𝐀,

oil up summer

[6ives]

──────── ꒰ 𓈒 ׁ ︎ ︎ SIXIVES ! ㅅ `͈ 𓏼 )ა meet me at the beach 💋

jjk centered ⎯ but can be versatile . male / female / gn reader fics . mostly red flag reader . dead dove : do not eat . x male characters only . dom reader (mostly) . occ characters . phycological manipulation . dark themes . violence . unhealthy relationships . occasional smut / fluff if i run out of plot . one shots . my fics are purely fiction .

jjk ₍ᐢᐢ₎

﹙male reader﹚ mirage ⎯⎯ sick gojo satoru x dead male﹙angst﹚ godbody ⎯⎯ devout suguru geto x human male reader﹙dark﹚ december remembers ⎯⎯ unresolved yuji itadori x attached male reader﹙angst﹚ competition ⎯⎯ rival nanami kento x egoistic male reader﹙smut﹚ taste of blood ⎯⎯ narrator gojo satoru x tyler durden male reader﹙dark﹚

﹙female / gn reader﹚ hot topic . pt2 ⎯⎯ frat ryomen sukuna x nosey female reader﹙fluff ﹚ mistakes ⎯⎯ toxic ryomen sukuna x delusional female reader﹙angst﹚ slow down ⎯⎯ biker ryomen sukuna x dead gn reader﹙angst﹚ deadwater ⎯⎯ pirate gojo satoru x siren gn reader﹙light﹚ flushed ⎯⎯ nerd gojo satoru x dense female reader﹙fluff ﹚

extraaaa ₍ᐢᐢ₎

﹙male reader﹚ milk the milkman ⎯⎯ doppelganger francis mosses x security male reader﹙smut﹚ fermented ⎯⎯ ex fwb male character x possessive male reader﹙dark﹚ fornever ⎯⎯ hesitant male character x longing male reader﹙angst﹚

﹙female / gn reader﹚ his final course ⎯⎯ manipulative hannibal lector x naïve gn reader﹙dark﹚

[6ives]

FLUSHED learn pickup lines 𝑤. ͏͏gojo ac. 9enesiass ಎ ⎯⎯ 　✉️ 𝔣 reader

nerd gojo & fem reader, awkward gojo, occ characters

nerd 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 who cannot flirt even if it meant that his life was on stake, yet still tries to hit you up cus he has a confidence of an ugly straight white man

ಎ ⎯⎯ ✉️

nerd 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 who WAITS till you start chugging down your coffee before blurting out stupid shit in hopes of swoonin you up,

"are you.. uhm.. like.. made of copper and tellurium?" he waits painfully long before continuing, "because you’re Cu-Te." and when your thoughts are, tf is ts ho on ab, he scrambles around, mumbling to himself "no-- you know the periodic table? its.. its a chemistry joke aha.. sorry, do you.. do you want me to explain?"

AND HE FUCKING DOES EXPLAIN. like for two FULL minutes. this mf didn't even notice you choking on your coffee.

ಎ ⎯⎯ ✉️

nerd 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 who decides to "play it cool" by casually sliding into the seat next to you in the library.

except he miscalculates the distance and before he knows it, the chair screeches loud and eventually falls along with the manchild.

but the great gojo satoru does NOOT give up, instead, he whispers while still laid out on the ground,

“i fell for you,” (tht korean heart thingy included) “are you done?” “yes, sorry.”

ಎ ⎯⎯ ✉️

nerd 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 who tries to be subtle. you’re prob complaining about being tired and this man, dead serious, will go on

“well, you must be exhausted.. from running through my mind all day,” he blurts.

there’s a pause. a loooong pause.

in his mind, he got you speechless-- which he did, just not for the right reason, and he starts nodding to himself like he’s proud.

ಎ ⎯⎯ ✉️

nerd 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 who picks the worst possible time-- mid-argument about a group project,

“are you a 90-degree angle? because you’re looking right.”

he got tomatoes thrown at him after that.

ಎ ⎯⎯ ✉️

nerd 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 who literally practices pickup lines in the mirror. he times them, with different ways of saying it, with different smiles-- deepen his dimples or lazy smirk? (he looks constipated doing it, but he's cute so lets slide it ok? ok.)

he's convinced you'll fall for him if he adjusts his glasses. but when he finally approaches you at the vending machine, all that comes out is,

"doyoubelieveinloveatfirstsight,orshouldiwalkpastagain?” im not kidding u when i say that this man actually turns around to redo it. while he’s halfway through the second attempt is when he trips over someone’s bag AND THEN CONTINUED TO WALK.

you didn't understand what he said, so for you, gojo rapped some bs, walked all the way towards the gates, returned back after falling face first just to hit you with a pose with his hands on his hips.

ಎ ⎯⎯ ✉️

nerd 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 who thinks the best time to confess he likes you is during a study group. in front of everyone because he read somewhere that confidence is attractive. so when you lean over his shoulder to look at his notes, he freezes, ears red, and says way too loudly,

"if you were a triangle, you’d be acute one." the room goes silent. you blink at him. he immediately adds, softer this time, "i mean… you are. cute. not-- mathematically. i mean, also mathematically, but--"

he doesn’t sleep that night. but he keeps the way you smiled at him stored like a sacred relic.

ಎ ⎯⎯ ✉️

nerd 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 who pretends the cheesy lines are ironic, but he highlights the ones he thinks would make you laugh specifically. he notices the way you tuck your hair behind your ear. he notices when you’re tired. he notices everything.

and every terrible joke is just his very nerdy way of saying, please like me back.

[6ives]

FLUSHED learn pickup lines 𝑤. ͏͏gojo ac. 9enesiass ಎ ⎯⎯ 　✉️ 𝔣 reader

nerd gojo & fem reader, awkward gojo, occ characters

nerd 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 who cannot flirt even if it meant that his life was on stake, yet still tries to hit you up cus he has a confidence of an ugly straight white man

ಎ ⎯⎯ ✉️

nerd 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 who WAITS till you start chugging down your coffee before blurting out stupid shit in hopes of swoonin you up,

"are you.. uhm.. like.. made of copper and tellurium?" he waits painfully long before continuing, "because you’re Cu-Te." and when your thoughts are, tf is ts ho on ab, he scrambles around, mumbling to himself "no-- you know the periodic table? its.. its a chemistry joke aha.. sorry, do you.. do you want me to explain?"

AND HE FUCKING DOES EXPLAIN. like for two FULL minutes. this mf didn't even notice you choking on your coffee.

ಎ ⎯⎯ ✉️

nerd 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 who decides to "play it cool" by casually sliding into the seat next to you in the library.

except he miscalculates the distance and before he knows it, the chair screeches loud and eventually falls along with the manchild.

but the great gojo satoru does NOOT give up, instead, he whispers while still laid out on the ground,

“i fell for you,” (tht korean heart thingy included) “are you done?” “yes, sorry.”

ಎ ⎯⎯ ✉️

nerd 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 who tries to be subtle. you’re prob complaining about being tired and this man, dead serious, will go on

“well, you must be exhausted.. from running through my mind all day,” he blurts.

there’s a pause. a loooong pause.

in his mind, he got you speechless-- which he did, just not for the right reason, and he starts nodding to himself like he’s proud.

ಎ ⎯⎯ ✉️

nerd 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 who picks the worst possible time-- mid-argument about a group project,

“are you a 90-degree angle? because you’re looking right.”

he got tomatoes thrown at him after that.

ಎ ⎯⎯ ✉️

nerd 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 who literally practices pickup lines in the mirror. he times them, with different ways of saying it, with different smiles-- deepen his dimples or lazy smirk? (he looks constipated doing it, but he's cute so lets slide it ok? ok.)

he's convinced you'll fall for him if he adjusts his glasses. but when he finally approaches you at the vending machine, all that comes out is,

"doyoubelieveinloveatfirstsight,orshouldiwalkpastagain?” im not kidding u when i say that this man actually turns around to redo it. while he’s halfway through the second attempt is when he trips over someone’s bag AND THEN CONTINUED TO WALK.

you didn't understand what he said, so for you, gojo rapped some bs, walked all the way towards the gates, returned back after falling face first just to hit you with a pose with his hands on his hips.

ಎ ⎯⎯ ✉️

nerd 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 who thinks the best time to confess he likes you is during a study group. in front of everyone because he read somewhere that confidence is attractive. so when you lean over his shoulder to look at his notes, he freezes, ears red, and says way too loudly,

"if you were a triangle, you’d be acute one." the room goes silent. you blink at him. he immediately adds, softer this time, "i mean… you are. cute. not-- mathematically. i mean, also mathematically, but--"

he doesn’t sleep that night. but he keeps the way you smiled at him stored like a sacred relic.

ಎ ⎯⎯ ✉️

nerd 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 who pretends the cheesy lines are ironic, but he highlights the ones he thinks would make you laugh specifically. he notices the way you tuck your hair behind your ear. he notices when you’re tired. he notices everything.

and every terrible joke is just his very nerdy way of saying, please like me back.

[6ives]

COMPETITION rivarly 𝑤. ͏͏nanami ac. thatsallichief ಎ ⎯⎯ ✉️ 𝔪 reader

american psycho au, nsfw, ooc nanami, mention of violence, unhealthy relationship, dom top reader, ewb, nsfw, tit play or sum shi like tha idk, voyeurism(?), bj (r receiving), degradation, poorly written smut.

the first thing you notice about 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎 is that he is not trying, and that, more than anything else, is what irritates you. he wasn't performative like the way the others are, doesn’t lacquer himself in irony or feigned indifference.

no, he stands at the edge of the room during quarterly meetings, immaculate but unostentatious, his suit tailored with a precision that suggests quiet money rather than desperate wealth. and when he speaks? people listen, not because he demands attention, but because his voice carries the weight of competence.

you hate that. competence should be loud, it should shine, should be seen. your name, on the other hand, is always seen.

[name] [last name]. senior vice president, perfect complexion, penthouse resident, curator of taste. your business card is bone-white with subtle embossing, your mornings are rituals, your life is a careful curation of surfaces. you believe, fervently, that superiority is something that must be displayed. you were someone to be envied upon.

after all, you're flawless, perfect even. and yet, last week, someone mistook nanami for you. it was a simple error, sure. a junior associate, flushed and eager, rushed up to him in the elevator lobby and congratulated him on your recent deal.

nanami corrected her politely, almost apologetically. but the damage had already been done. you watched from across the marble floor as the associate laughed, embarrassed, and then unthinkably continued talking to nanami anyway.

you didn't bother hiding your clenched jaw.

that evening, you invite nanami over. you phrase it as professional courtesy, a competitive détente disguised as civility. drinks, and classy conversation. you tell yourself it’s about networking, about fostering mutual respect among equals.

you knew that was a lie. you need him gone. disappeared.

your apartment, when he arrives, is exactly as you intend it to be, pristine. it was glass and steel with muted neutrals arranged with museum-level deliberation. the city sprawls below you, obedient and small.

you watch nanami take it in, except it wasn't with awe-- which would have pleased you, but instead it was with calm appraisal, "impressive,” he says, finally setting his coat aside. “you must get a lot of light.”

was he implementing that you couldn't afford electricity bill?

yeah. that had to be it.

you pour the drinks with a steady hand, deliberately angling the bottle so the label catches the light. it was vintage, expensive enough to be spoken about in reverent tones. nanami accepts his glass, thanks you, and takes a sip.

but he doesn’t comment. nevertheless, you continue to pivot seamlessly into your collection. vinyl records in flawless condition-- first editions as well. art pieces acquired through connections that took years to cultivate. each item is a statement, a challenge. you expect admiration. envy, at least.

or perhaps you just wanted him feel inferior before he took his final breath.

nanami listens and he nods. he asks questions-- but not the kind that reveal insecurity, it was almost as if his curiosity was genuine. “you enjoy this?” he observes, gesturing lightly around the room, "of course i do,” you reply.

“taste is discipline.” a low hum escapes from him, "maybe,” he says. “i think it’s just another language people use to tell the world who they are, but it's an easy way to hide who you truly are, don't you think so?”

the words land uncomfortably close. you had planned to kill him, for peace you stated, but the conversation keeps unfolding against your expectations. he speaks of work not as conquest but as craft.

he admits fatigue, his flaws, and gosh.. there is something disarming about his honesty, you relished in them. he wasn't the 'perfect' co-worker that seemed to ease into everyone's heart anymore, his words were raw-- unfiltered.

he wasn't a threat anymore, instead, a fuel to boost your ego. and you were humble enough to give him a small gift, an appreciation for being the perfect audience. what was the gift you may ask?

