find it demeaning, this job. the fake smiles, the rushed steps, the corporate chokehold of dress codes and “hospitality voice” policies. but satoru? he makes it look like an art form. he slides into it effortlessly—flirty just under the line of inappropriate, funny in the exact way that makes people feel clever for laughing, and beautiful enough that no one really minds waiting a little longer for their fries. his apron stays just a little askew, his sleeves rolled to mid-forearm like it's casual (it's not), and the blue eyes? god. the tips are ridiculous. women leave their numbers like confetti. some even ask for selfies. men stare a little too long. even old couples seem enchanted, like he’s their grandson reincarnated from a better life. he winks. he laughs. he gets away with everything. and you? you barely look up.
not because you don’t notice—please. you notice. the way his undercut drips with sweat halfway through a double, how his voice drops an octave when he’s tired, how he shoves his hair back with one hand when it starts falling into his face. you notice. but you’re not jealous. because you’re not his. maybe that’s why it doesn’t sting. not when table 9 calls him “sweetheart,” not when the hostess whispers behind the bar that she thinks he’s gonna ask for her number. because at the end of every shift, he walks out with you. matches his stride to yours in the parking lot like muscle memory. waits by the time clock just so he can clock out the same second you do. brushes against you when you're both behind the bar, too close, too long. it's never an accident.
you’ve been here longer. you’re the real vet—been through the wringer. worked through high school, stayed through college, watched tyrant managers come and go. you’ve seen uniforms change, menus rotate, bullshit policy updates emailed at midnight. you can carry four plates in one hand and argue with a guest at the same time. there’s not a single soul in the restaurant who doesn’t respect you.
and yet—satoru never treats you like a fixture. he treats you like you’re magic. every day. he compliments you like he gets paid for it. but it’s never the same thing twice. never just “you look nice.” no, satoru’s got creativity. you’ve been compared to goddesses, to perfectly folded napkins, to cinematic lighting in golden hour. “you’ve got a real victoria’s secret model vibe going for you today,” he’ll murmur, watching you reset tables. “you always do.” god, he’s such an ass.
and you hate that it makes you smile. you pretend you barely know him. call him “bluey” or “gojo” or “you, with the hair” like he’s some guy who just wandered in off the street. but you know exactly who he is. you know the way his shoulders tense after a manager talks down to him. you know he’s stopped wearing cologne on your shifts because you once wrinkled your nose and said “you smell like a department store.”
you know he fantasizes about helping you open your own place. he hasn’t told you—but you’ve seen the notes scribbled on napkins. “satoru & y/n’s all-night diner.” sometimes he’s crossed his name out. sometimes yours.
you make it so hard to read you. you’re cool. calm. no-nonsense. you come in, do your job, get out. flirtation rolls off your back like grease from the kitchen vent. but you help him. when he’s double-sat. when a big table throws a fit. when he forgets to grab a ramekin and you silently drop one next to his hand before he even asks.
you don’t say much, but you show it. and he’s obsessed with every second of it. he fell first. hard. he keeps falling. and god, he falls loud.
he flirts like a man who knows no shame, like a man who knows you’re going to marry him eventually and is just waiting for you to catch up. and you? you hold out...until the shift where the air conditioning breaks. you’re both drenched. irritated. miserable. you disappear to the back and he finds you leaning against the manager’s office door, trying to cool down with a napkin full of ice cubes. and before he knows it, he’s kissing you.
you shouldn’t be there. the office is off-limits. you’re on the clock. there’s a literal screaming baby in section three. but you kiss him back. hands in his hair. mouth on his. like you’ve been waiting. and when he finally pulls back, stunned, breathing heavy, blinking like he’s not sure if this is real—you straighten your apron, smooth your hair, and say, “if you’re late on your tables again, I’m not covering for you.” but he hears the smile in your voice.
and from that point forward? he’s ruined for anyone else. they still leave numbers. still flirt. still call him handsome. and he smiles, sure. tips are tips. but he doesn’t flirt back the same. he saves that for you. for when your eyes are tired. when your feet hurt. when you’re halfway through a double and your hands shake from too much caffeine and not enough food.
he’ll press a granola bar into your palm. or sneak you fries from the kitchen. or lean in and whisper, “ten more minutes and then you get to yell at me in the walk-in. we’ll call it therapy.” you never admit you’re falling for him, too. but he sees the way you reach for him now. the way you linger. the way your eyes follow him across the floor. and he’s not worried.
because someday—when you’re standing in your own restaurant, clipboard in hand, menu the way you want it—he’s going to be there, too. apron crooked, smile crooked, heart in his hands. satoru gojo may be made to serve, but he only ever wants to serve you.
you don’t know what divine comedy landed ino takuma behind the bar and on the line, but you’re convinced the universe has a sense of humor. he’s not a bad cook—when he remembers to turn the fryer on. he’s not a bad bartender—if you’re okay with him triple-checking a gin and tonic. and he’s not a bad guy. not even close.
he shows up to work five minutes early every shift, apron askew, hair still wet from a shower, shirt clinging to his chest like a cry for help. you say, “you’re early,” and he grins like he’s been awarded a medal. you say, “your fly’s down,” and he thanks you like you’re handing him the secret to life.
you flirt with him constantly. obnoxiously. strategically. you lean over the bar when he’s counting tips, press close behind him when he’s slicing lemons, tell him you’ll give him a ride home if he promises not to make you stop for gas.
he always, always, blinks at you like a confused golden retriever and goes, “oh, you don’t have to! I can walk!”
you once flat-out asked him if he wanted to fool around in your car. after your shift. in the lot. his face turned a color that shouldn't be humanly possible, and he said, “you mean like…play a game?”
a game. you considered ending it all right there in the stockroom.
but you didn’t. because for all the cluelessness, the blank stares, and the unintentional friend-zoning, ino is…wonderful. when your boss is on a rampage, yelling at staff for the busted walk-in freezer door, ino raises his hand with a sheepish shrug. “that was me. my bad. leaned on it too hard.” you know it wasn’t. he knows it wasn’t. he still takes the write-up and the lecture, and when you come close to tears afterward, he tells you it’s okay. “it’s just a warning. I got thick skin.” then he gives you a crushing hug in the alley out back and insists on buying you a gatorade with his last $3.
he always “accidentally” messes up one of your orders. “oops, I made the chicken sandwich with extra avocado and fries. I guess we can’t serve it now. you want it?” he does it with the most oblivious innocence. you’re sure he thinks you haven’t noticed. you’ve noticed.
when a customer gets too mean—someone with the audacity to snap their fingers at you, demand a refund, insult your service—ino is the first one through the kitchen doors. he storms up to the table, wiping his hands on a rag. “hey. you got a problem? cool. tell me. but you don’t talk to her like that. or any of my servers. not now, not ever. got it?”
you hear it from the dish pit. you don’t even have to see it. and when he comes back in, cheeks red, trying to play it off like he didn’t just defend your honor like a knight with a spatula, you want to scream.
“my servers,” he’d said. his. you make $10 an hour before tips, and he’s claiming you like you’re family. or worse—like you’re sacred. like he’s protecting a relic, not a girl he hasn’t realized he’s desperately in love with yet.
it doesn’t occur to him until much, much later—maybe when he’s halfway through his shift, flipping pancakes for some hungover regular, and you sneak up behind him and plant a kiss on his cheek. he stops. entirely. pan goes still. face goes red. you’re about to laugh when he turns, gently, and stares at you like he’s never really looked before.
“oh,” he says. it’s reverent. “you…you really like me?”
you blink. "I asked you to make out with me in my car. twice.”
"I thought you were joking.” he groans in pure and utter shame and tragedy. you’re telling him he missed out on the opportunity to make out with you twice? god might as well just take mercy on him and kill him now.
you can’t hold back your laughter.
he wipes his hands on his apron, then takes yours—callused, warm, soft in the way you knew they’d be. “you’re, like…amazing. you could have anyone. you could be out of here, living in a penthouse or something.”
you snort. “what, with my tips?”
but he doesn’t smile. he holds your gaze, totally sincere. “you’re the best part of this place. you’re kind and smart and funny and you remember everyone’s orders and you…you notice things. I look forward to seeing you. I—”
you kiss him again, just to shut him up. he worships you after that. carries your water bottle around like it’s precious cargo. tells anyone who tries to flirt with you that you’re spoken for—then blushes and adds, “well, not, like, officially. yet.”
he burns his hand one day because he was too busy watching you laugh from across the kitchen. you kiss it better.
he asks you—bashfully, finally—if he can take you out. “like…to a movie. or dinner. but not here. somewhere nice. you deserve nice.”
you say yes, and he lights up like someone turned on the sun. later that night, you park in the back, doors locked, seats reclined. finally. he grins at you, sheepish and eager and so dumb in the best way.
you tease him. “you sure you know what we’re about to do?”
he nods. “yeah. make out in your car. right?”
you laugh. “good boy.” and if he wasn’t devoted before, he sure as hell is now.
choso is…not good at this. at first.
his shirt’s always a little wrinkled, name tag hanging crooked, hair somehow both neat and tragically emo. he’s new. you clock it the second he opens his mouth with a soft, “hi, welcome in!” and an awkward glance at the seating chart like it’s written in ancient greek. he fumbles. a lot. tells a party of six to follow him, then panics when he realizes he only has a four-top ready. doubles up your section on accident. gets the table numbers wrong. once seated someone in the storage closet. (to be fair, the door was open.)
normally, you’d be mad. no—furious. you’ve worked here two years. this is your turf, your money, your grind. you’ve snapped at hosts for far less. but choso? choso’s different. because when he messes up, he looks so apologetic it’s like kicking a puppy. big, dark eyes full of guilt, soft voice saying, “I'm so sorry, I didn’t mean to—” while the other servers tear into him like vultures.
but not you. no, you pull him aside, speak low and calm, point at the chart with your pen and say, “these four tables are mine. keep me steady, not slammed. focus on even rotation and don’t give me a party of eight ten minutes before close or I will cry.” and he listens. god, does he listen.
after that, he starts to figure it out. mostly because you’re the only one who takes the time to actually explain things to him. where the kids’ menus are. how to stall a wait time. why kevin is never allowed to take the patio by himself. you give him your number, say, “text me if you’re not sure what to do,” and choso nearly drops his phone trying to save your contact.
he’s scheduled five nights a week. you are too. coincidence? maybe. but he starts picking you up on the way in. says he’s just being nice. says he was heading that way anyway. his apartment is in the opposite direction, but he never mentions it.
he learns your coffee order before he remembers your last name. keeps a little note in his phone with the specifics: oat milk, light ice, two pumps of vanilla. shows up with it when your eye twitch starts from three doubles in a row. says, “you looked tired,” like it’s a compliment. every other server treats him like a punching bag. you treat him like a person. and that difference? it shifts something in him.
he starts putting your name next to the easy tables. the regulars that tip well. the quiet couples on dates. never the frat bros. never the wine moms. he tells the loud bachelor party at the door that the wait will be an hour when there’s actually an open booth. then he sends them to kevin.
“don’t want you dealing with that,” he mutters as they stomp off. “guy looked like he calls women ‘sweetheart’ unironically.”
you raise a brow. “and what do you call women, choso?”
his ears turn pink. "I’d call you whatever you wanted me to, anything, if you liked it.” you laugh it off. he doesn't.
he never flirts outright—too nervous, too respectful—but his version of it is just as obvious. carries your food runner trays for you. offers to fold napkins with you after hours. gives you the booth in the back when you look like you're gonna cry. he’s like a one-man support system in a black button-up. the kicker is: he never asks for anything. never expects. never pushes. just stands by the host stand like a dark-haired lighthouse, watching you hustle, hoping you’ll glance his way.
and then one night—it’s late, the shift’s over, the air outside is damp and cold—he walks you to your car. says, “you looked tired,” again. soft. sweet. no coffee this time, just concern. you turn to thank him, keys jingling in your hand.
you’re not sure who moves first. maybe both of you. maybe it’s mutual. but suddenly, you’re kissing him in the dark, your back against your car, his lips trembling against yours like he’s never done this before, or at least never done it like this.
when you break apart, he stares at you like he’s dreaming. then: “can I—can I kiss you again? please?”
and how do you say no to a guy like that? you don’t. he leans in again, hands gentle but sure, breath shaky, and this time it’s deeper. this time it’s real. by the time you finally unlock your door, he’s breathless, dazed, eyes wide and reverent.
“you okay?” you ask, teasing.
he swallows hard. “you don’t understand. I've been in love with you since you explained how to rotate sections. I'm—god, I'm yours. fully. whatever you want.”
shiu is a menace behind the bar.
the type who remembers everyone’s name, favorite drink, last heartbreak, and whether or not they tip in cash. he flirts like it’s his native tongue—easy, smooth, devastating. the regulars eat it up. that bachelorette party from two weeks ago? still posting about him on instagram. that lonely professor who comes in every thursday night for a manhattan? doubled her tip after shiu called her “darling” and winked. he's untouchable. untamed. he knows it. he thrives on it.
you? you're a server. professional. efficient. apron tied tight, hair done just right, customer voice always on. you’re good at this job—great at it—and you don’t have time for his games. you’ve seen him turn it on and off like a light switch. you’re not getting caught in that. at least, you’re trying not to. dating a coworker is so cliché.
but when he leans over the bar and says your name like it’s a secret, or hands you your usual drink with just the right amount of lime, or slides you a shot after a rough double and murmurs, “just for you, sweetheart,” your stomach flips in a way it shouldn’t. because it’s not like how he flirts with everyone else. it’s softer. focused. less of a performance, more like a confession.
you ignore it. play it cool. tell yourself it’s just what bartenders do. he’s just trying to boost tips. that’s all. but shiu? he’s obsessed with you. it drives him crazy that you don’t flirt back the way everyone else does. that you give him a look when he’s sweet-talking a table of sorority girls like, really? again? that you roll your eyes at him when he’s juggling three numbers and a tequila bottle behind the bar like it’s a circus act.
you make fun of him. and he loves it.
he watches the way you tie your apron every shift—tight, efficient, crisp. watches the way you adjust your hair before a heavy section, the little details you fine-tune to maximize charm and cash. you’re just as good at your hustle as he is at his. maybe better. and that’s what gets him.
you’re not impressed. not by him, not by the attention he draws like flies to a light. and that’s why he wants you.
the thing is—he wants you in a way he doesn’t want anyone else.
sure, he’s flirted with everyone under the sun. but he’s invested in you. the real kind. he stares too long when you’re laughing with a table. leans over the counter a little more when it’s you asking for drinks. punches out on his tab to walk you to your car, tells you it’s just coincidence—he’s heading that way. he’s not.
you catch him watching you across the restaurant, and he doesn’t even pretend he wasn’t. just smirks, shrugs, goes back to rinsing glasses.
and don’t even get him started on the dishwasher. that guy? skinny little slip of a thing. always lurking by the expo window like a lovesick puppy, trying to catch your eye with his elbow grease and soft boy act. makes shiu want to snap a mop handle over his knee.
he won’t say anything outright—yet—but he starts making it clear. “don’t let dish boy waste your time, sweetheart,” he’ll murmur as you reach across the bar. “he can’t even roll silverware right.” that makes you laugh, and he’s ready to dedicate the rest of his life to hearing that again. or, “if he ever gets too clingy, just say the word. I'll toss him in the dumpster out back.” he says it like a joke. you’re pretty sure it’s not. because shiu kong may be a flirt, a charmer, and a total piece of work—but when it comes to you? he’s real. no bit. no hustle. just him. a little too protective. a little too sincere.
you think you’ve got him figured out. but then he says, quiet and low, after one too many near-kisses and casual brushes of fingers: “I'm not like this with anyone else, you know? I know you think I am, but I’m not. I don’t want your tips. I want you.” and suddenly, he doesn’t seem like such a joke after all.
nanami does not consider himself a morning person. he wakes up early, yes. he’s disciplined. on time. efficient. but liking the mornings? no. that would imply a warmth, a softness he rarely shows.
except with you. you work the overnight shift—midnight to noon—and it’s brutal. a cursed, unspeakable schedule nobody wants. too late for night owls, too early for early birds. tips are few and far between, your body aches in odd places, and you’re so tired sometimes your thoughts blur together like batter left out too long.
nanami knows this. and he hates it. he doesn’t say that, of course. that would be unprofessional. what he does do is start showing up earlier. first it’s 6:00 a.m. then 5:30. then five sharp.
he tells himself it’s to prep the sourdough, to perfect the croissants, to experiment with a new proofing technique. but that’s not true. the truth is: he just wants to see you. those quiet hours before the sun rises? when the kitchen hums with low lights and clinking trays? that’s his favorite part of the day.
because that’s when you’re there. hair a mess. apron wrinkled. running around trying to manage a floor with three absolutely wasted/hungover customers and zero patience, always looking like you’re one plate short of a meltdown. and still, you smile at him. just for a second. a little tired thing, crooked and bashful. he treasures it like gold.
nanami doesn’t push. not you. you’ve got that twitchy, overworked thing about you—like if someone showed you real kindness, you might unravel on the spot. so he does it in ways you don’t notice.
he starts “messing up” loaves. burning the corners, cutting the top wrong, forgetting the egg wash. “guess I’ll have to get rid of this one,” he’ll say, and hand you a still-warm loaf before your shift ends. he sets timers longer than necessary when it’s your break. you’re curled up in a corner of the warmest baking room, clutching a jacket he just happened to leave there, and he quietly snoozes the alarm every ten minutes until you wake up on your own.
if a manager comes sniffing around, asking why you’re not out front, he’s unflinching: “she’s helping me with inventory. you’ll have to wait.” no one argues with nanami. not even the boss.
so you stay where you are, drinking tea from a chipped mug while he slices strawberries for tarts. he’s always inventing new desserts. says it’s for the case. for the spring menu. but you notice they all seem to feature your favorite flavors. and he always gives you the first bite. “quality control,” he says, though he never samples them himself.
once, during a late shift when you were crashing hard, he wordlessly placed a cup of fresh-ground coffee and a plate of something sweet in front of you. a honey lavender scone, still steaming. you bit into it and teared up a little bit without meaning to. he said nothing, only handed you a napkin and asked if the texture was acceptable.
and when you work yourself to the bone—when your eyelids sag and your legs barely hold you up—he appears at your side without fanfare. “I’ll drive you home,” he says softly. you start to protest, but he’s already holding your coat out like a gentleman from another era. and when you nod, exhausted, he drives in silence, the kind that feels safe. whole. the car is warm. he keeps the heat turned up for you.
he watches you sometimes, when you’re nodding off in the passenger seat. you deserve better, he thinks. a better job. more rest. more peace. and if you won’t give it to yourself, he’ll do what he can in the spaces in between. in the extra sugar on your scone, the longer breaks, the fake orders he pretends you’re needed for. in the way he always notices when your hands are cold and slides a hot drink toward them without saying a word.
you make him soft. and though he’d never say it aloud, he’d get up before the sun every day of his life just for five more minutes with you. the thing about nanami is: he doesn’t just like you. he cherishes you. like the finest recipe he’s ever perfected—measured out in sugar, baked into something golden, and handled with the gentlest hands.
he is so much better than this place. everyone knows it. especially you. you're not even sure how someone with that much talent and that little tolerance for bullshit ends up in the back kitchen of a mid-tier casual dining restaurant, but sukuna runs that line like a war general. if war generals had tattooed forearms, eyebrow piercings, and a habit of glaring knives into the backs of lazy fry cooks.
he’s intense. immaculate knife skills. sauces that make grown men cry. meat cooked perfectly every single time. it’s the kind of skill that should have a michelin star slapped on it. and when you told him that—after he handed you a rogue slice of steak on a shift you didn’t even have time to breathe during—he just grunted. “not going anywhere ‘til you do,” he said, like it wasn’t the most romantic thing he’d ever said in his life.
but even though he’s stuck here, he’s not idle. sukuna wastes ingredients like they cost nothing—testing, tasting, refining. always for you. a little something stashed on the back shelf of the walk-in, labeled in sloppy sharpie with your name. sometimes he “accidentally” burns something (he would never, he couldn't bring himself to) just so he can slide you a replacement and watch your face light up after the first bite. and your face does light up. that’s the kicker. he memorized your palette like a quiz he studied for weeks. knows exactly how much heat you like, how much garlic is too much garlic (almost never), and what sweets will perk you up after a triple sat lunch rush.
when your perfume hits the air as you fly past the expo line, he lifts his head like a hunting dog catching scent. you rush out, plates in hand, stress in your shoulders, muttering “that took way too long” under your breath—and still, he doesn’t yell. he doesn’t have to. not when one folded arm and a sharp, deliberate glare can silence the entire kitchen. they fall into place like children lining up for recess. because when sukuna’s pissed? that’s an osha violation waiting to happen. but he’s not like that with you.
no, with you, he’s practically docile. you could walk into the kitchen mid-rush, batting your lashes and apologizing because you forgot to ring in table 12’s order and now they’re threatening to walk—and he’d just sigh, crack his knuckles, and say, “gimme five.”
you don’t even realize it—how much you have him wrapped around your finger. how he times his breaks to yours, how his chest puffs out every time you moan after biting into something he’s made, how he scowls when anyone else so much as thinks about you. you really don’t realize it until one of his line cooks makes some offhand comment—something about how you look in that skirt, how you bend when you wipe the table. and sukuna explodes. “say that again. I fucking dare you.”
it’s not subtle. nothing about him is. the kitchen goes silent. the cook apologizes. the conversation never happens again. but your name still burns in his chest.
and the customers? oh, if only they knew. sukuna doesn’t go full psycho while the nice ones are in the restaurant. no, he waits. watches from the shadows, counts the minutes, until everyone leaves but that one fucking table that always gives you grief. “how come my girl comes back sniffling and weepy every time she deals with you, huh? she’s not serving you good enough?” he bites. they stare at him with something like awe. “tip her good and get out of here.”
you don’t know he does this. not really. but you do notice how quiet the problem tables get on return visits. how much better your tips are from people who used to sneer at you for sport.
and behind all that big, black dog energy, there’s a softness he saves just for you. the way he presses you against the dry goods in the storage closet, one hand braced above your head, the other pulling you closer by the waist. he tastes like smoke and spice, kisses you like he’s hungry, like you’re something he made with his own two hands and he doesn’t want anyone else to have a bite.
you're breathless, lips swollen, apron askew. he leans in, brushes a thumb across your cheek.
"you good, princess?" he asks, like he didn’t just nearly ruin you against a wall. and you nod, cheeks hot, breath caught, heart doing a tap dance in your chest. you don’t call it a relationship. of course not. that would make it real. that would mean admitting what this is. but when you walk out of that closet, hair a little mussed, pulse still skipping, and sukuna’s right behind you—no one else dares to say a word.
itadori is what corporate types call a personality hire. and if anyone says it like it’s a bad thing? he just laughs. because yeah, he does have a great personality. he’s sunshine in an apron, muscles in a tight shirt, charm with a dimpled smile. grandmas give him candy. kids draw him pictures on napkins. drunk businessmen leave him hundred-dollar tips “for the vibes.” he’s a walking serotonin shot, and he knows it.
but you? you’re the real powerhouse here. you’re the puppet master behind the diner curtain. it’s your fourth year and counting, and you know everything—who to flirt with for favors, which register button unlocks the “forgot to ring it in” meal, which chef will actually make your off-menu creations if you say “pretty please.”
yuuji's jaw dropped the first time he watched you finesse a bartender into remaking a drink just because “this one had the wrong vibe.” and they did it—smiling, even. you taught him everything. took him under your wing. even tied his first apron when his hands were shaking on his first shift. he was done for immediately.
and so, he plays the long game. he plays dumb, just a little. “wait, wait, slow down—so if I bring fried pickles to table 3 before their drinks, they’ll tip better?” “you mean to tell me that table 7 always splits the check four ways?” “so, wait, the dishwasher likes sour candy, and that’s how you get your ramekins clean faster?” he knows all this like the back of his hand; had it down the very first time you told him...but he could listen to you talk for hours. watches your lips as you explain, your gloss catching the fluorescent lights. watches your eyes sparkle when you say, “c’mon, yuuji, keep up.” watches your hips sway when you saunter out with a full tray balanced like it’s a stage prop and you’re the star.
he starts showing up early. stays late. always, always ready to take your tables. that couple that never tips? done. the guy who ogles you too much? “I got it, don’t worry.” that side work you hate? “I already did it—no big deal.” your drink? already waiting for you by the soda machine. he’s even talked a manager out of writing you up once with a dumb joke and a grin. yuuji is, simply put, your bitch. and he loves it. but he’s not dumb.
he sees how you hover sometimes. how you glance over when he’s laughing with another server. how you tug on your apron strings and mumble, “I can take that table, if you’re swamped.” how your fingers brush his when you hand him silverware and your breath catches just a little.
and when your manager corners you to ask who deserves that upcoming raise? well, you don’t even blink. “yuuji,” you say. like it’s obvious. like it’s fact. and it is. he works harder than anyone. smiles through the lunch rush and stays sane through the dinner chaos. fills in for no-shows. makes customers laugh even when they’re impossible. you say his name like you’re proud. he practically floats for a week after that.
you try to pay it back—try to do his side work one night. try to scrub down the soda machine or refill the salt shakers or fold napkins. but he gently takes it all out of your hands and says, “nope. sit. I got this.”
“yuuji, seriously—”
“you work too hard. let me do it for once.” he grins. he always grins. but there's something a little different in this one. a little soft. like he's holding back something bigger. because he is. so much bigger.
he’s had to stuff his fantasies deep, deep down. the ones where you live with him, sleep in his shirts, kiss him good morning, throw popcorn at him during movie nights. the ones where you let him take care of everything. where he works and you just get to be happy. lazy. loved.
the ones where your lip gloss is smudged because he kissed it off. but for now, he lets himself dream. and when you lean over and whisper, “thanks, yuuji. you’re the best,” he swears his heart punches a hole in his chest. yeah. maybe he is a personality hire. but lucky for you, that personality is hopelessly in love.
arrangement | fushiguro toji, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, kamo choso, nanami kento
╰►an arranged marriage is about the most cliché thing he can possibly think of, and it sounds like a terrible idea...that is, until he's actually married to you, and he can't bring himself to have any regrets. 14.9k words
a/n: you could say that this maybe got a little out of hand...but I'm not mad about it. not all of these are arranged marriages exactly, but that's the gist of it. toji's is more of a fake dating type situation, and geto's is like an arranged marriage that he, himself, arranged...so yeah. warnings: cussing, kissing. enjoy <3
fushiguro was a man of few qualities. in fact, if you asked shiu, he’d list three. he never missed a shot, he never got attached, and most importantly, for the right price, he was game for just about anything. typically, he was not in for the long con, wanted to get in, get out, and get paid. so when the job came along—pretending to be someone’s boyfriend—it was almost laughable. not his style at all. yet here he was, locked into a contract that demanded exactly that.
pretend. it was a performance he resented, a role he hated, but shiu had been patient enough to explain it to him repeatedly: this was a means to an end. not real. just business. but toji didn’t buy it—not fully. because the moment he laid eyes on you, the daughter of some scummy, power-hungry politician, it twisted something inside him he wasn’t ready to name.
you weren’t what he expected. you were old enough to navigate the world, but still naive enough to be prey. the endless attempts on your life were proof enough of that. your father, a man with enemies in every shadow, had made you a target, and toji had been hired to keep you alive until the storm passed.
he’d met your father only once—gruff, oily, desperate for protection he couldn’t buy outright. toji accepted the contract with a smirk. this one was different.
usually, he didn’t do long jobs. no dragging out, no strings attached. but the payout? it was obscene, something that promised security beyond the next paycheck—a small fortune just for keeping you breathing. that stack of cash was going to buy him a new life, one where he could afford to be indifferent about everything except what he wanted.and if pretending to be your boyfriend was the price of admission, so be it.
your first meeting was terse, clipped. toji was even more curt than usual, and shiu couldn’t help but chuckle behind his back.
“you’re really off your game,” shiu had joked later. toji had ignored him, the corners of his mouth tight.
you stood there—calm, unshaken—like you had nothing to lose and everything to prove. you were beautiful, yes. but more than that, you radiated a strange kind of quiet strength, a composure that unsettled toji in a way he didn’t expect. “thanks for taking the job, fushiguro,” you said, voice steady, no hint of fear or awe.
