Synopsis: Toji Fushiguro was sent to kill Lord Beaumont before midnight. Instead, he finds himself drawn to a mysterious girl in white lace who was never meant to be seen.
A/N: for my babygirl yoon 😛 (@yoonsucks) INTERLACED EVENT !! thank u for having me as a participant yoon! everyone pull your panties down and check out the other works for this event!
Art: guys who drew sexylicious toejee
Dividers: @priestboy & @uzmacchiato
The first thing your mother ever taught you to mend was lace. Not silk. Not velvet. Lace.
“Silk hides mistakes” she’d murmured once beneath the dim glow of candlelight, guiding your much smaller hands through torn fabric. “But lace remembers every tear.”
The memory lingers even now as Annalise fastens the final pearl buttons lining the back of your gown. The room smells faintly of lavender water and melted wax, a sharp contrast to the grand celebration waiting downstairs. Somewhere beyond the manor walls, the music of the waltz spills through an open window—a distant swell of violins and muffled laughter signaling the true beginning of tonight’s masquerade.
For years, you had listened to the echoes of these grand parties through closed doors, a forgotten secret in your own home. But tonight was different. Tonight was the night you would finally step out from behind those doors and into the light.
You stare at your reflection, like the girl in the mirror belongs to someone else entirely. White lace drapes across your body in delicate, skeletal patterns. The off shoulder sleeves slip low against your arms while the sweetheart neckline curves softly beneath your collarbones. Unlike the extravagant velvet ball gowns and shimmering silk skirts that would flood the ballroom tonight, your dress falls freely to the floor in gentle layers, delicate rather than poofy, with a small train behind you.
Your mother’s dressmaking had never been about excess. Only beauty.
Gold glimmers against your skin—her jewellery.
A thin chain rests at your throat, holding a dainty ruby pendant carved into the shape of a heart. It sits against your chest like a drop of blood. From your ears, tiny gold drops sway with every slight movement of your head, the metal worn smooth with age. Rings Annalise had carefully unwrapped from velvet cloth earlier that evening now weigh against your fingers. Your gaze falls toward the lace gloves folded atop the vanity. Carefully, you slip them on one finger at a time.
The delicate fabric hugs your hands like a second skin, intricate floral patterns stretching over your wrists. Your mother used to wear gloves just like these while sewing late into the night, candlelight catching against gold rings as thread slipped through her fingers.
“You’ll wrinkle it before you even make it downstairs” Annalise sighs softly, smoothing the skirt flat once more.
“I shouldn’t even be going downstairs.” The confession leaves quieter than intended.
Annalise moves behind you, resting her hands gently against your bare shoulders as she meets your gaze through the full length mirror. “Your mother would’ve wanted you seen tonight.”
Something inside your chest tightens painfully.
Your mother had spent years sewing gowns for women attending these very masquerades. Rich fabrics dripping through her hands like water. Velvet embroidered with gold thread. Silk imported from countries she would never see herself. Yet lace had always been her favorite. Delicate and intricate—impossible to repair once torn carelessly.
“Seen?” you murmur quietly. “Or hidden behind a mask like everyone else?”
A sad smile flickers briefly across Annalise’s face. “Perhaps both.” She lifts the ivory lace mask from the vanity and ties it carefully behind your head. The delicate fabric brushes against your skin. Even now, traces of your mother linger throughout the estate; in unfinished hems abandoned in sewing drawers, in needles forgotten beside candle holders, in the heavy silence that falls whenever servants speak too closely about her.
Your gaze drifts toward the towering windows overlooking the gardens, where carriage after carriage arrives beneath streams of golden lantern light. Tonight, the manor overflows with nobility. Women wrapped in silk and velvet and men adorned in satin and gold—guests your father personally invited.
None of whom know you exist.
Annalise adjusts the lace mask one final time before stepping back. And for a moment, neither of you speak.The music downstairs swells louder now, muffled only slightly by layers of marble and polished wood. You can almost picture it already—chandeliers dripping gold light across gowns, crystal glasses clinking together like tiny bells and heavy fabrics sweeping across the ballroom floor—a world that had always existed just beyond your reach.