YOUR DICK 👅👅

cause right now that hunk of a man was on his knees, hands gripping your thighs for support, as he bobbed his head up and down, tears threatening to spill. his thin framed glass about to fall off his face, but you don't allow imperfection in your house, so you kindly fixed it back, biting back a groan.

nanami kento was a man of few words, and you wondered why. maybe this is why, his mouth was designed for other things-- for example, sucking you off until you came all over his face, painting his chiseled calm look white as he licked it off his lips.

how did you never notice this mans waist? they were perfect for you to hold, his hair, the hips, the arms, and his chest. especially the chest, you could spend hours playing with them, enjoying every single second he murmured incoherent words for you to stop.

did you stop? not really, not when you had THE nanami kento pressed against your window, allowing the world to see the real him-- a fucked up man burying his true whore self underneath all that composure and charm.

the city lights catching in his glasses, as he tries to grip the plain glass, "the view pretty enough?" you chuckle into his ear, you had imagined him as an obstacle, a mirror distorted just enough to threaten your reflection, but god were you wrong. he was messy, disgusting even, letting his own colleague ram into his hole,

that makes you wonder, "you got other men use that filthy hole of yours, kento?" you ask, your hand playing with his little nipples, earning a muffled moan as pre cum dripped from his angered girth, "bet that's why they love you so much huh?"

he shook his head, eyes hazy as he tried looking back over his shoulder, only to be stopped by your ruthless thrusts, "n-no!" he whimpered, biting back the lewd groans, the one who once threatened your authority now reduced to your cum dump.

yeah. you could get used to this.

new yrs resolution? to write more sub nanami fics 🙏🙏

[6ives]

HOT TOPIC gossips 𝑤. ͏͏sukuna ac. sgtbake_r ಎ ⎯⎯ 　✉️ 𝔣 reader

occ sukuna, constant shade on gojo, covert bullying (but its well deserved) more of him

𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 genuinely did not understand gossip. people were exhausting and their problems were repetitive. someone always hated someone else, they end up in a fight, yada yada-- boring. if it didn’t affect him, he didn’t care. he was that simple.

which is why, every time you plopped down next to him with that look, mouth twitching like you were about to explode, he’d sigh dramatically, knowing exactly what was coming.

“who is it now?” he asked, arm already settling around your shoulders, looking uninterested as ever, you gasped. “you make it sound like i always do this," you huffed, "cause you do,"

with eyes rolling, you leaned closer, voice dropping, serious, "it's about gojo."

that got him.

a flick of interest, barely but still evident, like a switch half-flipped. "what about him,” sukuna muttered, "if it's about him sleeping with the language teacher, not new,"

you shook your head, absolutely delighted. “no! that's so old, apparently geto and him had this like.. huuuge argument and it's like so serious, i mean they've been friends since childhood, they usually solve issues within like 1 hour, but it's been two weeks, two!” you cried out, holding out two digits on your hand.

the salmon haired man snorted. “over what?”

“over geto's girlfriend.”

he paused, raising a brow. "the girl with the crazy tooth gap?”

that was all the permission you needed, you launched into it with dramatic flair-- hand gestures, exaggerated expressions. sukuna listened in silence, face neutral, but his thumb began absentmindedly rubbing circles into your arm.

“like,” you concluded, “can you believe that slut would actually go for her boyfriends best friend? oh my god, and the fact gojo literally gave in? i thought that man whore would at least have some sort of self respect, but gosh,”

sukuna clicked his tongue, looking away, “ew,” you burst out laughing. “you care now?” he shrugged, “bro code matters.” he looked back at you, a hand tight on your arm,

"hn, continue, did they break up?"

from then on, it became a thing. you’d crawl into his lap during parties, legs tucked around his waist, whispering updates into his ear while everyone else assumed you were being affectionate. which you were but yk multitasking is a thing

“okay,” you murmured one night, knee pulled up to your chest, “wait, you know that girl who you saw with gojo that day?" you asked, "which one?" he brought a cigar to his lips, smoking while carefully listening to your words,

"wait lemme think.. uuuhmm... oh yea, mei mei! i heard people say that she was an incest," you hummed, nodding your head "what the fuck, for real?" he dropped his hand to the side, brows furrowed, "is gojo her brother?"

you clicked your tongue, "idiot! she's not sleeping with him," you snorted, slapping his arm, sukuna scoffed. “i wouldn't be surprised,” he shrugged, “but that man whore might be getting kicked out of the group.” that made him hum thoughtfully. “about time.”

you stared at him. “i thought you were no shit talker.” he looked at you, smirk slow and lazy. “i'm listening, not shit talking,”

"aaalright then, so you know about that look a like of yours?" you start mid-sentence, vague on purpose, "that fuckass itadori guy? thank god you finally found some dirt on him," sukuna interrupted immediately, and you grinned. “oh my god! you’re hooked, you're shit talking, kuna!"

“this is not shit talking,” he said, but he pulled you closer anyway. "no but you would've if i told you something about him,"

"don't push it,"

[6ives]

DEAD WATER fairy tail 𝑤. ͏͏gojo ac. ndsoda ಎ ⎯⎯ 　✉️　siren 𝔤𝔫 reader

piratexsiren AU, drowning, violence, blood, death, horror imagery, supernatural creatures, deaf gojo, siren reader, rusty writing, r! is mentioned to have long hair

𝕲𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 could not hear the thunder of cannons, could not hear the crack of masts splitting apart during storms, nor could he hear the drunken songs that rolled through the ship at night like waves themselves.

and yet, somehow, he was the finest navigator aboard.

freshly twenty years old. lean and sunburnt, with pale sea-salt curls constantly falling onto his sharp blue eyes. a scar split through his eyebrow, pale against skin, and another crossed the corner of his mouth.

he spoke rarely, and when he did, it was through rough hands moving faster than most men could think. the crew learned his language eventually. gojo moved through the ship like he belonged to the ocean more than the deck beneath him, felt vibrations through wood before anyone else sensed danger.

and you first saw him on a moonless night. lingering beneath the ship like a shadow beneath candlelight, crystal eyes following the silhouette leaning over the railing.

for you, sailors were easy creatures to lure.

they were lonely, greedy men. men who mistook beauty for mercy. you had drowned hundreds, sometimes gently, sometimes not. but this one-- the white haired man didn’t react when you sang.

the melody rose through black water, soft as silk. usually, by the first verse, sailors would already be stumbling toward the edge with glassy eyes and parted lips.

but this boy remained still, and your song curled around him uselessly. no widened pupils, nor turns of head-- it infuriated you. only the steady movement of his fingers against the railing as he stared into the sea.

you narrowed your eyes. impossible.

you had long dark hair drifting around you like spilled ink, tangled with pearls and bits of gold chains taken from the drowned men and women alike. your tail shimmered deep blue beneath moonlight, scales sharp as blades near the fin.

beautiful, terrifyingly beautiful.

you surfaced silently beside the ship, only your eyes visible above water. the boy looked down, and instead of fear, curiosity swirled beneath his pure blue eyes, as if he’d discovered a star fallen into the ocean.

at first, he thinks, someone fell overboard. so he grabs a rope instinctively, but then the figure doesn’t call for help, doesn’t splash. it just watches him. and the longer he stares, the more wrong it becomes.

hair floating despite no current, eyes unblinking, a face too perfect in a way humans aren’t, and beneath the water-- something massive shifting.

and instead of backing away immediately, curiosity overrides survival instinct for one fatal second.

you stared. humans never looked at you like that. they looked hungry, sometimes enchanted, perhaps with a hidden terrified soul. but never curious and so you sang louder.

nothing.

the boy tilted his head slightly, confused by your expression now. then he tapped two fingers against his own ear and shook his head once. understanding struck you like lightning. deaf.

the pirate was fucking deaf.

for the first time in nearly three centuries, you laughed. after that, you followed the ship constantly, fascination, you first made yourself believe, he was a pirate after all, eventually he would fall too.

ever since, gojo began noticing strange things.

fish gathered near the vessel in impossible numbers, storms bent away from their route. once, he glanced overboard and caught pale silver eyes beneath the waves before vanishing water swallowed them whole. he knew it was you, and so he started waiting for you at night.

every evening after the crew slept, he drifted toward the railing with a lantern in hand, and every evening, you appeared. sometimes only your eyes surfaced, sometimes your entire figure rose from the sea like something sculpted from moonlight. the first real conversation between you two happened without sound.

the white haired pirate sat cross-legged at the edge of the deck while you floated beside the ship. he pointed toward himself, then signed carefully. gojo satoru.

you watched his hands, brows furrowing, how were you supposed to know sign language? then you touched your chest, "[name]," you said aloud. he couldn’t hear it.

but he watched the shape of your mouth carefully and repeated it softly, "[name]." something strange flickered across your face.

sailors had screamed your name before, but ever spoken it gently.

weeks passed, then months, then the sea became their strange little world. gojo taught you signs, and at first, you mocked them. god, there were too many movements-- too human.

but eventually you began using them anyway, awkwardly at first. idiot, gojo signed one night after you splashed freezing water directly into his face. you grinned wickedly, idiot, you copied back incorrectly, accidentally calling him a fish instead.

he laughed so hard he nearly fell overboard, the soundless laugh shook his shoulders violently, and you stared at him longer than necessary. you realized then that you had become addicted to expressions you could never hear.

but humans and sirens were not creatures built for peace.

the captain discovered you eventually.

captain yaga was a cruel skinny man with gold teeth and a permanent smell of rum soaked into his skin. he’d noticed gojo disappearing nightly, noticed the calm waters where storms should’ve destroyed them.

and then he saw you.

beautiful enough to start wars, but valuable enough to end them, "there’s fortune in that creature," he told the crew, "sirens fetch kingdoms!" he grinned so wickedly that gojo understood immediately from their faces alone.

panic exploded through him, he signed furiously, NO. but sailors were already loading harpoons. that night, you surfaced, with no hesitation, trusting your soul, your voice with a pirate.

and found iron chains waiting. the harpoon struck through your shoulder before you could dive. blood spread black through seawater, your scream tore across the ocean. and though satoru couldn’t hear it, he saw it.

saw the agony twisting your face, the terror replacing the fury as chains dragged you toward the ship. something inside him snapped. sailors shouted and guns were fired while waves slammed against wood.

gojo moved through it like a storm given human shape. a knife buried into one sailor’s shoulder, another collapsed after smashing into the mast. captain yaga grabbed gojo by the throat and snarled something vicious.

satoru only saw his mouth moving, then he drove a blade between the captain’s ribs. once, twice, until he couldn't count anymore, until the man stopped moving. the ocean erupted violently around the ship, because sirens did not forgive cruelty.

you ripped free from the chains with blood-covered claws. waves rose monstrously high, swallowing screaming sailors whole, the ship cracked apart beneath the fury of the sea itself. and through all the destruction, you only looked at gojo. standing alone amid ruin, bleeding.

by dawn, nothing remained of the ship except wreckage drifting across endless water. the deaf pirate floated on a broken piece of mast, barely conscious. the sea beneath him glowed faintly blue. then you emerged.

in daylight, you looked less terrifying, your once sharp eyes were round around the edges, the fangs now smaller, your wound had already begun healing.

and when your eyes met his blue ones, for a long moment neither moved. then gojo lifted trembling hands. you came back. you stared at the signs carefully. you answered in imperfect movements.

thank you.

[6ives]

deaf pirate gojo satoru x siren (gender not specified) reader tw : piratexsiren AU, drowning, violence, blood, death, horror imagery, supernatural creatures, deaf gojo, siren reader r! is mentioned to have long hair @/ndsoda on twt (pic creds)

𝕲𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 could not hear the thunder of cannons, could not hear the crack of masts splitting apart during storms, nor could he hear the drunken songs that rolled through the ship at night like waves themselves.

and yet, somehow, he was the finest navigator aboard.

freshly twenty years old. lean and sunburnt, with pale sea-salt curls constantly falling onto his sharp blue eyes. a scar split through his eyebrow, pale against skin, and another crossed the corner of his mouth.

he spoke rarely, and when he did, it was through rough hands moving faster than most men could think. the crew learned his language eventually. gojo moved through the ship like he belonged to the ocean more than the deck beneath him, felt vibrations through wood before anyone else sensed danger.

and you first saw him on a moonless night. lingering beneath the ship like a shadow beneath candlelight, crystal eyes following the silhouette leaning over the railing.

for you, sailors were easy creatures to lure.

they were lonely, greedy men. men who mistook beauty for mercy. you had drowned hundreds, sometimes gently, sometimes not. but this one-- the white haired man didn’t react when you sang.

the melody rose through black water, soft as silk. usually, by the first verse, sailors would already be stumbling toward the edge with glassy eyes and parted lips.

but this boy remained still, and your song curled around him uselessly. no widened pupils, nor turns of head-- it infuriated you. only the steady movement of his fingers against the railing as he stared into the sea.

you narrowed your eyes. impossible.

you had long dark hair drifting around you like spilled ink, tangled with pearls and bits of gold chains taken from the drowned men and women alike. your tail shimmered deep blue beneath moonlight, scales sharp as blades near the fin.

beautiful, terrifyingly beautiful.

you surfaced silently beside the ship, only your eyes visible above water. the boy looked down, and instead of fear, curiosity swirled beneath his pure blue eyes, as if he’d discovered a star fallen into the ocean.

at first, he thinks, someone fell overboard. so he grabs a rope instinctively, but then the figure doesn’t call for help, doesn’t splash. it just watches him. and the longer he stares, the more wrong it becomes.

hair floating despite no current, eyes unblinking, a face too perfect in a way humans aren’t, and beneath the water-- something massive shifting.

and instead of backing away immediately, curiosity overrides survival instinct for one fatal second.

you stared. humans never looked at you like that. they looked hungry, sometimes enchanted, perhaps with a hidden terrified soul. but never curious and so you sang louder.

nothing.

the boy tilted his head slightly, confused by your expression now. then he tapped two fingers against his own ear and shook his head once. understanding struck you like lightning. deaf.

the pirate was fucking deaf.

for the first time in nearly three centuries, you laughed. after that, you followed the ship constantly, fascination, you first made yourself believe, he was a pirate after all, eventually he would fall too.

ever since, gojo began noticing strange things.

fish gathered near the vessel in impossible numbers, storms bent away from their route. once, he glanced overboard and caught pale silver eyes beneath the waves before vanishing water swallowed them whole. he knew it was you, and so he started waiting for you at night.

