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[creamflixx]

SMILE LIKE YOU MEAN IT ! ꒰ঌ ໒꒱

brief geto suguru is charming, persistent, and painfully photogenic — and unfortunately, he's made you his favorite photographer. you’re just trying to survive the photography club’s exhibition without losing your mind (or your camera). but with geto around, even that feels like wishful thinking. who knew taking pictures could be this emotionally taxing? w.c 4.9k

contains geto suguru x male reader, college au, junior (first-year) geto x senior (second-year) reader dynamics, use of y/n and senpai (by geto) to refer to reader, ooc loser-ish geto, nonchalant reader, somewhat emotional repression / avoidance from reader, charismatic love interest vs emotionally constipated reader, very fluffy

a/n i did not expect these colors to be so bad lmao...

“Oh, it’s you.”

The words nearly slipped out, already exasperated before they even had the dignity of breath. 

Because of course it had to be Geto Suguru. No one else would photobomb someone in the middle of a near-perfect frame — composition balanced, light finally behaving, no undergrads loitering with neon frappes  —and then smile like he was doing you a favour.

“Lucky you found me, huh?” he beamed, stepping around to get into your line of sight again. “Your photos are gonna look amazing now. My face works wonders for dull backdrops.”

You lower the camera with slow precision, like you’re afraid a sharp movement might trigger a second, uninvited photoshoot. “You’re standing in front of a rusted vending machine.”

“Adds character,” he chirped, as if he were offering a philosophical insight instead of a shameless self-promotion. And really, it wasn’t even the arrogance — you could tune that out. 

It was the familiarity — the way Geto Suguru, a junior with exactly one semester’s experience in the club and an eyebrow ring that screamed “I read one book on film noir and made it my whole personality,” had decided that you were his favorite person to harass.

He never asked, just showed up. Perched next to you during meetings, strolled up during practice sessions, always throwing out that breezy, “Hey, Senpai,” like you weren’t actively trying to dissolve into your camera strap.

“Soo,” he said, leaning just a little too close, eyes flicking toward your LCD screen, “What theme are we going for? Brooding loner? Tortured artist? Or maybe ‘Stop trying, you’ll never be me’?”

You shut the screen off. “I’m going for ‘Please leave me alone so I can take pictures of actual subjects.’”

“Rude,” he gasped, mock-offended. “And here I was, offering myself to art. Gratis.”

You adjusted your lens pointedly. Away from him. 

“This isn’t a modelling gig.”

“It could be.”

“No.”

He blinked at you before smiling wider. Like a dog that mistook your refusal for a challenge instead of a firm boundary. 

“Oh, c’mon. Just one or two. Don’t you want to win?”

“Not enough to photograph you.”

“But I am photogenic! Look at this symmetry.” he gestured vaguely at his face. “Don’t you want your viewers to feel emotionally stirred?”

“The only emotion you stir is annoyance.”

Geto wasn’t deterred. If anything, he seemed entertained, jogging lightly to stay in your line of sight as you scouted for new angles around the quad. You ignored him, training your camera on a cracked tile, a slanted bench, the fading paint of a caution sign.

“Okay, hear me out—”

“No.”

“What if I’m just in the background?”

“Still no.”

“What if I’m disguised as a tree?”

“…what?”

He paused. “Okay, yeah, that one was a stretch.”

You pressed the shutter, capturing the bench. The lighting was soft, golden, and — thank god — devoid of smug juniors. Geto leaned in again, peering at the screen. “See? Would’ve been better with me in it.”

You snapped the screen closed like a guillotine. “Don’t you have first-years to haze or a mirror to flirt with?”

“Neither of them are as fun as you.”

“I am not fun.”

“Exactly.” he grinned. “You’re a challenge.”

You paused just long enough to level a flat look at him.

“…are you trying to make me hate photography?”

“No, Senpai. I’m trying to make you feel something.”

You walked off before he could say anything else, camera lifted, eyes scanning for subjects less irritating and more inanimate. The worst part? You knew he was still following. And even worse than that — you expected him to.

Geto ended up perched on the bench like he belonged there. Like the seat had been pre-warmed by fate itself and the golden hour was contractually obligated to highlight the curve of his cheekbone. You, meanwhile, were crouched at an awkward angle three paces away, taking photos of a patch of grass that had seen better centuries.

“Okay, give me cues,” he said, all charm and confidence, like you were his personal director. “I wanna know when to shoot. Y’know — for synchronicity.”

You didn’t even look at him. “I’m not taking pictures with you.”

“No no, of me,” he clarified, like that made it better. “You’re doing this exhibition thing, right? Of course you need at least a few shots of me. I’m the obvious centerpiece.”

You finally glanced up, squinting as if checking to make sure the delusion hadn’t spread across his face like a rash. “What do you mean of course?”

He shrugged. “I mean look at me.” he gestured broadly at himself. “I’m free. I’m willing. And the camera loves me.”

You pivoted slightly — camera raised, ISO adjusted, frame set — and snapped a photo.

Of the grass.

Geto blinked. “Where are you aiming?”

“Down.”

“I’m right here.”

“And yet I remain uninterested.”

He stood, hands on his hips like he was modelling athletic wear for an overpriced catalog. “You’re wasting prime subject matter.”

“You’re standing in front of crabgrass.”

“Which I am elevating with my presence.”

You could feel your soul inching out of your body. And yet, you sighed, adjusting your grip on the camera as you eyed the railing nearby — the light was diffused just right, shadows clean. “…fine.”

Geto immediately brightened, brushing his hair back like he was about to be summoned to a red carpet.

“Lean on that railing,” you instructed. “Arms up. Eyes slightly to the left.”

He moved into position without complaint, head tilting, expression softening in real time. “Like this?”

“Good. A bit more — yeah.”

He exhaled through his nose, eyes scanning the sky like he was reminiscing about a past lover or a limited-edition espresso.

You pressed the shutter.

Except you didn’t.

You turned around and started walking.

Geto didn’t notice at first — too absorbed in the self-mythology of his own pose. “You getting this, Senpai? This lighting’s working overtime, huh?”

Silence.

He shifted. 

“...senpai?”

You were already twenty steps away, camera slung over your shoulder, keys out, heading straight for your bike like you had a train to catch and he was just someone else's problem now.

“Wait — are you leaving?”

You didn’t even answer, just waved over your shoulder. A gesture so nonchalant it could’ve been mistaken for swatting a fly.

“You didn’t even take the shot!”

He finally broke posture, jogging after a few paces before stopping himself — conflicted between preserving his ego and chasing after someone immune to it. For once, Geto Suguru looked... a little lost. He watched you hop on your bike, no dramatic parting words, no glance back, just the soft whirr of pedals and a shrinking figure under the fading light.

A few seconds passed.

He exhaled, muttering under his breath, “Damn. He’s the real heartbreaker.”

˙✧˖°📸⋆｡˚

You hadn’t made it very far — maybe two turns, tops. The wind had just begun tugging your sleeves when you heard it—

footsteps. 

Frantic, uneven, laboured — like someone sprinting through molasses. You screeched to a halt, half from instinct, half because curiosity got the better of you. And there he was.

Geto Suguru.

Hair undone, loose strands clinging to the sweat at his temple. Cheeks flushed, chest heaving like he’d just escaped a pack of rabid dogs — or, more accurately, his own pride. His cardigan was slipping off one shoulder, one shoelace untied, and his soul? Yeah, floating approximately five inches out of his body. He leaned over, hands on his knees, trying to steady his breath as he gasped out:

“You — you left.”

You blinked. “Yes?”

“On your bike.”

“That is how bikes work, generally.”

He wheezed a breathless laugh. “God, you’re such a—”

“Yes?” you prompted again, this time a little amused.

He straightened up finally, barely, brushing hair from his eyes with all the grace of someone seconds away from collapsing into gravel. Then, still panting, he asked with genuine wounded disbelief:

“Why won’t you take my picture?”

You opened your mouth. “I’m—”

“Pretty good looking,” he offered.

You stared.

“I mean, objectively,” he said, still recovering but now back to that maddening, blinding confidence. “You don’t have to be shy about it.”

“I’m not shy,” you retorted a little too fast.

Geto grinned. “Oh, you are. You’re embarrassed.”

Your face stayed blank, practiced, neutral. Your ears, unfortunately, did not.

“Look, think about it,” he pressed on, stepping closer like he wasn’t just on death’s door sixty seconds ago. “The exhibition photos are decided by votes, right? That means the picture that gets the most attention wins.”

You already didn’t like where this was going.

“And let’s say,” he said, stretching the words, leaning in just enough to be insufferable, “Hypothetically, you submit a stunning photo of me. Just an incredible, jaw-dropping portrait — because obviously you’re a great photographer and I’m… well.” he gestured to himself again smugly, like a magician revealing his final trick. “That photo? Wins.”

“No,” you muttered.

“Yes,” he countered, with the enthusiasm of someone who’d already made fan edits in his head. “And then boom — my face. Hanging at the entrance of the club for a whole month.”

“Ugh.”

“I know, right? It’s amazing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So that’s what this is about. You want your face on the wall.”

“It’s not just about that.”

“...but it’s partially about that.”

“A strong part.”

You turned your handlebars around, deciding you were absolutely done with this conversation. “Not like ’m winning anyway,” you muttered. “Not in a thousand years.”

“You could.”

You paused again.

“If you took my photo,” he added quickly, before you could get your hopes up. You groaned so hard your bones felt it. And yet — you didn’t ride off. Not yet.

Geto smiled, winded and boyish now, suddenly less suave and more sincere, like the chase had stripped off a few layers of whatever armor he usually wore. “Just one shot,” he said, softer this time. “You don’t even have to use it.”

“If you want to be in the entrance decorations so badly,” you scoffed, already clutching the handles of your bike like a lifeline, “why don’t you just take a picture of yourself?”

Geto Suguru looked at you like you had just committed a grave artistic sin.

“Because,” he said, with the patience of a man explaining electricity to a stone, “I like your photography. And you like me.” He paused. “Visually, at least.”

You squinted at him. “Not even visually.”

“Oh, that’s a lie.” He smiled, all effortless charm, walking backwards as he spoke like he knew you wouldn’t leave. “You think I don’t notice how you hold your breath when I get close? You frame me with your eyes before your lens even comes up.”

“I frame you with regret.”

“Still counts,” he chirped.

Before you could dignify that with a response — any kind of biting remark to save your brain from the melting heat of his confidence — Geto’s head snapped to the side.

“Wait. Ducks.”

And just like that, he was gone.

He darted off toward the pond, camera in hand, crouching low with sudden precision. The usual cocky grin slipped away as he moved — shoulders relaxed, grip steady, eyes narrowed with focus. He adjusted his lens like it was second nature, gently stepping closer to the feathery huddle of mallards by the reeds.

You watched, a little stunned.

He was quiet now. The wind tousled strands of his loose hair across his face, but he didn’t push them away, too immersed in the act of composition — waiting patiently for the ducklings to align just right beside their mother, the light catching their soft yellow fuzz in just the right angle. You hated to admit it, but—

He was kind of... decent when he wasn’t speaking.

Or moving.

Or trying to be a model.

And then—

“Senpai!”

You flinched. So did the ducks. The mother duck squawked and waddled off, her babies following in panic, wings flapping like outraged throw pillows.

“Take a photo of me taking a photo of the ducks!” Geto shouted, grinning at you from over his shoulder, crouched like he was on a wildlife magazine cover. “You know — capture the artist in his natural habitat!”

“You scared them off.”

“Nah, they’re fine,” he said, standing up and brushing dirt off his knees. “She’s just playing hard to get.”

“Sounds familiar.”

He turned to you, camera swinging around his neck, smile back in full force. “You did get the shot of me, right?”

You didn’t even lift your camera.

“So that’s a no?” he asked.

“That’s a never.”

Geto sighed, deeply, dramatically, hands on hips like he was the one being wronged here. “You’re wasting so many golden opportunities, Senpai.”

You said nothing. Just watched him wipe duck dirt off his pants with the grace of a guy who probably thought it added texture to the shot.

Troublesome. That was the word for him.

And yet, you didn’t get on your bike again. Not yet.

˙✧˖°📸⋆｡˚

You weren’t sure how much time had passed. Fifteen minutes? Thirty? The sun had shifted enough to cast long shadows across the pavement, and your memory card was full of textures and empty benches and exactly one blurry duck in the distance.

Geto, meanwhile, had gone full National Geographic. Crouching. Sprawling. At one point, he lay flat on his stomach like a sniper just to get a low-angle shot of a plastic bottle in the pond. You refused to comment. Mostly because you were scared he’d monologue again.

Finally, finally, he checked the time and sighed. “Guess I should head out,” he said, all reluctant, like this was the end of a tragic romantic novel.

You were internally cheering.

“No proper photo of me, though,” he added, mournfully. “What a loss. For art.”

“Tragedy,” you muttered, deadpan. “Someone alert the media.”

He ignored your tone — of course he did — and instead started rummaging through his canvas tote like a man on a mission.

You should’ve known. You should’ve left. Because then he pulled it out.

A photo of himself.

“Here,” he said, holding it out to you with both hands like it was a sacred gift. “So you don’t feel lonely.”

You blinked at him, then at the photo.

Glossy. High-quality. Portrait orientation. He was smiling in it. Shirt crisp, hair tied.

“What is that?”

“A gift.”

“Why do you even have this?”

He gasped. “Don’t be rude. I bring it in case of emergencies.”

“Emergencies like?”

“When people deny themselves joy.”

You stared at him, then at the photo again. “Put that back. And go home.”

“Aw, but if I don’t give you this,” he said, sliding closer, “you’ll just end up taking another picture of the weeds like last time.”

You froze.

“Wait,” you said slowly, narrowing your eyes. “How do you—”

But you didn’t get to finish. Because Geto, the absolute menace, was halfway to stuffing the photo into your backpack.

“Get off!” you barked, turning your bike sharply to block him. “Don’t touch my bag!”

He dodged left. You swerved right. A dangerous game of cat and very, very annoying cat.

“Hold still,” he laughed. “It’s gonna crease if I shove it in like this—”

“Then don’t shove it in like this!”

Somewhere in the chaos, the photo fluttered out of his hand and onto the pavement like a defeated flag. Neither of you picked it up.

And the question — how the hell did he know about last year’s weed photo when he wasn’t even a student then — vanished right out of your brain, lost in the battle of limbs and bags and misplaced boundaries.

Geto finally, finally, took his leave. After the picture fiasco, after the duck photo shoot, after the most one-sided battle over personal boundaries your bag had ever witnessed — he slung his tote over one shoulder and exhaled like a man wrapping up a day on a yacht.

“Well,” he said, beaming, like you’d just spent the afternoon strolling through the streets of Paris instead of arguing next to duck droppings. “That was fun.”

You said nothing. Mostly because you were busy wrestling with your helmet strap and your will to live.

“You should feel honoured, by the way,” he added as he started walking backwards away from you, still facing you, like the closing scene of a cheesy teen drama. “Not everyone gets to say they went on a date with me.”

You paused with your helmet halfway on.

“…What?”

He grinned. Just for a split second, teeth bright, eyes smug. But it didn’t last. Because even from this distance, you could see the slight twitch in his smile — the almost imperceptible shift from confidence to panic. Like he was waiting, hoping, that you’d say something.

Something like “A date?” or “Since when?” Or, hell, maybe even “So what if it was?”

But all you did was squint at him, dead-eyed, and bark, “Go home, Geto.”

He jolted like you’d slapped him with the truth.

“Seriously!” you added, reaching for your helmet with one hand and very nearly lobbing it in his general direction. “Leave!”

He flinched back, threw up both hands in surrender, and spun around with the hasty backpedal of a man who had just accidentally confessed something in a place where ducks could witness it. “Alright, alright — no need to get violent!” he called out, voice cracking ever so slightly as he retreated, his pace twice as fast now.

You watched him go, still irritated, still windblown, still very much not connecting the dots that Geto hoped you would. Because to you, this whole thing had been exhausting. But to Geto — this was a moment. 

Well, a failed one.

(Served him right.)

˙✧˖°📸⋆｡˚

It was exactly a year ago during the open house exhibition when Geto Suguru had wandered into the photography club’s little makeshift gallery, mostly out of boredom and partially because the hallway smelled like paint.

He hadn’t expected to stop. Not until something caught his eye — a photo mounted a bit off-center, printed in soft matte.

A cluster of flowers and grass.

Well — no. Not flowers, exactly.

The longer he stared, the more he realised it wasn’t anything exotic or vibrant. It was just… weeds. Sprouting wildly in the corner of a brick pavement, growing out of the cracks like they’d earned it. Yet something about the photo made him pause. The way it was framed. How the light bled through the edges. There was no drama in it. Just stillness. Soft focus, but not lazy. Intentional.

He was still staring when someone approached from behind and said, politely, “You can vote for the entries you like. We have a ballot system.”

He turned.

You stood there, straight-backed, too formally dressed for a college event, sleeves ironed and collar stiff, holding a box like you were guarding state secrets. Your expression was unreadable. Your voice had that clipped tone of someone who was trying very hard to be courteous and not panic.

Geto blinked at you.

“…You’re the one who took that?” he asked, pointing at the photo.

You nodded. “That’s mine.”

“Seriously?”

He leaned in closer to double-check the tiny name tag, then back at you.

“It’s… it’s a photo of weeds.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Yes. That’s why no one’s voted for it.”

He looked at you. Looked at the photo again. Then looked back.

“…Are you kidding? It’s beautiful.”

You raised a brow. “They’re just weeds.”

“No, they’re—” he stumbled, scratching the back of his neck, “they’re artistic weeds. Like… like underdog weeds. Metaphorical.”

You stared at him.

He laughed, nervous. “Okay, that sounded dumb. But seriously, you made them look… important. Like they belong there. I dunno, I like it.”

You didn’t say anything. Not right away.

Geto could practically feel the heat rising to his ears, but he barrelled on before he could stop himself. “I’d vote for it. Like, a thousand times. If that’s allowed. Not that I’d, uh, rig the votes. Probably.”

You blinked. Then handed him a single ballot.

“One will do,” you said.

He laughed again, softer this time, scribbling your entry number onto the tiny slip.

He didn’t know then that you’d remember his vote. Just like he didn’t know he’d still remember that photo one year later.

Or you.

Stiff, unreadable, too formal for a student event. And already more interesting than any polished exhibit he’d seen that day.

“—And besides, if a handsome man like yourself became a model, I’m sure any photo of yours would win first place.”

You’d said it so simply. Like you were reading out a weather report. Like it wasn’t going to completely alter the chemical composition of Geto Suguru’s teenage brain.

He stood there, still holding the ballot. Still mid-laugh from his own awkward metaphor about underdog weeds.

And then you said that.

Just one offhand line, dropped like a pebble in a pond—

But the ripple effect was instantaneous.

You didn’t even wait to see the aftermath. No, of course not. You said it, then immediately pivoted to speed-walk across the room toward the makeshift ballot box table, mumbling something about tally sheets and closing times.

Meanwhile, Geto was standing there, experiencing the slow, dramatic death of whatever was left of his sense of composure.

Handsome man like yourself—

You’re sure—

Win first place—

He watched you from across the room, sleeves still too formal, the crease of your collar still razor-sharp. You weren’t smiling, weren’t trying to flirt, weren’t even looking at him anymore. Just arranging the votes and talking to another volunteer in that same efficient tone, like you hadn’t just ruined his entire day in the most beautiful way possible.

What the hell, Geto thought, staring down at the lone ballot slip in his hand like it held ancient wisdom.

You’d called him handsome. You had called him handsome.

You, who took pictures of weeds with more intention than most people gave their final year thesis. You, who didn’t even blink when he babbled about underdog metaphors. You, who could’ve passed for the CEO of the club instead of a first year.

That was the moment, he would later admit to no one, when he fell completely and helplessly in love. Not just with you, but with the idea of being in your frame. With being seen — chosen — by the person who once looked at a cracked sidewalk and decided that even weeds deserved to be remembered.

By the time he joined the college a month later, he already knew where the photography club met, already had his transfer form filled, already had a tote bag with film rolls he didn’t know how to use.

And already had your photo of the weeds printed and pinned behind his bedroom door.

Just one vote. That’s all you said it took.

He still would've voted a thousand.

˙✧˖°📸⋆｡˚

Today was the day of the exhibition.

And Geto Suguru was late.

Not fashionably, not tragically — just unglamorously, hopelessly late. His lanyard was still tangled around his wrist, his shirt only half tucked in, and the volunteer badge swinging wildly from his tote bag as he jogged through the corridor and into the club’s display room.

“You’re cutting it close, kid,” one of your classmates said, already setting up the ballot box with mechanical ease. He was older, second year maybe, sleeves rolled up and clipboard in hand. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“I owe you my life,” Geto panted, clutching his knees and trying not to die on the floor.

The senior snorted. “You’ll owe me more if you keep smiling like that. Also,” he added, handing over a roll of entry slips, “didn’t know you and Y/N were a thing.”

Geto nearly dropped the ballots. “What?”

“You and him,” the senior repeated casually. “I mean, with an entry like that, there’s no competition. He’s gotta be into you, right?”

Geto blinked, confused, heart climbing into his throat. “What entry?”

The senior just tilted his chin toward the far wall.

Geto turned, his breath catching.

His picture — your picture — was mounted right at the center of the board. Not with bright colors or attention-seeking edits. No flashy filters, no eye-catching angles. Just—

Him laughing.

But not the usual poised, camera-ready laugh he gave when he knew he was being watched. This was different.

He was caught mid-laugh, head tilted slightly back, the curve of his smile wide, his eyes crinkled at the ends. The light came in slanted from the side — sunlight, maybe dusk — with golden warmth bleeding into the edges of his hair. A few strands had fallen loose from his usual tie, fluttering gently across his cheek.

His hand was halfway in the frame, fingers curled like he’d just said something stupid and was brushing it off. The background wasn’t remarkable — just a railing and a small patch of green. But the focus — sharp, precise — was entirely on him. Not how others saw him, but how you did. 

And for the first time, Geto understood what you meant all those months ago. When you made weeds look beautiful and you framed stillness like it mattered.

You didn’t take photos to impress. You took them to remember.

And somehow — without him knowing, without him posing — you’d chosen to remember him.

He didn’t know when you took it. Didn’t remember laughing like that, or you being there with your camera at the ready. And yet — he was immortalised. Right there, center wall, framed under warm light and silence, like he belonged in that moment forever.

He clutched the ballot papers a little too tightly. Mouth parted, something twisting tight in his chest. And only then did it hit him.

You hadn’t told him. You hadn’t shown him. You’d let him walk into this on his own.

And he hadn’t even found you yet.

˙✧˖°📸⋆｡˚

He nearly crashed face first into you rounding the corner, his breath catching mid-gasp and foot skidding to a stop. You didn’t flinch. You never really did when it came to Geto Suguru—only blinked once, calmly, and shifted your bag higher on your shoulder like you hadn’t just been almost tackled by a man on a mission.

“Oh,” he exhaled. Then, sharper:

“You do remember.”

You coughed. A weak, suspiciously timed thing. 

“Remember what?”

He raised both brows, clearly not buying it. “You know what.”

You looked at him squarely. Unbothered. Or at least pretending to be. “I only took that photo ‘cause your face was… hands—photogenic.”

A beat.

“Photogenic,” you added, again, as if it made any difference.

Geto’s grin came fast, slow, and wide all at once — like something blooming. “So I am handsome.”

You scoffed. “I said photogenic.”

“Same thing. I accept your confession.”

“Not a confession.”

“Still taking it.”

You sighed, eyes flicking away, but didn’t pull back when he stepped a little closer. The hallway was still busy with students wandering in and out of the exhibit room, the air humid with chatter and the slight tang of glue from last-minute mounting, but the space between you and Geto had grown quiet but warmer. He was close enough now that you could feel the strands of his loose hair brush your shoulder, the fabric of his sleeve catching yours when he turned slightly.

“You could’ve told me,” he said, softer. “About the photo.”

You shrugged. “Thought it’d be funnier if you saw it here. Dramatic reveal.”

He laughed, not loud, just a puff of breath that ghosted over your collar. “You’ve got a mean streak.”

You looked up at him. “You like it.”

His grin widened. “I do.”

And then he reached out, fingers curling gently around your wrist. Not pulling — just holding. Not like he was trying to make a point, but like he’d done it a thousand times before and you’d always let him.

You didn’t pull away.

Instead, you let him drag you along, down the short stretch of hallway, back toward the exhibits — where you now realized every single one of your entries used him as the subject.

“Look!” he pointed at the series with barely contained glee, tugging you in front of the wall display like an overexcited golden retriever. “That one’s from the time we were at the duck pond. And that one’s from when I pretended to be asleep on the bench. Remember? You said I looked corpse-like.”

“You did,” you muttered, but your voice had softened. He tilted his head, glancing at you sidelong, his hair brushing your jaw this time. “And yet, you still took the picture.”

You didn’t answer, only stared at the photo he was pointing to — Geto, head resting against a sun-warmed bench, one arm tucked behind his head, half a smirk playing on his lips even in mock-sleep.

Your voice came quieter now. “You look real in those photos.”

“Maybe that’s ‘cause I am. When I’m with you.”

You glanced away again, not out of annoyance this time — but because if you looked at him any longer, you were afraid you’d do something dumb. Like admit you maybe liked him more than just behind a lens.

He squeezed your wrist, gentle. “Hey.”

You met his gaze.

“I hope you never stop taking photos of me.” He leaned in just a little more. “And I hope you let me keep taking you out after.”

You snorted. “You say that like we’ve dated.”

“We have. You just didn’t notice.”

You rolled your eyes, but it didn’t stop the tug at the corner of your mouth. You didn’t let go of his hand. And this time, when his hair touched your neck, you leaned into it.

a/n IM SORRY THE COLOR OF THIS ENTIRE POST IS HIDEOUS BUT IF YOU'D LIKE MORE MLM FLUFF PLEASE LMK IN MY INBOX !! HAPPY PRIDE <3

[creamflixx]

𖦏    /brief:   choso x male reader. mutual pining. (final year of) high school au. teasing/flirty banter. gamer! choso and reader. very fluffy. sort of oblivious reader.

choso liked the quiet. 

he liked the sun pooling through the windows in slices, the scuffed linoleum of the empty classroom, the pencil in his hand steady as he worked out the slope of a tangent line for the third time. everything made sense when it was quiet. life fell into place in the soft scratch of graphite and the muted creak of the old wooden desk beneath his elbow.

he liked being alone, too. or at least he had, until you started showing up.

“choso!” you burst in like a spring thunderstorm, wind and petals and absolutely no regard for indoor voices. your nintendo ds was in your hands, held out like a sacred offering, animal crossing blaring its cheery little theme song at full volume. “you won’t believe what just got added. like, actually game-changing.”

he didn’t look up. you didn’t take the hint.

“they added new fish, choso. and you know how i feel about new fish.”

you were talking before you even sat down. and once you did, you sat wrong. like, diagonally. 

one leg bent under you, the other kicked out under his desk, almost knocking over his water bottle. your elbow bumped his paper. your head leaned dangerously close to the margin of his notebook. and worst of all — your ds, covered in his own hand-drawn stickers. 

a crooked glittery cherry, a sleepy blue bear, a weird blob that was maybe your version of him (you claimed it was 'emo choso in sticker form'). it was sweet. annoying. 

mostly sweet.

“look,” you insisted, shoving the screen toward his face. he gave it a glance. a fish. maybe blue? he couldn’t tell. he turned back to his textbook.

“it’s a golden trout! it only shows up for like two hours a day and i finally caught one. it took me seventeen tries and i had to rearrange my whole island so — hey, are you even listening?”

you poked his cheek. he gave you a side-eye so flat it could’ve been a horizontal line. 

but it didn't work. you were already sprawling half over his open workbook, tapping your nails on his calculator like it was a table drum, legs swinging as you kicked at nothing.

“chosooo,” you whined, soft and sing-songy. “you’re being antisocial.”

he sighed deeply. the kind of sigh that filled the room with quiet judgment and long-suffering affection. and yet — he didn't tell you to leave.

he never did.

you tilted your head, your voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “okay but what if i let you name one of my villagers. you could call him, like, mopey boy. or quadraticus. huh?”

he blinked at you, pencil still in hand. “that’s not a real name.”

“everything’s a real name if you commit,” you grinned, and you were too close again, all sunlight and chaos and warm breath and choso thought for maybe the eighth time this week that you were an unstoppable force and he was a very tired, very soft object. you rested your chin on his shoulder. he didn’t shrug you off. 

he just turned the page and muttered, “you’re distracting.”

“yeah, but in like, a charming way.”

he didn’t answer, not out loud atleast. just let his shoulder nudge yours once, just barely. your smile widened like you’d won a game only you were playing.

and then you started talking about the fish again. 

and he let you.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

you didn’t mean to get annoyed, not really. not at choso, anyway. it was just — that kind of silence? the shrugging kind? the soft, eternal quiet he bathed in like a monk under vow? it used to be charming. now it was just…weird.

“you used to like playing animal crossing with me,” you muttered, your voice half-accusation, half-pout as he scribbled math equations like your childhood wasn’t crumbling next to him. “you even cried when your tulip patch got destroyed. don’t think i forgot.”

he didn’t even blink. you narrowed your eyes. 

“and now all you care about is studying?”

still nothing.

"what happened to ‘we rise together, we rage quit together’?"

he gave a low exhale. not quite a sigh — just…release. his eyes were still on the page.

“the time is now,” he said, in a voice so solemn you could almost punch him for it.

“what the hell does that mean, you buddhist fortune cookie?” you snapped, now actively pushing at his textbook. he caught it before it slipped off the desk, only for you to start rocking the damn thing instead, little tremors up through the wood with every shake.

“tell me the truth, you traitor! tell me why you ditched me for the evil temptress of calculus!”

the table rattled again, then once more. and then his hand shot out — not hard, not rough, but firm enough to wrap around your wrist, stilling you mid-rock.

“stop.”

your heart flipped.

his voice was low. not scary-low, not violent. just... the way someone sounds when they’re trying. 

and his eyes — when they finally looked up at you, brow just barely furrowed — weren’t cold or mad. just a little overwhelmed. 

you froze. 

“shit,” you breathed, “i — did i actually piss you off?”

he didn’t let go of your wrist. didn’t even seem to notice he was still holding it.

for a beat, you both just sat there, dumbly. your arm mid-air, his pencil forgotten, the world holding its breath between the exasperation and the soft thump of something else.

“…no,” he muttered, ears tinged a little red. “just.”

he glanced down, looking anywhere but your eyes. 

“if you keep bothering me i…won’t finish studying in time to get into the same college as you.”

“what?”

he cleared his throat, tried to go back to his notebook, but his hand was still on you, warm and awkward, and now his whole face was going pink like his body was betraying him in real time.

“i mean. i don’t…wanna go somewhere else. from you.”

you stared.

“that’s why i’m studying,” he added, quieter now. “not because i hate your…fish updates.”

you swallowed. “so…you like my fish updates?”

“don’t push it.”

his hand finally let go. yours tingled with the absence. 

and suddenly, you had no idea what to do with your limbs. 

your ds was upside down. your legs were tangled. 

and your brain had stopped functioning somewhere around the phrase go somewhere else from you.

you ended up mumbling something idiotic like, “okay, but you’re still naming my villager.”

he shrugged, flipping to the next page, but his mouth twitched just barely.

“…name him quadraticus,” he said.

you grinned so hard your face hurt.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

something shifted after that.

not in a loud, dramatic way — nothing you could point at and say there. just…

a feeling. like the edge of a blanket being pulled a little higher, covering places it hadn’t before. you didn’t say anything about it, and neither did he.

now you sat beside him quietly, nintendo ds in your lap, your leg bumping his every few minutes, not out of impatience but just because you couldn’t stay still. the room was still sun-drenched and quiet except for the occasional chirp from your game and the scratch of pencil against paper. choso looked up from his worksheet, eyes dragging over to your screen before catching on your profile.

“how are you so quick at learning?” he asked, almost absentmindedly. like the thought had been there for a while, waiting for the right silence to slip out.

you blinked at your screen, before shrugging. “i dunno. i just get it, i guess?”

he hummed, pen tapping his chin. “must be nice.”

“you saying you don’t get it, mr. mysterious mind palace?”

“not without effort.”

you grinned. “well, maybe you just need to stare at me more. absorb the knowledge through sheer admiration.”

you said it so breezily, not even looking up — because of course you didn’t mean it that way. 

you never did. 

always flinging out casual lines like that, little teasing things you said to everyone but somehow only he heard them like a confession.

choso’s pencil paused mid-stroke, his ears growing warm. he blinked down at his notebook like it betrayed him. 

“that’s not how osmosis works.”

you glanced over, catching the slight pink tinge on his cheekbones. “oh my god. are you blushing?”

he scoffed — too fast. “n…no.”

“you are!” you leaned in close, eyes wide with mock horror. “are you actually flustered right now? who are you?”

“shut up,” he muttered, voice thinner than usual. he reached for his water bottle like it could shield him, but you only laughed and flopped dramatically onto your desk, face smushed against your arms, still grinning.

you didn’t see the way his gaze lingered.

truthfully, choso had always looked at you. and not just looked — watched. 

he knew how you always mumbled the question under your breath before answering, like you had to hear it aloud to believe in it. he knew how you’d lightly tap your pencil against your leg whenever you were stuck, like a silent metronome for your brain. and on mock tests, when you got an answer right, you’d fill in the OMR circle a little harder than needed — just enough to leave a dent in the paper.

you never noticed, but choso always did.

he glanced at you again, now half-slumped beside him, poking at your stylus and muttering something about your villagers being lazy freeloaders. your tongue was between your teeth. your hair was messy from leaning on your elbow too long. and he—

he was pretty sure he’d never stood a chance.

“hey,” you said suddenly, without looking at him.

he blinked. “hm?”

you turned, eyes soft but playful. “you’re staring.”

he stiffened. “’m not.”

“you were.”

he opened his mouth to deny it, but then you smiled — real, a little warm, a little smug — and he closed it again. his pen dropped onto the desk with a soft clink.

“...sorry.”

you just tilted your head, that grin still there, but gentler now. “you’re weird.”

“you’re annoying.”

“but you like me.”

that wasn’t a question. and he didn’t answer.

because maybe he did. and maybe you knew. and maybe you both weren’t ready to say it yet. so instead, he reached for your stylus and poked one of your villagers in the eye.

“hey!” you yelped.

he didn’t look at you, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

something shifted after that.

and neither of you really wanted it to shift back.

[creamflixx]

𖦏    /brief:   female reader. fluff. domestic, himbo toji. established relationship. depiction of mild relationship anxiety. excessive cleaning as a coping mechanism

“you free tomorrow?” you ask, casually. 

too casually. 

the words float out like you’ve just remembered you need eggs and not that tomorrow is the five-year anniversary of your completely baffling but enduring relationship with the man currently kneading your cat like a seasoned baker with carpal tunnel.

toji grunts from the floor, face smushed into the carpet, one hand rhythmically working over cherry bomb’s back while the other scratches behind the cat’s ears. “nah,” he mutters, “gotta work overtime. bigshot’s coming to the hotel. politician type. probably smells like soap and stolen tax money.”

you blink. “so… no dinner?”

he pauses, eyes squinting up at you like you just asked him to recite the periodic table. “baby. i literally just said overtime.”

you nod, pretending it’s fine. 

pretend the stinging in your eyes is from cherry bomb’s ass betraying you both with the force of a gas leak.

