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RULES MASTERLIST ABOUT
𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙨𝙩 explore the tag #recommended ── ★
JJK
arranged. [gojo satoru x reader] series tag #prince!gojo ── ★
୨୧ 𓆩♡𓆪 TELL ME I’M A LITTLE ANGEL, SWEETHEART OF YOUR CITY
★ toji can’t wait for your period to end
★ gojo using his blindfold to tie you up
BSD
୨୧ confessing to them
★ i might have to fuck her on the highway [public sex scenarios]
★ ୨୧ something about me got you hooked on my body [favourite body part]
hii could i request something like jjk guys x reader being a famous tiktoker idk or reader being really funny 😭😭😭😭😭
⸺ you're a tiktoker and a full-time liar, and he's suffering the consequences ♡
synopsis : you pulling pranks on your jjk bf
starring : gojo, geto, nanami, toji, megumi, yuji x reader
tw : fluff fluff, pranking and shit, crack mostly, slight angst in nanamis
gojo satoru
you lounged on the massive sectional in the penthouse you shared with satoru, scrolling through your tiktok analytics with a wicked grin. 6.7 million followers. your last prank video — the one where you replaced all his sweets with sugar-free gummies and he dramatically fake-died on the floor — hit 42 million views in three days. comments were still flooding in: “gojo’s face when he realized 😭”, “she has a loose screw and he eats it up IJBOL”, “he’s so whipped the fuck”
being the most famous couple on the app had perks. brands sent you free gadgets, fans made edits of satoru’s blindfold flying off in shock, and your boyfriend — the actual strongest sorcerer alive — loved every second of it. mostly because he got to be the center of attention. and because, as your viewers had already clocked, he was stupidly, disgustingly in love with you.
today’s target: the wrong food prank. specifically, the nuclear-spicy edition.
you’d spent the morning researching the hottest takeout in tokyo — a new thai place that had a “volcano challenge” level rated 10/10 on the spice scale. people cried. grown men tapped out. perfect! you ordered two portions of the ghost-pepper pad thai, extra extra extra spicy, plus a side of their “inferno wings” that came with a waiver. then you added a normal mild chicken fried rice for yourself so he wouldn’t suspect immediately.
the delivery guy was already on his way. you had three hidden cameras set up: one in the kitchen, one on the coffee table, and your phone ready for the close-up reaction. the caption you’d already drafted in your notes app: “pov: ordering my boyfriend’s favorite food but make it spicy. he says he can handle anything… watch him lie LMFAO #gojoprank #strongestsorcerercries also #enhypenis7”
your phone buzzed. satoru.
that dihh 🩵: boobee I’m 10mins away i miss u FUCK ijichi
you typed back instantly, biting your lip to keep from laughing.
you: dont curse him out papi
that dihh 🩵: YES YES YES MOMAHE
you : holy cornball
i ordered some pad thai for u stinky
HURRY HOME IMU
that dihh 🩵: IM COMIGN
love you more than mochi ngh
you snorted. he was such a sap.
exactly eight minutes later the door slid open with dramatic flair. satoru stepped in, blindfold already pulled down around his neck like a headband, white hair messy from the wind, that signature cocky grin plastered on his face. he was still in his teacher uniform — jacket slung over one shoulder, shirt unbuttoned at the top because he knew you liked it.
“hi, my beautiful, talented, slightly terrifying girlfriend!” he sang, kicking the door shut with his heel. “i smelled food from three blocks away. did you order from that new place? the one with the cute little dragon logo?”
you were already on the couch, legs tucked under you, looking the picture of innocence. your phone was propped against a water bottle, recording in 4k. “yup! pad thai, just how you like it. extra sauce. come eat, baby, you’ve been on missions all day.”
he dropped his jacket on the floor — because of course he did — and flopped down beside you, immediately pulling you into his lap like you weighed nothing. his arms wrapped around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.
“mm, you’re the best. seriously. the strongest sorcerer deserves the best girlfriend and the best food. im spoiled rotten and i love it.” he pressed a loud kiss to your cheek. “what would i do without you, hm? probably starve. or eat convenience store mochi for every meal. sniff sniff.”
you laughed, ruffling his hair. “you’d survive. delivery just got here — it’s on the counter. go grab it before it gets cold.”
he narrowed his brilliant blue eyes at you, suspicious for half a second. “you’re being too nice. usually you make me beg for kisses first.”
“beg later, peasant. eat now. i’m filming a ‘day in the life’ thing,” you lied smoothly, gesturing at your phone. “they wanna see the strongest man alive enjoying takeout like a normal person.”
that did it. satoru’s ego lit up like a christmas tree. “ohhh, for the fans? say less.” he hopped up, sauntered to the kitchen like he was on a runway, and came back carrying the two massive containers plus the wings. he set everything on the coffee table, cracking his knuckles.
“alright, let’s see what my baby ordered for me.” he popped open the first lid.
the smell hit immediately — pure fire. even from three feet away your eyes watered. satoru froze, fork halfway to his mouth.
“…babe.”
“mm’?” you kept your voice sweet, filming his face in 4k.
“this… this is glowing. is this radioactive? did you order a volcano by accident?” he leaned in, sniffing, then recoiled, hand over his heart. “my six-seven eyes are screaming. they’re literally crying. i can see the capsicum molecules doing the macarena.”
“capsaicin?”
“yes, that,” he pouted.
you tilted your head, all innocent. “nooo, it’s just extra spicy pad thai. you said you can handle anything, remember? last week you ate that habanero ice cream like it was vanilla.”
“that was different! that was ice cream! this is… whatever this is….” he poked the noodles with his fork like they might bite him back. “look at it. It’s judging me. the shrimp are side-eyeing me.”
you bit your lip harder, trying not to laugh. “come on, ‘toru. one bite. for the tiktok. my followers are waiting. they voted in the comments last time — they want to see the so-called ‘strongest man’ cry.”
he gasped, clutching his chest. “you polled them?! traitor! my own girlfriend polling strangers about my suffering?!” but his eyes were sparkling already at the mention of “followers”.
“fine. fine. for you. and for the clout.” he twirled a massive forkful, stared at it like it had personally offended his ancestors, then shoved it into his mouth.
silence for exactly 0.8 seconds.
then the reaction.
satoru’s eyes widened to saucers. his infinity flickered on and off involuntarily — the air around him shimmering like heat haze. he froze mid-chew, cheeks puffed out, face turning the exact shade of a ripe tomato.
“mmm— mmph— BAB—” the word came out muffled and slightly strangled.
as much as you wanted to be concerned, the gasps he kept letting out made you giggle.
“can i use rct? what— fuck!”
“swallow baby come onnnnn.”
he swallowed, and regretted it instantly. his entire body did a full-body shudder. “water. water! i need the entire pacific ocean. whyyyy is my tongue filing for divorce?!”
you handed him the bottle you’d pre-prepared (room temp, because cold would make it worse — you were evil but considerate). he chugged half of it in one go, then looked at you with the most betrayed, watery puppy eyes you’d ever seen.
“you did this on purpose,” he accused, voice hoarse. “you ordered the nuclear option and you’re sitting there with your mild fried rice like a saint. i see the container. mild. milddddd! while I’m over here battling satan’s noodles.”
you leaned forward, still filming, and cupped his flaming cheek. “aw, but you’re doing so good. one more bite? for me? i love you so much.”
he stared at you. really stared. those glowing blue eyes softened even as tears gathered at the corners. “you’re lucky i’m obsessed with you,” he muttered. “lucky i’d eat literal lava if you batted your eyelashes at me.”
geto suguru
your ring light was already positioned on the tripod in the corner, phone propped and recording in portrait mode. the little red dot blinked steadily.
6.7 million followers now. your account @ynlovesyn had become a phenomenon in the jujutsu world too — students at jujutsu high secretly watched your videos during lunch, yaga-sensei pretended he didn’t know who you were but liked every post, and even utahime sent you heart-eyes emojis when you beat up gojo live last month.
the prank: the “current boyfriend” bit. you’d seen it explode again in early 2026 with new audio trends — “talking stage vs current boyfriend vs future husband” edits — and decided to weaponize it against the man who called you “my only” every night before sleep.
you were wearing his oversized black hoodie (the one he wore on low-curse days), looking every bit the relaxed girlfriend. perfect bait.
the front door clicked open at exactly 6:07 PM. suguru stepped in, long black hair half-tied, the rest cascading down his back like ink. he was still in his gojo-gesa, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a paper bag from the konbini dangling from his fingers — ramen, onigiri, and probably that strawberry mochi you pretended not to like (you always stole his last bite anyway).
“hey, baby,” he said softly, voice like velvet. he kicked off his geta by the genkan, padded over in socks, and leaned down to press a slow kiss to your forehead. “missed you. missions ran longer than expected.”
you tilted your head up, smiling sweetly. “missed you more. how was the special grade?”
“handled. nothing worth talking about.” he set the bag on the coffee table, then noticed the ring light. one elegant brow arched. “filming again?”
“mhm. ‘a day in my life with my current boyfriend’. the people are begging for more #sugupoo content.” you patted the couch beside you. “come sit. I’m starving.”
he chuckled under his breath — that low, amused sound that always made your stomach flip — and dropped down next to you, long legs stretching out. immediately his arm slid around your shoulders, pulling you into his side like it was muscle memory.
you reached for your phone, pretended to adjust the angle so it captured both of you perfectly. “first one: ‘describe your boyfriend in one sentence.’”
suguru tilted his head, considering. his fingers played absentmindedly with the strings of his hoodie on you. “he’s lucky he found someone who can handle his bullshit and still look at him like he hung the moon.”
you snorted. “poetic. my turn.” you paused for dramatic effect, then said it casually, like you were reading the weather:
“my current boyfriend is really good at killing curses… and even better at cuddling after.”
the silence that followed was delicious.
suguru’s hand stilled on your shoulder. you felt the exact moment his body language shifted, subtle but unmistakable. the arm around you tightened just a fraction. his dark eyes flicked to your face.
“…current?” the word came out quiet. almost polite. terrifyingly polite.
you kept your expression neutral, scrolling on your phone like nothing happened. “yeah. current. like, right now. you’re my boyfriend currently.” you glanced up at him through your lashes, all innocence. “why? is that weird?”
he didn’t blink. “it’s an interesting choice of words.”
“is it?” you leaned back against the couch, stretching dramatically. “i mean… you’re my boyfriend at the moment. right now. in this timeline. currently. no?”
his jaw ticked.
you could practically hear the gears turning behind those sharp eyes. geto wasn’t the type to explode, he simmered. and right now the simmer was reaching a rolling boil.
“‘at the moment’,” he repeated slowly, tasting the phrase like poison. “so there’s a possibility of a future where i’m… not?”
you shrugged, fighting the grin threatening to crack your face. “i mean… life is unpredictable. missions and shit. higher-ups being annoying. who knows? maybe tomorrow i’ll wake up and decide i want someone who doesn’t hog all the blankets.”
he exhaled through his nose a long, measured breath. then he leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles paled.
“let me make sure i understand.” his voice dropped an octave, dangerously soft. “you’re sitting here, in my hoodie, in our apartment, filming for millions of people… and you just referred to me as your temporary boyfriend.”
“not temporary!” you corrected sweetly. “current. there’s a difference. current implies… present. active. happening now.”
he turned his head fully toward you now. those dark eyes pinned you like a butterfly to a board.
“y/n.”
“hm?”
“repeat that sentence. exactly as you said it.”
you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. “my current boyfriend is really good at killing curses… and even better at cuddling after.”
he nodded once slowly. “and you chose those words… why?”
“to answer the question…?”
“don’t play with me.”
“OK FINE it’s a trend, jeez!” you laughed, and he sighed.
“i don’t know why i stay,” he put his head in his hands and perhaps reminisced about his life before you.
he finally looked up at you, saw you still laughing, and his smile softened. he leaned in until his lips were a whisper from yours. “but if you want to play with words like ‘current,’ i can give you something more permanent to call me.”
“eh? like what?”
his mouth curved, just the barest hint of a smirk. “husband has a nice ring to it. or…” he paused, letting the silence stretch. “mine?”
nanami kento
the algorithm loved when you targeted your husband; nanami’s rare, barely-there reactions always sent the comment section into a frenzy. “nanami smiling once = world peace”, “he’s so done with her but so in love”, “protect this man at all costs”.
today’s prank was classic: the ominous “we need to talk when you get home” text. simple setup, massive payoff. especially with someone as responsible and quietly anxious-under-the-surface as kenny benny.
you’d already sent the message twenty minutes ago while he was still at the office finishing paperwork (he refused to let overtime curses interfere with his 6pm clock-out policy anymore — not since you started dating).
the text thread stared back at you:
you (6:07 PM): hey love. we need to talk when you get home.
no heart emoji. no freaky text. no tit pics. just those six words sitting there like a landmine.
he’d seen it immediately — read receipt on. no reply yet.
you could picture him: suit jacket off, tie loosened one notch, glasses slightly fogged from the train, blond hair still perfectly parted despite the long day. right now he was probably staring at his phone screen with that tiny frown crease between his brows, calculating worst-case scenarios in that methodical brain of his.
your phone buzzed. finally.
kento bento 💼: Understood. I’ll be home in 18 minutes. Is everything alright?
classic ken.
you typed back quickly, keeping it short and serious.
you: yeah, just… when you get here. drive safe.
another read receipt. no dots. he was processing.
you set three hidden cameras: one on the entryway shelf (perfect angle for his face when he walked in), one on the kitchen counter (for the conversation), and your phone in hand for close-ups. the ring light was off — too obvious. natural lighting only. this one needed to feel raw.
to sell it, you’d prepped the living room: dimmed lights, your favorite throw blanket folded neatly (he always noticed when things were “too tidy”), and you sitting on the couch in leggings and one of his button-downs, sleeves rolled up. looking calm. too calm.
the front door opened at exactly 6:67 PM.
nanami stepped in, shoes off in the genkan within seconds, briefcase set down with a soft click. he loosened his tie the rest of the way as he walked toward the living room, eyes scanning you immediately.
“hi,” he said gently.
“hi.” you kept your voice even, patting the cushion beside you. “come sit.”
he didn’t hesitate. suit jacket draped over the armchair, he sat close enough that your knees touched. his hand found yours automatically, thumb brushing over your knuckles in that soothing, repetitive way he did when he sensed tension.
“talk to me,” he said. straight to the point.
you exhaled slowly, looking down at your joined hands. “i’ve been thinking a lot lately.”
his grip tightened, just a fraction. “about?”
“us.” you paused, letting the word hang. “about… where we’re going. if this is still what we both want.”
silence stretched.
nanami’s breathing changed. you glanced up through your lashes. his expression was carefully neutral, but you knew him too well: the muscle in his jaw flexed once. his free hand rested on his thigh, fingers curling slightly like he was bracing for impact.
“i see,” he said finally.. “may i ask what prompted this?”
you shrugged one shoulder. “little things. we’ve both been so busy. missions for me, overtime even though you hate it for you. we barely see each other during the week sometimes. and when we do… it’s comfortable. but is comfortable enough?”
he nodded slowly, processing.
“i’ve noticed the distance too,” he admitted. “i thought we were communicating about it. was i wrong?”
“no,” you said quickly. “you’re not wrong. you’re… you’re perfect, ken. that’s the problem. you’re so good at everything — at being steady, at taking care of me — that sometimes i wonder if i’m holding you back. if you’d be happier with someone who doesn’t drag curse energy home at 2am or post stupid videos online for strangers to dissect our relationship.”
his brows furrowed deeper. “that’s not how i see it.”
fuck! this wasn’t going according to plan…
“how do you see it?”
he turned to face you fully now, blue eyes intense behind his glasses. “i see the woman who makes me want to leave work at 6pm on the dot instead of 8. the woman who laughs at my terrible attempts at humor. the woman who—” he stopped, throat working. “the woman i come home to every day because she’s home.”
your heart squeezed. damn. he was making this hard.
“but if you’re unhappy…” he trailed off, hand squeezing yours. “if this isn’t working for you anymore, i’ll respect whatever decision you make. i just need to know… is there someone else?”
the question was so quiet it almost broke you.
“no,” you whispered. “god, no. there’s no one else. i’m sorry, ken, fuck—”
he blinked. understanding dawned slowly. his eyes narrowed.
“you’re pranking me.”
you couldn’t hold it anymore. “i’m sorry! i’m so sorry! it was—”
“a prank, mhm,” he chuckled a bit. “though your acting skills are incomparable. have you auditioned for hollywood yet?”
you climbed in his lap. “are you mad at meeeeee?”
“mm, a little.”
“oh? what can i do to make up to you?”
“let’s see… how about we go out for dinner, no phones on the table, and then you tell me all about the new drama you were watching?”
fushiguro toji
your phone was propped against a stack of his workout magazines on the nightstand — recording in stealth mode, wide-angle lens capturing the entire mattress and the doorway. hidden cam number two sat innocently on the dresser, angled low. number three? your handheld gimbal, ready for when the chaos hit peak.
toji’s videos always performed insane — you might as well have handed the account to him with the way both girls and guys went feral for him. “toji when she pranks him but he secretly loves it”, “protect this broke king”, “the way he calls her ‘doll’ even when pissed 😭”.
today’s prank: the mannequin challenge. but you were broke, so no store-bought dummy. you’d raided his cursed tool inventory (with permission… mostly) and “borrowed” his infamous inventory curse — the wriggling, segmented worm thing he kept stored like a pet rock from hell.
it was currently draped across his pillow, dressed in one of his old black compression shirts (stretched tight over its slimy segments) and a pair of his boxers for extra absurdity. you’d even added a cheap black wig you found in a dollar store — long strands haphazardly taped to its “head” to vaguely mimic hair. from a distance? it looked like a very cursed, very unfortunate human trying to cosplay your boyfriend.
the caption draft: “pov: pranking my husband by putting his own curse worm in our bed dressed like him… #toji #yesthegymbroyoulike #pmo #thatshisbaby”
you were in the kitchen pretending to make coffee when the front door banged open. toji strode in — sweaty and smelly from the gym, tank top clinging, duffel slung over one shoulder, scars on full display. he kicked off his sneakers by the door (miracle), dropped the bag with a thud, and headed straight for the bedroom without a word.
you followed at a distance, phone in hand now, filming from the hallway. he froze in the doorway.
the wormji was curled possessively on his side of the bed, “face” toward the door, wig slightly askew. one segment twitched lazily.
toji stared for long, silently.
then: “…the fuck.”
you bit your lip so hard it hurt, staying out of frame.
he took one step inside. then another. his eyes narrowed.
“that’s my… what have you done to my worm…?”
wormji wriggled in what you swore was acknowledgment.
toji rubbed a hand down his face. “doll. you put my cursed spirit in my goddamn bed. wearing my clothes…?”
you couldn’t hold it. a snort escaped.
his head snapped toward the hallway. “get your ass in here.”
you stepped into view, phone raised like a white flag. “hi baby~ surprise?”
he looked from you to the worm. back to you. the scar on his lip twitched — like he was deciding between laughing or throwing you over his shoulder.
“you dressed him up like me?”
“ehh, i dont know what you’re talking about.”
toji exhaled through his nose loudly. “that thing’s got more cursed energy than half the sorcerers i’ve fought. and you put underwear on it.”
“it was missing the full drip without pants,” you deadpanned.
he stepped closer to the bed and loomed over wormji. the curse actually shrank back a little — segments contracting like it knew it was in trouble.
toji reached down, grabbed the wig, and yanked it off. “you’re fired from being my body double, buddy.”
the worm let out a pathetic little gurgle — almost offended.
you burst out laughing, phone shaking. “he’s heartbroken! look at him!”
toji shot you a look that could melt steel. “you think this is funny?”
“extremely.”
he turned fully toward you now. “c’mere.”
you backed up one step. “wait — prank’s not over! i need the reaction!”
“oh you’ll get a reaction.” he advanced. you squealed and bolted toward the living room — toji hot on your heels.
he caught you around the waist in three strides, hoisted you up like you weighed nothing, and tossed you (gently) onto the couch. you landed in a heap of giggles, phone still recording.
toji caged you in with his arms on either side of your head, knees bracketing your hips. sweat-damp tank top stretched over his chest.
“tiktok girl thinks she can dress up my tools and get away with it?”
“i mean… it worked. you freaked.”
“didn’t freak.” he leaned closer. “just surprised my girl’s got balls like that.”
you grinned up at him. “your girl’s got bigger balls than you.”
his laugh was short. “keep talking, doll. see where it gets you.”
the door opened slowly, and a little boy sneaked inside. when he caught your eye, he froze.
megumi was dressed head to toe in toji’s clothes, and even had a little purple mass on his shoulder and a stick in his hand.