“toji,” he corrected sharply, cutting you off. he wasn’t fushiguro—not in this arrangement. he was toji. no room for formalities here. without waiting for a reply, he brushed past you, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, bringing only the bare essentials.
goddamn it. he liked you. not in the way a man liked a woman—no, that was messy and complicated. but there was something disarming about you: your kindness, your fire, the way you didn’t flinch when he entered the room. you looked at him like he was just another obstacle to push past, and that unnerved him more than it should have.
toji made it clear he wanted distance. he stayed holed up in the guest room, insisting it was for his work. he spent hours inspecting every nook and cranny of the apartment—scanning for bugs, tracking suspicious activity, watching every visitor, every shadow.
but the truth was, it felt less like a mission and more like a sentence. because every morning, like clockwork, you were there before him, bustling in the kitchen. breakfast for two.
after a few days, you’d nailed his preferences with unsettling precision—the exact way he liked his coffee, the times he preferred to eat, even the small details like his favorite cuts of meat or the way he liked his eggs. he wanted to hate it. but the smell of your cooking, the warmth of the apartment, the sound of your soft humming as you worked—it all chipped away at his resolve.
you were as distant as he was. there was no warmth between you, no awkward stammering or false smiles. you were indifferent. and yet, that indifference drove him mad.
every day, he fought the urge to speak to you beyond what was necessary, to tease you, to make you laugh. you were so impossibly beautiful, and he wanted to see that smile break free, even just once. but you kept him at arm’s length—refusing to drop the formal “fushiguro,” insisting on driving yourself everywhere, rejecting his protective offers with a calm defiance. he wasn’t sure if you hated him, or just didn’t care.
nights were long and sleepless. toji barely closed his eyes, watching every movement in the apartment like a predator. but he noticed you didn’t sleep much either—likely haunted by the fear of waking to a blade at your throat or a gun pressed to your temple.
he could tell you rested easier since he arrived, but the tension was always there. you didn’t trust him. not really. shiu told you toji would do anything for money—risk his life, bleed, even die. but that hardly settled the gnawing doubt.
toji acted like he wanted nothing to do with you—cold, distant, biting in his sarcasm. he mocked your home décor, your pet cat, anything he could to needle you. it was a poor mask for his growing frustration. you took the jabs without flinching, without returning fire. you wore your stoicism like armor. you were thankful he was there—at least that much was true.
even without a job to keep you busy, you filled your days. you read constantly, devouring books with an appetite that surprised toji. you crocheted—something toji never expected to find charming, but watching you work the yarn through your fingers, calm and methodical, was strangely captivating.
you cooked. and you cooked well. thrilled to have someone to share your experiments with, you kept a little tally card ranking each dish by how much you thought toji liked it. reading his face was a challenge.
toji was the kind of man who’d lick his plate clean whether it was tasteless congee or the finest kimchi dumplings. but over time, you learned to notice the small tells: the flicker of raised eyebrows, the twitch of scarred lips that almost became a smile, the way he’d sometimes devour leftovers—or refuse them. when he refused, you packed the extras and brought them to nearby shelters or friends who appreciated the meals.
to keep the act going, you’d introduced him as your boyfriend. your friends were terrified of him, whispering about the intimidating figure who shadowed your life. you swore up and down he was a gentle giant.
toji, of course, thought you were a fool to leave the safety of the apartment. one of the few real conversations you had was an argument about your refusal to stay locked away like a caged animal. “I already quit my job,” you said firmly. “I’m not going to be reduced to some doll playing dress-up in one of my father’s luxury apartments.”
he admired the fire simmering beneath your calm exterior—the kind of fire he could light and feed, even if it never quite broke free. “‘forced’ to quit your job? poor thing,” he said dryly. “you act like that’s a punishment. I don’t get paid unless you survive past the election. after that, you’re free to do whatever you want.”
you didn’t listen. and he secretly loved that. he was afraid of what that meant—that he was falling for you. your calm, measured strength, your quiet rebellion. you sneaked out one morning, slipping away in the shadows just as the farmer’s market came to life nearby. toji found you—not with anger, not with a scolding, but slipping silently behind you within half an hour. his eyes scanned the crowds like a doberman on a scent, glaring daggers at anyone who dared glance your way too long.
for the first time, you caught a glimpse of something softer beneath the armor—something almost like care. that was when things began to shift. you were no longer just the charge, the contract, the obligation. you were becoming...a companion.
he learned the way you smiled when something amused you, how your laughter was low and genuine. he noticed the way your brows creased when you read something that caught your attention. he was no longer a stranger in your life.
if either of you had been honest, you would’ve admitted he had become something more than a bodyguard. he was your boyfriend, just like the contract had stated. he held your hand during quiet walks through the city—“to keep up appearances,” he grumbled, though no one was around to see. he steered your grocery cart, picking out the items you requested while you focused on your list.
slowly, he became a part of your world. and maybe, just maybe, you were becoming a part of his…and that’s why, the morning you don’t wake up beside him, toji’s chest tightens with a cold, gut-wrenching panic.
gone are the days when you slipped out before dawn, tiptoeing past his guarded watch like a ghost avoiding the light. now, when you wanted to leave, you asked—sometimes even insisted—that he come with you. but this morning? there was no note, no whisper, no quiet footsteps fading down the hall. you were gone.
the ransom letter was a savage slap in the face, but what truly shattered him was how it was addressed—not to your father, not to some faceless politician, but to him. toji fushiguro. shiu drove him to the location marked on the letter, but the drive was silent except for toji’s grinding teeth and shallow breaths. when they arrived, toji didn’t hesitate—didn’t bother with pleasantries or playing along. he threatened shiu, razor-sharp voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
toji didn’t have the ransom money. hell, he never planned on handing over a single cent. his plan was razor-simple: get you out—alive. the killings were brutal, cold, almost automatic, each one a step closer to you.
when he finally found you—trembling, bruised, but breathing—everything else faded. before you could even speak, before you could protest, he scooped you up without hesitation.
“put me down,” you tried, voice shaky but determined.
“no.” his voice was low, sharp, no room for argument. “you’re not walking out of here on your own.”
you tried to push against his chest, weak but insistent. “I’m fine. really.”
he shook his head, voice cracking with something close to desperation. “doesn’t matter if you’re fine or not. I thought you were dead.” he buried his face in your hair, arms locking around you like a cage—safe, fierce, unyielding. “I’m not letting go. not until you’re somewhere safe.” your protests faltered, swallowed by the pounding of your heart and the steady thrum of his. he carried you away from it like you weight was nothing, like he was happy to be carrying it, and he was.
the car ride home was thick with unspoken tension. shiu squirmed in the driver seat, clearly baffled by the strange dynamic between you two. toji’s eyes were dark, wild—furious and scared, all at once. he wasn’t just angry. he was terrified.
back in your apartment, everything shifted. toji was softer. he cleaned your wounds with care—gentle hands tracing away dried blood, questioning your well-being even when you insisted you were fine.
“no,” he scoffed. “you’re not fine. you’re still here because I didn't let those assholes finish the job.”
that night, he refused to let you cook, ordering in some regrettable takeout that neither of you touched with enthusiasm. he watched you like a hawk—every blink, every shiver, every quiet breath—until exhaustion finally pulled you under. when you finally climbed into bed, he didn’t leave.
“you don’t have to stay, toji. the guest room’s just twenty feet away.”
his voice was rough, low, and thick with something raw you hadn’t heard before. “yeah,” he said, voice cracking. “I was twenty feet away when you got taken.” he sank into the chair you’d barely noticed before—one you kept mostly for decoration—and didn’t move. “I’m not going anywhere.” no explanations. no promises. just presence.
after that day, everything between you changed. toji became something more than a hired gun. he became your boyfriend—not just in name, but in every small gesture. you talked—really talked—for the first time. about his past, the ghosts he carried, the scars left by a wife he’d lost in ways no one understood. about your father, the political games, the betrayals and backstabbing that left you both hollow in different ways.
you showed him your recipe ranking card, and he smiled—rough, rare—and corrected your assessments.
“onigiri, a couple weeks ago? that was the best I’ve ever had,” he admitted, voice a little softer than usual. “make it again. please.” he’s teasing, but you don’t laugh, in fact his plea roots itself deeply and seriously in your chest.
he bought you little trinkets—simple jewelry he wanted to see you wear, something to remind you he was here. he offered his hoodies when the nights got cold, and you accepted, feeling the warmth of something you hadn’t known you needed.
movie nights became a ritual—mostly his favorites, gory horror flicks that had you curling into his side whenever the blood spilled a little too vividly, and he teases you mercilessly, even though he secretly loves how you tuck your face against his chest like you trust him with the darkest, ugliest things.
the election came and went. your father won by a landslide, just like you both knew he would. toji was off the hook, free to retreat back to the hellhole apartment he called home—or whatever ramshackle place shiu could find for him to crash in.
but your guest room sat empty, pristine, a silent invitation. besides, life here had its perks. the soba and udon cart just a few blocks away. shiu close enough to catch him if needed. you insisted he stay. at first, it was a joke. then it became a hope.
and finally, it became something more. one night, as you rambled about the neighborhood—the quiet streets, the friendly shopkeepers, the little park bench where you liked to read—he cut you off with a kiss. soft, deliberate. the kind of kiss that said everything without saying a word. “I’m staying,” he murmured against your lips. and just like that, the guest room wasn’t empty anymore.
there were murmurs, and not the kind geto could afford to ignore.
at first, it amused him. the whispers that he’d never taken a woman before—never so much as kissed someone in earnest, never truly let another person into his personal sphere. as if he cared. as if any of that mattered in the grand scheme of things. he wasn’t here to play house. he was building a world. a new age. a godhood. but over time, the whispers festered. they didn’t remain idle gossip passed around bored followers in temple halls. no—rumor became narrative, and narrative became belief. and belief, to geto, was currency. worship was leverage. if the people started to think he was unloved, undesirable, even unworthy…well. that was bad for business.
his presence had always demanded respect, but lately it had been drawing more pity than awe. so, he considered the simplest solution: take a wife. the logic was clean. appearances mattered. to the world, he would become a man desired. a man chosen. it didn’t need to be real—he just needed a woman who looked good on his arm and knew how to smile through a lie. he could force it, if he had to. plenty of women in his ranks would drop to their knees for him without hesitation. he could choose any one of them, claim her, and that would be that. but they were...unimpressive. all of them. pretty, yes. devoted. but empty vessels. parroting back doctrine without a shred of understanding. suguru geto was not going to be associated—married—to someone who couldn't hold his gaze without asking permission.
so he remained single. untouched. unbothered. until manami pointed you out. you were not one of his. you were not a sorcerer, not even particularly spiritual. but you had just graduated with a degree in some intimidating branch of mathematics, and you carried yourself like a woman who knew things. not just facts—but people. the way your eyes scanned a room before entering. the way you paused, mid-sentence, like your mind worked in algorithms and not emotions.
you were not beautiful in the way the others were. you were devastating. geto watched you once. then again. then again. and suddenly he found himself doing something he hadn't done in years: considering. he didn’t want to kidnap you—though, in a different life, that might’ve been easier. no. if you were to be his, you had to come willingly. even if only for show. but what was he supposed to say? hello. I'm suguru geto. I run a violent, weird cult and believe most of humanity is a disease, and wish to wipe them out, you included. be my wife? hard sell.
so he softened. slowed down. approached carefully. he befriended you. as much as he could. coffee in crowded cafes. long, quiet walks filled with philosophical debates you didn’t know you’d win. you challenged him in a way that was neither aggressive nor flirtatious—it was natural. and he hated how much he liked it. you weren’t enamored with him, and that made you perfect. you weren’t trying to impress him, and that made him obsessed.
he knew it wouldn’t last. his time was stretched too thin. his followers were waiting, watching, wondering. he needed a solution. so he made you a deal. marriage. in name only. three to five years. no romance, no expectation. he would cover your expenses. you would live in his home—technically. your own room. your own space. all he asked in return was attendance. appear beside him during select gatherings. smile. nod. pretend. that was all.
you were skeptical. overthinker that you were. he liked that about you—until it made him afraid you’d say no.
then, the night of a morale-boosting celebration—one of those ornate, incense-slick parties filled with silent devotees and powerful investors—you showed up. you didn’t just walk in. you showed up. hair done up like it was sacred. a modest but stunning dress. jewelry glinting like devotion. your nails were painted. your perfume was intentional.
you approached him in full view of the gathering and—without asking—kissed his cheek. your lips lingered long enough to let the room talk. then you leaned into his ear and whispered, soft as sin: “I’ll accept your deal.” he had expected relief. instead, he felt desire. not lust. not even love. something worse—attachment. interest. a dangerous craving for something he couldn’t control.
he spent the rest of the evening parading you through the room, introducing you as his girlfriend—wife, if you corrected him, which you often did—with a quiet affection that bordered on convincing. he watched you charm donors, engage with scholars, maneuver conversations with calculated grace. you made him look like a fool in comparison, and he adored you for it.
the transition was quick. you moved into the estate. brought only what you needed. your room remained tidy. you were unobtrusive, like a guest in a museum. but your presence lingered in the air. a forgotten book on the table. a mug with lipstick at the rim. a scarf that smelled like soap and morning.
you played your role flawlessly. sat beside him with quiet loyalty. held his arm with a lover’s grace. you never slipped. not once. and the cult loved you. they bowed to you with more devoutness than they ever offered him. they brought you flowers. confided in you. hung on your words. you didn’t ask for their worship, but they gave it freely.
where geto commanded with doctrine, you ruled with kindness.
and slowly, the rumors changed. no longer was he the pathetic, untouched false prophet. no. now he was something else—something enviable. a man with a sharp, elegant wife who had chosen him. how else could he have pulled someone like you?
it was late—close to midnight. the halls of his northern shrine were quiet, flickering with the low, golden light of oil lamps. geto had wandered them without thought, seeking nothing. just movement. restless in the way only men who are too full of feeling and too empty of peace can be.
that was when he heard your voice. faint, from around a stone corner. not afraid. but strained. he paused in the shadow of a carved pillar, half-hidden, half-listening. a higher-level follower—one of the more politically useful but spiritually hollow types—stood speaking with you. no, not speaking. lamenting.
“...he’s too harsh. too rigid,” the man sighed. “I’ll be honest, the only reason I've stayed loyal to this place is because of you. you make this place livable.”
a pause. your reply came short, clipped. “thank you.” but then—colder. “that said, you misunderstand him. suguru acts out of necessity, not cruelty. if he wanted a cult full of weaklings, he’d put on a softer face. but he doesn’t. he wants people with purpose. with power. that takes force.”
geto froze. heart in his throat. you weren’t defending him out of obligation. you were…angry. angry on his behalf. “he’s not heartless,” you continued, voice steady, razor-sharp. “he’s strategic. he’s smarter than most of us combined, and the weight he carries would crush you if you tried to bear it for even a day. he’s a better man than you think.” something twisted in geto’s gut. something old and bright and dangerous. because when the man laughed lowly and leaned closer to you—too close, with a smile too familiar—it turned to a spark of rage.
“still,” the man murmured, “you could’ve done better than him.”
you stepped back. your discomfort was visible, even in your silence. you didn’t like this. you didn’t want it. that was enough. geto stepped forward, quiet as death. “go home.” the man startled. his mouth opened, closed again. geto’s presence was ice. his voice, quieter now, more final: “don’t speak to my wife again.”
there were no threats. no violence. but he left shaking. you stood stiff, looking down at your hands.
“I’m sorry,” you said, voice soft. “I didn’t mean to make a scene.”
“you didn’t,” he replied. “I did.”
but his gaze lingered, almost intimate. you had defended him. without being asked. without reward. not for appearances—but because you meant it. he left that night different than he arrived. something in him had shifted. whatever tether had been holding him back, had been convincing him this was just strategy—just performance—had frayed completely.
from then on, geto became yours in the quietest, clearest of ways. he skipped council meetings to sit with you on the back balcony, legs crossed beneath him as you braided his long hair with gentle, idle fingers. he abandoned tactical briefings just to listen to you explain some theorem he didn’t understand but loved watching you describe—so alive, so sharp. he no longer held court after dark. his evenings belonged to you.
he didn't care that his men muttered about how soft he’d become. that his enemies started whispering about how domesticated he looked. that his public image had cracked around the edges. he let it.
you were the first good thing in years that didn’t ask him to be something else. and in turn, he stopped trying to resist the pull. he watched you build a quiet life within his temple walls—still working, still learning, always hungry to understand more. you weren’t ornamental, you weren’t submissive, and you weren’t easily impressed.
you just…were. and that was enough.
he began to crave those soft weekend mornings, when he’d find you sitting alone on one of the garden benches, knees to chest, reading something complicated. your brows drawn, lips slightly parted in thought. he’d sit beside you, close but not intrusive, letting his fingers trace soft lines into the skin of your arm or thigh. a grounding ritual neither of you questioned anymore.
he picked wildflowers from temple paths and tucked them behind your ears with complete sincerity. he carried you inside when you fell asleep near the water, curled into yourself like some forgotten nymph, his coat draped over your shoulders.
he loved you. he hadn’t said it. but everyone could see it. and you? you were falling, too. gently. undeniably. it was in the way your head tilted toward him when he entered a room. the way your hands lingered longer when brushing against his. the way you now wore rings on both hands, but only one mattered.
your place in his home grew permanent in the most quiet, irreversible ways. your clothes in his wardrobe. your slippers by the door. your hum in the kitchen. your toothbrush beside his. you weren’t pretending anymore, and neither was he.
so it made perfect sense—though it still managed to break him completely—when one night, as the stars hung low over the lake and the house had gone still, you kissed him. you were brave. braver than he’d ever been. your lips were soft but certain, trembling only slightly as they pressed against his.
geto froze. and then he shattered. he kissed you back with something dangerous in his chest. hands braced on either side of you, mouth rougher now, panting against your skin. he pressed you gently against the wall, reverent but greedy, overwhelmed by how long he’d waited.
“my wife,” he groaned between kisses, as if the words hurt to say.
now that you were his—truly his, not just in title but in breath, in blood, in shared silence—geto stopped pretending he was anything less than obsessed with you. he became…possessive. not in the loud, showy way. no, he didn’t flaunt you. he didn’t drape you in diamonds or have you paraded at his side. he didn’t need to. you existed in his life, and that was enough to shatter his composure completely.
he stopped bringing you to cult gatherings as often, no longer sat you at his right hand during meetings. not because he was ashamed—god, no—but because the sight of other people bowing to you stirred something ugly in him. pride, yes, but also jealousy. they looked at you too long. they took too much from your softness.
his wife—and oh, how the title ruined him. he said it constantly. unnecessarily. gleefully. he used it to tease you, smirking with lazy smugness every time your cheeks flushed. “my wife,” he whispered as he kissed your shoulder. “my wife,” as he untied your apron in the kitchen. “my wife,” while you argued over chess strategies and he let you win anyway. it was annoying. it was adorable. you loved it.
and yet, despite his ease with you, despite the quiet comfort you brought him, geto still had moments where panic gnawed at the edges of his ribs. what if you wanted more? what if the lake and the shrine and his terrible world were not enough for you? what if you grew restless, and one day you left?
he tried to hide it, but one evening—when the sun had nearly dipped beneath the horizon and the air smelled like moss and the lake shimmered silver—he broke. you were sitting beside him on a blanket, curled against his side, wearing one of his old black robes like it belonged to you (and it did). the world was quiet. softly spinning.
“I can let you go,” he said suddenly. you looked at him, a little startled.
“if you want,” he added, slower now, like the words hurt. “you don’t owe me anything. this arrangement...I never meant for it to trap you. if you want to leave—truly—I’ll make it safe for you. I’ll fund your life for as long as you need. no one will follow. no one will stop you.”
your gaze didn't leave him. you let him finish, then reached out and took his hand, weaving your fingers through his. you leaned your temple against his shoulder. “if I wanted to leave, suguru,” you murmured, “I would've.” silence stretched between you, sweet and thick and tender. “I’m exactly where I want to be.” he didn’t reply at first. his throat closed around something too raw.
but then he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you flush against him, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and letting himself breathe again. you could feel the way he exhaled—like the weight of the entire shrine, of the whole world, had finally left his shoulders. he held you tighter.
satoru had spent years pissing off the higher-ups, mocking them behind closed doors, disobeying orders with a smile, and tossing out their thinly-veiled demands like yesterday’s trash. they’d long grown tired of his antics, but tolerated them, because gojo was, after all, the strongest. untouchable. unmanageable. unmarried.
they’d been pushing for a union for years—someone respectable, traditional. a woman from a noble clan. quiet. pretty. powerful enough to birth the next heir of the gojo line, obedient enough to stay in her lane. it sickened him. the very thought of shackling some poor woman to the political machinery of the jujutsu world—to him—felt inherently cruel. he refused, outright and loudly.
that is, until he met you. you showed up quietly at jujutsu tech one spring, a new instructor assigned to teach close combat. fists only. you didn’t wield a flashy cursed technique. you didn’t brag or posture. you taught students how to survive with grit and knuckles and instinct.
he noticed you before he even realized he had. at first, it was just curiosity—how you held your ground in the staff meetings, how you always sat by yourself at lunch but never looked lonely. you were strong. maybe not gojo-level strong, but you moved with precision and power, and your presence commanded attention. still, what struck him most wasn’t any of that.
it was your kindness. you weren’t sweet in the obvious way. you weren’t a pushover. but there was something about you—gentle when you didn’t have to be, encouraging even on your worst days. the students adored you. nobara would go on and on about how much more she liked you than any other teacher, looking pointedly at gojo. yuuji would recount everything you’d taught him during training, as if the other first years hadn’t been there. megumi liked you, too, of course in his own secretive, soft way.
and gojo? he was smitten. not instantly. it happened over weeks. months. you disarmed him with every passing day. he kept expecting you to hate him like utahime did. to pity him like nanami sometimes did. but you didn’t. you laughed at his jokes. called him out when he deserved it. you treated him like a person, not a weapon, not a myth.
he hadn’t planned to say anything at the next clan meeting. but when they started in again about marriage, the words just tumbled out. “wouldn’t it be hilarious if I married the new combat teacher?” he said it like a punchline. a grin tugged at his mouth. a joke. sort of. not really.
the elders pounced. unorthodox, yes—but at least it was something. they took it seriously. they liked the idea. you were respectable enough. and if this was what it took to get satoru to do what they wanted—fine. a quiet, pretty wife with discipline and strength. acceptable. they brought it up to you the next week. not as a suggestion. as an order.
gojo had never felt guiltier. he told himself—swore to himself—that if you so much as hesitated, if you looked the slightest bit hurt or uncomfortable, he’d call it off immediately. but you didn’t. you said yes. calmly. clearly. like it was just another mission. and being married to satoru gojo didn’t seem like the worst thing in the world.
the wedding was beautiful. lavish to the point of discomfort. you’d never been given anything like this. flowers, silks, gold-dusted food. the dress alone was enough to make you feel like a stranger in your own skin—white and flowing, clinging in all the places gojo tried so hard not to look at. he kept close to you, but not overly so—hands tucked behind his back, smiles offered gently. he didn’t want to make you feel like a prize or an ornament.
the ceremony wasn’t for you. not even for him, not really. it was for them. for the elders, for the world, for the headlines. you said yes because that’s what good sorcerers do. and gojo—well, gojo made it as bearable as possible. sweet, funny, thoughtful in a way you didn’t expect.
then came the house. if the wedding was unsettling, his estate was something else entirely. a mansion outside the city, all glass and high ceilings, polished floors that felt too clean to walk on. he gave you the grand tour, pointing out rooms he hadn’t been in for years.
“I forgot this one even existed,” he muttered as he opened a study lined with books. “seriously, I don’t know who’s been dusting in here, but I need to give them a raise.”
the kitchens were fully staffed. cooks, assistants, spotless fridges full of delicacies you didn’t even recognize. you nearly cried. when he asked what was wrong, you couldn’t quite answer. the kindness? the extravagance? it felt too big, too much. you’d never had luxury before. never had ease.
he showed you to your room across the hall from his. you gasped softly. it was bigger than your entire apartment had been. the walls were still mostly bare, the bedframe stark—but the potential shimmered. “I’ll fill it with anything you want,” he promised. “you want books? a piano? anything. say the word.”
you laughed, and something clicked in his chest. from that moment, gojo made a quiet, private vow: he would spoil you. gently. endlessly. just because he could.
you lived together, so time together became natural. you woke up at the same time, got ready side by side. his showers were long and theatrical. your mornings were quiet and fast. you tried to help in the kitchen—couldn’t shake the guilt—but satoru stopped you every time. “I hired them,” he said softly. “they’re paid very well. let them do it for you.” you nodded, but it still sat heavy in your chest. you’d never had help before. never been allowed to relax.
but you still felt it—that looming question. why me? you weren’t from a notable clan. you weren’t docile. you didn’t bat your lashes and whisper behind silk fans. you weren’t a perfect wife.
and yet, gojo couldn’t stop watching you. couldn’t stop thinking how lucky he was to have you in his orbit. so he started to shower you in praise. a constant stream of warmth, tucked into jokes and winks and soft murmurs.
“you look radiant today, wife.”
“you’re too good to these kids.”
“your students love you, y’know? but not as much as I do.”
every compliment made your heart skip. still, after months, you felt like a guest in his home. so he asked you out on a date. “come on,” he said one evening, spinning his chopsticks. “let me take you out. one night. for real. if we’re gonna live together, we might as well know each other, right?” you hesitated. but you agreed. and the restaurant…oh, it was a mistake.
the building shimmered. the valet line alone made your stomach twist. you’d checked the menu before leaving—it cost more than a month’s groceries. you were dolled up, but you didn’t feel like yourself. this wasn’t your world. this wasn’t you.
you stood on the curb, heart hammering, sure he’d regret this the moment he saw you. and then he did see you. and gojo forgot how to breathe. god, you were beautiful. he wanted to bottle the image of you—eyes wide, shoulders drawn in shyly, that tiny uncertain smile. you didn’t know what to do with your hands. you looked like you wanted to run. and he never wanted to make you feel that way.
“you look stunning,” he said, not joking for once.
you flushed. “you don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not–I'm not saying it because I have to,” he says, earnestly, a little disturbed at the suggestion. “I’m saying it because I want to.” your embarrassment and joy at his words was too strong for you to form a response.
dinner was…perfect. he talked too much. you listened, soft and smiling. you talked a little, about work, about your students, about your favorite kind of bento. he leaned in closer, listening like you were the most important voice in the world. and you felt it. slowly. you felt it. safe. wanted. not as an object. not as a sorcerer. but just… as you.
you laughed when he told you about a mission gone wrong—accidentally setting off a cursed trap that dyed his hair slightly green for two days. he laughed when you mimicked yuuji’s horrendous battle stance. the air between you shifted.
you felt beautiful under his gaze. he felt peace in your presence. by the time dessert came, you forgot how uncomfortable you’d been. by the time the bill came, you forgot how small you’d felt. by the time he walked you to your room that night, you forgot this had started as anything less than real.
“goodnight…satoru.” and down the hall, in a room big enough to hold his loneliness, satoru lay awake and smiled to himself. she called me satoru. like it meant something.
from the moment you said goodnight, something in gojo shifted. he stopped pretending. not just to the elders. not just to the students. to himself. whatever arrangement had brought you together was irrelevant now. because for him—fully, totally, undeniably—it was real.
he’d fallen for you. maybe slowly. maybe all at once. but it had happened. irrevocably. irreversibly. and now, he woke up each morning and counted the ways he was doomed. he told himself he’d wait. however long it took. however long you needed. because he thought—maybe, just maybe—you were starting to fall, too.
he saw it in the soft smile you gave him when he drove you to work, lingering just a second longer than necessary before getting out of the car. he saw it in the note you tucked into his coat pocket during your lunch break: “I’ll be home late, meeting with ijichi and yaga. don’t wait up <3” but of course, he waited up. you were worth losing sleep over. he saw it in the mochi balls you left in the freezer when you went on overnight missions. the ones in his favorite flavor—always yours to begin with, now his because you decided so. he saw it in how you leaned into him, instinctively, when some kyoto teacher tried to talk over you at a summit. as if his presence was the only shield you trusted.
gojo had spent his entire life being a weapon. an asset. a symbol. he’d been used, revered, feared—but never once had he been treated like someone who could be loved. until you. you made him feel gentle. and he clung to that feeling like salvation.
he took you on dates like his life depended on it. maybe it did. dinner, of course—often too fancy, always too expensive. but also quiet walks through the countryside, boots crunching on leaves, his arm slung lazily around your shoulders. hikes through the mountains, where he’d tease you with sweets at the summit and watch you roll your eyes, breathless and pink-cheeked in the cold.
big sorcerer galas, where he let you coo and tsk and fuss over his migraines he’d get from not wearing his mask, massaging his temples with warm hands while whispering, “does that feel better?” god, how could you even ask that when it was the best thing he’d ever felt? he was putty in your hands, melting fast—and happily.
there were smaller dates, too. the kind that mattered more. little bookstores tucked in tokyo alleys. underground musicians he knew you liked. libraries where he’d watch you run your fingers down spines and mentally note every title you paused at.
to be loved, he realized, was to be known. so gojo satoru made it his one goal in life: to know you.
he asked questions constantly. what’s your favorite color? your favorite season? favorite book? favorite breakfast food? have you ever broken a bone? what was your worst day of high school? you answered shyly at first, then more easily. he remembered everything.
a fresh bouquet of your favorite flowers appeared in your room every week. he didn’t just read your favorite book—he devoured it. then cornered you in the kitchen to discuss every plot twist like it was the most pressing political scandal of the year. your laughter sounded like home.
you were still humble. still quietly unsure. still never asked for anything. but you’d stopped flinching when he gave you a compliment. stopped shrinking when he spoiled you. you didn’t encourage it exactly—didn’t clap your hands and beg for more—but you didn’t recoil anymore either. you took his love in slow, careful sips, as if trying not to choke on it.
gojo noticed. and he cherished every bit of it. he never said it aloud, but his chest had been torn wide open and stuffed full of sunshine. if you turned off all the lights, he’d glow in the dark.
and maybe that’s why, on one chilly night, he just couldn’t hold it in anymore. you were walking the gardens outside his estate. slowly. almost aimlessly. your pace had slowed to nothing. you were bundled in his jacket, too big on you, sleeves swallowed by your hands. the air was crisp. stars overhead. silence between you.
then you turned to him, voice quiet. “thank you…for this life.” he froze. you kept going. “I know you could’ve had anyone. I know the higher-ups have been trying to marry you off for years. I know I'm not…” your voice cracked. you looked away. “I just hope I've been good enough.”
satoru felt something dark and furious twist in his chest. he didn’t speak. he grabbed you. one hand cupped your cheek. the other slid around your waist. he kissed you like he’d been starving for you—because he had. you kissed like that for a long time. breathless. desperate. full of everything unsaid.
when he finally pulled back, you were dazed. warm. his forehead pressed against yours. “I asked for you.” your breath caught.