“jesus christ, cherry,” toji coughs, fanning the air dramatically. “that’s the third one this morning. what’d you feed him? napalm?”

“chicken and rice,” you say faintly. “he's sensitive to anything else.”

“sensitive,” toji repeats, deadpan. “this dude has no respect for my lungs. or the sanctity of this carpet.”

you look down at your boyfriend – shirtless, slightly sweaty from committing fully to a feline massage session, a grown man with scars and shoulders built like security gates, who is currently trying to coax a burp out of cherry bomb like he’s a newborn.

"you know what tomorrow is, right?"

“uhhh…” toji trails off, eyes flicking to the ceiling like it’s a magic 8-ball. “not my birthday. not your period. not rent day. don’t tell me it’s… dentist?”

your silence is damning. he sits up finally, one palm still on cherry bomb’s back like a devoted chiropractor. “shit. what is it? anniversary?”

you sigh. he perks up like a cat himself.

“wait, how many years?”

“five,” you mutter, wiping at your eye like it’s just itchy and not emotionally leaking.

“FIVE?” he says, scandalized. “like, full five? as in, you’ve tolerated me for half a decade?”

you nod.

“damn. and they say miracles don’t happen.” he whistles low. “look, babe, ’m sorry. i swear i wasn’t being a dick on purpose. you know i’ve got the brain capacity of a houseplant.”

“you’re more like a cactus,” you say. “prickly, weirdly endearing. hard to kill.”

toji grins. “you gonna water me now or what?”

you chuck a throw pillow at him. “you can’t just forget our anniversary and then make cactus jokes, toji.”

he catches the pillow with one hand, smug. “counterpoint – i absolutely can.”

“counter-counterpoint – you’re sleeping on the floor with cherry tomorrow.”

toji shrugs. “he treats me better than you do. massages my back sometimes. we have a system.”

cherry lets out another tiny, sinister bomb.

“traitor,” you mumble, fanning the air.

“listen, i’ll make it up to you,” toji says, scooting closer on his knees like a sinner approaching the altar of your patience. “we can do something the next day. weekend. whole damn day. just you, me, and this flatulent meatloaf.”

“and what, you’ll remember that plan too?” you raise a brow.

he taps his temple. “writing it down. mental note. locking it in.”

“that means nothing. your last mental note was to buy toilet paper and we ended up using napkins for three days.”

“yeah, because they were the fancy kind. don’t act like you didn’t enjoy the quilted experience.”

you sigh again, but this time there’s a smile bleeding through.

“five years,” he says quietly now, hands coming up to rest on your knees as he looks up at you. “you really put up with me that long?”

“i must hate myself,” you murmur dryly.

he smirks. “nah. you just love me so much it makes you stupid.”

“if you finish that sentence i will drown you in the litter box.”

he leans forward anyway, bumping his forehead against yours. “happy almost-anniversary, babe.”

૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

the apartment smells like lavender disinfectant, lemon pledge, and a hint of desperation.

you’ve already scrubbed the kitchen counters twice. you cleaned the air fryer. you dusted the top of the fridge. the top of the fridge. who even looks there?

cherry bomb is supervising from the couch, loafed up like a judgmental orange bread roll, eyes narrowed as if silently critiquing your vacuuming technique. your shared spotify blend with 98.76% compatibility – a badge of unhealthy codependence if there ever was one – is playing through the battered bose speaker, crooning out a song you both called “your guys’s sex anthem” as a joke, and then promptly kept on every road trip playlist since.

somewhere between aggressive scrubbing and fighting with the vaccum, you decide to reorganize the drawer of old receipts and paper clips. and that’s when you find it.

tucked under a dried-up pen and a crusty cinema ticket stub, there’s a photo. one of those cheap polaroid prints from a vending machine photo booth. 

it’s from one of your first dates. both of you squeezed into the tiny plastic curtain-covered booth, faces pressed close together like two awkward teens despite already being legal adults who could (allegedly) hold conversation.

toji had acne all over his jaw and forehead. his hair was a little too greasy, not from neglect but from that particular phase of “i don’t need conditioner” confidence. he was grinning, eyes scrunched up, throwing a peace sign like a menace.

you looked... flushed. like someone had taken a shade of beetroot and lightly slapped it across your cheeks. that was your blush blindness era – anything he said, did, or breathed would make your face turn the color of a firetruck.

you smile down at the photo, thumb brushing over the glossy print. and then the memory hits you, unprompted but potent.

a year into dating. sitting on the couch with tiktok open. some overly-filtered, soft focus video playing. a woman’s boyfriend getting down on one knee, fireworks in the back.

she’s crying. they’re both crying.

someone’s dog is wearing a tux.

you turned to toji, back then still a little too in love to tease him for his reactions. “would you ever do something like this?”

he had grunted, leaning over you to take a swig of your coke. “not like that. looks expensive. fireworks? dumb. but yeah, i’d work my ass off if it meant doing something good for you on the fifth one.”

“so you’re gonna propose on our fifth?”

he raised a brow. “i didn’t say that.”

“you implied it.”

he grunted again. then: “don’t quote me on shit, woman. i’m tryna be hardworking.”

you’d laughed and saved the video anyway. not because you thought it’d happen, but because some part of you wanted to believe that kind of memory would stick with him.

now, here you are. hours away from midnight. toji at work. the flat quiet aside from music and the low hum of cherry's tail thumping gently on the cushion.

you lie down on the couch next to him, one hand stroking his fur. he doesn’t purr – cherry bomb is a stoic cat, too emotionally distant to lower himself to such basic affection. but he shifts his weight until his back is pressed against your side, and that’s his way of cuddling.

“you think he forgot?” you ask him.

he blinks once. 

“yeah,” you say softly. “me too.”

you close your eyes, letting the song fade into something slower. something you’d both slow danced to once in the middle of the kitchen when it was raining too hard to go out.

cherry bomb’s tail flicks lazily across your stomach. he doesn’t care about anniversaries. but he’s warm, and that’s more than the cold corner of your heart can ask for right now.

still, in the far corner of your mind, you wonder:

did he really forget? or is he planning something stupid?

you hope. god, you hope.

the doorbell rings at exactly 12:55pm.

cherry bomb, who had been deep in his snoring session, jerks his head up with the speed of a tactical unit and trots over to the front door. he sniffs twice, then three times, then dramatically flops onto his side and begins kicking at the bottom of the door like it owes him rent.

you groan from your nest of self-pity and pilled blankets on the couch. “if it’s another zara package i drunkenly ordered, i swear i’m cancelling my debit card.”

cherry bomb responds by farting again, because of course he does. 

your cat, your child, your emotional support food processor.

you drag yourself to the door, still in your pajamas, hoodie zipped halfway over the tank top you wore to bed. your hair’s tied up in a bun that’s doing its own gravity experiment. you open the door half expecting a confused ubereats driver or your elderly neighbor who likes to gossip about everyone’s trash schedules. but instead —

there’s a man in a baseball cap and mask, holding a clipboard and a large brown envelope.

“delivery,” he says.

you squint. “uhm…didn’t order anything.”

“has your name,” he shrugs. “need a signature.”

cherry bomb, behind you, starts doing figure eights around your legs like he knows something you don’t.

or maybe he’s just gassy again. 

you squint harder at the man, at his frame, at the very familiar veins on his forearms.

“…why are you built like that?”

the man tilts his head. “genetics.”

you snatch the clipboard and squiggle your name. “weirdo,” you mutter, then eye the package. “what is this anyway?”

“you should open it,” he says, and pulls down the mask.

it’s toji.

you blink. 

he looks good. annoyingly good. hair a little messy like he ran here, eyes sparkling with a cocky sort of pride. the kind of look he only gets when he wins rock-paper-scissors five times in a row or finds an extra chicken nugget.

“what the hell,” you whisper. “you’re supposed to be at work.”

“i am. i worked through dinner. left some poor intern to watch the cameras. might be fired. worth it though.”

he holds up the envelope, taps it against your forehead. “open this.”

with trembling fingers, you pull the document out of the envelope.

marriage registration form.

your name. his name. partially filled. waiting.

you look up, throat suddenly dry. 

“you remembered,” you say, barely a whisper.

toji smirks, sheepish and proud all at once. “y'kidding? you think i forget the one time i promised something halfway romantic? on tiktok of all places?”

your laugh comes out broken, more of a hiccup. “you made me clean the entire apartment. i stress cried to mitski. cherry’s probably infertile from all the febreze fumes.”

“you thought i forgot?” he teases, stepping closer.

“you said you forgot.”

he shrugs. “i lie sometimes. keeps things spicy.”

“i hate you,” you mutter, already tearing up.

“no you don’t,” he grins, pulling a pen from behind his ear like some domestic delinquent magician. “you love me. five years worth.”

he hands you the pen and doesn’t say anything else. cherry lets out one more celebratory bomb and trots into the bedroom like he knows you’re about to be legally, officially stuck with this man forever.

and honestly? you couldn’t be happier.

[creamflixx]

𖦏    /brief:   x male reader. post breakup comfort. alcohol use. mentions of emotionally distant relationship. mutual pining. first kiss. emotionally constipated men. friends to something-more.

your thumb hovered over the send button longer than necessary, but the fizz in your head, the kind that came from lukewarm beer and heartbreak, pushed you over the edge. it wasn’t poetry, it wasn’t even that coherent, but it was honest.

you [7:51PM] sukuna i feel like i’m bleeding and there’s no wound you [7:51PM] can u come.  you [7:52 PM] beach bench, the dumb one by the coconut stand.

you didn't expect a reply. sukuna wasn’t the type to indulge in emotional theatrics, and you were definitely being theatrical. but the text had barely gone through when you saw the three dots bounce on screen like an arrhythmic heartbeat. then:

sukuna [7:52PM] stay where you are. don’t do anything stupid.

you scoffed out loud, the sound swallowed by the rolling hush of the sea. the horizon was bruising purple now, the sun a low ember in the sky. all around, the world was winding down, gentle and domestic — mothers herding sandy children off the beach, tired vendors folding their carts shut, laughter trailing like ribbons in the air. and there you sat, alone, your heart cracked open like driftwood, drinking beer for dinner because food felt like a betrayal your stomach wasn’t ready for.

the buzz in your chest wasn’t just alcohol. it was grief, sharp and glassy, and the phantom press of your ex-girlfriend’s fingers still curled around your wrist. she had left too gently, like she thought it would hurt less that way. she was wrong.

you heard sukuna before you saw him — the crunch of his boots on dry sand, the irritated exhale he never bothered to hide. he appeared beside you, dressed in black like the mourning party you never threw yourself.

“you reek of beer,” he muttered, sitting down without looking at you.

“good,” you said, your voice a little too light, a little too gone. “that’s exactly what i was going for.”

sukuna didn’t respond. he just let the silence thicken, the way he always did when words would only dilute the pain instead of fixing it. you caught his profile in the amber glow of a streetlamp — sharp jaw, pierced brow, annoyance etched into his brow like it had signed a lease there.

“she said i was too much,” you said quietly, staring out at the ocean. “that i felt too hard. asked me why i couldn’t just… ‘enjoy the moment’ instead of obsessing over everything.”

“that’s rich,” he muttered. “you were dating a girl who reads co-star like it’s gospel.”

you huffed a laugh, the beer sloshing a little as you leaned back. “she said i drained her.”

“then good fucking riddance,” sukuna said, tone clipped. “let her go charge her crystals somewhere else.”

you turned to look at him, surprised by the venom. his face was neutral but his hands — always a tell — were clenched on his knees.

“you don’t mean that,” you said.

“no, i do,” he replied. “you’re allowed to feel like shit. you’re not allowed to think you deserved it.”

you blinked, throat suddenly tight. “i feel like an open wound,” you whispered. “like everyone can see it.”

sukuna finally looked at you. really looked. and for once, there was no eye-roll, no sarcasm, no biting remark. just him. unguarded, watching you like someone trying to read an unfamiliar language.

“then let me sit here until it scabs over,” he said.

and that — that was the thing with sukuna. he didn’t say the right things. he wasn’t going to tell you that you’d find someone better, or that everything happened for a reason. but he would sit beside you while your heart howled. he’d buy you water when you threw up your third beer. he’d wait until you remembered how to laugh without feeling like you were betraying your sadness.

and he was here. which meant everything.

by the time the beer fizzed through your bloodstream like static, you were half-lounging on the bench with your head tipped back, letting the sea breeze slap at your face like it owed you something. you were deep into that sweet spot of drunkenness where every sad thought started sounding profound — where every sentence felt like a monologue that deserved a slow clap.

“she wasn’t that bad, you know,” you mumbled, eyes squinting at the stars peeking through the purple-grey sky. “we just… we didn’t kiss much. but like — like, we held hands. and sometimes she’d put her head on my shoulder. that counts for something, right?”

sukuna was mid-sip, the cheap beer tilted to his lips, when he physically choked on it. full-body sputter, head jerked forward, beer foam catching on the edge of his mouth as he coughed like he’d inhaled carbonation and confusion at the same time.

“wait. waitwaitwait—” he slapped a palm on his chest. “you tellin’ me — how long were you even together?”

“almost a year,” you said proudly, like that statistic would cushion the blow.

he stared at you slack-jawed. possibly a little horrified. the beer can was halfway in his hand like he was trying to decide whether to keep drinking or just pour it over your head.

“a year,” he repeated slowly. “a whole year, and you didn’t even — what, make out? a kiss? a single shove-up-against-the-wall situation?”

you winced. “we kissed. just not… often.”

sukuna turned toward you so fast you could hear the fabric of his hoodie rustle. “bro,” he said, voice gone hoarse with disbelief. “not often? not often? what does that mean? you kissed once and high-fived after like it was a business transaction?”

you groaned, dragging your palms over your face. “jesus, sukuna—”

“nah, i’m genuinely trying to understand,” he said, leaning back now, one arm draped over the back of the bench, the other gesturing wildly with the can. “you dated this girl for a whole calendar year, and your lips were — what? in a holding pattern? circling the runway, never landing?”

you laughed despite yourself, shaking your head. “it wasn’t like that. we just weren’t… physical, i guess.”

“you weren’t physical,” sukuna corrected with a raised brow. “don’t drag her down into this virgin trench with you.”

you stared at him. “i’m not a virgin.”

“no, of course not,” he said, voice saturated in sarcasm. “you just skipped the kissing part. went straight from awkward side hugs to shared trauma and heartbreak.”

you reached out and smacked his arm, and he laughed — a low, rough sound, full of amusement but not mean. there was always a sharpness to sukuna, but when he liked you, he wielded it like a toy knife. he glanced sideways at you, and his voice lowered, just a touch. “look, i’m not saying kissing’s everything. but if you’re telling me the whole relationship was just, like, emotionally intense hand-holding and long-ass text messages… yeah, ’m gonna make fun of you.”

you snorted, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. “i liked her. i didn’t need to kiss her all the time. she made me feel… grounded. like when everything was shit, she was this calm little island.”

sukuna looked at you, his mouth twitching — not quite a frown, not quite a smile. 

“and what are you now?” he asked. “adrift?”

you were quiet.

“you’re allowed to want more,” he added, softer now. “not just love that keeps you grounded, but the kind that lifts you the fuck up. makes you feel like you’re gonna float out of your damn shoes.”

you blinked, stunned at the sudden sincerity.

“...what kind of sapphic wattpad shit was that,” you muttered, throat tight. 

he snorted. “shut up. i’ve been watching romance dramas with my family. don’t make it weird.”

but even as he said it, sukuna leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and passed the can back to you without a word. the glint in his eye hadn’t dulled, but there was a gentleness tucked underneath now, the kind he only showed in quiet, moonlit places like this.

“next time,” he said, staring out at the waves, “date someone who kisses the hell out of you just because they can. alright?”

you took the can from his hand, brushing fingers for a beat too long. 

“alright,” you said. “you gonna screen them for me?”

he rolled his eyes. “nah, i’ll scare them off. easier that way.”

and he meant it.

you were finishing the last inch of the beer when sukuna asked it — the kind of question that sounded like it slipped out before he could decide if he meant to ask it or not.

“you ever wonder what it’s like?”

you looked up, confused. “what what’s like?”

he tapped the rim of the can with a blunt fingernail, avoiding your gaze. “kissing,” he said. “y’know. the thing your year-long relationship apparently skipped like a side quest.”

you squinted at him, smirking. “you really can’t get over that, huh?”

“i’m just saying,” sukuna muttered, side-eyeing you. “it’s basic relationship stuff. i didn’t think i’d have to explain this to a grown-ass man.”

“then explain it,” you challenged, eyes narrowing. “what’s it supposed to feel like, kiss expert?”

his face twisted — not in annoyance, but something closer to panic wearing a thin disguise. he ran a hand through his hair, eyes darting up to the sky as if the answer was hiding in the clouds. 

“i dunno,” he said, voice higher than usual. “it just — happens. it’s like breathing, or… sneezing. but with lips. and feelings. and, uh, spit.”

you barked a laugh. “spit and feelings. wow. romantic.”

“shut up,” he groaned, turning his face away and rubbing the back of his neck. “i didn’t come here to give a TED talk on making out.”

“so what, you just know when it’s supposed to happen?” you asked, watching him carefully. “like the universe sends a kiss alert to your brain?”

“basically,” he said with a shrug, still not looking at you. “you’ll know. when it’s right. you just… know.”

you leaned in a little, squinting at him with mock seriousness. “okay, mr. mystic. so when is the right moment? or should i wait until the stars align and a shooting star spells out ‘smooch’ above my head?”

he turned to you, finally, mouth open like he had something clever to say. but then he really looked — really looked — at you, his lips didn’t move. not for a second. his arm was still behind you, elbow resting on the bench’s back like it was nothing. but now, his fingers were ghosting against your shoulder, spread wide and uncertain, like he couldn’t decide whether to pull away or pull you in.

you weren’t sure who leaned first. maybe both of you did. it wasn’t a crash or a blur — it was slow, like the air between you both had thickened into honey, and neither of you wanted to break it too fast.

his lips were warm. dry, a little hesitant. like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be doing this, but something in him had already made the decision before his brain could object. the kiss wasn’t deep, not at first. it was a press — soft, almost shy, like the two of you were younger versions of yourselves who didn’t know where to put your hands yet.

you didn’t rush it.

and that was the strange thing. you didn’t feel impatient. you didn’t feel clumsy. you just felt. 

the warmth of his fingers tightening against your shoulder. the slight tremble in the breath he exhaled through his nose. the way the salt from the sea mixed with beer and something distinctly sukuna on your tongue. when you finally pulled apart, just a few inches, his eyes blinked open slow — lashes low, gaze unfocused. then he grinned.

boyishly.

you hadn’t seen that exact smile in a long time — not since the first time you met him in college orientation, when he mistook you for someone else and laughed about it for twenty minutes straight. it was wide and sheepish, all crooked teeth and unguarded charm, like he’d tripped over his own shoelaces and kissed you by accident.

“so,” he said, clearing his throat. “that was… okay?”

you stared, then let out a breathy laugh. “better than sneezing.”

he laughed too, rubbing the back of his neck again like he couldn’t figure out what to do with himself now. “yeah, well. there’s more where that came from. if the stars ever say so again.”

you leaned into him this time, shoulder against his chest. “i think they already did.”

he didn’t say anything. just tucked you a little closer, arm finally wrapping around your back like he’d been waiting the whole night to do it.

[creamflixx]

Λquamarine     𔘓     𝔫aoya 𝔷enin 

𐚁 𝓈ynopsis you boarded a greek cruise to escape two things: marriage and men — specifically in that order. what you didn’t expect was to share the ship with naoya zenin, of all people. now you’re dodging commitment, dodging him, and maybe accidentally falling for both. catch naoya? catch feelings? you were hoping to leave with neither.

𐚁 𝒸ontent 𝓉ags naoya x female-bodied reader, vacation cruise-ship au set in greece, rich (geek/nerd) boy! naoya, dysfunctional family dynamics, enemies to friends to lovers, meet-ugly, naoya is bad with feelings and women #generationalfumbler, reader is a bit reserved and actually nonchalant, eventual smut, mentioned ensemble of other characters (adding soon)

𐚁 𝒶uthor's 𝓃ote this is for me, aashi, naia for feeding into this fic since april 2025, and that one naoya anon. i hope you like my interpretation of everyone’s favorite misogynist!

✈︎ last updated 30th july 2025 (currently writing. all chapters are only posted on ao3.) | open taglist, must be 18+ with age in bio. <- to notify for new ao3 chapter updates, no cross-posting. both guests and registered ao3 users can comment and interact.

CHAPTER ONE bon voyage and bad decisions CHAPTER TWO talk to me maybe CHAPTER THREE the master and margarita CHAPTER FOUR all roads lead to trouble CHAPTER FIVE something like sincerity CHAPTER SIX tender things, accidentally CHAPTER SEVEN confessions and consequences CHAPTER EIGHT (coming soon)

asks and other content tagged with: #aquamarine ⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆ written and edited by @creamflix. banner edited by @creamflix, resources belong to respective owners. dividers by @sseuda. do not steal, repost, translate, modify etc. 

[creamflixx]

ME AND YOUR MAMA ꒰ঌ ໒꒱

mission brief academically blessed, never stressed? well, not quite — not when burnout hits and your boyfriend turns into your unsolicited academic coach. w.c 9.4k

risk assessment established relationship, female reader, crack and some resolved angst, university au, mentions of short-attention span, toxic study motivation and mentions of burnout, well-intentioned gaslighting (you'll understand when you read it), ft! naoya, sukuna, gojo, nanami, toji

a/n my exams are over you know what that means . . .

☆ NAOYA ZENIN

Seven months ago, Naoya had sworn on his life (okay, fine, his pride) that he’d hold you accountable. A pinkie promise, of all things.

It was ridiculous, juvenile, borderline absurd, and worse? Binding. Because apparently, you were the kind of person who believed in sacred pinkie pacts and gave him the kind of eyes that screamed I will ruin you emotionally if you break this. And he — being a Zenin, and therefore genetically engineered to be allergic to backing out of anything — took that as a threat.

Now here you were, in his room, on his bed, wearing his hoodie no less — because apparently your own had a “scratchy tag.” And what were you doing?

Scrolling through Instagram with a calculator app open in the background, pretending you were calculating compound interest instead of watching some girl from your department throw it back in the middle of a neon-lit dance floor.

“I swear to God, if I see one more swipe of that thumb, I’m going to lodge this entire textbook into your skull,” Naoya mutters, not even looking up from his notes. His pen is halfway to snapping while the page in front of him is suffering the wrath of an angry highlighter.

“I’m calculating, thank you,” you chirp, innocently enough to make his eye twitch.

“What? How many people went to the party versus how many didn’t invite you?”

You gasp dramatically, hand to your heart. “Wooww. So personal.”

“You made it personal the second you walked in here, threw your bag like a corpse on my floor, and said ‘I’m gonna study sooo hard today’ in a tone that sounded like you were halfway to your funeral.”

You roll onto your back, head dangling off the edge of his bed, phone upside down in your hand. “Okay but, like, I am studying.”

He shoots you a deadpan glance. “You haven’t flipped a page in the last thirty-two minutes.”

You groan. “Why are you like this?”

“Because I have a future wife who’s gonna bring dishonour to my name if she fails ‘Intro to Macroeconomics.’”

“Wow,” you say. “Romantic and judgmental. How did I get so lucky?”

“Arranged marriage,” he deadpans.

You kick your foot out, landing it on his thigh with the grace of a gremlin. “You like hosting me, admit it.”

“Hosting implies choice,” he mutters. “You made yourself at home the minute you brought your own socks here and left them next to my desk like we live together.”

“Well we will, eventually,” you sing, and he sighs like he’s aged a decade.

“Not if you die from a blunt-force trauma induced by this Econ textbook.”

“God, can you imagine my gravestone?” you muse, dreamily. “She died as she lived — avoiding productivity and annoying Naoya Zenin.”

He’s already throwing a pillow at your face. And you’re already laughing before it hits.

Somehow, against all odds, this bizarre little pact of yours still holds. Because a Zenin doesn’t go back on his word. And because, unfortunately, he really does want you to pass. And maybe, just maybe, because he doesn’t really mind you being here.

Naoya hadn’t meant to remember the conversation with your mom. It was supposed to be one of those awkward, five-minute familial formalities over tea, but the image of her fidgeting with her gold bangles and whispering like the nation’s security depended on it… that stuck with him.

“She used to top her class,” she’d said, eyes slightly glossy. “But now it’s all reels and whatever that — tikked tok? I don’t know. I think her brain's melting.”

Naoya had chuckled. Mostly because you did once spend four hours in front of him trying to figure out if you were more of a cottagecore girlfriend or a mob wife. But then your mom sighed.

“I just wish she could get started. That’s all. She always finishes once she’s in it.”

And now, here you were. Zombified on his bed, lit only by the blue-white glow of your phone screen, doing the academic equivalent of crawling on all fours in the wrong direction. Naoya stared at you for a long second before sighing. And finally, he pushed his textbook aside like a man about to commit a crime.

“You should just go to the party.”

You didn’t even look up. “Mm?”

“I’m serious. You’re not gonna study anyway. Why waste the effort pretending?”

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

He leaned back in his chair, lazily stretching, voice slick with indifference. “I mean, it’s not like you need to study.”

“Okay, what the hell does that mean?” you said, sitting up halfway.

Naoya shrugged. “I’m just saying, what’s the point? It’s not like women need to do well academically. Half the girls at that party right now are probably gonna marry up and live off someone else’s salary anyway.”

You stared at him.

He arched a brow as he added, “Maybe you should take notes from them.”

“Naoya.”

“No really,” he said, faux-concerned. “Like, what are you gonna do with a degree anyway? Decorate it and hang it next to your kitchen spice rack?”

You were on your feet so fast your phone hit the floor with a thud.

“You piece of—!”

“Hey, just saying the truth,” he said, holding up his hands, playing it off with a perfect poker face. “I mean, someone needs to think about your future. A man can’t do everything for you.”

You were already grabbing your notes off the floor, muttering something violent under your breath, flipping open your book with the fury of a woman scorned by God, gravity, and every frat boy who ever called her “smart for a girl.”

“So predictable,” Naoya mumbled under his breath, turning back to his textbook with a little smirk.

“What was that?” you snapped.

“Nothing,” he said, voice innocent. “Just happy you found your motivation.”

You glared at him. He gave you a beatific smile. “You’re welcome.”

And that’s how you ended up rewriting two chapters out of spite, fueled entirely by the raw power of feminist rage, while Naoya sipped on his overpriced cold brew and basked in the knowledge that he won, technically.

Dirty tactics? Yes. Effective? Absolutely. And Naoya Zenin never, ever, broke a pinkie promise.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

The campus café was one of those places that pretended to be rustic — all mismatched mugs and fairy lights stapled to exposed brick — but everyone knew the pastries were from a frozen warehouse 10km out, and the WiFi never worked after 4pm. Still, it was your designated post-exam spot, the one your families had gently “suggested” for weekly dates. The term ‘courtship bonding time’ had been used in a group text once, which made Naoya gag so hard he nearly deleted WhatsApp.

But now, post-finals, the air was a little softer, warmer, smelling of mango-season air and other people’s whipped cream-topped iced lattes. And across the table, you were in full peacock mode.

“Triple ninety-twos, Zenin,” you beamed, poking your straw into your glass with the pride of a student who believed God had picked favourites and it was, clearly, you. “Say it. Say it out loud. Triple. Ninety. Twos.”

Naoya squinted at you over his cup. “You make it sound like a boy band.”

“A boy band of academic excellence,” you said smugly. “Meanwhile, someone got what? 91 point... three?”

He didn’t answer, just looked down and stirred his espresso absently, as if willing the sugar to bury his shame.

“Not even a full point behind me,” you hummed. “But a point’s a point. I beat you.”

Naoya bit the inside of his cheek. Not out of irritation — he wasn’t mad. Okay, he was a little mad. But mostly?

He was watching you talk with that stupid little light in your eyes. Like the numbers actually meant something to you. Like it had all clicked in your head without you noticing the mental foot he shoved in the door to keep it from closing.

He thought of your mother again — that worried look, the soft words. She just needs to get started. And the way you had rolled your eyes when he dared suggest a woman didn’t need to study. How you had scoffed, groaned, cursed at him under your breath and then studied like you were rewriting law.

And now here you were, all spark and smugness, sipping your overpriced lemonade like you hadn't been a full disaster seven weeks ago.

“Y’know,” you said, leaning in conspiratorially, “I think I’ve turned over a new leaf. I might actually be… like, a study girl now.”

“Hm,” Naoya said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “That’s what happens when you have a good influence.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So now you wanna take credit?”

“Did I say that?” he asked mildly, sipping again.

“You implied it.”

“Nah,” he said, and this time it was softer. Something too subtle to register as warmth on most people. “You did it yourself.”

You blinked. “…That’s weirdly humble of you.”

He shrugged. Looked away. “Well, I did pinkie promise you. Doesn’t feel right to gloat about a promise.”

You paused, straw still in your mouth.

Naoya didn’t look up, but his fingers tapped against the ceramic mug, like they wanted to say more than his mouth would. Like he wanted to tell you that he’d watched every tantrum and skipped party and sigh-heavy late night with more attention than he’d give a televised debate. That he did push you, sure, but only because he knew it’d work. Not out of control, not even really out of duty, but because deep down — and God forbid he ever say it out loud — he liked seeing you win.

And this? This felt like a win.

You slurped obnoxiously.

“You’re still second place though.”

He rolled his eyes. “Can I get an extra shot of espresso in this betrayal, please?”

“No,” you grinned. “You can get a cookie. ‘Cause you were good. Like, not great, but decent.”

He snorted. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

You reached across the table and hooked your pinkie with his — unspoken but understood. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t say anything. But he didn’t let go either.

☆ RYOMEN SUKUNA

Having your thousand-plus-year-old courter — and yes, that was the word he insisted on using, because ‘boyfriend’ was apparently too pedestrian — in your college batch was never, ever part of the master plan. But then again, neither was Sukuna showing up to orientation wearing all black, multiple piercings, and a thundercloud expression, introducing himself with nothing but, “Ryomen Sukuna, again.”

And the professors just nodded, like he was on the roll call. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d done this.

“How many times have you enrolled in college?” you asked once, in between classes. He hummed, lounging on the bench beside you with all the relaxed menace of a panther that learned PowerPoint.

“Who’s counting?”

“You.”

“Ninety-seven, technically. But this is the first time I’ve done it with you here, so.”

Your pen stopped moving. “Ew.”

He shrugged. “I was sentimental.”

That was his version of a love confession. But when it came to exams?

Sukuna was terrifying.

He didn’t study — he calibrated. Curled up on the floor with three textbooks spread around him, a laptop, and a notebook that was colour-coded like a pastel warzone. You weren’t sure how a man with arms that thick and hands that large could gracefully wield a fine-tip pink Stabilo, but he did, with precision no less, and scarily good penmanship.

He predicted paper formats like he dreamed them. Knew what would be cut from the syllabus before the syllabus updated. He once finished a calculus mock in seven minutes and then redrew the diagram in better resolution “because it was ugly.”

“I don’t understand how you know everything,” you muttered one night, forehead against the library table.

He looked up, tapping your head with a capped pen. “I’ve done law, medicine, theoretical physics, history, literature, world religions, culinary arts. I once got bored and completed an entire degree in mortuary science.”

“…What.”

“I wanted to know how people handled corpses in this era. Your burial methods are laughable.”

You groaned into your arms. “I hate how that was a valid answer.”

He slid a notebook toward you — perfectly neat notes, labelled with your name in the corner and a messily drawn doodle of what is assumed to be your face. “Here. These will cover the last three lectures. Don’t read chapter seven, it’s a waste of time. It’s just a filler question no one will ask.”

“How do you know that?”

He smirked. “Because that professor’s too lazy to change their pattern.”

You stared at the notes, then at him. “Did you annotate these?”

“Of course. What are you, a peasant?”

“Did you use three shades of blue to represent primary, secondary, and applied examples?”

“Obviously.”

“…Are these marginal doodles of my face?”

He didn’t answer. He just picked up his textbook again and said, very gruffly, “Don’t read too much into it. Your face helps me visualise complex theories.”

“That is not normal behaviour.”

“Neither is being romantically involved with me. And yet, here we are.”

You once caught someone whispering near him in the back of the library.

“I’ll give you five thousand if you tell me what chapters will be on the midterm.”

And Sukuna didn’t even blink as he hissed, “Get your money and your cursed breath away from me before I rearrange your organs permanently.”

But for you?

For you, he handed over three separate summary sheets — distilled to bite-sized chunks, written in blue and lavender — and muttered, almost annoyed, “I added some real-life examples so you won’t zone out like last time.”

You blinked. “You remembered?”

“I remember everything,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Especially you.”

And that, really, is what it came down to. He could be a know-it-all, a menace, a gatekeeper of exam answers and ancient curses alike. But he also once followed your voice around the library because you were having a breakdown over citations and he couldn’t bear the idea of you crying alone.

So yeah, maybe you didn’t have exam luck, but you did have Sukuna. And he was older than textbooks, smarter than robots, and just sentimental enough to buy you pastel sticky notes in the shape of cats.

Love’s weird like that.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

You were zoning out again.

Sukuna could see it — the glazed-over eyes, the slowly loosening grip on your pen, the way your head tilted just slightly to the side, like it was physically leaning into distraction. And the worst part? It wasn’t even subtle. He could hear the hum of the vending machine across the hallway better than the sound of your page turning.

He tapped your ankle. Once. Twice. Nothing.

Then he gave a gentle kick, toe of his boot nudging your shin under the desk. You blinked back to life.

“Huh?”

He stared. “I just watched you read the same line five times.”

You looked at the diagram. “It’s just…” you sighed. “The mitochondria isn’t mitochondri-ing right now, okay?”

“Are you confused?”

“No.”

“Did I annotate it incorrectly?”

“Of course not!”

He raised a brow. “Then what is the issue?”

You opened your mouth, closed it, then dragged your hands down your face with a groan. “I don’t know. I’m just… ugghhh, tired? Burnt out? Over it? My brain’s buffering like a Windows desktop.”

Sukuna sat back, crossing his arms, the look in his eyes shifting from mild annoyance to something quieter. His voice, when he spoke, was lower — not sharp or scolding, just… old. Weathered.

“In the earlier millennia,” he began, “when I first began to study, women were not allowed within academic institutions, not even as shadows. The very idea of a woman with a book was considered threat enough to chain her, or burn her, or erase her name from record.”

You blinked. “What?”

He leaned forward. “They let a handful in eventually, but only as a test. And most of them didn’t last beyond a term. Starvation. Harassment. Mockery. Not because they were stupid — far from it. But because everyone else feared what they could do with knowledge.”

His voice darkened just slightly. “They were not burnt out. They were burned out. Intentionally. Systematically.”

Your mouth had gone dry. “…That’s awful.”

He tilted his head. “And yet, today, with libraries open, and classes broadcast online, and syllabi in four languages, the same trend continues.”

You looked down at your lap.

He didn’t raise his voice, but it tightened. “It would be… grotesque, truly, if one of the brightest minds I’ve ever sat across — someone with access, support, and every damn resource — were to give up simply because her neurons decided to take a small nap.”