“can i come out now, mama?”
fushiguro megumi
the dorm room at jujutsu high was unusually quiet for a friday evening. most students were either out on missions, training late, or hiding in the common room playing mario kart. you’d claimed megumi’s room for the night — his neat single bed made with military precision, his small bookshelf of strategy guides and dog-eared novels, the single potted succulent on the windowsill that you’d gifted him last spring (he watered it religiously even though he pretended it was “just a plant”).
your phone was already recording — propped against his desk lamp, wide lens capturing the bed and the doorway. a second hidden cam was tucked behind his uchiha sasuke figurine on the shelf.
today’s prank: the ugly filter reveal. you’d found the perfect one on tiktok — a 2026 viral filter called “big forehead + distorted features” that exaggerated forehead size, widened eyes cartoonishly, and gave you an overall gremlin vibe. it was hideous. perfect.
you were already wearing it when he walked in — sitting cross-legged on his bed in his hoodie (the dark blue one he secretly loved seeing you in), looking like you’d just woken up from a nap. the filter was live on your front camera, ready to switch to him the second he reacted.
the door opened quietly — megumi never slammed doors.
he stepped in, school uniform jacket slung over one shoulder, hair slightly damp from the evening training session, shadows under his eyes from a long day of shikigami drills. he paused when he saw you on his bed.
“hey,” he said softly. he dropped his jacket on the chair, kicked off his shoes, and padded toward you. “you’re early. thought you had a mission briefing.”
“finished early.” you kept your phone angled down so he couldn’t see the screen yet. “come here. i missed you.”
he hesitated — always did when affection was this direct — but sat on the edge of the bed anyway. he immediately reached for your hand like it was instinct.
you squeezed his fingers. “close your eyes for a sec.”
“why?”
“just do it. trust me.”
he sighed — the tiniest, fondest exhale — but obeyed. long lashes dark against pale cheeks, lips pressed in that neutral line he wore like armor.
you quickly switched the camera to front-facing, made sure the ugly filter was active on your face, then leaned in close.
“okay… open.”
megumi’s eyes fluttered open.
first second: confusion.
second second: eyes widening fractionally.
third second: full horror.
“what the—?!”
you burst out laughing, holding the phone so he could see himself now reflected in the screen — because you’d sneakily turned the filter on his face too the moment he opened his eyes.
his forehead looked comically enormous. eyes bugged out like fucking nefertari vivi. he looked like a cursed spirit that got hit with domain expansion: malevolent forehead.
megumi stared at the screen. then at you. then back at the screen.
“…you put this on me.”
“yup~” you zoomed in on his distorted forehead. “big forehead megumi. the fans are gonna eat this up.”
he reached for the phone, but you yanked it back, giggling.
“give.”
“no way! this is content gold!”
he lunged — quick, precise, shikigami-user reflexes — and tackled you gently back onto the pillows. you squealed, phone still clutched, filter still active on both of you now looking like matching gremlins.
megumi pinned your wrists above your head with one hand (gentle, never bruising), used the other to try prying the phone free.
“delete it.”
“never.”
“y/n.”
“gummy bear~”
he leaned down until your noses almost touched — his real one, not the distorted filter one. the filter glitched slightly from movement, making his eyes cross for a second. you lost it again.
he exhaled through his nose — long, suffering. “you’re ridiculous.”
“and you love it.”
“i tolerate it.”
“lies.” you wriggled one hand free, cupped his real cheek. the filter made your hand look like a claw. “look how cute we are. matching big foreheads.”
he glanced at the screen again, and then winced.
“i look like nue after eating bad takeout.”
you cackled so hard your stomach hurt. “stop! that’s mean to nue!”
he finally snatched the phone — turned the filter off with a few quick taps—and tossed it onto the nightstand (screen down, mercifully).
then he didn’t move. Just stayed hovering over you, dark eyes searching your face—real face now, no filter.
“you did all this… for a video?”
“mhm. your reactions are the best part. people love when you go from deadpan to mildly traumatized.”
he sighed again, deeper this time. dropped his forehead (normal-sized, thank god) against yours.
“if that video goes live… i’m summoning mahoraga on your phone.”
itadori yuji
the tokyo sunset painted the sky in cotton-candy pinks and oranges outside the window of yuji’s dorm room at jujutsu high. posters of jennifer lawrence and old action movies covered one wall, a small punching bag hung in the corner (already dented from enthusiastic late-night training), and his bed was a chaotic nest of blankets because “organized beds are boring.”
your phone was recording from a casual angle on his desk, propped against a half-empty bottle of ramune, while a hidden cam sat on the shelf next to his collection of cursed-energy-resistant manga volumes.
today’s prank: the classic wrong name bit. you were going to call him everything but “yuji” for the next hour — starting subtle, escalating to ridiculous.
you were already lounging on his bed in his favorite oversized hoodie (the pink one with the tiny tiger print he’d bought “because it reminded me of you”), scrolling tiktok like nothing was up.
the door burst open with yuji’s usual entrance — full force, sneakers squeaking on the floor.
“babe! i’m back! kugisaki dragged me to that new ramen place and i brought you the leftover chashu bowl.” he kicked the door shut, dropped the takeout bag on the desk (right next to your recording phone, bless him), and immediately launched himself onto the bed, tackling you into the pillows with zero hesitation.
you laughed, arms wrapping around his neck as he peppered your face with quick kisses.
“hi, yukki,” you said casually.
he froze mid-kiss — lips still puckered against your cheek. he ulled back slowly and blinked.
“…yukki?”
you kept your face completely neutral. “yeah. hi, toji. how was ramen with kugisaki?”
yuji sat up on his knees, straddling your hips, head tilted like a confused golden retriever. pink hair flopped into his eyes.
“babe… my name is….”
you reached up, brushed the hair back for him. “i know, nagi. i’m just saying hi.”
he stared. long. processing.
then: “wait… are you mad at me? did I do something? is this code for ‘i’m upset’?”
you fought the grin. “nooo, bruce lee. everything’s fine. come here, give me a hug.”
he hesitated — clearly thrown — then dropped down anyway, burying his face in your neck like always. his arms locked around you tight.
“okay… but you’re kinda freaking me out. a different name every second. are you trying to remember mine?”
you patted his back soothingly. “what do you mean, baby? of course i remember your name, chad. you know, chad itastory.”
he lifted his head. brows furrowed. “but my name is yuji. you’ve literally never called me anything else. except ‘baby’, ‘sunshine’, ‘idiot’ when i eat the last onigiri…”
you shrugged. “trying something new, brad.”
he sat back again — now fully straddling you, hands on your waist, looking genuinely concerned.
“are you pranking me?”
you widened your eyes, picture of innocence. “pranking? me? phssshttt, never.”
his lips turned downward. “you’re pranking me.”
“mm, i don’t know, grad, maybe~”
“stop saying it!” he flopped forward again, dramatic dead weight on top of you. “take it back! call me yuji! or baby! or even ‘dumbass’! anything but chad, brad, grad, sad, blah blah…”
you ruffled his hair. “okay, okay… chad chad.”
“fine, jennifer lawrence.”
“why, thank you!”
a/n : gang if this is ass its bc tiktok is banned in my country ok bye
hii I loved your last blue lock post! idk if you do repeats/similar posts but can I request the same prompt with jjk boys (megumi, yuuji, and maybe gojo, geto, hiruguma, anyone else you write for) <3
⸺ you post this tweet on your main ♡
and your boyfriend is NOT having it ⸺
starring : gojo, geto, higuruma, nanami, yuji, megumi x reader
tw : ed !!! starving mentioned, comfort and loadsss of fluff :3
satoru gojo
he sees the tweet pop up on his phone while lounging and immediately bursts out laughing — but not mockingly, more like "oh no baby what is you doin'"
within 30 seconds he's spamming your dms and replies publicly: "babe shoko literally chain-smokes and lives on black coffee + cursed energy snacks?? she’s built like a coat hanger on purpose 😭 you're literally perfect wtf"
then he teleports to wherever you are, picks you up bridal style, and dramatically announces he's banning starvation diets forever.
"we're getting mochi right now. and if you skip meals again i'm telling shoko you called her skinny and she'll lecture you about nicotine lung capacity vs your snack game."
mourns the potential loss of your thighs if you ever starved yourself by getting in between your legs and choking himself to death
also mourns the potential loss of his favourite sweets because "if you starve, whose kikufuku am i supposed to steal?" earning a whack on the head
when you start crying from being overwhelmed he bawls his out with you
suguru geto
he reads it quietly while sipping tea, raises one elegant eyebrow, then sets his phone down with a soft sigh.
no dramatic reaction at first — he just shows up at your place later with your favorite takeout and sits you down.
"starving yourself over manami? she's my assistant because she's competent and doesn't ask for much. you... you're the one i chose to share everything with."
his voice is calm, almost soothing, but there's that intense eye contact that makes you feel seen. he traces a finger along your cheek/jaw and murmurs...
"your body is mine to adore exactly as it is. if you harm it out of jealousy, i'll have to get very serious about feeding you myself."
it's half sweet, half low-key threatening and menacing.
he deletes the tweet for you (with permission) and spends the evening proving with actions (cuddles, compliments, hands everywhere) that no one's body compares in his eyes.
manami gets a dry text from him later: "stop being skinny, you're causing problems."
hiromi higuruma
he spots the tweet during a late-night case review and freezes. higuruma isn't the most expressive, but his jaw tightens.
he calls you immediately — no texting. voice tired but firm:
"you're not starving. that's not happening."
when you explain the insecurity about his old courtroom colleague (the sharp, put-together woman who assisted him in big cases idk her name sorry gang), he exhales heavily.
"she was a colleague. not a friend. nothing more. you think i'd look twice when i have you waiting at home?"
he shows up at your door with convenience store onigiri and coffee because "you're eating properly tonight, no arguments."
then he sits you on his lap, loosens his tie, and talks you through it rationally: how stress and long hours made him value real comfort (you) over polished appearances. it's blunt, a little awkward, but very sincere.
"delete that tweet before i sue it for defamation against your own worth."
ends with him basically force-feeding you bites while muttering about how illogical jealousy is.
kento nanami
he sees it while checking his phone during lunch break and his expression instantly becomes pained. not angry — disappointed in the situation. he texts back instantly
"please do not do that. i'm coming over after my shift."
shows up precisely on time with fresh pastries from that bakery (because he's responsible like that) and sits you down very seriously.
"the woman at the bakery is polite and remembers orders. that's the extent of it. comparing yourself to her makes no sense — nor is it fair to you or to me."
he speaks plainly: he likes your softness, your laugh when you steal bites of his bread, the way you fit against him. starving would ruin that.
he makes you eat something right then, hand-feeding if needed, while saying things like "your body sustains the person i love. don't punish it."
later he probably has a calm word with the bakery girl next time (nothing dramatic, just reinforcing boundaries in his nanami way)
yuji itadori
yuji sees the tweet as soon as you posted it (chronically online ahh mf) and panics instantly — "wait wait wait no no no"— and calls you like "BABE ARE YOU OKAY?? WHY ARE YOU STARVING???"
he's sprinting to your location while on the phone. when he arrives he's out of breath, hair messy, eyes wide.
IMMEDIATELY goes over, flips you on your tummy to check if your ass is still okay. he sighs in relief, pats it once and then flips you over, talking a mile a minute
"is it kugisaki?? but she's like... kugisaki! she's scary and yells at me all the time! you're soft and sweet and i love hugging you — why would i want anyone else??"
he tackles you into a bear hug and won't let go.
"please eat. like right now. i'll make you meatballs or something. or we can go get food with kugisaki and then we can be all sappy in front of her."
he's so earnest it almost makes you laugh at your original tweet.
he spends the rest of the day hyping you up
"you're way cuter, your smile is better, you give better cuddles — kugisaki herself would punch me if i said otherwise."
ends up posting a goofy selfie of you two eating snacks with caption "my gf is perfect don't @ me."
gets a reply from nobara "if you fumble her can you put in a good word for me" now hes the one scared shitless oh nobara ms steal your girl
megumi fushiguro
megumi reads it, sighs deeply, pinches the bridge of his nose.
he's not dramatic — he just shows up at your place looking mildly exasperated but mostly concerned.
"...you're not starving over nobara." deadpan delivery.
he sits next to you, probably with his arms crossed at first.
"she's loud, opinionated, and hits me with hammers. you're much more... tolerable. i like that, okay?"
his cheeks go a little pink as he forces the words out.
"i don't care about skinny or whatever. i care about you. so eat something before i... before i get really really.. um... annoyed."
he pretends to be nonchalant but shiro and kuro are wagging their tails at you with worried looks on their faces. did he forget his shikigami represent his emotions?
he wordlessly orders food delivery (your favorites on "accident", oops!) and stays the night, quietly cuddling you while muttering things like "i really like you" against your hair.
if nobara finds out later she teases him mercilessly ("awwww fushiguro overcame his emotional constipation to confess to his girlfriend~"), but he just glares and ignores it.
deep down he's flustered you felt insecure at all — he thinks you're unfairly perfect.
SYNOPSIS the blue lock boys reacting to this tweet you put out on your main accidentally
STARRING isagi, rin, shidou, sae, bunny x f!chubby!reader
tw : ed!!! mentions of starving, comfort and fluffff
a/n : so hahahahahhahaa imightbelowkenuinelydelvingintothedeepdarkwatersofeatingdisorders haahahahahahhahaa ijustwannabeheld hahahahaha
isagi yoichi
you wake up to 47 missed calls from isagi and your notifications exploding.
he's already at your door at 7 a.m., still in training sweats, hair messy from running over after morning practice.
he doesn't even say hi — just pulls you into a crushing hug the second you open the door.
"why didn't you tell me it was this bad?" his voice is muffled against your shoulder, shaking a little.
"i thought… i thought we talked about everything. that friend? she's just chigiri's sister. i didn't even notice— fuck, i'm so stupid."
you mumble apologies, embarrassed, but he pulls back, cups your face, eyes intense like he's on the pitch reading an opponent's move.
"no starving. no skipping. we're eating breakfast right now. together. and you're telling me every time your brain does this shit so i can shut it down."
he kisses your forehead hard.
"i love every part of you. every. part. don't you dare try to change for anyone — especially not some random comparison."
he spends the whole day glued to you: cooking, forcing bites, soft forehead kisses every time you hesitate.
by night he's tweeting a vague "my girl is perfect, don't test me!!!!" with a pic of your intertwined hands — just in case it was those chronically online fuckers who made you insecure.
itoshi rin
rin sees it during cooldown stretches. his phone buzzes once — he ignores it. then the group chat (isagi + teammates, in his mind) starts spamming screenshots.
he goes dead silent for three hours. you get a single text: "come to my place. now."
when you arrive he's on the couch, arms crossed, staring at the wall like it's offended him.
"you think starving fixes anything?" voice flat, but his jaw is clenched so tight you see the muscle jump.
you blink in confusion before your eyes widen. stupid twitter update changed the logout settings! you try to explain — accident, private vent, insecurity flare-up — but he cuts you off.
"delete the tweet." pause. "no — don't. let everyone see how stupid it is." he stands, towers over you, and you're pouting, before he unexpectedly pulls you against his chest.
his heartbeat is racing under your ear.
"i'm yours. i chose you. not her. not anyone skinnier, taller, shorter whatever. if you starve, you're hurting what's mine. don't do that again."
he doesn't say "i love you" — he never does it easily — but he doesn't let go for the rest of the night.
makes you sit on his lap while he reviews match footage, hand firm on your thigh like an anchor. later, in bed, he murmurs against your neck: "next time you feel like that, wake me up. i'll remind you who you belong to until you believe it."
shidou ryusei
shidou retweets it immediately with "LMaOOOO baby nOOO 😭🔥" and a string of crying-laughing emojis + fire.
then calls you screaming-laughing: "yo you juSt Exposed your ed arc oN main? anD my ASShole friends are quoting it with thirst traPs of stupId skinny models Cuz — m gonna kill em."
he's at your place in under 30 minutes, bursting in with takeout bags from three different places: burgers, ramen, ice cream, onigiri — chaos food.
"starve? over my dead body." he shoves a fry in your mouth before you can protest. "look at me — i'm built like a goddamn tank and i eat like one too. you think im not gonna miss the way your ass jiggles every time i hit it or what :( i want my girl thick OK."
he pulls you onto the couch, straddles your hips reverse-style so you're facing him, and force-feeds you bites while ranting
by the end of the night he's live-tweeting (on a burner) "my gf tried to starve bc of some stick figure — joke's on her, i'm feeding her back to thicc status AYAYAY 🍔💪" with pics of you mid-bite, looking mortified but smiling.
he doesn't let you skip a single meal after that. ever.
itoshi sae
sae doesn't tweet. doesn't call. doesn't text.
he just… shows up at your apartment at 2 a.m. (he has a key you gave him "just in case").
you're half-asleep when the bedroom light flicks on. he's standing there in his coat, expression blank but eyes sharp.
"get up." voice low. "kitchen."
you follow, confused. he starts pulling ingredients — rice, eggs, veggies — and cooks silently. perfect tamagoyaki, miso soup, grilled fish. places it all in front of you.
"eat."
you stare. "sae—"
"eat." firmer. "then explain why my girlfriend thinks disappearing is an option because of someone irrelevant."
you break down mid-bite — the accidental post, the insecurity, how you thought he wouldn't see. he listens without interrupting, arms crossed.
when you're done he sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose.
"you're an idiot." softens immediately after. "but you're my idiot." corny ahh mf
he reaches across, tucks hair behind your ear. "i don't care about skinny. i care about you being healthy enough to keep up with me. on the pitch, in bed, in life."
he stays the night. feeds you the last bites himself.
in the morning he posts one story (rare for him): a photo of two empty plates and your hand in his, captioned simply "her."
no explanation. fans lose their minds. message received.
bunny iglesias
bunny's chilling after training when his phone pings — a mutual follower dms the screenshot with "bro your girl ok??"
he reads it once. twice. then bolts upright.
next thing you know your door's banging. you open to bunny in full kit still, hair sweaty, eyes wide and frantic.
"¿que cojones es esto?" (what the fuck is this?)
he holds up his phone, so baffled that his voice keeps switching between spanish and english. "starve? tomorrow? over a friend? mi amor, no."
he's on you in seconds — picks you up bridal-style, carries you to the couch like you weigh nothing (he's 191cm of pure muscle after all!)
"no. no no no." he sets you down gently but doesn't let go, cradles your face. "you think you're not enough? for me? poor ol' me?"
he presses kisses all over your face — forehead, cheeks, nose, lips — rapid-fire.
he pulls out his phone, films a quick video (in spanish at first, switches to english): "escuchen, todos — my girlfriend is perfect. if you make her feel less, we have problems. gracias." posts it publicly. EMBARRASSING AHH MF
then spends the night cooking paella from scratch ("real food, not starving food"), feeding you bites, whispering in your ear how beautiful you are, how lucky he is.
by morning he's got you laughing again — and a promise
the bathroom light is dim, just the weak glow from the hallway spilling under the door. steam has long since stopped rising, water went cold ages ago, but hiromi hasn’t moved.
suit jacket still buttoned, tie loosened but present, slacks soaked dark from thighs to ankles. he’s lying down like he’s waiting for a verdict, arms draped over the edges of the tub, eyes half-lidded and unfocused on the ceiling .
you don’t announce yourself.
you just step in — still fully dressed too: soft cotton shirt, loose jeans, socks you peel off halfway down the hall and leave behind. the porcelain is cold against your knees when you climb over the rim.
water sloshes, muted and lazy, as you settle right on top of him. chest to chest. his breath catches, small, startled, but he doesn’t push you away.
your thighs bracket his hips. the soaked fabric of his trousers presses cool and heavy against the seat of your jeans. you feel him immediately: the firm outline already there, not fully hard yet.
you slide both hands up the soaked cotton of his shirt, over collarbones, then settle on the tense slope of his shoulders. thumbs dig in slow, deliberate circles.
he exhales through his nose, long and shaky.
“long day?” you murmur, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
hiromi lets out a sound that’s half-laugh, half-sigh. “every day feels long now.”
his voice is quieter than usual. frayed at the edges.
you keep kneading, slow and patient, working the knots that live permanently under his shoulder blades these days. he tips his head forward until his forehead rests against your collarbone. wet hair sticks to your shirt. you feel the tremor in his frame he’s trying to hide.
“i keep waiting to feel… something,” he says after a while. voice muffled against you. “anger. sadness. guilt. anything. but there’s just… static.”
his fingers flex on the tub edge. knuckles white.
“even this—” he shifts his hips just slightly, enough for you to feel how he’s thickening beneath you despite the confession, “—even wanting you feels… academic. like i’m running an experiment on myself.”
you slide one hand up into the damp hair at his nape. tug gently. just enough to make him look at you.
his eyes are dark. pupils blown. still so tired. you lean in. lips graze his earlobe.
“stop observing like an outsider,” you say quietly. “i want you to feel me.”
your other hand slips lower, down his chest, over the ruined dress shirt, past his belt. palm flat against his abdomen. you rock forward once. slow drag. fabric on fabric.
he sucks in a breath through his teeth.
you do it again, deliberate little grind, and this time his hips jerk up to meet you before he can stop them.