“I asked them to pick you.” his voice cracked. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I was afraid. I didn't know how else to have you.” his words poured out in a rush. “I’m sorry if it felt like a lie, I swear I didn't mean for it to. I just—I didn’t want to trick you, I just didn’t think I could ever actually deserve you. you’re so good. you make me feel—human. and I let you think you weren’t enough when really I'm the one who’s not—”
you didn’t let him finish. you grabbed his collar and kissed him again. fierce. certain. real. that was your answer. and it was more than enough. satoru couldn’t wait to spend the rest of his married life knowing you.
ino had spent the better part of his life proving himself. becoming a grade 1 sorcerer under mentor recommendation wasn’t easy—especially not when you were once the kid with the fake glasses and something to prove. it took years of training, fighting, and swallowing his doubts like medicine. and when he finally got that promotion, that recognition? it felt good. really good. but short-lived. because the higher-ups didn’t care much for individual merit. not really. they cared about bloodlines, continuity. legacy. the survival of jujutsu society through children—preferably from the strongest, the best, the most ‘respectable’ clans.
it was gross. he knew it was gross. but still...he couldn’t deny it. that fantasy had always lingered at the edges of his mind. the dream. a sweet, beautiful wife—someone soft and kind, who called him honey and kissed him on the cheek and left sticky notes on the fridge. kids, loud and messy, who ran through the hallways with little paper talismans and toy weapons. a small home. a big one. didn’t matter. just a life—one that didn’t end with his cursed energy bleeding out on some battlefield.
he loved his job. he really did. loved helping people. loved protecting them. loved being useful. but that kind of love had a cost. and ino, even as young as he still was, could feel it gnawing at him. he was 15 when he became a first-year at jujutsu tech. since then, every second of his life had gone toward climbing the ranks. he didn’t go to parties. didn’t have dumb high school crushes or hold hands under lunch tables. didn’t go on vacations or have summers off. he had given everything to this life.
so, when the elders called him in at twenty-one and handed him a marriage file? he didn’t fight it. maybe that should’ve bothered him more than it did. maybe it would’ve, if he hadn’t opened that folder and seen you.
just a photo. a passport-style headshot. it wasn’t much. but even in that sterile little image, you were gorgeous. it kind of knocked the air out of him. he wasn’t sure if it was just the whole you’re gonna be my wife thing making him feel a little delirious, but… you looked like the kind of woman who was already out of his league, and now—somehow—he was marrying you.
the rest of the file gave him a little more context. you were the same age. same amount of years in the field. smart—really smart—according to your transcripts (which made him laugh; what did test scores have to do with being a good wife?). from a small, quiet clan, not big or flashy, but deeply respected. strong, too. you had dozens of successful missions under your belt and several commendations.
too perfect, he thought at first. like they’d just built you in a lab to be everything he’d ever wanted. maybe that was a good thing. maybe someone like you could pull him together. soften his sharp edges. keep him steady. he didn’t want to get too excited—didn’t want to start imagining too much. but… it was hard. hard not to imagine holding your hand in public. hard not to imagine brushing his teeth next to you. falling asleep next to you. maybe even…waking up next to you with his arm still around your waist. god, he was down bad and he hadn’t even met you yet.
you didn’t meet until the wedding. he hated that part. hated that this was how you had to meet. through obligation and duty, instead of something romantic. you deserved more than this, he was sure of it. but then you walked down the aisle, and all his guilt vanished. because it wasn’t dread that hit him. it was awe. it was you, you, you, you—and nothing else.
your dress was simple, elegant, and you wore it perfectly. hair down, soft curls tucked behind your ears. your expression calm and polite, even though he could tell—just from the way you kept your hands folded—that you were a little nervous. you kept your gaze down for most of the short ceremony, only glancing at him once or twice. he didn’t mind. he was looking enough for the both of you. god, he hoped you couldn’t hear how fast his heart was beating.
the ceremony was short. civil. boring, honestly. just enough formality to appease the elders. your family didn’t come. he didn’t ask why. he didn’t have much family of his own. maybe that was for the best. it made the moment feel smaller, more intimate. quieter. like the two of you were slipping into something private and precious, away from the noise of sorcerer society.
you answered every question like it had been rehearsed. like you were saying your lines. and ino got it. you were doing what you were told. just like him. it made something in his chest ache. he couldn’t let himself get too attached. not yet. but when the ceremony ended, and your hand finally found his—light and gentle in his palm—he knew he already was.
the house was new. small, not flashy, tucked into a sleepy neighborhood on the edge of tokyo. not too far from the school, but far enough that the city buzz faded into birdsong and the occasional neighborhood dog.
it wasn’t much—two bedrooms, a little backyard, warm hardwood floors—but to ino, it felt like everything. because you stepped inside and smiled. you ran your hand along the kitchen counter and said, “this is perfect.” and you meant it.
he showed you around room by room, stumbling over his words sometimes, rubbing the back of his neck like a teenager on his first date. but you… you seemed so at ease with him. more open than you had been at the ceremony. you laughed when he opened a closet and found a wasp’s nest. you gasped when you saw the backyard garden that had come with the property.
you already trusted him, somehow. that’s what it felt like. and ino was desperate to protect that.
he put all the furniture together by hand. dragged in chairs and tables, assembled bedframes with sore wrists, then unassembled them and reassembled them when you decided they’d look better in the other room. he didn’t mind. in fact, he’d never been happier to bruise his thumbs with an allen wrench.
every night that week, the two of you cooked dinner together. sometimes you sat in the kitchen and read while he worked. other nights you danced around each other in your socks, making curry and rice and bickering playfully about how spicy was too spicy. you seemed to be very fast friends.
you didn’t know it yet—but he was already in love with you. quietly, fully.
one night, over dishes still warm from rinsing, you told him. not in many words. just a whisper, quiet as steam rising from the sink. you hadn’t known what to expect from him. you’d been so afraid. that he would be cruel. controlling. that he’d treat you like something owned, expected things from you without asking. an heir. obedience. silence. you’d been prepared to be treated like an asset, like you always had. a sorcerer first. a woman second. a person last. you didn’t say much more. you didn’t need to. ino didn’t say anything, either. but it hit him like a curse to the chest.
first—guilt. heavy and hot in his gut. not because of anything he’d done, but because you’d been made to think your whole life would be like that. that someone like him—who wanted so badly to be good, to be gentle, to be enough—could be feared by someone like you. that someone must’ve made you believe you weren’t worth softness, safety, or kindness.
then—grief. quiet, cold. the ache of watching someone you care about shrink into themselves. the sadness of knowing you’d walked into this marriage bracing for pain. expecting commands, demands, rules, punishments. he hated that for you. hated every memory that must’ve taught you that love came with conditions.
and finally—relief. thick and sharp. like taking a breath after holding it underwater. because he could be safe for you. he was safe for you. and more than that—he wanted to be. you weren’t scared of him now. not when you sat beside him at dinner. not when you touched his hand during movies. not when you smiled sleepily at him from the couch like you weren’t afraid of anything at all.
you trusted him. and it made him want to weep with gratitude. so he didn’t speak. he just kept drying the dishes. handed them to you gently. let his fingers brush yours. and in that silence, in that fragile, wordless space—you relaxed. for the first time in your life.
and so did he. because even though takuma ino was silly and light-hearted and maybe didn’t always say the right thing, with you…he didn’t have to prove anything. he wasn’t just a sorcerer. he wasn’t just a husband by contract. he was someone who could love you, and that, he realized, was the best thing he’d ever be allowed to do.
things were perfect in a way that made takuma nervous. not the kind of nervous he got before a mission or when he had to answer to gojo or yaga. not even the kind of nervous he felt the first time you’d stood across from him at the altar, calm and unreadable while he’d practically vibrated with anxious energy. no, this was different.
this was the kind of nervous that crept in after you realized everything you wanted was already in your hands. because life had never felt this full before. this bright. this good. and he had you to thank for all of it. ino had once hoped—naively, maybe stupidly—that being married to someone strong and serious might whip him into shape. that his new wife would be strict, sharp, practical. that she’d mirror the same steely, polished professionalism expected of a grade 1 sorcerer’s spouse. maybe she’d keep his head on straight. help him level up in the ways that counted: promotions, reputation, rank. make him better.
but then you came along—and takuma forgot what he was trying to be better for. because with you, he didn’t think about sorcery at all. he didn’t think about his technique. or how long it had been since nanami had last given him a nod of approval. or how many cursed spirits he’d banished in the last six months. none of that mattered.
all he could think about was you. how much he liked you. how soft you made him feel. how he woke up every morning wondering how he could make you smile that day—how he could earn your happiness, and keep it. he knew the nature of arranged marriages in jujutsu society. they were never designed to be tender. they were contracts. strategic. binding. and he didn’t even want to think about the consequences he’d face if you ever left him—professionally or personally. but it was never about that. not really.
he didn’t want you to stay because of the contract. he wanted you to stay because he couldn’t go back to being alone. to being half-human, half-weapon. to measuring his worth in mission reports and scars. he couldn’t stomach the idea of being someone you used to live with. someone you used to care about.
and the wildest part? you didn’t live like that. not anymore. it was subtle at first, but ino saw it. you’d come from a house of rules, strict and sharp-edged. you were disciplined to the core, trained to put others first, to perform, to be perfect. but now…you were learning how to live.
you slept in sometimes, you ate the sweets you used to avoid, you laughed at terrible puns. you took ino on suspiciously date-like outings to coffee shops and farmer’s markets, dragging him past flower stalls and baked goods, eyes gleaming like you’d never been allowed to enjoy them before. and best of all—you never treated him like a sorcerer.
you never asked about his technique. never seemed impressed by his grade or reputation. you asked how his day was. you packed his lunch and left notes. you let him talk, vent, joke, ramble. you saw him. just him. not the title. not the rank. just takuma. and it wrecked him.
one evening, you told him—quietly, hesitantly—that you were thankful. that you didn’t know how you got so lucky, ending up with someone who was kind to you. you stumbled over the words, which wasn’t like you. you were usually so composed. but you admitted that maybe…in a different life, things would be different. the marriage wouldn’t have to be fake.
the words made his blood buzz, like he'd been holding his breath for months. without thinking, he grabbed you—not harshly, just urgently. like he needed to anchor you to the ground. like he was scared you'd float away the second you said it out loud. and then, like it had been waiting on the tip of his tongue since the moment he met you, he said: “it was never fake for me. from the moment I saw you, none of it was fake.”
you stared at him, wide-eyed. and then, slowly, carefully, you reached out. wrapped your arms around your husband. leaned in close. and kissed him, because isn’t that what married couples do? and takuma kissed you back like he’d been waiting his whole life to be allowed to.
……
the house was louder now. a little messier. there were fingerprints on the glass doors and juice cups in the sink, toys left halfway through elaborate adventures on the living room floor. someone had drawn all over one of his mission reports in crayon. he hadn’t even been mad.
because when he looked up and saw you—hair pinned messily back, laughing in the kitchen as you tried to scoop rice into a bowl while a toddler clung to your leg—he felt something in his chest swell so big and full it was a wonder it hadn’t broken open yet.
this was his life. you and the kids. a house full of soft chaos and unshakable joy. days that started too early and ended with little bodies asleep between you, mouths slightly open, cheeks warm with sleep. he’d never been so tired. he’d never been so happy.
takuma had once believed love would cost him something. that having a family would be another weight to carry. one more duty. another thing to fail at. but he’d been so, so wrong. this—this—wasn't a burden. this wasn’t something to carry. it was the thing that carried him. being a father was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
it changed everything. his priorities. his pace. he still took missions, still wore the badge of grade 1 with quiet pride, but he said no now. he turned down the ones that felt wrong in his gut. he left the field when he was injured. he let others take the high-risk ones. because his wife—his wife—mattered more than any of it.
he watched you now from the doorway, one arm lazily braced above the frame, eyes half-lidded with love as the kids scrambled around your legs, yelling something about dinosaurs and bugs and an impending tea party. you scooped the youngest up without missing a beat, balanced them on your hip like it was second nature. it was.
and takuma thought, not for the first time, god, she’s perfect. not just beautiful, though you were that too. but good. kind. strong. warm in a way that softened the sharpest corners of his soul.
he’d once been so scared of responsibility. now he wanted it. he wanted to be your husband. their dad. he wanted to be the one who made dinner when you were tired, who helped with math homework, who kissed bruised knees and told bedtime stories that got increasingly dramatic just to hear the kids laugh.
“I ever tell you,” he said, padding into the kitchen, voice soft as he slid behind you and kissed your temple, “that this is all I ever wanted?”
you leaned into him, eyes tired but bright. “every day,” you teased.
he grinned. “good. I’m not planning on shutting up about it.” and he meant it.
because he had everything now. a home. a family. you. and takuma—once a lonely, overworked, people-pleasing sorcerer who thought praise and promotions were the only proof he was doing something right—finally understood what it meant to live a life worth protecting.
choso was new to sorcery—but even newer to being human.
when the summons arrived, a scroll sealed and stamped in the language of tradition, yuuji and gojo were quick to explain that the higher-ups loved to play god. force alliances, breed lineages, shape the next generation of jujutsu society like clay in their gnarled hands. “you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” gojo had said bluntly, rolling his eyes. “they’re just bored aristocrats in robes.”
but choso hadn’t said no. not because he felt obligated—he barely recognized authority as it stood—but because…well, he thought it sounded kind of nice. sweet, even. romantic. yuuji had explained marriage to him in simple terms. a lifelong bond. partnership. someone who could be your best friend. a person who chooses to love you every day. it made choso's chest ache in a way he couldn’t explain.
he wasn’t even sure he could reproduce. half-curse biology was a tricky thing, and he didn’t care to explore it. but still—if it was just for looks, as gojo and yuuji insisted, then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. maybe he’d get to wear something nice. eat cake. smile at someone pretty. maybe he’d get to try being romantic.
yuuji was wary on his behalf. protective. he didn't want some power-hungry clan girl using choso's status to claw her way higher up the jujutsu hierarchy. but when they met you—quiet, trembling, kind—you shattered every cynical assumption they’d had. you weren’t from a flashy family. your clan was small and conservative, one that preferred tradition and silence to showy skill. you bowed politely. you smiled nervously. you never raised your voice, never met their eyes.
choso didn’t say much on the day of the wedding. he was stunned into silence, not out of fear but from sheer sensory overload. the ceremony was extravagant, as expected, but to him it felt like magic. he wore a tuxedo for the first time. had his long hair carefully styled by a jujutsu tech assistant. yuuji stood proudly beside him, trying not to cry. there was music, too. food and flowers. a big, beautiful cake.
and then there was you. he couldn’t look away from you. your dress. your skin. the way you held your breath when your eyes met his. you looked like something out of a storybook. choso didn’t know how to be subtle, so he didn’t even try. he stared. wide-eyed. awestruck. you looked like you were glowing. he told yuuji every thought that crossed his mind after. “she smells nice,” “her dress was soft-looking,” "Is it okay to think my wife is pretty?” yuuji begged him not to say any of that to your face. not yet.
the car ride back to your new home was silent. you sat stiffly beside him, your hands folded in your lap like you were bracing for impact. choso stole little glances at you—then long ones, staring openly when he thought you wouldn’t notice.
you noticed. you kept waiting. bracing. wondering when the act would drop. you’d been raised in a home where men didn’t love. they owned. where girls were groomed to say yes and smile and open their legs whether they wanted to or not. where being married meant being silent, and scared, and useful.
but choso just stood at the threshold of your new home, turning slowly, taking everything in. the wallpaper. the strange furniture. the cozy rug. he pulled out his phone and texted yuji: “do I say something now?” then he turned and gave you a smile—shy, awkward, but genuine.
you waited. your fingers trembled in your lap. you waited for the barked orders, for the dragging hand, for the crack of authority to echo through the house. but choso only asked you softly where you wanted your boxes placed. said your name like it was something delicate in his mouth.
he talked a little that first night, though he wasn’t good at it. told you he liked your hair. that he liked the house. that it was weird but fun to wear a tux. that he was sorry if he seemed strange, he just… didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing. you didn’t say much in response, mostly nodded. you couldn’t believe it. couldn’t believe that this wasn’t a trap, a test, or some cruel prank.
“kamo—” you started.
“call me choso,” he interrupted gently, his gaze sincere. “please. I—I prefer that name.”
you nodded, unsure. your voice caught in your throat. you wanted to ask a thousand questions.
do you know what marriage means?
do you know what you’re supposed to do with me?
do you know what’s expected of you—and of me?
but you said none of them. afraid that speaking the words aloud might summon the monster.
that night, you made dinner. a modest meal, more ceremony than sustenance, just something to ground yourself in normalcy. choso ate all of it. every bite. said it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. “yuuji once burned ramen,” he told you proudly. “he tried so hard. it was still crunchy.”
you laughed, just a little. you didn’t know it yet, but choso would hold that sound in his chest for the rest of the week. days passed. stilted. quiet. hesitant. but safe.
you began to relax in the space. your steps no longer tiptoed. you cooked more meals. choso started asking, shyly, if you’d mind packing his lunch when he left on errands. “only if it’s not too inconvenient,” he’d say. you nodded. of course, you told him. I'm here to be useful to you, choso. he didn’t answer right away. something about the way you said it unsettled him. useful? he didn’t like the sound of that. like this marriage was about what you could for for him.
yuuji gave him advice. told him to take you out. “like a date. a real one. show her you like her.” choso brought it up clumsily. you said yes instantly—so instantly it felt like a reflex. “you don’t have to say yes if you don’t want to,” choso told you earnestly, head tilted like a confused dog. "I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
that was the moment the fog began to lift. you realized, in a single breathless moment, that choso wasn’t a monster waiting to strike. he wasn’t a master. or a soldier. or a shadowed curse. he was just a man. a little lonely. a little confused. a little smitten. a man who liked you and happened to be married to you.
"I want to,” you said. and choso’s hands shook with joy as he texted yuji, "I think she likes me now!!!!” he planned a clumsy little date. you wore something pretty and he complimented it three times before you left the house. he took you to a movie (a romcom, because you said horror was too scary), and halfway through the popcorn he whispered, “this is the best day ever.” you laughed, but he meant it.
the next week, he tried to cook for you. it went terribly. the dumplings were a mess. half-burnt, lopsided, falling apart before they even reached the plate. choso looked crushed by it—slouched at the stove, brows furrowed like he’d disappointed you. but you didn’t mind. you were quick to move beside him, murmuring a soft reassurance as you grabbed the pan, fixing what could be saved with steady hands and a bit of seasoning. you plated them neatly. made them presentable. and when he took his first bite, he looked at you like you’d performed a miracle.
there was praise in his eyes. gentle admiration. “you’re so great,” he told you, with hearts in his eyes. “you’re so good at everything.” you flinch a little at the praise, like you’re not sure what do with the weight of it on your shoulders. choso saw it—how your fingers trembled just slightly. how your eyes dropped to the floor. how praise seemed to sit heavy on your shoulders like you didn’t know what to do with it. that quiet, guilty way your shoulders curled in. he noticed how you smiled without meeting his gaze. how you moved around him like he was a fragile bomb, unsure of what might set him off. he didn’t know exactly what he’d done wrong—but he knew, with the kind of certainty that sat heavy in the chest, that something was wrong.
“are you…afraid of me?” he asked, gently. the idea made him sick. the last thing he wanted was to be feared, especially by someone like whom he liked so much. “why are you always so—careful?” the question hung in the kitchen like smoke. it wasn’t an accusation. it was a genuine wonder. because he didn’t understand why someone as soft and sweet as you looked at him like he might break you.
you opened your mouth—but nothing came out at first. then you sat down at the edge of the dining table, fingers clenched in your lap, eyes wide with something older than fear. something deeper. something that lived in the bones. and you told him. not with rehearsed clarity or poetic structure—but with a raw, unraveling honesty. stammering, halting words. a truth that had been carved into you over years.
it didn’t come out like a confession. it wasn’t a story with a beginning, middle, and end. it was bits and pieces, torn at the edges. the heaviness of your silence as it cracked open into something trembling. shame. memory. fear so deeply rooted, it had shaped the way you walked, the way you thought, the way you braced yourself for touch that never came.
marriage had never meant safety to you. it meant control. obedience. pain. you’d grown up watching women disappear inside themselves, reduced to what they could provide—bodies, labor, silence. you’d watched the world turn cruel inside the walls of a home. and somewhere along the way, you had decided that love was just another kind of wound.
choso listened. still and unmoving, like if he breathed too loudly it might scare the truth back inside you.
"I'm sorry,” you said finally, a knee-jerk apology you didn’t even realize you were offering. "I'm so sorry if I ever seemed cold or distant or strange, or-or if I ever made you feel…I don’t know—I just…” you turn your head away, unable to bear the immense weight of his silent gaze. "I'm so sorry,” you whispered again, this time into the stunned quiet. "I know it’s not fair to think that of you, and I feel awful about it, but I didn’t know. I didn’t know someone like you existed.”
his jaw was tight. his eyes shined. "I don’t want you to be useful,” he said. "I just want you to be happy. if I do anything—anything—to make you feel small or scared, I want you to tell me, and I'll fix it. I'll change it. I'll stop whatever it is.” a pause. then, with a breath like a prayer: "I want to be someone who makes you feel safe.”
the change is subtle. so small it almost passes by unnoticed—but choso sees it. it’s in the way your steps don’t hesitate beside him anymore. the way you reach for his sleeve when you’re nervous. the way, when the conversation around you grows too sharp, too loud, you lean into him rather than shrinking away. once, your posture around him was all calculation: poised, perfect, prepared to endure. now it’s something gentler. closer. unafraid.
you trust him. choso can feel it in his bones. and he holds that knowledge like a precious thing—tender, breakable, sacred. he doesn’t take it lightly.
when you stumble, he catches you. he never lets you apologize for it. when an event grows too loud, too bright, too much, he doesn’t ask. he just finds your hand, leads you out, drives you home. quietly, like it’s nothing, like it’s easy for him. because it is.
he likes driving you places. likes when you sit in his passenger seat and pick the music. likes the way you hum under your breath at red lights. likes treating you to dinner—ramen, sushi, pancakes at midnight—anything you want. it’s not about being traditional. he just wants to be good to you. provide for you. make sure you never go without, not while he’s around.
you become friends—slowly, then all at once. laughter starts filling in the gaps between awkward silences. shared jokes and quiet routines. the way he always brings you tea in the morning, even if he doesn’t drink it himself. the way you always double the recipe when cooking, setting his plate down before he even sits.
he didn’t understand, not really, what the people meant when they said “marriage.” but now he does. it’s this. this quiet companionship. this soft joy. this life.
he still has his quirks. he’s blunt to a fault—awkward, painfully honest, and occasionally a little too literal. romance doesn’t come naturally to him, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. he compliments you like it’s as natural as breathing.
“you are so beautiful.”
“you’re the prettiest girl I've ever seen.”
"I love it when you smile.”
sometimes he’ll say it in passing. midway through folding laundry. after biting into a dumpling. while you’re brushing your hair and not even looking at him. you smack his arm with a smile. tell him not to flatter you so much. but it’s not flattery to him. he doesn’t even register it that way.
choso doesn’t know how to flirt. he doesn’t realize there’s any performance to it. he just says what he thinks, exactly as he thinks it. and that’s what gets you most of all—how sincere it is. how uncalculated. no charm, no strategy, just choso, all wide-eyed and genuine and completely unaware of what his words do to you.
you begin to soften around him like melting snow. he notices the warmth in your gaze before you do. you start sitting closer to him on the couch, letting your knees touch. you start making his favorite meals without asking. you brush lint off his collar without realizing it.
he never stops doing his part. always careful, always patient. gives you space without ever making you feel alone. when he brings you to meet yuuji for the first time, he pulls his little brother aside beforehand and tells him firmly—“no yelling.” he knows loud men rattle you. keeps you far away from gojo on principle.
you cook for yuuji often, and his grumpy little friend megumi. choso eats every meal like it’s a holiday. thanks you every time. you tell him it’s nothing, that it’s the least you can do. he always disagrees. you don’t owe him anything, he says. you never did. but it still means the world to him.
one day, you’re walking together through tokyo. it’s sunny, but not hot. crowded, but not unpleasant. you’re talking softly about the bakery you want to try around the corner when you feel it—his hand, slipping into yours. like it’s normal. like it’s always been that way. you look down, blinking. he doesn’t even seem to notice, just keeps walking like it’s the most casual thing in the world. you glance up at him, a question forming. he catches your expression and offers, plainly, “yuuji said couples do that.”
you laugh—a real one, bright and unfiltered. then you squeeze his hand and lean in, close enough for your shoulder to brush his arm. he glances down at you, curious, smiling faintly. and you say, in the softest, most conspiratorial whisper—“did yuuji tell you what kissing is?” choso trips over a crack in the sidewalk. which answers your question well enough.
marriage had always been part of nanami's plan. not a romantic dream, not some wistful fantasy—but a goal, like anything else. stability. consistency. someone to build a life with. someone to go home to. someone to care for, to take care of. he never imagined love would come easy—nothing ever had—but he'd always imagined it would be real. earned. honest.
just…not like this. not arranged. not forced. not signed and sealed by the higher ups with a polite congratulations and a subtle reminder of the responsibility now placed upon his shoulders.
he put it off for years. every time the elders insisted, he declined. until gojo—with his reckless, star-bright optimism—went through with it. and somehow, shockingly, it worked for him. so nanami caved. signed his name where they told him to. said yes when they gave him your name. figured at worst, you could be companions. civil. polite. friends, even. you’d both maintain your dignity. your distance.
it didn’t have to mean anything. and then he saw you walk down the aisle. and every thread of logic in his head went up in flames.
you were breathtaking. not in the overdone, romanticized sense of the word—but truly, viscerally. the kind of beautiful that made him sit up straighter. that made his pulse spike with guilt. your dress hugged every curve like it was made to provoke him. your face unreadable, your lips soft and untouched, your eyes wide with something he couldn’t name. you looked like someone from a dream he hadn’t dared to admit he’d had. and he knew, right then, that friendship was off the table.
he was so screwed. so he did what he always does when emotions run too high: compartmentalized. stuffed it down. locked it up. told himself this was a marriage in name only. that he would be respectful. dutiful. distant. he would not touch you. he would not think about you. he would not ruin you with the weight of his own desire.
and then you spoke to him—softly, sincerely, asking if he needed anything. if there was anything you could do to make this easier on him. and you smiled at him like you meant it. like you didn’t mind being here. like maybe you were hoping for something.
and nanami felt sick. not at you—never at you—but at the situation. at the system that placed you in this position. at the knowledge that somewhere along the line, someone taught you this was your role. to ask what he needed, to offer yourself up for service like some kind of dutiful wife on day one. he told you—firmly, perhaps too firmly—that he expected nothing from you. and he meant it. but the way your face dropped still haunts him.
because you had hoped, hadn't you? not for love. not for anything improper. just for connection. for kindness. to not be alone.
you told gojo, apparently. quietly, in confidence. that you didn’t think nanami liked you. that maybe you’d done something wrong. of course gojo told him. "she feels like you don’t like her," he said, shamelessly stirring the pot. "which is crazy, 'cos she’s great."
"you’ve met her twice, gojo. and don’t talk about my wife." nanami’s voice was sharp, clipped. but the words lodged like a knife in his chest. he’d wanted to be honorable. restrained. a gentleman. but somehow you’d taken his distance as dislike. his silence as coldness. he couldn’t let that stand.
so he changed. slowly, carefully. he didn’t get any closer physically—still maintained his boundaries, still slept on the edge of the bed if you even let him in the room at all—but his efforts became more intentional. his speech softened. his tone warmed. he held doors. he asked about your day. he remembered things you said.
still, he never once commented on your appearance. not your hair, which always looked soft and neat, not your perfume, even when it made him dizzy. not your lips, even when you bit them while reading, which drove him mad. because he didn’t want you to think that was all this was. he wouldn’t reduce you to something superficial. wouldn’t treat you like a trophy. wouldn’t make you feel small.
but it was hard. so hard. because you were gorgeous. and kind. and funny, though you kept that part guarded. you were sharp-tongued and prickly and far too used to fending for yourself. you flinched under the smallest bit of praise. frowned when he complimented your cooking. got visibly uncomfortable when he opened your door or pulled out your chair.