every evening after the crew slept, he drifted toward the railing with a lantern in hand, and every evening, you appeared. sometimes only your eyes surfaced, sometimes your entire figure rose from the sea like something sculpted from moonlight. the first real conversation between you two happened without sound.

the white haired pirate sat cross-legged at the edge of the deck while you floated beside the ship. he pointed toward himself, then signed carefully. gojo satoru.

you watched his hands, brows furrowing, how were you supposed to know sign language? then you touched your chest, "[name]," you said aloud. he couldn’t hear it.

but he watched the shape of your mouth carefully and repeated it softly, "[name]." something strange flickered across your face.

sailors had screamed your name before, but ever spoken it gently.

weeks passed, then months, then the sea became their strange little world. gojo taught you signs, and at first, you mocked them. god, there were too many movements-- too human.

but eventually you began using them anyway, awkwardly at first. idiot, gojo signed one night after you splashed freezing water directly into his face. you grinned wickedly, idiot, you copied back incorrectly, accidentally calling him a fish instead.

he laughed so hard he nearly fell overboard, the soundless laugh shook his shoulders violently, and you stared at him longer than necessary. you realized then that you had become addicted to expressions you could never hear.

but humans and sirens were not creatures built for peace.

the captain discovered you eventually.

captain yaga was a cruel skinny man with gold teeth and a permanent smell of rum soaked into his skin. he’d noticed gojo disappearing nightly, noticed the calm waters where storms should’ve destroyed them.

and then he saw you.

beautiful enough to start wars, but valuable enough to end them, "there’s fortune in that creature," he told the crew, "sirens fetch kingdoms!" he grinned so wickedly that gojo understood immediately from their faces alone.

panic exploded through him, he signed furiously, NO. but sailors were already loading harpoons. that night, you surfaced, with no hesitation, trusting your soul, your voice with a pirate.

and found iron chains waiting. the harpoon struck through your shoulder before you could dive. blood spread black through seawater, your scream tore across the ocean. and though satoru couldn’t hear it, he saw it.

saw the agony twisting your face, the terror replacing the fury as chains dragged you toward the ship. something inside him snapped. sailors shouted and guns were fired while waves slammed against wood.

gojo moved through it like a storm given human shape. a knife buried into one sailor’s shoulder, another collapsed after smashing into the mast. captain yaga grabbed gojo by the throat and snarled something vicious.

satoru only saw his mouth moving, then he drove a blade between the captain’s ribs. once, twice, until he couldn't count anymore, until the man stopped moving. the ocean erupted violently around the ship, because sirens did not forgive cruelty.

you ripped free from the chains with blood-covered claws. waves rose monstrously high, swallowing screaming sailors whole, the ship cracked apart beneath the fury of the sea itself. and through all the destruction, you only looked at gojo. standing alone amid ruin, bleeding.

by dawn, nothing remained of the ship except wreckage drifting across endless water. the deaf pirate floated on a broken piece of mast, barely conscious. the sea beneath him glowed faintly blue. then you emerged.

in daylight, you looked less terrifying, your once sharp eyes were round around the edges, the fangs now smaller, your wound had already begun healing.

and when your eyes met his blue ones, for a long moment neither moved. then gojo lifted trembling hands. you came back. you stared at the signs carefully. you answered in imperfect movements.

thank you.

[6ives]

dead male reader x gojo satoru tw : red flag reader, loss of identity, murder, slight suggestive content (not detailed), manipulation, gaslighting, implications of schizophrenia, toxic relationship, obsession, death of a partner.

𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔, god among men. always untouchable, always the strongest in the room, untouchable in battle, untouchable in life. nothing could shake him, except you. always you.

you were chaos wrapped in leather. the kind of man people knew was trouble the moment you walked in, and yet they couldn’t tear their eyes away. you loved like a wildfire, hot and consuming, and gojo had been addicted to every spark.

you were selfish, yes-- manipulative even, but you made him feel, god, you made him feel everything. and for a man like him, who spent his whole life floating above the world, you made gravity taste sweet.

but fate was never on gojo's side, the moment he thought he had everything he wanted, you died. not by curses-- no, it was even worse. he killed you. it was an accident, the curse dodged and it hit you. you. out of everyone, out of everything, it had to be you.

the world didn’t dim, it shattered. he hugged your body tighter, mumbling-- begging for forgiveness over and over again like it would bring you back, fingers trembling, heart racing with a panic he hadn’t felt since childhood.

you were gone. just like that, and all because of him. there were no closure nor goodbyes, instead silence replaced where your sharp words should’ve been. but gojo never really let you go, guilt clawed back to him.

it started with shadows. a glimpse of your hair when he turned a corner, the sound of your laugh when he was alone in the kitchen. your cologne, the one that smelled like dark amber, but always scented with smell of cigars, lingering on his clothes even after he washed them.

he told himself it was memory, nothing more, that grief was supposed to feel like this. but grief wasn’t supposed to speak.

“miss me?”

he froze the first time he heard it. your voice, low and teasing, curling into his ear like smoke. he spun around, cursed under his breath, and searched every corner. no one. nothing. but his pulse wouldn’t calm, and for the first time in years, he felt alive.

that was all it took.

soon, you were everywhere. sitting on the edge of his bed, smirking as he unwrapped his blindfold. whispering in his ear during missions, your voice coaxing him to be crueler-- you had always loved that side of him, saying that he wasn't using his powers to its fullest. standing behind him in mirrors, tilting your head with furrowed brows, like you always did when you caught him staring. it wasn’t real. he knew it wasn’t real. but when you pressed your lips to his neck, when your arms wrapped around his waist, when your low cunning voice rang in his head-- he didn’t care anymore.

he let you consume him again, and that was the poison of it all, because you had always been toxic. you thrived in pulling strings, in making him yours, in turning love into obsession. even in death, you had your claws in him. the hallucinations weren’t random, they were his own mind feeding him what he craved, what he feared losing the most.

“you don’t need anyone else, satoru,” you'd whisper, curling phantom fingers through his silver hair. “just me. only me, okay baby?” and he’d nod, obedient, drunk on a ghost, as his legs give up on him. arms around your waist, on his knees, worshiping you like a deity.

his students were first to notice the shift. the empty looks, the way his humor turned bitter, the streak of violence that bled into his missions. but gojo brushed it off with that same wide grin. nobody could see you. nobody understood. you were dead. he knew that. but you were also alive-- inside him, around him, haunting him, loving him.

he hated when the sun dipped into the oceans-- nights were the worst, he would spent his time, hands roaming all around his pale body, giving in to the pleasure, his body begging for a relief as your voice kept playing inside his mind like a broken record. and wasn’t that worse?

because sometimes, after those intimate moments, when he reached out in the night and felt the cold sheets beside him, he realized the truth, you were gone. you had always been gone. and the man he kept loving, it wasn’t you, it was him. his grief, his addiction, his obsession taking your shape, speaking with your voice, poisoning him from the inside out.

the strongest sorcerer in the world, rotting from a hallucination he couldn’t bear to let go of. and maybe he didn’t want to. because love was never safe with you. it was always a blade to the throat, a fire to the chest. even dead, even unreal, you had him exactly where you wanted him.

hooked.

[6ives]

be careful or you might just fall for his tricks . hannibal lecter x gn reader tw : psychological manipulation / gaslighting, grooming, age gap (reader in late 20's / hannibal in his late 40's) cannibalism (implied), obsession, unhealthy dependency, mentions of death, alcohol use, dark themes

𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐁𝐀𝐋 𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 did not often feel irritation.

annoyance was a trivial indulgence, unworthy of a man who prided himself on control. but you-- will graham’s persistent little friend, managed to stir something that threatened to resemble it.

you were there too often, perched in will’s orbit, trailing after him with questions and quiet glances that lingered longer than hannibal preferred. not a lover, nor a colleague, but someone who tethered will in a way hannibal had not foreseen.

and hannibal did not like what he had not foreseen.

from their very first introduction, he disliked your eyes. too attentive, he thought. you watched him with the kind of suspicion most people never afforded him, as if you smelled the rot under the polish.

it wasn’t overt-- you never accused, never voiced your thoughts aloud. but hannibal was a man who noticed the smallest hesitation, the faintest tightening at the corners of a mouth. you doubted him. he saw it and he catalogued it.

that alone was reason enough to kill you.

his first plan had been clean, simple. a moment alone, an accident contrived, another name added to the list of tragedies that shadowed will graham’s life. no one would question it. you were no one of consequence-- not to the bureau, not to the world. but you were a consequence to will. and that was why hannibal stayed his hand.

for every time he watched you laugh with will, for every moment you drew that fragile, fractured man away from his own darkness, hannibal’s distaste grew. it was not jealousy-- no, hannibal did not lower himself to something so human. rather, it was insult, interference. you touched something that hannibal had claimed, if not in body, then in spirit.

and yet, the more he observed, the more he found his irritation tempering into something else. your doubts about him were clumsy but persistent, like a child pressing at a locked door.

you asked questions that no one else asked, stared too long at the wrong times. he had not killed you immediately, and now he wondered if it was because some part of him wanted to see how far you might go.

obsession is often mistaken for interest, and interest mistaken for affection but hannibal knew better, he knew what he felt for you was neither. you were an anomaly. an unexpected thread in the tapestry of will graham’s unraveling mind. and hannibal did not tolerate loose threads-- he studied them, pulled them, until the whole cloth came apart.

hannibal lecter began to watch you more closely. and in that watching, he began to hate you less. which, for hannibal, was far more dangerous.

he invited you into his office once. a courtesy, or so it seemed. will had canceled their appointment, exhaustion, perhaps, or avoidance. and you had offered to come in his stead, carrying notes he’d written in his uneven scrawl. hannibal might have refused, but curiosity overcame him, hence the hesitant invitation.

you stepped into the room, careful, your stern gaze moving over the bookshelves, the artifacts, the paintings that lined his walls. few visitors noticed the weight of his curation. fewer still looked unsettled by it, you were one of them.

“you’ve made this place feel..” you searched for the word, eyes flicking briefly to him, “timeless. like it doesn’t belong in this century.”

hannibal’s lips curved into the faintest smile. “thank you. i take great care in crafting an environment that puts my patients at ease.”

your brow lifted, skeptical. “does it?”

“does it not?”

“not for me,” you said simply,

lowering yourself onto the chair across from his desk. hannibal folded his hands and studied you, the way one might study an unexpected move on a chessboard. most people lied in these moments, smoothing over their discomfort with politeness but you offered your truth instead, unflinching, as though daring him to contest it.

“you carry a certain.. suspicion,” hannibal remarked after a pause, earning a shrug from you. “i carry suspicion of most people.”

“understandable, given the company you keep,” he said smoothly. “will does not invite many close to him. and those he does invite.. often pay a price.”

your gaze sharpened at that, like a blade catching light. “you speak as if you know how this will end.” hannibal let silence stretch between them, enjoying the tension it wrought. then, delicately, "perhaps i do.”

you did not look away, you never did with him and this intrigued him most. most people flinched under his gaze, but you met it, even when it unsettled you. especially when it unsettled you. “will trusts you,” you said finally, leaning back. “that’s the only reason i’m here.”

“and you do not?”

your lips pressed into a line. for a moment, hannibal thought you might finally voice the doubt that hovered behind your eyes. but then you answered, “i don’t know yet.”

that answer seemed to please him.

a clean slate, not trust nor rejection, but a middle ground ripe for cultivation. "i admire your honesty. it is.. refreshing." you glanced at him, expression unreadable. “i don’t think you’d admire it if i told you everything.” you took a sharp breath, crossing your legs, "people see the version of you you let them see. perfect office. perfect manners. perfect taste. that much perfection usually means something’s missing, don't you think so?”

hannibal’s smile deepened, though his eyes did not warm. “and what do you think is missing?” you met his gaze head-on, despite the unease prickling at your skin. “haven’t decided that yet.”

that answer earned a smirk. most people would have tried to flatter, or brush their doubts aside. you let your breathe in the open air, bold yet unarguably, dangerous.

he poured two glasses of wine, his movements precise, deliberate. he set one before you before taking a seat before you, noticing your hesitation, eyes fixed as you lifted it, though you did not drink.

“will is fragile,” hannibal said quietly. “he wears it like a second skin. people who draw too close to him tend to suffer for it.” you arched a brow. “you've been bringing that topic up, is that a warning?”

“a truth.”

“and you? do you draw close to him.. or do you watch him suffer?”

hannibal paused mid-sip. it was a sharp question, sharper than he had expected and his smile returned, faint and unreadable. “i draw close,” he said at last. “but suffering is part of closeness, isn’t it?”

your fingers tapped against the stem of your glass, restless. he watched you carefully-- the way you sat in his presence but refused to relax into it. most prey tried to look comfortable, even when afraid. you didn’t bother with the performance.

and that, he finally decided, was what made you so fascinating.

you hadn’t touched your wine. hannibal noted that first-- the restraint, the small rebellion. most people surrendered under the weight of his hospitality, desperate to appear polite. you didn’t.

“you care for will deeply,” hannibal began, as if stating a fact instead of asking. your chin lifted. “he’s my friend.”

“friendship,” hannibal mused, “is such a curious thing. a fragile bond, built on trust. and yet, will does not trust easily. why do you think he allows you so close?”

you frowned slightly. “you’d have to ask him that.”

“but i am asking you.”

hannibal’s gaze pinned you, patient and unyielding. he wanted to hear your theory-- not because he needed it, but because the act of reaching for it would reveal you. you folded your arms tighter.