You glanced up at him, cheeks hot. “Sukuna—”

He cut you off, voice slow. Pointed. “Do not become a statistic, little one. I am too old, and too in love with you, to watch you waste potential like this.”

You blinked rapidly. “You’re in love with me?”

He rolled his eyes. “That’s what you took from that?”

“You’ve never said it before.”

“Because I assumed it was painfully obvious. I annotate your textbooks in your favourite colour and you think it’s for my ego?”

Your face burned. And as if on cue, your hand reached into your bag, pulling out the velvet scrunchie — deep red, soft, the one he’d silently placed beside your pencil box last month without a word. You looped your hair up, tied it into a ponytail, and he smiled just a little. A quiet, pleased thing. Like watching a storm obey his command.

You flipped the page, picked up your pen, and said, “You better be ready to quiz me. I’m finishing this entire syllabus in five hours.”

“Make it four,” he said, voice smooth. “You’ve wasted enough time pretending the mitochondria betrayed you.”

You kicked him under the desk.

He smirked. And finally, the world began to turn again.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

The results came in on a Tuesday morning — which was, in Sukuna’s opinion, a foolish time to announce public rankings. “The human nervous system isn’t even fully awake before noon,” he said, without looking up from his tea, “yet they expect you to process numerical outcomes that decide your future. The cruelty.”

You, meanwhile, were squealing into your phone.

“Eighty-seven!” you beamed, turning the screen toward him like it was a medal. “I passed! I more than passed! I passed with, like, style.”

Sukuna raised one perfectly unimpressed brow. “Indeed. A valiant triumph against… mediocrity.”

You slapped his arm. “Excuse you! This is great! And you got a what, ninety-eight point—”

“Ninety-eight point nine nine.”

“—point nine nine,” you mimicked dramatically, “because, and I quote, ‘I got bored answering correctly.’”

He shrugged. “One must leave room for mystery.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“And yet, irreplaceable.”

You groaned, grabbing his wrist. “Come on.”

He frowned. “Where are we going?”

“To get sugar. It’s a celebration.”

“Celebration?” he echoed, as though the word physically pained him. “My dear, if we celebrated every one of my academic conquests, we’d have to install a pastry counter in the front hall.”

“We’ll do that after midterms.”

He let you drag him halfway across campus, his hand comfortably cool in yours, his strides long and loose like a man who had nothing left to prove — and really, he didn’t. He just liked hearing you ramble as you walked, all bounce and grin.

When you finally settled into the café — one with chairs too small for his shoulders and cupcake displays too pink for his dignity — he sat with that usual royal malaise, gaze flicking between the pastries and the menu.

“You’re allowed to want things, you know,” you teased, sliding him a plate.

“I do want things,” he replied, already peeling the cupcake liner back with too much finesse for a man his size. “I want a regulated curriculum. A national assessment system not governed by last-century models. Instructors who understand pedagogy is not synonymous with boredom—”

“You’re doing it again,” you said, voice sing-song.

He paused. “Doing what?”

“Monologuing.”

His eyes narrowed, faintly amused. “I am offering insight. If anything, you should be grateful that your generation has access to such wisdom.”

You took a dramatic bite of your muffin. “Sure, grandpa. Tell me again how the syllabus was better when you were young and everyone studied on bamboo slabs.”

He scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. They weren’t slabs, they were scrolls. And at least back then there was a reverence for knowledge, a sense of purpose — unlike today’s pitiful excuse for intellectual pursuit, which is just students memorising poorly structured notes from internet forums and praying for grace marks. Truly, if I were to redesign the system—”

“And you’d do it without breaks, sleep, or a single piece of cake, huh?”

He huffed, but you could tell he was smiling.

“You forget,” you said, nudging his foot under the table, “this is not the industrial revolution anymore. No one’s going to die if you take an hour off.”

“I might,” he replied, but his fork was already in the cake.

“No, you won’t. I’m here.”

He blinked, quiet for a moment, the way he got when your softness hit him square in the chest — unexpected, warm, and a little bit unfair.

“…Hm,” he murmured. “Yes. Yes you are.”

And then, as if to shake off the tenderness creeping up his spine, he leaned back and added, “Still, if your generation insists on studying through TikTok dances and dog-eared pirated PDFs, then perhaps you do need someone like me.”

You took another bite, grinning. “Yeah, yeah. Now eat your damn cupcake, professor.”

☆ GOJO SATORU

Sometimes, you realise — not everything needs to be done for a man, with a man, or because of a man.

But then again, sometimes, you do pick Mechanical Engineering as your elective minor because your dumbass of a boyfriend squealed when he saw the department course list and said, “Wait, I’m taking that too!! Imagine us in the same lecture!!”

And you — against all God-given instinct and common sense — nodded and muttered something like, “Yeah, sure, why not,” without realising the chaos you had just signed up for.

It’s not like you weren’t a science girlie. You were. You were out here studying Biomedical Engineering — microcontrollers in prosthetics, tissue engineering, ECG signal filtration. But Mechanical? It just… hit different.

Like a blunt object. To the face.

Because suddenly, you were neck-deep in stress analysis, thermal expansion equations, CAD diagrams with impossible constraints, and this absolutely insufferable professor who thought throwing in a 3D truss problem every class would make the batch stronger. Stronger in what? Misery?

And through it all, Gojo… flourished.

He sat next to you in lecture like he owned the patent on Mechanical Engineering itself. Mouthing off entire fluid dynamics derivations from memory. Sketching stress-strain curves on the back of his hand like it was art. Muttering things like “Yeah yeah, this is basic thermofluids stuff, it’s all about entropy, baby,” while you were busy trying to figure out what direction the torque was even going in.

You’d side-eye him, and he’d wink back at you. He’d lean over mid-tutorial to help you with your FEM calculation and immediately get distracted by your nails.

“Wait, these are new. Wait, I paid for these.”

“Yes, baby, you did.”

He squinted. “And you're writing with them? Like for real?”

You snorted. “No, actually I’m telepathically sending the equations to the TA.”

Then there was the ring. His ring — a sleek, simple silver band he got for your one-year anniversary. Technically a promise ring, but also his way of saying ‘yes I know I annoy you and also mess up your notes but look, shiny object.’

You still wore it, and he noticed it every time.

Sometimes when you’re bent over your notebook, trying to figure out why your stress analysis graph looks like a parabola instead of a straight line, he’s not even helping anymore — just poking your cheek and whispering, “Still wearing it, huh?” like a middle schooler with a crush.

But despite all the chaos, despite him getting distracted every 3.2 seconds, despite the fact that you’d absolutely choose not to take this minor again given the chance — you didn’t regret it.

Because every time you felt like you were falling behind, or that you weren’t cut out for this — he’d show up with iced coffee and annotated notes, pulling your laptop over like, “Okay baby, let’s break it down. Torque is basically just spicy force, right? Like, force but make it spin.”

And when you’d mumble that maybe you weren’t meant for this, maybe you should’ve gone for Environmental Science or something easier, he’d just grin, tuck a piece of hair behind your ear and say, “Nah. You’re a badass Biomedical Engineer who just also happens to be dating the future Mechatronics Overlord. We’re a STEM power couple. Deal with it.”

And you’d roll your eyes, hide your smile behind your problem set, and say, “Fine. But you’re doing the CAD modelling next time.”

“Deal,” he’d grin. “As long as you keep letting me ogle your notes and your nails.”

So yeah, you didn’t do it for him, you did it with him. And maybe, just a little bit… in spite of him.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

You don’t know what’s worse — that you’re fumbling basic statics questions, or that your boyfriend is the one watching it happen.

You didn’t even want to study with him today. You’ve been dodging this study date all week, and you think he knows it. You’re too fried. Your mind’s made of chewed gum and missing neurons, your notes look like they were written by a drunken pigeon, and your self-esteem? Currently buried under a collapsed truss bridge, courtesy of last week's pop quiz.

But Gojo — sweet, oblivious Gojo — he bounced into your dorm like a golden retriever with a textbook tucked under one arm and a half-eaten brownie in the other.

“Baby! Ready to engineering?” he beamed, as if the word were a verb.

You wanted to cry. Still, you tried. You sat down and opened your books. You even attempted a few questions, because maybe if you got one right, your brain would stop trying to sabotage you.

You got none right. And Gojo — initially — thought it was hilarious.

“Nooo, babe, no. You’re drawing the moment in the wrong direction. Again,” he said, laughing as he leaned over to flip your diagram. “This beam isn’t sad, it’s just… dramatically bending.”

The fifth time, he clapped dramatically when you forgot how to calculate torque.

“Torque? Torque is just — wait, you forgot again?”

“Satoru.”

“It’s literally spicy force, we’ve been over this. Clockwise? Anticlockwise? Baby please.”

And the sixth time? That’s when he realised you weren’t confused. You were just… done. Mentally checked out. Burnt to a crisp.

He blinked at your silence, your blank stare, the way your pencil was just sitting in your hand like a prop. Your brow was furrowed, not in concentration, but that quiet spiral kind of frustration that said “if one more thing goes wrong today I’m going to eat drywall.”

So naturally — because he had just binge-watched a 19-year-old’s TikTok on “Five Ways to Motivate Your Burnt-Out Study Buddy” on the train over — Gojo decided to pick option three: tease them until they fight back.

Brilliant idea.

“You know,” he said, flopping backwards onto your bed like a menace, “it’s okay. I mean, not everyone’s meant to calculate shear force. You can just be cute and sit pretty. I’ll build the robots, you just paint them pink or something—”

You slammed your pen down. Hard.

He paused.

“Oh?” he grinned.

“Oh?” you mimicked, deadly. “Say that again. Say that again, Gojo.”

He sat up, curious, slightly worried. “I mean, technically—”

You grabbed your notes and began rewriting them with violent precision.

“What are you—?”

“Shut. Up.”

And then it began.

For the next hour, you studied like your very worth as a woman depended on it. Like the fate of feminism was tied directly to your understanding of axial force. You muttered formulas under your breath like they were war chants, scribbled diagrams in your rough notebook like a possessed drafter, and you even ignored Gojo’s every attempt to make another joke.

He blinked, stunned. Fascinated. Possibly terrified.

After a while, he tried testing the waters. Casually, innocently:

“Hey babe, what’s the bending moment at a fixed end again—?”

“Zero for hinge, M for fixed, we’ve done this six times already. Keep up.”

He raised his hands. “Whoa.”

A minute later, again:

“How would you convert 75Nm into—”

“Kilonewton meter. You divide by a thousand, I’m not an idiot.”

“I never said you were an—”

“You implied it, with your stupid pink robot comment. Go fetch me a sandwich or quiz me properly.”

Gojo blinked. You glared at him, still solving.

“I mean, not to sound horny about it but that was… so hot.”

“Shut up, Gojo.”

“I mean it. You’re like… academic Barbie. I love her.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched.

Because yes, you were tired. You were fried. You hated the unit, hated the workload, hated that you felt like you were falling behind. But somehow, through sheer pettiness and the burning desire to prove that you would not be turned into a pretty robot decorator, you pulled yourself back from the brink.

And Gojo? Well, he may be an idiot, but he’s your idiot. And he’s also bringing you bubble tea tomorrow as penance.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

It’s only after results are out — after you both get your grades, after you breathe a little, after Gojo has whooped and spun you around dramatically in the corridor screaming “We passed!! I’m a genius!!” and you just kind of… blink at him — that he realises something is off.

Because you don’t smile, not really. You mutter, “Congrats,” and show your phone screen.

90%. A fantastic grade by any measure. Gojo peeks at his own — 90.1% — and suddenly it hits him like a flying whiteboard marker:

He fucked up.

You barely make eye contact when he says, “You beat me in statics though!”

You mutter, “Not enough.”

And that’s when he realises. Oh. Oh, he really fucked up.

Later, back at your dorm, he watches you curl into your bed. You’re still in your hoodie, still in your jeans, like you just collapsed there out of sheer emotional inertia. You’re hugging your pillow. Not crying — just quiet. And that, somehow, is worse.

He crouches next to the bed slowly, fingers tapping your sheets.

“Okay, so listen,” he starts, and you don’t respond.

Which means he continues, obviously.

“I realise now that… maybe I shouldn’t have said that stuff about the pink robots, or the torque thing, or the cute-bimbo-girlfriend-who-doesn’t-need-stress-analysis thing. In my defense, I was trying to be like those TikTok productivity bros who say you gotta anger your prefrontal cortex into motivation—”

You roll onto your side with the blankest face. He swallows.

“Okay maybe not the best science, but like, the intent was there.”

You don’t say anything. He clasps his hands together in prayer.

“I am… so, so sorry. Like, I would write a formal apology email but you hate those. So please accept my verbal, in-person, live-streamed regret.”

You blink at him.

“Also,” he continues, dramatically collapsing on your floor like a felled tree, “I am limiting my TikTok usage from ten hours a day to four. Not three because I can’t do that, but four. A compromise.”

Still quiet.

“…And, I swear I will not — will not — mention Mechanical Engineering again until next semester begins. No jokes. No spicy force. No talking about CAD software as ‘graphic design but cunt.’ I’ll go back to pretending it doesn’t exist. We will only talk about your topics now. Like… biomed things. Like… blood tubes. Heart… molecules.”

A pause.

“…You mean cells?” you murmur, eyes still half-closed into your pillow. Gojo gasps, crawling over to your bedside like you’ve just spoken for the first time in 84 years.

“She speaks! She engages! We’re back in business—”

“Shut up,” you say, but softer now. “I’m just… really tired, Satoru.”

And that’s when he finally climbs into bed properly and pulls you into his chest.

“I know,” he says, arms wrapped around you, hand cradling the back of your head. “I know, baby. I pushed you too far.”

You nod into his hoodie.

“I just wanted you to feel good about studying again, y’know? I thought, if I made it annoying, you’d want to prove me wrong — which you did — but like. Maybe it was a little too much annoying. Like, bad annoying.”

You sigh. “I’m not mad. I just… it built up. And I didn’t realise how hard I was pushing myself until you made that joke and everything broke.”

His hand strokes down your back. “You can break, y’know. I’m not gonna think any less of you.”

“…I know.”

You both sit there for a while. Your head on his chest, his heartbeat stupidly loud in your ear. His shirt smells like peppermint gum and the pen ink from when he fell asleep on his notes.

He kisses your forehead.

“You did so good, I mean it. I’m proud of you.”

“…You got more than me.”

“By point one percent. Which is also how much my common sense was functioning this past month. Not a flex.”

You snort. And for the first time since exams ended, it actually feels real. You close your eyes, and he keeps holding you, and for a second, you think maybe you’ll be okay. That the next semester will come when it comes.

But tonight — you let yourself rest.

And Gojo lets himself be quiet.

☆ NANAMI KENTO

You’d always known Nanami Kento was a little intense.

Punctual to a fault, allergic to inefficiency, and somehow able to make you feel like a delinquent just by glancing at your open laptop and the untouched textbook beside it. But nothing, nothing, prepared you for the psychological warfare he launched today.

It started out normal enough.

You woke up from a well-earned, two-hour nap (you'd earned it by staring at the table of contents for fifteen minutes) and immediately did what any responsible person would do — sent your boyfriend five TikToks in a row. They were carefully curated too: a golden retriever pretending to do taxes. A girl sobbing over a balance sheet. One of those thirst traps set to study-themed audios because you thought it was funny. And a bonus one where someone set their calculator on fire and the caption said, “RIP to this semester.”

You waited. And waited.

You [6:47 PM]: hellooo You [6:47 PM]: did u see the tiktoks You [6:50 PM]: do u not love me anymore

Nanami, two hours later:

Beautiful husband/wife <3 [8:32 PM]: I’ll respond when you finish the accounting chapter you’ve been putting off all day.

You [8:34 PM]: ??? You [8:34 PM]: EXCUSE me?? You [8:35 PM]: what is this parental tone You [8:35 PM]: im fragile You [8:35 PM]: this is abuse

He left you on read.

You stared at your screen in disbelief. You weren’t unfamiliar with his “tough love” style — he did once refuse to kiss you until you submitted your final essay on time — but this was another level. He was weaponizing affection.

But okay, fine. You had pride. And fear. Mostly fear.

You opened your notes. You read, you typed. You absorbed an entire chapter through sheer desperation. By the end of it, you were delirious, whispering consolidation entries like forbidden incantations.

You [10:22 PM]: i did it. chapter done You [10:22 PM]: now laugh at the tiktok with the dog pls

Silence.

You [10:25 PM]: kento im going to pass away

Silence.

You stared at your phone, betrayal blooming in your chest. You refreshed his chat like a jilted ex. Nothing.

And that’s when you did it. You cold emailed him.

Subject: This is a cry for help Body: Dear Nanami Kento, I am writing to inform you that your girlfriend has, against all odds, completed the accounting chapter she had been dreading since 10:00 AM. Please confirm receipt of this milestone. Please also respond to the TikToks before I descend into madness. Kind regards, Your academically oppressed lover

An hour later, his reply landed in your inbox like a court summons.

Subject: Re: This is a cry for help Body: Thank you for your update. Please proceed with the remaining chapters as per your initial study schedule. You’re capable of more. Goodnight.

You blinked.

You [11:17 PM]: did you seriously just send me a goodnight email You [11:17 PM]: ken You [11:18 PM]: hello?? You [11:18 PM]: EMAIL???

Silence again.

You realized then: he wasn't your boyfriend tonight. He was your professor, supervisor, drill sergeant, and emotionally distant thesis advisor all rolled into one. And yet, you sighed as you opened Chapter 6. Because deep down, you knew the truth.

This terrifying, unromantic, stone-cold man genuinely believed you could do it. And it was sickeningly effective. Worst part? You’d probably marry him for it. After getting your degree, of course.

Assuming he lets you.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

At some point — maybe somewhere between the third ignored text and your seventh “BF pls respond” message — you realized things had hit rock bottom.

Your boyfriend Nanami Kento had not ghosted you in the traditional sense. No, no. He was ghosting you academically. No replies to your TikToks, no texts back, not even a voice note. And when you tried to guilt him into engagement with a photo of your highlighter-stained hands and the caption “doing this for YOU 💔”, he left it on delivered.

What did he not ignore, however?

Your public tweet.

You’d been desperate enough to post a photo of your notes — immaculately written, color-coded, even featuring a little sticky note that said “dedicated to my emotionally unavailable tutor BF 💞” — and within five minutes, he had the audacity to like it. And comment.

nanami_k: Graphs are accurate. Proud of you.

PROUD OF YOU. ON THE TIMELINE. Your phone remained dry, untouched, unbothered.

Your friends were concerned.

“Are you two fighting?”

“Is this… some kind of mutual breakdown?”

“Why does it feel like he’s supervising your dissertation and not dating you?”

But no, this wasn’t conflict. This was tough love.

You knew it was bad when you created a shortcut on your homescreen for the Mail app. Not for work, not for uni updates, but for the sole purpose of sending your boyfriend formal updates about your progress.

Your most recent was titled:

Subject: Update #9 – I Have Seen the Light. Body: Hi, completed Chapters 8–10 with two mock tests. Have not known peace since Tuesday. Please send emotional validation at your earliest convenience. Warmly, Your academically tortured girlfriend.

The reply came:

Subject: Re: Update #9 Body: Excellent. Rest for now. Don’t psych yourself out. I’m proud of you.

You stared at the screen, teetering on the edge of losing it. Because how could he make you feel like a star pupil and a neglected lover at the same time?

But then came exam day. And as you stepped out of the train station, clutching your notes with shaky fingers, you saw him.

Nanami. Leaning against the wall, sleeves rolled, hair neat, holding a coffee cup and scanning the crowd until his eyes landed on you.

You nearly crumpled on the spot.

He walked up to you, calm as ever — but you saw it, the way his eyes softened, the way his whole demeanor shifted. He looked at you like he hadn’t seen you in years, not just emails.

“Hey,” he said, voice lower than usual, gentler. “You made it.”

“Barely,” you exhaled. “You’ve been ignoring me for two weeks, Kento. I was one ignored email away from sending you a pigeon.”

His mouth quirked up into that rare little smile, the one he gave only when he couldn’t help it. “It worked, didn’t it?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he stepped closer, leaned down, and pressed a light kiss to your forehead. Warm, steady. His hand lingered at your elbow, grounding you. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I hated it too. But if I gave in every time you sent a TikTok of someone crying over their textbook, you’d never finish anything.”

“…It was one crying TikTok,” you muttered. “And maybe a dog one.”

He looked at you for a moment. “I missed you.”

You blinked. “Then why didn’t you text me?”

“Because if I did, you’d talk to me instead of studying. And then I’d have to keep you company, and then we’d end up ordering takeout and watching another crime documentary, and then—”

“Okay, okay,” you cut in, lips twitching. “You win.”

He smiled again, softer this time. “I already have.”

And with that, he laced his fingers with yours and walked you into the exam hall, like he hadn’t just mentally tortured you into academic excellence.

You were definitely getting a 90.

And he was definitely getting tackled the second the exam ended.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

You had said it dramatically — “If I fail, I fail with dignity” — as you walked out of the exam hall. But the moment you saw Nanami standing just outside, arms crossed and brow furrowed like he was the one who had just been grilled on capital budgeting and goodwill impairment, you ran. No thoughts. No decorum. Just love and speed.

You tackled him: full sprint, all arms and cheek smushed into his chest, like you were reenacting the ending of a very niche romantic school-life anime. He barely stumbled, just sighed, a breath of both relief and fond exasperation as his hands came up to hold you steady.

“I see you survived,” he said dryly, voice rumbling in his chest.

“Barely,” you mumbled into his shirt. “My soul left my body during Section B.”

“I warned you to revise Section B.”

“Okay, can we not do this right now.”

He chuckled, just a soft thing under his breath, hand trailing up to the back of your head for a second — longer than necessary. Holding you there. Grounding himself.

You didn’t notice. You were already back to your usual self.

Now the two of you sat side by side on a bench near the university café, your legs stretched out, his knees just slightly knocking into yours as you held your phone up and said, “Okay now finally, you can catch up on the masterpieces I sent you this week.”

He already had, of course. Every single one.

The dog doing taxes. The montage of three-second clips of different people crying over their exams. Even the thirst trap for reasons beyond him. He’d watched them in full. Some twice. One three times.

But he didn’t say that. Because now he had you. And your live commentary was ten times better.

“Okay this one,” you said, barely containing your grin, “this is exactly how I felt the night before the exam. Look — look how he throws the worksheets into the trash. Me.”

You tilted the screen to him. He watched. But more than that, he watched you.

Your eyes wide and gleaming, animated by every clip, every meme. How your hands flailed a little when you reenacted part of the audio. How you kept leaning into him when you laughed, like it was second nature. Like being close to him was easy again.

And he realized, then. He missed this so much.

He missed you. Not the productive, focused version he’d been carefully, lovingly pushing through study hell — but you you. The you who sent too many TikToks. The you who whined dramatically about stress and then beat it anyway. The you who leaned into him without thinking.

And God. He loved you.

“And this one,” you said, practically bouncing now, “this is so us-coded. Wait for the ending—”

He didn’t. Not really.

He slipped his arm around your waist, pulling you closer so your sides were pressed together. He didn’t usually do that in public. But right now, he didn’t care. You blinked up at him.

“What’s this?”

“You’re fidgety,” he murmured.

“I’m showing you brainrot.”

“And squirming.”

You grinned, nestling into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You missed me, huh?”

“…Yes.”

You didn’t catch the pause. Or the fact that he hadn’t said it sarcastically this time. Because you were already onto the next video.

“Okay this one has a cat and a whiteboard — I swear it reminded me of you—”

He didn’t care what the video was, not really. He just looked at you, phone screen lighting up your features, lips moving a mile a minute as you babbled, completely oblivious to the fact that he was falling in love with you again, just like he always did when the dust settled.

He’d survive a hundred academic seasons for this. For you.

“…You’re not even watching,” you said, squinting at him.

“I am,” he said, shifting closer, lips brushing the side of your head. “Just appreciating the commentary.”

You snorted, missing how tightly his fingers curled around your waist. “Loser,” you muttered.

“Yours.” He didn’t even hesitate.

“What?”

“Hm?” he asked, feigning innocence, already watching the next TikTok.

And just like that, the rest of your monologue continued. None the wiser. And he sat there, annoyingly, absolutely pathetically in love with you. Again.

☆ TOJI FUSHIGURO

You usually weren’t like this.

No, really — your calendar was always lined with pastel post-its and highlighters in shades of war: blue for Cold, red for World. You were the kind of girl who annotated photocopies of primary sources, who got excited about treaties and crises and coloured in Venn diagrams about the causes of World War I with almost erotic joy.

But now you were horizontal. Worse, you were horizontal on Toji Fushiguro’s bed, in his suspiciously tidy dorm room that smelled like muscle spray and stale coffee. Your back was half-arched over one of his stupidly expensive pillows while he kissed the inside of your knee like that alone would help you remember what the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk was.

“Five more minutes,” you mumbled.

“You said that thirty minutes ago,” he muttered against your skin.

“And yet here we are,” you said, with all the authority of a crumbling Roman Empire.

Toji, your terrifyingly hot boyfriend who somehow always knew the right angles for kissing and the worst angles for arguments, glanced up at you, brows raised. And really, you loved him. He was gentle in the way pitbulls were with babies and had the brain of a mercenary: sharp, practical, and absolutely useless when it came to academia.

“Okay but wait,” you suddenly said, shooting upright like a resurrected soldier. “I read this question off last year’s paper. Something about appeasement versus rearmament in Britain’s interwar foreign policy. What would you say?”

“Uh… appeasement’s like… when you say sorry?”

You stared at him, genuinely stunned. “Sorry?”

“Like… you give Hitler what he wants, right? So he shuts up?”

“Toji. Be so serious right now.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “I am being serious. I remember you saying something about Chamberlain being a little bitch—”

“That’s not analysis! That’s slander!”

“Felt like analysis.”

You could feel your heart physically begin to stress. You, the girl who did all her readings the day they were uploaded, who once broke up with a guy in high school because he didn’t know what the Schlieffen Plan was, was now dating a man who thought the Fourteen Points was a basketball score.

“Baby. Do you… know what’s on the syllabus?”

He shrugged. “You tell me what to study and I’ll remember it. Worked so far.”

“No it hasn’t — babe! That’s not how exams work! If I'm not studying, and you don't know the syllabus, who the hell is flying the plane!?”

He flopped onto the bed with a groan, arm over his eyes. “Guess we crash together.”

“No,” you declared, standing like a war general ready for mobilisation. “I am not going down like this. This is not Sarajevo 1914. This is not the chain reaction that leads to my failure.”

You were already grabbing your laptop, textbooks, three different coloured pens and a half-charged iPad. Toji watched you rise like some deranged academic goddess.

“You done being lazy now?” he asked, almost fond.

“I have to be,” you snapped, flipping open a copy of Europe Since Napoleon. “Because apparently I’m dating the dumbest hot person in the history department and I refuse to let us both perish in academic flames.”

Toji just grinned, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Yeah, but you love me.”

You sighed, already highlighting the causes of the Second World War in yellow.

“Unfortunately,” you muttered, “I do.”

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

Two hours later....

“Okay — okay, one more time, baby.”

You were pacing like a woman possessed, flashcards in one hand, your boyfriend’s tragically blank notebook in the other, eyes darting across the room like you were surveying no man’s land.

Toji was sitting cross-legged on the bed, shirtless, hair damp from a too-late shower, staring at you like you’d just started speaking Latin. Maybe, in his head, you were.

“What were the three main factors that led to the collapse of the League of Nations?” you asked, voice nearly breaking. When silence greeted you, you didn’t even blink. You just nodded, took a shaky breath and answered yourself.

“Structural weakness. Lack of authority. And the rise of aggressive nationalism in member states. Boom. Done. See? Not hard!”

Toji blinked. “You didn’t even give me a second to—”

“Toji,” you cried, borderline manic, “you said the League failed because no one liked it.”

“Well, I mean… they didn’t?” he offered, sheepish. “You said Britain and France were being selfish dicks.”

“In a very nuanced way! Baby! Nuance!”

You were nearly in tears now, not from panic about your exam (you could walk into a final with a hangover and still analyse post-war reparations like a machine) — but because he didn’t even know what paper he was writing.

“What’s even the exam called?”

“…History.”

“What history?”

“…European?”

“Twentieth Century European International Relations, Toji!”

He gave you a guilty little shrug, biting his lower lip like that would help. (It didn’t.)

You sank to the floor, head in your hands. Your syllabus was committed to memory. You had names, dates, treaties, pacts, and whole-ass foreign policies inside your skull. And your boyfriend? Your once academically promising boyfriend with a photographic memory and muscles big enough to justify a university parking pass?

He looked at you like you’d asked him to recite the Communist Manifesto in cursive.

Eventually, you crawled onto the bed, a woman defeated. You nestled into Toji’s chest with your flashcards spread like tarot cards across his lap, half cradling him, half cradling your notes like both were fragile children. His arms curled around you like he was scared you'd dissolve into stress particles.

“I used to think you were smart,” you mumbled into his shoulder.

“I am smart,” he said, grinning despite himself. “I’m just not… your kind of smart.”

You looked up at him, tears welling. “You once explained the entirety of the Cold War with a MMA metaphor.”

He laughed. “It was a good metaphor.”

“You said Stalin was like a heavyweight champ who got cranky after World War Two.”

“He was!”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. Instead, you just lay there, holding your himbo of a boyfriend like he was made of glass. He looked so unbothered, rubbing your back as if you weren’t emotionally spiralling.

“You’ll do fine,” he said softly.

“Will you?”

“Yeah,” he smiled, “you drilled appeasement into me like it owed you rent.”

On exam day, you stared across the lecture hall like you were trying to psychically beam the answers into his thick skull. He waved at you with that lopsided grin, pen spinning in his fingers, looking a little too relaxed for someone who thought the Munich Agreement was a beer brand two days ago.

You had half a mind to start using sign language if you could, mouthing “imperialism” every time his head dipped low.

He knew it too. He grinned like a bastard and then, just before the invigilator told everyone to put their phones away, he crossed the room and enveloped you in a bear hug, squeezing you so tightly your anxiety almost evaporated.

“Babe,” he said into your ear, “I got this.”

“Do you?”

“You believe in me,” he grinned, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “That’s, like, half the battle.”

You exhaled, burying your face in his shoulder for just a second. “Don’t forget what appeasement means.”

“I won’t,” he promised. “No more saying sorry to fascists.”

“…Good boy.”

He beamed like you’d given him a treat.

And honestly? Even if he flunked, you’d still probably kiss his stupid face off after. But you really hoped he passed — because you never wanted to cradle both your boyfriend and your flashcards ever again.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

You were checking the results with your heart in your throat and a pencil between your teeth — a nervous habit, one that made your gums sore but your mind still. Toji stood beside you, lazily chewing gum, one hand in his hoodie pocket, the other resting lightly on your waist like this was just another Thursday.

You blinked at your score once. Then twice. Then frowned.

“Eighty-eight point seven?” you whispered, stunned. “That can’t be right — I made one mistake in the comparative essay — how the hell—”

And then Toji leaned over your shoulder, eyes scanning the marks. “…Yo,” he said casually, “same.”

Your brain short-circuited.

“You got the same marks as me?”

Toji just shrugged like he hadn’t just upended the very foundations of your academic worldview. “Yeah. Surprised?”

“Yes?”

He grinned, leaned in. “And why is that?”

“Because two days ago, you thought Chamberlain was a YouTuber.”

He laughed, head thrown back, dimples showing. “Yeah. That was on purpose.”

You blinked again, unsure if you were about to pass out or punch him. “Come again?”

“Babe,” he said, finally turning to face you fully, the seriousness on his face so jarring it made your chest twist, “you weren’t gonna study unless you thought we were both gonna fail.”

You stared at him. “So you… faked being dumb?”

“I never said I didn’t know the answers,” he said, holding up his hands like this was court. “I just said you should tell me. And you did. Passionately.”

“So you were… reverse psychology-ing me?”

“I was loving-you-so-hard-you’d-hate-seeing-me-fail-and-get-your-shit-together-ing you,” he grinned. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Your jaw dropped. Not because it didn’t make sense — it did, weirdly — but because he did it all for you. You suddenly remembered the way he’d cradled you with flashcards, how he’d smiled through your breakdowns, how he didn’t once ask for your notes but somehow always listened.

“…I’m gonna throw something at you,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands. “I actually cried over this. I told my group chat you were academically regressing. I thought I dumbed you down.”

“You did baby me a little,” he teased. “Was kinda nice, honestly.”

You groaned. “I cuddled you while trying to explain the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact!”

“And I absorbed it like a sponge,” he smirked. “You were very motivating.”

You slapped his chest, only half-playfully. “You’re insane.”

“I’m in love with you,” he shrugged, “same thing.”

You stared up at him, torn between every emotion on the planet — sheepish, touched, angry, relieved. You pouted. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”

“And yours,” he added. “Forever, if you keep throwing around things like husband after graduation.”

You blinked. “That made you emotional?”

He looked away. “I’m not crying. I’m blinking very passionately.”

You laughed — snorted, really — and wrapped your arms around his waist. “So what, you were studying secretly?”

“Not secretly,” he grinned, “just… not around you. You’re distracting. I’d set Hay Day and Honkai Star Rail on auto and just study with revision podcasts and notes. You don’t need ambient noise when you’ve got me.”

You groaned again, into his chest this time, too fond to stay annoyed. “You weaponised my love for you.”

“Mm,” he kissed the top of your head. “If it works, it works.”

And honestly? It did. Because now, as you looked at your matching scores, you knew one thing for certain: you’d never have to lose sleep over him failing. Not with a mind like his.

Not with a love like this.

a/n i was going to include choso & geto but got burnt-out writing this (how ironic)

[creamflixx]

i completely forgot to add a prompt on the original ask 🫠

summer fling with bartender toji and reader who’s on their honeymoon alone after getting stood up at the altar, prompt 18, “you come here often?” “well considering i work here, yes.” from menu one?

you’re amazing, thank you 🫡

🍹 𝔂our 𝓭rink is 𝓼erved!

today’s special features toji fushiguro at the beach house, shaken up with the prompt: ““you come here often?” “well considering i work here, yes.”” it’s a strangers/friends to (implied) lovers with crack and smut blend, served in 8.4k words. be wary of the following ingredients: runaway groom / wedding abandonment, emotional distress + maladaptive coping (alcohol, isolation), mentions of familial dysfunction, implied revenge fantasy, audio-recording (consensual but cringey intent lol), creampie, oral sex (f. receiving), missionary with body worship, size kink/difference, overstimulation, mild dumbification, power bottom reader energy / reader initiating, aftercare 

ordered fresh off the menu at the creamflix tiki bar. cheers.

you’re starting to get convinced that the phenomenon of ‘what goes around, comes around’ has not only gone around and come around, but done so on a unicycle while juggling flaming pins and flipping you off the entire time. 

you were engaged — yes, past tense — to a man who was… fine? nice, in the same way plain toast is nice. a little emotionally constipated, sure. his opinions could clear out a dinner party in five minutes or less, and he had all the romantic depth of a spreadsheet. but he promised to keep you happy, and you — bless your deluded, idiot heart — believed that counted for something.

turns out what he meant was “i’ll keep you happy until the existential dread kicks in and i remember lifelong commitment isn’t as sexy as escapism.”

so there you were, full bridal glam, veil pinned in, heels on, a bouquet clenched so hard the flowers started bruising — and in walks the maid. not a bridesmaid, no. 

a literal housemaid from his family estate.

bless her trembling hands and awkward throat-clearing, as she had the unfortunate task of letting you know that your future husband had pulled a disappearing act, magician-style. except there was no dramatic flourish, no puff of smoke, no assistant in fishnets — just a man-sized hole in the idea of your shared future. and the kicker? it wasn’t even some sordid scandal, no dramatic affair, no secret double life. he just... got cold feet. 

froze over apparently, like a solid block of cowardice. so now you don’t even have the satisfying rage of blaming some leggy homewrecker. it’s just you. 

you and your tragic taste in men.

so after three days of crying so hard you gave yourself sinus damage, five bottles of suspiciously cheap vodka (two of which may or may not have come from a gas station), and enough ice cream to open your own pop-up parlour, you made a decision. a bad one, obviously.

you went on the honeymoon trip alone. to tuscany. 

because if you're going to spiral, you might as well do it with a view.

there is something exquisitely soul-crushing about arriving at a couple’s suite solo. the hotel staff were either too polite or too terrified to ask what happened, though one concierge did call you “mrs.” and you almost thanked him just for the lie. you now spend your mornings drinking espresso on a balcony meant for two, your afternoons judging other couples for existing, and your evenings watching sunsets like you’re in a sad indie film no one asked for.

so yeah. what goes around, comes around. and sometimes, it slaps you in the face, steals your wedding cake, and books a double room you’ll be eating room service in alone.

cheers.