"you don’t have to do all this husband-y stuff," you’d mutter, half-under your breath. he only smiled at that. yes, he did. you didn’t understand—this wasn’t performance. he wasn’t playing a role. he wanted to be good to you.
so he started smaller. made it subtle.
not "I bought this for you,” but "I picked up this chocolate. couldn’t finish it all, if you want some.” (he could finish it. he didn’t even like chocolate.) not "I booked you a trip,” but “there’s a train to takahama saturday morning. I remembered you said you liked coastal cities.”
you didn’t realize it was spoiling. it didn’t feel like spoiling. it felt casual. convenient. but it wasn’t. nanami had a hand in everything—softly, quietly, never drawing attention—but always thinking of you. always.
and still, you didn’t see it. because somewhere along the way, someone taught you that you weren’t meant to be treasured.
that night, on a checkered picnic blanket under low evening light, you finally told him. you didn’t look at him. you were chewing a fancy pastry he bought just for you, one you’d insisted he didn’t need to get, and between bites you murmured, like it was nothing—"I don’t really deserve any of this. you’re amazing. this whole thing feels like a joke. I mean…I'm nothing compared to you."
and nanami put his pastry down. very calmly, very clearly, he said, “don’t say that again.” you blinked. unsure if you’d heard him right. “you deserve everything,” he said. “and if you’ll let me, I'd like to be the one to give it to you.” you swallowed hard. "I know this marriage may not be the realest thing,” he continued, softer now. “but you are. you’re real. to me.” and for once, you didn’t argue.
you just looked at him. like you believed him. or maybe like you wanted to. nanami is the perfect husband, or he can be. if you’ll just let him.
you remain a bit uncomfortable, even after that. nanami can tell. you’re polite. grateful, even. but still not used to the spoiling. still flinching at the painful sweetness of his attention. like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. like you’re afraid he’ll stop.
but that only makes him more determined. he thrills at the sight of you eating sweets—how your eyes flutter closed for just a second, how you savor every bite like it’s a secret. he keeps a mental list of every flavor that makes your face light up.
he notes how you smile up at him, surprised but pleased, when he casually drops a quote from your favorite book into conversation. and how you hover near him at sorcerer gatherings—not because you have to, but because you want to.
you’re starting to like him. maybe even trust him. but not nearly as much as he likes you. as he loves you. the realization hits him quietly one evening, like most important things do. another sorcerer gala. he hates them. has always hated them. the showboating. the politics. the noise. but now…he attends them all. with you on his arm. his wife.
you, dressed in silk and sparkle, laughing under low chandeliers, letting him spin you gently on the floor like he might break you otherwise. you, with one hand in his and the other around a flute of something bubbly, looking every inch the vision you were on your wedding day.
he’s never believed in much. but “my wife” becomes scripture. biblical. he says it like a prayer. at meetings. at missions. at dinners.
“my wife likes that brand of tea,” he says absently in meetings, pointing to the box someone brought in for the breakroom, as if it’s a credential that matters.
“my wife read that book,” he murmurs during a mission debrief when some sorcerer brings up philosophy, and then—because he can’t help himself—adds, “she said the ending was overrated, but the prose was lovely.”
he says it everywhere. your name, your title, your presence. it becomes his rhythm. his grounding. he clings to it like scripture.
my wife this.
my wife that.
my wife likes her soup just a little spicy.
my wife hates when it rains and she doesn’t have an umbrella.
my wife once said she wanted to see fireflies again. so we’re going. end of june.
he knows you like the back of his hand. not because he memorized you like a task—but because loving you is the only thing that comes easy in a world that’s never been kind.
gojo teases him endlessly. nanami doesn’t care.
he’s proud. reverent. and somewhere along the way, you stop pulling away. start leaning in.
it’s not immediate. not dramatic. but slow. cautious. earned.
you start to accept this scary thing called love.
and then, maybe—maybe—you start to give it back.
it all falls apart (or falls together) after one of gojo’s absurd, over-the-top parties. you’d worn a sleek, fitted dress. something clingy and dark. your hair up. makeup soft and devious. you looked like danger and desire and everything he could never let himself want.
and nanami—poor, tired, utterly smitten nanami—was a little bit drunk. not much. just enough that his restraint began to crack.
you’d said something innocuous in the hallway. something about the night winding down. how your feet hurt. how you were ready to go. he didn’t even think. "you are so beautiful."
and you froze. you turned to him slowly, lips parted. eyes wide and owlish. “you think so?” you asked, quietly. like you didn’t believe it. like you couldn’t. "I thought…maybe you didn’t.” of course you thought that. he never said anything. never allowed himself to say anything. and now it hits him—how confusing that must have been. how his constant restraint had read as indifference.
and it ruins him. he fumbles through the silence, reaching for the right words. of course I think so. I always thought so. I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. you seemed so unsure. so tense. I didn’t want to reduce you to that. I didn’t want you to think I married you for that. I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t— you grab his jaw with both hands and kiss him. you kiss him like you mean it. like you’ve been waiting. like you know. and nanami kisses back like a man starved. like he’ll never get another chance. like he’s finally, finally allowed to touch the thing he’s been revering from afar.
from then on, he’s yours completely. he was yours before, too. you just didn’t know it. but now—now he doesn't hide it. not from you. not from anyone.
he brings you lunch during your breaks, walking all the way across campus in the middle of a meeting because he knows you forget to eat when you’re busy. he holds your hand like it’s second nature, like it was always meant to be there. he kisses your temple, your cheek, the inside of your wrist when no one’s looking.
he sleeps in your bed now. it wasn’t even a conversation. you’d dozed off after a movie on the couch, legs tangled up in his, head heavy on his shoulder—and when he carried you to bed, you tugged him down with you. he hasn’t left since.
he pulls you in every night, strong arms wrapped gently around your waist. breath warm against your neck. he mumbles half-dreamed things into your skin. sometimes it’s your name. sometimes it’s I love you. sometimes it’s just the kind of sigh that sounds like home.
he calls you his. always. because you are. and now, you let him. let him love you out loud. let him spoil you, lift the weight off your shoulders, remind you daily how precious you are. even if it still makes you blush, makes your eyes dart away shyly—he just coos and tuts and kisses your forehead like he’s got all the time in the world. and he does. because he’s not going anywhere.
you make plans for the future now. soft, easy ones. weekend trips. new paint for the kitchen. a second bookshelf. someday, maybe, a little house by the sea. you're no longer just wife and husband in name—you’re partners. best friends. completely, helplessly in love. and nanami does not take that honor lightly.
you belong to each other. that’s the difference. that’s what changed. it’s not just he calls you his. you call him yours. your person. your constant. your kento. he doesn't just love you—he lets you love him. completely. and you do.
you bring him his favorite coffee when he forgets breakfast, tug him away from his desk when he’s worked too long. you fold his ties and kiss his forehead and leave little notes in his wallet that say things like buy eggs and also I adore you. he blushes every time.
you don’t just call him your husband anymore. you call him your best friend. and he calls you his everything. because you are. and this—this life you’re building together—it’s all either of you ever could’ve asked for.
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જ⁀➴ Toji wasn't a man who lingered but somehow he found himself sitting on your couch and slowly coming to terms with what he feels for you is indeed love.
ﾉ character: Toji
ﾉ wc: 0.9k
ﾉ cw: nothing much, mentions of blood, reader had a rough past but nothing is detailed, based on the song dirty laundry by all time low
ﾉ notes: I needed to tend to my own wounds today and this is my form of bandaid. Some sappy Toji fluff || TAGLIST
Toji wasn't a man who liked to linger. He didn't linger after a job. Didn't linger in places where people knew his name. He didn't linger in memories either - neither the good ones but especially not the bad ones. They all belonged to someone else now, a younger version of himself, maybe. One he no longer could look in the eye.
So he didn't know why he was still here, sitting on your couch with only one sock on, an empty bottle of beer resting in his palm. He could hear the faint sound of your voice drifting through the kitchen as you hummed something tuneless while doing the dishes. It was a low domestic rhythm that made his jaw twitch with something he couldn't quite name.
This wasn't supposed to be a thing. It was supposed to be fun. Easy. Temporary.
You had no illusions about what or who he was. You saw the mess and didn't try to sweep it under the rug, never asked for more than he could give. Hell, you didn't even flinch when he came home with blood on his collar and lies clinging to his shoulders. And not once did you try to fix him.
Maybe that's what made him stay.
He watched you from the couch, the way you swayed slightly to the beat of whatever was playing in your head and wearing one of his shirts that didn't fit quite right. The sleeves swallowed your hands and the hem hung past your thighs. The sight made something in his heart flutter - something too slow for fear and too raw for lust.
Annoyed, Toji ran a hand through his raven hair and exhaled. He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve you - a mantra repeating in his head like a broken record. You glanced over your shoulder at him then, smiling like you caught him staring and maybe you had. You always saw more than he wanted you to.
“You want tea?” You asked and held a chipped mug towards his direction like it was an offering. “Or are you just gonna keep brooding and stare holes into my back?” you asked as a grin slowly formed on your lips.
He huffed out a laugh, it came so easy around you. “Tea’s fine.”
You disappeared out of his sight for just a second, rummaging through the cupboards. He could hear the soft clatter of mugs, the rustling of packaging. Simple sounds that held a sense of normality in them and god, how strange it felt, to feel as if he belonged right there on your couch.
When you came back, you handed him his favorite mug and plopped down right beside him, folding your legs beneath you. The couch dipped with your weight and your shoulder brushed against his ever so gently. You smelled like the mint tea in his hands mingled with something so uniquely you - like comfort, like home, like a future he was never supposed to have.
“You okay?” you asked quietly, not prying, but you carefully bumped his sturdy shoulder with yours.
Toji didn't answer right away, simply staring into the mug in his hands as if it would give him words he didn't even know how to say, phrases he never knew were real.
He thought about the way you picked up his blood stained clothes from the floor while he washed the grime off without ever flinching once. About how you never asked what he did or where he went - but you always left the porch light on for him. You weren't clean. You had your own scars, your own ghosts from a past he never knew about. But you let him in anyways, into your silence as if he always belonged right there.
“I’m not good for you.” He muttered eventually, his voice low and rough and he feared that he might break the mug if he held it any tighter. “You know that, right?” His question lingered only for a second.
You leaned against his arm with the smallest of smiles. “Yeah,” you whispered and kissed his biceps so gently he barely felt it. “But I'm not exactly looking for good.”
He huffed out a laugh once again - a small, almost startled sound. You always had a way of cutting through his walls without even trying.
When he turned to look at you, you were still wrapped in his shirt, hair damp from a late shower and your lips were curled into the soft kind of smile that felt like balm instead of knives on his skin.
This was the moment he realized it with a sinking, inevitable thud - He loved you. It wasn't loud. It wasn't booming fireworks in the pits of his stomach, no blinding epiphany. It was quiet, slow and stupidly tender.
Toji reached out and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered, calloused pads grazing your cheek and you leaned into his touch like it was the most natural thing.
“I’m not gonna say it,” he murmured, his voice hoarse “probably never will.”
You smiled, knowing exactly what he meant “Didn't ask you to.”
But still, you turned your face to kiss the palm of his hand before leaning against him with much more of your weight this time. Let him pretend, even if it's just for tonight, that he was something worth holding onto - not despite the mess, but because of it.
You were messy too, in your own quiet ways. Maybe that's why it worked - Maybe love was never supposed to be clean.
first fight | gojo satoru
╰►you and your boyfriend, gojo, never fight. it's like your whole schtick. you love each other sooooo much that nothing is ever important enough to argue over. sure, you get annoyed with each other, but you're both adults who love each other very, very much. nothing is worth jeopardizing your relationship over, and you're both perfectly capable of having mature conversations with one another. it drives his students crazy, how gojo pulled such a 10/10 and how you never fight, your relationship is just perfect. until it isn't. until you tell gojo the one thing he never thought you'd say, the last thing he ever wanted to hear from you. 3.8k words
a/n: I love disgustingly, sickeningly, disturbingly in love couples, because what do you mean people actually experience true joy and unconditional love??? anyways, this deals with some self-esteem issues, insecurities, etc. from both parties, some are more physical, others are more mental. just want y'all to know that I love you, even though I don't know you, because you all deserve that :)
you arrive at jujutsu high in the same car every morning, the same soundtrack playing, the same thermos passed between your hands. gojo insists that coffee tastes better when it’s made by you, even though he’s the one who set the timer on the machine at 6:00 a.m. sharp. you just roll your eyes and let him say it, because he looks at you like you’ve just invented the concept of caffeine.
everything about the two of you is too much.
you walk through the school like you were born holding hands. you teach separate classes, sure, but somehow you still manage to be in the same rooms at the same times, overlapping missions and sparring demos and paperwork like you planned it. which—okay—you did. kind of.
lunch is shared. not in the “sitting across from each other like normal people” way, but in the “you’re eating from his bento and he’s picking the mushrooms out of yours” kind of way. shoko once joked that if she took one of your lunches and swapped it with the other, you’d both starve out of muscle memory.
gojo didn’t even deny it. he just said, “honestly? probably true.”
and somehow, you make it work. him with his chaotic, oversized presence, and you with your quiet steel. it’s like watching a thunderstorm fall in love with a garden. beautiful. slightly horrifying. weirdly functional.
the students, of course, are suffering.
“do they ever fight?” nobara asks one afternoon, watching you flick a piece of eraser at gojo’s head during a grading session.
“they don’t even disagree,” megumi mutters. “it’s like they’re possessed.”
“they’re just in love,” yuuji says with a dumb little smile, arms behind his head. “it’s sweet.”
“it’s unnatural,” nobara grumbles. "I saw them high-five after a kill last week. who does that?”
“they make up little handshakes,” megumi adds darkly, like he’s sharing a war crime. “one for every type of curse. I've seen it.”
you two are oblivious, or maybe just immune. gojo’s got one leg thrown over your chair, bent over your shoulder as you work through lesson plans, humming some off-key pop song into your ear. you tap his nose with a pen when he gets too loud. he steals your glasses and wears them dramatically until you threaten to break his fingers. everyone assumes it’s a joke. (it’s not.)
even utahime has given up. "I hate him slightly less when you’re around,” she admitted once, after a mission. “don’t quote me. I'll deny it.”
“quoting it,” gojo chirped, already grinning like a child who’s won the spelling bee. “printing it. framing it.”
she almost cursed him on the spot.
and nanami—well. nanami sighs a lot these days. "I assume you’ve figured out how to file joint mission reports by now,” he says without looking up, already anticipating gojo’s attempt to dump his paperwork on him.
“oh, we file jointly,” gojo replies with a smug little smirk. “she writes, I supervise.”
“she works,” nanami corrects. “you annoy.” but nanami doesn’t say much else, and he doesn’t really have to. you know he doesn’t hate it as much as he pretends to. the two of you get the job done. your students are thriving. you and gojo—well. you don’t fight. you just don’t.
there’s never been a reason to. you annoy each other, sure, and he leaves his socks on the floor and you use his fancy hair stuff without asking, and sometimes you both forget that not every disagreement has to become a twenty-minute philosophical debate—but none of it matters. none of it’s important. nothing is ever more important than each other.
and everyone knows it. you’re the couple. not just a couple. the couple. the blueprint. the “they’re so gross it’s kind of beautiful” pair that makes everyone feel like maybe love is possible, if you just find the right balance of infuriating and perfect.
the first time you attend one of the sorcerer galas together, it feels like a fairytale.
gojo’s tux is crisp and sleek, his blindfold replaced with thin designer sunglasses that let his smirk gleam underneath. you wear black satin with a slit that teeters on the edge of scandalous, and he damn near short-circuits trying to pick his jaw off the floor. you aren’t fond of crowds, not fond of being seen, but you do it for him. for your boyfriend. for the strongest.
“damn, baby,” he breathes into your neck that night, one hand on your waist, the other around a champagne flute. “do you want me to get assassinated? ‘cause you’re killing me.” you laugh. your heart glows. you stay close to his side all night, tucked under his arm like his favorite secret.
the second gala is a little harder.
the hair takes longer. the heels are higher. the dress clings tighter. it’s blue this time, and gojo whistles when you walk out of the bathroom. but he doesn't notice how long you took to put on your eyeliner. how many times you changed the part in your hair. how much of your dinner you didn’t eat. you stay quiet. smiling. you know how to play the part.
he keeps you close again, proudly introducing you to a blur of other sorcerers and cursed clan heirs and political figures whose names all sound the same. you hold your glass delicately and shake their hands and say all the right things. you don’t notice when you start holding your breath.
by the tenth event, it’s a routine. you wake up with your stomach in knots. you force yourself to eat something light. you do your makeup, wash it off, and do it again. you think about skipping it. you think about canceling. you know he'd say yes, bend to your every whim, probably even comfort you if you asked to stay him. you think about asking him to go alone. but he’s so happy when he talks about you. when he holds your hand and introduces you as his person. when he leans over during a speech to whisper, “if you weren’t here, i’d be asleep under the dessert table.”
you’re his anchor in a room full of masks and monsters. and god, you try. you try so hard.
you wear the tight red dress, even though it makes you feel like you’re stuffed into someone else’s skin. you suck in your stomach. you smile at the compliments that don’t feel real. you nod along to conversations you don’t understand. you rest your hand on satoru’s chest like it belongs there, even when you want to disappear into the floorboards. you do your job. you perform. but the thing about performance is that it’s exhausting. and eventually, even the strongest burn out.
it happens on the way home. you’re riding in the passenger seat, skin prickling, heart thudding like it’s run five miles without you. your hair is pinned perfectly. your lipstick hasn’t smudged. your hands are shaking in your lap, the ocular headache you have right now is blurring your vision, and satoru doesn’t see it because he’s humming under his breath to the radio, one hand on the wheel, the other already reaching for yours like always.
you pull into the lot. the engine cuts. he gets out first, stretches dramatically, then opens your door with that lazy, dazzling grin. “c’mon, sweetheart,” he says, extending a hand. “let’s get you out of those murder weapons and into something cozy.” right, heels. torture devices.
but you don’t move. not right away. your eyes don’t meet his. and then you climb out of the car, slowly, shakily, the sound of your heels against the pavement almost too loud in the night.
he notices it then—the way your fingers fumble with your clutch, how your shoulders curl inward like you’re bracing for impact. your lip trembles. your eyes are bloodshot, glassy and wet. you're crying.
his heart skips so violently he thinks for a second it might’ve stopped altogether. “hey—hey, baby,” he murmurs, voice shifting into panic-soft, the way it only gets when you're sick or hurt. “what’s wrong? what happened? did someone—did I—?”
he takes a step toward you, and your breath catches.
your arms wrap around yourself. your chin drops to your chest. "I can’t do this,” you whisper, and it’s not dramatic, not a plea—it’s just...honest. defeated. tired.
gojo's entire world narrows to the space between you. the space that, for once, isn’t shrinking.
he doesn’t understand it yet—not fully—but the panic starts to rise. because his girl, his perfect girl, his one-in-a-billion miracle who never asks for anything, who has stood beside him through missions and injuries and political bullshit and nightmares—you’re crying. right here. dressed like a goddess and shaking like a leaf. and for the first time in a long time, he has no idea how to fix it.
……
you make it up the stairs in silence. gojo unlocks the door like muscle memory, eyes on you the whole time, one hand still ready to catch your elbow, your waist, anything. just in case. just in case you fall. just in case you run.
you don’t do either. you step inside, and the door clicks closed behind you. the red dress is suffocating now. your shoes pinch like punishment. the golden light of your apartment feels wrong—too bright, too cozy. like you’re tainting it just by existing here, dressed like this, breaking like this.
“I'm sorry,” you say suddenly, too fast, too quiet. satoru blinks. you won’t look at him. "I know I'm being dramatic. I just—I just can’t do it anymore. I'm so tired.”
he’s next to you in a second, hands gentle but firm as he guides you to sit on the edge of the bed. kneels in front of you, big hands on your knees, eyes frantic behind his sunglasses. “talk to me,” he says softly. “please. tell me what’s wrong, baby. tell me what I can do.”
you shake your head. “it’s not you,” you whisper. “it’s me. I mean—god, that sounds stupid. I just—I can’t keep doing these things. the events. the meetings. the fake smiling and fake laughing. I know they’re important to you. I know I'm supposed to be...whatever I am to you. a partner. a face. something pretty on your arm.”
he flinches at that. you don’t notice.
"I keep trying to be enough. I keep thinking, maybe if I wear the right dress, or say the right thing, or pretend I'm not awkward and shy and fucking uncomfortable in my own skin—maybe I'll feel like I deserve to be there. next to you. with you.”
his voice is soft, low, trembling. “you do deserve—”
"I don’t.” you don’t raise your voice. you don’t need to. the words come out like a knife’s edge. like a breath you’ve been holding for months. "I don’t,” you repeat, quieter now. “I'm not pretty enough. I'm not confident. I'm not exciting or charming or strong. I'm not anything.” not anything compared to you, but you aren’t quite brave enough for that yet. or maybe you are and you’re worried he’s the one that’s not brave enough.
satoru’s hands tighten on your knees. “that’s—baby, that’s ridiculous. you’re—” he laughs, like it’s absurd, like it’s a joke. “you’re gorgeous. you’re funny and smart and—”
“I'm not, satoru.” the sound of his name stops him cold. you only ever call him that when something’s wrong. "I know you love me,” you say. “and I love you so, so much. but I feel like I'm waiting for the moment when you wake up one day and realize what everyone else already knows. that I'm not good enough for you. that I never was. that you deserve someone...better. someone funnier, someone prettier. someone who can actually handle this world you live in. someone more like you.”
and that’s it. that’s the line. the one thing you never should’ve said. the thing he’s been waiting—terrified—to hear. because he’s always known you’d leave him. not because you’d stop loving him. no. because you’d stop loving yourself. because you’d look in the mirror and only see the ways you think you fall short, and you’d believe them. because he’s spent every damn day of your relationship thanking the stars you even looked at him twice—and now you’re here, thinking he’s the one who’s out of your league.
like your love isn’t the first real thing he’s ever had. like he doesn’t spend every waking moment terrified he’ll mess it up.
the silence is heavy. you don’t look up. you can’t. because if you do, if you see the look on his face—the hurt, the disbelief, the heartbreak—you’ll crumble.
and you can’t fall apart now. you’re already too far gone.
satoru says nothing. for once, he says nothing.
you don't know what to do with that. you brace yourself for an argument, a denial, a joke—something. but the silence wraps around you like a blanket just a little too heavy. it's not punishing. it’s not cold. it's aching. and when he moves—when he stands and reaches for your wrists—it’s slow and reverent.
you flinch, just slightly. you think he’s going to hug you. you brace for it. and you think—don’t. please don’t. because if he hugs you now, you’ll crumble. you’ll drown in it. in how good it feels. how wrong it feels. how unearned.
but he doesn't pull you in. he turns you around. guides you across the room with hands light on your back. and before you know it, you’re in the bathroom, sitting on the counter, legs swinging slightly, your red dress riding above your knees.
he’s still taller than you. even like this. and then—you freeze. because he starts taking out the pins in your hair. one by one. slow. delicate. like you’re made of spun glass. like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he pulls too hard.
it’s the most careful he’s ever been. you usually just claw them out with a groan, drag a comb through, and fall into bed. but satoru’s fingers are sure, gentle. reverent.
you don’t say anything. neither does he.
then come the makeup wipes—cool against your cheeks, your lips, your lashes. he doesn’t scrub. he doesn’t rush. he just erases—soft and patient and tender. the face you wore tonight, the mask you built so carefully, peeled away in layers. one wipe. then another. then another.
and still, he says nothing. but there's a tiny smile growing on his lips. not amused. not teasing. content. because the woman on this counter—bare-faced, heavy-limbed, emotionally wrecked—is his. and that alone is enough to undo him. he finishes the last swipe, tosses the wipe into the trash, and sets both hands on either side of your thighs on the counter. close. steadying himself. like if he doesn't hold onto something, he might spin off the earth.
"I don’t know how deep this thing runs,” he says finally. quiet. low. barely above a whisper. “and I won’t pretend I can fix it in a night.” you blink. swallow. nod. “but I need you to hear this. really hear me.” his voice is steady. soft, but unshaking. “maybe there is someone out there who looks better on paper. someone more suited to the job. someone who would’ve made sense in a perfect little sorcerer marriage. someone the higher-ups would’ve picked for me. but the second I met you—” he breathes out through his nose, like it still stuns him, “—the second I met you, that version of me—the one who ends up with someone else—died.”
you blink hard. he presses on.
“you’re not my arm candy. you’re not my accessory. you’re not here to make me look good or fit into some mold. if that’s what I was meant to have…god, I never would’ve subjected you to that, to the whole performance of it. I'm so sorry that you’ve been feeling like that this whole time.” you exhale. shaky. but the tears slow.
“and yeah, I'm loud. I'm obnoxious. I'm exhausting. I was told my whole life that I was too much, and I believed it—until I met you. you never once made me feel like I was too much. you just...let me be. let me love you.” you nod. tiny. barely.
“and now you’re the one who thinks you’re not enough, and I swear to you—on my life, on everything I am—you are. you are. maybe we’re both a mess, but if that’s true, then we’re the only kind of mess I want to be. you and me. no masks. no roles. just us.”
and finally, finally, your tears stop. you breathe in, and it lands. it sinks in like rain into dry soil. like something alive. something healing. you slide off the counter. unzip your dress, slow. you grab an oversized shirt from the drawer. toss it on. you pull out a pair of sweatpants and hand them to him without a word.
he changes, quietly, mirroring you. and then you both sit. on the bed. cross-legged. until you climb into his lap like it’s instinct. like your body knows where it belongs. your fingers trace the line of his jaw, his cheekbones, his lips. and you look at him like he is holy. like you’re not worthy—but you want to be. and gojo—satoru—melts.
he’s not the strongest sorcerer in the world. he’s not special. not here. not in this room. not with you looking at him like that. he’s just yours. yours. yours.
you breathe, trembling. “I'm sorry.” he opens his mouth. you keep going. “I'm so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I know that’s the thing you hate hearing. I know it’s what they’ve always told you. that you’re too much, too strong, too untouchable, and I used it against you, even if I didn’t mean to. I just—i didn’t mean to hurt you. I swear I didn’t. I love you so much I—”
“hey,” he whispers, hand sliding up your back. “hey.” you stop.
"I get it. I do.” his hand moves in slow circles. "I know what it’s like. to feel like you’re not enough. I know exactly what that voice in your head sounds like. I hear it every time I look in the mirror.” you press your forehead against his. he kisses the corner of your mouth. “maybe we’re not perfect,” he says. “but I know we’re enough. enough for ourselves, and enough for each other. and I've never asked you to be enough, I just want you to be with me. that is enough.”
you nod. you don’t trust your voice. you curl into him. let the rhythm of his breath soothe you. let his fingers write love letters into your spine. and then—through the snot and salt and stifled giggle—you whisper: “is this our first fight?”
satoru groans dramatically. "I hope not. if it is, we’re already terrible at it.” you snort. he grins. “but,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple, “it damn well better be our last.”
satoru is not stupid enough to think that this is solved, that he's perfectly put you back together and that you'll never feel another insecurity ever again. if you were at a point this low, in which you thought he was something to deserve, and even worse that you somehow didn't...that's not something that will be magically changed by a couple of compliments in one evening.
but that doesn't change the fact that he's trying, and that he'll continue to try. to make you see yourself in the way that you see him, in the way that he sees you. perfect, beautiful, everything all at once.
……
the next morning is…normal. which is to say, it’s perfect.
you wake up tangled in limbs, mouth dry, vision blurry, and feet sore. gojo’s hair is a catastrophe. your shirt is on backwards. neither of you cares. he kisses your nose and groans, “babe, I love you, but if you don’t get off my arm in the next ten seconds I will have to gnaw it off like a wild animal.”
you snort. “aren’t you into the wild animal thing?”
he grins like it’s the cleverest thing he’s ever heard, even though it’s so, so stupid and probably the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever said. “down, girl.”
it’s the same routine. brush teeth together, jostling elbows. you steal his shirt. he steals your breakfast. he fake-gasps like it’s a betrayal. you threaten his life. he says, “as long as it’s in your arms, baby.”
there's a little weight there, that wasn't yesterday morning. you both carry it on your shoulders, but at least you're not carrying it on your own anymore, satoru thinks. he's more than happy to carry it with you.
you drive together. park crookedly. link pinkies the whole walk into the school. take your usual spot on the bench by the vending machine. except now—it’s not just routine. it’s not autopilot. every moment feels intentional. you do everything together, but now you feel it.
every sip of shared coffee. every brush of fingers. every sideways glance in a too-long meeting. every dumb joke from yuuji that makes you laugh just a little too loud.
and speaking of which—yuuji stares at the two of you from across the courtyard as you sit on a bench, sharing a smoothie like that’s a completely normal thing for two fully grown adults to do. yuta, nobara, and megumi watch too, with something more akin to disgust.
yuta squints. tilts his head. “hey, do they ever fight?”
megumi sighs like he’s aged thirty years. “don’t ask.”
"I mean, they must fight. but they’re like, weirdly in sync about it. maybe they fight in their minds. like telepathically. like—maybe they’re fighting right now,” yuuji says animatedly.
nobara socks him in the ribs. “shut up, rom-com boy. some of us are trying to enjoy the one healthy relationship in this entire war-torn hellscape.”
yuuji wheezes. “oof. I'm just saying—they make fighting look like flirting.”