“maybe because i don’t push,” you said finally. “people want things from him all the time. answers, insight, pieces of himself he doesn’t want to give. i don’t do that.”

“mm.” hannibal tilted his head, considering. “and yet here you are, speaking to me about him.” you hesitated. that was the trap, wasn’t it? your eyes flicked down to the untouched wine. “only because he asked me to bring something over.”

“but you stayed,” hannibal countered softly. “and i wonder why." your pulse flickered in your throat. he saw it-- the smallest betrayals of the body never escaped him. you were unsettled, but not afraid. not yet.

“maybe i wanted to see for myself,” you admitted, finally raising your eyes to meet his. “will talks about you sometimes. i wanted to understand why.”

“and what do you understand now?”

you didn’t answer immediately. your gaze searched him, lingering on the mask he wore so well. then, with startling honesty, "you’re too perfect. that’s what i understand. and it bothers me.”

for a long moment, hannibal was silent. he simply looked at you, the faintest smile curving his mouth. most people’s suspicions bored him. yours, however, thrilled him, excited him even. you pointed out what most missed, and gosh.. he was enchanted.

“you are an unusual person,” hannibal said at last. his voice was calm, but his mind was sharpening its knives. “but i get it, will is drawn to unusual creatures. he collects them, much like he collects his dogs.”

your jaw tightened. “i’m not one of his dogs.”

“no,” hannibal agreed softly. “you are not.” he leaned back, fingers steepled. already, he was rethinking his first impulse to kill you. there was something far more entertaining in letting you live. for now.

...

it did not happen all at once. hannibal never rushed a design. he laid it piece by piece, subtle strokes on a canvas only he could see. with you, it began with patience. where will pushed you away in silence, hannibal opened the door.

he listened and he received. he made himself the stillness you craved when will’s storms threatened to consume you.

at first, you told yourself it was temporary-- that you were only coming to him because will was too fragile, or too tired. but repetition breeds familiarity, and familiarity breeds trust.

each visit, you lingered longer. each confession, you left behind a little more of your resistance. and hannibal? oh he took his chances.

he fed it carefully. a word of reassurance here, a nod of validation there. he never argued, never chastised, never left you feeling unheard. he offered the illusion that he could solve every problem you carried to him, that his hands were capable of mending what will’s could not touch. and slowly, you began to believe it.

the shift was imperceptible to you, but hannibal saw it clearly. he measured it in gestures, in body language, in the smallest of choices.

the first time, you had refused his wine. your suspicion had kept the glass untouched, your lips pressed firm against your doubt. but later, months later, when he poured again, you lifted it. you sipped.

it was nothing to you, a simple act of politeness. but to hannibal, it was revelation. in that one sip, you had crossed the invisible line between mistrust and surrender. not surrender of will, not yet, but surrender of caution.

you had placed something of yourself in his hands, and you did not even know it. hannibal savored that moment more than the wine itself.

you had once been a nuisance, a stray he considered culling from will’s orbit. now, you were something far more valuable, proof that even suspicion could be reshaped into reliance, that even the wary could learn to lean.

and in that trust, hannibal found the first sweet taste of his obsession. the irritation was gone. in its place, something far more dangerous had taken root.

...

he invites you to dinner. not at will’s house, not somewhere public, but at his own table, in his dining room, where every detail has been chosen to soothe, to entice. you tell yourself it is curiosity, that you want to understand him, to see him beyond will’s stories.

you arrive carrying a vintage wine as a small gift out of habit, but he waves it away with a polite smile. “there's no need of that,” he says. “your presence is enough.”

the table is immaculate. candles flicker, soft light spilling over polished silver and fine china. he gestures for you to sit. he moves with the ease of someone accustomed to control, and you cannot help but notice how natural it feels to follow him, to wait for his direction.

he serves the meal with deliberate grace. the aroma is intoxicating, familiar, almost domestic. your stomach tightens-- you are hungry, but there is an edge to your hunger now, a tension you do not fully understand.

you taste the first bite. warmth spreads through your chest, comfort laced with an unfamiliar thrill. he watches you closely, assessing, his gaze neither harsh nor indulgent.

and when you swallow, you sip the wine he poured. this time, you do not hesitate. this time, it is not just politeness-- it is trust, fragile and profound, that you place entirely in his hands without realizing what you are doing.

the meal continues, effortlessly intimate. the flavor lingers, subtle. you think of someone you once knew, now gone, but you push the thought aside. he guides the conversation, the mood, the rhythm. you relax into it, unaware of what you have eaten, unaware of the danger that shadows every sip and bite.

you lean closer without realizing it. you linger longer than you intended. every gesture, every small glance, pulls you further into his orbit. by the end of the night, you feel a quiet certainty, a dependence you cannot name. he can hold the world in a way you cannot, and he has made you feel safe within it.

...

it begins quietly, like all of his moves. you are tired, your thoughts heavy, will’s calls gone unanswered more often than not. hannibal knows this. he has built it. each session, each dinner, each small kindness has been a stone laid carefully between you and the world until only a narrow path leads back-- and that path runs through him.

he calls you one evening, not to invite you but to warn you. his voice is low, urgent, but still calm. he tells you there are people who might harm you, that your name has been spoken in rooms you should not be connected to. he doesn’t say who. he doesn’t need to.

fear rushes in like cold water, and hannibal was a man who knew how to dance with fear. he tells you to come to him. “it’s safer here.”

you do.

his home is dimly lit, warm, like always. the smell of something rich on the stove. but tonight there is no table laid out, no music. he sits you down instead, pours you wine-- a darker, heavier red than before and waits until you drink. and you do drink. no hesitation now.

he begins to speak softly, explaining things about will, about cases, about threats. his words are smooth, clean, but under them there is a current, you are not safe anywhere but here. you are not understood anywhere but here.

then the risk, a confession, half‑truth and half‑lie. he tells you he has intervened on your behalf. that someone who meant to hurt you will not be able to anymore. he doesn’t tell you how. he lets your imagination build it for him.

the shock is real. the fear is real. but stronger still is the relief. your heart pounds and then steadies under his gaze. you realize-- or you think you realize, that he is the only one willing to do what it takes for you.

when he reaches across the space between you, his hand brushes yours, not a caress but an anchor. and you let it stay.

by the time the night is over, your world has shifted. will’s number sits ignored on your phone. the wine sits empty. hannibal’s voice fills the quiet in your head where doubt used to live.

his final move was not a threat, not a demand. it was a gift-- fear removed, safety given. it was also a cage you stepped into on your own.

you don’t even see the door close behind you.

not even how he watches you across the room as you sleep on his couch, wine‑stained glass still on the table. your breathing is steady now, the tension drained from your body. you are here because you chose to be-- or at least, you believe you did.

he moves with his usual precision, straightening a book on the desk, closing a drawer with a soft click. the kitchen still smells faintly of the meal he made for you. everything in the room carries his signature, even you.

he studies you the way a composer studies a finished piece, not with sentiment, but with satisfaction. you were a variable once, a potential threat. you are no longer any of those things.

you are his creation now-- a living portrait of trust, fear, and dependence, framed by his careful hands. the risk he took tonight was not in saving you, but in revealing just enough of himself for you to step willingly into his world.

you shift in your sleep, and he smiles faintly, a shadow of warmth without heat.

hannibal is not in love with you.

hannibal is in control of you.

and in the silence of his house, with the door shut and locked, he knows that the game is over.

you will not leave. you are his artwork, his final course.

[6ives]

devout geto suguru x male reader tw : religious themes, virgin reader, blasphemy, worship, deification, psychological manipulation and control, codependency, mention of blood and violence, murder (implied), emotional degradation, loss of identity, gaslighting, power imbalance (god - worshipper dynamic), existential horror elements, yandere tendencies, only for entertainment purposes-- never meant to harm or offend anyone .

𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎 never called you by your name, instead he called you my lord, god, the one-- anything but your name.

even when you told him to stop, he didn’t. his voice wrapped around those words like silk soaked in blood. he followed you into every room like a shadow too intelligent to dismiss, hands folded behind his back, eyes downcast-- but his gaze never left you.

he didn’t look at you like a man looks at a lover, instead he looked at you like a pilgrim looks at a relic, with an intense hunger and reverence behind his dark eyes.

one night, you found him on his knees before your door. he had no candlelight or incense, his hair was loose around his face, his robe torn. in his hands he held something-- a weapon? you weren't sure, but his knuckles were white around it

“i’ve done it,” he whispered, chest heaving. “i’ve killed another one. the world is quieter now isn't it? just like you wanted,” you hadn’t asked for anything. but he’d decided what you wanted for you

“geto,” you said, voice a warning. “i didn’t--”

he crawled closer, the tool long forgotten, his fingers reaching for the hem of your garment, "you don’t have to ask,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to your knee. “i know," he breathed out, "i always know. you speak, and i obey. even your silence is command.” you felt your pulse spike-- not in fear exactly, but something sharper.

he lifted his head, eyes fever-bright. “i would tear the sky for you,” he said. “i would drown nations, i would become the curse of the world if it meant you’d look at me, just once, the way you look at the moon.”

this wasn’t love.

you could feel it in the way his hands shook against your skin. it was worship sharpened to obsession, a hunger to dissolve himself in you, "why?” you asked, almost curious despite yourself. “why me?”

“because you’re everything left,” he breathed, scrambling to form coherent sentences. “the only thing untouched. i want to be where you are. i want to disappear into you until there’s no me at all,” he bowed then, hands slipping off your legs, a full prostration, and the silk of his robe spread across the floor like a dark sea.

you stared down at him, at the man who once called himself a god, now kneeling at your feet as though the universe had always belonged to you. god, it was ridiculous.

geto on his knees, chanting your name instead of prayers, spilling blood at your feet like offerings. you’d roll your eyes, step over him, tell him to stand up, but he just wouldn’t.

eventually, it became intoxicating.

the way he looked at you, as if you were sunrise breaking over a dead world. the way he anticipated your moods before you spoke. the way his voice changed when he said my lord instead of your name. the way people vanished because he thought they’d offended you-- and the world actually felt quieter, ultimately yours.

at first, you didn’t correct him. then slowly, you started dressing for the part-- heavier robes, and words more slower and more deliberate, as if you were commanding respect. he knelt, and you found yourself standing taller. he offered you a seat higher than his, and you didn’t refuse.

you told yourself it was power. that you were just indulging a broken man’s delusion. but somewhere in the quiet between rituals, you began to hear it too, that low hum of reverence. you’d walk into a room and feel it cling to you, invisible but heavy.

one night, under the stars, he murmured, “i’ve built you an altar.” you laughed it off, “i’m not a god.” but he smiled, not unkindly, no, it held something darker, "not yet.” and in the silence that followed, you realized you hadn’t refused.

weeks bled into months. you began to speak in imperatives, not requests. you began to look at the world as something that bent for you. he reinforced it constantly-- calling you “my lord,” whispering “divine” against your skin, bowing so deeply his forehead bruised.

it was once a performance.

then it became a crown, a crown you just couldn't put down.

and one evening, standing in the flicker of hundreds of candles, geto prostrate at your feet, you whispered, barely audible, “i am.” he froze, "what?” “i am..” you said again, louder this time. “i am what you say i am.” the smile that bloomed across his face was something you’d never seen before, half ecstasy, half terror. “then command me,” he breathed, "command your servant.”

and for the first time, you did.

...

the room was quiet except for the sound of dripping wax. candles burned low, their smoke curling around you like black lace. you sat in the high-backed chair geto had carved for you himself, one hand resting lazily on the armrest, the other holding a glass of wine so dark it might as well have been blood.

he was kneeling at your feet as always, eyes down, hands clasped, waiting. “do you still believe in me?” you asked softly, his voice was immediate, unwavering, "always.”

“then prove it.”

he looked up, and something flickered in his gaze, curiosity, maybe, or dread. you reached out, touched his jaw with two fingers, tilted his head just enough so he’d meet your eyes.

“there’s one who doubts me,” you murmured. “the one who walks by your side. the last one who still thinks you’re a man.” you watched the realization bloom and die in his expression, "you mean..”

gojo satoru.

the strongest.

a threat to you.

you knew you couldn’t touch the man, not because you didn’t want to-- god knows you did, but because he existed in a different world entirely. a world of white walls and divine light, where people like you were never meant to step foot. he was untouchable, too far off from your league, a being sculpted from something purer, crueler, and more blinding than sunlight

and the only one who could reach him, who was allowed to, was geto suguru.

the same man who bowed at your feet like worship was second nature, the man who would press his lips against the ground you walked on, murmuring your name as if it were a prayer and a curse all at once. you’d watch him sometimes, half in amusement and half in pity, wondering how someone so powerful could choose to kneel so easily.

but that was the thing about geto suguru, he didn’t kneel for weakness, he kneeled for purpose. and gojo trusted him, perhaps that was his mistake.

and you.. well, you were merely the quiet witness to it all. the one who knew exactly what it meant when geto’s eyes lingered a little too long on gojo’s back, when reverence turned to calculation, when worship began to rot into betrayal

“yes,” you said, "bring. me. his silence.” for the first time, he didn’t answer immediately. his breath stuttered, his hands trembled once before he stilled them, "do you command it?” he whispered.

