󠁪󠁪ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ𐔌՞. ⌞ st✮r メ 21 メ they/sheꜝꜝ⌝.՞𐦯

୭ ˚.⁺⊹ .ᐟ nanami's #1 simp, argue with the wall. 18+, mdni. suggestive content ahead!

󠁪󠁪ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ𐔌 tag system .ᐟ 𐦯

ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ⌞ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ#⚝:✏️ ┆ #⚝:💭 ┆ #⚝:🧩 ⌝

󠁪󠁪ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ𐔌 masterlists .ᐟ 𐦯

there are certain things about yourself that you’d rather not think about. for example, why is it that when you look at suguru you get a certain feeling of longing?

  you stare at him; his long black hair, well-kept, either in a bun or half-up. his thin, expressive eyebrows, his lips, his entire existence triggers something in you that you do not understand. do you want to be him, or be with him? 

  “what’s up?” suguru’s voice snaps you out of your daze, making you blink repeatedly to clear the fog in your mind. you sit slumped with your arms crossed right over your chest. he caught you. the sounds of people talking, the voice of a customer coming from the speaker of the drive-thru, the squelching sounds of an employee walking over a stain of mysterious origins—everything came flooding your senses. 

  “nothin’,” you mutter, looking away, embarrassed by being caught. “just zoned out.” you excuse yourself lamely. 

  “uh-huh,” he seems not to believe you. zoning out, right. he could practically hear the rusty gears turning in your mind. “you were thinking. it’s a miracle. it worries me. so, talk.” his playful demand belies the worry he feels. 

  you playfully punch his arm, shaking your head with a small smile grazing your lips. “it’s nothing, man. just…” you bite your lip, briefly looking at him, then around, like you’re worried someone might eavesdrop this unimportant conversation. “you’re attractive, it pisses me off.” this time, it’s him who huffs out a laugh and punches your arm.

  he thinks for a second. “i am attractive,” he concedes — like it’s an opinion and not just, like, a fact. like the sky is blue and that the sun comes out every day. “but why does it piss you off?” suguru inquired, curious, almost preoccupied. 

  you exhale, slumping. “i don’t know, that’s the thing.” it’s not like you’re, like, trans or whatever. it’s just… you know you’d be happier looking less… like a woman? but even that motion doesn’t fully explain it. you like being a woman, you just don’t like being who you are. is this some sort of existential crisis disguised as a crush? it’d be cruel. but hey, life has this tendency of being cruel! 

  “that doesn’t help me help you, cutie.” he clicked his tongue, motioning you to stand from the booth you were sitting in. he grabbed the tray where the papers that wrapped the tacos you two had just devoured and emptied it on the trashcan, “care to explain?” he set the tray right where it belonged. 

  “... i dunno.” you followed him outside. the sun was high in the clear sky, making you squint your eyes because of the glare. “it’s just… i wish i was pretty like you, y’know?”

  suguru titled his head to the side, looking at you. “but you are good looking already…?” he seemed to question. you pursed your lips.

  “okay, first off thanks for the compliment. second, i don’t mean it like that. i mean, like, you have a certain type of beauty that transcends gender. i want that.” was that a clear explanation? you think it is. does he want you to spell it out for him? 

  suguru paused for a second, but his steps didn’t falter. he hummed, thinking. now it’s your turn to be worried. what is he thinking about now?

  “... you do know it’s legal, right?” he asked, and your brows furrow. 

  “what is legal?” you question.

ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ 󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪 ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ 󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ 󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ 󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ 󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ 󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ 󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ 󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ 󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ 󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ 󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ 󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ 󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ 󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ 󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ 󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪꒰ ᧔ one punch man ᧓ ꒱

♡ saitama

󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪 » cookie thief!!

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ 󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪 ꒰ ᧔ jujutsu kaisen ᧓ ꒱

♡ gojo satoru

󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪 » grieving

󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪 » seven minutes in heaven with nerdjo! (+18)

󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪 » satoru annoying you. that's the post

♡ nanami kento

󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪 » "it isn't worth the hassle"

󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪 » caring for you

󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪 » baker!nanami (pt.1)

♡ ryomen sukuna

󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪 » is he jealous?

󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪 » six seeeveeeen

♡ ieri shoko

󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪 » is it casual? (+18) [soon to be rewritten!]

♡ fushiguro toji

󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪 » [coming soon...]

♡ geto suguru

󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪 » "everything i touch turns to poison" [soon to be rewritten!]

󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪 » he hit me and it felt like a kiss

󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪 » gender crisis at taco bell

♡ ino takuma

󠁪󠁪󠁪󠁪 » [coming soon...]

you knew of gojo’s personality; people warned you. yaga warned you. utahine warned you. shoko warned you. but still, you were unprepared for the things he’d come up with.