"that's because they probably are flirting, you dumbass. gojo finally got a girl and he's never gonna stop talking her up," megumi says, because he knows way too much about your relationship. gojo tells him much more than he'd ever like to hear.
gojo, across the yard, sticks his tongue out and flashes a peace sign without even turning around. you don’t even notice. just sip the smoothie again. business as usual.
gojo doesn’t show up to any major events with you for a while. he goes alone sometimes—just enough to keep the higher-ups off his back—but even then, he’s ghost-like. there. visible. but untouchable.
the public misses his usual flare. the loud suits. the outrageous jokes. the smug charm.
he saves all that for you, now. and then—one day—he brings you. you don’t dress up. you don’t pile on the makeup or style your hair into something that takes three rounds of heat damage and an exorcism to hold. you just throw on the linen sundress he always stares at a little too long. (it’s the one he once called “a religious experience.” you told him to shut up. he told you it was too late, he’d already ascended.)
your hair is down. soft. natural. windswept from the drive. you slapped on some makeup at 6:00 a.m. that morning and didn’t bother touching it up. and to him—you look like a dream. not the kind that fades when you wake up. the kind that follows you. that clings. that changes you.
you don’t talk to any of the council members. you don’t need to. you talk to him. you talk to the students. you let ino talk your ear off about his promotion, and you smile like you mean it—because you do. you’re proud of him. you’re present. you’re glowing.
and the council members do look your way. they glance, whisper, measure. but gojo doesn’t even let it start. one look from him—one icy flash of his eyes, a fraction of his power slipping out like a cold wind—and the room resets. no one says a word. you are not a weakness. you are not a mistake. you are not a prop on his arm. you are the axis his world spins around. you laugh at something he says—head tilted back, unguarded, radiant—and he thinks: I could give her the world. every inch of it. and still want to give her more. because you’re happy. you’re not grinning for the crowd, not posing for a photo. you’re happy. and that is more than enough.
finals week | fushiguro megumi, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, inumaki toge, kamo choso, nanami kento, sukuna ryomen, yuuji itadori
╰►college is hell, and finals week is the seventh circle. as much as you love your boyfriend, you can have absolutely no distractions, not when the biggest tests of your life loom over you like a raincloud full of dread and fear of failure. they don’t take to being ignored so well, and they take to you ignoring yourself even worse. 6.9k words
far left picture (teacup) by @nevroicastar on pinterest
a/n: can you tell that literally all I want in life is someone to be nice to me... :D anyways, this is pretty much pure fluff, reader is not taking care of herself, mentions of poor eating habits, lots of talk of academic validation, etc. so read at your own risk. as I got to the end of this, I realized that a lot of these are quite similar, so sorry about that, but when I have an idea I just kind of have to get it out, so here she is. kind of modern college au, but still within the sorcery realm???? I don’t know don’t ask. warnings: incredibly cheesy, me rambling about topics I do not understand at all (hello? theoretical geometry? didn't even know theoretical math existed?), and pure, unadultered comfort. enjoy <3
megumi knows what it’s like to seek academic validation like it’s oxygen. he wears his indifference like a badge—hood up, sleeves pushed to the elbows, bag slung low—but make no mistake: anything less than an a has him spiraling into a full-blown existential crisis. he may look composed, but internally he’s questioning his intelligence, his self-worth, the educational system, and the meaning of life in general.
so when you break down over a b- on a practice anatomy exam, he understands. doesn’t mean it doesn’t rip him apart. you never cry. never. but that night, your tears soaked into the fabric of his sweatshirt as you buried your face in his chest and whispered, “if this was the easier version, I'm dead. I'm so dead.” it wasn’t even going in the gradebook. didn’t matter. that grade haunted you.
the next morning, he wakes up alone. you beat him out of bed. that’s unheard of. he sends a text. then another.
“you at the library?” “eat something.”
no reply. eventually you respond, just not with anything he wants to hear.
“I'm gonna be really busy. maybe we should take a break until finals are over. you should hang out with yuuji.”
he scowls at the screen. as if yuuji hasn’t third-wheeled 70% of your dates. but megumi lets it go—for now. he assumes you’re just holed up in the library. he’s done the same thing. but it gets worse. you stop sleeping in his dorm, stop answering messages, stop functioning like a human being. you become a finals-week cryptid, subsisting on caffeine and sheer willpower. megumi would yell, if he didn’t know better. but he does know better. so he gets quiet. observant. subtle. he brings you real food. coaxes you into drinking water. slides his hoodie onto your shoulders when you’re shivering under the library ac. brushes your hair back with fingers that shake slightly when he realizes how tired you look. pulls the ramen cup away mid-bite and replaces it with something that didn’t come from a vending machine.
and when you cry over flashcards and whisper, “I don’t even know what a nephron does anymore,” he just starts quizzing you, reading aloud terms he can’t even pronounce correctly. he doesn’t know how you’re surviving this course. anatomy and physiology? it sounds like science hell. he hates it for you. but you don’t stop. not until finals week swallows you whole, trembling under the weight of your own expectations.
that’s when he draws the line.
your head is buried in your laptop at some godforsaken hour, eyes bloodshot and fingers twitching when—slam. he shuts your computer. “what—megumi! I was—”
toothbrush. sweatpants. his sweatshirt. he’s already dragging you to the bed, ignoring every protest as you weakly try to wiggle free. “I have to—”
“no, you don’t,” he says firmly. “you’re not studying. you’re sleeping.”
he scratches your scalp. presses featherlight kisses to the slope of your neck. hums something under his breath, steady and warm. eventually, your body gives out. you melt. and sleep like a corpse blessed by the gods. he watches you for a long while before finally letting himself rest beside you.
the next day, he waits outside the medicine building. the test is over. your scores won’t be posted for a few days. doesn’t matter. he just needs to see you. you step out, bleary-eyed and barely functioning, and he immediately pulls you into his arms. “you're never doing that to yourself again,” he mumbles into your hair.
you don’t even argue. you just nod and melt into him. and a few days later, the score is posted. you stare at your screen, stunned. an a. a solid, shining, hard-won a. and megumi just smirks like he knew it all along.
suguru graduated last spring. walked across the stage in slacks you'd picked out for him and a grin made of gold and ease. he didn’t look back. college wasn’t hard for him—it never had been. books opened for him like petals, and concepts bowed to his comprehension. it was never about the stress or the stakes. it was about the hours you'd spend curled beside him in the library, mumbling about amino acids or molecular orbitals while he stared at you like you were the sun.
back then, he'd ask you questions from flashcards, only to discard them halfway through and ask about your favorite color, your middle name, your childhood dog. he loved the way your face lit up when your brain found the answer to something hard, but he loved it even more when it lit up because of him. he wasn’t ashamed of that. he’s never been ashamed of how deeply he loves you.
but now…now, things are different. you're wrapped up in organic chemistry like it’s a vice grip. barely breathing, barely blinking. you’ve got every note and molecule memorized, and still you tell him, "it’s not enough." over and over, like a prayer, or a curse. you’ve been walking around like a ghost, and suguru sees it for what it is—devotion, desperation, and destruction all rolled into one. you say it’s just a test, but he knows it’s your everything.
and the worst part? he gets it. he gets what it’s like to build your identity on success. he just wishes you didn’t have to. because when you go missing for a whole day, when you don’t text him back or come home or answer his calls, he panics. he’s not dramatic—not usually—but you’re his, and suguru takes care of his things. so he finds you. of course he does.
you're in the back corner of the chem building, surrounded by papers and empty energy drink cans and what might be tears, though you’d never admit it. you look up when he walks in, and there’s a flash of guilt that crosses your face like lightning. it stings. “I'm so sorry, suguru,” you whisper. “but this is really, really important. I need you to leave me alone until I'm finished with this. I'm too tired and too stressed to worry about anything other than this test.”
that breaks something in him. because you’ve never made him feel like a burden. never once treated his presence like an interruption. and maybe he should’ve fought harder. maybe he should’ve scooped you up, carried you out of there like he wanted to, tucked you beneath his covers and kissed your forehead until the tension bled out of you.
but he’s selfish only sometimes, and never when it comes to your dreams.
so he lets you go. the test is four hours long. you emerge hollow-eyed, trembling, and murmuring something about how you probably failed. you don’t even cry. just breathe in, breathe out, and fall into bed without so much as a kiss. and when the grade is posted the next morning, a clean, perfect a, you don’t celebrate. don’t smile. don’t even tell him. he’s the one who finds out first. you just so relieved that it's finally over, half of you doesn't even care how you did.
he pulls you into his lap before you can protest and presses a hand to your chest like he’s checking if your heart still beats. it does, but he wants more than that. he wants you back. all of you.
so he makes suggestions. strong ones. "take a semester off," he murmurs against your temple. "or transfer. or move in with me. or all three. I'll take care of you. you don’t have to do this to yourself. you don’t have to prove anything to anyone. not when I already know how brilliant you are." you nod like you’re not hearing him, but he’s patient. he’ll wait. he’ll wait until you believe it too.
he jokes—often, obnoxiously—that he’s always known you were too good for him. that you were the prodigy and he was the pretty face. that your acceptance into medical school was the universe playing fair, because how else could the world possibly balance your brain and his everything else? but even with all that noise, gojo satoru is terrified of the way this test has eaten you alive.
the usmle. the reaper in standardized exam form. every time he sees you, you’re either furiously annotating a textbook or passed out cold in someone’s office chair with flashcards stuck to your cheek.
he tries everything at first. plays the doting, lovable nuisance role to perfection—stealing your laptop charger, faking existential crises that can only be soothed by forehead kisses, crawling into your lap and pretending to cry (“I need affection, babe, it’s for my health, come onnn—”). and you smile. you do. but you don’t stop. you never stop. and eventually even he has to let you go into that studying-induced blackout tunnel, even if it kills him not to be able to pull you out of it.
still, he never leaves. when your weekly date nights disappear, he sends you dumb memes and voice notes that say things like “this is what it sounds like when I cry without you here.” when you sleep in the library, he sneaks snacks into your backpack and slips hand warmers into your hoodie pockets. he’s not even sure you notice. but he does it anyway. because loving you isn’t something he tries to do. it’s something that just is. like gravity.
the morning of the test, you’re shaking. eyes glassy, coffee untouched. it’s still dark out, and he hates how exhausted you look. you sit in the passenger seat of his car like you’ve been awake for a thousand years. he doesn’t try to make a joke. just…reaches over and tucks your hair behind your ear, thumb brushing your cheekbone.
“you’re not scared I'll be disappointed in you, right?” you shake your head, barely. but the thing is, he knows you. knows how your brain works. how you work. he can’t stop your nerves—he wouldn’t dream of trying. but he can hold them with you. sit there in the thick of it, still and steady and here. because that’s what you need. and when you finally leave to go take the test, gojo satoru doesn’t move. just waits. hours tick by. he plays stupid games on his phone. he thinks about the first time he saw you cry—finals week, sophomore year, when you were convinced you’d bombed a lab report—and how this feels exactly like that, only ten times worse. but then…you come back. and the world exhales.
you’re pale. wrecked. like you’ve just survived a war. you climb into the passenger seat like someone dropped you from space, and satoru immediately swaddles you in the blanket he brought from your dorm.
“I brought gummy bears, sliced veggies, and a literal gallon of water,” he says. “and I have an entire playlist dedicated to ‘songs that say I'm so proud of you I could cry.’” you laugh. just a little. but he hears it. “think you passed?” he asks.
“I think I survived.”
“close enough.” he drives you home like you’re royalty. like the day’s been his test too, and this—getting you back—is his only passing grade.
later, when you’re fed and clean and warm in bed, buried in layers of blankets and wearing his t-shirt, he lays beside you and grins like a fool.
“so,” he says, “how’s it going, dr. gojo?”
you raise a brow. “excuse me?”
“I just figured, if you’re gonna be a doctor, we should share the last name. has a nice ring to it. we’ll both be hot and dangerous. power couple energy.”
“oh, I'm taking your last name?”
“obviously. babe, have you met me?”
you roll your eyes—but there’s color back in your cheeks now. a glow. that fire he fell in love with. and he grins, victorious.
because you’re back. you’re his again. and no matter what happens next—residency, stress, long nights and endless hours—satoru’s ready. he’ll carry the whole weight of the world if it means you never have to go through that kind of thing alone.
takuma is a man of simple truths: ramen tastes better after midnight, bleach is not the same thing as laundry detergent, and you—god, you—are the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
you're a prodigy. he says that like it’s a title, not just a fact. you graduated high school at fifteen, cruised through undergrad before most of your friends even started, and now you’re gunning for a ph.d. because what else would someone like you do? you’re brilliant, born for academia. he fell for you like gravity, no question, no hesitation.
and he’s not dumb—not really—but school was never his thing. he coasted through high school on vibes and charm, then lucked into an internship with some big-deal suit named nanami. it was supposed to be temporary, but ino had that golden retriever work ethic, the kind where people give you more responsibility just because you say “sure thing!” with enough enthusiasm. it works for him. it always has.
but when it comes to you, that easygoing confidence starts to fray. because you're drowning. and he doesn’t know how to save you. your advisor says jump, and you ask how high in four languages. volunteer work, tutoring, research, a part-time job, and now the gre is looming like a thundercloud over your future. you study until your voice is hoarse from reciting terms, until your notes are smudged with highlighter ink and tears.
you rope ino into helping, and of course he says yes. he’s happy to. he makes flashcards with cartoon doodles on the back, quizzes you on vocab while you’re brushing your teeth, lets you explain abstract statistical theory to him until you both fall asleep on the couch. you look exhausted, but you smile when he calls you professor, and that’s enough. until it isn’t. until the smiles fade. until he’s helping you study alone. until you stop asking. until he’s waiting at home for a version of you who never seems to arrive.
he wants to fix it, to fix you, but he doesn’t know how to fight a battle that’s inside your own head. so he does what he can. brings you snacks at work, texts you affirmations, makes dinner even though he’s bad at it, and watches your exhaustion turn to something scarily mechanical. you stop complaining. you stop talking. you stop looking him in the eye when you leave in the morning.
then test day comes. and he's so proud. not of this behavior, of course, but of you, despite it all. he makes you breakfast, walks you to the testing center even though it's freezing, kisses your forehead and tells you you're already the smartest person in the building. when you walk away, his chest hurts with how badly he wants this to go well. it does. kind of.
you take the gre and survive it—but there’s no relief. no celebration. no breath of freedom after months of suffocating. you just...keep going. more work shifts. more hours. more silence. and ino, patient as he is, can only hold back his worry for so long.
it’s late when he says it. you’re curled into him, back to his chest, your favorite blanket tucked around both of you. he’s got one arm around your waist, the other buried in your hair, his cheek pressed to the back of your neck. “hey,” he murmurs, soft and real. “you ever think about slowing down?” silence. so long, he thinks maybe you fell asleep.
but then—“I'm just...so tired of trying to—to….” you whisper. “I just want to be good enough.” his heart cracks open.
“sweetheart,” he breathes, and holds you tighter, “you’re already more than good enough. you’re incredible. I picked you, remember? and I'm the smartest guy I know.” that gets a breath of a laugh. barely, mostly because you know that there was never choice, never other options. takuma was gone for you the minute he met you. if anything, you picked him and he will never be able to fully articulate his gratitude.
“I mean it,” he says, fingers stroking your hip. “you don’t need to break yourself to prove anything to anyone. not to them, and definitely not to me.” that night, something shifts. he starts small. no, you can’t pick up that extra shift. no, you won’t be checking your email at midnight. yes, he is bringing you lunch and walking you home, and no, he doesn’t care if you think it’s “too much.” and slowly, the girl who once thought success meant saying yes to everything starts learning how to say no.
ino’s proud of you. he always has been. but now? now he’s proud for you. because you’re still brilliant, still ambitious—but you’re happy, too. and that's the version of you he always wanted to love.
your love is loud.
not the annoying kind of loud—though inumaki’s friends might argue that point—but the good kind. the kind that fills every quiet space. that buzzes with laughter and slams cabinet doors and yells from the shower, “do you think pluto misses being a planet?” while he's brushing his teeth. you are his voice. and you never mind being it.
you speak when professors ask dumb, intrusive questions about his muteness. you say no when he can’t afford to risk saying it himself. you make it known—loud and clear, unmistakable—that you love him. that he is enough. that he is yours.
and he doesn’t need a thousand words to love you back. he just looks at you like you hung the stars yourself. he kisses you like a prayer. he taps his fingers three times against your wrist—i love you in the language only you and he share. it’s perfect. you’re perfect. until the exams start looming.
at first, it’s small. a missed meme here, a shorter phone call there. you’re still talking, still laughing, but it’s... less. and then it gets quieter. you stop yelling from the bathroom. you stop planning your little dates. you stop talking altogether on some days—just kiss his cheek, tired-eyed, and disappear into your books.
it’s horrifying. like watching the sun flicker out.
he doesn’t doubt your love. you’d never let him. you’d carved it into the walls of his world with every grin, every “you’re mine, forever, deal with it,” every hand squeezed under the table during group dates. but he misses you. the you who would sing off-key in the car. the you who once narrated his entire grocery list in the voice of an australian accent. so he fights back. quietly. carefully. tactically.
he starts leaving you little notes:
"you’re the smartest person I know."
"your brain is hot. that’s unfair"
"I love you more than rice balls."
(and in tiny scribbles) "don’t tell salmon."
they’re everywhere. in your shoes. on your toothpaste. tucked between pages of your study guides like secret spells.
he learns how to cook, too—little meals, nothing fancy, but made with so much love it might as well be michelin-starred. he pouts dramatically when you hesitate to eat, eyes big, mouth drawn down, holding the plate like a peace offering. and you fold, always. because how can you not? not when he made it for you.
and then the test comes. that stupid fucking test that stole you from him. you ace it. of course you do. you walk out of the testing center a little dazed, a little pale, and into his arms, and he scoops you up like the national treasure you are. doesn’t say a word. just holds you. then he takes you home.
he feeds you. literally spoon-feeds you soup he made himself. he showers you, kissing waterdrops off your cheeks, washing your hair with reverence like you’re something holy. he lays you down in bed and kisses your forehead, your knuckles, your stomach, your spine. worships you without ever saying a word. and bit by bit, your spark returns. you tease him again. you dance while brushing your teeth. but here’s the thing: now he watches for the signs. watches closely. a little too closely, maybe—but he’s not letting that darkness steal you again.
so when he sees you looking so tired again? he tugs your sleeve and hands you a note: no fading. I need your noise. and you read it, smile, and say, “you’ll never get rid of me that easy.” thank god.
choso is not a school guy. never has been, never will be. he goes because he has to, because society demands it and his scholarship requires it. but it’s never going to be his thing. he floats through most of his classes like a ghost—half-there, earbuds in, hoodie pulled over his head. a b+ on a paper is a win in his book, even if the professor writes "needs revision" all over it. who cares. life’s short. he’d rather be sleeping.
you, on the other hand, care. you care so much. about everything. you’re his high-strung, teeth-gritting, color-coded, always-scheduling, never-late girlfriend. and god, does he adore it.
he loves how strict you are. loves how you wake up at 6:00am every day without fail. loves the way you brush your teeth for exactly two minutes, three times a day. loves that you have a salad every tuesday and the exact same pasta order every thursday. you’re sharp edges and ticking clocks and perfect routines, and he—chaos incarnate—thrives under your rule. you keep him functioning. you’re the reason he knows when to register for classes, the reason he turns in assignments on time, the reason he eats meals that didn’t come from a vending machine.
you're the reason he's even passing. but that stupid, stupid theoretical geometry class…it drives you nuts. not slowly. not like a spiral, like most things. no—this class is like a wrecking ball to your entire system. you hate it. you say it constantly. “it’s not even real math,” you groan. “it’s just concepts. I can’t work with concepts. I need problems. I need solutions.”
at first, choso thinks it’s kinda cute. your little rants. the way you scowl at the textbook like it personally offended you. he tries to encourage you with little pats on the back, forehead kisses, sitting on the floor next to your desk with his laptop so you’ll stay focused while he scrolls through reddit and tells you about cursed fan theories. but then, the changes start.
you stop brushing your teeth three times a day. you forget to make lunch on tuesdays. your planner—your beautiful little planner that he once saw you cry over when you accidentally spilled coffee on it—starts collecting dust. you cancel date night. you forget date night existed. you study through dinner, through sleep, through entire days, and suddenly, choso’s the one asking you when your assignments are due. you are unraveling. and choso is helpless.
he tries to support you. follows you to study sessions like a sleepy, loyal puppy, clutching your coffee order and not understanding a single damn word of what you’re talking about. he doesn't get theoretical math. he barely gets regular math. but he tries. he watches youtube videos meant for third graders. he makes flashcards—incorrect ones, half the time—but he hands them to you with such innocent hope in his eyes that you pretend they’re helpful just to kiss him on the cheek.
he never once asks you to stop. never once says, “you’re scaring me,” or “you’re making yourself sick.” but he wants to. so badly. you’re not sleeping. you’re thinner. you smell like stress and highlighters. you apologize all the time, say you miss him, say you’ll fix it soon. but nothing fixes.
so he adapts. he picks up your slack. makes you breakfast, even if it’s just a granola bar and a post-it that says "please eat. you’re gonna ace it. also I miss you :/." does your laundry and folds it wrong and puts your shirts in the wrong drawer but he tries. he doesn’t even complain when you forget to text him back for a day and a half. he just sends a message like, “love you. proud of you. text me when you remember I exist!!” it sounds so needy and passive aggressive, but it’s not, it’s just choso, who so genuinely wants you to remember that you’re not alone.
it breaks his heart when you reply, “I always remember. I just hate myself for not being better.” he refuses to let you carry that weight.
so when you cry the night before the exam, whispering, “what if I fail? what if I'm just not smart enough?” he kisses your temples and says, “then we drop out and open a donut shop. we’ll sell those cinnamon ones you like. you’ll do the math. I'll man the fryer.” you pass with flying colors. because of course you do. you’re brilliant and capable and too hard on yourself.
and the moment you do, choso sits you down and says, as gently and lovingly as a man with no boundaries or math comprehension can, “never again.” he means it. no more sacrificing your joy for a grade. no more skipping meals for numbers. no more breaking the routines that make you feel safe, secure, you. and you agree. you apologize again, of course you do, but he cuts it off with a kiss. he doesn’t want apologies. he wants his girl back.
you vow to never take another theoretical math class again—would rather switch majors, hell, switch schools. and choso vows to guard your schedule, your wellbeing, your sanity with the same devotion you once used to guard his grades.
because sure, he doesn’t care much about school. but he cares about you. and you? you’re the only constant he never wants to theorize. you’re the equation he solved the moment he met you. and he’s never letting you fall out of balance again.
at first, you wouldn’t let him help. you couldn’t. not because you didn’t need it—you did. badly. but need was dangerous. need led to reliance, and reliance led to disappointment, and you’ve never known anything but disappointment in the end. so you met every one of nanami’s gentle offerings with a hiss, a cold shoulder, a stiff spine and a scoff. you didn’t want kindness. you didn’t trust it. and yet—he stayed.
with his quiet voice and his tired eyes and his soft cashmere sweaters. with his thoughtful meals and perfectly timed cups of tea. with his ability to sit in silence and not make it feel like you were doing something wrong. nanami showed up for you over and over again, until you stopped flinching at the idea of someone showing up at all.
he’s older. settled. solid in a way that feels unreal to you. while you burn the candle at both ends and run yourself into the ground over essays and projects and unrelenting deadlines, nanami clocks out at 5:00, makes dinner at 6:00, and asks you if you’d like to come over for dessert like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
at first, you declined. then you said maybe. and then one night, you cried on his kitchen floor over a c in a class you hated, and he held you like it didn’t ruin his shirt or his night or his impression of you because, in all honesty, it only ruined his shirt; nothing more.
you started staying over. not all the time. not enough to leave your toothbrush next to his. not enough to cancel the lease on your overpriced apartment you barely use. you’re still scared. still stubborn. but god, does he make it hard to stay guarded. nanami treats you like you’re the most delicate thing he’s ever loved. not fragile—just precious. important. he has rules, quiet ones, and most of them are about you.
you don’t skip meals.
you don’t stay up past 1:00am.
you don’t berate yourself over an 89.7 instead of a 90.
sometimes you listen. sometimes you argue. sometimes he finds you passed out on your laptop at 3:00am, and you feel his disappointment like a knife, but he never scolds you. never raises his voice. he just picks you up, tucks you in, presses a kiss to your temple and says something like, “you don’t have to do this alone.” and you don’t. that’s the worst part. you don’t. you have him. but sometimes your brain forgets that. especially this semester. this hellish, soul-draining, motivation-murdering semester that chewed you up and spit you back out into another one before you even caught your breath. nanami watches it happen in real time. watches you stop coming over. stop answering calls. stop eating the banana bread he baked with you in mind.
you’re not resting. you’re not sleeping. you’re not you. it scares him. not that he’d ever say it aloud. but it kills something in him every time you say, “I'm fine,” and he knows you’re lying. it’s like you’ve forgotten everything he taught you. so, he tries again. he doesn’t lecture. he never begs. but he texts.
“are you eating today?”
“my place is quiet. come nap.”
“I miss you. you don’t have to talk. just be here.”
and finally, finally, finals end. and he takes you. scoops your burnt-out, hollow-eyed body from the wreckage and makes it his personal mission to bring you back to life. you sleep for almost a full day the first night at his place. when you wake up, he’s sitting in the armchair across from the couch, reading, glasses low on his nose. he just says, “welcome back,” and doesn’t comment on the dried tears on your cheeks.
every day of break, he softens you. with warm breakfasts and long baths and small, safe silences. with his hand on the small of your back and the quiet strength in his presence that says I've got you. eventually, it happens. the breakdown you’ve been avoiding for weeks. it’s late. you’re curled into his side, finally eating real food again, finally existing again, and you whisper, "I'm sorry. I shut you out. I didn’t mean to. I just...I don’t know how not to. I thought I was better, I—"
he doesn’t let you finish. just pulls you close and says, “you are better. you’re just tired. and I'm here.” you cry. you hate that you cry. but he doesn’t. he’s kissing your forehead, brushing your hair behind your ear, murmuring, “you’ve never hurt me. I only hurt when you’re hurting.” and that’s the moment you remember why you let him in at all. because he’s steady. because he’s not scared of your sharp edges. because where others left, nanami stayed. and when he suggests you take fewer credits next semester, your gut reaction is guilt, shame, refusal.
but he just raises an eyebrow and says, “you’ll still graduate in time. and even if you don't—I'm not going anywhere.” you believe him. for once in your life, you believe someone. so you drop the extra class. you leave a toothbrush at his place. you take a deep breath for the first time in months. and nanami—your warm, unwavering constant—watches you come back to yourself, bit by bit, every day. and he doesn’t say it out loud, but he thinks it every time he looks at you: no one can love you like I do. and that is the most beautiful thing I've ever had the privilege of.
sukuna doesn’t do the boyfriend thing. not really. he’s hot, he’s untouchable, he’s slept with half the campus and ghosted the other half. he’s not the kind of guy who remembers anniversaries or asks how your day went or makes soup when you’re sick. or at least—he wasn’t. until you. you, who never asked him to be anything other than what he already was. you, who looked him in the eye, rough edges and all, and said “I don’t need to fix you.” you meant it. you still mean it. but he changed anyway. because disappointing you? hurting you? even by accident? that’s the one thing he can’t stomach. not now. not when he’s ruined so many things and somehow still got lucky enough to have you.
so when you start falling apart, he notices. it starts with a couple of weirdly average grades—an 85% on a midterm you were supposed to crush, a 7/10 on a quiz you studied hours for. you brush it off, but he sees the way it eats at you, worms its way into your confidence. you start staying up late, later, all night sometimes. your routine crumbles. you’re skipping meals. walking home alone in the dark. crawling into his bed after midnight and thinking he doesn’t notice. he notices.
and at first? yeah, he thinks it’s cute. in a stupid, masochistic way. you care so much. for what? a grade? a professor’s approval? you're a writer—an incredible one. he’s read your stories, soaked in your words, memorized whole passages of shit you’ve barely shared with anyone else. you don’t need a degree to prove you’re brilliant. you already are. but then it stops being cute. then it starts hurting. because now you’re not just tired. you’re hollow. you’re not just busy. you’re gone. and he can’t fucking stand that.
so he inserts himself. shamelessly. aggressively. shows up to the library with your favorite takeout. forces you to eat. pulls you out of your chair and into his lap like it’s his god-given right. covers your mouth with his hand when you protest, glaring at you through crimson eyes as he mutters, “you’re done for the night.”
and when you whine, “I'm not even close to being finished, kuna,” he just kisses the top of your head and doesn’t give a shit. “flunk out,” he says into your hair. “drop out. who cares? I'll handle everything.” he means it. every single word. if you never worked again, if you never lifted a finger again, he wouldn’t mind. in fact, he might prefer it. because sukuna has never believed in much—not school, not rules, not people—but he believes in you. always has. so he tightens his grip around your schedule. limits your study hours. makes you sleep. crushes you against his chest each night so you can’t wiggle away. when your friends text, “come study with us!” he replies for you: “she’s busy. fuck off.”
and it helps. a little. he keeps you from slipping too far. but even with his arms around you, you're still unraveling, whispering, “I don’t think I can do this,” like it’s some shameful confession. then the test comes. and you pass. not just pass—you crush it. top of the curve. feedback glowing. you’re shaking when you tell him. laughing in disbelief, wide-eyed and breathless, “I don’t know how it happened, it’s a miracle, I don’t—kuna, I thought I was going to fail—”
and sukuna, mr. I-don’t-give-a-shit-about-grades, who’s said a hundred times he doesn’t care if you pass or fail or burn the whole damn school down—he cares.
because that smile? the one on your face now, bright and radiant and real? that smile is what he does this all for. that smile is the closest thing to heaven a man like him will ever get. so he just shrugs and pulls you into his lap again, buries his face in your shoulder. “miracle my ass,” he grumbles. “you’re just a fucking genius.”
yuuji isn’t the best at school, but that doesn’t make him stupid—he’s sharp in all the ways that matter, intuitive, emotionally intelligent, loyal to a fault. still, academics were never where he shone brightest, and he knows that, accepts it with a shrug and a grin and a “hey, at least I'm trying.” and he is trying. not for some future career, not because he cares about grades or accolades, but because he wants to be good at something the way you’re good at everything. because when he looks at you—so graceful under pressure, so sharp and composed and somehow still soft with everyone around you—he wants to measure up. he wants to keep pace, even if he stumbles more than he’d like. even if half the time he’s just hanging on by the skin of his teeth.
you’ve always been kind to him about it. never made him feel slow, or behind, or less. you’re good like that—gracious in ways that disarm people, a born favorite, beloved without even trying. professors pull you aside to thank you for participating in class discussions. classmates email you asking for help. you’ve got this gentle gravity to you, this rare balance of competence and compassion, and it makes people trust you instantly. yuuji most of all.
but this semester, something shifted. you cut back on your work hours after landing an academic scholarship—because of course you did, you're brilliant—and decided, for reasons he still doesn’t entirely understand, to nearly double your course load. “I just wanna graduate a little faster, yu,” you said with that breezy smile, brushing it off like it was nothing, like your daily planner wasn’t already choked with color-coded breakdowns and your tote bag wasn’t already sagging with books and half-empty energy drinks. and at first, he believed you, because you’ve never lied to him before. you’re honest, almost to a fault. but it didn’t take long before that soft shell of composure started to crack.
you started sleeping less, studying more. the calls you used to answer right away now go to voicemail. the “good morning” texts he used to get by 7:30 are coming in hours late, if at all. you haven’t been to his apartment in over a week. and sure, you’re still managing—somehow you’re still getting the work done—but you’re so tired, and it’s not the kind of tired sleep can fix. he can see it in the way your voice shakes when you ask for an extension, even though the professor gives it without question. he hears it in the pause before you say “I'm okay,” like you’re trying to convince yourself. and it kills him. because you’re the strong one. the one who holds everything together. if you’re falling apart, then what hope does he have?
but here’s the thing—yuuji's tired, too. no one really notices, because he doesn’t complain. because he doesn’t let himself slow down. because his instinct, always, is to carry the weight alone if it means someone else gets to breathe a little easier. but he’s burning out right alongside you, pulling back-to-back all-nighters and forgetting to eat, pretending he’s fine because you need him to be. that’s who he is. that’s who he’s always been.
and when finals week finally ends—when the tests are done and the caffeine shakes wear off and the dark circles under both your eyes start to fade—he decides, without hesitation, that it’s over. no arguments. no compromises. you’re taking the summer off. you’re going to gojo’s beach house with megumi and the rest of the crew. you’re going to sleep until noon and eat things that don’t come in plastic wrap and learn what it means to do nothing again. and he is not letting you back into a course load that chews you up and spits you out just so you can cross the stage a semester earlier.
he doesn’t say it angrily. he says it quietly. like a vow. like a promise. because if anyone deserves to rest, it’s you. and if anyone’s going to make sure you actually do it, it’s him.