“there you are,” you breathe against his jaw.
his grip on the tub tightens until the porcelain creaks.
you keep the rhythm unhurried. rolling your hips in lazy, deep circles. enough pressure to tease, not enough to satisfy. his breathing turns ragged. shallow. every exhale edged with a quiet, broken sound.
you nose along the column of his throat. feel the pulse hammering there.
“you don’t have to hold it together right now, 'romi.”
a low, guttural groan rumbles out of him — first one he’s let escape all night. his head drops back against the tub wall with a dull thunk. eyes flutter shut.
you feel him throb beneath you — fully hard now, straining against wet wool and cotton. desperate.
another grind. harder this time. his hips buck up sharply, uncontrolled, chasing friction. water sloshes over the edge.
“fuck—” the word slips out like it surprises him. hoarse. wrecked.
you press your mouth to the hinge of his jaw. whisper right against skin:
“let go, baby.”
that’s all it takes.
his hands fly to your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise through denim. he drags you down against him at the same time he thrusts up, short, frantic little bucks. fabric drags, wet hot and obscene.
low groans punch out of him with every grind. broken. needy. nothing composed about them anymore.
“can’t— can’t think—” he pants against your neck. voice cracking. “just— please—”
you wrap both arms around his shoulders. hold him tight while you ride the rhythm he’s setting now — erratic, hungry. his hips stutter. thighs tremble. every roll pulls another raw sound from his throat.
you feel when he starts to fray completely. when his breaths become little punched-out whimpers against your skin.
“that’s it,” you murmur. lips in his hair. “give it to me.”
he comes with a choked, shuddering moan — whole body locking up — hips jerking unevenly as he spills hot against the inside of his soaked trousers. pulse after pulse. fingers bruising your sides. face buried in the crook of your neck like he’s trying to hide from the intensity of it.
you keep rocking gently through the aftershocks to slow it down. his breathing takes forever to even out.
when he finally lifts his head his eyes are glassy, cheeks flushed, hair plastered to his forehead.
he looks… soft. for once.
vulnerable.
you cup his face. thumb over the sharp line of his cheekbone. he leans into it like he’s starving.
“still feel like static?” you ask quietly.
hiromi swallows. shakes his head once. barely.
“no,” he rasps. voice ruined. “not right now.”
you smile, and press a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“good.”
water drips from his sleeves onto your thighs. neither of you moves to get out.
I just want to say that I just finished reading the Toji fic “the things I want to say to you” and I’m just in awe. Like wow, the way it was written, I felt every emotion and I felt like it was me experiencing what the reader was going through. The story was beautifully written and the writing style is beautiful… THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR EXISTING
AAAJAJAJ THANK YOUUU <3333 there's a gojo fic coming up soon so look forward to it too THIS MADE MY DYA THANK YOU DIVA
figure skater!megumi who is ridiculously popular in the competitive scene — fans screaming his name at every competition, posters of him mid-spin circulating online, scouts whispering about his potential for nationals and beyond… “and modelling too, with that face of his,” you’ve heard people say. his programs are always elegant, precise, almost hauntingly beautiful: sharp edges, fluid transitions, that signature stoic expression that makes everyone swoon.
but no matter how packed the arena is, no matter how many eyes are on him… his gaze always finds you in the stands first. every. single. time. the moment he steps onto the ice for warm-up, those dark blue eyes scan the crowd until they lock onto your face. a tiny, private quirk of his lips — just for you — before he disappears into focus.
figure skater!megumi who looks like pure poetry when he performs. long limbs extended in a perfect biellmann spin, black hair whipping around his face, costume hugging every line of his body like it was made for him (because it basically was — custom-fitted to show off that lean, powerful build). the way he balances on one foot, edges carving silent stories into the ice, makes you forget how to breathe. it’s ethereal. you watch him land a flawless quad and think, how is this the same man who—
figure skater!megumi who that very same morning was sprawled on your bedroom floor, legs kicked up in the air, two very enthusiastic divine dogs (though nue was hovering judgmentally from the bed) piling on top of him while you tickled his sides mercilessly. he’d been trying (and failing) to keep a straight face, breathy laughs escaping as he weakly protested,
“stop— fuck— wait—” before dissolving completely when your fingers dug into that spot under his ribs. his hair was a mess, cheeks flushed, completely at your mercy. the contrast hits you every time you see him on the podium later, medal around his neck, looking untouchable.
figure skater!megumi who works out religiously to stay competition-ready, and you have zero complaints about being his personal audience. early mornings in the home gym, shirtless, sweat glistening down the sharp lines of his abs, black sweatpants slung low on his hips. every crunch, every pull-up, every controlled breath makes his muscles flex in ways that should be illegal.
those abs (yummy) are your favorite part. he catches you staring sometimes and just raises an eyebrow, deadpan, like “what?” even though the faintest smirk tugs at his mouth when you walk over and slide your hands up his torso, feeling him tense and then relax under your touch.
figure skater!megumi who insists on teaching you to skate, even though you’re hopeless on ice. private rink after hours, just the two of you under the dim lights. he’s patient — infuriatingly patient — holding both your hands at first, guiding you forward while you wobble like a newborn deer.
“relax your knees,” he murmurs, voice low. “look at me, not your feet.” his grip is firm, steady, and when you inevitably slip, he pulls you flush against him to keep you upright. one hand slides to your waist, fingers splaying wide over the curve of your hip, thumb brushing slow circles through your shirt like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. (he is. he absolutely is.)
you feel the heat of his palm seep through the fabric, his chest rising and falling against yours, breath warm against your ear as he whispers corrections. “better. now push off with your left.” he pretends the way your body presses back against his doesn’t affect him, but you feel the hitch in his breathing, the way his fingers tighten just a fraction when you lean into him more than necessary.
figure skater!megumi who finally caves when you “accidentally” lose your balance again, tumbling both of you gently against the boards. his hands are everywhere on purpose! — waist, lower back, sliding up to cup your face, calling you “stupid” before he kisses you slow and deep, like he’s been holding back for hours. he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, voice rough: “you’re terrible at this.”
you grin. “you love teaching me anyway.”
He huffs a laugh, then kisses you again. “yeah,” he mutters against your lips, “i do.”
figure skater!megumi who has girls hit on him every time he nears the edge of the rink, so he finally listens to your “advice” — after a particularly flawless spin, when he’s sure the judges have moved on from glazing him, he quickly skates to the edge where you’re waiting, and — completely red in the face — gives you a kiss on the cheek before rushing away, ears burning at the applause from the audience.
he’s used to applause. just that this one involves someone so gorgeous and so his.
you.
a/n: i rushed this so bad hope it isnt ass again </3
now i know you've posted around 4 posts about his abs, but... think you could do a nobara's sister reader x megumi, and like when yuji and nobara find out, nobara's all over megumi's ass going into overprotective sister mode???? and still somehow add his abss??
pretty please??
a/n : 5TH POST YAY
cw : aged up to the big '26 🥀 uh yujis naked for some reason
the onsen steam was thick.
you’d waited exactly seven minutes after yuji’s dramatic exit; his barefoot slap-slap-slap echoing down the hall while he whined about how megumi “definitely has travel-size shampoo, he’s prepared like that, right?!” followed by the muffled thwack! of megumi’s slipper making direct contact with his skull.
coast clear.
nobara was still in the women’s section, muttering loud enough to be heard through the bamboo divider.
“who even uses bar soap in the big 2026? this is basically sandpaper for your pores! i’m filing a complaint—”
perfect.
you hike your trousers up a little so they don’t drag in the puddles, then slip through the noren curtain.
the men’s side is quieter. darker wood. heavier steam.
and there he is.
megumi’s sitting on the smooth stone edge, legs dangling in the water, black hair plastered to his forehead and neck. droplets slide down his collarbone, then to his pecs, and then— oh!
you freeze mid-step. the steam had been doing you a favor until right this second.
every time he shifts to brace his palms behind him, the muscles in his abdomen flex and catch the low lantern light. wet. glistening. stupidly defined. like someone carved them with a very petty, very detailed grudge against anyone trying to stay sane.
your brain short-circuits long enough that megumi notices you before you remember how to blink.
he doesn’t even look surprised. he just raises one dark eyebrow, water dripping from the ends of his lashes.
“i look like a pervert because of you,” you mutter, walking up to him.
megumi tilts his head, slow. amused in that quiet, dangerous way of his.
“well… you are, aren’t you?”
your mouth opens. closes. heat that has nothing to do with the onsen crawls up your neck.
before you can fire back something clever, his hand closes around your wrist — cool fingers, warm from the water — and he tugs.
you stumble forward with a muffled yelp. he doesn’t let you fall.
instead he pulls you straight into the hot spring, clothes and all. water surges up around your thighs, then your waist, soaking your shirt in seconds so it clings like second skin.
“‘gumi—!”
“shhh.” he maneuvers you until your back is to his chest, arms caging you loosely. his heartbeat thumps steady against your shoulder blade. “you’re loud.”
you’re about to argue that he’s the one who dragged a fully clothed person into an onsen like it’s normal, but then his chin hooks over your shoulder and everything gets… disgustingly romantic.
you can feel his abs flex behind you. sensing your thoughts, he takes your hand and puts it on his chest, then lower, and then even lower… right at the crime scene.
the fingers of your other hand twitch toward the hem of your drenched shirt. it’s sticking to you in all the wrong and right places. maybe if you just peel it up a little—
“oi! megumi! you really don’t have extra shampoo?!”
yuji’s voice crashes through the doorway before his body does.
he takes one heroic step inside — completely naked, by the way — and immediately trips over his own abandoned geta.
splash!
you see yuji’s body, and immediately squeak and bury your face in megumi’s neck on pure reflex. yuji shrieks like he’s being murdered.
from the women’s side nobara’s voice slices through.
“what the hell was that?! yuji if you drowned i’m not fishing you out—”
megumi doesn’t hesitate.
a familiar shadow slithers up from the water, quick and silent, and clamps over yuji’s mouth like a large, inky hand. the muffled scream turns cartoonish.
yuji flails, slips again, finally snatches a tiny hand towel the size of a dinner napkin and slaps it over his front while crab-walking backward.
right as nobara storms in — hair still pinned up, towel wrapped like a sarong over her clothes, murderous aura at full blast.
she ignores yuji’s naked tragedy entirely.
her eyes lock on you.
then megumi.
then you again — still trapped between his arms, shirt basically transparent, his abs pressed to your back like they personally offended her.
you two freeze like a deer caught in the headlights.
she inhales.
and screams.
“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!”
megumi sighs like he’s been expecting this exact moment since birth. you try to sink under the water and die. yuji, still gagged by divine dog shadow, just whimpers.
nobara marches forward, pointing one accusatory finger directly at megumi’s face.
“fushiguro megumi! you have exactly five seconds to explain why my baby sister is in the men’s onsen, in your arms, before i turn your stupid pretty face into cursed-energy confetti.”
megumi blinks slowly.
“uhh… she snuck in.”
“THAT’S WORSE!”
you finally find your voice.
“i’m not a baby! i’m literally older than—”
“NOT THE POINT!”
nobara grabs a wooden bucket and brandishes it like a weapon.
megumi tightens his hold around you just enough that you feel the low rumble of his voice against your spine.
“she wanted to see me.”
nobara’s eye twitches.
“you. me. outside. right now. we’re having a talk. with my hammer. and nails.”
abt the gojo sis reader with gumi, plot is.. plz add some abs inside plzplzplz🙏🏻🙏🏻 thank you your honor.
a/n : my 4th post about his abs yoooooo
cw : fluff mostly, slight slight very slight angst, yujis JACKED, slightly suggestive so i'm aging them up towards the end, jealous megumi btw
you were six when you first saw megumi.
satoru had dragged you with him to meet the kid of the latest guy he had killed, and for some reason had decided you’d be perfect to tag along.
you remember the alley being kinda gross, smelled like old ramen and wet cardboard. satoru was in his usual dramatic black outfit looking way too tall and annoying, sunglasses perched on his nose even though it was cloudy.
“this is important, squirt,” he told you, ruffling your hair. “you’re gonna see how cool your big brother is.”
you rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw your own brain. “you killed somebody’s dad. thats not cool, that’s mean.”
he gasped like you’d stabbed him. “i’m literally saving the world here. details.”
then you saw him.
a tiny boy with spiky black hair and a backpack that was way too big for him standing in the middle of the road, arms crossed, glaring. he looked like he was judging everyone and everything, including the stray cat that ran past.
you stared.
he stared back.
satoru clapped his hands. “megumi! meet my super cute little sister. she’s gonna be your new best friend whether you like it or not.”
megumi’s glare somehow got sharper. “i don’t need friends.”
you tilted your head and tugged at your brother’s shirt. he leaned down and you whispered to him, “his hair looks like a hedgehog.”
megumi blinked. then the tiniest smirk appeared. like 0.2 seconds of corner-of-mouth movement.
you decided right then and there that he was cool.
turns out when satoru says “you’re living with us now” he actually means it. megumi got the spare room that used to be storage for satoru’s disgusting amount of sweets. you helped him move in by carrying exactly one (1) plastic bag of clothes while satoru levitated the rest because “effort is for peasants.”
first night, megumi sat on his new bed staring at the wall like it personally offended him. you poked your head in, still in dinosaur pajamas.
“you want mochi?” you whispered. “satoru hides the good ones on the top shelf but i know where the step stool is.”
he looked at you like you’d spoken alien. “...why?”
“‘cause you’re probably sad. your dad died. even if he sucked.”
megumi’s jaw tightened. “he didn’t suck. he just... wasn’t around.”
you shrugged. “still dead. mochi helps.”
he stared for a long time. then, very quietly: “...fine.”
that was your first official alliance. midnight mochi theft from the gojo pantry. satoru caught you both at 2 a.m. with powdery cheeks and guilty hands.
“you traitors,” he whisper-yelled. “that’s my emergency sugar stash!”
you both just stared at him with matching deadpan faces.
megumi said, monotone, “you have seventeen other emergency stashes. she told me.”
satoru clutched his chest. “my own sister and my new son betraying me for sweets??”
you threw a piece of mochi at his face. it stuck to his cheek. megumi snorted.
it only got worse from there.
by age eight you and megumi had developed what satoru called “the look.”
the look = eye contact + tiny head tilt + synchronized judging stare.
satoru would walk in wearing sunglasses indoors at 9 p.m., holding a slushie the color of nuclear waste, and both of you would just slowly turn your heads like horror movie twins.
“don’t,” he’d warn.
you’d both say at the exact same time: “you're gonna regret that in twenty minutes.”
at age ten, satoru decided it was “bonding time” and took you both to disneyland.
megumi hated crowds. you hated lines. satoru loved both because he could cut them with infinity.
you and megumi sat on a bench eating churros while satoru tried (and failed) to flirt with snow white.
you nudged megumi. “bet you ten yen he gets rejected in under thirty seconds.”
megumi didn’t even look up from his churro. “twenty. he’s wearing the weird blindfold. again.”
“deal.”
twenty-three seconds later snow white politely backed away while satoru dramatically clutched his heart.
megumi held out his hand. you slapped a coin into it.
satoru trudged over, grumbling. “you little shits are betting on my love life?”
you both nodded.
when you finally became a first year at jujutsu high with yuji and nobara, nothing much changed between you and megumi.
or at least, that’s what you thought.
midnight snack raids still happened (now with four people because yuji can smell food from three floors away and nobara insists on “aesthetic plating”).
you and megumi still shared the look across the room when satoru did something stupid (which is hourly).
but.
there was this tiny drift. so tiny it was basically invisible.
megumi noticed anyway.
he overthought everything anyway — cursed energy flow, mission probabilities, whether he locked the dorm door three times — but lately it’s you.
you laugh a little louder at yuji’s dumb jokes.
you sling an arm around yuji’s shoulders after training like it’s nothing.
you and yuji team up in sparring drills and move like you’ve been fighting together forever, even though it’s only been months.
megumi watches from the sidelines, arms crossed, shadows flickering at his feet like they’re annoyed too.
he tells himself it’s stupid.
you’ve known him since he was six.
yuji showed up like five minutes ago.
but then he sees it.
one afternoon after a particularly brutal group training session — satoru decided “let’s see how you all handle a simulated special grade!” which meant he just stood there eating mochi while you four got thrown around like ragdolls.
yuji, shirt soaked through and clinging, ripped his jacket off mid-laugh because “it’s too hot, man!”
and there they were.
abs!
not just toned.
carved. like someone took a chisel to marble and said “yeah that’ll do.”
yuji flexed without meaning to, stretching his arms over his head, laughing at something nobara said, and the light hit just right.
megumi stared.
then looked down at his own stomach under the loose uniform.
he’s fit. obviously. sorcerer metabolism, constant shadow summons and running from satoru’s “surprise hugs” keeps him lean.
but he’s lean like a runner. not like a goddamn tank.
yuji’s built like he bench-presses buses for fun.
(which he probably could.)
megumi’s brain short-circuited into the most irrational spiral of his life.
if you’re laughing more at yuji, maybe it’s because yuji’s stronger. flashier. more… everything.
maybe you want someone who can keep up physically without needing shikigami as backup. maybe the hedgehog isn’t enough anymore.
stupid. so stupid.
but that night megumi starts training differently. no more just technique drills. he adds calisthenics.
pull-ups until his palms bleed. push-ups with one arm, then the other, then both with feet elevated. planks until his core screams. dips on the dorm balcony railing at 3 a.m. because sleep is for people without inferiority complexes.
he doesn’t tell anyone.
just quietly disappears after group sessions.
you notice, of course.
you’ve known him forever.
“where you going?” you ask one evening, catching him slipping out in a black tank and sweats.
“bathroom,” he mutters.
“with dumbbells?”
he freezes. looks down at the resistance bands in his hand like they betrayed him.
“…training.”
you tilt your head. “we just trained for six hours.”
“extra training.”
you narrow your eyes. “you’ve been doing ‘extra training’ every night this week.”
he shrugs. doesn’t meet your eyes.
“gotta stay sharp.”
you let it go. for now.
but two weeks later it’s obvious.
megumi’s shirts fit different.
tighter across the shoulders. clinging a little more when he moves.
nobara notices first because she notices everything fashion-related.
“damn, fushiguro,” she says during lunch, poking his bicep with her chopsticks. “you bulking or what? you trying to compete with itadori?”
yuji perks up, mouth full of rice. “huh? compete?”
megumi glares at nobara like she’s a grade 1 curse.
“mind your business.”
nobara grins. “touchy. someone’s got new abs and doesn’t wanna share.”
you’re looking for megumi one random tuesday afternoon because satoru just announced “surprise group training in thirty!” and megumi’s the only one who actually shows up on time when satoru says shit like that.
his door’s cracked open. not wide, just enough that the hallway light spills in. he must’ve forgotten to lock it after he came back from the shower or whatever. rookie mistake for someone usually so paranoid.
you push it open without knocking because why would you? you’ve seen him shirtless after missions covered in curse guts. you’ve seen him cry exactly once when he was eight and thought you weren’t looking. boundaries are for people who didn’t grow up stealing mochi together at 2 a.m.
except.
megumi’s in the middle of his floor.
shirtless.
sweat-slick.
doing push-ups like the floor personally insulted his mother.
slow. controlled. every rep perfect. back straight, core locked, shoulders rolling under skin that’s… a lot more defined than you remember from last week’s group spar.
his arms flex. triceps cut like glass. then down, chest almost brushing the mat, exhale sharp through his nose. up again.
you freeze in the doorway.
jaw. floor. somewhere in the tatami.
where the actual fuck was he hiding all that?
his hair’s damp at the tips, sticking to his forehead. a bead of sweat rolls down the side of his neck, traces the line of his collarbone, disappears somewhere you’re suddenly very aware of.
he notices you on the next rep.
mid-push.
freezes.
eyes flick up. wide. then narrow.
“what the hell are you doing here?”
voice rough. breathy. still halfway down.
you swallow. try to play it cool. fail spectacularly.
your eyes drop to his back. the way the muscles shift under his skin when he holds the plank position. jesus.
he drops to his knees. sits back on his heels. grabs the towel he’d tossed nearby and wipes his face like that’ll hide the flush creeping up his neck.
“door was open,” you add lamely.
“clearly.”
awkward silence.
you should leave.
you don’t.
instead you step inside. close the door behind you. click.
he glances up. wary.
you tilt your head. grin a little. “need a spotter?”
he snorts. “for push-ups?”
“crunches, idiot. you’re doing abs next, right? i can hold your feet.”
he stares.
you stare back.
“…fine.”
he lies back on the mat. knees bent. hands behind his head.
you drop down in front of him. turn so your back’s facing his chest. scoot until you’re sitting on his knees — high enough that your weight pins his hips. then you hook your heels over the tops of his feet. lock them down so they can’t lift during the reps.
just to help him obviously!
except you’re suddenly hyper-aware of everywhere you’re touching.
you slipped to his thighs, so his quads are warm under you. solid. his breathing’s already a little uneven from the push-ups and now you’re sitting on him.
great.
“ready?” you ask. voice higher than usual.