—

the staff had started playing a little game amongst themselves called “where is she moping now?” — poolside chaise lounge? check. lobby couch under the abstract painting that looks like how you feel? check. that one awkwardly placed bench near the spa where no one really sits unless they’re having a quarter-life crisis in a bathrobe? also check.

you were basically haunting the resort at this point, gliding through corridors with the energy of a widow from a gothic novel — minus the black veil, plus a hoodie that said “it’s me, hi, i’m the bride it’s me.” ironically. painfully ironically.

you were in tuscany, for god’s sake. rolling hills, sunsets, wine, expensive olives. and yet, you had somehow turned this five-star escape into the emotional equivalent of a sad apartment with leaky faucets and poor lighting. your days bled into each other in a depressing loop: breakfast (three croissants), sitting by the infinity pool like a melancholic victorian ghost, maybe crying in the sauna because it felt like a safe space, and then retreating to your room to rewatch old romantic comedies and judge their optimism.

you were, to put it bluntly, the human version of a buzzkill.

so when one of the nicer front-desk ladies — the one who always wore red lipstick and kept trying to offer you brochures — approached you, you were already pre-cringing.

“there’s a bar takeover happening tonight,” she chirped, her voice way too enthusiastic for someone addressing a woman who was practically speedrunning the five stages of grief. “they’ve flown in one of the best bartenders from japan!”

japan. of course they had. as if the gods weren’t done goofing around with your broken engagement, now they were sending a bartender from your ex’s homeland straight to your little sad sabbatical. very poetic, very cinematic. possibly, borderline rude.

but how do you explain all that to her? she was smiling like she’d just solved a rubik’s cube of your misery. “yes, random stranger,” you wanted to say. “what i do need right now is to go drink overpriced cocktails from a man who may or may not remind me of my commitment-phobic ex. grazie (thank you).”

instead, you nodded. because the alternatives were: 

a) weeping in your bathtub with the jets on to muffle the sound, 

or b) staring at the minibar and playing a fun game of “how much is too much?”

that night, you dragged out one of your nicer dresses — bought with your ex’s card, a small but crucial victory — and held a tiny, pitiful pep rally in front of the mirror. you even read out those self-affirmations you wrote during your last year of college, back when you were a naïve, hopeful fool who thought “manifesting” worked.

“you are whole on your own,”

“you deserve love,”

“you do not need a man to validate your existence, especially not one who ditches you before vows.”

classic. and then you strutted — well, trudged with purpose — into the bar takeover. hammer time. 

emotionally speaking, you were already halfway hammered. might as well finish the job properly.

—

it’s safe to assume the servers had been briefed. 

either that, or the hotel’s internal gossip network had reached CIA levels of efficiency, because the moment you stepped in — clad in your ex’s money and a perfume that screamed “help me please” — they lit up like you were royalty returning from war. one hostess even clutched her hands to her chest and whispered something to another that very much had the cadence of “that’s her.”

or maybe, just maybe, they were like this to everyone, because, again, this was literally their job. but you’d been marinating in your own self-pity so long that basic customer service felt like a divine intervention. 

“right this way, signorina,” one of them said with a gentle hand on your back, steering you to a bar seat so fast it felt pre-reserved. like your heartbreak was on the itinerary. they slid you onto a cushioned stool at the centre of the bar like they were presenting you as tribute.

and that’s when he turned.

white hair, annoyingly symmetrical face, a smile like he knew something he shouldn’t. the bartender — the ones flown in from japan, of course — leaned forward with a twinkle in his eye and asked, “so, sugary or spicy?”

you blinked at him, slightly stunned. not because of the question, but because you hadn’t heard a male voice that wasn’t echoing in your breakup nightmares in days. and this one had a little mischief, a little warmth. something unreasonably charming about the way he raised his brows, like this was some kind of personality quiz and he already knew the right answer.

“uh… both?” you croaked, your voice cracking. 

his grin widened. “bold choice,” he said, already turning to grab bottles with flair that would put the bartending side of tiktok to shame. “sweet and spicy, coming up.”

you choked out a laugh before you could stop yourself, then promptly teared up. because what the hell? why was he being nice? why was your soul reacting like this was the first human interaction you’d ever had?

“you okay there?” he asked over his shoulder, voice casual but eyes flicking back toward you with a level of precision that made you suspect he was the kind of person who noticed everything.

“not really,” you admitted, blowing your nose into a tissue you’d sneakily pulled from your clutch. “but at least i look good.” he slid the drink in front of you. it was sunset-colored, garnished with a curl of orange peel and what might’ve been a suspiciously fiery chili. 

“then we’re halfway there,” he said with a wink. “sip slow. i only rescue one runaway bride per week.”

you didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or crawl under the bar and live there forever. so you did what any recently-jilted, emotionally-compromised girl in tuscany would do.

you sipped. and let the white-haired man with secrets smile at you like maybe, just maybe, the trip wasn’t a total waste after all.

—

you don’t know how many drinks you had. honestly, you lost track after the one that tasted like mangoes. 

the bar had blurred slightly, the music got warmer, and the gorgeous white-haired bartender — the one who looked like he moonlighted as a fallen angel on weekends — had disappeared. poof. like a mirage made of gin and charm. you even looked around, like he might have gone to restock something, or floated up to heaven where he clearly came from, but no. in his place stood… a man. and not the poetic, glowy kind. no.

this one looked like he punched drywall for cardio.

scarred lip, heavy shoulders, forearms that made you briefly consider abandoning therapy. he had the face of someone who didn’t smile often and resented those who did. and the minute your gaze swam up to meet his, his scowl deepened, like you were the problem. as if he hadn’t just interrupted your little cocktail fantasy with the energy of a bouncer who hated his job and your dress.

so, naturally, your drunken brain prompted you to say something smooth. something devastating and timeless.

“you come here often?”

the man stared at you like he was considering calling security.

“…considering i work here, yeah.”

and then, as if that wasn’t enough verbal violence for one sentence, he added, “you gettin’ a refill or are you done loitering?”

rude. you blinked at him, offended on behalf of yourself and your ex. not that he deserved anything, but you were feeling spiteful tonight. thanks, cocktail number seven. so you leaned forward, chin resting on one hand like you were a problem and proud of it. “two more, please.”

his brows ticked up just slightly. “you drinking both or you expecting prince charming to come back?”

“you’re here, aren’t you?” you said sweetly.

it might’ve been the meanest thing you’d said all year.

gojo — the white-haired angel man — had served your sadness like it was a delicate dish. had laughed at your jokes, made you feel like heartbreak could be fun, and made you feel like the main character in a very flirty sad movie with a jazzy soundtrack.

this man? this man looked like he ate jazz musicians.

and maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was your very recent abandonment issues clawing their way out of you in petty ways, but you were determined to keep him busy and waste his time. to irritate him just by existing across from him, smug and spinning gently in your bar stool. he grunted and started on your drinks, muscles moving like he was fighting the air with every shake. you watched, delighted. you were going to make this the most annoying night of his shift.

and if you were lucky? you might even enjoy it.

—

it was around the lemon garnish — specifically as he reached for the dehydrated slice with two fingers and started to crown your drink with it — that you slammed your palm down on the counter and barked, “no lemon.”

toji flinched like you’d just shouted fire. the thin citrus wheel tumbled from his fingers, bounced off the glass, and landed tragically on the counter, dying an undignified, unsqueezed death. “jesus,” he muttered, giving you a side-eye like he was debating calling a manager. “you allergic or just dramatic?”

you squinted at his nametag. toji. weird name. hot voice.

“dramatic,” you answered proudly. “very. but it’s personal. my ex liked lemons.”

he blinked. “and?”

“and gag me, that’s what. he put lemon on everything. salads, fish, pastries, people probably.” you took a dramatic sip of your garnish-less drink, shoulders already loosening under the warm hit of spite. “he once asked for lemon with carbonara. carbonara, toji. the crime.”

toji, to your surprise, didn’t scoff. didn’t roll his eyes or call you unstable. he just grunted in agreement and leaned an elbow on the bar like he, too, had suffered the tyranny of citrus. “my cousin’s like that,” he said, pouring something dark and amber into a glass absently. “lemon freak. would eat lemon peels like chips. real menace to society.”

you narrowed your eyes at him. “i see we both have a citrus-themed villain in our lives.”

he nodded solemnly, taking a sip from his own glass — you weren’t sure if it was sanctioned, but who were you to judge. 

“he’s the worst. always so smug. slicked-back hair, thinks he’s god’s gift to women. can't believe the guy almost got married, honestly. poor girl.”

“...wait,” you said, setting your glass down with a sharp clink. “slicked-back hair?”

“yeah.”

“smug?”

“yup.”

“weird obsession with lemon peels and thinking he’s god’s gift to women?” your voice was steadily rising.

“mm-hmm.”

you stared at him. he stared at you. it hit you both at the same time.

“naoya?” you gasped.

toji’s jaw dropped. he looked like he’d just seen a war crime unfold on his cutting board.

“you’re talking about naoya zenin?”

you pointed at yourself, eyes wide, hand over your heart. “i was supposed to marry him.” 

toji physically backed away from the bar, like you’d announced you were radioactive. “you’re the girl he ditched?”

“ex-fiancée,” you said bitterly. “or possibly just ex… situation. never made it to the wife part because somebody ran out of the country instead of saying 'i do.'”

“holy shit,” he muttered. “i didn’t even go to the wedding. didn’t think he’d actually go through with it, but i thought… y’know… he'd not flee.” 

you stared at him. “you’re related to him?”

“unfortunately,” toji said, face scrunching like he’d bitten into, yep, a lemon. “he’s my cousin.”

“you have got to be kidding me. what the hell are you doing in tuscany?”

“bar takeover,” he said dryly. “what the hell are you doing in tuscany?”

“honeymoon,” you said, deadpan. “solo. lemon-free.”

you both sat in stunned silence for a beat.

“…wanna get drunk and talk shit about him?” toji asked.

you lifted your glass. “only if you keep the lemons far, far away from me.”

—

toji clocked out in t-minus twenty minutes, which — lucky for you — meant twenty whole minutes of bitching rights with a six-foot-tall, scar-lipped, perpetually exasperated bartender who carried himself like someone who routinely threatened printers into working. you were two lemon-free drinks in, both made with the bitter passion of someone whose blood pressure spiked at the word citrus, and honestly, you were having the time of your life.

toji? he was a gossip girl. if that girl had an upper body built like it could bench-press a vespa and a face like he came out of the womb pissed off. but god, he could talk shit.

“this idiot,” he started, already swirling his glass, “used to carry wet wipes for his hands after touching doorknobs. said it was ‘delicate skin.’ i told him his skin was a hate crime.”

you nearly choked. “oh my god.”

“once threw a fit ‘cause someone parked their car next to his and it was ‘too blue.’ like, how is that even an offense? what does that mean?”

you wiped your eyes. “he made us leave a restaurant once because the waiter looked at me when I ordered. said it was ‘inappropriate eye contact.’” 

toji leaned back, looking thoroughly scandalized. “was that the same year he went on that ‘chivalry isn’t dead’ rant on facebook?”

“yes!”

“liar,” toji hissed, slamming his glass down. “he once made a girl walk six blocks in heels because his shoes were white and it might rain.”

the hotel staff, saints that they were, did not interrupt your venom-laced TED talk, not even when toji slipped you one of the chef’s actual gelato cocktails on the house. someone even turned the music down slightly, probably to help you both project clearer.

and when toji muttered, “fuckin’ gojo better not have invited people to the house again,” then offered, “wanna come with? it’s a mess, but at least you can see naoya’s baby photos and judge his tiny socks,” the only logical answer was yes.

toji’s beachside house — part of the hotel’s private staff villas, a sprawling, sun-faded structure with peeling blue paint and ivy aggressively trying to reclaim the front porch — was exactly what you expected from two grown men who probably used coasters as ashtrays. the front door was already unlocked, which toji pointed at and muttered, “gojo, that dumbass.”

you stepped in and were hit with the scent of sandalwood, leather, and something unidentifiably man — like half-finished cologne and burnt food. the lights were off except for the soft yellow hue of the kitchen lamp. “as you can see,” toji said dryly, tossing his keys into a bowl that missed entirely, “no signs of life, or common decency.”

“gojo’s out?”

“club hoppin’,” he muttered, pulling open the fridge and shoving something aside with a grimace. “i’ll kill him if he used the last of my bourbon again. anyway — baby photos.”

you followed him to a battered wooden cabinet shoved in the corner of the living room. toji yanked open a drawer and pulled out a dusty old album like it was contraband. he dropped it onto the coffee table with the reverence of someone about to ruin someone else’s public image.

“this,” he said, flipping it open to a photo of a chubby blond baby glaring into the camera, “is the devil himself.”

you squinted. “…naoya?”

“yep.” he jabbed a finger at it. “look at that expression. he knew taxes were fake even back then. his first word was probably 'inheritance.'”

you leaned in, already wheezing. “why is he dressed like a little ceo?”

“zenin family tradition. gotta teach ‘em young how to look like they’ll fire someone for sneezing.”

you flipped a page. “why is he wearing a leather vest at age six?”

“because he cried when he didn’t get a custom one,” toji said, grimacing. “claimed real businessmen wear leather. also demanded matching shoes, which he threw at the help when they were half a size off.”

“jesus,” you laughed, pointing at another photo. “is that a tiny phone clipped to his belt?”

“toy one,” toji confirmed. “used to fake-answer it just to ignore people at family dinners. once told my uncle he was ‘taking a call from tokyo’ because he didn’t wanna eat carrots.”

you paused, breathless. “i dated this man.”

toji gave you a slow, pitying blink. “you were gonna marry this man.”

you both looked down at the photo of baby naoya in his pinstripe vest, dead eyes boring into the lens like he was already plotting to destroy minimum wage laws. then you clinked your glasses together.

“to his future downfall,” you toasted.

“may it be public, messy, and lemon-scented.”

—

you and toji were drunk. not just drunk — frat-boy-who-just-lost-a-beer-pong-bet-and-is-wearing-a-pink-tutu drunk. that kind of drunk. vodka had replaced most of your bloodstream and spite had eaten the rest. and somewhere between the third photo of baby naoya in a monogrammed onesie and your sixth shared drink, an idea was born.

a horrible, cursed idea.

“ya’know what would destroy him?” you slurred, pointing an accusatory finger at toji, like he had to be held responsible for your genius. “if he thought i slept with you.”

toji blinked. then grinned slowly like a devil remembering he owns matches. “you’re evil.”

“i’m petty,” you corrected proudly. “and he deserves emotional trauma.”

“god, that smug little — okay,” he straightened up, clapping his hands. “okay. let’s do it. we’re gonna fake fuck. real convincingly.”

“you have to record it,” you said, fumbling with your phone. “like, just the audio. don’t be a perv.”

“oh no, i’m a professional.” he held the phone like it was a mic. “on your cue, ma’am.”

and then it began.

you both sat perched at the edge of his bed, absolutely hammered, trying to conjure the most ridiculous, corny, over-the-top sex noises possible — the kind that would make a porn director pack up and go home out of secondhand shame. 

“oh my gooodd, toji,” you moaned, voice cracking halfway through from how hard you were holding in a laugh. “you’re so… so manly.”

toji bit his knuckle dramatically. “yeah, baby? tell me how manly. use metaphors. make it shakespearean.”

“you’re like… a mountain. with arms.”

he snorted. “i am a mountain.”

“and i’m scaling you,” you said with mock breathlessness, “like one of those desperate white women with ponytails and climbing gear!”

toji lost it so hard he had to bite a pillow to stop from bursting out laughing. you didn’t let up.

“don’t stop,” you moaned, this time reaching a pitch that could shatter glass. “toji, your cock is like — like —”

“—a traffic cone!” toji shouted. “long, hard, and something people crash into!”

you wheezed as actual tears ran down your face. but you pulled yourself together — barely — and grabbed a pillow, clutched it to your chest, and let out the most dramatic, performative moan of your life.

it came out sounding like someone dropped a seal into a hot spring. somewhere between a wheeze, a sob, and a dying opera singer. toji smacked the mattress for ambiance. 

“take it, baby!!” he yelled. you lost all sense of self. “yesss!! yes, daddy tojiiii!!”

a beat of silence. then the two of you collapsed, completely feral with laughter, limbs tangled, voices hoarse from screeching and cackling. you played the recording back and instantly dissolved into wheeze-tears again.

“this sounds like a crime scene,” you gasped. “i sound like i’m dying mid-fuck.”

“i sound like i’m committing war crimes with a megaphone,” toji muttered, eyes watering. 

you both laughed till your stomachs hurt, until your cheeks were sore and your breath came out in shaky exhales. and in the glow of the soft, slightly flickering lamp of that messy little beachside house, surrounded by half-eaten snacks, empty glasses, and a mutual vendetta against one pretentious lemon-loving bastard—

—you pressed send.

it was right after the fifth listen — the moment toji, with that scarred, smug-ass face, pressed pause and tilted his head — that the silence got... thick. 

like, real thick. like gravy in a fridge thick.

you adjusted your bracelets with one hand, brushing your hair off your sticky, alcohol-warmed face with the other. toji rubbed the back of his neck, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “jesus christ” under his breath.

a cough. your bracelets clinked. the audio recording crackled in the background, still open and paused at your ungodly mating call of “daddy toji!!”

“so,” you said weakly, clearing your throat. “that happened.” toji squinted, all stern brow and puffed cheeks, before shaking his head. “nah.”

you blinked. “...nah?”

“nah,” he said again, sitting up straighter like this was a boardroom meeting. “it’s not believable.”

“excuse me? i think I blew out a vocal cord for that performance.”

“and i appreciate it,” he said, patting your knee. “really. oscar-worthy. but i sound like i’m having a spiritual crisis, and you sound like you’re being exorcised. it needs nuance.”

“nuance,” you repeated flatly.

“we need to… warm up to it,” he said, suddenly not making eye contact. “you know, maybe do it a little more authentically.”

a beat passed as you stared at him and he stared at the floor. your brain — smirnoff-soaked and vengeance-fueled — took five seconds to understand what he was suggesting.

“oh my god,” you whispered.

toji held up both hands. “strictly for the tape and it’s artistic integrity. for a zenin’s trauma.”

you didn’t know whether it was your inner bitch who wanted to permanently ruin lemons for that man, or the vodka whispering do it, coward, but you nodded. 

“okay,” you said slowly. “okay.”

“cool.” toji stood, turned, and suddenly — sprinted. 

you watched him tear through his room like a man possessed, yanking open drawers, checking coat pockets, flinging aside gym shorts like they were personally insulting him. 

“where the fuck is it — no, that’s expired — goddammit, who took the — gojo you STUPID—”

you blinked. “are you… looking for a condom?”

“yes!” he shouted from under his bed. “obviously! i’m not gonna just raw you, what do i look like, twenty?”

“you look like a man spiraling,” you replied, raising a brow. he popped his head up from the closet, hair slightly messed, cheeks slightly red, looking deeply, deeply offended. “this is called being responsible. i’m being responsible for you, okay?”

“you’re being a hamster on cocaine.”

toji froze, panting slightly. you tilted your head. 

“...i’m on a safe day.”

he blinked.

“wait, seriously?”

you nodded, lips twitching. he stood still for a second longer, brain visibly buffering, and then something changed. his whole posture relaxed — no more frantic dad-energy, no more panicked rummaging — just slow, slow realization. “okay,” he said softly, licking his bottom lip. “so we’re really doing this?”

you met his eyes. “for art,” you said solemnly.

he grinned — and it was so boyish, so cocky-but-shy, that it genuinely knocked the wind out of you. for a man who looked like he could rip doors off hinges, he sure carried the nervous energy of a college kid about to get lucky at prom. “i’m gonna try not to fuck this up,” he mumbled, running a hand through his hair.

you smirked, leaning back on the bed. “better than you try not to fuck me up.”

“…you did not just say that,” he said, laughing, crawling toward you.

“oh, i absolutely did,” you said, holding up your phone. “and guess what — we’re recording this take, too.”

if someone — god forbid — were to walk in right now, they’d see something so deeply unholy, so profoundly concerning, they’d probably just turn right back around and pretend they’d never met either of you. toji was shirtless, phone in one hand, your ankle hooked over his shoulder like it was nothing. the other hand? well. that one was busy.

“you sure it picked up that time?” he asked, scowling at the screen of his galaxy like it just insulted his mother. you, meanwhile, were panting — not dramatically anymore, not performative — just annoyed.  “toji,” you hissed, clutching the sheets, “maybe if you stopped moving it like it’s a damn boom mic, we’d have the sound by now—”

“i’m trying to capture the squelch.”

you stared at him. 

“do not ever say that sentence again.”

he deadpanned. “you’re welcome for my commitment to detail.”

“you’re using me like a test subject in an audio engineering class.”

he ignored that, leaning in. “just a little more, hold on—”

you gasped — more out of reflex than performance — when he crooked his fingers just so. “that’s the one,” he muttered, delighted. “shit, i think we finally got the good angle.”

you groaned, head falling back against the pillows, your body burning, your skin sticky and flushed and too goddamn aware of the fact that this was supposed to be a bit. revenge porn, but like, classy. you were supposed to be laughing about it. so why the hell did it feel like your pulse was trying to leap into his hands? “jesus christ,” you mumbled under your breath, just as he eased his fingers out. 

toji held up the phone like it was evidence in court. “okay,” he said. “i’m sending this version.”

you snatched it from him before he could. “you’re not even gonna listen back?”

“i’ve heard it live,” he said, grinning. “that’s enough for me.”

your brows drew together as you hit play, squinting.

wet. obscenely wet. followed by your voice, soft and ruined and embarrassingly breathy — not a performance at all. and toji’s, low and unintentionally filthy, like he wasn’t even trying to sound hot but somehow did.

you both sat in silence as the audio played.

“...we’re not sending this,” you whispered.

“...no,” toji agreed, rubbing a hand down his face. “no, we are absolutely not sending this.”

a beat. then he coughed, grabbing a blanket and suddenly very invested in a smudge on the wall. “...anyway,” he mumbled, “that was just for practice, right?”

“right,” you said quickly, curling into yourself. your body was still tingling. “not like we were actually trying to… do anything.”

“nope. just quality assurance.”

“sound check.”

“mm-hm.”

toji shifted closer. not touching, but close enough to feel the heat of him where his thigh nearly pressed yours. you didn’t move away. 

the phone buzzed weakly in your lap — 5% battery. you muttered, “samsung can’t take this kind of damage.”

toji snorted. “neither can i.”

neither of you laughed. not really. but really, who were you kidding?

two grown-ass adults sitting beside each other like the idea of physical intimacy was some far-off urban legend, like bigfoot or reasonably priced therapy. and it wasn’t even the tense sexual chemistry kind of silence — it was the awkward kind, like you’d both accidentally watched the same embarrassing porno and were now pretending to be fascinated by the geometry of the ceiling. and you — well. 

you were fed up.

“okay,” you snapped suddenly, turning to him, hands flailing. “what the fuck is your problem?”

toji blinked, clearly caught off guard. “...huh?”

“don’t ‘huh’ me,” you said, jabbing a finger at his chest. “we’re here, we’re both single, we’ve done… things, i am very arguably hot, you are, fine, sort of hot if you’re into the whole ‘pissed-off gym teacher’ thing, and we’re pretending like the most scandalous thing that happened tonight was the bar tab—”

“you—”

“are you gay for gojo? is that it?” you blurted. “because listen, if you are, i will support you—”

“what—”

“i mean it would explain a lot, honestly, the bickering, the weird sexual tension between you two, the shared beach house in tuscany, like come on—”

“i’m not gay for gojo,” he said loudly, face scrunching up. “holy shit.”

“then what is it?! am i ugly? are you secretly celibate? are you, i don’t know, married to your job?”

toji held up a hand. “can you just let me—”

“no because if i let you talk then you’ll explain it in some rational way and i don’t want that. i want to be mad.”

he took a slow breath through his nose. “...are you done?”

you folded your arms. “...fine. say your piece.”

toji exhaled as he rubbed his temples, looking at you like he was trying to calculate how many brain cells he’d lost since you started yelling. “i thought,” he said, tone dry, “it would be… unethical to bone — yes, i’m saying bone, don’t look at me like that — my cousin’s ex.”

you stared at him.

he stared back.

“you thought,” you said slowly, “that it would be unethical…”

“correct.”

“...after your cousin left me at the altar?”

“correct.”

“after he ghosted me with zero explanation and disappeared off the face of the planet, leaving me sobbing into a bottle of smirnoff and pity ice cream in tuscany?”

“yep.”

you blinked.

“toji,” you said flatly, “do you know what ethical means?”

he raised both hands. “look, i just didn’t wanna be that guy.”

“you’re literally the better guy. like, there is no competition. the bar is six feet under.”

he tilted his head, considering that. “...you make a fair point.”

“i always do.”

a beat passed. then, as if a switch flipped, the man perked up. “so, uh,” he said, brightening in real time, “if we’re past the ethics talk…”

you snorted. “don’t say it.”

“...we can bone now, right?”

“jesus christ—”

he was smiling. smiling. the man who had spent the entire night looking like someone pissed in his espresso was now practically cheery, bouncing slightly as he leaned closer.

“you’re excited,” you accused, narrowing your eyes. 

“i’m respectfully eager,” he said, eyebrows wiggling.

“you’re disgusting.”

“and you’re into it.”

“…a little,” you mumbled.

he leaned back, hands behind his head, all relaxed and grinning like he didn’t just get his ass handed to him via verbal beatdown. “damn,” he sighed. “it feels good to be ethical and horny.” you groaned, flopping dramatically onto his pillow. 

“you’re gonna be the worst mistake of my life.”

“we can only hope.”

toji fushiguro, this 6-foot-something mass of pure unfiltered testosterone and probably illegal biceps, was currently hovering over you like a nervous intern about to give his first presentation — the only thing missing was a poorly stapled powerpoint and sweaty cue cards.

and to your absolute horror-slash-entertainment, he had paused — paused! — to plug in his stupid fucking samsung like the phone’s feelings would be hurt if it didn’t witness what was about to go down. “you good?” you asked flatly, watching as he carefully placed the charging phone on the nightstand. “are you waiting for the phone to be emotionally ready or something?”

“shut up,” he muttered, still hunched awkwardly, blinking at the screen to check if it was actually charging. “i just didn’t want it to die again.”

you raised an eyebrow, pulling the blanket tighter around your waist. “so just to clarify,” you said slowly, “we are about to engage in — how do i put this politely — revenge dick, and you are giving a damn about your battery percentage?”

toji finally turned to you, looking vaguely like a man walking the plank. “listen,” he grumbled, crawling back onto the bed with the grace of a retired linebacker, “just — gimme a sec, alright? i gotta get in the zone.”

you stared. “in the zone?”

he nodded solemnly. “if i cum in ten seconds i’ll never recover.”

“...you’re joking.”

“i’m not. i’m talking therapy-level embarrassment.”

he then, very seriously, clasped his hands together and mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, ‘please don’t let me nut fast, i’ll even stop flipping off gojo in public.’

“toji,” you said, blinking slowly, “are you praying?”

“do not interrupt me while i’m talking to god.”

“which god, exactly?”

“whichever one hates naoya most.”

you snorted, laughing harder when he kept going:

“and i’ll be nicer to the dog that barks outside my apartment every night. and maybe i’ll stop stealing the good conditioner from gojo’s side of the bathroom. and—”

“okay, okay!” you barked, reaching forward to grab his very tense, very hard shoulders. “deep breath. two things.”

he looked at you, eyes wide like a skittish horse.

“one,” you said, squeezing lightly, “if you’re halfway decent at literally anything, it’s probably this. the math just math-s. you’ve got, like, fifteen square feet of muscle. your dick is probably working fine too.”

he blinked.

“and two,” you continued, with a grin, “i have zero expectations. my bar is in the subbasement. my ex thought ‘foreplay’ was me showing up on time.”

“…damn.”

“so relax,” you smirked. “you can’t fuck this up unless you say something weird like ‘here comes the airplane.’”

“i wasn’t gonna say that—”

“or ‘you like that, baby girl?’”

“now i was gonna say that.”

you groaned. “toji.”

he grinned, and you watched — amazed — as the stiff (in all senses) nervousness melted off him and was replaced by something easier, warmer. he wasn’t grinning like a dick now — okay, still like a bit of a dick — but more confident, like your teasing gave him permission to just… exist here, in this messy, drunk, stupid little moment. “alright,” he muttered, nudging your thigh open with a palm. “you sure you don’t wanna run now?”

“why would i?”

he leaned closer, lips brushing your jaw. “’cause once i start, you’re not walking outta here tonight.”

you snorted. “i’m not walking regardless, toji. my legs are already jelly from listening to your doomsday monologue.”

“better get comfy, sweetheart,” he muttered against your skin, voice dropping, dick finally, finally sliding between your legs. and just like that, he was inside you, and you were gone.

the first sound you made was not something any of the world’s languages could properly describe. a choked moan, yes, but it was raw and high and startled enough that it echoed a little too loud in the bare corners of the bedroom. it clawed its way out of your throat before you could even shape it.

toji froze like a deer caught in the high beams of his own panic.

“oh fuck — was that bad?” he blurted out, already half pulling out like he’d accidentally triggered an earthquake. “was that a bad sound? did i just—did i—did you—was that—shit, should i stop—”

“no! oh my god, do not move!” you gasped, hands slamming onto his biceps like restraining bands. “i’m okay! i’m—fuck—i’m okay, don’t you dare stop!”

“you sure?” he asked, eyes comically wide, chest heaving like he’d just done twenty pushups and then seen a ghost. “’cause that sound was—it felt like i just did something illegal.”

“yeah, well, good!” you snapped, legs tightening around his waist. “consider me fucking arrested, just—stay there!”

toji’s brow crinkled, but not with arrogance. no smirk, no biting comment. just pure, wide-eyed disbelief as he muttered, half to himself, “jesus christ. okayokayokay. okay.” then sucked in a breath, dropped his head to your shoulder, and actually counted under his breath—

“one, two, three…”

“tojiii,” you groaned, half-laughing into your wrist. “you’re not defusing a bomb.”

“i feel like i’m defusing a bomb,” he hissed, adjusting his grip on your hips like he was afraid he’d break them. “i didn’t even move, and you just—god, okay. you’re sure you’re good?”

“would you like me to deliver a written testimonial?” you said, voice thick with humor and heat. “because you’ve got about three seconds before i start crying for real.”

that seemed to work. the next movement was deeper, more confident, as if your sarcasm finally melted through the panic fog. and once the rhythm returned, slow but steady, his shoulders dropped — just slightly — and you realised he was still holding his breath.

“you’re not gonna break me,” you whispered, threading your fingers into his hair, tugging lightly until his forehead bumped against yours. “this isn’t some fragile little ego test. you’re allowed to enjoy this too.”

toji didn’t say anything, but when you kissed the scar on his lip, his hands gripped your thighs just a little tighter — thankfully not in a fleeing-the-scene way this time — and the sound he made was something low and rough and unguarded.

missionary with toji, you discovered, felt like being tucked under a weighted blanket with a mouth. it was heat and pressure and the quiet shudder of breath on your collarbone. he was heavy in a way that felt comforting — like you were being covered, not crushed — and even with all his nerves, he moved like he cared if you liked it. 

but what absolutely killed you — what undid you — was when he dipped his head beside yours, eyes clenched shut, and muttered: “…can you, uh…hold my head again?”

you blinked. “…what?”

he winced. “it’s just. i like it. when you—” his voice dropped to a muffle, “—when you hold my head. it’s, uh, nice.”

you stared at him for a beat. then did exactly that — both hands framing his stupidly handsome, tense, trying-so-hard face, fingers curling into his hair. “you’re such a fuckin’ softie,” you whispered, grinning.

“don’t ruin the moment,” he muttered.

“too late,” you said, dragging his mouth back to yours, “now i’m gonna coo at you every time you fuck me.” and you felt him groan against your lips — this low, wrecked sound that was half annoyance, half complete surrender.

“yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, finally finding the rhythm again, finally moving with the kind of mindless grind you’d been aching for all night, “coo at me later. right now i gotta focus. your sounds scare me.”

you laughed, breath catching—

and then moaned again, much louder this time. and this time, toji didn’t stop. 

he beamed.

toji thought he had this in the bag, genuinely. 

sure, the start had been shaky — he’d done enough mental gymnastics to qualify for nationals — but now? now he had a rhythm. a groove. a solid three-star michelin pace that didn’t make you wince or bark instructions like a frustrated gym trainer.

and you were holding him close. like close-close. legs snug around his waist, hands curled against his back like you were trying to anchor yourself from floating into the goddamn stratosphere. you were even whispering things between those soft, shaky moans — compliments, encouragement, maybe even something suspiciously like a purr.

toji was fine. he was doing fine. until—

“toji…”

you said it all hushed and breathless and warm against his ear, a little raw and shaky like you meant it.

and that’s when the (metaphorical) anvil fell from the sky and flattened him.

his whole body jerked like he’d just taken a fucking taser to the chest, hips stuttering once, twice — then stilling completely as his orgasm hit him so fast and so hard it nearly turned him into liquid. his arms trembled and his face outright contorted into something haunted. and then—

“holy fuck,” he gritted, eyes wide as saucers. “i think—shit—did i just—” you blinked up at him, flushed and breathing heavy. 

“toji?”

he blinked back, eyes unfocused. “you—you said my name.”

you stared. “...yes?”

“don’t do that,” he mumbled, like you’d just hexed him.

“what—why—”

“because you said it like that.” his voice was hoarse, borderline wounded. “like you felt it. i wasn’t ready. i wasn’t ready.”

“toji, did you just—?”

he didn’t answer. his face was buried in the pillow beside your head now, chest heaving like he’d just finished a marathon he didn’t train for. one hand still gripped your thigh, the other flopped dramatically over your ribs like he was trying to play dead.

you blinked, then gasped when the realisation hit you. “you came? already?”