“good morning, gojo, i was just reading your report and—” you started, opening the door of his office and flipping through the pages of the report. high-risk mission for anyone that wasn't a special grade sorcerer, and even then, it was still risky. and gojo couldn't fill out the report correctly. 

“yes, daddy?” he asked, looking at you with puppy eyes. you paused. visibly, too. your brows furrowed immediately, and you blinked three consecutive times, like blinking would help clear out the confusion. your mouth opened and closed, words getting stuck in your throat.

“i…” you started, closing your eyes for a second. breathe, chill. he is a special grade, you need to remind yourself. “you know what? nevermind. i’ll fix the report myself.” you turned on your heel, not even attempting to say anything else. what else could you actually say? nothing! because what even is going through that man’s mind!?

“thanks, daddy!” gojo called out, and you felt your eye twitching. if when you kill yourself, you’ll know who to blame.

another time was one random evening. you were all done, ready to go home after a long day. he came to you, walking with heavy footsteps and a small frown on his face. you thought of the worst. despite everything, a part of you worried—who knows what he's been through, being the strongest and all?

“hey… can i ask you something?” gojo spoke in a low tone. you stopped organizing your documents in your folder to look up at him, tilting your head. 

“what's wrong?” you asked, putting a hand on his arm. “are you okay?”

his lips twitched. first red flag.

“do you like sucking on toes?” gojo asked out of nowhere. you dropped your hand from his arm. the face of worry dropped, too. your entire face changed—a bit of a flush on your face (doesn't this cross all the lines of professionalism?!), but, more than anything, exasperation and shock.

“gojo satoru! what the fuck!?” you stammered, flailing for any normal response, or... anything! but you just… sighed. “dear lord, give me patience.” you prayed out loud, covering your face and turning away. you didn't even finish filing your papers. 

“it's an honest question!” he pouted. you shook your head as you walked away. despite the annoyance, you still laughed. he laughed, too.

the first time you said something almost as absurd as the things he's been saying to you, however, that shocked him.

“we should fight.” you told him, leaning against a railing. 

“like, spar?” he asked. it was getting normal for the two of you to just… hang out. even if neither one had noticed it. together on the school rooftop, in his office, walking around… sometimes with the excuse of work, sometimes not even an excuse was needed. 

“uh, no.” you looked at him, “i meant fight.”

he opened his mouth to argue. “we should be making love, not war! why would you fight me!?” 

“girl, fuck your love.” you tsked. “you inspire violence in me. something deep within me, something ancient, recognizes your soul and wants to beat its ass.” the explanation was simple.

“... damn, and i thought we were best friends.”

it's two a.m. people are loud and annoying, but your friends insisted on coming because, quoting them, “you're always in your dorm! let's do something fun!” 

now you're probably the only sober person standing, cradling your second or third watered-down drink—a mix of cheap rum with juice and lots and lots of ice. you're not drunk, just enough to dull the edges of annoyance that threaten to ruin your mood and be a little bit more social. at least slightly more social than usual, which is basically… well, anything's an improvement. thank goodness for alcoholic beverages and their numbing effects! 

“let's play truth or dare!” someone suggested.

“isn't that, like, childish?” another voice pitched in, “we're adults. let's play seven minutes in heaven.” you groaned. people really are just looking for excuses to hook up, huh. or, at the very least, make out. oh, hormones and alcohol should not mix together. always leads to disaster.

but, then again—you’ve never actually played the game. it could be fun! besides, when was the last time you kissed someone? you can exactly recall the moment: it was your ex, four years ago, in their fugly, dirty car. when you were eighteen. it's been a damn long time since you've had any action; so long, in fact, your virginity has been restored. yeah, let's go with that.

“i wanna play.” you walked your way to the circle, sitting criss-cross-applesauce, swirling the contents of your red solo cup. at this point, it was just watered down juice. your friends cheered, acting like it was a miracle that you, for once, decided to participate in something like this. 

the game began—a couple walked in, and a weird sound could be heard from the inside of the closet, and when they came out, one of them had a hickey the size of a quarter on their neck. you huffed, sipping on the cup. 

Your lips twitched in that particular way that only meant trouble. Sukuna watched your bowed head, hair creating a curtain that hid your features. Your hands were clasped in front of you, nearly twitching in giddiness.

"My Lord," your voice was deceptively steady, but you didn't meet Sukuna's gaze. He furrowed his brows—what could you be thinking about, requesting to be in his presence? Why did you request a private audience?

"Speak up, woman." He almost snapped, but he kept calm. The affection he held for you made him hold his tongue back. Most of the time, anyway.

You raised your hands to be just below chest level, like you were shrugging. Your gaze finally met his, lower lip trembling like you were holding back a grin. And you were, too.