“yeah.”
he starts.
first crunch slow. controlled. abs contract hard under your heels. you feel it — the way his core braces, the faint tremor when he holds at the top.
you try to focus on literally anything else.
“so,” you say, “yuji bet nobara twenty thousand yen that gojo’s gonna propose to that barista from the konbini by summer.”
megumi huffs. halfway up. “he’s delusional.”
“nobara took the bet. said gojo couldn’t commit to a houseplant.”
another crunch. sharper exhale.
“she’s right.”
you laugh. “you think he’d actually do it?”
“no. he’s a wuss.”
crunch. grunt.
you shift a tiny bit to adjust your balance.
he makes a small, choked sound.
you freeze.
“…you okay back there?”
“fine,” he grits. “keep talking.”
so you do. ramble about nobara’s latest shopping spree. yuji’s attempt to cook curry and how it set off the fire alarm. satoru’s new blindfold collection (now up to sixty-four, apparently).
megumi’s breathing gets heavier. sweat drips. every time he comes up his abs bunch under your heels — hard ridges you can feel even through your socks.
you’re flushed now too. neck hot. palms sweaty where they rest on your own thighs.
eventually you can’t take it.
you twist your body completely to face him.
“hey, you sure you’re—”
your heels slip. not off.
just… forward.
now they’re digging directly into the dips of his abs.
right over the defined lines.
he freezes mid-crunch. eyes snap to yours.
pupils blown.
breath punched out of him.
you both stare.
his hands drop from behind his head. grip the mat instead. knuckles white.
you swallow. don’t move your feet.
“…sorry,” you whisper, not sounding sorry at all.
he doesn’t tell you to move.
instead his voice comes out low. wrecked.
“don’t.”
so you don’t.
you stay like that. heels pressed into his abs. feeling every flex. every shaky inhale.
he starts again. slower now. deliberate.
each crunch pushes his stomach harder against your heels.
you’re both breathing weird.
then—
the door flies open.
yuji stands there. orange juice carton halfway to his mouth.
he freezes.
eyes go: you sitting on megumi’s lap basically, heels digging into his bare abs, megumi shirtless and flushed and mid-crunch looking like he’s about to combust.
orange juice dribbles down yuji’s chin.
he chokes.
violently.
“uh—”
megumi doesn’t move. just glares over your shoulder like yuji personally offended his bloodline.
you twist towards yuji, not taking your heels off megumi, and grin sweetly.
“sup, yuji?”
he wheezes, and wipes his mouth with his sleeve.
“i— uh— gojo sensei said— training— i’ll just—”
he backs out. the door slams.
you hear him down the hall, already muttering:
“i owe nobara so much money.”
megumi lets out a slow breath.
then you catch the tiniest smirk on his face.
“what?”
he shrugs. barely.
“nothing.”
how’s he supposed to tell you he’s been dreaming of yuji seeing you together for ages?
I think everyone ald know and expected this but I'm gonna say it again. Megumi. Just megumi. That ep of megumi abs. Been loving him since day 1 😭😭
a/n : my 3rd post about bros abs btw
megumi dreads going to the gym.
not that he hates exercise or being fit. hes terribly, stupidly good at being fit actually.
no, the thing megumi dreads the most about gyms is checking his phone after a set and seeing your text with just two words (and a weird emoji) on it.
send pic 👅
you've been begging megumi for a "sweaty, shirtless, gymbro pic" of himself for weeks now. he doesn't know who egged you on about this (though he has his suspicions) but there was no way in hell he'd let you see just how pink his cheeks were whenever he read that text.
today though… today was different.
he finished legs — quads still burning, calves tight — and the mirror across from the squat rack caught him at the worst (or best) possible moment. veins popping along his forearms, sweat running in clean lines down the center of his chest, shadows carving out the dip between his pecs and the hard cut of his abs that only really shows after he’s been pushing heavy for an hour. he looked… good.
annoyingly good. the kind of good that would probably make his girlfriend scream into her pillow and probably throw her phone across the pacific ocean.
he stared at his reflection for three entire seconds. then sighed so long the guy re-racking plates next to him gave him a weird look.
megumi pulled his phone out before he could talk himself out of it.
camera up.
one-handed because he’s stubborn. he angles it low → high, just enough to catch the sweat-glistening trail down his stomach without making it look like he’s trying too hard (he is). shadow falls right across the bottom two abs. hair damp and sticking to his forehead. expression deliberately bored, almost annoyed, like he’s doing this against his will.
he is.
he hits send before the overthinking can kick in. the photo whooshes off into the void.
and, bless your heart, three dots appear instantly.
then disappear.
then appear again.
then—
your reply is not words.
it’s just
a single voice note. 0:11 seconds long.
he shouldn’t play it in the middle of the gym. he knows this. he plays it anyway, one earbud in, volume low.
your voice comes through breathless and half-laughing, half-dying:
“megumi fushiguro you absolute FUCK — i’m actually shaking right now. delete that. no wait don’t delete it. i’m framing it. i’m tattooing it. oh my god your abs are AHHSJSJEWLEAGAHH—”
it cuts off with a loud scream.
greaat, he thinks, you're crashing and tweaking the fuck out now, and he'd have to deal with it when he gets home.
nevermind that megumi’s ears go bright red. he shoves his phone into his pocket like it personally betrayed him, grabs his towel, and speed-walks toward the water fountain even though his bottle is full.
his screen lights up again. and again. and again.
a flood of texts...
MEGUMI
MEGUMI ANSWER ME
that vein on your hip????????
i need to speak to your parents and thank them
sir you are built like a Renaissance statue that got lost and started lifting
i’m biting my fist rn
send another
please
i’ll do anything
i’ll wash your dishes for a month
i’ll never ask again (lie)
just one more angle 🥺👉👈
he leans his forehead against the cold metal of the water fountain dispenser and mutters,
“…you’re so annoying.”
but his thumb is already hovering over the camera icon again.
megumi was ticklish. painfully so.
no one knew about it though, so that was good!
…until now.
you nosed the ridge of his abs, warm skin still flushed from earlier, and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss right along the center line. he sucked in a breath, stomach jumping under your lips.
“stop moving,” you mumbled against him, smiling.
“i’m not—” he started, but the words cracked when you dragged your tongue flat up one deep groove. his whole body tensed, fingers twitching in the sheets.
you kissed lower, softer this time, little pecks scattered like stars across the carved planes. he let out a shaky exhale, almost a laugh, and that was your cue.
your fingertips skated feather-light over the side of his waist, right where the muscle dipped. megumi jerked hard like you’d shocked him.
“don’t,” he warned, voice already strained.
too late.
you dug in gently, wiggling your fingers along the sensitive strip just under his ribs. he bucked, a startled, breathless laugh bursting out before he could clamp it down. “fuck— stop—!”
but you didn’t. you kept kissing while you tickled, lips brushing over twitching abs, tasting salt and warmth and the way he was trying (and failing) to stay composed. every time your nails grazed that spot he spasmed, half-laughing, half-growling, legs kicking uselessly.
“you’re— evil,” he panted, one hand flying to grab your wrist weakly. no real fight ofc
you grinned against his skin, nuzzled the happiest trail just below his navel, then without warning sank your teeth into the meat of his lower abs. not hard, just enough to sting.
megumi yelped. a high, startled sound that cracked into another helpless laugh as his whole body arched off the bed.
“ow— shit—” he wheezed, cheeks flaming, glaring down at you even as his hand slid into your hair, not pushing away. just holding.
you kissed the faint red mark you left, soft and sweet now. “got you. this is where youre weak, right?”
sukuna is a bad influence on you (heianera!sukuna x princess!reader)
the night watch had become a special kind of hell ever since he started visiting the princess’s chambers.
guard captain hiroshi stood rigid outside the heavy cedar doors of her highness’s private quarters, arms crossed over his armored chest, staring straight ahead at the flickering lanterns lining the corridor. beside him, young taro shifted his weight from foot to foot like he needed to piss but was too terrified to ask for relief. the third man tonight was old kenji, who had seen four emperors come and go and still claimed this posting was the worst duty of his life.
they had tripled the guard rotation three weeks ago. tripled. and it changed exactly nothing.
a low creak echoed from inside the room. taro sucked in a breath so sharp it sounded painful. hiroshi didn’t flinch. he just clenched his jaw harder.
another creak — slower this time, deliberate. the massive wooden frame of the princess’s bed was ancient, solid hinoki; it didn’t make noise for nothing. then came the first soft, breathy sound.
a whimper. from the princess’s quarters…
taro’s face went scarlet under his helmet. kenji muttered under his breath, something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer to amaterasu mixed with very unpriestly cursing.
inside, the rhythm started. slow at first — almost teasing — then deeper, steadier. the bedframe groaned in protest with every deliberate rock. and her highness... gods help them, she wasn't quiet tonight.
“ah— please, ‘kuna—”
hiroshi's ears burned. he stared at the wall hanging across from him — some serene crane painting — like it had personally offended him.
“she used to be so proper,” taro whispered. “remember? always ‘yes, father’ and ‘thank you, uncle’. now look at her—”
“shut your mouth,” hiroshi growled low. “unless you want him to hear you next.”
they all knew who “he” was.
ryomen sukuna. the four-armed calamity who walked the heian lands like he owned every blade of grass and every beating heart on them. the one who had somehow — no one knew exactly how or when — decided the emperor’s only daughter was his personal entertainment.
he didn’t use doors. he didn’t announce himself. he just... appeared. slipped through shadows, over walls, past talismans the onmyoji swore would hold back even vengeful spirits. and every time, the bed gave him away before anything else.
another moan drifted through the thick doors — higher this time, edged with something desperate. then a low, rough laugh that didn’t belong to any mortal man. too many tones in it, like two voices speaking at once.
kenji hissed between his teeth. “that laugh. every damn time. makes my knees want to buckle and not in a good way.”
taro looked like he might actually faint. “do you think... he knows we’re out here? listening?”
“of course he knows,” hiroshi said flatly. “he wants us to know. it’s a message. ‘try to stop me. see what happens’."
the pace picked up. the creaking turned rhythmic, insistent. wet sounds now, faint but unmistakable through the wood. her highness’s voice cracked on his name — sukuna — drawn out like a plea and a prayer all at once.
taro covered his ears with gauntleted hands. “i cant— i just— why doesn’t his majesty do something?”
“because the last advisor who suggested ‘removing the influence’ lost his head,” kenji reminded him dryly. “literally. rolled right down the steps of the audience hall. still had the ribbon in his hair.”
eventually the sounds peaked — a sharp, broken cry from her, a satisfied rumble from him — then slowly ebbed into heavy breathing and soft murmurs too quiet to make out.
silence fell. blessed, terrible silence.
until the doors slid open an inch. everyone froze, not daring to move a muscle in front of the king of curses.
four red eyes gleamed in the gap, amused. sukuna leaned against the frame, bare-chested, black markings stark against his skin, one lower arm casually scratching his stomach while the upper two braced above his head. his hair was mussed. his smirk was lazy and cruel.
“still here, dogs?” he drawled. “good. means you’re loyal. or stupid. either works.”
he glanced back over his shoulder into the dim room. a soft, exhausted laugh floated out — unmistakably the princess’s.
“she’s sleeping now,” sukuna added, almost conversationally. “wore her out. dont disturb her till morning, yeah?”
megumi bullies (not) you after you confessed you’re scared of dogs
you were curled into the far corner of the couch, knees drawn up like a shield, watching him with the wariness usually reserved for approaching a strange animal in an alley.
which, to be fair, was exactly what you were doing.
megumi crouched in the middle of the living room rug, one knee on the floor, expression flat as always. his black divine dog sat obediently at his side, ears pricked, tail giving one slow thump against the carpet. the white one — the girl — paced a lazy circle a few feet away, pink tongue lolling, clearly bored of being on best behavior.
“stop looking at me like i’m about to feed you to them,” megumi muttered.
“i’m not.”
“you literally are.”
he reached out without looking and curled long fingers around your ankle, tugging until your leg straightened a little. not roughly, just insistent.
“come ‘ere.”
you didn’t move.
his eyes flicked up, unimpressed. “you’re being dramatic.”
“they have teeth, ‘gumi.”
“so do i.” he tilted his head, mouth curling just enough to show a sliver of canines. “you let me bite you last week.”
heat crawled up your neck. “that’s different!” you snapped.
“is it?” he patted the space beside him once. “down, girl.”
you glared. he stared back, completely unbothered.
after ten full seconds of silent standoff, you sighed and slid off the couch onto your knees, crawling the last meter like you were approaching a bomb.
kuro’s (the black one’s) ears rotated forward. his nose twitched.
you froze.
megumi’s hand settled on the back of your neck to steady you.
“he’s not going to eat you,” he said, quieter now. “he knows better.”
you swallowed. “he’s staring.”
“he’s curious. you smell like me.” his thumb brushed once behind your ear, almost absentminded. “that makes you pack.”
your heart did something stupid and loud.
megumi shifted closer until his shoulder pressed against yours. then he reached out with his free hand and sank fingers into the thick ruff at kuro’s neck.
“look. like this.”
he scratched slowly, deliberately. the big wolf-dog leaned into it, eyes half-lidded, huge head tilting so megumi could get under his jaw.
“see? he likes it.”
after a long beat, megumi’s fingers slid off the dog… and wrapped loosely around your wrist instead. your breath hitched.
he didn’t force you forward. just guided slowly, giving you every second to pull away.
your fingertips brushed warm fur. kuro huffed once through his nose. you flinched.
megumi clicked his tongue, sharp and annoyed. “don’t be a baby.”
“‘m trying—”
“try harder then.”
but even as he said it, his grip on your wrist stayed gentle — almost tender. his other hand stayed at your nape, thumb stroking once, soothing.
you let your palm flatten against kuro’s shoulder. the shikigami turned his head just enough to look at you with one dark amber eye.
megumi leaned in until his mouth brushed the shell of your ear.
“he’s not moving,” he murmured. “because I told him not to.”
shiro chose that moment to trot over, curious, tail wagging in big loose circles. megumi’s hand left your neck and shot out in a flat palm toward her — silent command. she sat immediately, tongue still out, looking delighted.
“good girl,” he said absently, then flicked his gaze back to you. “your turn.”
you swallowed hard. extended trembling fingers toward shiro. she sniffed once — wet nose cold against your knuckles — then pushed her whole face into your palm like a cat demanding pets.
a startled laugh burst out of you. megumi’s mouth curved barely. “told you.”
shiro’s tail thumped. you giggled again, nervous and relieved at once. then she yipped.
you jerked your hand back like you’d been burned. megumi’s eyes narrowed instantly. the white dog froze. ears pinned. tail stopped dead.
he gave her a single, cold look — the kind he usually saved for special-grade curses. she dropped to her belly, chin on paws, looking appropriately guilty.
you blinked when megumi turned back to you. “she’s sorry.”
“oh.”
“yea.”
“tell her it’s fine.”
when megumi turned to pet the dog, you huffed.
“what?” he deadpanned.
“i wanted you to bark.”
a/n: if u send me requests within the next 10 minutes im gona speedrun writing RNNN im so motivated for some reason
megumi lets you do whatever you want to him most times, and that includes absolutely ruining yourself over his abs
the thing about megumi is that he doesn’t advertise how much he’ll let you get away with — he just… allows it.
one minute he’s doing his usual thing: quiet, arms crossed, eyebrows faintly pinched like the world personally offends him alright. the next minute you’re straddling his hips on the couch (or the bed, or the floor, or once memorably against the kitchen counter when he was trying to make tea), and he’s not stopping you. not even a little.
he just exhales through his nose, long and slow, like he’s deciding whether it’s worth protesting. spoiler: he usually decides it isn’t.
he lets you grind down slow and filthy against the hard ridges of his stomach, lets you drag your tongue along the shallow grooves between his abs like you’re trying to map every single one with spit. lets you sink your teeth into the meat just below his ribs hard enough to leave faint crescents, then soothe the sting with kitten licks while he twitches under you.
the first time you actually rode his abs — sliding your slick cunt back and forth along that carved centerline, clit catching on every defined edge — he didn’t say a word for almost a full minute. just watched you with those dark, half-lidded eyes, breathing a little harder each time your hips rolled forward. when you finally whimpered his name he broke, one big hand clamping down on your thigh, the other fisting the sheet beside him so hard the fabric creaked.
“...keep going,” was all he said. voice rough and low. not quite a command, but definitely not a suggestion.
he stays mostly still while you borderline use him — lets you set the pace, lets you chase the friction until your thighs burn and your nails dig half-moons into his pecs. but every so often he flexes. deliberately! just enough to make the muscles jump and roll under your wet heat, and every single time it punches a broken sound out of your throat.
teaser ⸺ after being coaxed into a marriage befitting the status of your clan, you’re left hopelessly lonely when your now-husband begins opening up more about himself — about the high school sweetheart he planned on running away from the clan for, and about how now because of you his plans were left as mere mindless thoughts. the nerve of this man, you had thought, to say that it did not matter just how much you tried to fix this loveless marriage, for he had already given his heart to someone else. someone that wasn’t you.
content ⸺ angst, loadss of angst, mutual pining, slowburn, fluff, hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending, SMUT (!) at the end so mdni!! typical zenin clan misogyny, mamaguro is called reiko here bc idk
count ⸺ 17k . . . (sorry guys)
author’s note ⸺ the naoya glazing toji episode brought me back to my toji phase so here is the fic i made you guys wait a whole year for :3
🎧 ao3 wattpad
Today was a good day.
The ceiling towers above were adorned with chandeliers that glitter like frozen stars. The walls were lined with paintings of solemn ancestors, landscapes of mountains and seas, gardens that could never exist outside of canvas… too pretty to be real. Grandeur, wealth, history, legacy.
So royal. So… perfect. So happy. Beautiful. Everything you’d imagined when your mother told you what marriage felt like. How it would be lovely, how it would change your life, how you’d finally belong somewhere, someone waiting for you at your side.
Someone nice. Tall, dark and handsome. And strong too. He’d call you beautiful the way your father sometimes did when he was proud. He’d wake up with you pressed against him in the morning, pressing lazy kisses to your face, murmuring ‘good morning, pretty girl’ against your skin. He’d bring you flowers and call you as pretty as one. He’d kiss your forehead to sleep.
With all you had expected from today, it was bound to be a good day. Right?
You had been raised in luxury, the only daughter of a prestigious clan known for its powerful cursed energy lineage. Spoiled? Yes, they called you that — servants whispering behind your back, elders shaking their heads at your demands for gardenias instead of roses, your refusal to wear anything less than the finest silk.
In a world where women were valued for their ability to produce heirs with strong techniques, your cursed energy was your one true asset. It flowed through you like a river — pure, potent, the kind that made the elders salivate when they arranged this marriage.
“You’ll be perfect for the Zenin,” your father had said, his eyes gleaming with ambition. “Their strength, your energy — the children will be legends.” Children. The word had always made you flinch, even as a little child yourself. And now, even years later, you weren’t ready for that role yet, not when you were still dreaming of love, of being seen as more than a vessel.
You sat up on the very edge of the grand bed, toes barely brushing the floor even though you were sitting up straight, back rigid with the hope that posture might make you feel taller, more present, more deserving. Your fingers drifted across the silk sheets. You traced invisible little hearts, then stars, then nothing at all, just following the weave until your nail caught on a thread and you stopped, afraid you’d ruin something perfect.
Four carved posts rose like sentinels, draped in gauzy ivory canopies that caught the chandelier light and turned it soft, golden, dreamlike. It looked like something from one of the picture books your governess used to read to you when you were small — princess beds for princesses who always got rescued, always got kissed, always got seen.
“Hello?” You called out, blissfully ignoring the fact that you were alone in the room.
You felt ridiculously small against the big sparkling chandeliers, velvet curtains, fragrant bouquets of roses still standing in tall vases. You’d grown up like this. You were used to it.
But you didn’t like roses.
Was that why you weren’t happy?
Surely not. Everything else seemed grand enough to drown out the absence of your gardenias, ones you were sure no one else knew were your favourites. You’d never told anyone that. Not your mother, not the maids, not even the garden boy who used to sneak you extra stems when no one was looking. That boy had been kind, one of the few males who didn’t leer or dismiss you. But even he had been scolded for “encouraging your whims,” as if liking a flower was a rebellion.
Then what was it?
Where is your husband?
Oh, yes. How stupid of you to even ask yourself. Of course, you know where he is. Not that you care, of course. He hadn’t looked at your face during the ceremony. Not once. You’d stood there in layers of ivory and pale gold, heart hammering so loud you were sure the officiant could hear it, and all you’d seen of him was the back of his head: dark hair falling straight and perfect, hiding his profile like a curtain drawn against the light.
He’d spoken his vows in that low, gravel-rough voice without inflection, signed the papers with a single economical stroke, and walked away before the applause had even finished dying. The elders had nodded approval, but Toji's mother — a bitter woman with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue — had sneered from the side.
“A spoiled girl for my son? He’ll break her, or she’ll bore him.”