“i do.”

and that was all it took.

he rose without another word, his footsteps echoed down the stone corridor, fading until you were alone with the candles and your reflection in the wineglass, a stranger’s reflection, crowned in shadow.

hours passed. the candles burned lower. somewhere far off, a door slammed. then silence. then footsteps returning, when he came back, you almost didn’t recognize him.

his robe was torn, hair clung to his forehead in damp strands, hands-- his beautiful, steady hands were red to the wrists. there was blood spattered up his throat, drying in streaks against his skin.

and his eyes-- empty. not the emptiness of a man who regrets, but the emptiness of a temple after the god has left. he walked to you and stopped a pace away. for a moment, he didn’t kneel, he just stood there, looking at you like a man seeing the sun for the last time.

“it’s done,” he said, voice was flat. “he won’t doubt you anymore.”

you rose from your chair and stepped closer, reaching out, you cupped his cheek. your thumb smeared the blood there into a thin, dark line, “look at you,” you murmured, "my most faithful.”

but he didn’t lean into your touch, didn’t smile, nor did he tremble. “tell me i did right,” he said-- pleaded. “you did right,” you answered, softer than you intended.

he closed his eyes at that, but it wasn’t relief. it was something darker, the sound a heart makes when it finally stops breaking. and when he knelt again, pressing his forehead to the floor, it was not devotion. it was obedience, absolute yet hollow.

you stared down at him, at the blood pooling beneath his hands, and realized you had crossed the last threshold. this wasn’t worship anymore. it was sacrifice. and now he was no longer your zealot.

he was your weapon.

[6ives]

what's yours⎯⎯ will be yours. male character x male reader tw : heavily based on the song 'NEW MAGIC WAND', possessive behavior, stalking tendencies (implied), dark themes, negative portrayal of therapy and recovery, psychological manipulation, unhealthy relationships, red flag reader

you used to think love made you softer. why? because you’ve seen it in others. the way they smiled easier, breathed lighter, found excuses to exist in the same air as someone else. you thought it’d be the same for you.

oh you were so wrong. love made you hungry. it sharpened you, made every quiet moment feel like a scream, and it was all because of him.

he’s standing across the room now, his laughter spilling into the air like something bright, something alive. you hate how easily it comes out of him, that sound you once earned so effortlessly, now it belongs to someone else.

her.

she’s beside him, smiling, the kind of smile that says she knows he’s hers. you can see it in the way her fingers graze his sleeve, in the way his eyes soften when he looks at her.

you can feel it. the burn under your ribs. it’s jealousy, sure. but also grief, because he used to look at you like that.

“hey.” you flinch when you hear his voice, turning to see him looking at you with that easy familiarity that once melted you. “didn’t think you’d come,” he says, smiling.

you want to say something light, something casual, but your throat feels tight, "yeah. i wanted to see you.” he laughs. “guess you’ve seen enough now, huh?” you don’t respond, instead, eyes dart to her, then back to him.

he notices,

and you notice how his smile falters.

while you force one back onto your face. “you look happy,” he nods, almost sheepishly. “i am.” the way he says it, soft, protective, it’s enough to make your heart twist. you smile wider, but it feels wrong, your jaw aches with it.

later that night, you stand in front of the mirror, staring at your reflection. your face looks calm, too calm. but your eyes-- your eyes give it away.

you mutter to yourself, “she doesn’t deserve him.” it’s almost funny how easy that lie sounds when you say it out loud. if you had more time, if you knew this would happen, you think, you’d make her disappear. just like that-- gone.

he wouldn’t even remember her name. he’d only remember you, and then finally, he'll come crawling back to you. you’d be his comfort again, his safe place, his only choice.

the next few days, you start appearing everywhere he does. not intentionally, you tell yourself. coincidence, yeah..

except, you start dressing differently-- in that leather jacket he once said looked good on you. you even started wearing the scent he liked, the same that smelled awfully close to desperation mixed with amber

when you talk to him, your words are slow, familiar, like you’re coaxing an old rhythm back to life. sometimes, for a moment, it feels like it’s working, his laugh comes out softer when it’s directed at you.

but then he looks at her again, and you can see it in his eyes-- that invisible string tying him to her.

you hate it, no-- you hate her.

the night it all unravels, you’re in his apartment since he invited you over, said he wanted to talk, but you knew the truth, you knew what it would be before he even said it. that gentle tone, that pitiful rehearsed kindness

“i think.. maybe we shouldn’t.. you know... see each other as much.” you stare at him, blank. “you mean-- at all?” he sighs. “i don’t want to hurt you.”

"then don’t.”

the silence after that is unbearable.

you feel it, that burning heat rising from your chest to your throat. you laugh quietly, shaking your head. “you used to say you’d always need me," he looks away, he just fucking looks away. “people change.”

and that’s when you stop smiling, because something in your head clicks-- or maybe breaks.

you take a slow step forward, "we spent so many nights together, does it all mean nothin'?" a huff left your lips, "answer me." he doesn't. you watch as he furrow his brows, a mixture of surprise and confusion in his eyes,

"she doesn't know you like i do,” you whisper, yet he stays quiet, his shoulders tense. you keep moving until you’re close enough to touch him, hand hovers near his arm. you could grab him, could pull him close, wanting to make him remember what it felt like to be wanted like this

instead, you just say softly, “we can still fix this-- i.. i can fix everything.” he frowns, puzzled, maybe even afraid, you smile. “all i need is a little more time, won't you give me some time?”

he doesn't listen to you, why was he so hard? he tries to step back, but you’re already too close. your hand trembles, not from fear but from restraint.

because the image flashes in your mind again-- her annoying face, infuriating laugh, her filthy hand on his shoulder. you want to rip it all out, erase every trace of her from his life.

you would do it.

if only you had some more time, but you don’t. so instead, you let him go, for now.

your outburst made him completely block you away from his life, never wanting to see you again-- oh how cruel was he. with a heavy heart, you went for help, you needed it. you didn't want to wag your tail for him again.

but, love, you realized, didn’t fade. it fermented, and you were drunk on it. a man starved, that was what you became-- not better, never better without him.

he’s standing by the window when you first see him again, after those excruciating months of being away. the party buzzes around you, full of laughter, alcohol, and an overhyped song playing in the background-- but all of it dulls when your gaze finds him.

you can tell immediately he’s changed.

he’s calmer now, a little softer around the edges. she must’ve taught him how to breathe again, then you see her hand touch his forearm, a familiar feeling knotted up in your heart. you smile. it’s polite, but it tastes disgusting-- filfthy.

you let the moment stretch, watching the way he leans toward her, how easily his mouth curves when she says his name. you can read his body language better than he can. you always could.

he’s in love.

you move closer-- not enough to interrupt, but enough to remind him that you still exist, that he could never get rid of you. you call his name once, softly, a contrast to the fierce way you once did in the past.

he looks up, and that small flicker in his expression-- that startled, almost guilty flicker, it’s worth everything. he does not walk over, it was as if he was glued to that wrench of a woman who narrowed her gaze at you. fuh u ho

you take the initiative to walk over, all warmth and nerves, playing the part of a changed man, "hey man," you grinned, offering a hand as he hesitantly grabbed it,

so naïve. it was almost cute.

"[name].." he called out cautiously, he was testing how the once sour name now tasted on his tongue, taking his hand back, "how.. are you now?" he asks, as if something was wrong with you to begin with-- god forbid a man falls in love.

"oh better than ever," you lied. "i was such a dick for actin' that way," a snicker left your lips, giving the woman next to him a brief look, smile widening, "i still didn't quite catch your name yet,"

the woman's breath hitched, surprised you even acknowledged her, the therapy must have paid off, she thought before lowering her guard, her grip on the mans bicep loosening as she gave you a slight nod, "catherine.." she muttered, earning a hum from you

"you're a beautiful lady, catherine," sugarcoating your words yet again, it covered the dark gaze you shot towards the curly head woman who gave you a smile.

he finally buts in, a laugh leaving his lips, rubbing the back of his neck. “it’s been a while,” you nod, “not that long.” oh gosh it was long. three months and 3 days. that's how long you were kept away from him.

he doesn’t remember that.

eventually, you start running into him more often after that, like you did before, the same tactic, not by accident, but he doesn’t have to know that. a coffee shop here. a bookstore there, you never make it seem deliberate-- you just know his schedule, his habits, the places he still finds comfort

every time you see him, he relaxes a little more. you know exactly what to say, how to sound-- casual, friendly, ultimately harmless, you wanted to make him believe that you've changed, that you're no longer smitten by him, no longer possessive.

and yet, there’s always that one moment, right before you leave, when you let your hand brush his hips, or your voice drop a little too soft, something that lingers, something that makes him look at you longer than he should.

it’s working, he's believing, trusting you, all over again

and you don’t need to rush it, that’s the thing about control-- it’s better when it’s quiet.

slowly, you start texting again, then calling, he tells you about his life, his plans, about catherine. but you don't interrupt, no, never, you were his sweet friend, how could you ever do such a thing?

you listen, you smile when he mentions her, you even say you’re happy for him. you say it like a friend would.

but your mind is somewhere else entirely-- replaying the nights he spent in your arms, the way he used to reach for you first thing in the morning, the way his voice used to drop when he whispered your name, the way you two claimed you were "just friends," before it all went downhill.

you can’t stand the thought of her now.

so you change the topic before you spiral, making sure he doesn't notice. you talk about something light, something nostalgic, he follows, he laughs and that sound fills the room like it used to.

you sit there quietly, smiling, hiding your victory behind calm eyes.

the possessiveness isn’t loud. it doesn’t shout or beg like it did before, you learned how to tame it, to just make it sit in your chest, patient and poisonous, whispering, he was mine first.

you know he misses pieces of you, even if he won’t admit it. the way his eyes linger on your mouth when you speak, or how he still listens too closely when you say his name-- it’s all there, buried under the surface

she might have him now, but you still live in his head, you’re the ghost that never left. because you know how people work, you know that love fades, that comfort dulls, that curiosity kills.

you’re not jealous anymore, you’re patient.

and when her laughter starts to sound the same every day, when her perfume stops surprising him, you’ll be there. the magic isn’t in time you wished you had, it was in you.

you walk home that night beneath the streetlights, you hate this road, the same street where you two spend your time talking-- it reminds you of the past, but for once, you don’t look away, because you know you’ll have him again.

not through tricks or force. just through the quiet, persistent kind of love that never leaves. the kind that waits until he realizes no one else has ever known him the way you did.

[6ives]

choosing freedom over lawful ties, you can't stop him . male character x male reader

in your late twenties, it was easy to pretend time wasn’t moving. you were both broke in cute ways, living off cheap takeout and mismatched furniture, sharing a mattress on the floor because you were convinced it was “temporary.”

everything felt temporary back then-- jobs, apartments, the stress of adulthood. except him, he never felt temporary to you

you’d lie with him on that thin mattress, his legs tangled with yours, the fan rattling above you, and you’d ask without really asking, “you ever think about marriage?”

and he’d go quiet

but it wasn't cold, it was quiet in that way he did when he was trying to think without being seen. he’d kiss your shoulder, breathe a soft “let’s not rush it,” and roll onto his side.

with that, the conversation was over, and you never pushed.

but you remembered every time.

because you were the one who always pictured the future too clearly. the shared last name, the house with white paint with fences all around, the kid who looked just like him but had your stubbornness.

the life that felt so close you could touch it, you told yourself you had time.

but your early thirties came fast-- faster than rent hikes and birthdays and the slow ache in your knees. you both built careers, stability, a home that wasn’t temporary anymore. the mattress got replaced, the furniture now matched, the life you once imagined now existed, piece by piece.

except for one.

he still flinched at the word marriage.

you tried to be patient. god, you tried so hard. you’d bring it up gently, like laying a fragile thing on the table. “hey.. have you given any more thought to us getting married someday?”

and there it was again-- that silence. the way he’d look down at his hands, twist the ring he didn’t wear, chew his lip until it paled.“i’m just.. not ready.”

he’d say it like an apology, like something was wrong with him, not with the two of you. and you’d cup his cheek and tell him it was okay, that you weren’t going anywhere. because you weren’t. you never even thought of it.

but now you’re both mid-thirties.

and it’s starting to hurt.

not in the sharp, dramatic way heartbreak is written about. no-- it’s quieter. a bruise that’s grown over the years until you can’t remember what it felt like not to have it.

you watch your friends get married, start families, move into phases of life you’ve been ready for since the day you realized he was the one you wanted to grow old with.

you tell yourself it’s not a race.

but sometimes, when he comes home late and kicks his shoes off and greets you with that tired smile you love so much, you feel this ache rise in your chest. because you want more with him, because you’ve always wanted more with him.

and he loves you, you know he does. he shows it in a hundred ways-- coffee in your matching couple mug every morning, his hand seeking yours under blankets, the way he looks at you like you're still the same person he fell for all those years ago.

he just can’t say yes to the one thing you’ve been quietly hoping for, and you don’t know how to tell him the truth-- that the waiting is starting to make you feel unwanted, like he wants a future with you, just not the one you’ve been holding onto.

and on a rainy sunday, when you’re both on the couch, wrapped in a shared blanket, and he’s leaning against you, half-asleep, something in you snaps, softly, like a thread finally giving way.

“do you actually.. see us getting married?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. you feel him stiffen against you, you feel his breath catch, his fingers curl slightly, his heartbeat pick up where his back touches your chest.

he’s silent for too long, long enough that you already know the answer, “i don’t.. know,” he finally says, voice shaking. “i love you. i want you. i want us. i just.. [name], marriage scares me.”

you swallow hard, “scares you more than losing me?” the words slip out before you can stop them, he turns toward you instantly, eyes wide, hurt blooming there like something sharp and real.