"Six-seven." You did the gesture: moving your hands slightly up and down, like a balance. Silly, of course. Sukuna just groaned. Was this just another one of these human “trends” you kept blabbing about?

"What the fuck does this even mean? Six-seven? Sixty-seven? Sixty-seven what?" He barked, and, by this time, you couldn't hold back the giggles. Truth was, not even you understood what it meant—the absurdism and meaninglessness of it was the most amusing thing.

You shrugged, a dumb smile on your face that only made the annoyance of his features get deeper. It's not that he finds you, specifically, annoying. It's just that... The things you do and say are annoying. Especially when you laugh like that, it makes him mellow out. He's supposed to be a king. Not... A puppy Rottweiler; something that barely looks scary but is soft on the inside.

"Psht." Sukuna scoffed, rolling his eyes. He beckoned you with two fingers, and you obeyed. Natural, of course. "You're rotting your brain."

"So you think I'm dumb." You countered, sitting on his lap. "You think I'm dumb and want me to die."

He clicked his tongue. "Yes. You're dumb. And I sometimes want you to die." Lies. Obviously.

"It's okay. I want you to die most of the time, too." Lies. Duh.

Silence.

A screeching silence that fills the room while blood rushes to your eardrums, white flashing behind your eyelids and a dark fog clouding your mind. Anger, guilt, a churning of anxiety in the pit of your stomach, a cloying feeling that made your tongue a dead weight in your mouth. Words wouldn't come out.

He stands in front of you, a mask of worry covering the satisfaction that lingers in his eyes. His chest heaves like he just ran a marathon. You can still feel his voice ringing in your mind, but no word is clear. Curses mix with the sweet words he told you as late as last night. The person in front of you is a stranger wearing the face of the one you love.

“Darling…” He speaks, but you can't meet his gaze, blurred by tears you hadn't realized were accumulating in your eyes. “Hey, look at me.” He coos, and your lips tremble. He reaches out, and you flinch back. “You know I wouldn't hurt you on purpose, right?”

Lies. Lies. Lies. You know the lies, you've heard them time after time.

“I'm just… I'm sorry. I just reacted without thinking,” the excuse is as old as time. “I wasn't being myself, baby. I…” He laughs, a self deprecating sound that pierces under your skin like a million needles.

“If you know how I get, why would you provoke me?” He speaks again, but you can barely hear him over the painful tingling on your cheek. A bruise blooming like a flower in spring, like the reddest of roses with the sharpest thorns.

“I'm not worth it, baby. I'm… I'm so fucking broken, you deserve better.” He sits on the edge of the couch, rubbing his face. Like he regrets it. Like the tingling sensation in the back of his palm isn't the most exciting feeling in the world, like he doesn't feel an itch to do it again—but where's the fun in that? No, he wants to look at your pretty face with just enough damage to justify his actions. He wants to look in your eyes and see the betrayal you feel whenever he lays a hand on you. Not that he does it often, of course!

Just enough to keep you in his life. Just enough to keep you eating from his palm. Just enough for him to convince you that he loves you and it's for your own sake. That you can't leave him. That your life without him will fall apart; and it probably will, if he's honest with himself. Worship the devil long enough and forget he's not the real god, or whatever people say.

Suguru Geto knows how to keep you to himself.

“Sugu…” Your sweet voice comes through, like an innocent lamb trying to appease the heartless butcher that holds the knife. What could you even say? A part of you knows better. But do you, though? Would the one you love hurt you without reason? He surely has his motives! The end justifies the means and all that, right? He's just looking out for you!

“I'm sorry.” You whisper, sniffling. Your lip was split, your eyes red from trying to hold back the tears. You had to be strong, didn't you? For him, who's weak. For him, who you had to protect from himself even when you couldn't feel half of your face. Even when you were pretty sure you swallowed a chip of your tooth.

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have… I shouldn't have provoked you.” Your lips trembled just like your hands, insecurity weaved in each word you spoke, threaded deeply in your vocal chords. “I'm so sorry, baby.” The nickname came like second nature, just like the honest apologies that spilled from your lips but never his.

Tears fell from his eyes, but you had to swallow yours back. “I'm so sorry,” he murmured over and over again like a broken record. Like you're the one that hurt him. The one that keeps on hurting him over and over again.

Was he honest? You could only hope so. He had to be, right? He had to be honest. He had to be. You could only pray that he was. He has to be.