Maybe he didn’t want to. And maybe he didn’t even notice it. But oh well. It was your marriage day today; it was a good day.
You’d believed your mother when she said those words, her voice trembling with excitement as she adjusted the last hairpin in your updo that morning.
“This is what marriage is, sweetheart. It’s lovely. It changes everything. You’ll finally belong somewhere. Someone will be waiting for you, right at your side.”
Your mother had borne three children before you — two sons who inherited the family’s technique, one daughter who died young. “Be grateful you’re strong,” she had told you. “It makes you valuable.”
The Zenin clan had been eager, their leader Toji Fushiguro a man with no cursed energy but unmatched physical prowess, a “failure” redeemed by his marriage to you.
But those pictures were colored by memories — flashbacks to your childhood visits to the Zenin estate, when your parents negotiated alliances. You were ten, hiding behind a pine tree, watching a boy no older than you train in the yard. Toji, they called him. He was rowdy then, quiet fury in his swings, bruises from his clan’s abuse fresh on his arms. You had wanted to go up to him, to dab his wounds with a cloth like your nanny did for you, but you stayed hidden, humming a soft tune to yourself to calm your nerves. He had paused once, head tilted, as if he heard. But he never looked your way.
With all those pictures in your head, how could today not be a good day?
“So beautiful,” your mother had kept whispering. “This day will change everything. You’re so lucky.”
Lucky to be married. She had been “lucky” too, once, before the years wore her down.
And you had felt lucky then. Ecstatic, even. You’d let yourself imagine it all over again: laughter shared over tea, hands brushing in the hallway, someone finally seeing past the spoiled little heiress with too much cursed energy and too many pretty dresses.
You swung your legs gently. The hem of the wedding kimono brushed the polished floorboards in soft, repetitive sighs. The outer layers were still flawless — no wrinkles, no creases. You’d been so careful. You’d wanted to look… worthy.
A small, ridiculous laugh bubbled up and died in your throat.
Worthy of what?
A man who’d barely acknowledged your existence?
The main doors stayed shut. No servants padded down the corridor with trays of night tea or warmed sake or folded yukata. No quiet voice announced that the master had retired for the evening.
You pressed both palms flat to the mattress and leaned back, staring up until the chandelier crystals blurred into soft halos of light. Your chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped a silk cord around your ribs and pulled.
Today was supposed to be—
The thought cracked in half at the faint creak of wood. Not the grand doors. A smaller panel — the servant’s passage — slid open with barely a sound.
You sat up so fast your kanzashi clinked.
A shadow first: broad shoulders, long limbs moving. Then the rest of him. Toji Fushiguro stepped inside without flourish. No bow. No murmured greeting. He didn’t even glance toward the enormous bed.
He was still in most of the ceremonial montsuki, though the formal haori had been discarded somewhere between the main hall and here. The dark kimono underneath molded to the hard lines of his shoulders and chest like it resented the formality, straining slightly at the seams. His hair was damp at the ends — rain? A quick rinse at some basin? The faint scent of cedar soap drifted with him.
He crossed straight to the low table near the veranda, back to you, and began untying the stiff obi with quick, practiced flicks of his fingers. No wasted movement. No hesitation.
You swallowed.
“…Welcome home,” you tried. The words felt childish the moment they left your mouth. They landed soft. Useless. Petals on stone.
He didn’t turn. The obi uncoiled in a dark heap on the tatami. Only then did his voice come — low, rough, tired.
“You should sleep.”
Not we should sleep.
Not even you should rest, it’s late.
Just you.
Heat crawled up your throat — disappointment mostly, and perhaps humiliation. The tired kind. The kind that had been waiting all day.
“I waited,” you said. Softer than you meant. Almost pleading.
His shoulders tensed — just a flicker — then released. He pulled the kimono open across his chest; the plain black undershirt beneath was simple, worn at the collar. Still no glance your way.
“Then stop waiting.”
It wasn’t cruel. It was worse. Flat. Final.
A door sliding shut between rooms you’d never be allowed to enter.
You watched the shift of muscle under his skin as he folded the outer layer with unexpected care — long fingers smoothing fabric he clearly hated wearing. When he turned at last, it was only to walk toward the far wall, toward the second futon laid out near the veranda doors like an afterthought.
Separate beds.
Of course.
The distance between the grand bed and that narrow futon felt like an ocean. Miles of untouched white silk. An entire sea you weren’t allowed to cross.
He dropped onto the futon without ceremony, loosening the last ties at his waist, then lay flat on his back. One thick arm thrown over his eyes. The posture screamed conversation ended louder than any shout.
You pressed your lips together until they stung.
The chandeliers kept glittering.
The roses kept exhaling their cloying sweetness.
The ancestors kept staring with dispassionate approval.
And you—still wrapped in every layer of silk and hope your mother had pinned into place — felt suddenly, violently ridiculous.
You slid off the bed. The rustle of fabric was deafening in the quiet.
He didn’t move.
You grabbed the nearest pillow — small, embroidered with cranes — and walked toward the servant’s door you’d seen him use. If you were going to be alone, you’d rather your tears fall where no one (especially him) could hear them.
The panel slid shut behind you with a soft click.
You found yourself in a narrow guest chamber — someone’s unused quarters, probably. Plain tatami, a single low table, a futon already made up with crisp white sheets. No chandeliers here. Just a paper lantern giving off gentle, forgiving light.
You locked the door behind you.
Then the tears came.
They rose fast, unbidden, hot. You tried to wipe them away with the silk sleeve, but the fabric only smeared them across your cheekbones, cool and useless against the ache spreading through your chest like slow poison.
You’d imagined love.
You’d imagined laughter at breakfast.
You’d imagined being seen.
Instead you were drowning in gold and silk and roses and paintings and untouched wedding gifts, while he was in the other room, on a separate futon, already asleep or pretending to be.
So happy.
So pretty.
You sank onto the edge of the narrow bed, pillow clutched to your stomach like a shield.
The crying started soft — a quiet shudder that barely disturbed the stillness. Then louder. Because the sorrow had roots older than today. It had been growing for years: every time your mother spoke of “the right match,” every time your father patted your head and said “you’ll make someone very lucky,” every time you caught your reflection in a mirror and thought ‘I’m pretty enough, aren’t I?’ and no one ever answered.
You curled your fingers into the sheets. Something tangible. Something to hold.
You remembered the ceremony again: hours of standing in perfect posture, smiling until your cheeks ached, bowing until your spine protested. The endless bows, the murmured congratulations, the hollow exchange of promises that now tasted like ash. Toji’s mother had been there too. You did not know why she disliked you.
“She’s too soft. My son needs a woman who can endure, not a pampered flower.”
He hadn’t looked at you.
Not once.
Not even when the officiant placed your hands together for the symbolic knot — you’d felt the warmth of his palm for three seconds before he pulled away like your skin burned him.
You’d imagined that moment so many times as a girl: the first touch, electric, gentle.
Instead — nothing.
The room darkened as the last of the daylight bled away. Shadows pooled in the corners like spilled ink. The single lantern flickered, throwing soft gold across the tatami.
The grand chamber next door would still be glittering. Chandeliers mocking you with their frozen beauty. Roses wilting while no one noticed. Gifts piled high, ribbons untouched, promises forgotten.
And you — small against the enormity of everything — felt so insignificant. So unnecessary.
So happy.
So pretty.
You let yourself fall forward, face buried in the pillow. Tears soaked the only silk in the new room. Sobs rose without shame now, muffled but raw.
Nothing filled the space where he should have been.
Not the grandeur.
Not the gifts.
Not the roses you hated.
Not even the gardenias you’d never ask for.
So you cried until your throat ached and your eyes burned and the lantern dimmed to a faint glow.
So happy.
So royal.
So pretty.
So alone.
But it was your wedding night. And you were happy.
So you cried until sleep took you, still in your wedding kimono, still clutching the pillow like it was the only thing that hadn’t lied to you today.
—
The next morning arrived without fanfare, the sun rising indifferently over the estate, casting long shadows through the shoji screens. Sunlight sliced in thin, pale ribbons, turning the guest room where you’d cried yourself to sleep into something almost gentle. Your wedding kimono lay in a crumpled heap on the floor like shed skin — a reminder of the night before. You’d woken with swollen eyes, a headache behind your temples, and the dull certainty that nothing had changed. The world moved on, uncaring of your tears.
You dressed in silence — simple pale blue yukata, hair loosely pinned, no makeup to hide the redness. No one had come to help you. No maids fluttering with trays of warm water or perfumed oils. You weren’t sure if that was deliberate or if they simply hadn’t been told where the new mistress had disappeared to. But in the Zenin clan, women were expected to manage themselves, to be self-sufficient yet submissive. Toji’s mother had made that clear during your first visit as a betrothed. “Don’t expect coddling,” she had snapped, her eyes cold. “My son doesn’t need a weak wife.”
Breakfast was served in the smaller eastern hall, a long low table set for two. The room was modest compared to the grand chamber, with tatami mats worn from years of use, walls adorned with simple ink paintings of mountains and seas.
You arrived late on purpose.
Toji was already there, seated at the head, back straight, eating methodically. He wore a plain black kimono today — no trace of last night’s ceremonial stiffness. The food in front of him was untouched except for the rice and miso; everything else arranged in neat, colorful rows like an offering he had no intention of accepting.
You slid onto the cushion opposite him without a word.
A young male servant brought the trays — his eyes lingering on you a second too long, a soft smile playing on his lips. He had always been kind, sneaking extra sweets from his father (also a servant there) when you visited as a child, now bringing tea with gardenia petals floating on top, knowing your preference.
“My lady,” he murmured, bowing low as he poured your tea with extra care, his fingers brushing the cup. The other servants bowed once, twice, then withdrew to the edges of the room, eyes lowered.
You looked at the spread.
Grilled mackerel.
Pickled plum.
Natto in its sticky, pungent glory.
A small bowl of something green and slimy-looking you didn’t recognize.
Your lip curled before you could stop it.
You pushed the plate away an inch. Then another. The porcelain scraped softly against the lacquered table.
A servant girl — barely older than sixteen — froze mid-step.
You didn’t look at her. You simply folded your hands in your lap and stared at the untouched food like it had personally offended you.
Whispers started almost immediately, too quiet to catch whole sentences but sharp enough to sting.
“…difficult…”
“…typical of her clan…”
“…spoiled little—”
Toji didn’t pause.
He lifted a piece of tamagoyaki with his chopsticks, ate it in one bite, then reached for more rice.
His expression never changed.
You waited.
Nothing.
No glance.
No comment.
No are you not hungry? or even the cold eat what’s given.
Just silence and the slow, deliberate sound of him chewing.
Heat crawled up your neck.
You pushed the plate farther — enough that it nearly touched the edge of the table — and stood.
“I’m not hungry.”
The words came out smaller than you wanted. Petulant. Childish.
Toji kept eating.
You turned and walked out.
—
Two days later, the gardens.
It was late afternoon. The air smelled of wet earth and cedar after a brief rain. You’d wandered out alone because the house felt too large, too quiet, too full of people who looked at you like you were a porcelain doll left on the wrong shelf.
The Zenin gardens were famous for their beauty — stone paths winding between ancient pines, koi ponds so still they looked painted, beds of flowers arranged by season and color like living tapestries.
You stopped in front of a low cluster of blooms near the east wall.
They were small. Dull purple. Spindly stems. Nothing elegant. Nothing like the perfect white camellias or the pale pink peonies further down the path.
You wrinkled your nose.
One of the gardeners — a middle-aged man with dirt under his nails and a straw hat pushed back on his head — noticed your expression and hurried over, bowing low.
“Is something wrong, my lady?”
You pointed at the ugly little flowers.
“Those. They’re hideous. Chop them down.”
He blinked. Then paled.
“Those are… violet spider lilies, my lady. Very rare. They only bloom once every seven years. The previous head gardener spent decades cultivating them—”
You tilted your head.
“I don’t like them.”
The man swallowed. Looked around as though hoping someone would rescue him.
“We… we would need the clan leader’s permission to remove them. They’re part of the official collection—”
You smiled. It didn’t reach your eyes.
“I’m his wife.”
The words tasted bitter. Sharp. Like biting into unripe fruit.
“So just do it.”
The gardener bowed again — deeper this time — and backed away muttering apologies.
You turned to leave.
Toji passed you on the path a moment later. He was walking with one of the elders, mid-sentence, voice low. He didn’t slow. Didn’t look at the flower bed. Didn’t look at you.
Just kept walking.
You stood there until his back disappeared around the bend.
Later that evening you overheard two maids in the corridor outside your (newly assigned, still separate) room.
“…he had the whole patch dug up this afternoon.”
“Quietly. Didn’t say a word about it.”
“Not for her, though. Just… didn’t want the complaints escalating. You know how the elders get when tradition’s disturbed.”
You pressed your palm to the sliding door and closed your eyes.
He hadn’t done it for you.
He’d done it to avoid trouble.
Or so they say…
—
Three weeks later. Preparations for the mid-autumn gathering — a formal ball hosted by the Zenin to remind the other clans exactly who held power this season.
The dressing chamber smelled of sandalwood and fresh silk. Three attendants fussed around you, holding up kimono after kimono. Layers of deep plum, forest green, muted gold. Each one heavier than the last.
They settled on one: rich aubergine with silver cranes embroidered along the hem. The obi was wide, stiff, patterned with subtle waves. The jewelry — onyx beads, a heavy silver kanzashi shaped like a crescent moon — was elegant.
You hated it.
Not because it was ugly.
Because it wasn’t enough.
It didn’t sparkle.
It didn’t scream wealth.
It didn’t make you look like you.
You stood in front of the full-length mirror, lips pressed thin, eyes flicking over every seam and fold with undisguised disdain.
One of the attendants hesitated, fingers hovering over the next layer.
“…does it displease you, my lady?”
You didn’t answer. You just looked at your reflection like it had betrayed you.
The door slid open. Toji stepped inside. The attendants froze.
He was already dressed — black montsuki with the Zenin crest stark against the fabric, hair tied back, expression closed.
He looked at you once. Then at the attendants.
“Out.”
They bowed so fast their foreheads nearly touched the tatami and vanished.
Silence.
He crossed the room in four strides. You didn’t move. He stopped behind you — close enough that you felt the heat of him against your back, but not touching. Not yet. His eyes met yours in the mirror.
Then, without a word, he reached for the discarded outer layer — the one you’d pushed aside because the color was too dull — and draped it over your shoulders. Rough hands. Calloused fingers. Careful anyway.
He smoothed the fabric down your arms, adjusting the fall of the sleeves with short, precise movements. No lingering. No hesitation. Just efficiency.
Then the obi. He took it from the stand, wrapped it around your waist, pulled it tight — firm, almost punishing in its neatness — then tied the knot at the back with a single hard tug. You stopped breathing for a second.
His knuckles brushed the nape of your neck when he reached for the kanzashi you’d rejected — the heavy silver one. He slid it into your hair without asking, securing it in place.
Finally, he stepped back and looked at you again in the mirror.
“You’ll wear this.”
His voice was low. Flat. Final.
You stared at your reflection. The dress still wasn’t perfect. The jewelry still felt wrong.
But something about the way he’d dressed you — hands steady, breath on your neck — made your stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with dislike. You opened your mouth. Closed it.
He turned towards the door.
“Wait—”
He paused. Didn’t turn. You swallowed.
“…thank you.”
A beat. Then, quieter than the rustle of silk:
“Don’t thank me for doing what’s expected.”
He left. You stood there alone, heart hammering against the stiff obi, fingertips brushing the place on your neck where his knuckles had grazed.
The dress didn’t feel any better. But your skin remembered his hands. And that, somehow, was worse.
—
You couldn’t sleep.
Again.
The guest room you’d claimed as your own had become a kind of voluntary exile — separate futon, separate silence, separate everything. The grand shared chamber still waited next door like an accusation, its enormous bed untouched except for the single night you’d almost cried yourself raw in it. You hadn’t gone back since.
Tonight the air felt heavier than usual. The house creaked: timbers settling, wind fingering the eaves, distant water in the garden gutters. You lay on your side, staring at the low table where a single lantern burned low, its flame trembling like it knew something you didn’t.
Eventually you gave up.
You rose, slipped into a thin navy yukata, tied the obi loosely, and padded barefoot down the corridor. The tatami was cool under your feet. You didn’t know where you were going until you found yourself in the small tea room at the end of the east wing — a space rarely used, intimate, almost forgotten. A low chabana vase held one white camellia; the scent was faint, clean, nothing like roses.
You slid the door open without thinking. He was already there.
Toji sat cross-legged on the tatami near the tokonoma alcove, back to the wall, one knee drawn up. A small brazier glowed between his hands, warming a ceramic sake bottle and two shallow ochoko cups. No servants. No attendants. Just him, the firelight carving shadows under his eyes and along the sharp line of his jaw.
He didn’t startle when you appeared in the doorway. He simply lifted his gaze — slow, unreadable — and held it. You froze.
For a long moment neither of you spoke. Then he tilted his head toward the empty cushion across from him.
“Sit.”
You obeyed before your pride could stop you. You knelt carefully, knees tucked, hands folded in your lap. The yukata pooled around you like spilled ink. The brazier’s warmth licked at your shins.
He poured sake into both cups without asking if you wanted any. The liquid glinted amber in the low light. He pushed one toward you with the back of two fingers — casual, almost careless.
You took it. Neither of you drank yet.
The silence stretched, not uncomfortable exactly, but thick. Like smoke you could taste.
You stared at the surface of the sake. Tiny ripples moved across it from the faint tremor in your fingers.
“…Can’t sleep?” you asked finally. Voice small. Almost swallowed by the room.
He exhaled through his nose — a sound that might have been amusement or exhaustion.
“Never could.”
You lifted the cup. The sake was warm, smooth, faintly sweet with a burn that settled low in your chest.
“You drink alone often?”
“Sometimes.” He took his own cup, downed it in one motion, and poured again. “Better than lying there staring at the ceiling.”
You nodded like that made sense. It did.
The lantern flame dipped, throwing his profile into brief gold relief — scar at the corner of his mouth, the faint tension in his jaw, the way his lashes cast long shadows when he looked down.
You didn’t know why you asked the next question. Maybe because the silence was starting to hurt. Maybe because you were tired of pretending you didn’t wonder.
“…What keeps you awake?”
He didn’t answer right away. His thumb traced the rim of the empty cup once, twice.
Then, quietly: “Regret, mostly.”
The word landed like a stone in still water. You felt your breath catch.
He poured more sake — for both of you this time — and leaned back against the wall, stretching his long legs out to the side. The movement was lazy, almost careless, but his eyes stayed fixed on the low flame.
You waited. He spoke again, voice rougher now, like the words had been buried deep.
“There was someone. Before all this.”
Your heart gave a slow, painful thud.
You kept your face neutral. Careful. You sipped your sake to give your hands something to do. He didn’t look at you.
“High school. She was… nice. Loud laugh though. Never looked at me like I was defective.” A small, private smile touched his mouth — gone so fast you almost missed it. “Called me Toji like it was normal. Like the name didn’t come with a curse attached.”
Rei.
He didn’t say her name yet, but you already knew. Everyone in the clans knew fragments of the story — the Fushiguro pariah who almost slipped the leash entirely.
“She wanted out,” he continued. “So did I. We had plans. Stupid ones. Run to some nowhere town, work shit jobs, disappear. No cursed energy, no clans, no elders deciding who gets to breathe next.” He gave a low laugh — hollow. “Thought we could actually do it.”
The warmth in his voice was quiet, but unmistakable. It wrapped around her memory like smoke around embers. The first real softness you’d ever heard from him.
And it wasn’t for you.
Your fingers tightened around the cup until your knuckles ached. You forced a small smile — practiced, pretty, the one you used at banquets when someone asked about your future and you wanted to look unbothered.
“What happened?”
His gaze flicked to you then.
“You know what happened.”
You did.
The arranged marriage.
Your clan’s cursed energy lineage.
The Zenin elders dragging their disgraced son back into the fold because he was suddenly useful again.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring into the brazier like it might give him absolution.
“It didn’t matter what I felt. It was decided.” The words came out flat, final. “They called me in one afternoon. Told me the papers were already drawn. Told me she’d be safer without me dragging her down anyway.” He paused. “They weren’t wrong about that part.”
A knife slid between your ribs — slow, cold, precise. You kept smiling. Kept breathing. Kept the tears locked behind your teeth.
He poured another round. This time his hand was steadier.
“I told her the night before the announcement. She cried. Not loud. Just… quiet. Like she’d known all along it would end like this.” His voice cracked — just once, barely audible. “She said she didn’t regret any of it. Said she’d do it again. Even knowing.”
He drank.
You didn’t.
The silence returned, heavier now.
You stared at your reflection in the sake — distorted, small.
Then, because you couldn’t stand the weight of his confession sitting alone between you, you spoke.
“I had flings.”
The words sounded careless. Light. Like you were discussing the weather.
He glanced up.
You shrugged one shoulder, forcing nonchalance.