“You can still change your mind” Annalise says softly. Your gaze lingers on your reflection—The lace, gold jewelry and mask. For the first time in your life, you look like you belong inside this manor instead of hidden somewhere behind its walls. “No” you whisper finally, smoothing trembling hands over the skirt of your gown. “If I don’t go tonight… I never will.”
Something bittersweet flickers across Annalise’s expression, then she offers you her arm.
The manor feels different at night—larger somehow. Every corridor glows amber beneath candlelight as you descend the staircase beside her, your heels clicking against the polished floors, your lace train follows.
The closer you get to the ballroom, the louder the music becomes. Servants rush through the hallways carrying silver trays lined with glasses of expensive champagne. Nobles laugh somewhere beyond towering, gilded doors. The scent of expensive perfume and burning wax hangs heavy in the air.
Your heartbeat quickens. You’ve spent years hiding from these people—avoiding their eyes during fleeting encounters in the corridors, listening to their laughter through walls, and hearing women praise your father while servants whispered about your mother behind closed doors.
And now, you are about to walk directly into the center of it all.
Annalise pauses just before the ballroom entrance, her grip tightening on your arm. From the folds of her apron, she pulls out a fan made of delicate white lace, pressing the ivory guards into your palm. “You keep your mask on” she whispers urgently, nodding toward the fan. “Use this if you feel too exposed. And if anyone asks questions, you leave immediately. Understand?”
You nod, fingers gripping the frame of the fan as you unfurl it just enough to hide the nervous tremble of your lips. But your attention is already drifting. Your eyes seek the narrow opening between the heavy ballroom doors.Through the gap, you see a sea of jewel toned gowns moving beneath golden chandeliers.
Your breath catches softly.
Beautiful.
The word arrives reluctantly. Because beneath the glittering gold and the sweeping orchestral music, something else lingers. Something waiting. And somewhere within that shifting crowd, hidden behind a black mask and shadow, Toji watches you step into the ballroom for the very first time.
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The ballroom is even larger than you had imagined.
Golden chandeliers spill a warm, heavy light across the polished marble floors, illuminating a sea of luxury drifting through the slow movements of the orchestra. Jewel tones blur together beneath the glow of hundreds of candles—emerald, sapphire, deep burgundy. Everywhere you look, people laugh with practiced, effortless ease. Women hide their secrets behind feathered fans. Men exchange conversations over crystal glasses. Masks of silver and gold glitter beneath the light.
For a moment, all you can do is stare.
You had spent years imagining these masquerades from behind closed doors, piecing them together through fragments of distant music and stolen servant gossip. But none of it compares to standing inside one.
The ballroom feels alive.
Annalise’s hand presses briefly against your arm—a final, silent encouragement—before she slips away into the crowd, leaving you entirely alone near the edge of the grand room.
Immediately, anxiety curls tight beneath your ribs.
You shouldn’t be here. The thought repeats like a warning rhythm as nobles sweep past without giving you a second glance. You keep your chin up, forcing the white lace mask to stay firmly in place. Your fingers nervously tighten around the ivory guards of your lace fan, the matching gloves hugging your wrists.
A group of women pass nearby in heavy layers of dark velvet and embroidered silk, their expensive perfume lingering like smoke in the air behind them. In their wake, you suddenly become hyperaware of your own dress. Lace—entirely different from everyone else's chosen fabric. You feel like a ghost wandering amongst royalty.
To ground yourself, your hand rises slightly, your thumb brushing the heart shaped ruby pendant. Your gaze drifts upward toward the balcony overlooking the ballroom. And that’s when you feel it.
Someone is watching you.
The sensation crawls slowly across your skin, and you turn instinctively.
Across the ballroom, partially obscured by shifting bodies and flickering candlelight, stands a man dressed entirely in black. Black tailored suit. Black gloves. And a mask of matte, molded leather—lacking the gold or silver glitz of the other guests.
Even from a distance, there’s something deeply unsettling about him. Not because he looks cruel, necessarily, but because he looks entirely untouched by the spectacle around him. While everyone else smiles and performs for one another beneath the golden light, he stands still, like something carved directly from the shadows.
Through the gaps in the crowd, your eyes meet.
Suddenly, the ballroom doesn’t feel nearly as crowded anymore. The music fades to a distant murmur. Then, a pair of laughing dancers steps between you and the moment breaks.