Ever since the Shibuya Incident, Nanami’s life took a turn. What was the catalyst, really? Maybe it was when that curse burnt more than half his body. Maybe it was when he saw his long lost best friend, Haibara, in front of him. Maybe it was when he saw Itadori’s eyes, terrified for him, seeing one of his tutors between life and death…

He left the sorcerer life, knowing that he'll lose his own before he even has a good chance at it. It wasn't worth it. He'd rather retire early, follow his dream of living in Malaysia for a season or two before returning to the place he could call home and opening the bakery of his dreams. A safe haven, where the warmth of the ovens wrapped him in an embrace and the only harsh thing he'd have to face is perhaps kneading some dough. Where the riskiest thing that could happen is burnt caramel and cakes that don't rise.

“What are your qualifications?” Nanami Kento asked you, looking at you over the frame of his reading glasses. What can he get from your curriculum? A college student that hasn't accomplished much is not something worth hiring. “Why should I hire you?”

You sat in silence for a second (or two, or maybe ten) before speaking, “because I'm pretty and you need an employee?” You at least hoped it landed as a joke as you intended, but the blond man in front of you only pursed his lips and jotted something down in a notebook.

“Don't you have any previous job experience? I see your CV is pretty… Empty.” You could only grimace. If only you had listened to your mother’s advice and listed the times you helped your little siblings with their homework as private tutoring, (nevermind that your little sister got a zero in a math homework because you were overconfident in your knowledge, or lack therefore of), or the time you changed a lightbulb as an example of initiative. But no. No clubs, no references (other than a distant family member), no previous experience, no nothing.

“... I’m pretty good at teamwork!” You provided with a little hopeful smile.

“I don't have any other employees. It'd be just you in the front, me in the kitchen.” With each of his words, that glimmer of hope that shone in your eyes dimmed a little more. How can someone be so... Detached? Apathetic? Is he permanently bitter at life and you'll regret even applying?

“I… am pretty good with people…?” If you stated that or were you asking, Nanami still wonders.

With a sigh, Nanami removes his reading glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. Honestly, he might have to hire you, despite the very obvious signs that he shouldn't; there haven't been many candidates, and, honestly? Someone fresh out of college might be… Malleable. Like a blank canvas. No experience means no expectations and he can teach you how to do things correctly—or at least, correctly according to him.

“How good are you with numbers?” He was defeated, you could see right through him.

“I'm pretty good!” A lie. Bold, gigantic lie. Terrible. You even had to double check how much one plus one was to make sure you hadn't made a mistake

“Do you know how to spell?”

“Of course.” You nodded, and he just sighed. Did he think you're that dumb?

“Those… those are my cookies.” You point at the cookies he had in hand, “I left them there while I went to the bathroom.” You explained, even if, duh, you shouldn't have to. The cookies weren't where they were supposed to be, so by logic, someone called dibs on them. And that someone was you.

“Huh?” Saitama asked with that unique face of his. Deadpan, with some boredom in those… eyes that oddly reminded you that you have to buy eggs. “They were on the veggie aisle, not in a cart or basket. So I grabbed them.” He explained with some annoyance in his tone because, duh, he thinks it's the most obvious thing.

“I called dibs on them.” You tried to reach for them, but he put them just out of your reach. Asshole.

“Nuh-uh. They're mine now, should've put them in a basket.” He shrugged a shoulder, putting them in his basket in the most shameless way possible.

“The fuck you mean ‘nuh-uh’? Those are my cookies!” You tried to reach for them again, but nope! He just moves out of your way. “Man, I just needed to go to the bathroom! Can't you understand that!?”

A rational adult would say something along the lines of hey, sorry! Here ya go! Alas, Saitama was anything but. He was hungry, frustrated (because he has defeated yet another monster with one. Single. Punch.) and that brand was on sale. And it was the last of them. He is not about to give them up. Especially to someone so careless. Really, how hard was it to put the stupid cookies in a basket!?

“You snooze, you lose. Now leave me alone.” And with that, the caped man left. His boots were making a squelching sound with each step he took, which only seemed to add to your sour mood.

“Man…” You grumbled under your breath, this time grabbing a cart so you could continue shopping for groceries.

The next day, things didn't seem to go well for you either. Have you been cursed with bad luck? Or maybe you're paying for some past life karma.

That egg-headed, cookie-stealing bitch is your neighbor. Were you pleased by finding out this morning when you went out for work and he was also there? No. In fact, you almost called the police, thinking that he followed you home.

“You…!” There was an accusation in your voice, and in the way you pointed a finger at him, “you followed me home!”

“And you are…?” Oh, so now he was pretending he didn't know you? Low. That was too low, even for a stalker.

“You're the guy that stole my cookies!”

“Oh my god you're that crazy person!” Now he could recognize you. “I live here. Seems like we're neighbors…”

Your eye twitched. Only two interactions, and he was already stressing you out. Would your hair fall out by the fifth one? Would you look like him if—when your hair fell out? You probably should start investing in some rosemary oil to prevent it.