“Before the marriage. Nothing serious. Just… boys from other clans. Tea houses. Late nights in gardens. They thought they were special.” You gave a small laugh — practiced, brittle. “One of them tried to write me poetry once. It was terrible. I laughed in his face.”
Toji watched you.
You kept going, words spilling faster now, like if you talked enough the ache in your chest might dilute.
“There was this one from the Kamo branch. Always smelled like incense. Took me to see fireflies once. He thought it was romantic. I spent the whole night thinking about how cold my feet were.” Another laugh. “Another one — someone from this clan, actually, I don’t remember who though — tried to impress me with his technique. Summoned a shikigami shaped like a tiger. It purred at me. I told him it was cute. He never called again.”
You were careful.
So careful.
Never once did you mention the real reason you’d slipped out of your own estate so many times as a teenager.
Never mentioned how you’d begged your drivers to take the long route past the Zenin compound.
Never mentioned standing at the outer wall, hidden behind wisteria, watching a tall, bruised boy train alone in the yard — shirtless, sweating, fists bloody, never once looking defeated.
Never mentioned how you’d memorized the rhythm of his footsteps on gravel, the way he tilted his head when he listened, the scar that curved under his left eye like a crescent moon.
You’d gone there for him.
Always for him.
But you wrapped those memories in careless anecdotes, flings that meant nothing, boys who were forgettable.
Because if you told the truth now, it would sound pathetic. And you refused to be pathetic in front of him.
He listened without interrupting. When you finally ran out of stories, the brazier had burned lower. The sake bottle was half-empty.
He looked at you — really looked — for the first time that night. “You talk like none of it mattered.”
You met his gaze. Steady. “It didn’t.”
He studied you for a long moment. Then he reached for the bottle again, and poured the last of the sake into your cup.
“Drink.”
You did. It burned all the way down.
He leaned back, arms crossed over his chest. “Get some sleep,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow’s another long day.”
You stood. Your legs felt unsteady — not from the sake, but from everything else. At the door you paused.
“…Toji?”
He didn’t correct the intimacy of the name. “Yeah?”
You looked back over your shoulder. “Thanks. For the drink.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just watched you go. You slid the door shut behind you.
The corridor was cold. You walked back to your room slowly, one hand pressed to your sternum like you could keep the pieces from falling apart. Only when the door was locked and the lantern extinguished did you let yourself sink to the floor.
Only then did the tears come — silent, hot, endless. You cried for the girl who’d stood outside his walls hoping he’d notice her. For the wife who’d just heard him speak his love’s name like a prayer. For the future that felt smaller every day.
You didn’t sob.
You didn’t wail.
You just leaked — quietly, thoroughly — until your yukata was damp at the collar and your breathing hurt.
So happy.
So pretty.
So alone.
And somewhere in the dark of the tea room, Toji stayed sitting long after you left, staring at the dying coals, the empty cups, the space where you’d been.
He didn’t move for a very long time.
—
Half a year slipped by like water through cracked porcelain — slow, quiet, inevitable. Seasons turned. Cherry blossoms bled pink across the estate grounds in spring, then scattered like confetti no one celebrated. Summer brought thick, humid air that clung to silk and skin alike. Autumn painted the maples in fire. Winter arrived with frost on the eaves and breath that fogged the shoji screens at dawn.
Nothing dramatic happened.
No grand fights.
No sudden declarations.
No nights of passion that rewrote the rules.
Just time.
Relentless, ordinary time.
And in that time, the marriage became something else entirely: a slow, domestic haunting. You learned the rhythm of him without meaning to.
The way his footsteps sounded heavier in the morning corridor when he hadn’t slept. The particular creak of the third tatami panel outside the tea room when he paused there at night, deciding whether to enter or keep walking. The faint scent of cedar smoke that followed him after he’d spent too long near the brazier thinking.
You passed each other in hallways more often than either of you acknowledged. Early mornings mostly.
You’d be heading toward the kitchen wing for tea — hair loose, yukata tied carelessly — when he’d appear from the opposite direction, already dressed in training blacks, hair still damp from the cold-water rinse he preferred. Your shoulders would nearly brush. The air between you would thicken for half a second.
His hand would rise — instinct, maybe — hovering near your elbow as though to steady you around an invisible corner.
Never touching.
Never quite closing the distance.
You’d feel the warmth of his palm like a ghost against your sleeve.
Then he’d drop it. Step aside. Continue past
You never spoke in those moments.
Neither did he.
The servants noticed everything. They always did.
At first the whispers were careful, hushed behind sliding doors.
“…still separate rooms.”
“…the bed in the main chamber hasn’t been slept in together once.”
“…she cries sometimes. Quiet. But we hear.”
“They’re like two ghosts sharing the same house.”
You overheard them once while pretending to arrange flowers in the alcove near the laundry corridor. Two young maids, voices low but clear.
“…poor thing. All that cursed energy and still can’t hold a man’s attention.”
“…maybe if she gave him an heir—”
You crushed a camellia stem between your fingers until green sap stained your skin.
You didn’t cry then.
You saved it for later, alone, face pressed into the sleeve of a yukata that still smelled faintly of the incense you’d burned the night he spoke Rei’s name like scripture.
The domestic moments accumulated like dust on unused shelves. Small.
Insignificant on their own.
Crushing when strung together.
Mornings when you found the tea already steeped exactly how you liked it — black, no sugar, one slice of yuzu peel floating on top — left on the low table in the sunroom without explanation.
You knew it was him.
No servant would dare presume your exact preference without being told — except perhaps, the young male one who did on your first day. But then again, it would be nice to think Toji himself did this.
Evenings when you returned from a clan meeting (forced smiles, endless bows, questions about heirs that made your stomach turn) to find the veranda screens already slid open, the night air cool against your flushed cheeks, and a single low lantern lit near the railing so you wouldn’t stumble in the dark.
You never thanked him.
He never asked to be thanked.
Once, in late summer, you woke to thunder so loud it rattled the beams. Rain hammered the roof like fists. You sat up, heart racing, childhood fear of storms rising unbidden.
You padded to the corridor.
He was there — standing at the far end, back to you, arms crossed, staring out at the storm through an open screen. Lightning flashed; his silhouette went stark white for an instant.
You didn’t speak.
You just stood there, ten paces away, watching the rain slide down his profile in silver tracks.
He didn’t turn.
After a long minute he lifted one hand and pressed it flat to the wooden frame like he was holding the storm back.
You went back to your room.
The thunder quieted eventually.
You didn’t sleep.
Another time — early autumn, leaves just beginning to turn — you found him in the garden at dusk.
He was crouched near the rebuilt violet spider lily bed (the one he’d had quietly removed and then quietly replanted months later, never explaining why). His sleeves were rolled to the elbow. Dirt streaked his forearms. He was replanting a single bulb that had been dislodged by wind.
You watched from the veranda steps.
He didn’t look up.
You stepped closer anyway, bare feet silent on cool stone.
When you were close enough to see the tension in his shoulders, you spoke.
“…You kept them.”
He paused, thumb brushing soil from the bulb’s papery skin.
“Didn’t see the point in killing something just because someone didn’t like the look of it.”
The words weren’t gentle.
Weren’t cruel.
Just fact.
You crouched beside him — careful distance, knees tucked under your yukata.
“…They’re still ugly.”
A low huff that might have been a laugh.
“Ugly things survive longer.”
You looked at his hands then, scarred, calloused, steady.
They moved with a care you’d never seen him use on anything else.
You wanted, suddenly, violently, to reach out.
To trace one of those scars with your fingertip.
To ask if it still hurt.
Instead you stood.
“…Good night, Toji.”
He didn’t answer.
But you knew. A small upturn of your lips ghosted your face. He had listened to your tantrum and had them dug out on a whim, before replanting them. You didn’t matter much to him after all.
Winter came.
Snow dusted the pines like powdered sugar. The estate grew quieter, fewer visitors, fewer meetings. More silence.
You took to reading in the library at night. Thick volumes of clan history, poetry collections, medical texts on cursed energy manipulation — anything to fill the hours when sleep refused to come.
One night you fell asleep there — head on your folded arms, an open scroll of waka poems still spread beneath your cheek.
You woke to the sensation of weight settling over your shoulders. A thick wool haori, black, heavy with his scent, draped across your back. You lifted your head slowly.
Toji stood at the far end of the table, arms crossed, looking anywhere but at you. The lantern light caught the faint scar at his mouth.
You didn’t speak. Neither did he. He simply turned and walked out. The haori stayed warm for hours after he left.
You pulled it tighter around yourself and went back to sleep right there on the table, cheek against ancient ink, his scent wrapped around you like an embrace he’d never give.
Days blurred. Weeks.
You realized it in fragments.
In the way your heart stuttered when his hand hovered near your sleeve in the hallway.
In the way you lingered at corners hoping to catch his footsteps.
In the way you memorized the exact weight of his haori on your shoulders.
Loving him silently was killing you.
Not dramatically.
Not with blood or tears or screaming matches.
Just… slowly.
Like a candle left burning in an empty room until there was nothing left but wick and smoke.
You caught yourself one afternoon in the mirror — pale, eyes shadowed, lips pressed thin.
You looked like someone who had been waiting too long for something that might never arrive.
You touched your reflection.
Whispered to it:
“…This is going to break me.”
The reflection didn’t answer.
But the words stayed in your throat for the rest of the day, heavy as stones.
That night you didn’t go to the library. You went to the tea room instead — the same one where he’d first spoken Rei’s name.
It was empty. You sat in the same spot you had six months ago. Poured yourself sake from the bottle that had been left there, untouched since that night. Drank alone.
The brazier was cold. You stared at the empty space across from you where he should have been. And for the first time in half a year, you let yourself admit it out loud — to the empty room, to the dying winter light, to no one:
“I love him.”
The words tasted like ash and honey at once. You laughed once — small, broken.
Then you set the cup down.
Stood.
Walked back to your separate room.
Closed the door.
And let the silence swallow you whole.
—
The winter deepened, relentless and gray, the kind of cold that seeped into bones and stayed there. Eight months had passed since the wedding now. The estate had settled into a rhythm that felt almost normal if you didn’t look too closely. But looking closely was all you did anymore.
The whispers had evolved. They were no longer careful or speculative. They had teeth.
It started in the bathhouse annex one morning. You had gone early to soak alone, hoping the steam would loosen the knot that had taken up permanent residence behind your sternum. Two attendants were preparing fresh towels just outside the sliding door — young women, new to the inner household staff, still careless with their volume.
“…can’t even warm his bed after all this time. What kind of wife is that?”
A giggle — sharp, mean.
“Maybe she’s defective. All that cursed energy and no use in the bedroom.”
“Or maybe he just doesn’t want her. Who would? Spoiled little thing. Thinks the world owes her affection because her clan has money and techniques.”
You sat very still in the water. The surface rippled with your held breath.
They kept going.
“…the elders are furious. No heir. No intimacy. Just a pretty doll gathering dust in the guest wing.”
“…she probably cries herself to sleep every night. Pathetic.”
You waited until their footsteps retreated. Then you rose, dressed in silence, and walked back to your room with wet hair dripping down your back like tears you refused to shed.
You passed Toji in the corridor that afternoon. He was coming from the training yard — sweat-damp hair clinging to his neck, sleeves rolled, knuckles still wrapped in stained cloth. You were heading the opposite way, arms full of folded linens you hadn’t asked for but had carried anyway because standing still felt worse.
Your shoulders nearly brushed. His hand rose — habit now — hovering near your elbow as though to steady you.
He didn’t touch you.
He never did.
But you felt the warmth anyway.
You kept walking.
He kept walking.
Neither of you looked back.
That evening, at the small council meeting held in the main hall, the disrespect finally broke cover.
The room was lit with low braziers and hanging lanterns. Elders sat in rigid rows. Branch family representatives nodded along to discussions of territory lines and upcoming joint missions with other clans. You sat to Toji’s right — close enough that your sleeve brushed his once when you reached for tea. He did not react.
The topic shifted — inevitably — to lineage.
One of the senior uncles, a man with a face like old leather and eyes like chipped obsidian, cleared his throat.
“Clan head,” he began, addressing Toji but glancing at you, “the matter of succession grows urgent. Eight months is ample time for… progress. Yet we hear nothing encouraging.”
Silence fell like a stone. Toji’s expression did not change.
The uncle continued, emboldened. “Perhaps the lady requires guidance. Or perhaps—” he smiled thinly “—she is simply not suited to the role. Some women are ornamental. Not functional.”
A ripple of murmurs — agreement, amusement. Your head was bowed, looking at the ground, but fingers tightened around the teacup until porcelain creaked.
Toji’s voice cut through — low, even. “Careful.”
The uncle blinked. Toji leaned forward slightly.
“I said careful.”
The room went still. The uncle swallowed.
“…Of course, Master.”
Toji sat back.
The meeting moved on.
But later, in the corridor outside, you caught the tail end of another conversation — two younger retainers, voices careless.
“…he defended her. First time I’ve seen him speak up.”
“…probably just pride. Can’t have them thinking the Zenin head married a dud.”
“…still. If he wanted her, we’d know by now. Bed’s been empty since day one.”
You pressed yourself against the wall until they passed. Then you walked to the garden.
Snow had begun again, soft and relentless.
You stood under the eaves and watched it fall until your yukata was damp at the hem and your fingers numb. Toji found you there an hour later.
He didn’t speak at first. Just stood beside you, close enough that his warmth cut through the cold. After a long minute:
“…You heard them.”
It wasn’t a question.
You nodded once. He exhaled.
“They’re idiots.”
“They’re not wrong.”
He looked at you sharply.
You kept staring at the snow.
“The bed is empty,” you said quietly. “I am ornamental. I have not… warmed anything.”
His jaw worked.
“…That’s not on you.”
“Isn’t it?”
He didn’t answer.
You turned to him then — eyes dry, voice steady.
“I’m trying, Toji. Every day. I try to be what you need. What they expect. What this—” you gestured between you “—requires. And it’s still not enough.”
He looked away. Snowflakes caught in his lashes.
“…I know.”
The admission was small. Terrible. You wrapped your arms around yourself.
“…Then why?”
He didn’t answer.
He just reached out slowly, his hand hovering near your cheek.
You waited. He didn’t close the distance.
Instead he dropped his hand.
Turned.
Walked back inside.
You stayed until the snow piled on your shoulders and you couldn’t feel your toes.
—
Cherry blossoms were late that year; the trees were still bare when the invitations went out. The hall was filled with representatives from every major clan — Gojo, Kamo, Inumaki offshoots, even a few minor houses hoping to curry favour.
You wore deep indigo layered with silver embroidery, elegant and expensive. The kanzashi Toji had once placed in your hair still sat heavy against your scalp.
You did not flirt. You never had.
But men noticed you anyway. cuz ur so fine #trust
A sorcerer from the Kamo branch, young and smiling, approached you during the poetry recital portion.
He complimented your posture. Your grace. The way the lantern light caught the silver in your sleeves.
You answered politely in short sentences, small smiles. He laughed too easily. Leaned closer. Asked if you enjoyed the recitals or preferred quieter evenings.
You said you preferred quiet. He took it as an invitation. His hand brushed your wrist when he gestured toward the garden doors.
Across the room, Toji stood with a group of Gojo representatives — Satoru himself laughing too loud at something, white hair catching every light. Toji was not laughing.
His eyes were on you.
Fixed.
Unblinking.
The Kamo boy kept talking.
You kept nodding — mechanical now.
Toji moved. He crossed the room without hurry.
Stopped beside you.
The boy faltered mid-sentence. Toji looked at him once. The boy bowed, deep, hasty, and retreated.
Toji did not speak to you. He simply offered his arm. You took it — fingers light on his sleeve. Outside, in the cold garden air, he stopped under a bare cherry tree.
“…You let him touch you.”
His voice was low. Rough.
You pulled your hand back.
“…He brushed my wrist. Once.”
Toji’s jaw ticked.
“…I saw.”
You looked up at him.
“…And?”
He stared at the ground.
Then at you.
“I hated it.”
The words were quiet.
Honest.
Ugly.
You felt something twist in your chest, sharp, hopeful, painful.
“…Why?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Snowflakes — early, unexpected — began to drift down again.
“Because,” he said finally, “I have no right to stop it.”
The confession hung there.
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Then he turned away.
“Inside. It’s cold.”
You followed.
But the words stayed outside with the snow.
The almost-kiss happened ten days later.
It was late; one of those nights where sleep refused to come for either of you.
You found the tea room lit again. Toji was already there, sitting on the same cushion, brazier low, sake bottle half-empty. You slid the door shut behind you.
Knelt across from him.
He poured without asking.
You drank.
The silence stretched, thicker than usual.
You spoke first.
“…Do you ever think about her?”
He knew who.
Always did.
He stared into the coals.
“Every day.”
You nodded.
“…Does it hurt less?”
“No.”
You looked at your hands.
“…I’m sorry.”
He glanced at you sharply.
“For what?”
“For being the reason it ended.”
He set his cup down carefully.
“You didn’t choose this either.”
“…I know.”
Another silence.
Then — quiet:
“I don’t hate you.”
You looked up. His eyes were dark. Tired. Open.
“I never hated you.”
The words landed soft.
You felt them settle somewhere deep.
“…Then why do we…?”
He didn’t answer. Instead he reached across the brazier slowly. His fingers brushed your cheek.
You froze. He didn’t pull back. His thumb traced the line of your jaw — rough pad against soft skin. You leaned into it. Just a fraction. His breath hitched.
He leaned closer. So close you could count the flecks of gold in his green eyes.
Your lips parted. His gaze dropped to your mouth. He tilted his head. Breath mingled — warm, sake-sweet.
Your eyes fluttered shut. He was there — millimeters away.
.
.
.
.
Then he stopped.
His hand dropped.
He shook his head once.
And stood.
“I can’t.”
His voice cracked on the last word.
He left. The door slid shut.
You stayed kneeling until the brazier died and the room turned cold.
Outside, snow kept falling.
Inside, something in you finally cracked. Later, much later, Toji stood on the far veranda.
Snow piled on the railing. He stared at his hands — the same hands that had almost held you.
He realized — slow, terrible, inevitable — that this was no longer duty.
It hadn’t been for a long time.
It was want.
Need.
Fear.
He wanted you.
And that terrified him more than any elder, any fight, any ghost of Rei ever had.
Across the estate, in your room, you sat on the edge of the futon.
You stared at the wall. And you decided — quiet, final, exhausted — that you could not keep hoping.
Hoping had hollowed you out.
You would stop.
You would breathe.
You would survive.
Even if surviving meant burying whatever this was.
Even if it meant burying the part of you that still reached for him in the dark.
The snow covered everything.
Soft.
Silent.
Final.
—
The cherry blossoms had long since fallen, their delicate pink petals ground into the earth by the passage of time and feet, leaving only the memory of their fleeting beauty in the minds of those who had seen them bloom. It was now the height of summer, the air thick and heavy with humidity that clung to skin like an unwanted embrace, making every breath feel labored, every movement a small battle against the oppressive heat.
The estate, with its sprawling gardens and ancient wooden structures, seemed to hold its breath under the relentless sun, the cicadas droning in a ceaseless chorus that filled the voids left by human silence.
Nine months had passed since the wedding day. Nine months of learning the intricate dance of avoidance, of carving out spaces in a shared home where paths rarely crossed, where glances were brief and words even briefer.
You had become adept at rising early, slipping through the corridors like a shadow to avoid the moments when he might appear, his presence a reminder of what was and what could never be. Evenings were spent in the library, poring over scrolls and books that held no real interest, their pages a shield against the loneliness that threatened to consume you.
The servants’ whispers, once sharp and cutting, had dulled to a background hum, much like the cicadas — annoying but ignorable, a constant undercurrent to your daily life.
You told yourself you were fine, repeating the mantra in the quiet hours when doubt crept in. You told yourself the ache in your chest was merely a habit, a remnant of the girl who had once dreamed of love in fairytales and stolen glances.
You told yourself many things, building walls of self-deception brick by brick, each one a small lie to keep the truth at bay. None of them were true, of course. The truth was a living thing, burrowed deep within you, twisting and turning, refusing to be ignored. But you pushed it down, focused on the routines that kept you functioning — the pruning of flowers in the garden, the careful arrangement of tea sets in the sunroom, the polite nods to attendants who averted their eyes as if your pain was contagious.
Then she returned.
Reiko.
The name came to you later, pieced together from overheard snippets and the way the servants' voices dropped when they mentioned “the visitor from the old days.” You didn’t know her full name at first, only Rei, as Toji called her — only that a woman had arrived at the outer gate just after noon on a day when the sky hung low.
She wore simple traveling clothes — a dark gray kimono that blended with the shadows under the pines, her hair tied back in a loose knot that spoke of practicality rather than vanity, no crest on her sleeves to announce her status. No servant escort trailed her; she came alone, a small bundle slung at her side, her steps measured and confident as if the estate were an old friend welcoming her home.
The gatekeeper bowed low — too low, with a deference that suggested history, respect earned from past associations rather than current power. His voice murmured greetings, words lost to the distance but tone clear: reverence and surprise.