“you’re not weak for being tired,” he says one night, the two of you curled up on his bed, your body half-draped over his, your limbs heavy like you’re finally allowing yourself to feel just how exhausted you really are. “you work harder than anyone I know. and I know a lot of people who punch curses for a living.”
you huff a tired laugh against his chest, but it sounds more like a sigh. your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.
“I just…I thought if I could do it all now, if I could push through a little more, I could get to the good part faster. you know? the part where I've made it.”
he runs his hand over your back, gentle, rhythmic. “babe, you already made it. you're already everything. the rest is just paperwork and deadlines and weirdly specific formatting rules.”
you don’t respond for a long moment, and he can feel your breathing shift, feel the guilt brewing behind your silence, the way you stiffen just slightly like maybe you're trying not to cry. so he keeps going, softer now, slower.
“and hey,” he murmurs, tipping your chin up so you’ll look at him, “just because I couldn't fix this doesn’t mean I don’t see how hard it’s been. you don’t have to pretend for me, okay? I know it hurts. I know you’ve been running on empty. you don’t have to carry that alone.”
“but you’ve been tired too,” you whisper, your voice cracking under the weight of your own concern. “I haven’t even been there for you—”
“yes, you have,” he says, without letting you finish. “you always are. even when you think you’re not.”
he kisses your forehead then, like he’s sealing in every word. and it isn’t grand. it isn’t dramatic. but it’s real. it’s soft. it’s everything he’s been holding onto and everything he wants to give you now—space to fall apart, and space to rest, and the kind of love that doesn’t ask for anything back but lets you collapse into it anyway.
“you and me, okay?” he says into the silence. “all summer. rest, movies, megumi absolutely tearing gojo to shreds, eating until we feel sick. we deserve that. you deserve that.”
and this time, you believe him. not because you’re magically okay. not because the burnout vanishes. but because yuuji’s holding it with you, both hands open, no expectations, no shame—just love.
morning routine | fushiguro megumi, fushiguro toji, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, kamo choso, nanami kento, yuuji itadori
╰►he is obsessed with watching you get ready; whether you’re an all-over-the-place mess, or painstakingly meticulous, he loves the little things 6.1k words
a/n: reader is kind of all over the place in this one, so it might not be applicable to all self-inserts mb. warnings: cussing, eating habits (but not in a negative way)...I think that's it. I love a man that's painfully obsessed with every single, minute thing his girlfriend does, and so.......here we are. enjoy <3
it takes nearly a year of dating before you sleep over at megumi’s. not because he doesn’t want you there—he does. in the quiet, desperate way he wants everything good. but his dorm is…sterile. spartan. the bed is always made, the floor always clean, his desk meticulously organized down to the direction his pens face. it’s not for show. he lives like this. he needs it like this.
your dorm, in comparison, feels like another planet. the walls are bursting with you—posters slightly peeling at the corners, handwritten notes pinned beside polaroids, a stack of annotated books threatening to topple. there’s a mug of tea gone cold on the windowsill, a cd player mid-skip, a sweater that might be his draped over the back of your desk chair. the chaos of it all unsettles him. the comfort of it? that’s what undoes him completely.
he never says so, but after the first time he sees your space—really sees it—he stops inviting you to his. keeps you on the couch in the lounge, sitting on yuji’s desk while they argue about which movie is worse (spoiler alert: they’re both terrible), curled under a throw blanket on a bench on the campus grounds…you don’t question it. you’re used to the way megumi loves: quiet and reluctant, like a secret too sacred to say out loud. he comes to your room regularly, choosing to sleep there more often than his own bed. the mess of it doesn't overwhelm him like he thought it might; if anything, it's comforting, just like your presence.
after a mission that shakes the ground beneath his feet, he slips into your bed. no words, no warning—just his body curling into yours like he’s homesick for something he can’t name. and you, still half-asleep, burrow into him like instinct. you never ask questions. you just hold him. it’s in those mornings after that megumi sees the version of you no one else does.
you're dignified by default. stoic, composed, always two steps ahead of your emotions. you keep your feelings buttoned down and folded neatly behind your eyes. but when the alarm shrieks at 6:00 am, all of that unravels.
you groan like you're being punished. a truly inhuman sound leaves your throat as you roll over and claw at the covers like a toddler protesting bedtime—but in reverse. “five more minutes,” you whine, wrapping yourself around him like a particularly needy sea creature. megumi’s already been awake for ten minutes. he’s well-rested. too well-rested. you smell like his shampoo. there’s a red line on your cheek from where you were pressed against his shoulder. he’s going insane, and you’re snoring.
when he finally peels you off him, you stumble around like you’ve never lived in your own body before. you trip over your desk chair. pull a t-shirt over your head and then realize you forgot deodorant. there’s a toothbrush hanging out of your mouth while you hop into your pants. your socks don’t match. you glare at your reflection like your own hair is personally attacking you. megumi just stands by your door, bag slung over his shoulder, watching like you’re performing high art. you are, in your own way.
you don't even notice how he stares. how his eyes track your every move, memorizing your rituals like prayers. how his lips twitch into the faintest smile when you attempt multitasking and nearly knock over your entire bookshelf. if you have time, your makeup is minimal—nothing more than a subtle enhancement. if you don’t, you mumble something about “au naturel” and try to tame your thick eyebrows with your fingers. he’s never once thought you looked anything but beautiful.
breakfast is always a surprise. sometimes a banana and a granola bar, sometimes a bagel that you throw in the toaster and forget about. sometimes just coffee—until he narrows his eyes at you, all judgment and concern, and you begrudgingly accept the yogurt he hands you. he pretends it’s not a big deal, and you pretend you’re not soft for it, and that’s the thing: he knows you. knows how you make lists in your head as you brush your teeth. knows how you always triple-check your bag before you leave, even though you’ve packed it the same way for years. knows that you’re meticulous in the field, a force in combat, and somehow still a barely-functional goblin in the mornings.
because in those chaotic, half-conscious mornings, he sees the parts of you that don’t belong to the world. the parts that are only his. and though you’ll never say it outright, when you sleep in his shirts and mouth “love you” into the hollow of his throat at midnight, megumi lets himself imagine what a life with you could look like. what it will look like, if he’s lucky enough. he’s always been quiet. always tried to need nothing, but he can no longer deny that he needs this, needs you.
toji never meant to fall in love with you. he thought you'd just be a good partner. reliable. sharp. someone who wouldn’t die and wouldn’t let him die either. that was it. simple. clean. professional.
but then, you were laughing at something during a stakeout—low and breathy, half-annoyed, half-amused—and he looked at you too long. just a second too long. and everything shifted.
now you’re drooling on his pillow, hogging his blankets, tangling your legs with his in the middle of the night like you’ve always belonged there. like you own the place. (you do.) he wakes up before you sometimes. not always. sometimes he’ll sleep like the dead until you’re jabbing him in the ribs, sure he’s stopped breathing, well into the afternoon. but most mornings, especially when you have to leave and he doesn’t, toji’s eyes crack open just as the sky’s starting to blue.
he doesn’t say anything. just turns his head and looks at you. you’re all soft angles and slow breaths in the morning. face slack, hair a mess, limbs heavy with sleep. a far cry from the weapon you become once the day gets going. he used to think you were always on. always alert. calculated. it made him crazy, how good you were. unflinching. cold. but mornings peeled that mask right off you.
now he knows the truth: you are an absolute mess before sunrise. you roll out of bed like your bones don’t work. trudge to the bathroom half-blind, dragging your blanket with you like a child. you brush your teeth while he’s peeing and don’t even blink. he used to flinch at that kind of intimacy. used to brace for awkwardness. now? he just spits into the sink next to you and hands you a cup to rinse.
you're freezing, always, even in the summer. you steal his hoodie like you paid for it. tug it over your head with a sleepy grunt and shuffle around the apartment like a raccoon in sweats. and if he’s anywhere in the vicinity, you’re sliding your ice cube hands under his shirt without warning. he used to curse you out for that. the first few times, it pissed him off, but now? he waits for it. he wants it. it’s like a ritual. your sleepy little ambush, his warm back, your sigh of relief when his skin starts to thaw your fingers.
you don’t talk much. he likes that. if you say anything at all, it’s in a voice octaves lower than usual, cracked and rough and all kinds of sexy. a lazy, “you wan’ coffee? or jus’ water?” as you fumble with the kettle. toji doesn’t even really care, but he says yes to both just to hear you say something again.
you're utilitarian to your bones. cotton underwear, black cargos, tight long-sleeves. hair up and out of your face, braided or slicked back, always ready for a fight. you don’t like perfume, but you’re militant about deodorant. you’ve got a whole rant ready about it, and toji’s heard it at least fifteen times.
when you finally start getting serious—knife tucked into your boot, water bottle clipped to your bag, watch set five minutes fast—he’s already packed you breakfast. sometimes it’s leftovers. sometimes it’s a protein bar and an apple. sometimes it’s a whole sandwich because he knows you’ll skip lunch if things get dicey. that’s the thing about being toji’s girl: you’re never leaving the house unfed.
you grumble when he walks you to the door, squinting at the rising sun like it personally offended you. shiu’s already out front, tapping his watch like a smug little bastard.
you roll your eyes. toji does too. “dickhead,” he mutters. you smirk. and then, always, always, he says it: “call me if you need anything.” you nod. “I mean it. help, food, ride, someone’s face punched in—call me.”
“I know,” you say. and you do.
you’re awake now—eyes sharp, movements clean, shoulders squared. the mask is back on. the girl who never misses a shot. who never runs late. who never lets anyone see her bleed. he loves her, too. but he especially loves the version of you who drools on his pillow and talks to him with your morning breath. who shuffles into the bathroom for a handful of seconds, forgetting what you even needed in there, who steals his clothes and stabs him in the kidneys with her toes under the covers. he never meant to fall in love with you. but he did. hard. and for once in his life, he’s not sorry about it.
suguru looks at you like you hung the moon with your bare hands. like the mere fact of your existence is a miracle that he’s unworthy of witnessing—but still gets to wake up to every single day. his love isn’t loud. it’s not brash or performative. no, it’s reverent. like worship. like prayer. like the kind of thing you kneel for. but don’t mistake quiet for passive—because his love is consuming. from the moment he met you, it bloomed in his chest like wildfire, and it took everything in him not to let it swallow you whole. he knew you were skittish. you flinched at dependency, floundered when anything felt too soft, too needed. so he was gentle. patient. devoted.
he chased you, but never cornered you. he adored you, but never overwhelmed. until one day… you let yourself want him back. let yourself need him. not just tolerate the idea, but cherish it. now? now you don’t just let him take care of you—you thrive in it.
mornings with suguru are quiet symphonies. always the same, whether the sun's up or not, whether there's a blizzard outside or birdsong at the window. his kisses—those feather-light things on your neck and shoulders—are always the first thing you feel. sometimes, they tickle. sometimes, they melt you. every time, they anchor you. the way he wakes you is an act of love. an offering. he murmurs sweet nothings into the shell of your ear, presses his nose to your jaw like he’s memorizing the shape of you all over again. it’s not performative—it’s ritual. because waking you up is sacred to him. he always gives you enough time. enough space. enough stillness. before suguru, you’d yank yourself out of bed like it owed you money. now, you rise slowly, curled in his arms, his warmth a tether. he makes sure there’s time for the both of you to exist together, unhurried and whole.
you hate the cold—but he kind of loves it. loves the way you cling to him in oversized sweaters and mismatched socks, trailing him like a ghost with cold feet and sleepy eyes. you wrap yourself around his middle while he brushes his teeth, lean back into his chest while you brush yours, half-asleep and adorable. he ties the back of your hoodie when the string gets stuck. he presses vitamins into your palm without a word. watching you take care of yourself has become his favorite show. doesn’t matter if your hair’s wild or your makeup’s half-finished—he watches you like you're magic. because you are.
and when you blush under the attention, flustered or a little grumbly—he only smiles. because that stage-light feeling, that spotlight you hate? he’ll soften it for you. dim it, until it just feels like a warm sunbeam you can bask in. suguru doesn’t just admire you—he tends to you. dresses you if you’re too sleepy to do it yourself. asks you quiet questions in that low morning voice of his—just to hear your sleepy replies. “how’d you sleep?” “want tea or coffee?” “you still love me, even with bedhead like this?” (he already knows the answer. he just likes the sound of you saying it.)
you used to dread mornings. used to drag yourself through them with caffeine and survival instincts. now, you’ve adopted his routine. slow. intentional. loving. breakfast is never skipped. you sit at the kitchen table in one of his hoodies while he scrambles eggs with one hand and keeps the other on your knee under the table. you talk—sometimes. sometimes you don’t. but it’s never awkward. just peaceful. familiar. and when it’s time to go? he insists on driving you. every time. even if he has nowhere to be. even if it’s an hour out of his way. even if you protest.
he shuts you up gently with a scarf wrapped around your neck, tugging it snug so it covers your mouth before you can argue. “you don’t inconvenience me,” he says, looking at you like you personally hung the stars. “you’re the whole reason i want to leave the house.” suguru geto teaches you that love doesn’t have to be chaos or ache. that needing someone doesn’t have to hurt. that mornings can be soft. that you can be soft. and every day you wake up like this, in his arms, in this bubble of quiet love—you start to believe him.
mornings with gojo are kind of a shitshow. they are not peaceful. they are not organized. they are not quiet. they’re a mess. but the kind you almost look forward to. a domestic battlefield, all tangled limbs and laughter. not elegant, but real. and weirdly sweet.
the first alarm doesn’t stand a chance. it’s silenced before it finishes the first note. gojo smacks his phone off the nightstand without opening his eyes, groaning something unintelligible as he drags you closer, burying his face in your neck like he's trying to go back in time. you're no better—clinging like your life depends on it, legs twisted around his like ivy. if one of you has to get up first, it feels like mourning.so no, you don’t get up the first time. or the second. and by the third alarm, you're already running late.
it’s chaos. blankets kicked off the bed. hair wild. clothes half-on, half-lost somewhere in the room. you’re tossing his uniform at him from across the bed while he’s in the bathroom, already wetting your toothbrush with one hand and brushing his own teeth with the other—finger-brushing, because his actual toothbrush is nowhere to be found. you don’t even question it anymore.
you swap places, brushing your teeth while he fumbles for deodorant, and he pinches your cheek like it’s some kind of reward for being cute. you swat him away. he just laughs, mouth full of foam, and then kisses your forehead anyway. two seconds later, he drops your moisturizer into the toilet. you shriek. he kisses you again before getting smacked on the hard plane of his chest.
shower time is not optional—not when you’re always getting home so late from missions or parties, one thing or another, you keep each other busy. you’re already so far behind that arguing over whose turn it is feels pointless. so you both squeeze in, barely dodging elbows and shampoo bottles, and immediately start bickering about who used the last of the conditioner (it was him). he gets soap in his eye. you nearly slip trying to rinse your face. it’s not graceful. it’s not romantic. but it’s yours. and honestly? it’s kind of perfect. you’re drying off with a towel that’s definitely damp from yesterday, grumbling softly about how he never does any laundry.
getting ready is a two-person operation. he zips your jeans while you wrangle your mascara. you straighten his blindfold, then redo it because his “I did it cute” actually means “I did it crooked and wrong.” he brushes your hair while you slap on moisturizer (the toilet water was scrubbed off religiously), catches the jacket you toss over your shoulder without even glancing. it’s not impressive anymore. it’s just normal.
downstairs, he starts the coffee while yelling up, “don’t forget your phone again, I’m not turning around!” you shout back, “you forgot you whole ass wallet twice last week, satoru!” he makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like surrender.
you throw toast in the toaster. he pulls leftover pizza from the fridge, eats it cold off the plate. you steal a bite without asking. he lets you. the toast pops and hits the floor. he shrugs and you share it anyways. there’s no such thing as a smooth exit. you’re hopping into your shoes, still tugging on your jacket, while gojo fumbles for his keys that are somehow already in his hand. and before you can open the door, he’s there, pressing you back against it, arms around your waist, nose tucked under your jaw.
“you smell too good,” he mumbles, voice muffled by your skin. “I can’t walk into school like this. I’m gonna die.”
“then maybe stop sniffing me like a bloodhound,” you mutter, but your voice is soft. you don’t actually want him to move. he kisses you once, then again, just below your ear, because he knows exactly what that does.
“we are so fucking late,” you sigh, pulling away with effort.
“we are,” he agrees, not the least bit concerned, a corner of toast still sticking out of his mouth.
you steal it. eat it. smile. because yeah, you're always late. and yeah, it’s a mess. but you wouldn’t trade it for anything. you’re together. and somehow, that’s always enough.
mornings with ino are always a little...cluttered. not in a bad way. just in a way that feels like him—shoes untied, hoodie wrinkled, a bag half-packed with yesterday’s receipts and a granola bar he forgot to eat. a little chaotic, a little late, but somehow still endearing. somehow still yours.
you, on the other hand, are his opposite in almost every way. precise. polished. the kind of woman whose alarm only has to go off once. who showers every morning without fail, who lines up her skincare bottles in order of use, who styles her hair neatly and brushes her teeth with an electric toothbrush that charges on a little glass stand. you're not uptight about it—you’re actually quite gentle—but your routine is sharp, crisp, efficient. it works for you. and, in turn, it works for him.
because even though ino is a lifelong lover of the snooze button, he's gotten better about mornings. mostly because of you. you don’t demand he change, but he wants to see you before the day pulls you both in opposite directions. he’s slower to get up—body warm and heavy with sleep—but he always rises. sometimes with a groan. sometimes with a yawn so big it makes his jaw crack. but he sits there, criss-cross on the bed, watching you with half-lidded eyes as you glide across the room, already moving through your mental to-do list.
you float. that’s how he sees it. all grace and direction, even as you’re talking out loud to yourself, running over the day’s checklist. you’ve packed your bag already, and now you’re packing his—mumbling about mission protocol and check-in times, slipping clean socks into the side pocket of his bag because he always forgets. he barely hears the words. he’s too busy watching you, soaking you in.
and then, like clockwork, he reaches out and catches you by the arm, halting your momentum with a tug that turns into a hug. a tight one. a grounding one. his arms loop around your waist, chin on your shoulder, and he pulls you into the kind of embrace that slows time. you pretend to protest—hands flailing against his chest, muttering about how tight your schedule is—but you don’t mean it. you never do. you fold into him like you were made to, nose pressed to his neck, fingers curling in the hem of his shirt. he loves that he’s the only one who can get you to pause like this. that he can bring you down to earth with a single pull.
eventually, though, the moment passes. you straighten up, clear your throat, and suddenly you’re back in motion. back to telling him he cannot be late again today, nanami’s going to have his head if he strolls in like last time, and he better not forget his water bottle again either. you’re pulling his usual shirt out of the drawer—wrinkled, because it’s his, and he doesn’t fold things—and his boots are already waiting at the door. you’ve done half his prep without thinking, and he’s already halfway in love with you for the thousandth time that morning.
he gets dressed with practiced ease, catching up to your pace as best he can. you’re at the mirror now, checking your planner while sipping from your water bottle. he leans in the doorway for a moment, just watching. you’re organized in a way he’s never been, maybe never will be. and still, you’ve never tried to fix him. never tried to change the way he exists in the world. instead, you’ve just carved out space for him inside your calm, careful life. you’ve made room for his clutter, and he’s tried—quietly, earnestly—to keep from taking up too much of it.
breakfast is a shared effort. some days, you’re up earlier and you’ve already got eggs on the stove. other days, he insists on doing it, even if that just means microwaving rice and scrambling some eggs while you’re tightening your laces. there’s something primal in him—some quiet need to provide for you in any small way he can. he knows you don’t need him to, not with the way you handle yourself and the world like it’s second nature. but he wants to. just like he wants to be the one to bring you your coffee, even if you’re always the one who remembers to buy the coffee grounds. and you let him. that’s the part that gets him. you let him be messy. be flawed. be himself. you don’t organize his chaos—you just wrap your order around it. and he does the same. a little give, a little take. a quiet rhythm. a partnership.
by the time you’re both slipping into your shoes, double-checking your gear and grabbing your phones, he’s alert enough to match your stride. a little disheveled. a little behind. but not by much. just enough to still be ino. just enough to remind you that no matter how different your approaches may be, you fit together. somehow. and every time you open the door to leave, his hand finds yours. because while you’re ready for the day, he’s only ready if he’s walking into it beside you.
choso has never been a morning person. not even close. alarms were things to be ignored—suggestions at best, insults at worst. he’d been infamous for burrowing deeper into bed, refusing to get up until the last possible second. if yuuji wasn’t banging on his door, he wasn’t moving. but that was before you.
now, you sleep in his bed—your side always tucked, your phone charging at the exact same spot on the nightstand every night, your alarm set to go off at a reasonable time (not three snoozes past). and for reasons choso doesn’t fully understand but absolutely cherishes, your presence has shifted something in him. that piercing morning ringtone no longer signals agony—it signals that you’re awake. that you’re there. and that’s enough for him to stretch, groan a little, and roll out of bed.
he still isn’t graceful about it. you are. always have been. the type to wake up and start—quick to stand, quick to brush your teeth, quick to open the blinds and let the light in without mercy. at first, it threw him. you were so... together. your skincare routine looked like a ritual. your outfits were folded. you ate real breakfast and made to-do lists that had subcategories and little stars. and you loved him, this walking heap of tangled hair and forgotten socks, who lived out of a laundry basket and called cold pizza a food group.
in the beginning, it was rough. his mess got under your skin. the sheer entropy of his life felt like a direct attack on your peace. but somewhere between his sleepy mumblings and the way he always remembered your coffee just the way you liked it—even if he couldn’t remember where he put his own shoes—you adapted. you didn’t give in, didn’t lose your order, but you started distinguishing the kinds of messes. the ones that could stay. the ones that made you smile a little, because they were his. and choso, to his credit, learned too. learned which of his disasters stressed you out and which made you mutter under your breath before softening at the sight of him trying to fix it. now, mornings look different.
when the alarm rings, he’s still not thrilled—but he gets up. because you do. because he likes following you. there’s something sacred about being just one step behind you in the morning, watching you go through your routine like clockwork. he showers first, picking up the shirt you laid out for him the night before. notices how you’ve stacked his vitamins by the sink, folded a small towel just for him. he brushes his teeth lazily behind you as you do your hair, your reflection focused, brows slightly furrowed.
you’re talking. you always are in the mornings. half to him, half to yourself. running through everything you both have to do: meet with some jujutsu higher-ups, check in with yaga, lead the first years through drills, and then later, he has a solo mission. you make him swear, hand on heart and soul, that he’ll keep in touch during it—text you updates or you’ll kill him—and he nods solemnly, the toothbrush still in his mouth. you’re already scribbling the grocery list on the fridge notepad while flipping the eggs you’re somehow managing not to burn. he doesn’t understand how you do it all. how you can look so put-together with your morning voice and bedhead, still blinking the sleep out of your eyes. but he sees the details—the little imperfections that most would miss. the way you leaned into him before the sun came up, drooling a bit on his shirt (which he’d never bring up—maybe). the way you secretly liked his warmth, even if you always said you had things to do. you act like you’re immune to his mess, but he’s caught you smiling at it more than once.
he loves that. loves that his sharp-as-a-tack, painfully organized girlfriend makes time to cook him a full breakfast even when she has ten places to be. loves that you care. that your chaos isn’t external like his—it’s controlled, carefully hidden, but he knows where to look for it. and he cherishes every moment you let it show. by the time he’s dressed and ready, you’re already packing your bags. he kisses your temple, mumbles something low and grateful, something that sounds a lot like I don’t know how I got this lucky. and you roll your eyes, smack his shoulder, and tell him to hurry up, or we’ll be late again. choso is still chaos. still half a storm. but now, his favorite part of the day is waking up and realizing he gets to weather it with you.
kento isn’t really a morning person. not in the usual sense—not because he dislikes them, but because his nights are always far too long. between missions, paperwork, and the ever-looming weight of responsibility, sleep is often a luxury. still, the second his alarm so much as whispers, he’s up. responsible to a fault. you, however, are already stirring beside him.
you don’t need to be up yet. you could easily steal another hour or two. but there you are, yawning like a sleepy kitten, soft-eyed and blinking at the too-bright room. a drowsy smile pulls at your lips, and nanami covers it with his own in a kiss that lingers longer than it should, considering his schedule. “go back to sleep, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your cheek. but you never do.
he knows why. time with him is precious—rare, rationed like sunlight in a long winter. if it were up to you, you’d follow him around all day, clinging to his side like a koala. and if it were up to him? he’d let you. he’d carry you through the dullest meetings, the longest train rides, the most irritating bureaucracy, if it meant keeping you close.
mornings are slow, quiet things in your shared home. you pad into the bathroom after him, still half-asleep, rubbing your eyes and bumping gently into his side as you lean on him. he steadies you with a hand at your waist, fondness blooming in his chest at the sight of you so undone by sleep. it’s a side of you few people ever see. but he sees it every day, and it never fails to make him ache with how much he loves you.
you don’t talk much this early. mostly just let him murmur about the day ahead—checking in with gojo, supervising the first years, writing up reports that he knows no one will read. the mention of missions makes your body tense ever so slightly. he notices. he always notices. so he pauses. turns to you. brushes a hand along your jaw and swears, like he always does: “I’m always safe. I’ll always come home to you.” your brow relaxes. you nod, brushing your teeth with half-hearted effort, still swaying slightly with the weight of sleep. you lean against him, and he lets you, anchoring you with an arm around your shoulders as you both move to the closet. he lets you pick his suit, because he knows it perks you up. you take it seriously, even in your pajama shorts and socks with the little frills. he watches you squint at ties like you’re choosing between life and death. he says nothing, lets you have this moment, this ritual, this say in his day.