“don’t say it like that,” he groaned.

“you did, though—oh my god, in me?!”

“it wasn’t planned!” he argued, voice muffled in shame and cotton. “that wasn’t—i had more—”

“i said your name, not a spell!”

“it felt like a spell,” he grumbled, face still pressed to the bed. “a sexy spell. your tone had like…emotional depth. and breath control. don’t do that.”

“are you…mad at me for sounding hot?”

he groaned again, louder this time, dragging himself off of you and flopping beside you like he just clocked out of a triple shift at the factory of embarrassment. “i just needed five more seconds. maybe even ten.”

“so,” you said, cheek smooshed against the pillow now too, “i broke you with my voice.”

“don’t be smug.”

“too late.”

a pause. your fingers reached out and tangled with his, warm and smug and still slightly sticky.

“…do i at least get round two?”

he didn’t open his eyes, but the edge of his mouth twitched. “only if you don’t say my name like that again.”

“no promises,” you whispered, and he groaned into the pillow like he was already preparing to get smited twice.

toji was cooked. oh, he knew. his pride was folded up and tucked under the mattress at this point. missionary? yeah, not his strong suit tonight. too much pressure. too much eye contact. too much of you saying his name like it meant something. so what did he do?

well, like any emotionally stunted man with a moral compass wobbling on ‘just trying my best,’ he shuffled down your body like a defeated little gremlin, eyes flicking to your face for barely a second before locking onto the scene between your legs — his mess. the mess. his expression was that of a man reading a particularly harsh yelp review of himself. five paragraphs of ‘weak sauce.’

“don’t look at it like that,” you muttered, cheeks still flushed.

“like what?” he said flatly, still glaring at your cunt like it owed him rent.

“like it personally offended you.”

“it did.” he huffed. “that was a betrayal. i betrayed me.”

and then, before you could sass back with something truly devastating like “yeah, well, my pussy forgives you” or whatever was about to crawl out of your vodka-riddled mouth—

toji leaned in and licked. no warning, no flourish. just full criminal activity.

your laugh hit the air like a startled bark, followed immediately by a loud, garbled, “oh what the—” that broke off into a squeal so sharp you slapped your own hand over your mouth.

he was…apologising. or maybe doing penance. or maybe just trying to hide his face between your thighs so you couldn’t look him in the eye. because make no mistake — this man was munching. eyes squinted like he was solving math, tongue ruthless, grip anchored on your thighs as if you were about to levitate.

“toji, oh my god—” your voice cracked halfway through, fingers tangling in his hair. “you don’t—fuck—have to like, emotionally rebound with my pussy—”

“shut up,” he muttered, mouth already busy again. “i’m busy. damage control.”

“this is—this is not—fuck, oh my god, are you—”

you choked on your own voice again, spine arching as his tongue curled against the spot that made your eyes roll back like you were being possessed. toji, unbothered king of redemption arcs, kept going like his life depended on it.

“you’re being—unreasonable,” you gasped, both hands now tangled in his hair like you were clinging to him for dear life. “you can’t just—can’t just—do this and act like—like this is community service—”

“watch me.”

“toji—!”

you were done before the sentence ended. you let out a sound so garbled it might’ve been a sob or an orgasm or a prayer in a dead language. toji blinked up from between your legs like a sleepy lion cub, chin shining, the softest fucking smile curling at the edge of his mouth like he’d just redeemed his entire bloodline.

“even?” he asked, voice smug and husky and entirely too casual for what he’d just pulled off.

“...you’re a menace.”

“score’s tied,” he shrugged, crawling back up like a satisfied menace. “unless you wanna go into overtime.” you smacked his chest weakly, still breathless. “you owe me a nap.”

“so you’re not tapping out,” he teased, leaning in to brush his nose against your cheek.

“shut up.”

“i like when you squeak.”

“shut uppp.”

he grinned. and for once, he actually did.

—

the sky was cracking into lavender and tangerine by the time you realized it. “oh fuck,” you whispered, voice hoarse. “it’s dawn.” 

toji groaned against your shoulder, face still mashed into the crook of your neck like a human paperweight. “so?”

“so,” you pulled the blanket higher around both your bare bodies, “it’s around noon in japan.” 

toji cracked one eye open, bleary and begrudging. “and?”

“that’s when naoya does his little lunch ritual, remember?” you rolled your eyes. “he told me once about how he refuses to eat unless the tablecloth is ironed and he’s wearing silk socks.”

“oh fuck me,” toji groaned again, this time out of spiritual pain. “he’s such a fucking loser.”

you snorted. toji suddenly sat up, nearly elbowing you in the face as he grabbed for his phone from the side table.

“toji?” you asked, already suspicious.

“just wanna check something.”

“you’re not seriously—”

“just a little revenge voicemail,” he muttered, thumb already hovering over the voice note feature like he was about to drop the hottest diss track since 2005. “one moan. just one.”

but the moment he tapped his cousin’s chat, a tiny message popped up on screen.

Delivery Error (Code: 403) Your message could not be sent. This contact is currently unavailable to receive messages from you.

there was a beat of silence. and then:

“you’ve got to be kidding me,” toji breathed, blinking at the notification like it personally slapped him. 

“wow,” you blinked at the screen too, then leaned back into the pillows, unbothered. “the betrayal runs deep, huh.”

“i knew he blocked me on instagram,” toji muttered, dazed. “but even whatsapp? whatsapp?!”

“damn. not even a cousinly breadcrumb.”

“and i didn’t even go to the wedding!” toji was yelling now, still naked, still yelling. “this is why i don’t try with family.”

you let him stew for a bit before quietly sliding his phone out of his hand. “honestly?” you said, thumb locking the screen. “i think i’m glad.”

“glad?”

“yeah. like… i didn’t need him to hear it. he’d just get off on knowing he still bothered me enough to send something.” you turned over to look at him, eyes half-lidded but honest. “being happy with someone else? that’s the part he can’t stand.”

toji looked at you. really looked. and for once, he didn’t try to joke, or smirk, or self-sabotage the moment with some clumsy sarcasm.

“…you’re right,” he said, voice quiet but sturdy.

you smiled.

“but also,” he added, “fuck that guy. i should’ve spit in his lemon tea years ago.”

“well,” you shrugged, “you kinda did indirectly. inside me.”

toji let out a gasp-laugh-wheeze all at once. “you’re disgusting.”

“and you’re the one who begged the universe not to nut early like a born-again virgin, so.”

“that was a private prayer!”

“you said it out loud!”

he was still mock-offended when the front door slammed open and a familiar voice rang out, echoing through the beachside house like a goddamn trumpet of judgment.

“i knew you stole my limited edition matcha gin — waaaiiit.”

toji froze mid-snort. you were half-tucked under the blanket, looking like a scene from a very expensive softcore movie. and there in the doorway stood gojo, white-haired menace, sunglasses on top of his head, and three club wristbands still dangling from one arm. he blinked once. and then he pointed at you, squinting.

“aren’t you the sad girl from the bar?”

your soul left your body. toji buried his face in both hands. gojo, absolutely unbothered, lit up like a kid on a sugar rush. “oh my god,” he whispered. “this is better than reality tv.”

you didn’t even scream. 

because gojo already was.

[creamflixx]

the new blog decor EATS by the way ive been staring at it in awe the past 5 minutes

that makes me so happy , i was procrastinating it for nearly four days . . . but this one is here to stay : )

[creamflixx]

YEAH BABY WHEN YOU SEE ME COMING , YEAH YOU BETTER RUN FOR COVER meet your diving instructor, creamflix !! don't mind if you see a seven-foot something demon-king behind her , he's always around ! . . . anyways , check out the diving manual if you're lost . . ?

diving club members need to be above eighteen to interact , if not you will be blocked on sight !! or sacrified to the demon-king , whatever comes first ƪ(˘⌣˘)ʃ

'CAUSE YOU KNOW WHEN I FIND YOU , YEAH I'M GONNA BE YOUR LOVER check out the masterlist while you're here , or jump straight to the recent fic !

(｡- .•) all written content belongs to creamflix (circa. 2024 - forever). please dm before reposting , translating . modification / using for ai / copying is strictly prohibited , and you will be eaten if you dare to do so . other than that , message me if you have questions !

[creamflixx]

𖦏    /brief:   true form boyfriend! sukuna. female reader. crack & fluff. established relationship. sentient stomach-mouth. jealous/bratty sukuna.

sukuna’s glare sharpens like a blade the moment you slink over.

the living room has long since gone quiet — tension thick in the air, silence punctuated only by the occasional flex of his claws or the tap of your finger on your phone screen as you pretended to ignore each other. he'd shifted sideways on the couch, one set of arms crossed, the other resting casually over the armrest like he hadn’t been watching you sulk from across the room for the last half hour. the glow of his cursed energy still hums faintly around his form, his mood unmistakably stormy.

when you finally get up, his head tilts, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes, like a predator thinking its prey is finally crawling back.

“so,” he murmurs, voice cool and graveled, “you’ve come to your sens—”

but you don’t look at him.

instead, you drop onto the cushions beside him, your body pressed languidly against his side — not quite in apology, not quite in affection either. you angle yourself just enough to lean forward, lowering your voice conspiratorially and resting your chin lightly atop the ridged skin of his abdomen. 

then, with slow and exaggerated sweetness, you whisper, “you’re the only one who understands me, huh?”

the mouth — that damn traitorous thing embedded in his stomach — cracks open in a wet little grin, a pleased, glottal rumble spilling out like a purr. it flexes with grotesque delight under your touch, lips curling back as if preening from the attention. you reach out and gently boop the corner of its lip with your finger. 

“he never listens, you know,” you sigh, all mock despair. “but you… you always have so much to say.”

the mouth gurgles softly, pleased, one of its tendrils curling lazily along your wrist in something almost like a hug. sukuna’s eyes narrow. one brow twitches. 

“you are speaking,” he begins slowly, “to my torso.”

“mmhmm,” you hum, petting it again.

“my torso,” he repeats, coldly. 

“and yet he’s still more expressive than you,” you mutter just loud enough for him to hear.

there’s a pause. a deep silence. then — pop — another smug gurgle from the stomach mouth as it seems to giggle in agreement. sukuna’s jaw tightens. “i could sew it shut.”

“you wouldn’t,” you croon at the mouth, ignoring him entirely, stroking around the lips like it’s a pampered housecat. “he’s just jealous, isn’t he?”

the mouth gives a rumble of agreement, nuzzling its wrinkled lips against your palm.

“jealous?” sukuna echoes, venomously. “of what, exactly?”

you only smile faintly and keep cooing nonsense to the flesh-lipped abomination like it’s your new favorite pet. and it loves the attention — shuddering under each word, giving him the occasional sidelong twitch that reads as smugness far more than it should. sukuna glares at his own stomach like it’s betrayed the empire.

which, technically, it has.

“you know,” you muse with a grin, now poking gently at a fang between its gums, “i bet if he had arms, he’d hug me first. right, baby?”

the sound that mouth makes is somewhere between a burble and a snort — happy, if such a thing can be applied to a gut maw. the room fills with a faint cursed pressure as sukuna’s patience drains in real time. “this is beneath me,” sukuna mutters, the deep growl of his tone almost offended now, jaw set with regal disdain as he stares straight ahead.

“yeah?” you say idly, tracing a circle into his skin, still not sparing him a glance. “funny, you’re the one being ignored.”

he growls. the mouth burbles as you snuggle in closer. and for once, sukuna is left speechless — not by defiance or fear, but by the sheer absurdity of being one-upped by his own cursed flesh.

the final straw isn’t loud. it doesn’t come with fire or fury or flying furniture.

no, it comes softly — devastatingly — when you shift in just a little closer, curling your arm around sukuna’s lower torso like you’re cradling it. and not just holding him absentmindedly, no. your palm strokes his bottom abs with the kind of care usually reserved for a lover’s cheek, your thumb brushing along the skin beneath the mouth like it’s sacred.

and that thing responds by letting its long, grotesque tongue loll out, wet and wagging like a fucking golden retriever.

there’s a moment of silence. then—

“enough.”

sukuna’s voice cracks across the room like thunder. you freeze for a second, but it’s not out of fear. it’s the sheer satisfaction of hearing that tone, the one that means he’s seconds away from either obliterating a small village or throwing in the towel.and today, for whatever ungodly reason, it’s the latter.

“i apologize,” he snaps, tone stiff and almost… embarrassed. “you were…right.”

a beat passes. your brows rise slowly, lips twitching as you glance up — but not to him. you lower your gaze to the stomach mouth again, eyes wide with mock wonder. 

“did you hear that?” you whisper dramatically to it, like it’s your co-conspirator. “he apologized.”

the mouth grumbles out a satisfied little bleat, still panting ever so slightly. it flutters its lips in what can only be described as the unholy cousin of a smug giggle. you hum in approval, tilting your head in faux consideration. “hmm… what do you think? can we forgive him?”

it lets out a throaty gurgle that sounds suspiciously like agreement.

you sit up a little straighter, shift your weight, and finally — finally — look at your boyfriend. your actual, cursed king of a boyfriend, sitting there with every muscle taut like he’s suppressing the urge to either strangle something or melt into the shadows in shame. he won’t meet your eyes at first.

but oh, bless him. there’s the faintest, faintest pull at the corners of his mouth. not a full grin, no, nothing so lowly. but a twitch, a flicker — one human might call a smirk, and it’s trying to stay hidden behind all that pride. you huff a small laugh, then lean in and finally cradle his face the same way you did his stomach. thumb dragging lightly along his jaw, your expression all too tender.

“you’re such a brat,” you murmur, forehead brushing his.

he exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the dawn of time. “and you,” he mutters, hands finally coming up to rest on your hips, “are a menace.”

but he lets you do it. lets you cradle him, coo at him. and he pretends he’s unaffected, but the stomach mouth isn’t the only one betraying him tonight.

[creamflixx]

Hiiii‼️ sending an ask in for the summer trope thingy!

For the trope Protective boyfriend, does that count as a trope?? Prompt from menu one! No.16, “Can you please just hold me?”

Gojo for the character and for the location a summer getaway? rented summer home or something of the sort i don’t mind much. i just want a fic where the reader gets hurt on vacation and satoru gets all protective

lf thats something you can/want to do OKAY thank you so much bye bye!!

🍹 𝔂our 𝓭rink is 𝓼erved!

today’s special features gojo satoru at the beach by the summer house, shaken up with the prompt: “can you please just hold me?” it’s an established relationship and fluff blend, served in 9.3k words. be wary of the following ingredients: near-drowning, medical emergency (CPR), emotional panic/distress, brief near-death experience. please read with care if you’re sensitive to water-related trauma or sudden health incidents.

ordered fresh off the menu at the creamflix tiki bar. cheers.

summer brought with it the promise of bikinis, zucchinis, martinis, no weenies — just the king and a queenie. 

or whatever snoop dogg rapped about when he sang california girls. 

the king and queenie in question? you and your boyfriend gojo, flopped into your summer home for the next ten days, ready to unwind on your first ever “couple’s only, exclusively super-duper planned couplecation,” as he so proudly announced it. 

“okay okay but listen — there’s a beach volleyball tournament down the coast and if we go now, we can sign up before all the slots get filled!” gojo said, words tumbling out of his mouth like overstuffed luggage. he was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, unzipped duffel bags spilled open behind him like casualties of his excitement. 

“ororor — we could hit the flea market! they have those ugly seashell anklets you hate and i know that because i love you, but i also know you’ll secretly wear them if i get the matching necklace.”

you didn’t even have your shoes off yet. still standing by the door, you watched him half-crawl, half-sprint across the living room as he fished out a polaroid camera from the bottom of a tote bag labeled in glittery puff paint: “couplecation essentials <3.” he clicked the flash at nothing, then turned to you, grinning like a man possessed by sunshine and too much sprite.

“and, oh! we take sunset pictures. golden hour, baby. i brought the vintage digicams for the aesthetic.” he spun around and lifted a shoebox full of them like he was a street vendor and not the boyfriend you’d been dating for three years. 

“you get to pick your fighter. canon, fuji, kodak — these are for the photoshoots! not like, boring ones. like one where you sit on my shoulders in the ocean and i pretend to drown a little for drama. babe. babe.” 

he was already half-shrugging into the “I ❤️ MY GIRLFRIEND” shirt printed in comic sans. 

“i have props.”

you admired the enthusiasm. really, you did. 

you just wished you had a fraction of it after lugging bags, boarding delays, and listening to him rattle off the entire vacation itinerary on the ride over. you dropped your bag at the threshold with a tired sigh and padded toward him in your slides, brushing his messy hair off his forehead before taking the camera from his hands and turning it off. 

“‘toru.”

he blinked, caught mid-rant. “hm?”

“we just got here.”

“right,” he nodded solemnly. “which means we have exactly six hours of sunlight to—”

“nope,” you said, steering him by the shoulders toward the sliding doors that led to the small shared garden outside your rental. “we are going to sit. like humans. and not do anything, just for, like… ten minutes.”

“but the sea calls to me—”

“the sea can wait.”

you practically shoved him onto one of the lounge chairs, watching him flop down with an exaggerated groan as though relaxation physically pained him. he tilted his head dramatically toward you, squinting one eye. “but you promised to collect seashells with me. don’t make me be that lonely dude on the beach with two paper bags and no girlfriend in sight.”

“you’ll survive,” you said, sitting beside him and letting the breeze rustle the curls at his temple. he looked oddly betrayed but softened when your hand found his. “five minutes, then,” he mumbled. “and then we dig for sea glass and fall in love all over again.” you hummed, eyes closed behind your sunglasses. “sure, ‘toru. five minutes.”

you’d give him ten. maybe even twenty if he behaved.

—

you two finally lugged yourselves to the beach — or more accurately, you lugged yourself to the beach, dragging your feet through the sand like someone doing community service while gojo, bless his heart, scampered ahead like a golden retriever high on three cans of soda and no leash. the second the clock hit 4pm, he was ready to baptize himself in the ocean like he’d been called home by the sea gods themselves.

he was already shirtless, trunks riding low, bucket hat backwards, strutting around with the swagger of a man who believed the ocean feared him. you, in contrast, had taken your sweet, sensible time — modest two-piece on, sunscreen layered like armor, shades in place, hair tied up. you even sat for a few minutes under the umbrella you’d just set up, calmly applying SPF to your shoulders like you had all the time in the world. because you did, and you were sane.

“babe! i’m going in! this is the moment to witness greatness!” gojo shouted, standing at the shoreline like he was about to wage war. “the sea won’t know what hit it!”

“uh-huh,” you muttered, watching as he flexed dramatically at no one in particular before taking a running start into the water.

the waves welcomed him with all the gentleness of a rejection letter. 

one second he was yelling, chest puffed, arms out, charging forward like he was about to part the red sea, and the next — whump! — a glorious slap of blue swallowed him whole.

“HYAAA—!”

blub-blub-blub—

his scream dissolved into garbled underwater nonsense as a foamy wave shoved him under like an annoyed bouncer. for a moment, he disappeared entirely — no limbs, no head, nothing but a splash and the distant echo of his pride breaking.

then, like a soggy popsicle, his head popped back up, hair plastered to his forehead, sunglasses gone, mouth open in a dazed O as he blinked salt out of his eyes. you watched from your towel, legs crossed, sipping coconut water from a straw. 

“how’s the water?”

he spat out a mouthful of ocean. “refreshing.”

you smirked. “thought so.”

it was your turn next.

the sand was warm beneath your feet, the sun soft on your back as you stepped toward the water. gojo, now further out and bobbing like some tall, uncoordinated buoy, cupped his hands around his mouth and screeched, “just keep swimming!” in his best seagull-gets-possessed-by-dory voice. you rolled your eyes but smiled, wading into the shallows. you weren’t the best swimmer, but you could float. that counted for something, right?

the water was cool, curling around your ankles in easy little waves, inviting. you let yourself sink in bit by bit, arms stretching out as you tilted your head back, eyes fluttering shut. the sound of gulls, distant laughter, and gojo yelling something about sea cucumbers mixed with the gentle slap of the ocean — it was peaceful, like everything was holding its breath in the best way. you laughed softly under your breath, letting your body lean back into the water, floating — kind of. the sun haloed through your lashes, your fingers skimmed the surface.

then—

the water shifted.

you didn’t register the pull until it was too late. a sudden force rushed toward you, a wall of ocean that hadn’t been there a second ago. you gasped, but the water hit faster, knocking the air out of you as it slammed you backward, flipping your body like a toy. 

the sky disappeared. the sun vanished. there was only blue.

blue, and the crushing pressure in your ears, the roar of water closing over you, wrapping around your legs and yanking you deeper. your limbs flailed, instincts screaming — up, up, you needed to go up — but you couldn’t find the surface. couldn’t find which way was up. panic surged as your chest tightened, throat burning with saltwater, arms too slow, too heavy. somewhere above, muffled and desperate, you barely heard it — 

“baby?—baby!!”

gojo’s voice, tearing through the waves. the last thing you registered before the silence took over, before everything went black.

—

you woke up choking on salt and the taste of fear.

your ears rang like a broken bell tower, high and hollow, and your vision blurred into blotches of sky and frantic shadows. somewhere in the chaos, the world snapped into focus just long enough to let sound in — not gently, but all at once, loud and cracked open.

“back the fuck up!”

gojo. rage-borne, full-throated. raw.

“don’t touch her — she’s my wife!”

wife?

he was snarling it, practically fangs-bared, like calling you that gave him some divine authority. like if he said it enough, it would stitch you back together. the crowd around you — lifeguards, bystanders, someone with a whistle — flinched under the venom in his voice, none daring to argue as he crouched over your body, knees in the sand, chest heaving.

his hands trembled violently. coated in salt and sand, fingers splayed near your collarbone, hovering like he didn’t trust himself to touch you without breaking you. again and again, he tried to line his palms up, then pulled them away — his breath stuttering, lip trembling. “shit,” he whispered. “shitshitshit, c’mon, baby, c’mon.”

he was crying — not quiet tears, but the kind that cracked out of him like something breaking open. and then finally, your body jerked.

a cough tore out of your throat, mouth flooding with water and air in equal measure, your chest spasming as you lurched forward, hacking and wheezing, limbs still half-dead. and he—

gojo collapsed over you like a man finally letting himself fall apart. one hand on your cheek, the other cradling the back of your head, lips trembling so hard he could barely speak. but god, when he spoke—

“baby…?” it was barely a whisper now. “you with me?”

then, louder, like he needed to reassure himself. “ha, yeah. yeah, see? told you. a little wave couldn’t take down my wife.”

his voice cracked halfway through the laugh that followed, equal parts relief and denial, and his shoulders were still shaking as he pressed his forehead to yours. “you scared the shit outta me,” he mumbled, voice thick and ruined. “i was gonna fight god if he touched you, swear to fuckin’ — y’really couldn’t float, huh?”

you blinked at him slowly, still dizzy, your fingers weakly grabbing the front of his soaked shirt, and he looked down at your hand like it was a miracle. his whole face shifted, softened, some warped mix of joy and guilt and devastation pooling in his eyes. he laughed again, more of a hiccup this time, and kissed your knuckles with salt still on his lips. “you’re okay,” he whispered. “you’re okay. i got you.”

and then, more quietly, to no one but you, and maybe to himself—

“i didn’t know what i’d do if i lost you.”

—

everything was hazy. you didn’t remember how you got back to the summer house — just flashes of movement, heat, fabric against skin, the sting of salt in your eyes and gojo’s voice threading through it all like a mantra. you were tucked into the couch now, half-dry, half-dazed, swimming in the “I ❤️ MY BOYFRIEND” t-shirt, your limbs too heavy to argue with anything anymore. 

gojo was pacing. no — scuttling.

back and forth across the small living room, barefoot, wet hair dripping onto the wood floors, his own “I ❤️ MY GIRLFRIEND” tee clinging to him like it knew he needed a hug too. he was wringing his hands, gesturing animatedly to no one, rambling to himself under his breath with a tone just shy of manic pride.

“see? she’s fine — she’s totally fine. toughest girl alive, literally. a freakin’ sea wave can’t take her down — pfft, please, what are we, amateurs? baby shark who? sea gods? nah, they saw her and folded. folded.”

he started laughing to himself, half-breathless. “bet poseidon’s scared of you now. i mean look at you, thriving in your shirt. it’s a good shirt, comfy, life-affirming — ‘i love my boyfriend’ — me, by the way, that’s me, your boyfriend—”

his voice cracked on the last word.

“she’s fine,” he muttered again, as if saying it enough would make it more real. “she’s fine. you’re fine. you’re here. you’re wearing the shirt. god, i was so — but you’re fine, right?”

he paused in front of the window, fingers twitching at his sides, eyes glassy and unblinking as he stared at the horizon like it had wronged him personally. and for a second, he looked like a boy — not a six-eyed god, not the world’s strongest — just a boy who was very close to completely falling apart and had no idea how to put himself back together.

“t-they almost took you,” he murmured under his breath. “i would’ve — fuck, i would've gone down there and ripped the ocean apart, swear to god, babe, i—”

“‘toru…”

your voice cracked like old glass, barely there. but it was enough. his head snapped around, neck jerking so hard he looked like he’d heard a gunshot. and then he was stumbling toward you, legs barely coordinating, almost tripping on the corner of the carpet as he dropped to his knees beside the couch.

“what — what is it? what do you need? you okay? do you need water, do you wanna lie down more — i mean, you are lying down but i can make it more lie down—”

“can you…”

your throat tightened, a burn rising in your nose as you breathed in shallowly.

“can you please just hold me?”

his whole body stopped. just — stopped. then the air punched out of his lungs and he nodded — frantic, almost guilty — before crawling into the space beside you like he was scared you’d vanish if he blinked. his arms wrapped around you instantly, not tight, not yet, just there — hesitant at first, like he needed your permission to even touch you after what happened. and once you leaned in, pressed your face into his chest with the softest exhale—

he broke.

he held you like he was holding a memory he thought he lost. pressed kisses to your temple, your hairline, wherever he could reach, hands sliding up and down your back like he was checking, reconfirming, grounding himself in the weight of your body.

“you’re here, you’re here, you’re okay — i got you, i got you, baby, i got you,” he whispered, repeating it like a lifeline. “i was so fuckin’ scared. i — i was jokin’ one second and then you were gone and i — i didn’t know what to do, i just—”

his voice trembled. “i can’t do it without you.”

and maybe that was what it all boiled down to. maybe the rambling, the t-shirts, the pacing, the forced jokes — it was all just gojo trying to fill the space where fear had torn him wide open. maybe he needed this — you, in his arms, breathing, real — just as much as you needed him to keep you from drifting.

you spent a long while curled up against him in silence — not the awkward kind, not even the solemn kind. just quiet. the kind of hush that only comes after a storm, when you’re too tired to talk, too grateful to ruin the peace, and too sore in the bones to even think about moving.

the food came at some point — room service, courtesy of gojo’s wild panic and very real threats to sue the beach resort for “not protecting national treasures,” by which he meant you. the dishes sat on the small coffee table, silver domes lifted, steam curling into the air. but every time you so much as lifted your hand to feed yourself, your boyfriend would swoop in with terrifying speed, chopsticks in hand, gently shoving yours down.

“nuh-uh,” he muttered, feeding you a bite with a dramatized precision, like he was performing delicate surgery. “whaddya think you’re doing? resting princesses don’t feed themselves. i’ve seen disney movies. i know how this works.”

“‘toru, it’s just—”

“ah-ah-ah! don’t strain yourself! your fingers almost got taken out by a wave with attitude! let them rest in peace. i got it, babe. open wide—”

he even did the airplane noises. loudly.

“vrroooom, here comes the bagel—”

you were fairly certain you could chew on your own, but at that moment, you were also fairly certain that arguing would just exhaust you again. so you gave in, letting your boyfriend break off a tiny corner of the room service bagel with all the delicacy of someone performing last rites and feeding it to you like it was your last meal on earth.

he hovered — a gangly, white-haired, worried papa bear with no idea how to stop fluttering around you. if he wasn’t feeding you, he was fluffing your pillow. if not fluffing, he was checking your pulse. if not checking, he was randomly whispering “yup, still beautiful” under his breath like that was the most vital stat to monitor. you finally had enough energy to speak up without your voice crumbling into sand.

“…you called me your wife.”

he blinked at you. blinked some more. then looked away, mouth twitching.

“did not.”

“did too.”

“you were unconscious,” he argued, very confidently, “so technically that’s slander.”

“‘toru.”

his whole body slumped. like a collapsing pool noodle.

“okay fine! maybe i said wife! but can you blame me? the near-death experience was very dramatic, and i panicked, and honestly the word just felt right — wait, don’t look at me like that, i didn’t plan it! it just slipped out of my sexy, emotionally devastated mouth — hang on.”

he jumped to his feet, then crouched again, awkwardly patting around the floor with a suspicious squint like he was looking for buried treasure. from the depths of his previously discarded swim trunks, he pulled out a huge, white seashell — still glinting wet with sea salt.

“ta-da!” he grinned, kneeling beside you and dramatically holding the shell up to your ring finger like it was the hope diamond. “a placeholder, okay? promise of a diamond this size, or maybe bigger, once i defeat capitalism.”

you stared at it before you stared at him. and he just wiggled the shell slightly, as if to tempt you with its shininess. 

“can’t say no. not after you almost died and i saved you and fed you grapes like a roman emperor. that’s emotional blackmail, baby. i studied this.” 

you smothered the blush creeping up your neck by flicking his forehead and muttering, “finish your three half-eaten bagels first, loverboy.”

“hey! they were flavor tests! for scientific purposes!”

but you looked away as you hid your smile in the crook of your arm. because if he saw it — if he saw it — you were done for, and you knew it. because he might’ve been the strongest sorcerer alive. but when it came to you? he was just a boy, helplessly in love, holding a seashell like a promise he had every intention of keeping.

[creamflixx]

hello!!

Trope: forbidden lovers (ANGSTTTT PLSSS)

Prompt: menu 1 -> Angst -> no.2 -> “you started drinking again, didn’t you?”

Character: Toji >.<

🍹 𝔂our 𝓭rink is 𝓼erved!

today’s special features toji fushiguro at the beach, shaken up with the prompt: “you started drinking again, didn’t you?.” it’s an semi-resolved angst and unreciprocated love blend, served in 9.3k words. be wary of the following ingredients: age gap relationship (late 20's toji/19-20 aged reader), emotional codependency, power imbalance, mental health themes (loneliness, emotional dysregulation, implied depression), ambiguous morality, substance use.

ordered fresh off the menu at the creamflix tiki bar. cheers.

the first time you fell in love, it didn’t come with fireworks or violins, just the burn of cardboard scraping your arms and the sweat of shifting cities. 

your new house had chipped paint and the smell of something old, like the memory of someone else's life still clinging to the walls. you were nineteen, full of that sad kind of hope that clung to the future like static — unsure, uncertain, but willing to believe something better was coming.

you caught sight of him on the second day. 

pushing up a box with both palms, neck craned just enough to see over the rusting iron railing, and there he was — leaning against the doorframe of the house next to yours. he wasn’t doing anything special, just holding a cigarette between two fingers, gaze half-lidded, posture lazy. messy black hair, like he didn’t own a comb. a scar slicing across his bottom lip, splitting the pink like a secret. 

he didn’t smile, didn’t wave. he just looked and then turned around, walking inside.

you didn’t know his name then. didn’t know he was twenty-eight, lived alone, or that he had a son who didn’t visit. all you knew was that one room in his house was always lit — always. a warm, dim kind of gold you assumed was his bedroom. sometimes you’d see shadows moving past the curtain. sometimes you’d hear muffled laughter, a woman’s voice — low and breathy. other times, sharper noises. rhythmic thuds, wet sounds, the sharp intake of a moan caught on the wind. sounds you only ever read about in dog-eared books tucked under your bed. and you’d lie awake, eyes on the ceiling, heat pooled between your thighs, wondering what kind of man made a woman sound like that.

the only time you’d ever catch him outside was when he used the backdoor to dump the trash. never the front, never where people could see him. you started learning the pattern — around 11 p.m., a black garbage bag swinging from his wrist, his shoulders bare in the summer heat. sometimes a tank top clinging to his chest, soaked from sweat or a shower, who knew. you began timing your own trash runs to coincide. grabbing your little kitchen bag, dashing out like it was a coincidence, like you hadn’t been waiting by the window for the creak of his back gate.

and when you did catch him — just those few seconds — it was always worth it. he’d glance over, not surprised, just mildly amused, like he knew exactly what you were doing. “how you doin’, kid?” he’d ask sometimes, voice like gravel and sleep and sex, like he hadn’t spoken to anyone in days.

and you’d nod. maybe manage a quiet “fine,” maybe not. your heart would be thudding too loud in your chest to think straight. he’d shrug then, toss the bag, scratch the back of his neck, and head back inside, the light coming on again. always just that one room.

you never asked who he was, never tried to find him online. 

it was better that way. 

he was a mystery — sharp edges and dark corners you weren’t brave enough to touch. he was the thing you made up stories about in your head when the nights got too quiet. the kind of man who didn’t belong to anyone, but you still wanted him to choose you. and every time he disappeared behind that door, your crush twisted tighter, thornier. fascination blooming like something forbidden. 

toji fushiguro. you didn’t know his name, but you knew his shadow. and somehow, that was enough.

—

it had been a year since your mind had first twisted itself around the shape of toji fushiguro, nineteen turning into twenty with a slow ache, every passing day marked not by birthdays or seasons, but by the fleeting glimpses of him through windowpanes and trash runs. 

a year of stolen seconds. of tracing the sound of his voice in your dreams, of holding onto every half-shrug, every low chuckle, every “how you doin’, kid?” like they meant more than they did.

your parents traveled often now — work dragging them across states and time zones — leaving you in a house that echoed too much. they made small talk with him sometimes, when they were home. you heard your mother laugh lightly on the porch, mention, “oh, she’s all by herself again this week,” like it was nothing. and then his voice, casual and indifferent, “let me know if she needs anything.” it was just neighbor politeness. background noise.

but it clung to you. you held onto that sentence like a talisman, let it grow teeth and meaning it never had.

that’s what led you here to his porch — knuckles raised, hand trembling before it even touched the door. you could feel your heart rising in your throat, pressing against your teeth like it wanted out, like it wanted to knock for you. every cell in your body told you to turn back, run, pretend you had the wrong house even though you’d memorized every crack in his walkway.

and then the door opened.

he wasn’t expecting you. hair a little damp, a towel slung over his shoulder, shirtless, low sweatpants hanging precariously around his hips. his eyes scanned you once, confusion flickering behind them — then something else unreadable. he didn’t smile, didn’t frown. just blinked.

“what’s up?” he asked.

you almost choked on your tongue, cheeks flaming. 