You were in the east garden that day, the one tucked away behind the main hall, where the camellias grew in orderly rows, their leaves glossy and dark against the summer sun. Pruning shears in hand, you had come here because your hands needed occupation, something to channel the restless energy that had built up over the days.
The shears were sharp, honed to a fine edge by the gardener who maintained them, and the stems gave way with satisfying snaps, red petals drifting to the gravel path like drops of blood from a wound that wouldn’t heal.
From the raised walkway that bordered the garden, you had a clear view of the main approach — the long gravel path flanked by ancient pines whose branches arched overhead like protective arms, the inner torii gate painted a vivid vermilion that stood out against the greenery, the courtyard beyond where stone lanterns stood sentinel.
It was a view you had come to know well, one that offered a sense of control in a world where so little was yours to command.
You saw her step through the outer gate, her figure small at first but growing as she approached. The guards straightened, their postures snapping to attention as if an invisible command had been given. One of them murmured something into a radio, his voice low and urgent.
And then Toji appeared, emerging from the training yard at the edge of the courtyard, still clad in his black dogi, the fabric darkened with sweat across his broad shoulders and chest, hair damp and clinging to his neck in unruly strands.
He froze mid-stride, his body going still in a way that spoke volumes — a rare crack in the armor of indifference he wore like a second skin. For one second, just one, he looked almost young, the lines of tension that etched his face softened by surprise, vulnerability flickering across his features like a shadow passing over water.
Then he moved. He walked toward her without haste, but you knew that walk intimately now. It was the one he used when something truly mattered. They met in the gravel courtyard just beyond the inner torii gate, the stones crunching softly under their feet. She smiled. wide, unguarded, the kind of smile that belonged to summers long past, to stolen afternoons under shady trees, to whispered plans made in the heat of youth.
It was a smile that lit her face, making her eyes crinkle at the corners, her whole being radiate a warmth that seemed to draw the light to her. He didn’t smile back, not exactly — his mouth didn’t curve, his eyes didn’t light — but his shoulders dropped half an inch, the permanent tension in his jaw eased just enough to notice, his hands — those scarred, calloused hands that you had studied in secret — flexed once at his sides before settling loose, as if remembering how to relax.
You stood very still among the camellias, the shears hanging forgotten in your grip, the world narrowing to that single scene unfolding before you. She said something — too far to hear the words, but close enough to see the shape of them on her lips, soft and familiar, the cadence of an old conversation resuming without effort.
He answered, his voice low and rough, the same timbre he had used in the tea room that night months ago when he first spoke her name, like a wound that had never fully healed. She laughed then, the sound carrying on the humid air — bright, unselfconscious, clear as a bell ringing through fog.
It sliced through the garden like light piercing through leaves, reaching you where you stood, a sound so pure and joyful it made your stomach twist with an emotion you couldn’t name, something between envy and despair.
Your fingers closed around the pruning shears until the metal bit into your palm, the pain sharp and immediate. Warm blood welled between your fingers, trickling down your wrist in slow, sticky rivulets; you barely felt it, your attention locked on the pair in the courtyard.
They spoke for perhaps ten minutes, the conversation flowing with the ease of long familiarity. She gestured toward the bundle at her side — opened it carefully, reverently, to show him something small, folded, wrapped in pale silk that caught the light and shimmered like water.
He took it with both hands, holding it as if it might break, his thumbs brushing the edge once, slow, reverent, a gesture that spoke of intimacy, of shared history. Then he nodded, once, sharp and decisive, his expression shifting to something softer, more introspective.
She touched his forearm, light, brief, the way old friends do when words aren’t enough to convey the depth of feeling. Her fingers lingered half a second longer than necessary, a touch that could be innocent or something more, and he didn’t pull away, didn’t flinch or step back.
Instead, he let it happen, his body language open in a way you had never seen with you, never with anyone but her, it seemed.
You watched until she bowed easy, intimate, the bow of equals rather than subordinates — and turned to leave, her steps light on the gravel as she retreated down the path. Until he watched her go, still holding whatever she had given him, his gaze fixed on her back with an intensity that made your heart clench. Until he looked down at the silk bundle in his hands, his expression unreadable but his thumb still moving in small, absent circles over the fabric, a caress that spoke volumes.
Then he looked up. Straight at you. Across the garden, across the distance, across every careful wall you had built in the last nine months to protect yourself from the pain of wanting what you could not have. His eyes found yours like he had known you were there all along, like your presence was an afterthought or perhaps the reason for the tension that suddenly returned to his shoulders.
Green, sharp, tired eyes that had seen too much, endured too much, and now held a glint of something you couldn’t decipher, perhaps regret or resignation or nothing at all.
You didn’t move. Neither did he. For one long heartbeat, the world narrowed to that single line of sight — him standing in the courtyard with her gift in his hands, you standing among the dying flowers with blood dripping from your palm, the air between you charged with unspoken words, unsaid truths.
The cicadas seemed louder, the humidity thicker, the weight of the moment pressing down on you like the sky itself. Then you turned away, the motion deliberate, your back to him as you walked back into the house, the sliding door closing behind you with a soft click that echoed in your ears like a finality.
And in that moment, something inside your chest caved in; not dramatically, not with a crash or a cry, but quietly, irreversibly, like a house settling on rotten beams until the floor finally gives way beneath the weight it can no longer bear. The pain was a physical thing, a hollowing out of your insides, leaving you empty and echoing.
You bandaged your palm in the privacy of your room, the cloth wrapping tight around the cut, but the wound went deeper, invisible and festering. You didn’t cry then. You saved it for later, when the night would come and the darkness would hide the tears.
—
The sickness came slowly at first, creeping in like fog over a lake, subtle and insidious. A heaviness in your limbs that you blamed on the unrelenting heat of summer, the way it sapped energy from everything it touched.
A faint ache behind your eyes that you attributed to too many late nights spent reading scrolls you didn’t care about, the words blurring on the page as your mind wandered to places it shouldn’t.
A tightness in your throat that you dismissed as dust kicked up by the warm winds that swept through the estate, carrying pollen and memories alike. You told yourself it would pass, that it was nothing more than the season's toll on your body, a temporary malaise that would lift with the first cool breeze of autumn.
It didn’t.
By evening, your skin felt too tight, stretched over bones that ached with every movement. Sweat gathered at your temples even when you sat perfectly still in the shaded sunroom, the fans stirring the air but offering no relief.
The servants brought chilled barley tea, their eyes lingering on you with concern they tried to hide; you drank it mechanically, the cool liquid sliding down your throat but tasting of nothing, as if your senses had dulled along with your spirit.
You retired early that night, telling the maids you were tired, your voice steady despite the growing weakness. They exchanged glances — quick, worried — but said nothing, bowing as they left you to the quiet of your room.
You lay on your futon in the dark, the yukata clinging to your damp skin like a second layer of misery, staring at the ceiling beams until they blurred into shadows. Sleep wouldn’t come.
Instead, memories did, unbidden and unrelenting.
The way he had held that silk bundle; like it was precious, a relic of a life he had lost but never forgotten. The way her laugh had sounded like something he once owned completely, a joy that belonged to him alone. The way his shoulders had relaxed in her presence — something they never did around you, not even in the rare moments when his hand hovered near your sleeve in the hallways, a ghost of a touch that never landed.
You pressed the heel of your hand to your sternum, trying to ease the pressure there, but it only grew, a vise tightening with each breath.
The fever broke through in the small hours, crashing over you like a wave. You woke soaked in sweat, shivering despite the warmth of the room, your throat raw as though you had swallowed sand.
The room spun when you tried to sit up, the walls tilting at impossible angles, your vision swimming with spots. You managed to crawl to the water basin, the tatami rough under your palms, splashing your face with trembling hands.
The coolness only made you shake harder, your teeth chattering, your body wracked with chills that came from deep within. You crawled back to the futon, curling into yourself — knees to chest, arms wrapped tight around your legs — as if making yourself small could contain the illness, could keep it from consuming you.
And let the fever take you under, a delirium that blurred the line between reality and memory, where images of Toji and Reiko danced in your mind, their familiarity a knife twisting in your gut.
He found you at dawn, the first light creeping through the shoji screens in pale fingers. The door slid open quietly, the sound barely registering in your haze. Footsteps — bare on tatami, soft but unmistakable.
You heard the rustle of fabric as he knelt beside you, his presence a solid thing in the swirling confusion. A cool cloth pressed to your forehead — damp linen, smelling faintly of cedar from the storage where it had been kept. The touch was grounding, pulling you back from the edge of unconsciousness.
You cracked your eyes, the effort monumental. Toji.
His hair loose and tangled, as if from sleep or the lack of it, falling into his eyes in disheveled strands. His shirt untied at the collar, revealing the strong line of his throat, sleeves pushed to the elbow in haste. His expression was unreadable in the gray predawn light.
“…Toji?” Your voice cracked, small, hoarse, barely yours, scratched from the rawness in your throat.
He didn’t answer. Just dipped the cloth again in the basin he had brought, wrung it out, and wiped your neck, your wrists, the hollow of your throat. Slow. Careful. Methodical.
His hands — those same hands that had held Reiko’s gift with such reverence — were steady, the calluses rough against your fevered skin, but the touch gentle, almost tender in its care.
You tried to push yourself up, the room tilting alarmingly. His hand pressed to your shoulder — firm, not rough, holding you down with effortless strength.
“Stay down.”
You obeyed, sinking back into the futon, your body too weak to protest. The fever made everything soft at the edges — colors bled into each other, sounds echoed distantly, time stretched thin like taffy. You watched him work — silent, efficient, the way he did everything in his life. He wrung out the cloth with economical movements, folded it once with precise creases, pressed it to your temple. Repeated the process without pause, his focus absolute.
After a long while, he spoke — voice low, rough from disuse or emotion he wouldn't name.
“…You’re burning up.”
You laughed once, weak, hoarse, more breath than sound, the irony not lost on you.
“…Fitting.”
He paused, his hand stilling on your wrist, thumb pressed to your pulse point, feeling the rapid beat beneath your skin.
Looked at you — really looked, his green eyes searching your face like he was looking for something he had lost long ago, something he feared he might never find.
The words came before you could stop them — half-delirious, unguarded, pulled from the raw place the fever had exposed, the place where all your carefully constructed walls had crumbled.
“Would you ever cheat… on me?”
His hand stilled completely on your wrist — thumb pressed to your pulse point, feeling it race. He stared, the lines around his eyes tightening.
Then firmly, as if almost offended, voice cutting through the haze like steel through silk:
“No.”
The word landed absolutely. Uncompromising. No hesitation, no qualification.
You searched his face through the blur of fever, your vision wavering but your mind grasping for meaning.
“…Why not?”
“Because I said I wouldn’t.”
Simple. Final. As if honor was a chain he had forged himself, unbreakable even in the face of temptation.
“But I don’t understand…” You closed your eyes, the room tilting again, the fever pulling at you like tides. You whispered — barely audible, cracked and fragile:
“We don’t even love each other.”
The silence that followed was deafening, a void that swallowed sound and light. He exhaled — slow, ragged, almost pained, the sound of a man carrying too much for too long.
Opened his mouth to speak—
A sharp knock at the door, cutting through the moment like a blade. An attendant’s voice, low, urgent, apologetic, muffled but clear.
“Clan head. The council requests your presence. Immediately. There is word from the eastern border — a potential breach, scouts reporting movement.”
Toji’s jaw tightened so hard you heard the muscle pop, his teeth grinding in frustration or restraint.
He looked at you, long, searching, his eyes holding yours for a moment that stretched. You looked away; toward the ceiling, toward nothing, the fever and the pain too much to bear his gaze.
He stood, the movement fluid but heavy. “I’ll be back.”
You didn’t answer.
The door slid shut with a soft thud. You were alone again.
The fever pulled you under once more, a mercy in its oblivion.
When you surfaced hours later, the room was dim, the lantern lit low, casting golden shadows on the tatami. Someone had changed your yukata—fresh linen, pale green, cool against your overheated skin, the sweat-soaked one folded away.
Fresh water waited in a clay cup beside the futon, condensation beading on the sides. A damp cloth folded neatly on the edge of the basin, ready for use.
Toji was gone.
But his haori lay folded at the foot of your futon—black wool, heavy with his scent of cedar and steel. On it, a little piece of parchment, that read:
“‘It’s not like we don’t love each other.’”
Chuckling a little, you pulled it over yourself without thinking, the weight comforting, the smell enveloping you like an embrace.
Curled beneath it.
And cried.
Quietly. Thoroughly. Endlessly.
You cried until your throat ached and your eyes burned and your body shook with exhaustion, the fever amplifying every emotion until it felt like your very soul was weeping. Until sleep finally took you again, a blessed darkness.
When you woke, the fever had broken, leaving you weak but clear-headed, the sickness retreating like a tide pulling back from the shore.
You rose when the household rose. Dressed carefully; simple, elegant, impeccable. Pale silks that whispered against your skin, hair pinned neatly with ornamental kanzashi that caught the light. Perfect posture, every line of your body a statement of composure.
Ate breakfast alone in the sunroom; small bites of rice and pickled vegetables, polite sips of tea, no wasted movement, no lingering over the flavors.
Attended meetings with poise, nodded at the right moments during discussions of clan affairs, answered questions about heirs with small, polite smiles that never reached your eyes, deflecting with grace.
You no longer waited up for the sound of his footsteps in the corridor at night.
No longer lingered in hallways hoping for a glimpse of him, for that hover of his hand near your sleeve.
No longer smiled when he passed — only the small, correct bow of acknowledgment, eyes lowered in deference.
Your greetings became formal, stripped of warmth.
Good morning, clan head.
Good evening.
Thank you for the tea.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
The servants noticed immediately, their whispers shifting from pity to unease. They whispered less openly now, but you caught the glances, the furrowed brows.
Looked at you with something like pity — or fear, as if your coldness was a contagion they might catch.
You didn’t care. The wall was for you, not them.
Toji noticed too.
Of course he did.
At first, he thought it was the sickness lingering, the fever’s aftermath leaving you drained.
He brought tea himself one evening — black, with a yuzu peel floating on top, exactly how you liked it, the steam curling in delicate tendrils. Left it on the low table in your room without a word, his presence filling the space.
You thanked him — quiet, polite, the words flat.
Drank it slowly, the flavor familiar but distant.
Left the cup untouched afterward, rinsed and set aside.
He stood in the doorway longer than necessary, his frame blocking the light, his eyes on you.
You didn’t look up from your scroll, the words on the page a blur. He left, the door sliding shut with a soft sigh.
The next day he lingered in the garden when you walked past, arms crossed over his chest, expression unreadable, the sun casting shadows across his face.
You bowed — shallow, correct, the motion precise.
Kept walking, your steps even on the gravel.
He watched you go, his hands flexing at his sides, knuckles white.
The day after that he tried again.
Found you in the library — mid-afternoon, sunlight slanting through the screens in gold bars that danced on the tatami.
He stood in the doorway, filling the frame.
Asked in a low voice about the household accounts, a safe topic, neutral, something to fill the silence.
You answered, precise, polite, brief, numbers and figures recited without inflection.
Closed the ledger with a soft thud.
Stood.
Bowed.
Left, your yukata brushing past him without contact.
He stayed in the doorway long after you were gone, his gaze fixed on the spot where you had sat.
His panic grew quietly. Ugly. A slow-building storm.
He drank more sake alone in the tea room — stared at the empty cushion across from him until the brazier died to embers, the room growing cold around him.
Sharpened his blades on the eastern porch until the whetstone sang a high, keening note and his fingers bled from the pressure, red staining the handle.
Walked the estate at 3 a.m. when sleep refused him — footsteps heavy on gravel, breath fogging in the night air, the moon a silent witness to his unrest.
Every time he passed your door he paused, his hand hovering near the panel.
Listened for any sound — breathing, rustling, anything to indicate you were awake, aware. Heard nothing but silence.
And felt something inside him fracture — slow, deep, irreparable, a crack spreading through glass until the whole thing shatters.
He told himself you were recovering, that the fever had left you tired, distant.
That it would pass, like the seasons, like the sickness.
But the distance grew, a chasm widening with every polite bow, every averted gaze.
You stopped leaving the tea room door cracked on nights when thunder rolled across the sky.
Stopped accepting the haori he draped over your shoulders when you fell asleep in the library, folding it neatly and leaving it on the table instead.
Stopped looking for him in crowds at clan gatherings, your eyes fixed on the horizon.
He felt it like a blade between ribs — twisting every time you offered that small, empty smile, every time your voice lacked the warmth it once held, even in its quiet way.
He thought you had fallen out of love, the affection he had sensed in fleeting moments slipping away like sand through fingers.
Didn’t realize you were protecting what little was left of your heart, armoring yourself against further pain.
You thought he still carried Reiko in every breath, her visit a reminder of what you could never be.
Didn’t realize.
Both of you miserable.
Both of you wrong.
—
The fever had returned. It had lingered longer than anyone expected, a low-grade ember that refused to die out completely even after the acute sickness passed. It left you weak, your body heavy as if gravity had doubled overnight, your skin perpetually warm to the touch.
The servants brought trays of cooling broths and herbal teas, their footsteps soft and apologetic, but you barely ate. The food tasted of ash.
Your reflection in the small hand mirror showed hollow cheeks, shadowed eyes, lips pale despite the rouge one of the maids had tried to apply. You looked like someone who had been grieving for years instead of months.
The mid-autumn ball was approaching — three days away now — and the estate buzzed with preparations. Messengers arrived daily with invitations confirmed, seamstresses carried bolts of silk through the corridors, musicians rehearsed in the far garden pavilion until the notes drifted like falling leaves. Everyone moved with purpose. Everyone except you.
You sat on the engawa that afternoon, legs dangling over the edge, a thin shawl draped around your shoulders despite the lingering summer warmth. The garden below was still green, but the maples at the far end had begun to bleed red at the tips — early warning of the season’s turn. You watched a single leaf detach, spiral slowly downward, land on the stone path. It felt symbolic in a way you were too tired to articulate.
Footsteps approached from behind. Heavy. Familiar.
Toji stopped a respectful distance away.
“You’re still burning.”
His voice was low, rough from disuse or restraint. You didn’t turn.
“It’s nothing,” you said. The lie came automatically now.
He stepped closer. You felt the shift in the air, the faint heat of his body cutting through the breeze. He crouched beside you, close enough that his knee almost brushed yours, far enough that no part of him touched you.
“You’re not going to the ball.”
It wasn’t a question.
You finally looked at him.
His face was unreadable, but the lines around his eyes were deeper than usual, the scar at the corner of his mouth pulled tight. He had dark circles under his eyes. When was the last time he slept?
“I am going.”
He exhaled through his nose — sharp, frustrated.
“You can barely stand.”
“I’ll stand for the evening.”
“You’ll collapse.”
“Then I’ll collapse gracefully.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
“You don’t have to prove anything to them.”
The “them” hung heavy—elders, branch families, allied clans, the entire suffocating web of jujutsu society that had arranged this marriage in the first place.
“I’m not proving anything to them,” you said quietly. “I want to go.”
He studied you for a long moment. The wind lifted a strand of your hair; it brushed across your cheek. His hand twitched as if to tuck it behind your ear, then stilled.
“Why?”
You looked back at the garden.
“I really want to dance.”
The words were small. Almost childish. You hadn’t meant them to sound that way, but they did. You hadn’t danced since you were a girl, twirling in your mother’s garden under moonlight, pretending the world was kind and love was simple. You hadn’t danced since before the wedding, before the silence, before the distance became a living thing between you.
Toji didn’t laugh. Didn’t scoff. He just watched you. After a long silence he stood.
“Rest today. Tomorrow we’ll see.”
You didn’t argue. He left without another word.
The next day the fever was lower, but exhaustion clung like damp silk. You let the maids bathe you, dress you in a simple yukata for fittings. The seamstresses arrived in the afternoon — three women from the capital, their hands quick and sure, their voices soft with deference.
The ball arrived.
The grand hall had been transformed — lanterns hung in tiers, casting warm golden light across polished wood floors. Screens painted with autumn landscapes divided the space into intimate pockets. Low tables groaned under platters of seasonal delicacies — chestnuts glazed in honey, persimmons sliced thin as paper, grilled eel glistening with soy.
Musicians played in the corner — koto and shamisen weaving delicate threads of sound through the murmur of voices. Guests moved in slow, elegant currents: Gojo representatives in white and pale blue, Kamo in deep crimson, minor clans in careful jewel tones, everyone wearing their power like jewelry.
You entered on Toji’s arm.
He had offered it without a word when you met in the corridor outside the hall. You had taken it — fingers light on his sleeve, barely touching. His muscle flexed once beneath the fabric, then stilled.
The room noticed.
Heads turned. Eyes followed. Whispers rose like smoke.
You kept your chin up, smile small and practiced, eyes forward.
The night passed in fragments.
Greetings exchanged with elders who smiled too widely and asked too politely about heirs.