“you know,” he says, just like always, buttoning the shirt you chose, “you can sleep in. you don’t have to wake up just for me.” but you wave him off, as always. and secretly? he’s glad you don’t listen. he likes seeing you like this—sweet and docile, blinking up at him with half-lidded eyes, still caught between dreams and reality. it does something to him, knowing that he is the one you choose to wake up early for.
he watches you zone out in front of the coffee pot, you nearly nod off while washing your face, and he wraps his arms around your waist, steadying you with a low chuckle. some mornings, when time permits, he tucks you back into bed. presses kisses into your hair. tells you he’ll be back before dinner.
and then, hours later, when the chaos of the day tries to wear him thin, he opens his lunch and finds your note. scrawled in sleepy handwriting, letters just a little crooked, maybe even a smear of peanut butter at the corner.
I love you. be safe. come home to me. he reads it twice. tucks it into his jacket pocket like a sacred artifact. it stays there all day. tired or not, mornings have become nanami’s favorite, despite how he used to hate them. because you're there.
yuuji has always been a morning disaster.. in a “toothbrush hanging out of his mouth while he drools into the sink, one eye open, pants backwards, tripping over his own feet” kind of way. megumi was always the gold standard of functioning morning people. yuuji remembers those old sleepovers vividly—megumi, freshly showered and dressed, out the door by 6:45; and yuuji, still horizontal, trying to figure out how to open both eyes at the same time. they weren’t even in the same time zone. he used to think that’s just how mornings were. a battlefield. a struggle. something to survive, not enjoy.
the first time he stayed over, it was innocent—too many movies, too many snacks, both of you too tired to do anything but collapse into your bed, limbs tangled. he woke up expecting to panic, expecting the usual mad rush, the existential dread of being late.
but instead, he woke up to you. still half-asleep, your face smushed against your pillow, hair everywhere, wearing his oversized hoodie with the sleeves bunched around your hands, looking soft and warm and so painfully pretty it made his chest hurt. the sun spilled across the sheets in lazy ribbons and for the first time in his life, yuuji didn’t mind being awake too early.
now, your room feels like a second home. maybe even his first. every inch of it is you—from the polaroids strung across your wall (many of them of the two of you, caught in grinning, blurry moments), to the sketches you doodled in class and couldn't bear to throw away if they were of him. there's the stuffed bear he won you at that fair when he definitely cheated at ring toss but still swears he didn’t. there’s the faint scent of your perfume on his old hoodie that you “borrowed” months ago and never gave back. it’s messy, but intentional. soft, but lived-in. like a physical manifestation of how he feels when you hold his hand in public—completely, irrevocably wanted. and the mornings? absolute chaos.
yuuji snoozes the alarm three times because being the big spoon is a full-time job. he likes to pretend he’s shielding you from the cruel, cold world outside the covers. it’s not heroism—it’s self-indulgent comfort.
eventually, you groan, stretch, and whine about being late. but it’s not angry. it’s not urgent. it’s familiar and funny and lazy in a way that makes yuuji smile into your shoulder. you're no better in the mornings than he is, most of the time. your hair is a battlefield, you accidentally wear yesterday’s socks more than you’ll admit, and you forget what day it is at least twice a week before your first sip of tea. but it’s all endearing. you’re endearing. especially when you make an attempt to pull it all together.
you’re both stuffing things into your backpacks, grabbing half-packed snacks, checking to make sure you didn’t your notes again. you both try to tame your appearances just enough to not look like complete disasters in front of yaga—though that never stops him from lecturing you both about punctuality like it’s a religion and you’ve committed high blasphemy.
but the chaos is beautiful. you are beautiful. and this morning mess you’ve made together? it’s everything to yuuji. he watches you comb your hair with exactly one functioning brain cell, still half in dreamland. sometimes you accidentally drinking out of his water bottle instead of your own, and when you sheepishly apologize, he just shrugs and says, “you literally used my toothbrush on accident last week, babe. we’re past the point of no return.” and you know he means it—yuuji doesn’t care about any of that. he cares about you.
every morning, without fail, he kisses you. sometimes it’s quick, sometimes it’s deep and syrupy and a little over-the-top. either way, it gets nobara groaning, waving her hands in front of her face like she’s trying to physically block out the pda. “save it for after missions,” she grumbles, bonking yuuji on the head with a textbook. but he doesn’t care. he never cares.
because there was a time, not too long ago, when he didn’t have this. when mornings were lonely and frantic and nothing special. but now he gets to wake up late and warm and in love, with someone who understands him, matches his chaos, and still somehow makes him feel like the luckiest idiot alive. you’ve integrated him into your life so effortlessly it makes his heart ache. you’re wrapped around every corner of his day. he sees you in his notes, hears you in his music, tastes you in every sweet bite you sneak into his lunchbox. and in the mornings—when he’s drowsy and soft and honest—he thinks, I never want to wake up without her again. and that thought alone? that’s enough to get him out of bed.
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holding hands in the dark | fushiguro megumi
╰►some nights he talks in his sleep. you stay quiet, holding his hand in the dark…some nights you do just that; other nights you wake him, tell him that it’s going to be okay, that he’s going to be okay. some nights he rolls over, and pretends he isn’t wiping away tears. other nights, he believes you. but most nights, when he realizes that your hand is squeezing his, whether you’re awake or not, he squeezes back. 4.2k words
a/n: I would say that this piece reads as very self-indlugent, but honestly, writing in general is self-indulgent for me, so rarely will a finished piece not feel a bit self-indulgent to me. this feels like a quintessential megumi nightmare fic, so hopefully it's as good as some others you may have read; of course, I always appreciate interaction, but I love my ghost readers, too :)
rare is the night when you don’t find yourself tangled in megumi’s dark blue, fresh smelling sheets. you’d both lived on the campus long enough to know that the whole curfew idea was not enforced. your lives were hard enough; gojo, nor yaga would take away the precious, minute bits of comfort you could find, not when there was already so little of it. they didn’t seem to care that you found that comfort in each other, though gojo’s teasing did seem endless. it didn’t bother you, at least not like it bothered megumi. rosy cheeks, half-hearted scoffs, eyes rolling…it seemed to drive him crazy, but then in his haze of irritation, he’d catch your eyes, and instead of a grimace, you’d find a soft small. he could almost read your mind—tease us all you want, it won’t change anything. your thoughts, your mind, your still, simple presence was an anchor to him, tethering him to all that was good in his sorry, sorry world. not just when gojo decided to tease, but when things seemed, or even were, really, really bad.
most nights, you lie awake for a long time. the intense, almost comforting silence preferable to the unpredictability sleep brings. when conscious, you choose what you remember. once you submit yourself to numbing, mindless sleep, you’re no longer in control of what your mind conjures up; memories too painful to share, too painful to even remember. megumi’s noticed this, but he’s yet to say anything. maybe he thinks it’s not his place. maybe he thinks it would piss you off. either way, he doesn’t have to say anything, his presence, his heavy, warm breath against your back, his tousled hair tickling your neck, his arm draped carelessly (not carelessly at all) over your stomach—that is more than enough. and he feels the same. tonight is quiet. no wind, no rain, no crickets, no creaking porch swing, just megumi’s lazy breathing, and maybe that’s why you fall asleep so quickly. or maybe your body is finally used to enjoying the sleep you’ve so agonizingly deprived it of now that you can actually relax.
you wouldn’t consider yourself the sentimental type—maybe that’s why megumi likes you so much. no need to dwell on the past, not when it’s so fraught with pain, not when it hurts that much. but you find yourself thinking of one of the first nights you spent in his room often.
you’d been in there hundreds of times: to study, to hangout with him and yuuji and nobara, to hide from yaga after screwing up a mission, to makeout on his desk chair until you were out of breath. but you’d never been in his bed. for some reason, it seemed like he didn’t want you there, but you knew better than to let this hurt your feelings. megumi was a creature of habit, and a creature of thought. if he felt a certain way about something, didn’t want you to do something, there was a good reason for it, and when he wanted you to know that reason, he’d tell you. until then, you’d let him to conclusions on his own. he was so sure you were crafted specifically and perfectly for him. no one had ever understood him quite that well, and he was confident no one else ever would.
he didn’t attach particularly good memories to his dorm room. nightmares, lying awake at night, cold-sweat wicking into his t-shirt, being afraid, being alone. after one especially grueling day, he decided he couldn’t take it anymore. couldn’t take the silence, the painstaking loneliness, and why should he have to? you always tell him that “if you ever need anything, just ask me. please. I want you to want me,” and with pleading, sincere eyes, he believed you. he did want you; more than he’d ever wanted anything, and normally that scared him. but his fear of being alone, of waking up gasping, being just too late to save someone, trumped any nervousness he had in asking you to stay in his room.
at 9:30 he practically dragged you from the kitchen, forcing you to rush your goodnights to the other students, and trudged to his dorm, hand-in-hand. he’d texted you earlier, asking you to sleep in his dorm. you’d assumed something had happened on this mission, but patient and kind as you were, understanding of the situation, you wouldn’t force it out of him.
he didn’t offer much when you got there, just a quiet “thanks,” and a change of clothes he tossed your way like the fabric might speak for him. the shirt smelled like him—clean detergent, something like pine—and you didn’t comment on how warm it felt, like it had just come out of the dryer. the both of you crawled into bed without the usual banter. no sleepy teasing, no shared scrolling through stupid videos, no jokingly whispered “did you lock your door?” that megumi always answered with a deadpan yes and a kiss to your temple. he was silent. curled inward. you didn’t press. you just shifted behind him, let him mold himself to your back like armor, latched onto his arm wrapped around your middle, and let the silence settle around the both of you.
maybe that’s why you heard it. sometime in the middle of the night, when the moonlight through the blinds painted silver slats across the blanket, you woke up to the sound of his voice. not fully—your brain was swimming in that hazy, half-dream place—but enough to understand. “no—don’t go—I said stay back—” his voice was raw, like he was begging. you didn’t move at first. you weren’t sure if he was awake, if this was something he wanted you to witness. your hand was still resting on his stomach, but you stilled it. waited. you’d still been half awake, willing your eyes to fully close, forcing yourself to breathe in fours, clenching the mild headache out of your skull, so you felt a little guilty, witnessing this. "I can’t—I can’t lose—” and then he jolted slightly, not fully waking, but like his body was trying to escape whatever dream had him trapped. your hand, so slowly, so carefully, slid from his stomach to his chest. you pressed it there, gentle, warm, and you whispered, just once, “I'm here, gumi.” he didn’t open his eyes. but his breathing slowed. you stayed like that until dawn.
he was silent the next morning. got ready quickly, and rushed you over to your dorm so you could get ready too. the almost domestic quality of it pulled on his heart more than he liked.
the worst part of his dreams is that they followed him around during the day, too. they were too vivid, too devastating, too real to be forgotten the next morning. he always remembered them. this one had been bad, though they usually were. too late to save someone, too late to save himself. picture-by-picture playbacks of deaths he’d witnessed, civilians he thought himself too weak to save. he’d voiced these anxieties to you before and sometimes you’d grab his wrists, plead with him using just your eyes, tell him that it wasn’t his fault, there was nothing more he could’ve done, that no one was mad at him—but most of the time, you’d slowly wrap your arms around him and rest your head on his chest, close your eyes and breathe deeply. "I know. I understand. I feel the same way.” your lips didn’t say those things, but your actions did. anchored. that’s how you made him feel.
he doesn’t say anything about his nightmare, and you don’t feel the need to bring it up. and maybe you’re a little scared, worried that if you say something, he’ll clam up, stop inviting you over, stop letting you help him. as infuriating as it was, that was megumi. when you first started dating, you didn’t allow it, still didn't sometimes.
“just let it go, it’s nothing,” he choked out and you could see he was saying it through gritted teeth. blood was slowly seeping onto the carpet beneath him, long since soaked through his uniform.
"I said sit down, fushiguro. shoko may not force you to let her heal you, but I will.” you spoke with a low, final quality that rumbled in your chest. he hated going to see shoko, having to rely on someone so constantly, having to admit to pain, to defeat, even if the mission was successful. after helping him out of his jacket, slowly cleaning his wound, meticulously taping gauze on it, and forcing him to change it every couple of hours, he decided he would go see shoko. it was too intimate, too raw, too bare. he’d rather admit weakness to shoko than to you.
but as time went on, megumi got better at being honest with you, and you got better at letting him. if he said he was fine, you didn’t argue, even if you knew it wasn’t true. if it made him feel better to lie, then so be it. there was a line drawn, of course, you only allowed each other to become a certain amount of not fine before caving, taking turns like a seesaw. but most importantly, you trusted each other.
it’s been a few days since that night, but something lingers. megumi hasn’t mentioned the dream. not once. not in passing, not with a joke, not even in the awkward, half-mumbled way he sometimes says things like “you helped” when what he really means is "I needed you.” you don’t ask. not because you don’t want to—god, you do—but because that night, when your hand had found his chest and your voice had cracked through whatever hell he was stuck in, something in him had…settled. and sometimes that’s enough.
still, the weight of it clings to the corners of the room. tonight, you’re back in his bed. your legs are tangled together like always, his arm casually slung around your waist like always, the room dim and hushed and safe. like always. but megumi’s not asleep. he’s tracing lazy circles over your wrist with his thumb, absent and rhythmic. the kind of touch that means I'm thinking about something I might actually say out loud. eventually. you give him time. you always give him time. you’re so fucking patient, it drives him insane. finally, he shifts behind you, voice low and gravelly from disuse. “did I…say anything weird?” his breath warms the nape of your neck.
you don’t roll over. just blink at the shadows cast by his blinds and answer evenly, “weird? no.” a pause. then: “but you said something.” you let out a soft sigh. “you were dreaming.”
"I figured.” his fingers pause. “you said…'I'm here.'”
you nod against the pillow. “yeah.” yeah, I am here, and I'm not going anywhere, and I shouldn’t have to say that because I know you know it, but I'm gonna say it anyway. another long beat of silence.
then he says, softer this time, more vulnerable than you’ve ever heard him, "I thought you were gone. in the dream. you wouldn’t listen to me.” you close your eyes. his voice has that raw edge again, like he’s apologizing for something he couldn’t control. like he’s ashamed of needing you, even in sleep. you don’t say I'm sorry. you don’t say it was just a dream. you just reach back and take his hand in yours, your fingers weaving together like it’s muscle memory. “I'm not going anywhere,” you murmur.
another beat. then he squeezes your hand. "I know.” good.
you wake up the next morning before him. that never happens. megumi’s always the one with an internal clock so rigid it could qualify as a cursed technique. you, usually awake far into the night, could sleep well past any alarm. but today he’s out cold, face half-buried in the crook of your shoulder, his arm still wrapped around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. you lie there for a while, letting the steady sound of his breathing lull you into something like peace.
it’s strange, this softness. you’d never imagined you’d crave it, not like this., not when it’s so wildly, horrifyingly foreign. but with him, it feels earned. you glance over at his nightstand. his phone is face down. his alarm hasn’t gone off yet (like he even needs one). you could wake him. you don’t. instead, you shift just enough to turn toward him. his hair is a mess—like usual—and there’s the faintest crease in his cheek from the pillow. he looks younger when he sleeps, like someone who hasn’t watched too many people die. you don’t touch him, don’t dare disturb this rare moment of peace. you just watch. and maybe—just maybe—you let yourself imagine a world where this is normal. where you both get to wake up like this every morning, in a world that doesn’t punish you for finding solace in each other.
but megumi stirs before you can get too far into the fantasy. his eyes blink open slowly, bleary and half-aware. “you’re awake?”
you smile faintly. “don’t sound so surprised.”
he hums. “it’s early.”
you shrug. “didn’t want to wake you.”
he shifts, stretches slightly but doesn’t move away from you. “that’s new.”
“you needed it,” you say simply.
he’s quiet for a while. then: “thanks.” thanks for being here, thanks for staying, thanks for everything I’ve never thanked you for. you reach up, brushing a bit of hair from his forehead. “you don’t have to thank me for that. ever.” his eyes flicker down to your hand, then back up to meet yours. for once, he doesn’t look away.
……
he’s gotten comfortable—too comfortable, he tells himself. he sleeps, almost the whole night through, without waking up, and when he finally does wake up, he can’t remember whether or not he’s had a nightmare. but, again, too comfortable.
it wasn’t uncommon for missions to take a long time, to keep you apart for even more than a whole day. as tenacious as you both were, you soldiered on in silence. rare, if ever, was the “miss you,” text after a two-day mission. in fact, rare was it that megumi texted you ever. either he was busy with a mission or babysitting gojo, or he was with you, no need to text. but it had been four whole fucking days, and you’d texted him once, only after he had texted you first. there was a pit growing in his stomach, coiling and widening with each night he spent in your dorm—god, it smelled like you, where the fuck else was he supposed to be able to sleep?
after the first 32 hours, he’d caved. “mission going ok?” it was perfect. not too needy, but not too detached, right? making sure you were safe, without coming right out and admitting he missed you. he was weirdly proud of how good his text was at accurately conveying what he wanted it to. but anything even remotely positive vanished with your reply.
“kind of.”
kind of? kind of?! what the hell does that mean. he’s gonna scold your ass when you get back. don’t ever text me something like that again, when I ask about your mission tell me it’s ok. that you’re ok. if you’re not, you should’ve already called me. kind of.
he’s standing outside the door of yaga’s office approximately 60 seconds later.
“fushiguro? you can come in…” he says tentatively, like he’s confused. his door is open to student concerns, even if he doesn’t actually give a shit about them.
but fushiguro can’t come in. he can hardly breath, can hardly think. kind of. “mission. gojo’s on a mission with-with…it’s been four days. what’s going on?” if yaga knew him better, he’d pick up on the tremble that coats his voice, on the shaky quality of his hands, which are wringing each other to the point of bruises.
“oh, well as you know, it’s a retrieval mission. you of all people should know that these things take time and —”
“when will they be back?” he’s reigned himself back in, anchor, anchor, anchor. his voice is restrained now, his fingernails are tearing into the skin of his palm. yaga looks at him curiously. never, in all the time he’s been at the school, had fushiguro come to check in on one of gojo’s missions.
“I'm not entirely sure. my best guess? late tonight. according to gojo-san, they’ve retrieved the cursed object. now it’s just a matter of getting it back here safely.”
“any known injuries?”
“nothing severe enough to mention.” megumi is gone before yaga finishes his sentence. tonight. tonight. you’d be back tonight, and hopefully not too injured that you couldn’t sleep in his bed. but, it’s like he thought. he’s gotten far too comfortable.
……
he hears the footsteps before he sees anything. too many of them. too heavy. not yours. megumi's halfway down the hall when he spots the group—gojo leading, shoko behind, and between them…you.
no. not you. not like this.
your body is limp in gojo’s arms, head lolled against his shoulder, blood still wet in your hair and smeared across your cheek like war paint. you're wrapped in a school-issued jacket that isn’t yours. your fingers twitch once, then go still. megumi stops in his tracks. his stomach drops. actually drops—like his body has gone cold, like gravity just gave up on holding him together. for a second, he thinks he’s going to throw up. his ears ring. everything narrows to a single, white-hot point: you’re not supposed to look like that.
you’re supposed to be walking in on your own. you’re supposed to roll your eyes when you see him, say something like, “miss me?” like you didn’t almost die. like the world hasn't shattered in your absence. but instead—you look broken. like something someone tried to put back together but gave up halfway. megumi doesn’t remember moving, but suddenly he’s there, beside the stretcher as shoko rolls you down the hall. his hand reaches out, trembling, stopping just short of touching your shoulder. he can’t bring himself to do it.
shoko’s voice is calm, brisk, she's not talking to megumi. maybe to gojo, he doesn't know. “she’s stable. internal damage is healed. I'll need an hour, maybe two, to get her pain levels down. her vitals are holding.” holding. like you’re a system being kept online. not a person. megumi feels bile rise in his throat. gojo starts to speak—something low, serious, rare—and megumi doesn’t even hear him. the words flow around him, soft and useless. explanations, apologies, something about how things got out of hand, how “she handled herself better than anyone else could’ve.” that he didn’t mean for this. that no one expected—
megumi tunes out. he’s just so fucking tired. he doesn’t care about the mission. doesn’t care about strategy or odds or what went wrong or why shoko’s voice is tighter than usual, why gojo won’t meet his eyes. all he knows is this:
you’re here.
you’re home.
but it’s not right.
instead, your lips are cracked and stained with blood, and there’s a gash just beneath your collarbone that gojo keeps not looking at. the air smells like antiseptic and copper, like death that hasn’t quite arrived yet. megumi clenches his fists. and he counts—one, two, three—each second dragging its feet as he waits for shoko to finish what she has to do. for everyone else to leave. for them to stop talking like it means anything. like any of it will matter if you never wake up. his fingers twitch. you’re here. you’re home. but you’re not you. and until you are, he won’t breathe right again. and he’s sure he won’t sleep, right?
the fluorescent lights hum above him—steady, sterile, unfeeling—but megumi only hears the shallow, rhythmic sounds of your breathing. at least that hasn't stopped. he keeps a careful hand on your pulse anyway, thumb pressing just beneath your jaw like he's trying to hold time still with the pads of his fingers.
you don't move.
you're warm now, though. shoko made sure of that. bandaged, stitched, healed just enough. but it's not enough. not for megumi. not when he walked into the infirmary expecting you to smile at him—tease him about how he got taller while you were gone, make some offhanded joke about gojo probably crying when he saw your injuries—and instead you’re laid out on a cot like a ghost. limp. blood crusted at your temple.
he stood for a long time, just watching, waiting, praying. then he moves.
it's clumsy, almost pitiful, how quickly he sheds the stiffness from his body and crawls onto the cot beside you. it’s too small for the both of you, barely wide enough to hold one person, let alone two. he doesn't care. his arms go around you like he’s afraid you’ll evaporate. and then—finally—his eyes fall shut.
it isn’t that the nightmares don’t come. they try. they always try. but your body shifts, instinctively, into his. you sigh, weakly, in your sleep, and your fingers twitch against his shirt like they’re trying to curl into something familiar. megumi exhales. his whole body softens. not a sigh, not a breath—just melts. he sleeps harder than he ever has. the kind of sleep that makes hours fold into seconds. the kind that turns pain into numbness and then into nothing at all.
and when he opens his eyes again, there’s light bleeding through. and your eyes are open, too. bleary, unfocused. but on him. your fingers are entwined with his. his heart leaps so hard it hurts. "...hey," you rasp, voice scratchy and paper-thin. "I drooled on your shirt."
he lets out a sound—half a laugh, half a sob—and tucks his face into your shoulder, tightening his hold like if he lets go, you’ll vanish. "I thought you were dead," he whispers.
"still might be," you mumble, eyes closing again. "...but at least I'm warm.”
he squeezes your hand. “you idiot.” and this time, when he cries, it’s quiet. it’s careful. it’s grateful.
……
things don’t necessarily change after that. at least, not in a spoken manner. but megumi…megumi changes. there’s little stoicism left in him. he tells you he loves you, everyday, when previously that was a scarce gift given only on the rarest of occasions. but the weight of it, despite it’s increased frequency, is just as heavy.
shoko lets you leave later that day on strict orders of rest, no missions, and gallons of water. you don’t listen. megumi does.
later that night, he’s worried again. or rather, he never stopped worrying. but now it’s worse. and he knows that you know, but he can’t bring himself to speak. to burden you with his anxieties, not when you’re already so burdened.
however, he knows what you’d say if you could read his thoughts. “tell me anyway.”
"I had a dream the night before you came home. you were…we were…it wasn’t enough,” and god, why does voice sound like he’s crying?
you don’t say anything right away. you’re afraid if you do, it’ll break the moment like brittle glass. that if you turn around, you’ll see him pulling back into himself, tying those heavy emotional threads into too-tight knots again. so instead, you shift just a little—enough that your back presses more firmly to his chest, that your hand finds his and gently, deliberately, intertwines your fingers.
his thumb stills against your wrist, and then it squeezes, once. like a thank you.
“you don’t have to tell me about it,” you murmur, barely audible, eyes fluttering shut. “you don’t owe me anything.”
“yes, I do. I owe you everything,” he whispers. ”and even if I didn’t, I want to tell you.”
that’s how megumi says I love you. not in words, not directly. but in truths he fights to share. in silences he breaks for you and you alone. in the way he lets you stay—stay close, stay in, stay his.
and so, with the quiet hum of safety wrapping around both of you, he begins to talk. just softly, slowly. a few words at first—names, places, what he saw, what he felt. the way your voice cut through the nightmare like a tether to the real world. the way he woke up half-choking on a sob and found himself holding you instead of air. the relief, the shame, the aching tenderness of knowing you were real and warm and right there.
and you listen. you always do. you say little, not because you have nothing to say, but because he needs this. needs your silence. needs your hand. needs you here, breathing and alive and not a ghost. by the time his words run dry, you’ve turned to face him. he looks tired—hollow-eyed and frayed—but there’s something softer about him now. he’s unfurled, just a bit. just enough.
you reach up, brushing your fingers through his hair, and he closes his eyes like it physically relieves him. “megumi?”
“hm?”
“if I die, I'll haunt you.”
his eyes open again, and you see it—his reluctant smile, small and crooked. “you already do.”
you both fall asleep that night without meaning to. wrapped up in each other, wrapped in words spoken and unspoken. you fall asleep first, this time, not before searching through the blankets for his hand. and for once, so does megumi. no dreams. no terror. just you. just peace.
dividers by @cafekitsune
header images found on pinterest from an unnamed account, message for removal or credit
closer | fushiguro megumi, get suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, kamo choso, nanami kento, sukuna ryomen, yuuji itadori
╰►they don’t just want to know you—they want to get closer, piece by piece, moment by moment. every shared glance, every quiet habit learned, every soft gesture is a step toward something deeper. these are the ways they draw near when words aren’t enough. 7.1k words
a/n: guys, bear with me...is this too cringe? I'm all about being cringe, but this might just be too far, even for me. let me know........also, reader is not giving very self-insert here. sorry if that makes it unenjoyable to read, but I kind of like to give “reader” her own little personality. relationships are unique, including these ones.
warnings: cussing, food/eating habits and negative relationship with food (only in nanami's), kissing. thanks for reading!! enjoy <3
he doesn’t even know when it started. the convergence of your interests. megumi wouldn’t call it that, anyway. he’d call it “noticing.” observing. being aware. that’s just his job, right? to be aware of things. aware of you. but really, it’s always been like this. he’s always been like this—with you, at least. long before the word dating was ever said. long before you ever called him yours. he called you his in his head all the time, not that he’d ever admit it. not even under threat of death. or worse—under gojo’s teasing.
you were friends for a long time. the kind of long that feels inevitable. he thought you were cool, quiet, competent—like him, but also, nothing like him at all. you kept your head even when his was spinning. you smiled through things he barely had the patience to endure. and still, somehow, you found time to ask what kind of music he liked.