“i — i was wondering if… if you wanted to have dinner tonight,” you managed, voice small, too soft, too unsure.

a long pause. he scratched at his temple, towel slipping from his shoulder, gaze flicking past you like he was checking for hidden cameras. 

then: “uh yeah, sure. come in.”

and that was it. that was how nineteen-year-old you’s biggest fantasy dissolved into reality as you stepped over his threshold and into toji fushiguro’s house.

you don’t know what you expected, but it wasn’t this.

the air was warm, but stale. there was no scent of food, no comforting smell of anything, really. the floor was scuffed wood, sticky in places, and the rug in the hallway was bunched up, like someone tripped on it and never bothered to fix it. clothes were strewn carelessly over a sagging couch, unopened mail spilled off a table covered in condensation rings. an ashtray overflowed beside the tv. the kitchen sink had two bowls, a few mugs, something crusted that looked weeks old. it didn’t feel like a place someone lived in, so much as one they crashed in. slept, showered, left. repeat.

there was nothing warm about it, and yet your eyes drank in every inch. not with judgment — but with something closer to awe. 

toji’s presence was everywhere. in the haphazard clutter, in the scuff marks on the doorframe that matched the ones on his knuckles, in the black sweatshirt crumpled over the back of a chair, the kind you’d seen him wear a hundred times. in the faint smell of aftershave mixed with cigarettes, a scent you could already feel yourself sinking into. others might have called it depressing. maybe even gross. unloved, unlivable.

but not you.

you saw past the ashtrays and the laundry and the untouched stack of grocery flyers. you saw him — the man you’d spent a year quietly orbiting, the man whose voice had lived in your bones since nineteen. it was like stepping inside his ribcage. raw, real, imperfect. you smiled, quietly. “place suits you,” you said. 

and for a second, just a flicker, his lips quirked — not quite a smile, but close. and then he turned, nodding toward the kitchen.

“you want somethin’ to drink, or…?”

you followed him deeper into the mess, heart still pounding. crush still louder than ever.

you peeled open the tupperware lid with a sharp pop!, steamless and pitiful, the risotto inside looking more like something that had been chewed up and spit out. cold, soft, and shapeless. but it was food, and you were sitting across from toji fushiguro at his kitchen table, and that meant you’d have eaten drywall if it meant staying longer. he watched you as you stabbed your fork into the mess, slow, bored, amused maybe. not saying much, just leaning back in his chair like he had all the time in the world to observe your every move. “you want some?” you asked, half joking, holding your fork out with an awkward smile. 

you didn’t expect him to take it. you just wanted him to respond. 

“nah,” he said, brushing a hand over his stomach. “already ate.”

your heart did something sharp in your chest. if he already ate, why had he let you in at all? why was he here now, still sitting across from you, watching the way your fork shook in your fingers? you didn’t ask. you just stabbed another piece and tried to chew without looking like your throat was on strike.

he reached into his pocket then, pulled out a half-crushed pack of cigarettes, and paused. his eyes flicked to yours. 

you blinked. “oh. i don’t mind.”

he didn’t say anything. just lit up, dragged in a long inhale, then let the smoke curl out from the side of his mouth. he tilted his head back a little, looked at you through the haze, the scar on his lip tugging slightly with a smirk.

“marlboros,” you said, like a trivia answer. “red box.” 

toji let out a low huff, almost a laugh. “close. these’re golds.”

you nodded like that meant anything.

“you smoke?” he asked, flicking the ash into a coffee mug already stained brown on the inside. 

and the smart thing to do — the honest thing — would’ve been to say no. to say you’d never held one in your life. 

but your brain short-circuited at the way he leaned forward slightly, cigarette balanced between two fingers like an invitation. your throat dried out as your body answered for you. “yeah,” you said. 

sure, you do. even though everything you knew about smoking came from reddit threads titled things like “first time smoking, help???”

his gaze sharpened, just a little, like he was testing you. 

“you want one?” he asked, tone casual, already offering the pack your way. you nodded, took it with fingers that did not feel steady. he passed you his lighter next, eyes glinting in that way that made you feel like he could see through you completely. like he knew. like this was a game.

you mimicked the motion you’d seen in movies a hundred times — cigarette to lips, click of the lighter, slight inhale.

act natural. act sexy. don’t die.

and then the smoke hit the back of your throat like acid.

you tried, you really tried. tried to hold it in like you read you were supposed to. but your body betrayed you almost immediately, lungs seizing as your chest tightened. your mouth opened on instinct and you burst into a series of sharp, wet coughs, hand flailing for your water, eyes watering so fast you barely caught the sound of—

toji fushiguro laughing.

not a chuckle, not a scoff, but a laugh. low and real and throaty, his shoulders actually shaking, cigarette forgotten between his fingers as he grinned wide for the first time since you met him. “shit,” he said, half-laughing still, “you really don’t smoke.”

you wheezed, blinking through the tears, one hand over your chest. “i — i could smoke.”

he snorted. “sure, kid.”

you wanted to shrink through the floor. but god, even through the coughing, you felt yourself smiling. even your humiliation was worth it — just to hear him laugh like that, to see him smile like that. 

because he wasn’t annoyed. he wasn’t mocking you. he was entertained, interested. watching you in that same way he always did — but now, you were a little closer, a little warmer. he leaned over, plucked the cigarette from your fingers, still grinning. took a drag for himself.

“you’re fuckin’ funny,” he muttered.

and somehow, the way he said it — like it was a compliment — you didn’t even mind being the joke.

you scraped the last of the risotto out of the tupperware, the plastic fork bending pitifully under pressure, the silence between you and toji stretching thin like old gum. he didn’t fill it, didn’t feel the need to. he just smoked — slow and lazy — as if the room had all the time in the world, as if your presence there was just a passing thought, a small ripple in the heavy quiet of his home.

you packed up quickly after, nerves rattling now that the food was gone, and all you had was the raw air between you. you mumbled a thank you. he nodded, barely more than a tilt of the chin, and walked you to the door without a word, barefoot and silent like a shadow. 

you said, before you stepped out — “why do you smoke?”

a small question. just noise. anything to fill the silence and keep him looking at you for a little longer. toji looked down at you with one brow raised, amused, the faintest curve tugging at his mouth. he dragged what was left of his cigarette to the filter, exhaled through his nose.

“why don’t you smoke?” he shot back, playful but rhetorical, voice dry with that soft edge of sarcasm that always made you feel too warm.

but your love-addled mind, that pitiful thing you could no longer trust, caught onto the words like a hook in the cheek. not a joke, but a test. a bridge. an invitation to follow him deeper into the mess of who he was. you swallowed your pride. 

“can i see you again? tomorrow night?”

he chuckled — short, amused, like you were a kid asking to keep a stray dog.

“don’t make it a regular thing,” he said.

you smiled, dizzy, heart doing somersaults as he closed the door. and that should have been the end of it.

but it never was.

you biked ten minutes through the humid dark, air thick with salt from the sea and the sound of bugs humming in the bushes. the corner shop by the beach still had its yellow lights buzzing, flickering like they were tired too. you stood in front of the glass counter longer than necessary, eyes skating over gum and matches and soda bottles before landing on the red and gold cigarette packs lined neatly behind the old man manning the register.

you pointed to the golds.

he didn’t card you. maybe he didn’t care. maybe your face already said i need something to feel more grown than i am.

they smelled like him. warm and sharp, with that dry edge of tobacco and something chemical underneath. you held the pack to your chest like a secret, biking home faster than your legs could keep up with. 

in your room, you pulled the curtains open just enough to see the warm yellow glow of his window. only one light, always. never more. you sat on the windowsill, sweat sticking to the back of your knees, shaky fingers tapping the cigarette out of the box, fumbling with a lighter you borrowed from the kitchen.

click. nothing.

click. again.

on the fourth try, the cigarette caught.

you took a breath.

the smoke burned, it didn’t taste like anything you’d romanticized — just hot and bitter and too real. but you held it in like you remembered from reddit, until your lungs screamed and your fingers twitched and your heart, your stupid, loyal heart, kept whispering, he smokes this. he tastes like this.

the nicotine hit low in your belly. a rush, like a thread pulled tight inside you. not dizzy, not calm, just… different. like you’d swallowed heat. your lips burned faintly as your fingers tingled, and with the glow of toji’s window in your peripheral, you exhaled smoke like you were part of something larger. part of him.

you smoked another.

then another.

trying to mimic the lazy way he held it. the half-lidded look in his eyes, the way he inhaled like he wasn’t thinking about anything at all.

by 3 a.m., the pack was empty. your throat was raw, your chest buzzed as your fingers smelled like him. your body hated you, but your mind only replayed that smile, that laugh, that smirk that said you’re not fooling anyone. maybe you weren’t. but god, you wanted to be.

so you stared at his window until the light went out. and promised yourself that tomorrow, you’d be better. cooler. closer to whatever version of yourself he might actually look at.

—

the second time you sat at toji’s table, it was with slightly steadier hands.

you didn’t bring risotto. this time, you brought noodles that were still warm, sweating through the thin plastic lid. he eyed it with something unreadable before flicking his lighter and leaning back in that same creaky chair. you smiled at him, too wide, too light. you were already halfway through your first cigarette before dinner. “look at you,” he muttered, dragging smoke through his teeth, “all grown up. pro smoker now, huh?”

you laughed — giddy, like he’d just complimented your handwriting or told you you looked pretty. “guess i learned from the best.” but there was something sharper in his tone when he replied, “yeah? who taught you?”

you blinked. the words were innocent on paper, but they cut strange. too quick, too pointed, like he wasn’t just teasing. like something in him didn’t like the idea that you’d learned from someone else. 

or maybe, didn’t like that you’d learned at all.

you tried to brush it off with another airy giggle, flicking ash into the old mug you used as an ashtray. “you, obviously.”

he hummed, noncommittal. but his eyes didn’t leave you.

dinner stayed untouched, both your forks limp beside their containers. the fan groaned above, one lazy blade wobbling dangerously with every slow rotation. you were leaning back now, legs spread out in the most unlady-like way you could get away with in front of him, limbs loose and heavy from the nicotine. your chest buzzed, your head was warm. but none of it was as dizzying as being looked at by him, talked to by him. toji fushiguro, shirt half-buttoned, hair always in some state of ruin, smoke curling from his lip like he was born with it.

you thought maybe you could die right now and still consider your life well-lived.

“what about school?” he asked after a beat. and just like that, your high dipped. sputtered. you blinked again, too hard this time. “um. ’m on a break.”

he tilted his head. “how long’s that break supposed to last?” 

the question wasn’t cruel, not even harsh — just matter-of-fact. and yet, it made your stomach twist. the way his voice dropped, how his gaze lingered not with judgment but something closer to — hesitation. you shrugged, eyes on the sweat beading your plastic container. “i dunno. just… figuring stuff out.”

he tapped ash onto the table, didn’t look at you. “hope you’re not waiting on me to leave before you get your shit together.” 

you winced. not because he was wrong, but because he was closer to right than he should’ve been.

“i’m not,” you lied.

he looked at you again. eyes too sharp for a man who pretended not to care.

and that was the problem — he didn’t want to care. you could see it in the way he leaned back, put space between the two of you, crossed his arms like a man already tired of a story he hadn’t heard yet. he wasn’t a man who did messes. he wasn’t someone who wanted to clean up after some girl two cigarettes deep and ten years too young, high off both nicotine and infatuation.

but he also didn’t tell you to leave, neither did he put his lighter away.

you lit another cigarette. the burn of the smoke mixed with the heat in your chest, made your head go floaty again. the kind of dizzy that made you braver, bolder. it made your voice lighter, your laugh breathier. it made you forget you weren’t making sense when you rambled, legs sprawled, gaze fixed on the lines of his throat when he tilted his head back. 

he sighed eventually, rubbed his eyes. “you’re a fuckin’ headache, you know that?”

but he didn’t sound annoyed, not really. he sounded like someone bracing for a mess they already knew they wouldn’t walk away from clean.

—

your parents weren’t cruel. they were the kind of good that you were supposed to be grateful for. 

the kind that packed sliced fruit in glass bowls, that folded laundry right after it dried, laid out vitamins beside breakfast, smiled at you over chia pudding and asked how many hours of sleep you got last night. they didn’t yell or control. they cared, and they meant well, and still—

it made your skin crawl.

it wasn’t them. it was the order, the correctness of it all. the constant undercurrent of structure that made your stomach turn in slow, guilty knots. the kitchen smelled like lemon disinfectant, the floor was always cold and clean. your mother used her soft voice to remind you to drink water and your father smiled too much when he offered help with anything at all. and it wasn’t wrong.

it just wasn’t toji.

you hated that the house was bright, that sunlight poured in through open windows and danced across polished surfaces. that your mother set the table every morning like it was a ritual, like the world would end if a spoon was out of place. you hated that there was a time for everything — breakfast at 8:30 sharp, shoes in line at the door, bed sheets tight enough to bounce a coin off of.

it made you exhausted.

because toji didn’t own a clock that worked, and his shoes were usually left in the middle of the hallway. sometimes he didn’t eat at all, or he ate cold leftovers directly from the container while leaning against a wall. and still, that mess, that collapse of every well-meaning ideal you were raised with — it comforted you. he comforted you. even when he didn’t smile, even when he barely spoke.

even when he made you feel like you were always just a little too much and not enough at the same time.

you thought about telling your parents you were going to a friend’s place, that you needed fresh air. but even that felt like a lie that couldn’t stretch far enough. they’d want to know who, where, when you’d be back. they’d check in and ask questions. and what would you say? 

i’m going to the neighbor’s. the one with the scar and the lazy eyes and the house that smells like smoke and silence. the one who keeps calling me kid even when he looks at me like he knows i’m not.

you didn’t say anything. you just stayed in your room, under the fan, curled up beside your unopened books.

your lingerie drawer had become something else entirely. tucked beneath the mesh and lace were neatly stacked cigarette packs. 

golds. always golds. 

it started with one, then two. now seven, maybe eight. you kept them there like sacred things. unsealed, untouched, untouched by anyone else. 

they made the drawer smell like him.

sometimes, you’d pull one out just to look at it. press it to your lips without lighting it. imagine the curve of his fingers flicking it out of the box, the soft drag of his voice asking you if you were really gonna try that again.

you told yourself it wasn’t strange, that this wasn’t addiction. but some part of your brain — some small, festering, misshapen corner — knew. knew this wasn’t about nicotine or rebellion or some petty war with clean counters and scheduled meals. 

it was about the way toji lived outside the lines your parents had drawn. the way he made you feel like the house didn’t have to be clean, the day didn’t have to be planned, your life didn’t have to be good in a moral, well-adjusted way to be worth something.

maybe you were rotting. but god, at least in his house, you could breathe.

—

the shop by the beach didn’t have a name. just a flickering bulb strung above its rusted awning, the faded print of old cigarette ads peeling off the walls like skin, and shelves lined with everything from tamarind candy to bleach. it was the kind of place no one looked at twice unless they had a reason to, and you — desperate, bored, heartsick — found yours.

your parents were thrilled that you finally went out in the evenings. they thought the city had softened you. they thought you'd made friends. 

and maybe you had, in the barest definition of the word — people who passed you lighters, sat cross-legged on upturned crates beside you, swapped stories for smokes and offered advice they had no right giving.

a middle-aged woman in a faded dress who never told you her name, only that she smoked to keep from screaming at her mother-in-law.

a boy no older than sixteen who looked at you like you were the oldest woman he'd ever met.

a man who once used to be a banker, maybe, until he lost something vague and never got it back.

a college dropout who coughed more than she laughed, but always offered to split a pack with you.

you liked the noise, the warmth, the way your clothes began to smell like your drawer at home. but mostly, you liked imagining how it would be if toji stood among them. how he’d light your cigarette for you without saying a word. how he’d lean against the cooler and flick ash off his wrist, laugh at something someone said, maybe rest a heavy hand on your thigh and call you trouble. so when he showed up one evening — just a flicker of his shape from the corner of your eye — you felt it in your ribs first. you turned too quickly.

he didn’t.

his face twisted the second he saw you. not surprise or amusement. a scowl — deep and hard, like something cracked in his jaw. he hadn’t even crossed the threshold and he was already glaring. “you serious right now?” he snapped, loud enough that it cut over the murmur of conversation. you blinked, still holding the cigarette between your fingers, halfway to your mouth. 

he looked at the others — your new friends — as if they were the rot in the room, then back at you like he couldn’t believe it. “this where you spend your time now? with people who don’t even know your fuckin’ name?”

your chest tightened. it was too fast, too harsh, too soon. you hadn’t seen him in days — maybe weeks. the light in his bedroom had been off every night. he hadn’t answered the door once. and now here he was, not even asking how you were, not even pretending to miss you, just scowling, like you’d spat on his floor.

“i was just—” you started, fumbling, flustered. “you weren’t around. i didn’t think—”

“yeah, y’didn’t,” he bit out, cutting you off. “didn’t think why i’d care if you’re out here ruining your lungs for fun?”

a few of the others shifted. some stared, while some turned away, awkward and silent. you felt childish. like you'd been caught stealing.

“you don’t even like smoking,” he said, quieter now, but his voice was more venom than smoke. you looked down, ashamed of something you didn’t have the words for. the cigarette trembled between your fingers. it had burned almost to the filter.

“you’re not my dad,” you muttered.

he stared at you for a long, hard second, jaw ticking. then, without a word, he stepped inside the shop, nodded once at the old man behind the counter, handed over a couple of crumpled notes. “clearing the tab,” he said, then turned, walked past you without a glance, and disappeared down the road.

he hadn’t come for a pack, neither had he come for you.

just a loose end. a number to settle. and still, you stood there long after he’d gone, the smoke in your lungs stale and bitter, your hand warm where he hadn’t touched it.

—

you didn’t notice it at first, the way the air felt different — sharper, hollower, as if something had already gone missing. 

you were watering the plants on your porch, still in your sleep clothes, hose pipe slack in your hand, and your eyes were on the wilting hibiscus when the corner of your vision caught movement. not the kind you were used to — not trash bags being tossed over the back gate, not a silhouette behind that familiar window — but the sight of boxes. 

three. no, four. stacked on top of one another. 

and then another.

your heart didn’t just drop, it cracked.

“what — what are you—” you choked, the hose slipping, a spray of water hitting your ankle as you staggered forward. “what are you doing?”

toji didn’t flinch. he was hoisting another box into the back of a dented mini truck, the sun burning the back of his neck. his hair was tied, the scar at his lip rawer than usual. he looked tired. not tired tired, but the kind of tired that came with permanent decisions.

“leavin’,” he said, without looking at you. “found a new place.”

you walked faster, nearly slipping on the wet concrete, water still gushing from the hose in your fist. you looked ridiculous, you knew, barefoot, soaked to the knees, a smear of dried drool on your cheek from the nap you’d just woken up from — but you couldn’t care. your lungs hurt. your throat felt too tight.

“what d’you mean?” you asked, voice already pitching high, cracking. “what do you mean found a new place? i didn’t — why didn’t you say anything?”

he didn’t answer. didn’t turn. didn’t say you shouldn’t have to know.

you stepped closer. “where?” you tried again. “where are you going?”

“just a few blocks out,” he said finally, almost like he didn’t want to say it. “got evicted. lease ended. wasn’t gonna stick around and beg.”

you laughed, but it came out wrong. wet, ugly, trembling at the corners.

“y’can’t—” you shook your head, stepping closer again, the hose slipping out of your hand completely this time, dropping with a loud slap! to the driveway, water soaking the hem of your shirt. your fingers shook as you reached for him.

“please, i’ll — i’ll stop, okay? i’ll stop hangin’ out with those people. i’ll go to college. i’ll — i’ll quit smokin’, i swear, i won’t even go near that s-shop again, just — just don’t — don’t go.” your voice broke.

“you can’t.”

he turned then. and you wished he hadn’t, because the look on his face shattered you worse than the words.

guilt. real, searing guilt. not pity, not anger. just guilt, stitched tight into the furrow of his brow and the way his mouth pulled at the corners, like he didn’t want to say what he needed to say.

“kid…”

you hated that word. hated how soft he said it, hated how little it made you feel, like all the things you’d done to prove you weren’t just some wide-eyed girl were crumbling at your feet.

“don’t — don’t call me that,” you said, fists clenched, your voice more whisper than anything now. “’m not — ’m not a kid. i’m not.”

toji looked away, his jaw clenching. you stood there, soaked, chest heaving, heart ripped from its ribcage and beating raw in your hands, waiting for something, anything. a reach. a hug. a fucking look.

but he just shut the back door of the truck like that was the end of it.

you were still standing there when he slid into the driver’s seat and pulled out of the driveway.

no goodbye, no look in the rearview mirror. not even a honk.

just the sound of your own breathing, loud and broken, in the empty street, and the bitter, lukewarm puddle soaking through your toes.

—

toji did not expect to see you again.

and definitely not like this — drenched through your clothes, rainwater making a sorry mess of your hair, your backpack hanging half-open by a thread, your lip trembling and your eyes glassy, even before you said a word. 

he just stared at you for a second. not even a full one.

then he moved aside. no questions. 

you stepped in, soggy shoes squelching against the clean laminate floor, and that was the first thing you noticed. 

his place was clean. not just cleaner than his last house — no, this was lived-in but neat. there were no takeout boxes on the counter, no half-smoked cigarettes on the windowsill. it smelled like detergent. his bed — visible from the door — was made. the contrast made your chest twist. he was doing fine, while you—

you stood in the hallway, dripping water, arms folded around yourself so tightly your nails were digging into your elbows. your throat was raw and everything inside you felt too big for your ribs, too messy for this polished place. he handed you a towel, not saying anything. just rubbed a hand down his face and told you to change.

you didn’t bring a change of clothes.

you didn’t bring anything except the wet bag hanging from your shoulder, and you only remembered it when it thudded heavily onto the floor as you bent down, trying to catch your breath — except it didn’t come. there was no air left in your lungs. none. your hands shook so badly you could barely unzip your hoodie.

toji crouched. “hey. breathe. breathe, kid.”

“don’t—” your voice came out like a gasp. “don’t call me that. ’m not — i’m not—”

you couldn’t even finish the sentence.

“what are you doing here?” he asked, soft. too soft. too calm.

your breath hitched. “i didn’t — i didn’t know where else to go. i couldn’t stay there, toji, i couldn’t — everything feels like it’s closing in, and they don’t — they don’t get it. they don’t see me, they just want me to be some — some perfectly functional fucking robot, and — and they look at me like ’m crazy, like i’m a fuckin’ waste just rotting in my room, and i can’t breathe there—”

you choked on your own words.

“—i didn’t even eat breakfast today because mom said i wasn’t doing anythin’ to deserve food and maybe she’s right because ‘m not — ’m not even in college and i can’t go back to that house where everything smells like bleach ‘n expectations and i just can’t, toji please—.”

you were sobbing. chest-heaving, shoulder-jolting sobs, wet and loud and ugly, and toji just stood there with that same damn expression. guilt, again. that twitch in his jaw, the shake in his hand as he reached up to rub the back of his neck. “you’re bein’ unreasonable,” he muttered. “you’re not — y’parents aren’t doing anything wrong. they’re trying. y’got a house, food, a bed. this isn’t — this isn’t the kind of shit you run away from.”

“you don’t get it!” you cried, slamming your palms against your thighs. “it’s not about that! it’s not — things aren’t what i needed! you — it’s you, i just — i need to be here, with you, i need—”

you were panting now, with your eyes swollen. your hands were shaking as you dropped to your knees, the money in your bag suddenly everything you had. you opened the zipper with trembling fingers, pulling it out like it meant something.

“i brought it all,” you whispered. “everything. i emptied my account. i just — i can help. i won’t be a burden. just let me stay, toji please. please, i’ll do anythin,’ i swear.”

he didn’t speak for a long time. and when he finally did, all he said was, “go take a shower.” 

but his voice was hoarse, and he didn’t look you in the eye.

—

you crept into the living room barefoot, skin still damp from the shower, cotton shirt clinging to you like a second skin. the apartment was mostly dark, save for the glow of the streetlamp outside seeping through the slats in the blinds, striping toji’s face in alternating bands of shadow and tired gold. 

he hadn’t said much all night. gave you his bed, told you to rest, told you the couch wasn’t so bad. 

and yet — he didn’t say anything when you settled beside him, didn’t move when your fingers traced the bare skin of his arm, clumsy and quiet, almost reverent.

you thought you’d feel victorious. instead, your hands trembled.

and when your lips brushed his shoulder, you felt your eyes sting. this was what you wanted, right? this was the dream — the man, the room, the quiet hour where he let you stay. 

so why did it feel like your chest was hollowing itself out?

you kissed higher — jaw, cheek, temple — and you didn’t realize you were crying until you sniffled against his skin. toji shifted then, turned toward you, and for a second you thought he’d push you away. but he didn’t. just let out a soft, tired sigh like the weight of this was pressing down on him, too. his hand came up to brush damp hair from your face. “what are you doing?” he whispered, more sad than scolding.

you didn’t answer, couldn’t. you just kissed him — messy, too fast, too much — and he caught your wrists gently, guiding your hands to him like he couldn’t stand watching you fumble anymore. his voice, when it came, was low. 

“shhh. breathe. you’re alright.”

you weren’t. you really, really weren’t. but you nodded anyway. and he let you stay.

you didn’t know what the moment meant, not really. didn’t know what he was thinking, or if he’d still let you be here come morning. but you laid beside him like it meant something. like it meant everything. 

your heart thudded against your ribs too fast. your thoughts raced louder than your breath. and that quiet voice in the back of your mind — the one that always sounded a little like your own — spoke again, sharper than before: you got what you wanted. so why are you crying?

you didn’t have an answer, but it was okay. you had tomorrow. 

and the day after that, and the next one too.

to get it right.

to try again.

and again.

and 

again 

and 

again 

and 

again

and—

you woke up sticky with your own sweat, legs tangled in the too-thin blanket he must’ve thrown over you sometime during the night. 

for a terrifying second, your arms reached out into absence — panic bleeding into your bones, until your ears caught it. the clink of a mug. the low hum of a news channel echoing from the tiny tv in the corner. the soft metallic creak of a belt being buckled.

he was still here. toji fushiguro hadn’t left.

you sat up, rubbing your face with both palms, heart slowing to something less frantic. the apartment smelled different this morning — cleaner somehow, edged with bitter coffee and the faint citrus of his aftershave. you saw him in the kitchenette, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark button-up tucked into crisp work pants. a change from the usual loose shirts and threadbare cargos you used to see him in.

there was something disarming about watching him like this. a man with a routine. like someone who got up with the sun instead of chasing it down with sleepless nights.

he wasn’t smoking. that’s what hit you hardest. just sipping his coffee — black, from a chipped white mug — as if that’s all he needed now. 

he didn’t look at you when he took his last sip, just gave a small sigh as he grabbed his hard construction hat and vest from the hook by the door. “i’ll be back by six,” he said, his voice still rough from sleep, but steadier now. “don’t open the door unless it’s me. and keep the latch on.”

you stared at him for a beat, bare feet pressing into the worn rug, and then — on instinct, or hope — you rose to your toes and kissed him on the cheek like it was natural. like it was always supposed to be like this. he blinked at you, pausing for half a breath before he reached down to ruffle your hair. the callouses on his fingers scraped your scalp in a way that made your throat close up. 

“don’t burn the place down,” he muttered with something close to fondness, and walked out the door. you stood there barefoot, hands still suspended near your sides, as the door clicked shut behind him. and for the first time in months, the silence didn’t feel like abandonment.

it felt like waiting.

—

toji came back five minutes to six, his footsteps heavy on the stairs, jaw slack with the weight of another too-long day. his hand reached for the doorknob out of habit, keys in the other, but the door was already unlocked.

he stepped in and stopped.

the house looked the same. smelled the same, too — faint detergent from the drying laundry, a trace of lemon from the cleaner you'd found under the sink. same crooked blinds, same scarred wooden floor, same paint-chipped wall by the bathroom he never got around to fixing.

but it felt different.

the mug he'd left in the sink was back on the rack, unnervingly spotless, like you’d poured your soul into scrubbing every scratch off it. his crumpled newspaper was now neatly folded, not dog-eared, not coffee-stained. even the ashtray on the table sat oddly untouched, like you'd polished it just enough to keep the wear but not the grime.

and there you were, in one of his oversized shirts, bare legs and hopeful eyes, standing like you belonged there. like you’d always been there.

"welcome back," you said, fingers already reaching for his cap, plucking his bag from his shoulder, ushering him in with a kind of warmth he didn’t know how to hold.

you made him eggs and a crepe — both slightly overcooked, slightly burnt, but you grinned like you were feeding him something sacred. and maybe you were, with how you stood across from him, knees bent over the other chair, elbows on the table as you watched him eat like it was the only show worth watching.

“i saw this hummingbird today,” you started, voice all sugar and spark, “like this teeny tiny one with a red chest. it just... floated in the air, like hovered outside the kitchen window. i think it liked the dish soap smell.”

toji didn’t speak. he just kept eating, eyes on you now, chewing slower.

“and guess what? i finally got the rust stain off your sink. the trick’s vinegar ‘n baking soda, did you know that?” you leaned forward, fingers tapping the table in a rhythm only you could hear. “and i watched that drama you mentioned once, remember the one with the detective who always forgets his gun?”

he didn’t remember ever telling you about it. 

you went on anyway. “it’s silly but i think it made me laugh, maybe twice? but mostly it was just somethin’ to have on while i wiped the corners of the ceiling. dust collects there, did you know that? like, in the corners. it's sneaky.”

toji finally looked up from his plate. the light from the window cut across your face like a spotlight. the sky behind you was gold, burnt at the edges.

you smiled at him like you’d been waiting to for hours.

and something ugly and warm twisted in his gut — because you were trying so hard to make this life with him out of scraps. building a routine from his leftovers. chasing meaning in silence and dust and birds that didn’t stay.

and he suddenly wondered if he’d made it worse. if his absence had left you too still. 

if his presence now had made you addicted to the stillness.

you talked and talked, about nothing and everything, and it hit him mid-way through your story about reorganizing his sock drawer — you weren’t telling him about your day.

you were telling him you didn’t need anyone else in it.

—

toji didn’t want to come back home, but he did. not because he wanted to, not even because he had to. but because you were there, and that was the scariest part. he stood outside the door longer than usual tonight, fingers twitching at his sides, breath hot with leftover whiskey. 

because every time he stepped into the apartment now, it didn’t feel like just his anymore. it smelled like that damn lavender spray you kept misting over the curtains, faint music always playing from your playlist — a mix of songs he didn’t know and songs he remembered humming once in passing that you somehow downloaded, like they meant something.

his home — if you could still call it that — had a you-shaped dent in it now. and the worst part was, he didn’t hate it. he didn’t want to.

so he walked in, and there you were. seated on the couch, legs curled up under you, wearing that pale blue top you liked because he once said it looked soft. the TV played something muted in the background, but your eyes were on him the second he stepped in.

he grunted, kicked his boots off harder than necessary, walked in like nothing was wrong. but you were already watching him too closely.

“you started drinking again, didn’t you?”

your voice was soft. curious. not judgmental. not sharp. just… trying to know him. 

toji stiffened. “the hell kinda question is that?”

you didn’t flinch. “i can smell it.”

he froze at the doorframe.

“you’re gettin’ home slower,” you added, tilting your head, “and you slur your right foot more when you’re drunk. also you don’t lock the door properly when you’re out of it.”

he looked at you like you’d spoken a curse. like you’d just peered straight through him and saw something ugly he wasn’t ready to see himself.

“you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

you just hummed. “i’m not a kid, y’know.”

and maybe it was the alcohol, or the fear. maybe it was the way you said that like you’d been waiting to prove it to him.

because toji snapped. he stalked across the room, pointing at you like you were some mess that he now had to clean up.

“not a kid?” he barked. “what do you call what this is then? hangin’ around here like a lost puppy? actin’ like cooking me eggs and scrubbing my fuckin’ sink means something? that’s not grown up. that’s pathetic.”

your face twitched, but you didn’t look away. he wasn’t done. he couldn’t be done.

“you got no idea who the hell you are without someone to orbit around. clingin’ to me like ’m oxygen when all i’ve ever been is a walkin’ bad decision. is that really who you wanna be?”

you didn’t answer. not right away. you just looked down at your lap, hands slowly curling into fists against your thighs.

“…i don’t know who i want to be,” you finally said, voice tight. “but i knew who i wanted to be with.”

toji froze.

you weren’t crying. you weren’t yelling. you were just saying it like a fact. like it hurt less if it came out flat.

“but maybe you’re right,” you said, standing up slow, like your limbs weighed more than they used to. “maybe i made you into someone bigger than you ever wanted to be. maybe i made this house into more than it is. maybe i made me into less just to make you stay.”

toji opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came. and for the first time since you first stood on his porch with cold risotto and wide eyes, you didn’t look like someone waiting to be let in. you looked like someone who just realised the door was never really yours to knock on in the first place.

—

the house looked the same, but something about it felt vacuum-sealed.

like it had exhaled.

toji stood near the doorway, hand still on the knob as if expecting this to be a prank. like you’d pop out from the kitchen with a dumb joke and a frying pan full of undercooked eggs. or from the bathroom with shampoo in your hair, asking him if this one smelled like him.

but the apartment was quiet. not calm, just quiet.

you left on the thirtieth day.

no goodbye, no letter, not even a note on the fridge in your handwriting he’d gotten used to reading.

but you left the bag you brought in soaked and trembling. the one you claimed was everything you had left. he found it on the couch with it’s zip pulled back, not even properly hidden, just slouched over like it knew its job was done.

inside was a thick wad of cash, untouched. still bound with the same thin elastic you’d wrapped around it, with not a note spent.

toji stared at it like it was a brick of regret. but that wasn’t what stopped him.

at the bottom, there was a flattened, crushed pack of golds. your pack.

he knew it was yours, not because of the brand — that was his — but because it had that tiny red heart sticker on the back you must’ve put there as a joke. or maybe not. 

and inside — just one cigarette left.

you never got good at smoking. he remembered the way you used to breathe it in wrong, blinking through tears and coughs, still insisting you “liked the taste.” he sighed through his nose, shaking fingers pulling the gold stick out like it was a relic. his thumb ran over the cheap, sage green lighter tucked alongside it.

you used to call that colour peaceful.

“like seafoam,” you once said, holding it up to the window. “like somethin’ i wanna live in.”

toji sat on the floor. not the couch, or the table. just right there, back against the wall, like it was the only place that would hold him.

he didn’t remember the last time he smoked in this apartment — he quit before you came, because he thought he should at least try to be someone better. but now he lit the cigarette with your lighter, the flame flickering like it, too, didn’t know what to do anymore. 

his first drag in thirty days hit harder than he expected. 

he tipped his head back, smoke curling from his lips. he thought of the first time you ever looked at him — small tupperware of sad risotto in your lap, eyes full of wanting. how you took that first drag from his cigarette and choked, and still smiled at him through watery eyes like you’d swallow ash every day if it meant he’d look at you longer.

now he was the one coughing through it. on your cigarette, in his house.

his new house. and maybe that was the worst part. 

because everything here was new — new furniture, new view. new mornings where he made his own coffee and didn’t have to share his toothpaste. 

but the only thing that tasted familiar now was the burn you left behind.