Compliments on your kimono from women whose eyes lingered on your waist, calculating.
A dance with a Gojo heir who held you too loosely, spoke too loudly, smelled of expensive incense and entitlement.
Toji watched from the edge of the floor — arms crossed, expression unreadable, but his gaze never left you.
You felt it like a physical touch.
After the third dance you excused yourself.
Slipped toward the side corridor that led to the private retiring rooms.
The hallway was quieter, lit by wall sconces that threw long shadows. You found an empty powder room — small, elegant, a gilded mirror dominating one wall, a low stool, a basin of scented water.
You closed the door.
Locked it.
And the mask cracked.
You stared at your reflection.
The kimono was still perfect. The kanzashi gleamed. Your hair hadn’t slipped a single pin.
But your eyes were glassy.
Your breathing was shallow.
The whispers had followed you all night — soft at first, then bolder as sake loosened tongues.
“…still no heir after nearly a year.”
“…beautiful, yes, but what use is beauty without children?”
“…perhaps she’s barren?”
“…or perhaps he doesn’t touch her.”
“…poor thing. Reduced to a womb that won’t open.”
Your worth reduced to a womb.
To a vessel.
To a function you had failed to perform.
The room tilted.
You gripped the edge of the basin.
Your reflection blurred.
Black spots danced at the edges of your vision.
You swayed.
The fever surged back in a hot rush.
Your knees buckled.
You caught yourself on the stool, but the world spun faster.
You slid to the floor — kimono pooling around you like spilled ink — back against the wall, head between your knees, trying to breathe through the nausea, the dizziness, the crushing weight of being seen only as a failure.
The door rattled. Locked. Then, a forceful knock.
“My lady?”
A servant. You couldn’t answer. The knock came again — harder. Then the door burst open — wood splintering slightly at the lock.
Toji.
He filled the doorway, breathing hard, eyes wild for half a second before they locked on you.
He crossed the room in two strides. Crouched. Hands on your shoulders, careful, but urgent.
“Hey.”
You lifted your head slowly. His face swam into focus. Green eyes wide with something close to fear.
“You’re burning again.”
You laughed weakly.
“…Always.”
He slid one arm behind your back, the other under your knees. Lifted you effortlessly.
You were too weak to protest. He carried you through the side corridors — away from the hall, away from the music, away from the eyes.
Servants scattered when they saw him. He didn’t stop until you reached the private wing — your wing. He kicked the door to your room open.
Laid you gently on the futon. Pulled the heavy covers over you. Fetched water. Pressed a cool cloth to your forehead.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, watching him exhausted. “…I ruined your night.”
He froze. Looked at you. Then — quiet, almost disbelieving:
“You think that was my night?”
You blinked. He sat on the edge of the futon. His hand, rough and scarred, covered yours.
“I dragged you there. You were sick. You shouldn’t have gone.”
You shook your head weakly.
“I wanted to go. I wanted… to dance.”
His thumb brushed the back of your hand slowly.
“I know.”
Silence. Then softly:
“I’m sorry.”
You stared.
He looked down at your joined hands.
“For ruining your night. For… everything before that.”
You swallowed.
Tears welled.
“…You didn’t ruin anything.”
He met your eyes. “I did.”
A beat.
Then, you said — barely audible:
“What did you mean? That letter on your haori, when you were… away.”
He frowned.
You quoted him, voice trembling:
“‘It’s not like we don’t love each other.’”
His breath caught.
He looked away.
“I thought you were talking about me,” you said quietly. “About how I… felt. Feel.”
He exhaled through his nose, a sound that could have been a laugh or a sigh or both.
“I wasn’t.”
You closed your eyes for a second. The lantern light danced behind your lids, orange and unsteady.
“Then who were you talking about?”
A long pause. Long enough that you began to think he wouldn’t answer.
When he did, his voice was quieter than you had ever heard it.
“Me.”
One word.
It landed like a stone in deep water. Ripples spreading outward, touching every memory you had collected of him — the hover of his hand in hallways, the tea left steaming on the sunroom table, the haori draped over your shoulders while you slept in the library.
“But… but Rei…”
He wasn’t looking at you. He was staring at his own hands — scarred knuckles, calluses thick from years of violence turned to habit. His thumbs moved in slow circles over each other, an unconscious rhythm.
“Reiko came here to show me her wedding invitation,” he said. “She’s marrying someone from a minor branch house up north. Quiet guy. Good with plants. She smiled the whole time she talked about him. Like she used to smile at me, but… different. Lighter.”
You felt something loosen in your chest — small, fragile, dangerous.
“She’s happy,” he went on. “Really happy. And I—” He stopped. Cleared his throat. “I told her I was glad. Meant it. She hugged me goodbye. Gave me the invitation to keep, said it felt right that I should have it. Then she left.”
He finally looked at you.
His eyes were dark, tired, unguarded in a way that made your heart stutter.
“She’s not my heart anymore,” he said. “Hasn’t been for a long time.”
The rain tapped harder against the roof, a sudden gust rattling the screens.
You felt the words settle inside you, one by one.
Not his heart.
Not anymore.
You tried to speak. Nothing came out at first.
Then, small:
“When did it stop being… her?”
“Hard to say exactly,” he answered after a moment. “Maybe the first time I caught myself watching you prune those damn camellias instead of thinking about what could have been. Maybe the night you cried in the guest room and I stood outside the door like an idiot because I didn’t know how to walk in. Maybe when I realized I kept leaving tea the way you like it even though you never asked me to. I don’t know. It wasn’t one moment. It was… all of them.”
You stared at him.
He looked almost afraid — like saying it out loud might make it disappear.
“I love you,” he said.
Quiet. Almost a whisper.
The words were plain. No poetry. No grand declaration. Just three syllables laid bare between you.
“I love you,” he repeated, softer this time, as if testing whether the world would end if he said it twice. “Not because I’m supposed to. Not because the elders want an heir. Not because you’re beautiful or powerful or any of the things they keep saying. I love you because you stayed. Even when I made it impossible. Even when I gave you every reason to leave. You stayed. And somewhere along the way I started wanting you to stay — not out of duty, but because the house feels wrong when you’re not in it.”
Your breath caught.
Tears welled without warning — hot, sudden, spilling over before you could stop them.
He reached out hesitantly, brushed one away with the pad of his thumb. The touch was careful, like he thought you might break.
“I didn’t expect this,” he admitted. “Didn’t expect to feel anything at all. Thought I’d just… endure. Like always. But you—” He shook his head once. “You made enduring impossible. Because every time I looked at you I saw something I wanted. And I was terrified of wanting anything again.”
You stared at him through the blur.
“I love you too.”
The confession came out small, shaky, but real.
His eyes widened. Shock, raw and unguarded, flashed across his face.
“You—”
“I’ve loved you since before the wedding,” you said, voice trembling but steady underneath. “Since I used to stand outside the Zenin walls as a girl and watch you train until your knuckles bled. Since I memorized the way you tilted your head when you were thinking. Since I begged drivers to take the long route past this estate just so I could catch a glimpse of you. I loved you when you wouldn’t look at me during the ceremony. I loved you when you left tea I never asked for. I loved you when you replanted those ugly flowers and pretended it wasn’t for me. I loved you every time your hand hovered and never touched. I loved you through every silence, every separate room, every night I cried myself to sleep because I thought you’d never see me.”
Tears streamed down your cheeks now — silent, unstoppable.
“I thought I was alone in it,” you whispered. “I thought you still carried her. I thought I was just… obligation. A duty you tolerated. So I stopped trying. I stopped smiling. I stopped waiting. Because it hurt too much to hope.”
He stared at you — stunned, almost disbelieving.
“You loved me,” he repeated, like he needed to hear it again to believe it.
You nodded. “Still do.”
A sound escaped him — half laugh, half sob, rough and broken. He leaned forward — slow — forehead pressing to yours.
You felt his breath against your lips — warm, unsteady. Neither of you moved for a long time.
Just breathing.
Just being close.
The rain kept falling.
The lantern flickered.
Then quietly, almost afraid — he said:
“I don’t know how to do this.”
You smiled through tears.
“Me neither.”
He exhaled shakily.
“But I want to try.”
You lifted your hand slowly, and cupped his cheek. The scar at the corner of his mouth was rough under your thumb.
“I want to try too.”
He turned his face into your palm. Closed his eyes.
And for the first time in nearly a year, the silence between you wasn’t heavy.
It was soft.
Devastating.
Real.
And just like that;
He kissed you.
It was warm.
Soft.
Exactly like your mother had described to you.
Loving.
Caring.
And so, so happy.
He didn’t let go for a long while. His fingers came up behind your back, as if to pull you in deeper.
You shifted slightly — enough that the loosened obi rustled against the sheets. The sound seemed loud in the stillness.
He looked down at you.
The moonlight caught the green of his eyes and turned it almost luminous, soft in a way you had never seen before. No armor. No distance. Just him — tired, unguarded, looking at you like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing.
You swallowed.
“I really did want to dance tonight,” you whispered. The admission felt small, almost silly after everything else that had been said, but it was true. “I’ve never danced with you. Not once.”
His mouth curved — just the smallest lift at one corner, the scar pulling with it.
“I know.”
He studied your face for another long moment, then slowly slid off the edge of the futon and knelt on the tatami in front of you. One knee down, then the other. The movement was deliberate, almost ceremonial. He stayed there, balanced on his knees, hands resting lightly on his thighs, looking up at you with an expression so open it stole your breath.
“Will you dance with me?” he asked.
The question was quiet. Almost shy.
You felt fresh tears prick your eyes — not from pain this time, but from something softer, something that ached in a good way.
You nodded.
He rose just enough to offer both hands.
You took them.
His palms were warm, rough, steady. He helped you sit up — slow, careful of the lingering weakness in your limbs — then helped you stand. The kimono dragged across the tatami with a soft hiss; you swayed once, and his arm slid around your waist instantly, steadying you without hesitation.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured.
You believed him.
He pulled you close — close enough that your forehead rested against his collarbone, close enough that you could hear the steady thud of his heart beneath the montsuki. One of his hands settled low on your back; the other lifted your free hand to his shoulder. You curled your fingers into the fabric there, feeling the heat of him through the layers.
There was no music.
Only rain.
Only breathing.
He began to sway — slow, simple, barely more than a shift of weight from one foot to the other. You followed, letting him lead, letting your body remember how to move with someone else’s rhythm.
Then he started to hum.
Low. Rough at the edges. Barely audible at first.
The tune was small, fragile, almost forgotten.
You froze.
You knew it.
You had hummed it once — years ago, when you were barely sixteen, standing outside the Zenin compound wall hidden behind wisteria vines. He had been training alone in the yard, shirtless, sweat gleaming on his skin, fists bloody from hitting a wooden post until it splintered.
His father had left bruises across his ribs earlier that day; you had seen them bloom purple under the afternoon sun. He hadn’t cried. Hadn’t made a sound. Just kept hitting.
You had watched until you couldn’t stand it anymore.
Then — soft, barely louder than a breath — you had started humming that same tune. A lullaby your mother used to sing when you were small and afraid of thunderstorms. Simple. Repetitive. Gentle.
He had stopped punching.
Turned.
Looked toward the wall.
You had ducked lower, heart hammering, certain he had seen you.
He hadn’t.
But he had tilted his head, listening.
And for a moment—just a moment—the tension in his shoulders had eased.
You never told him it was you.
You never told anyone.
Now — here, in the dark of your shared room — he was humming it back to you.
The same notes.
The same rhythm.
Memory and present colliding so hard you felt it in your chest like a physical impact.
Tears slipped free again — silent, unstoppable.
He felt them soak into his montsuki.
His humming faltered for half a second.
You pressed your face harder into his chest.
“You kept it. The song.”
“Kept a lot of things I never admitted to keeping.”
You lifted your head. Looked up at him.
His eyes were wet too — shining in the moonlight, unashamed.
He leaned down.
Forehead to yours again.
Still swaying. Still humming — fainter now, almost a whisper.
The dance slowed until it was barely movement — just holding each other, breathing together, letting the tune fade into the rain.
When it ended completely he didn’t let go.
Just stood there with you in his arms, rocking almost imperceptibly, like the world outside had finally stopped spinning long enough for the two of you to catch up.
After a long time you spoke — voice low, careful.
“They said things tonight. At the ball. About heirs.”
He tensed slightly. His hand smoothed down your back; slow, soothing.
“I heard them,” he said, closing his eyes. “I hated it. Hated every second. Wanted to break jaws. But mostly I hated that you had to hear it.”
You swallowed.
“It’s what they’ve always said,” you whispered. “Since the wedding. Since before. It’s my job.”
His arms tightened.
“Not to me.”
You opened your eyes. Looked up.
He held your gaze; steady, fierce, tender all at once.
“I don’t want an heir,” he said quietly. “I don’t want a legacy. I don’t want a child because the elders demand one, or because the clan needs another sorcerer with your blood and my name.”
You tilted your head in surprise. He continued:
“I want a baby.”
The word landed soft. Different.
“Our baby,” he said. “Not for status. Not for power. Just… ours. A kid who might have your eyes. Or your laugh. Or your beauty. A kid we choose to make because we want to. Because we love each other. Because we want to build something together that isn’t about duty or bloodlines or any of the shit they keep trying to talk to us about.”
Tears welled again.
You didn’t try to stop them.
“You’d want that?” you asked, voice trembling. “With me?”
He cupped your face with both hands — gentle, reverent.
“I want everything with you,” he said. “The quiet mornings. The fights. The nights you can’t sleep and I stay up with you. The way you hum when you’re thinking. The way you look when you’re angry. The way you look when you’re happy. I want kids if you want kids. I want no kids if you want no kids. I just want you. Whatever that looks like. Whatever you choose.”
You stared at him, stunned, aching, overflowing.
“I want that too,” you whispered. “A baby. Our baby. Not an heir. Just… ours.”
He exhaled; shaky, relieved.
Leaned down.
Pressed his lips to your forehead, lingering, warm.
Then, soft against your skin:
“Whenever you’re ready.”
You nodded against his chest.
“Whenever we’re ready.”
He kissed your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your eye where tears still clung.
Then, slowly and carefully, he tilted your chin up.
Your eyes met.
No more words.
Just the question in his gaze, silent, patient.
You answered by rising on your toes.
Your lips brushed his — tentative at first, trembling with everything that had been held back for nearly a year.
He made a low sound in his throat, half groan, half sigh, and kissed you back.
Slow.
Deep.
Real.
His hands slid into your hair — careful of the kanzashi — fingers threading through strands, cradling the back of your head like you were something precious. You opened for him; he took the invitation with a hunger that had been banked for too long, tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that matched the slow sway of your earlier dance.
The kiss turned hungry.
Desperate.
Years of want poured into it, every avoided glance, every separate futon, every night you cried alone, every time his hand hovered and never touched.
You tugged at his montsuki, fingers clumsy with emotion and lingering weakness.
He helped, shrugging out of the haori first, then the outer layer, letting them fall to the tatami in a dark heap.
Your hands found skin, warm, scarred, alive. He shuddered under your touch.
You kissed down his jaw, his throat, tasting salt and cedar and him.
He groaned, low, wrecked.
His hands moved to your obi, slow, reverent, untying the knot he had tied earlier with such careful precision. Layer after layer fell away until you stood in only the thin juban, trembling in the cool air.
He looked at you, really looked — eyes dark, pupils blown.
“Beautiful,” he breathed. “So fucking beautiful.”
You felt it — believed it too— for the first time. He lifted you effortlessly, and laid you back on the futon.
Covered your body with his — careful weight, warm skin, heartbeat thundering against yours.
He kissed you again, deeper this time, while his hands mapped every inch of you he had never allowed himself to touch before. Collarbone. Breasts. Ribs. Waist. Hips. Inner thighs.
Everywhere his fingers went, fire followed.
You arched into him, gasping, needy.
“Please,” you whispered against his mouth.
He kissed down your throat, open-mouthed, reverent, then lower. Lips on your breast, tongue circling a nipple until it peaked, hard and sensitive.
You moaned, loud, unashamed. He smiled against your skin. Moved lower.
Kissed your stomach, soft, lingering, where one day, maybe, his child would grow.
Then lower still.
He parted your thighs with gentle hands.
Looked up at you, asking.
You nodded desperately. He lowered his head. Tongue, slow, deliberate, tracing you, tasting you, learning you.
You cried out, back arching, fingers tangling in his hair.
He groaned against you, vibration sending sparks up your spine.
He didn’t rush.
Took his time, lapping, sucking, circling, until you were shaking, thighs trembling around his head, pleas falling from your lips in broken syllables.
When you came it was sudden, white-hot, shattering, your cry echoing off the rafters.
He didn’t stop until you were limp, panting, tears of pleasure slipping down your temples.
Then he crawled back up your body, kissing every inch he passed, until he was braced above you again.
Forehead to yours.
“Are you sure?” he asked, voice wrecked, trembling with restraint.
You cupped his face.
“Yes.”
He reached between you, guided himself slowly. He pushed in — inch by inch — watching your face the whole time.
You gasped — fullness, stretch, heat. He paused, buried deep, giving you time to adjust.
“Still with me?” he whispered.
You nodded, tears slipping free again.
“Always.”
He started to move — slow rolls of his hips, deep, measured. Every thrust dragged against every sensitive place inside you. You wrapped your legs around him—pulling him closer, deeper. He groaned—head dropping to your shoulder—teeth grazing skin.
“Feel so good,” he rasped. “So perfect. Mine.”
Yours.
Yours.
Yours.
The word echoed in every thrust, every gasp, every shared breath. You felt it build again, slower this time, deeper.
He felt it too, pace quickening, hips snapping harder.
“Come with me,” he begged against your ear. “Please, come with me.”
You shattered first, clenching around him, crying his name.
He followed, hard, deep, spilling inside you with a broken moan — body shaking, arms trembling as he held himself above you.
He collapsed, careful not to crush you, forehead pressed to yours again.
Both of you panting.
Sweat-slick.
Alive.
He kissed you, soft, lazy, lingering.
“I love you,” he whispered against your lips.
You smiled, tears still falling.
“I love you too.”
He stayed inside you, softening slowly, holding you close.
Neither of you moved for a long time.
Just breathing.
Just being.
The rain had stopped. Moonlight spilled brighter through the screens now.
a/n: i stole this req from @munipe so credit to that anon <3
ask: imagine THISS - saiki with a sleeptalker s/o. has genuinely full blown CONVERSATIONS that make 0 sense. like its just "..are you awake, or asleep?" "i love spicy salami too honey" "???"
── ☆ ──
Saiki Kusuo had done many ridiculous things in his life, but turning himself into a hardcover copy of Advanced Quantum Physics just to sneak past a girlfriend’s overprotective parents had to rank in the top five.
He’d calculated everything: the parents’ patrol schedule, the creaking floorboards, the dog that barked at literally nothing. The book disguise worked perfectly — he’d spent two hours on a shelf in the hallway, gathering dust, until the house finally went quiet. Then he reverted to human form, slipped into your room, and closed the door with the softest click possible.
You were already asleep, curled on your side, breathing slow and even. Saiki exhaled (quietly) in relief. Mission success. He could finally relax without worrying about your father bursting in with a baseball bat and holy water.
He sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to shift the mattress too much. Telepathy confirmed you were deep in REM sleep. Good. He could finally cuddle with you like you pleaded (begged) him to. He’d just wait until morning, then teleport out before anyone woke up.
As he leaned down to lay, you spoke.
“I… I wuv spicy sawami…”
Kusuo froze. Your eyes were still closed. Lips barely moving. Were you sleep-talking? He blinked. “…Spicy what?”
No response. Just soft breathing again. He leaned a fraction closer, curiosity overriding his usual policy of minding his own business. “Are you awake, or asleep?”
A pause. Then, dreamily: “The noodles are plotting… with the penguins.”
Saiki stared. He tried telepathy, just in case this was some elaborate prank.
Nothing coherent. Just swirling dream fragments: a bowl of ramen wearing a tuxedo (?), waddling across an iceberg while holding a tiny briefcase. The ramen bowed politely to a penguin in sunglasses. They exchanged suspicious glances.
Saiki pulled back, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
Another mumble from you: “No, Mr. Takoyaki, I won’t betray the council… the sauce is sacred…”
He couldn’t help it. The corner of his mouth twitched. You rolled onto your back, arms flopping dramatically. “Kusu! You can’t eat the moon. Even if it’s.. yummy.. cheese… mm...”
He pressed his lips together. This was worse than Teruhashi’s inner monologues. Telepathy again: now the dream had shifted to him (pink hair and all) trying to take a bite out of a giant glowing moon while you defended it with a ladle. The moon was crying.
He gave up on telepathy. Clearly it was useless here. Kusuo stared at the ceiling for a long moment. Then, very quietly: “Good grief.”
He lay down beside you — fully clothed, on top of the covers, hands clasped over his stomach like a corpse, resigned to his fate.
Five minutes later: “Saiki… the coffee jelly is evolving… it’s learning to speak French… oui oui oui… wiwiwwiwiwwii—”