"I don't know,” he said the first time you asked. you rolled your eyes and handed him a headphone. he remembers the exact song. the way the guitar came in soft, how the singer’s voice cracked on the second verse. you tapped your fingers against your thigh. he sat completely still. he still listens to that band when you’re not around. it doesn’t make him miss you less.
he never liked airpods. too easy to lose. too fancy. not personal enough. no tangibility to them. so he still uses the string headphones—the ones you used to share, tangled shoulder to shoulder in the back of ijichi’s car or on the train into the city. he’d pretend to be annoyed by how close you were. he never was. he still keeps them in his backpack. they’re fraying a little at the connector, but they work fine. he doesn’t like how separate airpods make things. no cord. no anchor. he liked when you had to lean in. liked when your shoulders bumped. liked when you’d turn to look at him, mouthing the lyrics like it was a secret only the two of you knew.
your music taste is—well, if you ask him, it's ridiculous. erratic. unstable. you’d go from hyperpop to sad piano instrumentals in the span of an hour. sometimes painfully upbeat, sometimes so slow and tragic it makes him wonder if you’re okay. but he listens anyway. memorizes the names of the artists on your playlists.
your room is the unofficial hangout room now. it's warm in a way most places aren’t. full of yellow light and dusty old posters and music that never really stops. megumi never says it, but it smells like you. feels like you. yuuji flops down on the couch, screams the lyrics to the wrong part of the song, and megumi threatens to kill him every time, but never actually kicks him out. not unless you're not there to laugh about it.
the cd player in the corner? he found it on a whim—some thrift store downtown. he thought it looked like something you'd like. vintage. a little scratched, but charming. like the kind of thing you'd insist has "character." it didn’t even come with a remote, and he had to clean the lens with a q-tip, but your face when you unwrapped it? worth it. he’d do it again a thousand times. he keeps a list on his phone. hidden in a folder named after something boring—like homework notes—but it’s really just your favorite songs. things you’ve mentioned once in passing. albums you’ve said you wanted to find on vinyl. posters you looked at online but didn’t buy. stuff he’s planning on getting you one day when you’re not looking.
sometimes he ducks into record stores, pretending to just be killing time. he’s not. he’s always on a mission. band shirts. concert flyers. weird little pins and patches. things he’ll pretend are for him, but that you’ll “borrow” and never give back. you’ve got one of his shirts from a band you love but he insists he doesn’t even listen to. you wear it to bed. he doesn’t ask for it back. he wouldn’t dare.
you once told him music feels like a memory. and now you’re everywhere in his. you on the sidewalk, your hand brushing his as you walk. a glittery pop song bouncing in your earbuds. you in the train station, humming something old and dreamy while you wait. you in your room, dancing barefoot, arms up, eyes closed. you in the middle of chaos, sitting beside him, one headphone in each ear, a quiet song threading between you like a secret.
you are soft melodies and quiet lyrics. you are sound and silence. you are everything he listens for. and if you ever ask him why he knows the words to that obscure b-side from an indie band you loved in middle school, he’ll just shrug. “you played it a lot,” he’ll say. he won’t say: you’re my favorite song.
suguru has always admired quiet intelligence. the kind that hums beneath the surface, unshowy and sincere. he’s drawn to it instinctively, like a moth to a soft, flickering light. so when he meets you, that’s what he sees first—your mind. and it wrecks him in the gentlest way possible.
it starts innocently. libraries, museums, long walks with conversations that spiral into history, literature, philosophy. you speak in fully formed thoughts, but never to impress. you’re not trying to win anyone over. you simply love learning. and he, already enamored, finds himself craving your thoughts like oxygen.
when he visits your apartment for the first time, he’s stunned. not by grandeur, but by the sheer volume—books, everywhere. stacks balanced precariously on counters, dog-eared novels on the nightstand, paperbacks splayed open over chair arms, annotated hardcovers with coffee rings staining the corners. fiction and nonfiction, ancient epics and modern romances. worlds pressed between covers. it’s a home that lives and breathes. and in it, you—curled up on the floor with a novel half-finished, unaware of how magnetic it is to him, the way you’re so fully transported.
you read constantly. in coffee shops with earbuds in, at the park stretched out on the grass, on hikes with your shoes kicked off beside a lake, at the kitchen counter with a mug in hand. there’s always a book tucked under your arm or poking out of your bag. always a world you’re halfway through. he doesn’t know how you do it—two, sometimes three books a week—but he doesn’t question it either. you don’t read to impress anyone. you read because you must. because your soul demands it. and geto finds it breathtaking. he starts watching you, more than he means to. the way your brow furrows at dense paragraphs, the way you softly mouth certain sentences, as if tasting them. the hush in your touch as you turn a page. you don’t just consume stories—you commune with them. and quietly, without fanfare, geto begins to follow.
he asks about your favorites once, offhandedly. feigns a casual curiosity. what books made you who you are? you list them slowly, with that thoughtful precision he admires so much—wuthering heights, middlemarch, the count of monte cristo, a dozen more.
later that week, he finds them all. used copies with cracked spines and soft covers. he reads them one by one. slowly, carefully, like they’re holy relics. and every time, without fail, he sees you in them. in the softness of elizabeth bennet’s wit. in the aching loneliness of heathcliff. in the slow, righteous fire of edmond dantès. even when he doesn’t agree with the character, he understands you through them. sometimes, he borrows directly from your shelves. he prefers those. books that have passed through your hands already. books that still carry the imprint of you—your looping handwriting in the margins, little question marks, circled words, lines drawn between paragraphs like you’re mapping emotional terrain. there are sticky notes pressed between pages, phrases underlined, whole sections bracketed with commentary that leaves him reeling. you scribble things like this destroyed me or he deserved better or the most romantic line in the whole book. sometimes you draw—stars in the corners, little flowers beside the titles, smiley faces during happy endings. he never marks the books himself. he wants your voice preserved. untouched. like a kind of literary devotion.
he joins your goodreads, quietly. starts tracking your shelves. recommending things he finds. you laugh the first time you notice. but when he leaves a five-star review on something you love, it feels more intimate than any confession. like he’s trying to see you clearly. trying to be seen in return.
reading becomes its own love language. you’ll rest your head on his lap in the park at sunset, reciting passages aloud while he watches the way the golden light catches the curve of your lips. your voice is soft, lulling—part melody, part prayer. sometimes he closes his eyes and lets your narration lull him half to sleep, the sound of your words curling around him like incense. other times, he reads while you read—pressed side by side on the couch, each of you absorbed, the quiet between you a shared sanctuary.
he finds comfort in the quiet repetition of it all. in the soft flutter of turning pages. in the way your fingers always seem to reach for his shirt absentmindedly as you read, grounding yourself in his presence while your mind roams far away. you have your own little book club now. informal. just the two of you. you recommend things. he reads them. you talk about themes over dinner. cry about endings. rant about plot twists. there’s no structure. only devotion. sometimes, you gift him a book with a note tucked inside—this made me think of you. or I hope you love this the way I love you. he keeps them all. reads them slowly, letting them settle in his chest like snowfall. he’s never been one for grand declarations, but with you, everything feels like one. even silence.
geto has seen violence, grief, and chaos—more than most. but here, in this quiet world of words and warmth and well-worn pages, he finds peace. and in you—bright, brilliant, beautiful—you who lives a thousand lives a year through your books—he finds something even rarer: a reason to stay. and if he ends up falling in love with every protagonist you adore, it's only because you've taught him how.
it’s no secret that gojo loves to spoil his girlfriend. in fact, it’s practically public knowledge. it’s the kind of thing whispered behind hands in boutiques and murmured with disbelief in cafes. did you hear what he got her? she’s the one who wears the pink louboutins, right? the custom pair? I saw her with him at cartier last week. but here’s what people don’t understand: it’s not just the extravagance that makes it special. it’s not about dripping in labels or having closets lined with chanel. anyone with a black card can throw money around. what sets gojo apart—what makes it love, not just luxury—is how well he knows you.
because satoru doesn’t buy gifts for the sake of buying. he gives like he lives: loud, deliberate, and terrifyingly precise. he remembers everything. your favorite color isn’t just pink—it’s that blushy, powder-soft shade that looks like sunrise on your skin. your favorite scent isn’t just floral—it’s rose with bergamot, no jasmine. he knows your size in everything, from ring to heel to hoodie. he knows what fabrics you love, what textures you hate, which brands get it right and which ones just don’t understand your silhouette.
his days off—rare as they are—are often spent trailing behind you in luxury boutiques, sunglasses pushed into his hair, humming to himself as you drift through racks and displays. tiffany’s. dior. prada. cartier. the staff knows him by name, of course, but more importantly, they know you. because he’s made sure of that. you’re not his accessory. you’re the main event. they bring you sparkling water before you even ask. they remember the jewelry you tried on last month. they set aside pieces they think you’ll like, just in case he swings by again.
and while he’ll happily drape you in silk and diamonds, he knows that none of it gets your heart racing the way shoes do. that’s your shared weakness, really. not designer bags. not watches. not even the couture dresses he loves seeing you in. no, it’s heels. stilettos. platforms. pumps. laced, bedazzled, red-soled. manolo blahniks that make you feel like royalty. jimmy choos that click against marble like punctuation marks. the christian louboutin boutique practically knows your birthday by now. he sees it in your eyes when you step into the shoe department. the gleam. the shift in posture. the quiet awe. and he gets it. because while you’re busy falling in love with each pair, he’s falling in love with you all over again.
he never lets you buy shoes alone. it’s an unspoken rule. those try-ons—those moments when you slide your foot into something ridiculous and beautiful—those are for him. you, perched on a velvet stool. him, sprawled on the low settee, elbow propped on the armrest, smirking as you twirl for him. his approval is exaggerated, dramatic. he clutches his chest. tells the clerk it’s a crime how good you look. but when you sit down and glance at him, uncertain, he quiets. reaches for your hand. says, softer, you look perfect.
he leaves for missions sometimes. too often. long stretches with too few texts and blurry video calls where his voice is scratchy and tired. but even then, he never forgets. he’ll send a picture of a necklace he saw in milan that reminded him of you. he’ll drop a message that says, use my card today. buy something pretty. I want a private fashion show tonight. and you’ll laugh, roll your eyes, but comply. because it’s never about obligation—it’s about closeness. about feeling wanted even from a thousand miles away.
you used to hate it, the extravagance. the sheer amount of money he spent on you. it didn’t feel real at first. like playing dress-up in someone else’s life. there were nights you cried over it—convinced you didn’t deserve the time, the gifts, the affection. but gojo’s never had patience for that kind of thinking. he knocked those thoughts right out of your head. gently. repeatedly. unrelentingly.
because here’s the thing: for all his flash and flair, for all the arrogance the world sees, satoru’s love is terrifyingly earnest. he doesn’t give to impress. he gives because he sees you. really sees you. he knows that behind your closet of pretty things is someone who reads the same book ten times just to remember how it made them feel. someone who wears the same shoes until they’re broken in just right. someone who cries at dumb commercials and laughs until their stomach hurts.
he spoils you because it’s his love language. because he wants to cover you in reminders that you are wanted, adored, remembered. it’s not the necklace from morocco or the coat from tokyo that makes you feel loved—it’s that he knew the exact shape of pendant you’d want. the fabric that wouldn’t itch your neck. the tiny detail you once mentioned in passing and he never forgot.
this is what love looks like, in satoru’s world. not just diamonds, but diamonds cut to your taste. not just shoes, but shoes that make you feel like a weapon when you walk. not just luxury, but intention. and presence. and constancy. so when people say gojo spoils his girlfriend, they don’t get it. he doesn’t spoil you with things. he spoils you with knowing. and that’s what it means to be loved by him.
takuma plays call of duty and fortnite. nothing else. not out of snobbery—just habit. it’s what he knows. what he’s good at. fast-twitch reaction times, coordinated assaults, headshots. it’s loud, explosive, testosterone-fueled, and satisfying in the most surface-level kind of way. something he can win. something he can control.
you sit in his lap on game nights, nestled in the safety of his arms as he plays, letting your presence wrap around him like armor. he likes that part more than the actual matches—your warmth curled against him, the easy way your legs drape over his, the way you let him protect you even if it’s just pixels and an open field. you never care about winning. you’re the kind of player who hides in bushes, builds awkward little walls, and screams when enemies get close. he thinks it’s hilarious. he thinks it’s adorable. he thinks maybe he’s never had this much fun losing a game in his life.
when you mention you play too, it catches him off guard. not because he doesn’t believe you—but because what you play is so different. so soft. so quiet. games with no guns, no leaderboard, no carnage. you play things like animal crossing, stardew valley, unpacking. games about cleaning, building, making friends with deer in sweaters. you say it like an apology, like maybe it’s something childish. but all ino hears is that you have a world that brings you peace. and he wants to see it.
the first time he holds your pink nintendo switch, he fumbles the buttons, stares blankly at your character’s little house. you’ve named your island. you’ve laid out paths. there are flowers everywhere. it’s the opposite of every map he’s memorized, every arena he’s died in. and he finds himself smiling. genuinely smiling. it’s not like his games. there’s no urgency. no timer. no voice chat full of teenagers yelling slurs. just calm.
you let him customize his character, and he spends ten minutes picking out a beanie and flannel that match his real outfit. you laugh, call it uncanny. he pretends to grumble, but he’s proud of the resemblance. proud that you noticed.
from then on, he’s hooked. not in the obsessive, competitive way he’s used to—but something gentler. sweeter. the kind of interest that builds over time like ivy, curling up and around the corners of his routine.
he checks in on his villagers. he buys them gifts. he rearranges his furniture. he decorates his house with things he thinks would make you smile. he starts calling tom nook a scam artist, parroting your rants about interest rates and balloon payments with the intensity of someone who actually pays rent.
he starts to understand why you love it. it becomes a quiet ritual. on the couch, wrapped in blankets, your switch in his lap while he fishes or visits your museum. he finds comfort in the simplicity, in the soft loops of background music, in the way you nudge your head onto his shoulder and murmur things like you can put a fountain there or this villager reminds me of you. it’s the least demanding, most fulfilling kind of intimacy. no need to talk. just presence. just being.
eventually, you introduce him to stardew valley, and he surprises himself with how much he cares. about the farm. about the villagers. about the tiny pixelated chickens he names after his friends. he wakes up early in-game to water crops, picks out birthday gifts for the npcs, saves up for a barn expansion like it’s a life-or-death decision. he becomes obsessive in a way that’s almost funny—carefully planning the layout of the fields, mapping out seasonal rotations, memorizing fish spawn schedules. but underneath the min-maxing is something real.
it’s the first time he’s ever played a game that makes him want to stay. not fight, not win, not conquer—just stay. that’s what he realizes about playing with you. it’s not about skill. it’s not even really about the games. it’s about what they give you permission to do. to exist alongside each other. to carve out a little world where things are simple. kind. yours.
he teaches you mario kart in return. you’re terrible at first. but you try. you laugh when you fall off the track, scream when he tosses a blue shell at you. and ino, who has always been impatient, who swears under his breath and rages when he dies in call of duty, finds himself strangely calm. gentle. he lets you win sometimes. doesn’t say anything when you do. just watches you celebrate like it actually matters. and maybe it does.
you play everywhere. late at night on the couch. in the back of classrooms, screens hidden beneath the desk. on planes and trains and anywhere else that feels heavy. it’s a comfort. a way to say I love you without needing to speak it aloud. a shared language in pixels and crops and silly outfits. a way to be near each other when the world feels far too loud.
sometimes you fall asleep first, curled against him with your switch blinking beside you. he tucks it away for you. pulls the blanket up to your shoulders. presses a kiss to the top of your head and lets his own game idle while he just…watches you. he never thought playing “cozy games” would be his thing. but then again, he never thought anyone would love him like this—gently. without expectations. without needing him to be loud or strong or funny all the time.
choso isn’t exactly new to the world. not really. he’s existed long enough to have seen its worst, to know what it is to survive it. he knows violence like instinct, and silence like muscle memory. but this world—your world—is different. brighter. softer. sharper around the edges in the strangest of ways. he’s learned a lot, mostly thanks to yuuji. yuuji with his fast talking who’s tried to drag him into modern life one awkward step at a time. and choso’s adjusted, for the most part. but the thing that finally pulls him in, fully, completely, is the phone. you set it up for him. unlocked it, cleaned the screen, tucked it gently into his hands like you were giving him something precious. and to him, it is. he holds it like it might break. because it holds you.
you’ve set his lock screen to his favorite photo—one yuuji snapped without warning, a soft blur of the two of you tangled in sleep, your cheek pressed to choso’s chest, his arms tight around you. he doesn’t even remember it being taken. but he knows how it feels. the image alone makes him ache in the sweetest way.
you show him how to open the camera, how to take pictures. the result is an ever-growing album of blurry images, most of them of you. some are nearly abstract—his finger over the lens, or too much zoom, or crooked angles—but they’re yours. captured pieces of your face, your hands, your laughter frozen in low resolution. he scrolls through them sometimes just to feel close to you.
and the texts—those change everything. he used to hate leaving. missions with yuuji and gojo felt endless, stretched thin by distance and dread. he’d grown so used to loss, to disconnection, that being apart from you brought a cold, aching fear he couldn’t name. but now, he can reach you. at any time. wherever he is. that alone feels like a miracle.
and the best part? you always respond. quickly, warmly. a soft tether across any stretch of land. you ask him if he’s eaten, if he’s safe. you send blurry photos of the dinner you made. he saves every one. sometimes he responds simply—I miss you :[—because there’s nothing else to say, not really. the words don’t cover the shape of missing you, but he tries. he texts you when he sees a stray cat, crouched in an alley or sunbathing on a shrine step. sends a grainy photo, fuzzy around the edges, and waits for your inevitable cooing response. it never takes long. he sends you good morning texts, every single day. even if he’s tired. even if the mission ran late. even if the only thing he can type is "I love you.” it’s worth it. you told him once that it’s the first thing you check when you wake up. that stayed with him. that mattered.
when he discovers wikipedia, it becomes a daily ritual. he texts you links to things he doesn’t understand—“super bowl?” “sabrina carpenter?”—with only a question mark. you explain them patiently, laughing sometimes, but never cruel. he stores the knowledge away like it’s precious, because you gave it to him. because you didn’t make him feel stupid for not knowing. this is how he loves you: quiet, curious, deliberate. through effort. through learning.
he starts watching you on your phone—how your thumbs move, how you flick the screen to play solitaire or scroll instagram. he sits beside you, mesmerized, eyes tracking the glowing light as if it holds the key to something unknowable. when he finally caves and lets you help him make an instagram account, he uses it for one thing: you.
his entire grid becomes a shrine to your existence. photos of you with yuuji. candid snapshots of you tying your shoe. pictures of your hands, your back turned at sunset, your profile lit by a café’s warm light. no captions. no hashtags. just you.
he changes his home screen too. a photo you didn’t even know he took—just you, showing yuuji how to do something, your brows furrowed in concentration, your mouth mid-explanation. he looks at it when he’s overwhelmed. it grounds him. you ground him.
he still doesn’t like leaving. he probably never will. but now, when he’s alone, when the air feels cold and the silence too loud, he has you in his pocket. he has your texts, your voice messages, your digital footprints scattered across a device he once didn’t understand. he has proof that you’re real. that this love is real.
he takes photos every chance he gets. posts them. saves them. blurry or not, they mean something. they’re part of a world that doesn’t feel so scary anymore. not when you’re in it. because this isn’t about technology. not really. it’s about closeness. about connection. about finding a way to reach you, even when the world pulls him away. the phone is just a tool. but it’s a tool he cherishes. because it leads him back to you. every time.
you don’t eat like someone who loves food. and this, to nanami, is one of the most horrifying discoveries he’s ever made about you. you, the most beautiful person he’s ever met. you, with your expressive eyes and stubborn independence and your habit of choosing sleep over breakfast. you, with your ramen-for-dinner and black coffee-for-breakfast and "I forgot to eat lunch” like it’s a casual comment, not a red flag waving at full mast.
he is distressed. silently, of course. because he is nanami kento and he does not raise his voice unless the situation calls for it. but inside? there is a quiet, steady scream. you are everything good. and good things should be taken care of. fed. nourished. cherished. you don’t even know what it’s like to eat food that makes you feel something. and that’s a tragedy he can’t let stand.
so it begins. a simple offer. "I made too much,” he lies, setting down a container beside you without fanfare. “tell me if you like it,” he says, nonchalant. you eat it while hunched over your laptop. french toast, a little crisp on the edges, with just the lightest dusting of powdered sugar and homemade berry compote. you don’t even pause while typing, just shovel it down like you haven’t tasted something this good in years. maybe you haven’t.
he makes a note. literally. notes app, line by line.
– french toast (too sweet, still liked)
– pork tonkatsu (devoured)
– lemon bars (grimaced at first bite, then ate half the pan)
he starts to see it like a mission. the kind that makes him feel like there’s meaning in all this mess. you need to eat. he needs to understand you. both goals converge somewhere between a perfectly seared salmon filet and a cinnamon roll recipe that takes four hours and involves resting the dough overnight.
he brings you a little bento to work. says it’s because he had leftovers. he does not mention the three hours he spent the night before trying to recreate the exact version of the chicken katsu you said you liked from a random corner stall three years ago.
he takes you to cafés and pretends he’s interested in the drink flights they offer—coffee tastings, seasonal specials. he orders one of everything. you sip them all and scrunch your nose and then smile and steal whichever one he likes best. he lets you. of course he does. his apartment starts to smell like cinnamon and garlic and fresh baked bread. you tease him about being a grandma. he raises an eyebrow. you laugh and call him nana-nanami. he pretends to be offended. he is not. he is delighted.
one day you stumble on the notes. not intentionally—he left his phone on the counter and walked away to check on something in the oven. when he comes back, you’re holding it. reading. your eyes are wide, but not upset. curious. maybe even a little glassy.
“you…really kept track of all this?” he freezes. calculating how badly this could go. you’re private. a little shy. you don’t like people making you the center of attention.
"I just wanted to know what you liked,” he says, carefully.
you beam. beam. “we need to make some corrections,” you say, grinning. “you rated that curry too high. I only pretended to like it because I didn't want to hurt your feelings.” he’s both horrified and pleased. mostly horrified.
the next day, there’s a laminated poster on the fridge. color-coded. the last twenty recipes he’s made for you, listed in chronological order. you’ve added emojis and little comments and a completely unnecessary five-star rating system. he tells you it’s ridiculous. he also doesn’t stop smiling for the next 48 hours.
you start texting him when you see a meal that looks good. a tiktok pasta. a bakery's instagram reel. a picture of a weird street food that’s impossible to recreate, but nanami is not a quitter. he starts compiling them. starts planning weekends around them. one saturday, he makes you five different kinds of soup to see which one you like the best. you rank them all. he kisses you behind the ear while you’re laughing.
sometimes he still worries. when you’re tired. when you skip meals out of habit. when you say you’re not hungry, but your stomach growls anyway. he doesn’t scold you. he just sets something down in front of you. a warm slice of bread with salted butter. miso soup. rice and pickled plum. a soft cookie. tea with honey.
you don’t always say thank you. he doesn’t need you to. he watches you chew. watches your eyes light up when you take that first bite. he catalogs the way your face softens. the way your whole body relaxes. you say, "I didn’t know food could feel like this.”
and he says, "I did.” because food, to him, has always meant comfort. presence. warmth. love. funny how his two favorite things represent the same concepts.
sukuna was not…soft. he was not delicate. he didn’t show affection. and having you around didn’t change that. you were just a maid. your pants were covered in dust, your white shoes long since gone brown with dirt. you slaved away in his estate, and he allowed this because it was your job as one of his loyal subjects. he was a king, after all. he didn’t ask for your presence. you simply arrived. you remained.
but the king of curses found himself… drawn to you in an inexplicable, frankly offensive way. your cold fingers, not even long enough to wrap around one of his wrists. your smile—gentle and delicate while also stuffing him full of sunshine and adoration he didn’t see himself as capable of receiving. it was alarming. disturbing. so horrifically unlike him, he wondered if he was finally contracting one of those disgusting human diseases. tumor? must be.
but it didn’t deter him. he was curious. more than curious. invested, even. you were still allowed to clean, yes. but only his chambers. you weren’t a “maid” anymore, not to the rest of the staff. you were his consort. his companion. his chosen. no wedding was being planned. there was no ceremony. no declarations. but you slept in his bed. you ate from his table. you bathed in his private bathhouse, the one that faced the gardens and filled with steam that smelled like jasmine and mint. you wore slippers he’d picked, fabrics you liked.
you became his girl in every way that mattered. and you—gracious, generous, lovely you—took anything he was willing to give you. with no complaints. no demands. no expectations.
sukuna kept waiting for the shoe to drop. for you to wake up and demand more. for you to finally ask for a kiss, a love confession, a promise, a future. he wanted you to. he didn’t. he didn't know what he wanted, which was infuriating in and of itself.
so he started to try. not overtly. not in ways anyone else would notice. not in a way that he’d ever have to say out loud. but he tried. because he realized he knew everything else about you—what foods you liked, how you liked your tea steeped, the sound you made when you were too tired to speak but too polite to ignore him—and if he wanted to truly claim you, he needed to understand the things that made you light up.
you liked art. that became obvious quickly. he caught you staring at the same painting every day: van gogh’s irises, tucked in a hallway most people never paid attention to. he watched the way your steps slowed, your hand brushing the air like you wanted to touch it but knew better. at first he thought it was just idle curiosity. maids got bored, didn’t they? but you spoke about it later to one of the kitchen girls. described the brush strokes. said it made you feel something. sukuna could never forget the tone in your voice. soft. wistful. almost mournful. after that, he started paying attention.
he took you to a gallery once. the king of curses. in a mortal place, surrounded by fragile art. he cleared it out, of course. the only footsteps in the place were yours. you gasped and flitted from painting to painting, your hands clasped in front of you like it would keep the joy from spilling over. you beamed. and he—he watched. not the art. not the brushstrokes or the frames or the curators’ cards. you.
you told him about composition and color theory. you rambled about light and shadow and symbolism. and when you caught yourself and tried to backpedal, he stopped you. “can you not tell that your beautiful ramblings are all I desire now?” he growled, tone sharp but not unkind. “if I wanted you to stop, I would never have allowed you to begin.” you blinked. smiled. and continued.
your favorite was monet. the water lilies. the gardens. the foggy mornings and violet dusks. he didn’t know much about impressionism, but he knew you liked the softness of it. the warmth in it. the dreaminess. so he filled his estate with them. your favorite pieces, framed in gold and hung wherever he knew you’d pass. he memorized the way your breath caught every time you noticed one. how your smile grew soft, eyes going a little distant, like you’d stepped out of time.
you looked at the paintings like they were new every time. and—curse him—you looked at him the same way. he caught you once, in the quiet between dinner and bed, standing before the water lily pond in your thin nightclothes, eyes shining like you were trying not to cry. “it’s just…” you said, then trailed off. "I never imagined living somewhere that felt this beautiful.”
he scoffed, looking away. “you always had a ridiculous imagination.” but he stood closer to you that night. let his warmth cover you in roves. brushed your hair off your forehead when you slept.
he doesn’t tell you that your voice is the only sound he wants to hear echoing through his halls. he doesn’t admit that he kept one of your sketchbooks and looks through it when you’re not around. he doesn’t say that he listens when you talk about brushwork and painters and heartbreak and beauty, because it’s the only time he sees your soul fully bare. but he does learn. learns your favorite painter. your favorite painting. your favorite place to stand in the garden. your favorite shade of blue. and every time you smile, he counts it as a win. every time you gasp over a new piece of art, he logs it for later.
every time you look at him—truly look at him—he wonders if this is what it feels like to be seen by god. and if you ever ask him why he remembers so much, why he knows so much, he’ll sneer. “because you never shut up about it.” but when you leave the room, he’ll look at your favorite painting, and for a second, think of nothing else.
you could’ve guessed how every friday night for the rest of your life would look after just one month of knowing yuuji itadori. movies. always movies. and not just one or two—all of them. it was like he’d made it his life’s mission to watch every film ever made. and while he might not be quite that ambitious (yet), the determination? painfully real. he starts with horror, obviously—his favorite genre. gleefully grotesque, endlessly entertaining, full of jump scares and monsters that make you gasp and grip his arm like it’s a lifeline. he thinks it’s adorable. starts looking over just before the scare hits, waiting to catch your reaction in real time. you're better than the movie, he decides early on.
but one night, curled up together during a rewatch of human earthworm, you let your favorite movie slip. you say it casually, laughing, eyes shining. pride and prejudice, you tell him, the 2005 version. with keira knightley. the rain scene, you say, makes your soul levitate. and yuuji just stares at you like you’ve told him your greatest secret. later that night, alone in his dorm, he plugs his earbuds into his laptop, lies flat on his back, and watches it. beginning to end. no breaks. and he cries. a single, tragic man-tear, but it counts. no one will ever know this—no one—but something inside him shifts that night. he wakes up the next morning changed. reborn, even.
it’s a gateway drug. suddenly, you're binging period dramas like your lives depend on it. emma. little women. the bbc north & south. anything with slow-burn tension and women in gloves. he doesn't always understand the plot—what’s an entailment?—but he knows exactly when to look over at you. when your eyes start to glisten. when you reach for his hand. he starts pointing out characters who “give off darcy energy.” he’s usually wrong, but he tries. bless him.
then come the romcoms. the notebook. 10 things I hate about you. how to lose a guy in 10 days. he starts saying “frost yourself” without context. hitch has him giggling. clueless becomes an inside joke—he starts calling you “cher” every time you wear plaid. and of course, the comedies. adam sandler. scary movie. hot rod. dumb and dumber. nacho libre. you two watch shrek 2 so many times, you’re convinced yuuji and you could recite the entire movie shot-for-shot, line-for-line.
then comes the hunger games, and everything changes again. yuuji sobs during catching fire. openly. no shame. clutches you like he’s the one volunteering as tribute. he insists he would survive the arena if you were his partner. definitely. “we’d be the katniss and peeta of the jujutsu world,” he says with full sincerity. and that’s how you know you’re in deep.
but really, the movies aren’t the point. you are. the way your eyes light up during the opening credits. the way you gasp and laugh and cry. the way you hide in his side when the music gets creepy. the way you mouth your favorite lines like incantations. you watch him like he hung the stars. and he watches you like you are one. maybe the one. especially when you pause the movie just to explain an obscure plot twist to him, or go on a passionate tangent about why titanic has the dumbest ending ever. arguments have been won and lost over whether or not rose could’ve fit on that door.
you watch them everywhere. in his dorm, in yours. in the student lounge with popcorn smuggled in hoodies. on classroom projectors after hours. in the backseat of a car during road trips. curled up on airport benches with his coat draped over your legs. sometimes, when you’re away on a mission and he’s missing you so hard his chest aches, you sync your laptops and facetime. three seconds off. buffering constantly. but he doesn’t care. he still gets to watch your face, soft and illuminated by the glow of your screen. sometimes, he misses the entire plot just watching you.
spring break comes, and neither of you go home. you choose each other instead. and you binge like it’s a competitive sport. harry potter. lord of the rings. the hobbit. every twilight movie, which he pretends to hate and definitely doesn’t. all twenty-one seasons of grey’s anatomy. he gets weirdly into it. shushes you when derek is on screen. says “it’s not just a show, it’s an education.” he’s firmly convinced he could perform surgery now. definitely an appendectomy. probably a heart transplant with a diagram and enough adrenaline.
you build blanket forts. lay on the floor like starfish. curl into each other on his narrow twin bed, limbs tangled like headphones in a pocket. sometimes you’re in his lap, back to his chest, criss-cross-applesauce. sometimes, you’re draped over him like a human throw blanket, and he’s playing with your hair while you trace shapes on his forearm with your fingertip. there’s a half-eaten bag of chips beside you, a flickering laptop on the windowsill, and the steady hum of home.
it’s romantic. it’s stupidly domestic. it’s the kind of soft that makes your teeth ache and your chest feel too small. and yuuji—yuuji, who once swore allegiance only to horror movies and kung fu flicks—would watch anything if it meant watching it with you. even pride and prejudice. especially pride and prejudice.