The music becomes louder around you once more, pulling you back into the reality of the room, but your pulse remains uneven. You glance back toward the pillar where the stranger stood.
He hasn't moved. He is still watching.
He looks at you like he’d noticed the single strand of white lace stitched into a room drowning in velvet.
“Tch creep” you whisper to yourself, looking away quickly. And with a flick of your wrist, you snap the white lace fan open, the ivory guards clicking sharply into place as you raise it to cover the lower half of your face. Sheltered behind the delicate barrier, you take a steadying breath, turn on your heel, and walk away into the safety of the crowd.
You deliberately choose the densest pocket of people, hoping the swirling sea of sapphire velvets and emerald silks will swallow you whole. But navigating the ballroom floor is like trying to swim through a heavy current. Every time a satin train brushes against you or a nobleman steps backward without looking, a spike of panic hits your chest. You keep your head down, the lace fan gripped so tightly the ivory digs into your gloved palm.
You just need a moment to breathe. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere far away from the stifling heat of burning wax and the stare of the man in black.
Spying a set of open glass doors on the far side of the room leading out toward the darkened terrace, you quicken your pace. But as you slip past a towering marble pillar, a sudden, booming voice cuts through the orchestral music, making you freeze right in your tracks.
"Ladies and gentlemen! If I could have your attention for a moment."
Your stomach drops. You know that voice.
Your father stands tall on the raised dais, his velvet coat trimmed with real gold thread, looking down at the crowd like a king surveying his subjects. Beside him stands your step mother, draped in black satin embroidered with delicate gold detailing, diamonds glittering against her throat. And beside her stands Marina. Emerald silk spills elegantly from her shoulders while a jeweled mask glimmers beneath the light. One gloved hand rests lightly around the stem of a crystal glass as she smiles effortlessly at the crowd below.
The perfect Beaumont family.
A picture of nobility—a picture you were never meant to stand inside.
"Ladies and gentlemen" his voice booms, effortlessly cutting through the chatter. The orchestra slows to a gentle, quiet hum. "Tonight, we celebrate not just the changing of the season, but the enduring strength of our alliance. Look around you. The finest minds, the truest blood, all gathered under one roof. In my mansion, we value legacy. We value perfection. Lift your glasses with me—to the future of our estate, and the unbreakable bonds of nobility."
A chorus of refined cheers echoes through the hall as hundreds of crystal glasses catch the candlelight.
Panic runs through you. He is on higher ground, his sharp eyes sweeping over the crowd. If he looks too closely, if he recognises the shape of your features or the jewelry that used to belong to your mother—
You don't wait to find out. You turn and plunge deeper into the suffocating crowd, desperately trying to use the tall, feathered headpieces and broad shoulders of the guests as a shield.
"Oh! Excuse me" you whisper frantically as your heel catches on the heavy satin train of a duchess’s gown. She shoots a glare over her shoulder, but you’re already moving. "So sorry, my lord" you hiss, accidentally bumping your shoulder into a man carrying two glasses of champagne.
A chaotic streak of white lace tearing through a sea of velvet, the only goal is to escape. A frantic heartbeat hammers against ribs, drowning out the orchestra. The terrace doors are so close—just a few more feet into the safety of the shadows.
Thump.
You collide hard against a solid chest. The force of it sends you stumbling, your lace fan slipping from your fingers and clattering to the marble floor.
"Well, well. Look what the tide washed in" a slick, grating voice sneers.
You look up, your breath catching. The man you collided with is a lot older, his silver mask molded into the shape of a leering fox. His eyes drag slowly down your body, lingering heavily over the exposed skin of your collarbones and the sweetheart neckline of your dress.
“I... I am so sorry, sir” you stammer, bending quickly to retrieve your fan. “I wasn't looking where—”
Before your fingers can touch the lace, the man steps forward, his polished leather boot deliberately pinning the fan against the marble floor. He leans in close, the smell of stale wine and heavy cologne washing over you. “A little clumsy for a lady dressed in such fine lace, aren't we?” he drawls. “Where is your escort, little bird? A pretty thing like you shouldn't be wandering the cage alone.”