—

it had been two years since you first met toji fushiguro, and one year since you’d lived with him. 

you were back home now, not in the dreamlike haze you used to exist in, but in a steadier version of yourself. 

twenty-two. older, in ways that didn’t always show on your face but sat heavy in the way you carried yourself. you were in college again, after a long pause that once felt permanent. developmental psychology, of all things — a little too fitting, maybe, but once you’d found the words for everything you couldn’t explain back then, it felt like the only thing that made sense.

your parents hadn’t changed much. they still set the breakfast table by eight, still asked you to make your bed, still insisted on shoes being kept by the door. you used to hate the structure of it all, the quiet rigidity of routines that left no space for mess, no room for longing. 

but now, in their order, you found relief. it was the kind of comfort that didn’t demand anything back, the kind that let you return again and again without asking why you ever left in the first place.

the corner-shop by the beach was gone. you didn’t ask when or why, since no one talked about it much. there was just a shuttered storefront now, windows papered over in dusty brown sheets, like nothing had ever happened there at all. sometimes, you passed it on your way to the beach and felt a strange kind of nostalgia — not for the people, not for the conversations, but for the version of yourself that used to linger out front with a cigarette you barely knew how to smoke, hoping for someone’s shadow to fall over yours.

you didn’t smoke anymore. you hadn’t in a long time. not since that summer, not since the cigarettes stopped being about rebellion and started being about grief. the habit broke itself, quietly, in the months after you left toji’s apartment — and with it, so did everything else you once used to cling to.

you visited the beach often now. not to meet anyone, not to make a point, not to wait for something to happen — but just to sit. the waves still came and went in their own rhythm, untouched by your past, unaffected by memory. and that was what made it feel so safe now. 

it was one of the few places that hadn’t changed, even though you had. the sand still stuck to your ankles, the sun still fell like gold over the water, and the air still carried salt and wind in equal measure. 

sometimes, you watched the kids play by the edge of the shore and thought maybe that’s what peace looked like — not loud, not dramatic, just… stillness.

toji felt like a fever dream now. a summer you couldn’t quite prove happened. if you closed your eyes hard enough, you could still remember the scratch in his voice, the smell of his cigarettes, the heaviness in his silences. 

but when you opened them, there was only the sea, your feet half-buried in the sand, and a feeling that didn’t ache quite as sharply anymore.

his old house had new tenants now — a family with two little kids, a girl and a boy, both maybe five at most. the house looked better with them in it. not because it was cleaned up or repainted, but because it was loud in a way it never used to be. there were bubbles in the air, chalk on the sidewalk, tricycles leaning on the fence. you figured the beach would suit them, as it once suited you.

you barely noticed the boy your age who sometimes stood by their porch — tall, quiet, sharp green eyes that looked like they saw more than they let on. he didn’t talk much, just nodded at you once in passing, hands in his pockets, back against the fence. if you squinted, there was something in the cut of his jaw, in the narrow set of his eyes, that reminded you of someone else. someone who used to smoke with his head tilted just so, someone who kissed like a man who didn’t believe in happy endings. 

but that wasn’t possible, you told yourself. things like that didn’t happen in real life. not twice.

and so, you watched the waves. no lighter in your hand, no name on your lips. just the wind, and the water, and yourself — still here. still healing. and maybe, so was he.

but you didn’t turn around to find out.

[creamflixx]

Hello hello I just read the recent nanami prompt it AND ITS SO FUCKING CUTE AHDHDHHDHSHZNSJS

I've always been obsessed with the ocean and marine life and i would've studied marine biology if only I wasn't afraid of the ocean lol maybe in another universe i worked as a guide and had my own enemies to lovers with nanami (⁠人⁠ ⁠•͈⁠ᴗ⁠•͈⁠)

Anyways have a good day mwah mwah (⁠*⁠˘⁠︶⁠˘⁠*⁠)⁠.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡

woah i'm so glad !! thank you for reading :)

[creamflixx]

prompt #1 angst no. 28 with toji. i want reader to be a badass and have toji grovel on his feet!!!! the rest is up to you. i love your brain and i wish i could eat it<\3 thank you if you decide to write this, lots of love 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

🍹 𝔂our 𝓭rink is 𝓼erved!

today’s special features toji fushiguro at the summer camp, shaken up with the prompt: “move out of my way before i make you.” it’s a resolved angst and second chance blend, served in 5.7k words. be wary of the following ingredients: lovers to friends, cheating, manipulation, lack of communication, trust issues.

ordered fresh off the menu at the creamflix tiki bar. cheers.

you blow your whistle like a damn sergeant as the kids tumble off the bus, wide-eyed and sticky with the sweat of excitement. clipboard clutched tight in your hand, you bark out names, snap your fingers at the ones dawdling, point sharply to the cabins like you’re directing military units instead of children hopped up on capri sun and sugar.

“brandon, that’s bunk five. no, five. how are we starting the week not knowing numbers, huh?” you scowl, but it’s a show — and the kids know it. one of them, the youngest, with grass stains on both knees and a lisp thick as syrup, tugs on your sleeve. “what if i get scared at night?”

your voice softens like a switch flipped. “you won’t. but if you do, knock on the door, okay? i’ll be right there.”

he nods and runs off, all teeth and freckles. you smile, just a little, watching him go.

but then you hear it — the crunch of boots, the too-relaxed cadence of someone who’s never in a rush to do anything unless it benefits him directly. and your smile? gone like it was never there.

toji fucking fushiguro.

you don't even have to turn around. his presence scrapes against the back of your neck like a twig snapped too close to your ear. you grip the clipboard harder, posture stiffening, jaw ticking as you straighten your spine like you’re bracing for a punch. “afternoon, counselor,” he drawls, voice rough like he chews on gravel and pride. “kids ready for archery?”

you give a single nod, tight and professional. “line up,” you shout, ignoring him entirely, “two rows. hands to yourself, mouths shut, eyes forward.”

the kids scramble, only half-listening because they’re already gawking at him — the cool counselor. the one who lets them cheat at tie-dye and tells inappropriate ghost stories at the campfire. you don’t even need to look at him to know he’s smirking. you can feel it, that lazy, smug heat.

he walks past you slow, brushing shoulders on purpose, like this is a game and he’s the only one enjoying it. your eyes narrow, nostrils flaring the tiniest bit. “be nice,” one of the girls whispers at your side, misreading your expression. 

you force a smile. it cracks at the edges. “i always am.”

you watch him lead the kids away, his stupid backwards cap and rolled sleeves, like he’s allergic to the uniform code. they follow him like ducklings. you hate how easy it is for him.

once they’re out of earshot, you exhale, slow and controlled, clipboard pressed against your chest like it might keep your heart from lunging out and chasing after something it shouldn’t.

you don't speak his name. not even in your head.

it was a while back, at the end of senior year. everything was loud — deadlines and parties and the distant buzz of the future coming at you too fast — but the loudest thing of all had been him.

toji fushiguro, the boy who’d shoved his way into your life like he owned the lease. smirking at you in detention, yanking the hem of your skirt when you walked past his desk, standing too close and talking too low, like everything he said was a dare.

you two were a storm from the beginning — constant and combustible. he talked shit, you gave it right back. you’d cuss each other out and then make out behind the gym five minutes later. it made sense, as much as a fire and gasoline romance ever could.

and maybe, maybe, there were moments he looked at you like he really saw you — not the grades, not the plans, not the careful future you’d mapped out — but you. and those moments? they were rare. they were addictive.

so when he asked for money, you didn’t flinch.

“i’ll pay you back. swear on it.” he said it like a joke. eyes half-lidded, voice lazy, like even owing you was casual.

you clicked your tongue, rolled your eyes, stuffed the folded bills into his hoodie pocket. “hurry up and pay me back, bastard.”

you didn’t ask why he needed it. you didn’t ask what it was for. you were stupid, but not the kind of stupid that didn't notice. you just… didn’t want to know.

you thought maybe he needed out — maybe the house was bad, or the job was worse, or he had some plan he didn’t want to talk about. you assumed you were in it too. that whatever it was, you were part of it.

but you weren’t.

you found out from someone else. a girl in your chem class, scrolling on her phone.

“hey, didn’t you use to date that toji guy? i think he moved to the city or something. look.”

you looked. there he was, blurry but unmistakable, arm slung around some woman twice his age, all nails and gloss and curated everything. her caption was full of glittering bullshit — “so proud of my rising star 🎉.”

your stomach sank like it knew the truth before you did.

he took your money. 

he took your money. 

and left. 

not for a job, not for a better future, but for a name that wasn’t his, and a woman who could give him what he really wanted.

he didn’t even say goodbye. no message, no explanation. just gone.

you sat on the bus home that day in silence, fingers clenched so tight around your phone you thought it might snap in half. it wouldn’t have mattered. he was already unreachable. he’d always been.

it took you a week to stop checking your messages. two weeks to delete his number.

you never got the money back. you never expected to.

the irony wasn't just not lost on you — it grated. it sank into your skin like a splinter, annoying and stupid and a little funny if you were in the mood for cruelty.

toji fushiguro. at your camp.

you’d imagined him behind tinted windows, lounging in high-rise penthouses, smug and slippery like the kind of man who used “network” as a verb and couldn’t remember birthdays. so when you saw him here, in this sun-bleached, bug-infested little corner of nowhere, wiping dirt off his hands and catching kids mid-cartwheel, it nearly made you laugh.

nearly.

because he looked good, annoyingly so. like time had weathered him the right way — broad shoulders, thicker arms, that same lazy, lopsided smirk that could still rile you up in all the wrong ways.

and of course, the kids loved him.

they clung to him like velcro, dangling off his biceps, squealing as he spun them around like he was the goddamn sun, and he let them. laughed with them, tossed them over his shoulder, winked when the other counselors shot him dirty looks for roughhousing.

you watched, arms crossed, mouth flat. because that was his specialty, wasn’t it? playing the part, charming the room. smiling just enough to keep the knives hidden behind his teeth.

you didn’t care. really, you didn’t.

whatever high-rise fairytale he chased, you guessed it came with an expiration date. women like her didn’t want permanence — they wanted pretty distractions and trouble packaged with charm. and he was good at that. 

you could vouch for it.

so maybe he got swapped out by month two. maybe she handed him a check and a handshake and told him to enjoy his one-way ticket back to dirt and sweat and minimum wage. and now here he was, same as you, handing out water bottles and sunscreen like it was penance.

not that it was your business.

you had no desire to call out across the fire pit and say, hey, remember when you emptied my wallet and ghosted me like i was an unpaid intern in your sad little origin story?

no. you weren’t that girl. you didn’t want apologies or explanations, didn’t want the mess of nostalgia dripping from his voice or, god forbid, some pathetic attempt at closure. and you sure as hell didn’t want his money. not five years too late, not wrinkled and dirty from wherever it’d been, not when it should’ve been yours in the first place.

you weren’t interested in being paid back. you just wanted him to stay in his damn lane.

and if he didn’t? 

well. you still had your whistle.

—

the days went by in the kind of rhythm that made your brain go soft in the best way — up by 7, breakfast by 7:30, activities by 8. you’d wrangle the kids like a chaotic herd of sunburnt sheep from archery to crafts to bug-identifying walks where half of them screamed if anything moved. 

lunch was a blur of ketchup packets and sticky fingers, and then came the golden hour — nap time. 

the only moment the camp stood still. the kids flopped onto their cots like tiny, sweaty corpses, murmuring nonsense until their breathing evened out. and you? you got to exhale too. sit on the porch with a book, the quiet thick like honey, the world blissfully unplugged.

it was… nice.

here, in this little pocket of nowhere, far from phone notifications and the endless ticking of capitalism’s clock, the kids were just kids. no homework, no phones, no performance metrics. just scraped knees, lopsided friendship bracelets, and the thrill of building a fire from twigs and hope.

sometimes, you caught yourself watching them and smiling for real. not the polite kind, but the kind that snuck up on you.

but then there was toji.

and that felt like the universe dropping a cigarette in your lemonade.

he didn’t fit, not really. or maybe he fit too well. he laughed too easy, moved too confidently, that same stupid smirk carved onto his face like it had never left. the kids adored him — of course they did. he threw them over his shoulders, carried three of them at once like human dumbbells, and told stories that made them squeal and clutch their flashlights under the covers.

you ignored him, mostly. kept it professional, stayed in your own damn lane. it was fine. you could do fine.

until night fell and the camp settled into its other ritual: the counselor cool-down.

you'd all end up in someone’s cabin — tonight, it was sam and jodi’s — legs tangled over each other, beer bottles clinking, everyone a little sunburnt and soft around the edges. someone always had chips, while another always forgot the bug spray. and someone always told a story too loud and got everyone shushed.

the beer was cold, the couch was musty, and someone had drawn a dick in permanent marker on the back of a cereal box, now proudly displayed on the cabin’s fridge. this was your sanctuary — all off-duty counselors crammed in with their bare feet on mismatched ottomans, half-buzzed, laughing too hard at dumb impressions of the kids. you had your spot, back against the armrest, legs stretched out, bottle resting against your thigh. you were good here. content, even.

but then someone leaned over, voice slurred just enough to be bold, and asked the thing you didn’t want to hear out loud, even though it had been circling your brain since day one.

“yo, fushiguro — why you here, man? didn’tcha get into that crazy fancy college in the city or whatever? how’d ya end up... here?”

and the whole room went still in that way that wasn’t really still. 

you didn’t look at him, but your fingers tightened around the neck of your bottle. your ears, though? they were wide open. he leaned back in his chair, sprawled like a cat in sun, not a care in the world. and then he gave the most casual fucking shrug you’d ever seen.

“got bored.”

a few people laughed. one counselor — that annoying one with the camping knife clipped to his belt for no reason — let out an audible “damn.”

toji took a sip of his beer. “wasn’t for me.”

and that was it.

like he hadn’t disappeared into the big shiny city, like he hadn’t bled your wallet dry with false promises and slinked off like a ghost. like he hadn’t once looked at you with all the hungry ambition of someone who wanted out more than anything else. like the whole thing was a project he just decided to bail on one day because the cafeteria didn’t serve his favorite chips.

you didn’t laugh.

you stared at the condensation slipping down the side of your bottle, jaw tense, tongue heavy against your teeth. wasn’t for me, he’d said. 

but you’d known him when he was seventeen and mean with dreams. when he talked about “getting out” like it was oxygen and everything else was a drowning room. he would’ve eaten glass to make it to the city.

so no, you didn’t buy it.

your eyes flicked up to him across the room — lazy posture, hooded eyes, beer balancing on one thigh.

got bored, huh?

you weren’t sure what happened to him in that city. but you were sure as hell it wasn’t boredom.

—

the horses were swatting flies with their tails, heads bowed, the warm stink of hay and leather thick in the air. you leaned against the wooden post of the stable, arms crossed, watching one of the colts nibble at a water bucket like it had just discovered taste. it was quiet, save for the occasional clunk of a hoof against wood. toji had been humming something under his breath — some old radio tune — while filling a trough, sleeves rolled up, forearms dotted with straw.

“so,” he said, easy, voice low and almost smug. “you ever gonna ask?”

you didn’t turn to him. didn’t even blink. “ask what?”

“don’t play dumb.” he chuckled, like this was some inside joke the two of you were in on. “you didn’t believe that shit i said in the cabin, right?”

you stayed silent, hands tightening around your elbows.

“figured,” he muttered, rubbing a hand through his hair. then, louder — “you know, i thought about this moment.”

you tilted your head, finally glancing at him. this moment?

he was still facing the horse, like it was easier that way.

“thought about what you’d say. how you’d look at me. how you’d laugh and say ‘i fucking knew it, fushiguro, you snake.’” he half-grinned, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “but you didn’t say anything. you just… left.”

you shifted on your feet. his tone was starting to change — not cocky anymore, not cool. something else, something… fragile underneath.

he kept going.

“year three, she dumped me. just said it wasn’t workin’, like it was an office job or some shit.” he let out a short laugh. “said i wasn’t what she needed. like i was a goddamn appliance.”

he finally turned to you. his face was unreadable, like he wasn’t sure how much to show.

“i didn’t have the money for college. surprise, right? turns out scholarships don’t grow on trees when you’ve got a shit résumé and a fake smile. so i left.”

he rubbed his palms on his jeans, voice picking up speed like he was afraid if he stopped now, he’d never say it.

“i slept in the campus gym for a week before security kicked me out. worked at this trash diner that gave me one meal a day and didn’t ask questions. i stayed because i didn’t know how to come back. i didn’t know how to… show my face.”

he swallowed.

“and then i did come back. here. because where the hell else was i supposed to go?”

you watched him, unreadable, while the horse beside you snorted and stomped.

“look, ’m not — i’m not askin’ for anything,” he said quickly, hands half-lifted in a clumsy gesture. “i just… thought maybe you’d wanna know. figured you’d earned that, at least.”

he laughed, bitter now. “or maybe i just wanted you to know i didn’t win either.”

you didn’t say a word. you just turned and left the stable, boots crunching dry hay, his words trailing behind you like smoke.

you didn’t know why he told you. and you weren’t sure he did either.

—

the fire cracked and hissed, soft embers snapping like popcorn in the flames. the kids were all bundled up on logs and folded blankets, marshmallow goo clinging to their fingers and cheeks, flashlights blinking in their laps like dying fireflies. someone had already told a ghost story that was more fart noises than fear, and another kid tried to do a knock-knock joke that went absolutely nowhere. then someone shouted, “miss! miss! tell us one!” and it spread like wildfire — a dozen little voices chanting your name, eyes wide with excitement.

“alright,” you said, clearing your throat, raising an eyebrow with mock sternness. “but only if you all sit up straight and zip your lips. no interrupting.”

the campfire glow painted your face gold and shadow, and you spoke in that calm, commanding tone that usually made them scramble into lines. 

“once upon a time,” you began, voice smooth, eyes drifting across the fire to catch the flicker of green in toji’s, “there was a dragon and a princess.”

already, the kids leaned forward, rapt.

“they were best friends. not like playdate best friends. i mean real best friends. knew each other’s secrets, always shared their snacks. the dragon even used to warm the princess’s feet when it was cold by breathing near her slippers.”

a few kids giggled. 

“but one day,” you said, voice turning serious, “the dragon got greedy. he saw the princess’s secret stash of jewels — the ones she kept hidden in her treasure chest, the ones she trusted only him to guard — and he took them. he didn’t even say goodbye. just flew off.”

silence now, all little eyes blinking up at you, mouths half-open.

“but as the dragon was flying,” you continued, pausing just enough to feel the moment crackle, “the jewels weighed too much. they were too heavy, all that greed. and so the dragon came tumbling down, crashing right out of the sky.”

you leaned back slightly, arms folded, tone clipped and clean.

“the moral of the story?” you asked, glancing around the circle. “don’t be greedy. and never betray your friends.”

“whoaaaaaa,” one kid breathed out, clutching their seatmate dramatically.

“i’m never stealing candy again!” another declared, already nudging their friend in apology.

“wait, but did the dragon live?” someone asked, tugging on your sleeve.

you just smiled a little. “that’s another story.”

the kids huddled tighter, whispering promises and silly oaths of honesty under their breath. some of them even hugged, like they’d just survived something huge. and across the fire, toji sat on a stump, arms draped over his knees, expression unreadable — except for the glint in his eye. he wasn’t laughing, wasn’t nodding along.

he knew. of course he knew.

his jaw worked like he was chewing on the weight of it, the burn of being immortalized as a dragon who fell. and you? you kept your eyes on the flames, your smile soft and sweet, like you’d just told a bedtime tale instead of calling someone out across time and fire.

the kids believed you were teaching them morals. toji knew you were handing him a mirror.

the last of the kids had been herded back to their cabins, yawning and sugar-crashed, their glowsticks trailing like dying stars across the dirt path. laughter faded, doors creaked shut, and the crickets took over again. camp was quiet. peaceful. you kicked a half-melted marshmallow into the embers and stabbed the fire with the metal poker, scattering red-hot coals and watching them die.

“real subtle,” came a voice behind you. 

you didn’t turn.

“a dragon and a princess?” toji said, stepping closer, his boots crunching the gravel. “that’s what we’re doing now?”

“just a story,” you replied coolly, not looking up. “kids like dragons.”

he snorted. “yeah, well, the dragon sounded real fuckin’ familiar.”

you exhaled through your nose, poked the fire again. “if the claws fit.”

he moved to your side now, arms crossed, watching you like you were the flicker he couldn’t quite put out. 

“you didn’t have to do that in front of the kids,” he said. “what — you want them thinkin’ i’m some asshole thief who ran off in the night?”

you turned slowly, met his eyes. “if the scales fit.”

he stepped in again, closer than necessary. “look, i get it, alright? i was a dick. i made mistakes. but that was years ago—”

“nononono, see, you made a choice,” you cut in sharply, wiping your hands on your jeans and throwing a half-charred stick into the bin. “you chose money. you chose some fantasy with a woman who promised you status or whatever the hell, and you did it at my expense.”

toji's jaw tensed. “it wasn’t like that—”

“you asked me for money, toji.” you laughed, bitter and breathless. “and you didn’t even have the balls to tell me why. just took it and left. vanished. you were gone before sunrise. like i was some side quest.”

“i came back,” he muttered. “i came back, didn’t i?”

“and you want a medal for that?” your voice rose, hands gesturing wide in disbelief. “you want me to fall on my knees because your big plan blew up in your face and now you’re stuck back here with the rest of us nobodies?”

“this isn't about me,” he said quickly, voice edging into something almost… performative. “this is about what you're putting out in front of the kids. like — c’mon, y’think that's fair? makin’ me look like some monster when i'm trying to be better?”

“don’t—” you jabbed a finger into his chest, “—don’t you dare bring the kids into this. this has nothing to do with them. they don’t know who you are. they don’t know what you did.”

he scoffed. “they love me.”

“they love the character you play. the big, goofy strong guy who lets them ride on his back. they don’t know the real you. and frankly, they don’t need to.”

he stared at you for a long moment. something shifted in his face — like maybe, just maybe, he realized he wasn’t winning this.

“i’m not seventeen anymore,” you said, quieter now but sharper. “i’m not gonna keep excusing your bullshit just because you talk nice or smile sad.”

you stepped around him. he tried to stop you, reaching slightly like he might grab your arm — but didn’t.

“move,” you said, low, final. “move out of my way before i make you.”

he hesitated — just a second too long.

and you walked right past him.

he didn’t follow, because he knew. he’d flown too far and fallen too hard. and there was no sky left for him in your eyes.

—

the days after that night blurred into one another, a carousel of structured routine and rustling pine needles and the ever-fading hum of summer winding down. no one mentioned the argument, not that anyone knew about it. toji went about the next morning as if nothing had happened — cleaned out the stable buckets, high-fived a kid, laughed a little too loud. 

and then he was gone.

no goodbye, no forwarded message, no crumpled post-it note left in the staff cabin.

just… gone.

it was three days before the end of camp when someone noticed. it started with one of the junior counselors squinting into the breakfast line.

“where’s toji?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.

“probably sleeping in,” someone said.

but he didn’t show up for the beach activity. or the talent showcase. or the marshmallow prep.

on the second-to-last morning, while sipping coffee from chipped enamel mugs, the counselors stood near the admin office whispering in a cluster, eyebrows drawn in concern.

“his bunk's empty.”

“didn’t pack up anything. not even the boots.”

“his phone’s off.”

“what the hell? it’s like he ghosted all of us.”

you stood off to the side, arms crossed, face unreadable as you listened. you knew the truth. you just didn’t know why he did it again.

and just like clockwork, the kids noticed. you were tying a shoelace and helping another adjust their sunhat when one of the older ones piped up,

“miss! where’s mr jiji?”

you paused, half-kneeling.

another chimed in.

“yeah! he was supposed to help me with my slingshot!”

“and he said we’d play dodgeball again before leaving day!”

“did he get eaten by a bear?”

you smiled — the kind that came from years of fake-it-til-you-make-it babysitting — and stood. 

“nah, nothing like that,” you said, brushing your hands on your shorts. “mr jiji had to leave early. important mission.”

the kids all gasped.

“a mission?”

“like…spy stuff?”

“superhero stuff?”

“kind of,” you said. and you weren’t sure why, but the lie came out without much thought. “he’s on a mission to find us a camp pet.”

the kids blinked.

“a pet?”

“like a dog?”

“or a bear cub?”

“something really cool,” you said. “he said he’d be back with it next summer.”

the excitement took like wildfire. 

next year, next year, next year. they laughed and speculated and made drawings of what the pet would look like on construction paper with grubby hands. 

and just like that, the question of where he went vanished from their minds. not from yours. because you were old enough now to know that he wouldn’t be back.

toji never returned when things got hard. he never saw anything through if it meant facing something uncomfortable — being responsible, being known.

he’d done it again, just like the first time. ran away with a mess half-made, expecting someone else to clean it up. and maybe, just maybe, a small, treacherous part of you wondered if this was the only role you were ever meant to play when it came to him.

the one left holding the weight.

—

the last day of camp always had a particular ache to it — like the air itself knew something good was ending. the sun was already climbing over the treetops when the kids were ushered out with their backpacks and duffel bags, some dragging, some bouncing with leftover sugar in their veins. the counselors stood in their designated farewell zones: high-fives here, quick selfies there, signed t-shirts and sloppy friendship bracelets being exchanged like gold. you stood tall, arms folded, your signature mock-scowl already making a few of the kids sniffle.

“miss scary lady, you have to come back next year!” one of them cried, clinging to your leg like a koala.

“yeah! who else is gonna yell at us for sneaking pudding cups?”

“or tell us about dragons that eat thieves?”

you cleared your throat, exaggeratedly loud, and jabbed a finger skyward. “pull it together, troops. we had a good run. but don’t think for one second that the world ends when you leave here.”

they sniffled harder.

“adventure doesn’t stop just ‘cause the tents are down and the marshmallows are gone. it’s everywhere.” you leaned in, voice softer. “and i’ll be watching. always.”

“like a forest ghost?” someone whispered.

“exactly.” you winked. “now don’t make me cry, or i will cancel summer forever.”

that earned giggles through the tears. one by one, they peeled away, waving from car windows and buses, shouting promises to write, to visit, to come back next year. the counselors waved until the last van pulled out, quiet settling in their absence like a quilt over tired shoulders. someone handed you a root beer and clapped you on the back. “you were great with them this year. they loved you.”

“sure,” you muttered, watching the dust settle on the dirt road. “they only loved me because i didn’t let them set the woods on fire.”

after cleanup and final checks, the counselors dispersed — some lingering for a photo or two, others too emotionally drained to say anything at all. the administrative office was the last stop. you stepped into the air-conditioned chill, still smelling of charcoal and bug spray, and gave your name.

“ah,” the older woman behind the desk said, shuffling envelopes. “yes. yours and... actually, here.”

she slid two cheques across the counter. your name on both.

you blinked.

“wait — this isn’t—”

“he asked us to give it to you,” she said with a knowing smile. “said you earned it more than he did.”

and then she passed over the final piece. folded once, unmarked.

a note.

you stared at it, unmoving, fingers tightening around the edges.

toji fucking fushiguro.

of course he’d leave a note instead of facing you again. 

of course he’d let you deal with everything and then try to make it poetic at the last second.

you walked outside, stood by the mess hall where the flags had been taken down. the cicadas hummed their goodbye.

two cheques in one hand, a note in the other.

you didn’t open it. not yet. not here.

you sat on the mess hall steps, legs stretched out, the last of the sun slipping behind the trees like a secret. the note was still in your hand, its edges now damp from your fingers. you hesitated — because opening it meant letting him have the final word. but you did it anyway.

the paper was creased down the middle, the handwriting rough — not sloppy, but fast, like he didn’t want to give himself the chance to rethink what he was about to say.

hey.

i know this is nothing — a letter and a check. two things that don’t hold weight compared to what i did. but i’m not sending it to clear my name or get sympathy.

i’m just… trying. that’s it.

i know i can’t pay you back for everything, not really. money isn’t enough, and neither is this sorry excuse for an apology. but i’m still giving you both, ‘cause it’s all i have left. 

i fucked up, i know that now. i’ve known it for a while. and i don’t expect you to forgive me, or even believe me. 

but i wanted you to know — i see it. i see you. how you kept going. how you turned out stronger. 

i’m not asking for kindness. just… let me try, even if you can’t see it yet.

that’s all.

– toji

your breath caught somewhere between your throat and your ribs. you hated that your hands trembled. not because the letter moved you — no, not that, you told yourself — but because he wrote it like it mattered. like you mattered. you pressed your tongue to your molars, jaw tight, eyes stinging.

“fuck,” you muttered, voice small.

you folded the note again, slower this time, and let your palm hover over the trash can beside you. but it didn’t move. instead, you let the letter sit on your thigh as you stared out at the empty field — where dodgeball had been played, where ghost stories had been told, where kids had squealed over nothing and everything.

you didn’t cry. you didn’t smile either. you just let the weight of it settle in your chest like a stone in shallow water.

message received, toji. you’re trying.

now it’s your turn to wait and see if you actually do.

—

it was next summer when you came back — not as a regular counselor, but as senior camp counselor. clipboard upgraded, whistle still around your neck, and a laminated badge that declared you “head of child-led wilderness exploration and behavior enforcement,” which was a very polite way of saying the scary lady who makes you line up properly for lunch and will send you to arts and crafts hell if you act up. the kids were a little older now — a few inches taller, voices cracking in weird places, some of them discovering deodorant (and others stubbornly refusing to). but they remembered you. oh, they remembered you.

“miss scary lady is back!” one of the girls from last summer shrieked, as if spotting a celebrity.

“she’s the boss now,” another whispered, wide-eyed, like you’d staged a coup.

“does that mean she can put other counselors on time-out?” a boy asked, completely serious.

“yes,” you said, without looking up from your clipboard. “yes, i can.”

they took to your authority like it was gospel. lined up a little straighter, bunk beds made with military precision. even the new kids got the memo quickly — don’t mess with the scary lady, but if you’re crying because you scraped your knee, she’ll let you hold her walkie-talkie while she cleans it up.

you were halfway through disciplining cabin four for a dramatic meltdown over bunk assignments — voice sharp, tone military, clipboard like a weapon — when you heard it:

“he’s back! mr jiji’s back!”

you turned, prepared to tell whoever let a random adult into camp without a staff badge that they were going to be personally assigned to bathroom duty. but then you saw him.

toji fushiguro. same cocky gait, same black tank top like he wasn’t aging a damn day. 

and in his arms — a ball of fluff the size of a loaf of bread, white fur glowing under the sun, round blue eyes blinking slowly like it owned the earth and all its bugs.

a cat. a whole-ass cat. 

the one you made up last summer to cover for his sorry disappearing act.

you exhaled through your nose, slow and heavy. he really did it. he actually brought the damn cat.

“this,” he was saying, already surrounded by half the camp, “is gojo. he’s a certified camp guardian and a menace after 9 p.m. feed him and suffer the consequences.”

“HE LOOKS LIKE A CLOUD!” someone screamed.

“HE LOOKS LIKE ICE CREAM!”

“HE LOOKS LIKE A GOJO!”

you didn’t realize your arms were crossed until you felt your nails digging into your biceps. he caught your eye through the chaos. that familiar smug tilt to his mouth softened the moment he saw you standing by the cabin steps, whistle still dangling forgotten on your chest.

he didn’t wave. you didn’t smile. but your jaw didn’t clench either. and his eyes, for once, didn’t dodge yours.

a long second passed. 

and just before one of the kids threw themselves into his legs and nearly took him down with the force of a thousand skinned-knee summers, you gave him the tiniest nod. almost imperceptible, almost unintentional.

he caught it. of course he did.

you didn’t need a speech, or another letter, or even an apology. he came back. he brought the cat. he showed up. and maybe that was what a second chance looked like — not grand, not poetic, not even hopeful. just… trying. again.

you turned back to the bunk list, lips twitching just slightly. 

“cabin four, last warning. don’t make me feed you to gojo.”

[creamflixx]

Putting in my order 💛✨

Trope: enemies (not really, it’s misunderstood like a messed up first meeting) to lovers

Prompt: #30 from menu #1 (“I’ve been in-love with you since we were kids.”)

Character: Nanami

Fluff/nsfw

🍹 𝔂our 𝓭rink is 𝓼erved!

today’s special features nanami kento at the aquarium, shaken up with the prompt: “i’ve been in love with you since we were kids.” it’s a resolved angst and second chance blend, served in 4.4k words. be wary of the following ingredients: misunderstandings, enemies to lovers

ordered fresh off the menu at the creamflix tiki bar. cheers.

it starts, as all good stories do, at an aquarium.

the halls were dim, blue-lit and echoing with the shrieks and laughter of too many children on a field trip. someone’s lunch was already smushed into the floor, a trail of crushed crisps leading to the penguin enclosure, and the air smelled of wet stone and sugary ice cream.

you, however, were rapt.

nose pressed to the thick pane of glass, palms spread wide like you could reach through to the other side and join them — the little orange-and-white darting blurs flitting through anemones. the coral shimmered like cities, the light bent and waved with the water, and everything in you ached with the kind of joy only children have. “they’re nemo fish,” you whispered, in that kind of reverent awe you’d usually save for fireworks or christmas mornings. “look. sooo many.”

you didn’t expect him to be behind you. 

nanami kento. khaki shorts, socks pulled too high, a heavy expression for someone who’d only just turned twelve. always quiet, always watching like he was already too old for the things around him. “they’re called ocellaris clownfish,” he said, not meanly, not kindly — just flat, factual. like correcting a label on a folder. you blinked, smile not falling, just pausing. 

“…yeah, i know. but i like calling them—”

“that’s not their name,” he interrupted, firm now, almost disapproving. “calling them nemo fish is wrong. that’s not science. that’s just... cartoons.”

your cheeks flushed, heat rising up behind your ears. not because he was right — you knew what they were. you’d read books, watched nature documentaries, memorised the way they swam and where they lived. but in that moment, none of it mattered. in that moment, you were just a kid with your heart in the wrong place. you stared at him, heart sinking in your chest. 

“you didn’t have to say it like that.”

he looked at you then. properly. the first time he ever did. and for a moment, something flickered in his eyes — regret, maybe guilt. or maybe he was just confused why it mattered so much to you. but he didn’t say sorry. 

he just turned and walked to the next exhibit, hands in his pockets.

and that’s when you learned the world wasn’t built for soft wonder, or silly names, or fish that made you smile. it was built for facts, for people like him. and that hate — heavy, unfamiliar, brand-new — settled inside you like a stone in your stomach.

starting then, gone was the girl who loved nemo and dory fish. she disappeared quietly — no tantrum, no tears, no declaration. just a slow erosion, a slipping away of softness in favor of something colder, cleaner, more precise. by the time the next school trip came around, you were the one correcting names. you folded your hands neatly behind your back, spoke when you were sure, and never let your excitement get the best of you.

the girl who once lit up rooms with facts delivered like secrets — did you know clownfish can change their sex? — had turned into someone sharp-edged. not cruel, just... unreachable. you answered questions before they were finished being asked. you stopped laughing at jokes you’d have once howled over. your birthday cake that year was minimalist — store-bought and vanilla. no tiara, no theme. you thought this was maturity.

your friends didn’t know what to make of you anymore. they watched you with something like confusion — or maybe caution — like you’d aged out of something essential they were all still living inside. and maybe you had. maybe you wanted to.

and nanami — nanami was still there. tall and tired and already carrying the weight of someone’s future. he rarely spoke unless spoken to, but when he did, it was exact, curt. 

he hated wasting time, hated wasting breath. and you hated that you understood that now. you hated that you walked the same halls and looked the same way — like people who had been taught too young that joy is naive.

you saw it clearest in the graduation photo.

the camera clicked and everyone grinned — cheeks flushed, fingers flashing peace signs, eyes half-squinted in the sun. but there you were, and there he was, and neither of you smiled, not really. the corners of your lips lifted politely, but your eyes were far away. you looked like kids who had missed something, and knew it. and didn’t know how to go back.

that was three years ago.

you’re twenty now, intern badge clipped to your shirt, hands slightly damp from the touch tank, and every morning feels like walking into the belly of memory. the same cold-air-conditioned lobby, the same slow background hum of filter pumps and distant chatter, the same goddamn clownfish exhibit.

marine biology made sense — it was quiet, factual, vast. you didn’t have to explain your reasons to anyone. not your friends who now studied abroad or spiraled into business degrees, not your family who had silently hoped for a less salt-soaked path, and especially not yourself. you stood in front of the tank again, three years later, arms crossed and professional, eyes flicking over the school of fish. they darted in formation, like muscle memory — like they too remembered twelve-year-old you squished against the glass, wide-eyed and full of wonder.

your lips twitched, just a little.

and then you felt him before you saw him.

nanami kento, tall and unreasonably composed for someone your age. khakis again, dress shirt tucked in, sleeves rolled up like he was pretending not to be out of place. he stood beside you like it was nothing, like the universe wasn’t elbowing you in the ribs with cruel coincidence. you didn’t look at him, but you could feel the silence swelling like a balloon between you.

then he said it. calm, clipped, matter-of-fact: 

“they're schooling for protection. the reflective scales help confuse predators.”

you blinked, your jaw clenched. of course he said something. of course it was another lecture-in-a-sentence. the kind of useless, unsolicited trivia he had offered since the day he ruined your childhood. you turned your head, slow and pointed.