“don’t say that,” he whispers. “please don’t say that. i’m not going anywhere.”

“but you’re not moving forward, either,” you tell him, voice breaking in a way you haven’t let it in years. “i’ve been waiting for so long. i don’t want to keep waiting forever.”

he looks at you as if he’s realizing for the first time that your patience hasn’t been infinite. that your heart, steady as it is, has limits too. his voice is small when he finally speaks.

“i never meant to make you feel like you weren’t enough.”

“you didn’t,” you say quietly. “i just.. want you to choose me. fully. not someday, not eventually, now.” silence stretches between you again, familiar, but heavier than ever.

he reaches for your hand with trembling fingers, gripping it tight. you feel his breath stumble, the way he leans into you like he’s afraid you’ll pull away.

“i don’t know how to not be scared,” he whispers. “but.. maybe i can learn, if you’re willing to try with me.”

and it’s not a yes.

but it’s the first time he hasn’t run from the conversation, the first time he hasn’t shut down or changed the subject or hidden inside his silence, it’s the first time he’s reached back.

and for now, for this fragile moment, it's enough to make you hold on. maybe just a while longer. because you couldn't see a future without him in it.

...

the night is perfect in a way that almost feels suspicious-- like the universe finally decided to give you two a break.

his birthday dinner is everything he loves, dim lights, soft jazz, food way too fancy for either of you to pronounce correctly. he laughs the whole night, the kind of laugh that scrunches his nose and makes him glow.

he holds your hand across the table, thumb brushing over your knuckles like it’s instinct, like second nature.

and for the first time in months, you feel.. hopeful.

like maybe things really are shifting, maybe his quiet promise, that he would try, actually meant something.

because tonight, he’s warm. open in ways he hasn’t been in a long time. he leans into your side on the walk towards the car, fingers hooked into your arm, humming under his breath as if the world isn’t slowly widening the crack between you.

you convince yourself, he’s ready. and maybe that was your mistake. you convince yourself so deeply that you don’t hear the faint warning your heart tries to give.

when you walk through the front door, he kicks off his dress shoe, grumbling softly about how much his feet hurt, but he’s smiling, he was happy. he turns to say something--

and freezes.

because you’re on one knee.

the small velvet box is open, the ring catching the hallway's warm light, a giant diamond that took you months to save for. something beautiful, something worthy of him.

your voice trembles when you speak.

“i love you. i want to spend the rest of my life with you. i thought.. maybe now.. you’d be ready.”

for a heartbeat, he just stares.

his face doesn’t soften, instead, it goes blank, and your heart drops to the pits of your stomach when you see it-- cold. a wall slams down so fast you swear you hear it.

he inhales sharply, eyes flicking to the ring as if it’s something offensive, something dangerous. "you did this tonight?” he finally says, voice flat. “my birthday?”

you swallow. “i thought it would make you happy.” he steps back. actually takes a step back from you. like distance will help him breathe.

“i told you,” he says slowly, “i don’t want to get married.” your heart stops, the ring in your hand suddenly feels heavy, stupid-- humiliating. “i-- i thought you were trying,” you whisper.

he lifts his chin, expression hardening into something unrecognizable. “trying doesn’t mean changing who i am or what i want.”

you blink, breath catching in your throat. “i’m not asking you to change. i’m asking you to choose.”

“and i have,” he snaps. “i don’t. want. marriage. i don’t want the title, the expectations, the legal ties. i’m happy with things the way they are.”

his voice sharpens. “and if you can’t deal with that..” he gestures vaguely toward the door, dismissive in a way that feels like a slap, “you can leave.”

the silence after that hits harder than the words. because it isn’t hesitation this time, it isn’t fear, or overwhelm, or uncertainty. it’s final. his final decision

he looks at you like he already knows what happens next, and he doesn’t flinch, doesn't apologize. your throat burns. your voice comes out small, cracked. “nine years of us.. after everything.. that’s it? that’s all i get?”

he folds his arms, eyes cold even though you’re pretty sure he hates hurting you. but he’s choosing his comfort over your heartbreak, and he won’t pretend otherwise.

“i’m not going to marry you,” he says again, slower this time, like he wants the words to land. “if that’s a deal-breaker.. then yeah. maybe this is where we stop.”

the ring catches the light again as your hand trembles.

you look at him and realize this moment is the answer you’ve been avoiding for years. he loves you, but not in the way you need to be loved, and for the first time, the truth hits,

you can’t wait anymore.

your voice comes out barely audible. “okay.” his expression flicker-- just for a second. guilt? fear? regret? you can’t tell, so you close the ring box, stand up slowly.

and the distance between you feels bigger than it ever has.

“i’ll pack my things,” you say quietly, because this isn’t a fight. it’s an ending. he doesn’t stop you, doesn’t even try to reach for you.

he just watches with that same cold, braced expression, like he expected this, like he prepared for it. and as you walk past him, heart breaking in a way you didn’t think was possible at this age, you hear the faintest whisper behind you, so soft you almost miss it.

“i’m sorry.”

but it’s too late.

you loved him enough to wait, he loved you enough to let you go, and neither of you won tonight.

...

the first week without you feels strange.

not devastating, but wrong in a way he can’t name. your toothbrush is gone, your shoes by the door are gone, the apartment feels bigger, emptier, every sound echoing just a little too long.

he keeps telling himself this is what he wanted, he said the words, he set the boundary.

so why does he keep turning toward the door at 6:14 PM like he’s waiting for your keys to jingle? why does he keep reaching for his phone when something funny happens, only to remember he has no one to send it to?

it’s small things at first.

he buys groceries and realizes he doesn’t know what brand of coffee he likes-- he only ever bought yours because he always said he'd “drink whatever.”

he watches a movie and catches himself glancing at the empty cushion beside him, waiting for your commentary.

he wakes up at 2 AM, rolls to his side, and meets cold sheets instead of your body heat.

he tells himself he’s fine, but the lie cracks every day.

it’s when he’s out walking that it finally hits him.

a couple passes by-- young, wedding rings glinting under sunlight, their daughter skipping between them, holding both their hands. the dad swings the girl up, the mom laughs, and they look so natural, so belonging it sickens him to the core, thinking of what could've been his future-- their future.

something twists in his chest sharply enough to stop him mid-step, he stares a moment too long, because he remembers when you used to point those scenes out, smiling softly, saying, “that’s gonna be us one day, watch.”

he always brushed it off, but he heard you, he always heard you.

and now, standing alone on a crowded street, he realizes something he had never let himself think, he never doubted growing old with you, he just thought he had endless time to get comfortable with the idea.

time you couldn’t keep giving.

another day, he’s at the cafe you two always went to on sundays, he orders out of habit, “two americanos, one black, one with oat milk--” he cuts himself off and the barista pauses, he clears his throat and forces a smile, “just one.”

he sits alone at the table you always shared-- because some part of him still believes you'll walk in late, apologizing, kissing his hair, but the seat across from him stays empty.

families chatter around him, a couple at the next table argues over wedding invitations, another couple is taking engagement photos near the window.

he clamps his jaw shut, because suddenly the world feels painfully full of everything he said he didn’t want.

everything he shut the door on.

everything he never thought he’d have to live without you to understand.

late one night, he finds himself scrolling through old pictures-- your arm around his shoulder, both of you smiling like you hadn’t learned how to break each other yet.

his fingers hover over your name, his pride tells him not to, but oh, his heart aches, his chest tightens, and for the first time, he whispers into the empty room. “i miss you.”

the words unravel him, because they’re true, he misses your presence, your laugh, your steadiness, your toothbrush next to his, your mug on the counter, your warmth filling the spaces he didn’t know were cold

he misses the future he never let himself say he wanted, and he finally, finally realizes-- he didn’t just lose you, he pushed you away, and now he doesn’t know if you’ll ever let him pull you back.

[6ives]

yuji itadori x male reader

you don't like christmas.

instead, you would always complain about the weather being too cold, and get sick every now and then. but oh.. he loved it. 𝐘𝐔𝐉𝐈 𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐈, your sweet boy, would keep your little house warm and nice, help you get better when you’re bed ridden during the holidays and dress in a red and green sweater for the whole month. 

it was so stupid to you, you were never a winter guy-- preferring the hot sand over the wet snow, and yet you never complained. not when he looked so happy doing it.

one thing that he cherished the most about was the mistletoe, “a tradition,” he once said, kissing under it during midnight grants you eternal love, he said. perhaps that wasn’t the proverb after all. 

you loathe christmas.

and now no one is here to make it feel any better, because he wasn’t here with you. your house was now cold, pale lights instead of the warm ones that he installed, it didn’t smell like vanilla-- instead it had an overwhelming scent of neroli. 

you came home to nothing but silence, with no cliché, overhyped christmas music in the background.

maybe that’s why you accepted your friend's party, or maybe because you were tired of sitting in the dark living room that used to glow under your sweet boys hands, or because part of you wanted to pretend, just for a night, that you weren’t slowly unraveling whenever december rolled around,

the house is decorated beautifully, warm lights, cranberry-scented candles, soft carols humming through the speakers. all the things yuji loved. all the things you used to act annoyed by, even though you secretly liked watching him fuss over them.

you try to breathe normally as you slip through the crowd, holding your drink too tight, dismissing everyone with a polite smile, heart racing as you see all the couples, remembering how that used to be you and him.

your fingers are cold now, the warmth of the room refusing to melt the coldness in you. you’re heading toward the quieter hallway when someone steps out from the opposite side, almost bumping into you as a groan left your lips,

“watch where you’re goin’,” you spat out, before lifting your gaze, and for a split second, the world seemed to stop, your heart dropping to the pits of your stomach as you took in the sight. 

he was there, in front of you, looking as ethereal as ever.

the soft glow of golden light shone over him, wearing that same gentle expression you used to wake up to. older, yes, but heartbreakingly familiar. the kind of familiar that makes your throat close. you freeze first, he freezes right after.

for a moment, neither of you speaks. you just stare at each other like you’re trying to make sense of something impossible-- because it feels impossible. after all this time, after all those cold, silent nights, after all those christmases spent pretending you didn’t look for him in crowds.

he parts his lips like he wants to say your name, but he doesn’t get the chance, because then you both look up at the sound of chimes. 

the mistletoe, hanging right above your heads, swaying along with the wind like it was mocking you. how cruel was christmas. your apples adam bobs down as your breath shakes, you hear his breath hitch. 

he used to adore this stupid tradition. he’d drag you under it every year, just so he could press a soft kiss to your lips and whisper “eternal love, remember?” with that teasing grin.

but now his eyes flicker with something else you really couldn’t point out, maybe it was hope, maybe regret. you tried to convince yourself it was neither of it. as much as you wanted to have him in your arms, you didn’t want to go back

“i didn’t know you’d be here,” he says quietly, his voice is softer than you remember, like the winters have been unkind to him too. “i didn’t either,” you manage. your chest feels tight, painfully so, like your ribs are folding inward.

the silence stretches. you can hear distant laughter, clinking glasses, that warm, cozy joy that doesn’t belong to you anymore. you take a step back instinctively, he notices and his shoulders tighten just slightly. “we don’t.. have to do anything,” he murmurs, glancing up again. “it’s just a decoration.”

but it isn’t just a decoration.

it’s every christmas you shared, every promise whispered half-asleep, every night he held you through fevers, every morning he insisted on baking gingerbread even though he always burned them.

it’s everything you lost.

“yeah,” you whisper, forcing a nod. “just decoration.” the lie sits heavy in your mouth.

he swallows hard, like he wants to reach out, like he wants to erase every cold december you spent alone, but he stays still. two people who used to know each other’s heartbeat like their own now acting like strangers. your heart clenched at this. 

you move first. stepping out from under the mistletoe, leaving its shadow-- and him behind, “merry christmas,” he says softly. you don’t turn around. “you too.”

and god, it hurts, it really does, because for the first time, you finally understand, you don’t hate christmas. you hate how it reminds you of him.

you miss christmas.

[6ives]

nanami kento x top male reader tw : (requested) american psycho au, ooc nanami, mention of violence, unhealthy relationship, dom top reader, ewb, nsfw, tit play or sum shi like tha idk, voyeurism(?), bj (r receiving), degradation, poorly written smut.

the first thing you notice about 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎 is that he is not trying, and that, more than anything else, is what irritates you. he wasn't performative like the way the others are, doesn’t lacquer himself in irony or feigned indifference.

no, he stands at the edge of the room during quarterly meetings, immaculate but unostentatious, his suit tailored with a precision that suggests quiet money rather than desperate wealth. and when he speaks? people listen, not because he demands attention, but because his voice carries the weight of competence.

you hate that. competence should be loud, it should shine, should be seen. your name, on the other hand, is always seen.