One thick gloved hand closes around your wrist, gripping directly over your mother’s lace gloves. A shiver of pure revulsion spikes down your spine. You pull back, but his grip tightens.
“Let go of me, please.” you whisper, casting a desperate glance around the ballroom. But the nobles nearby are too wrapped up in their own laughter and dancing to notice.You are entirely trapped.
“Come now, don’t be like that” the man chuckles, tugging you a fraction closer. “A dance to make up for the ruined fan, perhaps?”
"She already has a partner."
The low voice comes from directly behind you.
The grip on your wrist vanishes instantly and the fox-masked noble stiffens, eyes widening as he looks up at whoever stands behind you. You turn slowly, your breath hitching in your throat.
Oh my god. Not the creep from earlier.
Standing right behind you is the man in black. Up close, he is massive—broad-shouldered and towering over both you and the groveling nobleman. The matte black leather of his mask catches the candlelight, hiding everything but a pair of sharp, green eyes.
He doesn’t acknowledge the other man at all. Instead, he steps forward just enough for his broad frame to cut off the nobleman’s line of sight entirely. Then, the man in black drops to one knee. One gloved hand reaches toward the floor, fingers brushing lightly against the nobleman’s shoe. He doesn't say a word, but the silent threat is so palpable that the fox-masked noble instantly takes a step back, freeing your fan.
The stranger retrieves the delicate lace carefully before remaining on one knee in front of you. Looking up through the slits of his mask, he offers the ivory guards back with surprising gentleness. "I believe this belongs to you" he murmurs, his voice so deep it sends a shiver down your spine.
You stare at him, frozen. But over his shoulder, the fox-masked noble still lingers nearby, watching carefully to see what you’ll do. The stranger in black may be a threat, but right now—he is also your only escape route.
Fine, you think bitterly, swallowing the lump of panic in your throat. Enemy of my enemy.
you reach out and take the fan from his fingers.
Yet instead of standing immediately, he keeps one hand extended between you, open palm waiting patiently for yours.
"And I hope I am not interrupting" he adds, green eyes locking onto yours with absolute certainty. "But I assume this dance belongs to me."
Forcing a breathless, tight smile, you slip white-gloved hand into his palm. "You're right on time" you whisper. His fingers close firmly around yours before he rises to his full height, effortlessly pulling you toward the center of the ballroom floor.
The orchestra shifts into a sweeping, melancholic waltz.
Before you can fully steady yourself, one large hand settles securely against your waist while the other lifts your joined hands near his shoulder. With two smooth steps, he spins you effortlessly into the current of dancing couples, the crowd swallowing both of you whole beneath chandeliers and music. But the second your gaze slips past his shoulder, panic flares again. Your father still stands atop the raised dais, scanning the ballroom below.
The man in black notices immediately.
Without a word, he shifts smoothly through the next turn, deliberately positioning his back between you and your father’s line of sight. “You’re trembling, little bird” he murmurs, the teasing nickname clearly stolen from the fox-masked creep from earlier. "I am not a bird" you snap quietly, trying to regain a shred of control. "And I am not trembling. It’s just...loud in here."
The man lets out a low hum of amusement. “Is that why you were hiding in the corner?” he asks. “Or were you simply looking for another opportunity to call me a creep?”
Heat instantly floods your cheeks, and your grip tightens against his shoulder—fingers sinking into the expensive wool of his suit. “You were staring” you mutter defensively. “It’s bad manners.”
“I wasn’t staring” he corrects smoothly. “I was observing.”
The melody curls through the air around you as he guides you through another slow turn beneath the chandeliers. Velvet and silk blur together at the edges of your vision while couples drift elegantly across the marble floor.
For a brief, dangerous moment, you almost forget yourself.
Almost.
“You make a habit of observing women at masquerades?” you ask, lifting your ivory lace fan slightly higher across the lower half of your face. As you speak, your gaze instinctively dips, glancing at the prominent, rugged scar cutting across his lips before rising back to lock with his piercing green eyes.
“Only the ones trying to flee them.”
A soft roll of your eyes follows, though the corner of your mouth threatens to betray a smile beneath the lace. Up close, his scent is entirely different from the other noblemen in the ballroom. There is no suffocating perfume or overwhelming cologne—just the scent of cedar and smoke. Once more, your gaze briefly captures the prominent scar on his lip. “You don’t dance like aristocracy” escapes your lips quietly, the observation slipping out before it can be stopped. Something unreadable flashes through those sharp green eyes. “And you don’t hide fear particularly well.”