“i’m aware,” you said flatly.

a flicker crossed his face — brief, but visible. a crease deepened between his brows. he looked at you like you’d just swatted away a peace offering.

you didn’t care. because there he was again, the human embodiment of a correction. because every time he opened his mouth, it felt like a test, like he expected you to fail it. because you didn’t need his facts. you lived in them now.

you turned back to the tank. he didn’t say anything else.

god, he was dangerous. and you hated him.

—

you continued your work like clockwork.

in on time. reports submitted, displays clean, tank parameters logged down to the decimal. no complaints, no errors. if a pipe burst, you were already on it. if a new intern messed up the feeding schedule, you fixed it before anyone noticed. your supervisors loved you for that, and they relied on it. and, oddly enough, the field trip kids adored you.

you were their designated aquarium guide on weekdays — not because you smiled the brightest, but because you didn’t talk down to them. you explained things clearly, didn’t sugarcoat, and walked briskly, expecting them to keep up. your tours became something of a local myth among the chattier schools.

“we have to behave or she’ll make us talk to the octopus alone.”

“no, she tells the fish who’s not listening.”

“she once stared at a kid into silence. stared. like this.”

but what they didn’t know — what none of your coworkers knew — was that you broke the rules for them. quietly, sneakily. like letting your younger self peek out of the coat you’d zipped her into years ago. “this,” you told one group of wide-eyed seven-year-olds, standing in front of the clownfish tank, “is where the nemo fish lives. he doesn’t like being disturbed. but if he ever escapes, it’s your duty to return him, okay?”

a small boy gasped, clutching his backpack straps. “even if he ends up in the toilet?”

you nodded solemnly. “especially if he ends up in the toilet.”

they all nodded with gravity, as if you’d just handed them the most sacred of responsibilities. 

a few days later, a girl barely taller than your hip ran up to you by the stingray pool, her pigtails bouncing. “miss! i made a song about jellyfish!”

you raised an eyebrow. “hm. is it scientifically accurate?”

she blinked. “…no. but it rhymes.”

you gave a single approving nod. “acceptable.”

and then stood quietly, arms folded, listening to the entire off-key mess of a song while she flailed her arms like tentacles.

there was another boy, maybe nine, who lingered by the dolphin video reel, eyes round.  “they talk to each other, right?” he whispered.

“with whistles, clicks, body language, echolocation—”

“no, i mean like… secrets. do dolphins keep secrets?”

you looked down at him, deadpan.

“…probably. i’ve never caught them gossiping, but that only proves they’re good at it.”

his eyes widened like you’d unlocked the universe.

you started carrying stickers in your lab coat. merch, too — small plushies, keychains, leftover freebies from the souvenir store. sometimes they slipped out of your pocket and found their way into the hands of the quiet kids. the ones who didn’t talk much but stared at the seahorses like they were seeing magic.

you never smiled too much. your tone never changed. you still walked fast, still didn’t indulge when your coworkers cracked jokes in the break room. but when a kid tugged at your sleeve with a drawing of a shark family that had wings and a bakery business? you took it, nodded seriously, and said:

“that’s a brilliant evolutionary step. flying sharks who bake. makes sense.”

this was the best part of your day, every day. the only part that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, you hadn’t lost everything back at twelve.

it all came crashing down on a wednesday.

they called for an emergency meeting, something about tank restructuring, a need for reevaluation. the head curator’s voice was tight, her clipboard gripped like it might snap. everyone was there — staff, interns, conservation consultants — but you didn’t worry, not really. these things happened. you stood at the back, silent and observant as always, arms folded as you listened to discussions about space management, oxygen ratios, the logistics of hosting more endangered species. it made sense. you nodded along.

and then he spoke.

nanami, of course. seated near the head of the table, shoulders squared, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the effort of the day. he wasn’t an aquarium guy — he was finance, funding, operations. but that didn’t stop him from sliding in like he belonged here more than you did. 

“as per the current funding forecast and projected visitor interests,” he said, calm and clinical, “there’s a need to phase out certain displays. the clownfish exhibit is being considered for removal.”

you didn’t hear anything after that. 

it was like a sharp pop went off in your ears. you stared at him, not blinking. not breathing. he hadn’t even paused before saying it. hadn’t looked at you. hadn’t acknowledged the history in the room. your voice, when it came, was tight. “that’s… short-sighted. the clownfish are one of the most visited exhibits. the kids love it. it’s the first thing they run to.”

he glanced at you — not with disdain, but with the same infuriating, neutral disinterest you’d been haunted by for years. “we’re not only targeting children. our goal is to curate for a wider demographic. adults, conservationists, donors. we need exhibits that reflect more urgency.”

urgency. you could’ve laughed. or screamed. you stared him down, lips pressed thin, heart thudding against the ribs of twelve-year-old you. 

“they’re not just fish in a tank, nanami. they’re memory anchors. educational gateways. emotional touchstones. do you understand what they mean to people?”

his jaw ticked. he adjusted his glasses, not unkindly — but not relenting, either. 

“i understand the numbers. and the space constraints.”

and just like that, the conversation was over.

no one else spoke up. no one backed you. you sat through the rest of the meeting in silence, knuckles white, throat burning from the effort it took to keep still, to not shake. to not speak when your voice might crack.

because what else could you do?

you were an intern. he was the man with the spreadsheets and the last word. and it felt, once again, like he’d looked at something you loved and cut it down with logic.

as if that was more valuable than wonder.

—

you offered to close up for the night.

no one questioned it — you had that kind of presence now. dependable, unsmiling. someone who got the job done. interns didn’t usually have keys, but you did. you’d long since stopped correcting people when they called you staff instead of intern. if they trusted you more than themselves, who were you to argue?

the aquarium at night was a different creature. no footsteps, no kids yelling about sharks. just the sound of filters humming softly like breathing. you moved from tank to tank, making sure each parameter was logged, each lid sealed, each little life accounted for. you pressed your hand against the glass of every display — just for a moment, palm flat, fingers splayed.

the stingrays, the seahorses, the bony, awkward deep-sea ones that always scared the kids, even the rockfish, who looked perpetually grumpy. each one got a soft tap of acknowledgment. a little goodnight.

you reached the clownfish tank last.

the water glowed faintly, casting slow-moving shadows against your face as you knelt. they swam like they always did — quick, fidgety, curious — but one of them paused, hovering by the glass, watching you. 

you stared back.

“…just keep swimming,” you whispered, voice catching.

it sounded so stupid out loud. so childish. but it was the only phrase that ever worked when things felt too heavy for your tiny body to carry. you tried to breathe, but your chest felt like it was being wrung out from the inside.

you weren’t twelve anymore. you were twenty. you wore a badge. you had responsibilities. you were supposed to understand that these things happen — restructuring, budgets, conservation priorities. you knew this was inevitable.

but how do you explain that to a fish? how do you explain to something that has lived in this water longer than you’ve had a nameplate on your door that they’re not important enough anymore? that someone — nanami, of all people — looked at them and saw numbers? saw removal? you pressed your forehead lightly to the glass, eyes burning.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered, like a confession. “i tried.”

you weren’t sure if you were apologizing to them or to the part of yourself that still wanted to believe in fairy tales. that still thought if you fought hard enough, believed big enough, things could stay. people could stay. a choked sniffle escaped before you could swallow it back. you bit your lip hard, like it might force the rest of it down. but the ache in your throat only widened.

time is a funny thing. everything looks the same, until one day you realize it’s not. until one day you realize you’ve grown tall enough to lose things.

the fish scattered suddenly. jerked themselves away from the glass in one sharp ripple, like someone had cracked the water open with a stone. you blinked, startled, a frown forming before the reason hit you.

of course. of fucking course.

you didn’t even need to turn around. you already knew who it was. his presence always preceded him — quiet, composed, slightly colder than the room he walked into. 

nanami kento. just what your night needed.

he came to stand beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world, not even looking at you at first, hands in his pockets. and then he had the audacity — the absolute gall — to speak. “it’s for their own good,” he said, voice soft,. like that changed anything.

“bullshit,” you spat.

not said, not muttered, not tossed over your shoulder. spat. like it physically hurt to have it in your mouth.

he went still. you stood too fast, eyes blazing. “you always do this,” you said, stepping away from him. “you always do this.”

his brows pulled, barely. “do what—”

“take away the things i love!” your voice cracked right in the middle of it, and you didn’t care. you threw the words like knives, every syllable hurled from the weight of years. “you did it back then, and now again — why? what is it about me liking something that makes you want to ruin it?!”

he didn’t answer. just looked at you with something unreadable in his face — something caught between regret and resolve. you scoffed bitterly. “i loved these fish. i loved this job. and you — you just sit there with your figures and your logic and your blank face, and you don’t even flinch.”

silence. the air felt wet and heavy, like the tanks were listening. 

and then, finally, he said, very quietly, “give me time.”

you frowned. “what?”

he turned to you fully, now. face drawn but sincere. “give me time. i’ll fix this. i’ll do something. anything.”

you stared at him, stunned. “why?”

his mouth twitched, just once. not quite a smile. because he didn’t smile, not really.

“because i’ve been in love with you since we were kids,” he said. “and i hate seeing you sad.”

the silence that followed was so total, so complete, it made the humming filters sound like thunder. even the fish were still now. you could’ve laughed. you could’ve hit him. you could’ve cried. 

but instead, you just stood there, breathing too hard, chest rising and falling like the tide.

—

you never asked how he did it.

nanami showed up to the next meeting with some figures, some revised allocations, a little shuffle of priorities — and suddenly, there was enough space, enough budget. enough everything. you didn’t ask for the details. you didn’t want to know who he convinced, or how hard he had to push, or what rules he bent to make it happen. it was fixed. that’s all that mattered. 

the clownfish stayed. and right next to them, the new tank shimmered with the unmistakable blue of regal tangs.

blue tangs.

you stood in front of them for a long time when they were unveiled. blinking once, twice. the water made everything soft, dreamlike — and for a second, you swore you could hear the laughter of your younger self echoing faintly off the glass.

ironic, you thought. or maybe not ironic at all. maybe it was a sign.

the visits skyrocketed.

word got around. schools started booking more field trips. parents brought their kids back on the weekends — some of them still in cleats, some in tutu skirts and glitter barrettes, breathless with the urgency of showing their family “the fishies.” 

you kept doing your job — still serious, still composed — but something started tugging at the corners of your mouth more often now. especially when you overheard kids reciting facts to their siblings or dragging their cousins over to explain which fish had mucus layers or symbiotic relationships with anemones. words you had fed to them over the weeks.

and they remembered.

they believed them. they believed you.

that feeling in your chest — it was strange. not quite joy, not pride, either. just something warm and steady. like something old and heavy finally shifting inside you. and then one day, you realized what it was.

hope.

not the wild, blinding kind that crashes in like waves. not the desperate kind you clutch to like a life raft. no — this was quieter. something that curled up inside you and said, it’s okay now. it had stayed with you all this time, tucked between your ribs, until you had the strength to feel it again. and when a group of kids came barreling down the corridor, already yelling your name, clutching each other’s sleeves as they ran—

“miss! miss! can you tell us nemo again? pleasepleaseplease — just the part where he touches the—”

you didn’t roll your eyes, neither did you sigh. you let them drag you by the hand, back toward the tanks glowing like dreams, and for the fifth time that month — maybe the fiftieth in your life — you began to tell the story of a little fish who got lost, and the even littler one who never gave up. you told it like you meant it. because this time, you did.

nanami joined you not long after the kids had dispersed, their giggles echoing down the hall as they ran off to terrorize the jellyfish exhibit. you didn’t look at him. you didn’t need to. you stood shoulder to shoulder, both of you watching the slow, rhythmic dance of orange and blue beneath the water. the soft glow of the tanks brushed across your faces like moonlight — as if the aquarium itself had gone quiet to listen.

for a while, neither of you said a thing. and then, finally, you spoke. just one word. simple. tired. honest.

“…why?”

he didn’t pretend to misunderstand.

“because i’ve been in love with you since we were kids,” he said again, the same way he always did — like it was just gravity. just the truth. just how the world was. you swallowed, eyes locked on the clownfish that darted out and back into their anemone.

“why?” you asked again.

but this time it broke open something softer. not a challenge. not even a question, really. more like a crack in the surface. an ache in your chest. why me? he turned then — not to look at the fish, but to look at you. and when he spoke, his voice was a little rougher, like he was telling you something that had never been said out loud before.

“you were full of love,” he said. “at thirteen, you were so — so alive. every word you said made people smile. made me feel like smiling. you saw beauty in algae and dirt and seaweed. in everything.”

your hands had gone still at your sides.

“i didn’t hate your personality,” he said, slowly. “i was jealous of it.”

he let that sit. 

“i wanted to see life like that too,” he continued. “and when i saw you — eyes wide, face pressed to the glass, calling the clownfish nemo — i thought, ‘this is it. this is the person i want in my life. this is the person who makes everything make sense.’”

your chest ached.

“but i didn’t know how to say it,” he said, barely audible. “so i said the wrong thing instead. and then you stopped smiling around me. and that—”

he exhaled sharply, like it still hurt. “that was the worst part. not that you hated me, but that you stopped being you.”

you finally turned toward him, slowly. your eyes were shining in the dark. nanami looked at you like he was bracing for punishment, or forgiveness. he’d take either. 

you didn’t give him either — you gave him the truth.

“you broke my heart,” you said, voice calm. “at twelve.”

his expression didn’t change, but his hands curled slightly at his sides.

“…i know.”

“and yet,” you murmured, looking back at the fish. “you’re still the only person i wanted standing next to me today.”

his hand, so close to yours, twitched just once. and for the first time in years, the air between you didn’t feel heavy. it felt full. like something was beginning again.

—

it had been three months since the conversation at the tanks — the soft, shaking truths, the small silences that felt heavier than water, the beginning of something stitched slowly back together.

you still gave tours.

stoic, of course. nothing short of professional. but to the kids, you were something else entirely. they never quite caught on to the way your voice never lifted past a calm register, or how your expression barely changed — they were too swept up in your delivery. the stories. the slow, deliberate pauses you made right before the dramatic parts. the way you could spin fact into wonder.

you stood in front of the shark exhibit, hands clasped behind your back, surrounded by second graders in oversized backpacks and stained uniforms, all of them vibrating with barely contained excitement. “and this,” you said solemnly, “is the sand tiger shark. don’t be fooled by its name. it’s not a tiger. it’s not friendly. and it’s definitely not here to be your friend.”

the kids gasped, faces full of thrill. you let it simmer. then added:

“however. he does like to stare. so if you feel something watching you when you turn around, it’s him. probably deciding who he’d like to snack on first.”

a collective squeal from the crowd. one little boy clutched his friend’s arm in glee. another whispered, “i think he likes me.”

and right then, as if on cue, nanami walked past with a clipboard tucked under one arm, glanced toward your group and, without breaking stride, muttered just loud enough for them all to hear:

“they don’t eat humans. not unless provoked.”

you didn’t even flinch. you tilted your head dramatically, one brow rising as if you’d been challenged in a duel. “and how exactly, sir,” you called after him, “do you define ‘provoked’?”

nanami paused. glanced back, eyes behind his glasses sharp with restrained amusement. 

“unruly children.”

a wave of delighted shrieks.

“we’re not unruly!” came a chorus of indignant, giggling protests. “we’re nice!!”

you turned back to the group, as if considering his logic deeply. after a moment of dramatic silence, you nodded gravely.

“hmm. fair. i suppose he’ll have to find another snack today.”

relief flooded the crowd. someone in the back fist-pumped. one kid saluted the shark tank.

it was always like that now. nanami interjecting from wherever he was in the building, deadpan and perfectly timed, while you spun your stories like soft, serious spells. sometimes he’d linger longer, watching the way the children clung to every word you said — watching you.

he was still far from perfect. he was dry. he was difficult. he calculated emotional weight like it was part of a spreadsheet. but he tried.

he’d linger just a moment longer when you paused by the clownfish tank. he’d place a hand on your lower back in passing — light, steadying, just there. he’d listen to the stories you told the kids and never once asked you to stop.

you let him.

because some people really are worth second chances. especially when they’re brave enough to ask for one. and even more when they finally learn how to believe in magic again — with you.

[creamflixx]

SPEAK NOW !꒰ঌ ໒꒱

mission brief he’s a boy with a phone, you’re a girl with a phone — can i make any more obvious? when he discovers the voice message feature, everything shifts. what started as a simple feature becomes your favorite way to stay close. w.c 3.2k

risk assessment female reader, lots of fluff, voice message transcripts, established relationships, mentions of injuries in toji's part, inspired by this post by @kageyuji ft! gojo, naoya, geto, sukuna, nanami, choso, toji

a/n is this a taylor swift reference?

☆ GOJO SATORU

The only time Gojo sends you voice messages is — well… every time.

Texts? Too quiet. Too flat. Too impersonal.

He says they don’t capture the weight of his words, don’t carry the excitement he feels when he talks to you. So he never really texts. He sends voice notes. Long, breathy, rambling ones. They’re chaotic in the most Gojo way — filled with tangents, background noise, the occasional crunch of a snack mid-sentence, and the way his voice softens slightly when he says your name. You’ve got a whole archive of them by now.

Topics range from the mundane to the deeply unhinged. The cat he swore looked like his reincarnation. The time he saw mochi back in stock at his favorite corner store and almost cried. The leaf that somehow ended up in his hair without explanation. 

And yet, no matter how long, how off-track, or how often he pauses to remember what he was even trying to say in the first place — you listen to every single one. Because it’s him. And that’s just how it is.

▶︎·|၊|။||||။၊|။|||။|||။ 2:47

“Hey—

Wait, okay, first of all, good morning, my love, sunshine of my life, reason I still tolerate people — mmmm, except Nanami, he’s alright. But you. You’re special.

Anyway.

Whatcha makin’ for lunch today? I had a dream you made those onigiri with the spicy tuna inside — y’know, the ones that make me cry a little but I keep eating them? Yeeaaahh. Dreamt of those and woke up starving.

OH — speaking of food, the family mart by the station restocked the strawberry mochi!! Y’know, the squishy kind with the powdered sugar on top. I bought six. I ate five. I saved one for you maybe. If I don't eat it first. Which I miiight. So…maybe we just go together and get more?

Oh oh OH, also, you’ll never guess what I saw on the way home. A cat. A majestic little fluff ball. White fur, blue eyes, looked just like me. He even walked like he owned the street. I was like, hey, are you me? He didn’t answer. Ruuuude. But we locked eyes and I think we had a moment.

Also.

Leaf. In my hair. Don’t ask me how. I wasn't even near a tree?? I was walking past that alley with the vending machine — you know the one where we took that silly selfie where I had one eye closed 'cause the flash betrayed me. Yeah, that place. Suddenly boom. Leaf. I looked like a decorative cupcake.

...Wait, what was I saying? Right, lunch.

No wait — restaurant. Yes, that was it.

So I found this place at 2am. Not found found, like, I didn’t physically stumble across it, but I was googling places to take you because I couldn’t sleep 'cause I was thinking of your stupid cute face — and my car ran outta gas so I was stuck in a parking lot, and I just kept scrolling and boom, fancy little fusion place. Ramen but like, fancy. They drizzle truffle oil. Wild. We haaaave to go. Wear somethin’ hot. Like…a sweater. You in sweaters? Elite.

…Okay okay, I'm gonna stop talking now. But answer me back. I miss your voice. And tell me what’s for lunch. Or just send me a pic of your face. Or both. Okay love you bye. Wait—

mwah

Okay, now bye for real.”

☆ GETO SUGURU

Geto’s voice messages don’t come often — but when they do, they’re slices of domesticity folded into casual errands. 

He doesn’t text when he’s at the store, doesn’t like scrolling through chats or waiting for you to reply with half-typed words. Instead, you’ll get voice notes — low, a little amused, sometimes with ambient grocery store noise behind him. The clink of bottles, the hum of fluorescent lights, muffled announcements. They come when he’s standing in front of shelves making tiny life decisions that somehow always involve you.

He’ll send one when he’s stuck between two ramen flavors, or if he’s wondering whether you’re in the mood for soba or udon instead. Sometimes he’ll send another from the toiletries aisle, holding up your shampoo like he’s weighing its soul. And then, just when the message sounds like it’s ending, he’ll throw in something ridiculous. Like condoms in bulk, with the mock-serious tone of a man claiming it’s purely for convenience.

and to anyone watching from afar, it’s obvious. The way he holds the phone close to his mouth, tone soft, thoughtful, fingers resting on his temple like he’s consulting someone far more important than whatever brand of body wash is in his hand.

He’s taken. Completely.

▶︎·|၊|။||||။၊|။|||။|||။ 1:18

“Hey.

‘M in front of the ramen shelf. You want miso again, or are we switching it up to tonkotsu today? There's this new one with chili oil that might make you cry, but I'll let you pretend it’s just the spice. Or we skip ramen and go with noodles — soba? Udon?

...You’re probably gonna say, ‘whatever you want,’ but if you say that I’m gettin’ the spiciest one and making you eat it first.

Also.

I'm grabbing your shampoo — the…rosemary mint one, right? Or was it lavender? You keep changing it on me. There’s a sale, so I might just get both and let you be indecisive later. Soap too. You want the oat one or the lemony one that makes me smell like summer in july?

…Oh, condoms too. And yes, ‘m picking some up because apparently we go through them like candy. Don’t act shy. Convenience, remember?

Mmm, alright. Text if I missed anything. Otherwise, expect me home in twenty. Love you.”

☆ NANAMI KENTO

Nanami doesn’t send voice messages often. He's meticulous, thoughtful — he prefers the precision of text.

He’ll take the time to type out long responses, punctuated perfectly, each sentence neat like he’s laying bricks. When he’s tired or on the move, he’ll use speech-to-text, not because he’s lazy, but because he values clarity and ease. But when he’s away — when work takes him out of the city, or when you’re the one gone — something shifts. 

His voice notes arrive like clockwork. Soft, timed, anchored in habit.

They’re not filled with anecdotes or clutter. Just him. His presence, stretched across the day, across distance. A rhythm that makes it feel like he’s never truly far.

7:18 AM ▶︎·|၊|။||||။၊|။|||။|||။ 0:36

“Good morning. I just woke up.

…I dreamed of you. I don't remember the details, but I remember the feeling — it lingered when I opened my eyes.

You should be waking up soon too.

Don’t skip breakfast. I mean it. I know when you do.”

9:54 AM ▶︎·|၊|။||||။၊|။|||။|||။ 0:29

“Had coffee and toast. It's quiet at the office today — too quiet. 

I keep looking at your chair like you're about to sit in it. You’d complain about how bitter the coffee is, and then finish it anyway.

…I miss that.”

12:32 PM ▶︎·|၊|။||||။၊|။|||။|||။ 0:21

“Taking a short break right now. The bento’s alright today, nothing special.

I saw a couple eating across from me — he gave her the last bite.

It reminded me of you.”

5:47 PM ▶︎·|၊|။||||။၊|။|||။|||။ 0:33

“I'm heading home right now. Quite tired, had a long meeting today.

I kept thinking about what you’d say if you were here. Probably something sarcastic. Or something that would make me laugh. I'd take either.

I'll contact you again when I'm in.”

9:04 PM ▶︎·|၊|။||||။၊|။|||။|||။ 0:47

“I just finished dinner.

Kept it simple tonight — grilled fish, rice, miso soup. I know you’d say it’s boring, but it was warm. comforting. A bit like you.

…The apartment’s quiet.

I kept looking at the clock today. Not for meetings. just… felt like I kept waiting for a moment that involved you.

I hope you ate well. And I hope wherever you are, you feel warm too.”

11:11 PM ▶︎·|၊|။||||။၊|။|||။|||။ 0:15

“The bed’s too big without you. I turned over earlier and reached out by mistake…Funny how the body remembers what’s missing, even when the mind’s used to the silence. I'll sleep soon.

You’re probably still up. Don’t overwork yourself.

Sleep next to me when you’re back. I'll leave the right side untouched.”

☆ CHOSO KAMO

Choso doesn’t just send voice messages. He cherishes them.

When he discovers the voice note feature, there’s a pure, almost childlike excitement in how quickly he adopts it. His texts had always been endearing — filled with typos and trailing punctuation — but the moment he realizes he can talk to you and you’ll hear him? It’s over.

And when he finds out he gets a full two minutes? You start getting little verbal time capsules — rushed, emotional, overstuffed with thoughts.

He tries to fit everything: how his day went, what he ate, a funny thing someone said, how he misses you, a random fact he just remembered, a new artist he found — everything.

The last ten seconds are always hurried, breathless goodbyes, little stumbles over "love yous" and promises to message again soon, like he’s scribbling on the back of a postcard before the mailman takes it.

Each message is messy, genuine, overflowing. Just like him.

▶︎·|၊|။||||။၊|။|||။|||။ 1:59

“—Oh!! It’s recording — okay, wait, wait, wait—

Hey! Hi. Can you hear me? Well, you’re not hearing me live, but — you know what I mean. This is so cool, I can just talk?? Like I can just say things?? And you’ll hear it later?? Okay okay okay wait I gotta start properly—

Uhhhm. Today was… actually really good! I woke up early and didn’t snooze the alarm — miracle, right? And then I made that egg toast thing you showed me, and I think I finally got the yolk right this time?? Like it was still a little runny but not too runny. I sent you a pic, did you see it? I even put, like, a little green thing on top. Aesthetic, right??

Oh! And there was this cat. Like, this huge fluffy cat just sitting in front of the convenience store. I swear it looked like it owned the place. I wanted to pet it but it gave me that “don’t” look so I just bowed to it instead—

Wait wait okay this is getting off-track—

I wanted to tell you that I found this new band you might like. Kind of dreamy, kind of loud? I’ll send you the playlist after this. Oh! And I wore the shirt you like. The-the black one. The one you said makes me look ‘boyfriend-coded.’

...I didn’t correct you.

And I bought those snacks you like. The ones with the weird texture that I still don’t understand but you love? Yeaaahhh. Got them.

Okay wait I think time’s running out — shitshitshit okay — uhhh

I love you. I miss you. I hope you’re having a good day. I hope you’re smiling right now. If you are, that’s good. If you’re not, I’ll send another one soon, okay? I’ll talk more later. I have more things to say — uhh bye! Bye baby! Talk soon! Mwah!”

He probably sends a second one three minutes later. Just to tell you what the cat reminded him of. Or that he forgot to say he loved you again, just in case.

☆ NAOYA ZENIN

Naoya Zenin doesn't do voice messages. Or at least, he claims he doesn't.

Too troublesome, he says. Too much effort. If he really wanted to say something, he'd just say it in person. But — if you insist on them (you don’t), then sure, he'll grace your ears with his voice.

So there he is, one afternoon, thumb pressed on the record button, leaning back with the kind of arrogance only a man born into the Zenin family could manage. He starts off with a muttered complaint—

“Tch, sending voice messages to my own wife, like I’m a simp or something”

—but just as he gets into it, someone walks past. Another man. One who overhears. One who makes a comment.

And that’s when it happens. You, doing whatever you are miles away, get to hear the first time your husband defended you without hesitation. Not to you. Not in front of others. Not for show. But because.

And the best part? He didn’t know he was still recording.

▶︎·|၊|။||||။၊|။|||။|||။ 1:28

“So… I’m apparently sending voice messages now. To my wife. Yeah, you. Not sure what I’m supposed to say. What, you wanna hear my voice every time you miss me? Sounds clingy. Sounds like you, actually. You better be grateful, ‘cause I don’t do this—

…The fuck do you want, huh?”

Pause. Shuffling. Voice off-screen.

“What, you recordin’ a message for your wife or somethin’?”

“Yeah. Got a problem with that?”

“Nah, man, just didn’t think you’d be the type to let a woman tell you what to do—”

“Shut the fuck up. Who the fuck said she tells me what to do? She doesn’t ‘tell’ me anything — I let her think she does.”

Laughter — then the man again.

“Must be somethin’ if she’s got you sendin’ her stuff like this.”

“You don't get to talk about her.”

“C'mon, I’m joking—”

“No, you’re not. And even if you were, you don’t joke about my wife. You think you can laugh at her ‘cause we got married through arrangement? I could break you without lifting a fucking finger. So shut your damn mouth before I make you.”

Another pause. A beat. Slight exhale. Then, quiet—

“…Only I get to mock her, you asshole.”

Shuffle. Realization. A faint “Tch — oh shit,” and then — click.

Message sent.

You listen to it once. And then again. And when you send him nothing in return except: “So I am clingy?” 

He replies: “You’re lucky I didn’t delete that. Don’t expect another one.”

You get another one the next day. Just silence for 30 seconds.

Then, “Fucking hell. You better be smiling right now.”

☆ TOJI FUSHIGURO

When Toji Fushiguro sends you a voice message, it comes with background noise no one else would dare record — a groan here, a sharp hiss there, the occasional growl of “Watch it, dumbass” thrown at Shiu like punctuation.

And yet, without fail, his first instinct — before painkillers, before actual rest — is to record a message for you. He never even holds the phone himself. Shiu sets it on the side table with a bored grunt, rolling his eyes when Toji tells him, “Yeah, yeah — just hit record, she’s gonna nag if I don’t.”

You never told him to, neither asked him to. But you always listen. Even when your stomach turns at the sound of torn gauze and his low groans of pain. Even when your jaw clenches hearing how he swears through the ache, but still asks, like clockwork: How was your day, baby?

▶︎·|၊|။||||။၊|။|||။|||။ 1:43

Tch—

“Start it already, c’mon — yeah, like that. Is it recording? Whatever. Don’t care.”

Heavy inhale, a sharp hiss as fabric brushes skin—

“Fuckin’ — God, Shiu, you wanna keep that hand or what? I swear on your whole damn bloodline — I will sell your ancestors for scraps—”

Muttering, far off — Shiu grumbling something like “Stop moving then, asshole.”

“…Anyway.”

Exhale. Breath shuddering a little, voice lower now—

“Hey. It’s me. Obviously. Don’t freak out — ’m still breathing. Barely, but still counts, right?”

Quiet grunt. Tape being torn. The wet sound of disinfectant. “Went a little sideways. Job was clean, till it wasn’t. Guy had backup. Wasn’t supposed to. You know the drill.”

Groan. Then a pause. 

“…Should’ve brought you. You’d have killed ’em cleaner.”

A chuckle, rough and winded. Then, surprisingly soft— 

“How was your day, though? You eat anything yet? Don’t tell me you skipped lunch again or ’m walkin’ home with a dislocated shoulder and no regrets.”

Shifting fabric. A hiss through clenched teeth. 

“Ahh, f—fuck. Shiu, if I bleed out ’cause you’re bein’ gentle I’ll haunt you so hard—”

Muffled laughter in the background. Toji ignores it.

“…Look, ’m fine. Don’t start worrying, I’ll be home by morning. Maybe late. Don’t wait up — unless you’re planning to yell at me. Then yeah, I wanna see that face.”

Another groan. Softer this time. Tired. Honest. 

“Miss you. More than I should.”

Suddenly a louder wince—

“MotherFUCK — okay, that’s it — fuck this—”

Click. Message sent.

You don’t throw your phone. You just stare at it for a moment, press play again, and then send back: “You’re lucky I love you.” 

And later, another: “If you bleed on the couch again, you’re dead.”

He sends a photo a few hours later. A blurry, crooked shot of your favorite dish from your favorite stall. Caption: “Still breathing. Bring ice.”

And you already are.

☆ RYOMEN SUKUNA

When Sukuna sends you voice messages, it’s nothing short of a production. 

The phone fights him. The red record circle taunts him. His first six or seven attempts are usually useless — just breath, a growl, maybe a clipped “The hell—?” and then silence. But when it finally records?

You get an earful.

It’s always worth listening to, even if it starts abruptly, with him snapping at the phone or hissing because the ‘damned contraption’ cut off the start again. He doesn’t text — claims it makes his words look “moronic.” He talks instead. Rants, actually. Beautifully brutal insults, ancient idioms laced with modern irritation, and all of it for you.

The King of Curses speaks with weight, but also with the strangest sense of... vulnerability. Because under all that fury and eloquence, he’s just missing you.

▶︎·|၊|။||||။၊|။|||။|||။ 2:00

 —Click

 “—Fuck. Is it working now? Tch. I swear this cursed thing was built solely to mock me.”

Sounds of fumbling, a long sigh like he's composing himself, followed by the distinct clink of jewelry as his hand hits the table.

“…Listen.”

Pause. Breath steadying.

“I was in the middle of reading something when it reminded me of that idiotic poem you insisted was beautiful — yes, the one with the — what was it? ‘Silver-threaded dawn’ or some other flowery horseshit. I remember thinking it was useless drivel.”

Pause. His voice softens, then gets louder again like he’s scolding himself.

“But now? Now I can’t get the damned thing out of my head. You’ve infected me.”

A short exhale, something between fondness and frustration.

“I passed by that wretched bakery you like. The one that smells like cinnamon and regret. There was a couple outside. They were arguing. It was ugly.”

Pause.

“Made me think of you. 

…Us.”

Another pause. Quieter.

“Not the fighting, just… the way she looked at him like she hated him, but still wanted to be the one to yell. Strange.”

Suddenly louder again — his temper snapping in like a whip.

“Why the fuck do you take so long to come home?! What, am I not entertaining enough now? Did someone else whisper you poems about morning light?!”

A sharp inhale, as if to calm himself, followed by a growl.

“…Tch. That was pathetic.”

A brief moment of silence.

“…Come home soon. You’re late. And I despise every other mortal.” 

Another pause, this one longer, the faint creak of a chair behind him.

“…Also, you left your ridiculous sweater here. The one with the ears. I may have worn it. Say a word about it, and I’ll feed you to wolves.

Affectionately.”

Beat.

“…You better listen to all the other messages before this. I know you do. Don’t lie.”

Click. Message sent.

And yes — you did listen to the first seven one-second clips. One of them was just him going: “Is this cursed — recording — ugh—”

You saved them all anyway.

a/n if you haven't already, check out the summer-themed jjk event i'm hosting :) open till the 31st of may!