[name] [last name]. senior vice president, perfect complexion, penthouse resident, curator of taste. your business card is bone-white with subtle embossing, your mornings are rituals, your life is a careful curation of surfaces. you believe, fervently, that superiority is something that must be displayed. you were someone to be envied upon.

after all, you're flawless, perfect even. and yet, last week, someone mistook nanami for you. it was a simple error, sure. a junior associate, flushed and eager, rushed up to him in the elevator lobby and congratulated him on your recent deal.

nanami corrected her politely, almost apologetically. but the damage had already been done. you watched from across the marble floor as the associate laughed, embarrassed, and then unthinkably continued talking to nanami anyway.

you didn't bother hiding your clenched jaw.

that evening, you invite nanami over. you phrase it as professional courtesy, a competitive détente disguised as civility. drinks, and classy conversation. you tell yourself it’s about networking, about fostering mutual respect among equals.

you knew that was a lie. you need him gone. disappeared.

your apartment, when he arrives, is exactly as you intend it to be, pristine. it was glass and steel with muted neutrals arranged with museum-level deliberation. the city sprawls below you, obedient and small.

you watch nanami take it in, except it wasn't with awe-- which would have pleased you, but instead it was with calm appraisal, "impressive,” he says, finally setting his coat aside. “you must get a lot of light.”

was he implementing that you couldn't afford electricity bill?

yeah. that had to be it.

you pour the drinks with a steady hand, deliberately angling the bottle so the label catches the light. it was vintage, expensive enough to be spoken about in reverent tones. nanami accepts his glass, thanks you, and takes a sip.

but he doesn’t comment. nevertheless, you continue to pivot seamlessly into your collection. vinyl records in flawless condition-- first editions as well. art pieces acquired through connections that took years to cultivate. each item is a statement, a challenge. you expect admiration. envy, at least.

or perhaps you just wanted him feel inferior before he took his final breath.

nanami listens and he nods. he asks questions-- but not the kind that reveal insecurity, it was almost as if his curiosity was genuine. “you enjoy this?” he observes, gesturing lightly around the room, "of course i do,” you reply.

“taste is discipline.” a low hum escapes from him, "maybe,” he says. “i think it’s just another language people use to tell the world who they are, but it's an easy way to hide who you truly are, don't you think so?”

the words land uncomfortably close. you had planned to kill him, for peace you stated, but the conversation keeps unfolding against your expectations. he speaks of work not as conquest but as craft.

he admits fatigue, his flaws, and gosh.. there is something disarming about his honesty, you relished in them. he wasn't the 'perfect' co-worker that seemed to ease into everyone's heart anymore, his words were raw-- unfiltered.

he wasn't a threat anymore, instead, a fuel to boost your ego. and you were humble enough to give him a small gift, an appreciation for being the perfect audience. what was the gift you may ask?

YOUR DICK 👅👅

cause right now that hunk of a man was on his knees, hands gripping your thighs for support, as he bobbed his head up and down, tears threatening to spill. his thin framed glass about to fall off his face, but you don't allow imperfection in your house, so you kindly fixed it back, biting back a groan.

nanami kento was a man of few words, and you wondered why. maybe this is why, his mouth was designed for other things-- for example, sucking you off until you came all over his face, painting his chiseled calm look white as he licked it off his lips.

how did you never notice this mans waist? they were perfect for you to hold, his hair, the hips, the arms, and his chest. especially the chest, you could spend hours playing with them, enjoying every single second he murmured incoherent words for you to stop.

did you stop? not really, not when you had THE nanami kento pressed against your window, allowing the world to see the real him-- a fucked up man burying his true whore self underneath all that composure and charm.

the city lights catching in his glasses, as he tries to grip the plain glass, "the view pretty enough?" you chuckle into his ear, you had imagined him as an obstacle, a mirror distorted just enough to threaten your reflection, but god were you wrong. he was messy, disgusting even, letting his own colleague ram into his hole,

that makes you wonder, "you got other men use that filthy hole of yours, kento?" you ask, your hand playing with his little nipples, earning a muffled moan as pre cum dripped from his angered girth, "bet that's why they love you so much huh?"

he shook his head, eyes hazy as he tried looking back over his shoulder, only to be stopped by your ruthless thrusts, "n-no!" he whimpered, biting back the lewd groans, the one who once threatened your authority now reduced to your cum dump.

yeah. you could get used to this.

new yrs resolution? to write more sub nanami fics 🙏🙏

[6ives]

ryomen sukuna x female reader tw : angst, emotional neglect, dismissive behavior from partner, unhealthy / toxic relationship dynamics, implied emotional manipulation, hospitalization (non-graphic) emotional distress, abandonment, canon sukuna behavior, power imbalance in a relationship, slight comfort in the end note: no romanticization of toxicity, the harm is portrayed as damaging, not desirable

you loved 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀

god, he was one hell of a man. with bloodless knuckles hiding old violence, and a reputation that followed him like a shadow he enjoyed stepping into. he never pretended to be good, told you exactly what he was, and you chose him anyway. your mistake.“i don’t do reassurance,” he flatly said once, while fixing his hair in the mirror, you stood behind him, barefoot on cold tile, wrapped in satin, nodding like it didn’t carve something out of you.

being with sukuna was never loud. it was quieter-- erosive like water wearing down stone, day by day, word by word.he never held your hand in public, never introduced you as anything important, never looked back to see if you were still there whilst walking in crowded rooms. and still-- you stayed. your mistake.

but you stayed for a reason, because in the dead of night, when the city lights bled through the windows and his guard dropped just for a fraction small, he’d pull you close, so close like he was claiming space, like you were his possession, his arm heavy around your waist, his breath warm at your neck.

“you’re still here,” he’d mutter, more amused than grateful, as if you were a curiosity, as if your loyalty was just another mere form of entertainment for him. but you slowly learned to love him in the way he wanted to be loved, you folded yourself smaller, swallowed back words before they reached your tongue because you learned that asking for more only earned a smirk. you were his doll. nothing more, nothing less

“you're crazy,” he’d say when you asked for time, or for something as simple as honesty. “not like you're gonna die if i'm not honest.” no-- but something inside you will.

but hey, he never cheated. just that it wasn't because he respected you, it was because effort bored him. when people flirted with him, he didn’t hide it. he let you watch, let you sit there and wonder why your chest felt so tight when he laughed-- a real laugh, brighter than anything he ever gave you. you were such a perfect audience waiting for his show. don't complain now, you wanted this, remember?

“you look miserable,” he’d note, glancing sideways, and his face would twist into something close to being cruelly amused, "dont be so dramatic, doll. if i wanted someone else, you wouldn’t still be here.” that was sukuna’s version of reassurance, and you were happy with that. your mistake.

it was only a matter of time you broke, and he was counting down the days. and when you finally did, it was like a victory for him, for finally proving you wrong, proving that you would only get exhausted by loving a man like him.

you didn't scream, didn't throw things like the others did, you asked him quietly instead, meekly even, "would you even care if i left?” you were desperate-- for his attention, for his words, his honesty, for him. he didn’t answer right away, he was scrolling through his phone, disinterested like always, "it's not that hard, if you left,” he said, tone bored, “i’d replace you, it's not rocket science, baby.”

the words landed clean. and god was it fatal. something in you went still. but it was your mistake, your fault, you asked for this-- you wanted this. you knew this would happen, so why were you so upset? so surprised? he was no good for you, yet you thought you could change him-- change a man who had no intention of changing even in the slightest.

you realized then that loving sukuna wasn’t tragic because he was cruel, it was tragic because he was honest. he never lied about his limits, you were the one who kept hoping they’d move. you packed your things while he watched from the doorway, arms crossed.

“you’ll be back,” he said confidently, shrugging, because people always came back to him. but you paused, hand on the door, with a small sniffle and tear stained cheeks, "no,” you replied softly. “i won’t.” he scoffed and turned away, he wasn't going to follow you, wasn't going to beg you, no, this is no romcom from the 2000's, it was ryomen sukuna. what did you even expect?

weeks later, he’d catch himself glancing at his phone, sometimes at the empty space beside him in bed, most of the times at the silence that didn’t ask anything of him, but didn’t give him anything either. he realized how less of a home it felt like now-- that is if he ever was home.

and for a moment, ryomen sukuna would feel something close to regret, just close enough to pause whenever he saw the plushies that he had once gotten for you when he went to an arcade, but not close enough to chase.

and when a call comes at 3am, sukuna almost doesn’t answer. why would he? it was an unknown number. he lets it ring almost thrice as the city hums outside his apartment. he’s mid-pour, ice clinking in a glass, when irritation finally wins. on the fourth call, he hisses and grabs the phone.

“what,” he says, flat and sharp, there’s a pause on the other end, almost hesitant, "is this kuna?” kuna. that was you. it's you. no. there was no way that was you on the other line, not your voice, not your tone, this one was professional, but then again, only you called him that-- not that he allowed you to, you just did. "ryomen sukuna.” he simple replied.

“right, sorry, this is from the memorial hospital, you’re listed as the emergency contact for a patient currently adm--” he hangs up, but it wasn't on purpose, his thumb just slips, more of a reflex mixed with annoyance. definitely not on purpose. he stares at the darkened screen, irritation flaring. what kind of joke was this?

emergency contact. who in this entire world would put him in that? put so much trust in a man like him? he thought to himself, yet all those thoughts returned back to you. he scoffed, that’s stupid. you’d left weeks ago, he’d assumed reasonably that you’d removed him from things that mattered.

but the phone rings again, and he answers this time, doesn’t say anything. "this is a very serious case, so please do listen, it's [name]." of course it was you. it just had to be you. you left, and the moment you did, you were on your death bed. even when you were gone, you were a burden to him.

"she was brought in earlier tonight,” the voice continues, unshaken, "there was no one else listed. and we need consent for--” “i’m not family,” sukuna cuts in, another pause, and the woman on the other line replied in a smaller tone, "you’re the only contact, do you perhaps know anyone that she is in contact with?"

the question hit him like a brick, no-- he doesn't know who you're in contact with. now that he thinks about it, he doesn't even know your favorite color, or your favorite flower. you were an accessory to his flashy life, and he had no interest in getting to know about them. but now, god, he almost feels pitiful, really, how did you even put up with him for this long?

"no. you know what, never mind, yes. whatever this consent shit you're askin' me for, i say yes, just do whatever." he hangs up before she can say anything else, and for a long moment, he doesn’t move. he doesn't know how to feel. just shrug it off maybe? drown his heavy chest with beer? visit you? no. instead, he lights a cigarette with hands that are steady, and exhales slowly.

hospitalized, he repeats internally, like the word might lose meaning if he stares at it long enough. you’re not supposed to be fragile, you were quiet, yes. soft-spoken, but not weak, you survived him-- you should survive anything. he doesn’t go. he doesn't need to, you were nothing to him, he was nothing to you. you were the past. he hates the past.

he sits there, scrolling aimlessly, pretending the city outside hasn’t gone unbearably quiet, pretending he doesn’t remember the exact way you looked the last time he saw you-- the shallow look with wet lashes and red nose. by morning, irritation curdles into something uglier.

it wasn't guilt, more of a courtesy, just that he doesn't usually do courtesies. you were his, you leaving didn’t change that in his mind-- it just removed you from reach. and when he does arrive to the said hospital, he shows up late with empty hands, no flowers, no treats, nothing.

he stands in the doorway of your hospital room like he’s assessing damage. you’re smaller in the bed, a monitor hums softly beside you, your eyes flick toward the door-- and widen. of all the people they could’ve called, it had to be this man. ".. sukuna?” your voice is rough, raspy, laced with surprise rather than hope.

he prefers it that way, "they called me at three in the fuckin' mornin',” he huffs, hands in his pocket, like he’s explaining a scheduling error. “why am i still in your emergency contacts?.” you swallow, and look away, "i forgot to change it.” he clicks his tongue, "and i forgot how careless you are.” you almost laugh.

and then silence returns, caving you both, he doesn’t ask what happened nor ask if you’re okay. instead, you were hit with something else, "you look worse than when you left.” there it is. sukuna’s version of concern. you close your eyes, "why did you come.”

he considers lying, but he doesn't, "to take my name off your phone," he hums, before continuing, "didn’t like being reminded that you’re still tied to me.” that hurts, you don’t hide it this time. and for the first time, sukuna looks mildly displeased, not at you, but at himself. he steps closer to the bed, gaze sharp. “did you really not change it because you thought i'd save you?”

“i didn’t,” you whisper. “i just.. didn’t think i'd end up here.” something in his jaw tightens, "idiot,” he mutters, but he doesn’t leave, instead he stays for the first time. arms crossed, carefully watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, like he's guarding a territory he no longer owns, walking away now would be a concession he refuses to make.

when you finally fall asleep, exhausted, sukuna looks at the machines instead of your face. his eyes flying to the heart monitor whenever he heard a beep that was out of place. a courtesy. he reminded himself. this was nothing to him, the hospital called, he came. he doesn't care.

but before he goes, he mutters-- quiet enough that only the room hears it, "next time you almost die, make sure you don't drag me into yer fuckin' mess.” and yet, he memorizes the hospital name anyway, once again forcing himself to think of this as nothing more than a courtesy.