Before a response can leave your lips, movement near the edge of the ballroom catches your attention—your father has stepped down from the dais. Immediately, panic tightens beneath your ribs. Unlike before, he no longer addresses the crowd from a distance. Now he moves among guests personally, exchanging handshakes and laughter while nobles practically lean toward him beneath the chandelier light.
Closer.
He’s getting closer.
Without realising it, your fingers tighten instinctively against the stranger’s shoulder once more.
“What is it?”
Panic closes tightly around your throat.
“M-my fath—” The word almost slips out before you can stop it and horror flashes through you instantly. “Lord Beaumont” you correct quickly, lifting the lace fan higher across your face. “He’s greeting guests.”
Before either of you can speak again, another voice suddenly cuts through the music nearby.
“Wait…” A woman draped in emerald silk slows near the edge of the dance floor, jeweled mask glinting beneath the chandeliers as her attention settles entirely on you. Unlike the others in the ballroom, she doesn’t look away after a passing glance—she studies you carefully.
Cold panic coils sharply in your stomach.
This wasn’t just any woman—It was Marina, your half sister.
“I know that necklace…” she says slowly.
Not here.
Please not here.
Your father is only a few guests away now. You can already imagine it—his expression, the silence that would follow…The humiliation.
The man in black notices the exact moment panic overtakes your face and his hand tightens once against your waist.
“Come with me.”
Before you can protest, he turns sharply, guiding you away from the center of the ballroom. The movement is smooth enough to resemble part of the dance itself, another elegant sweep beneath the music.
Except this time, he doesn’t stop.
Past swirling couples. Past towering marble pillars. Past startled servants balancing silver trays lined with champagne.
Marina calls out from behind you, but the orchestra swallows the words whole.
“Wait” you hiss softly as he leads you quickly through the crowd. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere Lord Beaumont can’t see you.” His hand remains firm against the small of your back as he pushes open the towering terrace doors.
Cold night air crashes into you like water.
Suddenly, the suffocating heat of the ballroom disappears behind you, replaced by moonlight, roses, and the distant sound of fountains hidden deep within the gardens.
The doors shut heavily behind you. And for the first time that night, you can finally breathe.
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The cold night air settles against your flushed skin. Moonlight spills silver across the Beaumont gardens, illuminating rows of roses and neatly trimmed hedges stretching endlessly into the dark. Somewhere deeper within the estate grounds, fountains trickle softly beneath the distant echo of ballroom music. It is only here, under the open sky, that the man in black finally releases your hand.
Stumbling out onto the terrace, you sink against the stone railing overlooking the darkened gardens. One gloved hand presses flat against your racing heart, the ruby pendant trapped beneath your palm. “I think I nearly died in there” you breathe to the empty air, dramatically snapping your lace fan open to whip a frantic breeze against your flushed cheeks.
A low chuckle drifts from behind you. “You survived.”
“Tch. Barely.”
The corner of his mouth twitches slightly.
You had only just met this man, yet standing beside him beneath the silver moonlight felt far easier than standing among the hundreds of pristine nobles inside ever did. Glancing back toward him over the delicate edge of your lace fan, a teasing note entered your voice. “You know, most people introduce themselves before dragging a lady through a crowded ballroom.”
The man stepped closer, his massive frame leaning casually against the stone railing as he invaded your space. “Most women don’t follow masked strangers into dark gardens.”
Touché
A sharp little sting of truth that made you catch your breath. Masking your fluster, you tilted your chin up. “That sounds dangerously close to overconfidence.”
“It sounds like an observation” he countered smoothly. A soft eye roll escaped you, though a faint smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “There you go again. Observing.”
The silver moonlight catches the sharp line of the scar cutting across his lip as something faintly amused flickers across his expression.
“Toji” the man says suddenly.
Just Toji. No title. No grand family name.
“And you?” he asks, those green eyes locking onto yours.
Your stomach tightens painfully. For a brief fraction of a second, the Beaumont name rises instinctively to the surface, only to be violently dragged back down by the cold reality of what you are. An illegitimate child. A stain on a pristine lineage, kept hidden away in the dark while your father toasts to "perfection and legacy" inside. You have no right to the family name, and speaking it aloud to a stranger could ruin the fragile safety Annalise worked so hard to give you tonight.
“…I don’t think names matter much at masquerades” comes your quiet reply. You offer a small shrug, desperately trying to appear nonchalant despite the sudden ache in your chest.
Toji presses his tongue briefly against the inside of his cheek, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he nods slowly. “I see how it is.” He doesn't press for the truth. Instead, he pushes off the railing, gesturing with a tilt of his head toward a stone archway draped in white flowers. The path beyond it winds deep into the labyrinth of the estate gardens, away from the terrace lights.
"Well, nameless" Toji murmurs, falling into a slow, easy stride beside you, "since you’re clearly a fugitive from the ballroom, I suppose I should help you look the part."
"A fugitive?" You offer a soft scoff, your heels clicking softly against the gravel path as you slip your lace fan into a relaxed fold. Gathering the fabric of your white gown, you lift the lace hem just an inch or two above the ground to keep the delicate train from dragging in the dirt. "I am simply a visitor. You, on the other hand, look like you're plotting a grand heist."
"Is it working?" He glances down at you, his broad shoulders easily brushing past a stray rose bush. "Because if I'm going to steal the family jewels, I'd prefer my accomplice to stop jumping at every shadow."
"I am not jumping" you retort, lifting your chin defensively. "And if you are planning to rob the manor, you're going the wrong way. The treasury is in the east wing. This path only leads to the old glass conservatory." Toji pauses for a second, his sharp green eyes cutting to you through the dark. A low, amused hum vibrates in his throat. "You seem remarkably well-acquainted with the floor plan of a house you claim to just be visiting."
Your heart does a small, dangerous flutter. Your mother's voice echoes in your head—lace remembers every tear. You had just given away a thread of your secret.
"I have a good sense of direction" you cover quickly, stepping ahead of him to guide the way through a fork in the hedge maze. "And a strong preference for quiet places."
"Quiet." Toji repeats, his heavy footsteps easily catching up to your pace. The shadows of the towering hedges close around you both, swallowing the distant music until only the sound of the crickets and your shared breathing remains. "A shame. You seemed to be making quite a noise tearing through that ballroom earlier. I believe you broke one nobleman's spirit on your way out."
"He was stepping on my fan" you defend, a genuine laugh slipping past your lips before you can stop it. "And he smelled like sour wine."
“He did” Toji agrees. Reaching out, his black-gloved fingers gently catch a low-hanging red rose from a bush, snapping the stem with an effortless click and holding it out to you. “Consider this a replacement for the fan. Less structural damage.” His eyes flick down to your chest for a brief, deliberate second before cutting back to yours, a slow wink accompanying his next words. “Matches that ruby pendant, too.”
You scoff, shoving the rose right back into his chest. “You are incredibly annoying.”
Toji catches the flower effortlessly against his palm, his low, rumbling chuckle following you as you turn on your heel and head down the path. "Just honest" he says, giving a slight shrug. "Most people pay good money for my observations."
"Then you are vastly overpaid" you shoot over your shoulder, though the warmth in your cheeks has nothing to do with the chilly night air.
His footsteps easily close the distance, his frame falling into a lazy, synchronized stride right beside yours. The gravel crunches softly beneath your shoes, the distant, muffled waltz from the ballroom fading further and further away until it’s swallowed by the rustle of the leaves. "So," Toji clears his throat, his green eyes scanning the dark perimeter before settling back on you. "An annoying stranger drags you into the dark, and your first instinct is to guide him deeper into the estate. You’re either very brave, or very foolish."
"I told you, I prefer the quiet" you reply, adjusting the lace of your fan. "And besides, you don't strike me as the type to cause a scene in a garden. You're too careful for that."
"Careful?" Toji repeats, amused. "Is that what you think I am?"
Before you can answer, the winding hedge path opens up into a forgotten, moonlit clearing. Nestled among the wild overgrowth sits the old glass conservatory, looking like a shattered crystal palace beneath the stars. Vines climb up its wrought-iron frames, and several of the glass panes are frosted over with age, letting the cool night air whistle softly through the gaps. You push the heavy door open. It creaks loudly in protest, a slow, lonely sound that echoes into the dark, overgrown interior.