[6ives]

biker! ryomen sukuna x gn reader tw : heavily inspired by 'bangalore days', character death (reader), motorcycle accident, survivor’s guilt, grief & prolonged mourning, emotional repression, replacement / projection (him seeing someone else as the reader), avoidance trauma, pet grief themes, unresolved closure, heavy angst, no immediate comfort, obsessive coping, self-destructive behavior (non-graphic)

biker!sukuna who rode like he was one within the wind, leaning into curves like he owned gravity. you hated it, hated how fast he would go and yet you’d still sit behind him, helmet pressed to his back with fingers gripping his black jacket while pretending you weren’t terrified, and he’d always say the same thing through that lazy smirk, "relax, you really think i'll let anything happen to you?”

biker!sukuna who softened only when you wrapped your arms around his waist at red lights. he never admitted it, but he slowed down when you were on the bike. only for you.

biker!sukuna who adopted a dog on impulse just for you. you insisted that it had the "saddest puppy eyes ever.” sukuna pretended he didn’t care, made excuses of how it would scratch his seats and chew on his boots. but when the dog refused to sleep unless it was between the two of you, he never complained.

biker!sukuna who’d wake up early to walk the dog while you slept in, who’d roll his eyes when you bought toys, who secretly took photos of you playing with the dog on his phone, please believe him when he says he'll disown the dog if you let him

biker!sukuna who chuckled when you’d scold him about speed constantly. swatting his arm at red lights while telling him that one day you’d leave him if he kept racing like that. he would smirk, "you won’t.”

biker!sukuna who thought there was time. there’s always time, until there isn’t. just one second of asphalt, and a mistake that wasn’t even his. and everything goes wrong when your name leaves his mouth before the impact.

biker!sukuna who woke up to an overwhelming silence. the hospital room smelled sterile and his body felt wrong. bruised ribs, fractured shoulder, stitches across his tattooed skin that you used to trace with your fingers.

biker!sukuna who didn’t ask about the bike or him, but about you. and when the answer didn’t come the way he needed it to, something in him stopped moving. not his body-- his life.

ex-biker!sukuna who never touched a motorcycle again. the garage stayed locked, as your helmet gathered dust. his friends tried cheering him up, brought new models, said he could ride again, said it wasn’t his fault and that he was still the best rider they knew. he shut himself out.

ex-biker!sukuna who noticed how the dog waited by the door for days and whined at the sound of engines outside, who slept on your side of the bed like it expected you to return.

ex-biker!sukuna who after that day, if he ever drove a car-- and that itself was rare, he drove painfully slow. so slow people honked at him, that it irritated everyone. but he didn’t care, speed had taken something from him and he wasn’t bargaining with it again.

ex-biker!sukuna whos hands tremble whenever he's in a car, he checks mirrors obsessively and stopped long before intersections. reminding himself that speed wasn’t freedom anymore, that the wind, the road stole you from him.

ex-biker!sukuna who met a woman years later, she wasn’t you, but she had your laugh, perhaps he imagined it. but she tucked her hair behind her ear the same way you did when you were shy, liked the same roadside tea stalls, even the habit of biting your nails when nervous.

ex-biker!sukuna who starts recreating things without realizing it. he takes her to the same restaurants you loved, orders her drink the way you used to have it and walks her along the same park path you two first shared your kiss. shows her the dog’s favorite spot under the big tree, the one that you managed to find.

ex-biker!sukuna who calls her by your name once. it slips out quiet, like an reflex when he saw her in the kitchen, brewing coffee for him. because that used to be you. the silence afterward is suffocating. she asks who that is but he doesn’t answer immediately. the truth is worse than a lie.

ex-biker!sukuna who imagined it was you. when she smiled at him across the table, he imagined your eyes. when she complained about traffic, he imagined you nudging him and saying, “see? this is why i prefer walking.” when she held his hand, he closed his eyes for half a second too long, and in that half second, it was you, always you.

ex-biker!sukuna who goes through the pictures he took of you, and ultimately hits the rock-bottom. because no matter what happens, he would still find himself apologizing to the ghost of you.

ex-biker!sukuna who hides the ring he bought for you in the same box where your helmet is kept.

[6ives]

narrator! gojo satoru x tyler durden! male reader tw : fight club AU, physical violence, illegal underground fighting, injuries & blood (non-graphic but present), self-destructive behavior, toxic/unhealthy relationship dynamics, manipulation, power imbalance(?), moral instability, themes of obsession, identity loss, recklessness, criminal-adjacent behavior, toxic masculinity, extremism, anti-consumerist radicalization themes, cult-like group dynamics, psychological deterioration

𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 met you at a very strange time in his life.

he was a nobody. a contrast to his past that overweighed his current loneliness, and yet he chose to stick to the illusion.

he worked enough to afford designers that were plastered all over his apartment. he didn't like them, no. it was a mask, something for him to cover up the void-- to fill up the space that is left. in his room and life.

and then he met you.

you were everything he wasn't-- he should be glad about it, because you were broke, you lived in an abandoned house that he was so sure is haunted, and made a living out of making soaps, trying to sell it to strangers in airplanes, at least that's what happened to gojo.

he thought you were a lunatic at first, wearing shades inside the plane, sitting on his seat. but the more he talked with you that day, the more he understood-- and the more he envied.

you were broke, yes, but you were free. you had time, a commanding presence, and most of it all, you did not care. that's when he first felt it, a connection, a slight hum in his chest. because he realized that you were everything he wanted to be.

you acted out of impulse with no care, you embraced the consequences and played with luck like it was a toy. and the moment he stepped out the plane? he was right back in your hold once again.

called you once he saw his now burnt out apartment, didn't know why he called you in the first place when he could've called someone else he knew, but you didn't turn him down, instead, you invited him for a drink.

gojo decided then that the day he met you, in the plane, was when his life turned around. with no place to stay, he was stuck with you in the same abandoned house he claimed was haunted.

the more he was perched in your orbit, the more he lingered around, the space he loathed slowly started to fill up-- even when he lost his job, especially when he lost his job. it made him feel reckless, like he had his life in control now.

it was easy for him to follow you around, you were charismatic, and everything about you felt so.. put together despite how much of a mess you are.

the envy coiled into something deeper, his gazes lingered more, his touches fairy like. and when gojo got to know about fight club, the bond you two shared rooted deeply within.

the envy had faded into admiration which now shared a very thin line with obsession. and the first rule you told him in the kitchen, barefoot on cracked tile, was spoken like a joke

"you don’t talk about it, satoru.”

the white haired man laughed, leaning against the counter, watching you carve a bar of soap with a pocketknife like a surgeon, “you sure you aren't takin' me to a cult?” you didn’t answer right away, instead you slid the finished bar across to him.

it was uneven, pink, and smelled aggressively like cheap citrus. he turned it over in his hand. “the place i’m taking you tonight,” you said finally, "you don’t talk about it. you don’t write about it. you don’t even think about it too loud."

he squinted his eyes in confusion, a small click of tongue before he finally replied, "you're fuckin' insane," but he followed you either way.

the building was a carcass of concrete and rust, tucked behind a strip of warehouses like something ashamed of itself.

the air around it buzzed with noise-- filled with laughter too sharp, and the low thud of bodies hitting bodies. gojo felt it in his teeth before he even stepped inside.

the basement smelled like sweat and iron. a circle of men crowded the center, their faces lit with a hunger that made gojo's stomach twist. a punch landed, he heard someone groan and the crowd leaned in like flowers toward sunlight.

you didn’t look at him, you were watching the fight with a focus that bordered on reverence, he didn't like that, he never indulged in fights yet something in his bones buzzed and adrenaline rushed through,

"that’s it?” he asked. “they just.. hit each other?” you grinned. “that’s it.”

god, he should’ve left. he knew he should've.

every rational piece of him screamed to turn around, go back to the haunted house, go back to his hollow apartment, go back to being nobody in designer clothes. this place was animalistic, it stripped the air down to something primitive

but you stepped into the circle when the fight ended and so he stayed.

the crowd shifted for you instinctively, gojo felt the change like pressure in the room. they knew you, not by your name-- he doubted names mattered here, but they knew what you were capable of.

you rolled your shoulders, loose, smiling like this was a party and you were the host.

your opponent was much bigger-- older. as he cracked his knuckles and spat to the side, you looked back at gojo once before the first punch you took snapped your head sideways.

the sound echoed, and gojo's chest tightened, a reflexive jolt of anger he didn’t recognize as his own. you laughed through the blood in your mouth. laughed like this whole thing was a joke, and then you moved.

it wasn’t pretty but it was efficient in a way that felt personal. you hit like you were erasing something. every strike carried a story gojo wasn’t privy to. the crowd roared with each connection, but he couldn’t hear them anymore.

all he saw was you-- alive in a way you never were in daylight, stripped down to intent. when you finally dropped the man, you didn’t celebrate. you just stood there, chest heaving, eyes bright, you looked relieved.

you pointed at the blue eyed man, and the circle turned to him.

his first instinct was to refuse, his second was to run, but underneath both was that hum again-- that same hum from the plane, from the burnt apartment, from every reckless step he’d taken since meeting you.

it pulled him forward and he stepped in.

the man they gave him was lean, twitchy. gojo barely registered his face before the first hit landed. pain bloomed, it was shocking how immediate it was, nevertheless, he hit back and something in him cracked open along with it.

all the quiet resentment, the loneliness he’d lacquered over with expensive furniture, the envy he’d swallowed every time he watched you live without fear-- it surged to the surface and poured into his fists.

he wasn’t graceful by no means, nor was he skilled. but he was furious in a way that felt clean.

when he went down, the concrete kissed his spine and the ceiling spun, he tasted iron and started laughing, he didn’t know why. hands dragged him up. the fight was over and he’d lost.

it didn’t matter. the crowd clapped his shoulder like he’d been baptized. his face throbbed, his ribs screamed. yet he felt.. lighter.

you were in front of him, split lip, eye already darkening. you looked delighted, "well?” you asked with a tilt of your head. the white haired man touched his bleeding nose.

he waited for shame, for regret, even for the creeping horror of what he’d just done.

but none of it came.

“i get it,” he said softly. your grin widened, feral and proud as you threw an arm around his shoulders and dragged him back into the noise, into the sweat and laughter and raw, beating heart of the basement.

that night, limping home beside you, gojo satoru realized something irreversible had settled into him, but the first thing he noticed on the walk back, was that you didn’t ask if he was okay.

most people would’ve-- a normal person would’ve hovered, fussed over the swelling, and apologized for dragging him into something brutal and underground.

but you didn’t even look at his face.

you were humming, lip still split, hands shoved in your pockets, stepping over puddles like you were walking out of a movie theater instead of a basement where he’d just been beaten into clarity.

“your stance was terrible,” you finally said, gojo laughed through the ache in his ribs. “no shit, i got knocked flat.” you hummed in reply-- a silent motion of approval, and he was fine with that.

your house greeted you like a mouth with broken teeth, you kicked your shoes off and tracked blood across the floor without a second thought. gojo followed, dizzy, watching you move through the wreckage of your life with practiced ease.

the place was worse than he remembered. soap molds stacked beside empty bottles, clothes draped over a chair like shed skin, a worn out mattress on the floor.

you tossed him a literal rag, "for your face,” you said. “don't drip the soap too much. customers hate when there's no logo.”

he stared at you. “you’re worried about customer satisfaction right now?” he didn't even bother asking you why you would sell a used soap-- too used to your cheap tricks by now.

“i’m always worried about customer satisfaction,” you replied, dead serious. “that’s capitalism for ya.” you grinned after you said it, blood in your teeth, and he felt that hum again-- louder this time, almost closer to a roar.

you were a disaster, a walking liability. a person held together by impulse and bad decisions and a charisma so sharp it bordered on violent, and he couldn’t-- wouldn't look away.

the fights became a routine, that was the frightening part, not the pain or the bruises blooming like ink under his skin. it was the routine that frightened him.

you’d disappear for hours, come back with cash or nothing, sometimes with a split knuckle, sometimes with a stranger trailing behind you who’d crash on your bed and leave before sunrise.

you lied easily, casually, he caught you once, selling the same bar of soap he used to three different people in the same afternoon,

"you're scamming them,” he said, watching the people shuffle away. you shrugged. “how will they know it's used,”

“that’s not--”

“legal?” you offered. “moral? damn, satoru, relax. they’ll survive. people love being fooled, it makes them feel chosen.” you said it with a pat on his cheek, it was such good conviction he almost believed it.

and perhaps that was your talent. you bent reality around yourself until it felt negotiable. fight club fed that part of you, or maybe it was the other way around.

in the basement, you were gospel. people gravitated to you after fights, hanging on your words like you were preaching salvation instead of chaos.

you remembered names when it benefited you, and forgot them when it didn’t. you could look a man in the eye after breaking his nose and make him feel honored for it.

and gojo-- god, gojo continued to orbit around you, knowing where you came from, how your silly little 'consequences' weren't so silly anymore and that he should be wary of your impulses.

you weren't some quirky guy, and he didn't want to be you.

yet he started skipping interviews, he started ignoring calls, bruises became easier to explain than ambition and every time he stepped into the circle, every time his fist connected with bone,

he felt closer to the version of himself he’d glimpsed the night he met you. the version that didn’t care. the same version that burned instead of rotted.

you saw it happening and did nothing to stop it, you never pushed him too, it was only a matter of time he did. you simply watched him unravel and smiled like you’d predicted it-- because you did.

one night, after a fight that left him shaking, you sat beside him on the basement floor while the crowd thinned. his knuckles were raw, and your shoulder was dislocated-- he could see the wrong angle of it. yet you stayed composed, like it was normal to walk around with a broken arm.

“you’re changing,” you said softly, cracking the knuckles, while giving small nods to every member who passed by you, satoru laughed weakly, "i lost my job. lives with a man who lies for a living, and fight strangers for fun. yeah-- i’d hope so.”

you turned your head, studying him like a specimen, "i didn't mean it that way,” you murmured. “you’re shedding," the word settled in his stomach, and he paused-- shedding? “as in shedding my hair? look man, life's been a roller-coaster, i'm not surpr--” he was cut off by your words.

“no, satoru, you're shedding the part of you that was pretending to be alive.” you smiled, yet held nothing in your eyes, and then, with your good arm, you reached over and pressed your thumb into the bruise forming under his eye, hard.

he hissed and pulled away, you didn’t apologize, you just watched his reaction, fascinated, "there you are,” you whispered. and the worst part-- the part he would never admit, was that he felt seen.