Inside, the world completely detaches itself. The air is thick with the rich scent of damp earth, sweet jasmine, and untamed greenery. Moonlight filters through the glass ceiling in dramatic, silver beams, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
"It’s beautiful" you walk further into the structure toward a dried up stone fountain covered in thick, velvet moss. "And entirely abandoned. If something isn't pristine and perfect in this house, it gets locked away out here."
Toji steps into a beam of silver light behind you. His frame instantly makes the entryway feel smaller, capturing all the warmth in the room. He looks around the ruined glass house, then steps closer, his boots silent against the mossy stone. Toji lowers his voice. "Then Lord Bueamont must be a fool." He stops just inches away, the sheer heat radiating off him cutting through the chill of the conservatory. "Because the hidden things in this house are by far the most interesting."
The playful banter dissolves. You look over your shoulder, eyes meeting his green ones. Slowly, Toji lifts his hand, gently tucking the stem of the red rose behind your ear. The rough leather of his gloves brushes against your skin, and a shiver ripples down your spine.
“Who are you..?” you whisper, the question raw and breathless in the quiet space.
He holds your gaze, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly pitch. “Like I said, I'm Toji.”
“No,” you push back softly, taking a half-step closer. “Who are you really?”
The moonlight catches the familiar scar on his lip. “Could say the same for you.”
The silence that follows is heavy and thick with a mutual understanding that both of you are wearing far more than just physical masks tonight. Neither of you belongs in the glittering world inside the ballroom, yet here in the dark, the mystery between you feels entirely intoxicating.
His gaze drops to your lips. His hand shifts, gently tilting your face further upward. He leans down slowly, his breath warm against your skin, giving you every opportunity to pull away.
But you don't.
When his lips finally meet yours, his mouth is warm, the faint, rugged texture of the scar on his lip brushing against yours. A quiet gasp escapes you. Toji takes the sound as an invitation, his fingers sliding securely around the back of your neck to hold you steady as he deepens the kiss. Blinded by the rush of heat, the rose tucked behind your ear falls onto the ground and your fingers blindly let go of your white lace fan, setting it down on the stone ledge next to you so your hands are finally free. You reach out immediately, clutching the lapels of his black suit coat to pull yourself completely flush against his solid chest.
Toji groans low in his throat at the contact. His large hands move to your waist, easily lifting you slightly against the edge of the fountain. Wrapped in white lace and trapped in his dark shadow, the rest of the world completely disappears.
Suddenly, Toji pulls away with a flicker of slight frustration crossing his features as he realises his mask is getting in the way. Reaching up, he unties the strap at the back of his head with a swift, impatient movement. In one fluid motion, his mask, his black gloves, and his suit jacket are stripped away, dropping heedlessly to the mossy ground.
Your heartbeat quickens, hammering frantically against your ribs as you watch him. Inspired by his raw honesty, your own hands reach up to the back of your head. With slightly trembling fingers, you untie your ivory lace half mask, letting it slip from your fingers to join his on the floor.
He freezes, his green eyes widening a fraction as he gives you a single, heavy moment to process everything—and for him to process you.
I'm sure he won't find out who I actually am, you think to yourself, a strange sense of comfort washing over you beneath his intense stare. Besides, he doesn't even know my name. Only my face. I'm sure he can't put a face to a name... or whatever it is they say.
Without your mask, you feel entirely bare beneath his unblinking gaze, your flushed cheeks exposed to the cool night air, but the anonymity still feels like a shield. He is just a stranger, and you are just a ghost.
Before you can even draw a full breath, Toji leans in again.
This time, the kiss is completely unbridled. You wrap your arms tightly around his broad shoulders to steady yourself against his frame, as you sit back on the edge of the stone fountain. His scarred lips trail away from your mouth, marking a slow, burning path down the sensitive column of your throat. You throw your head back, a quiet sigh escaping you to give him deeper access.
“T-Toji…” his name leaves your lips breathlessly, a desperate sound in the quiet conservatory.
Your chest rises and falls as his lips press firmly against your ruby pendant, dragging a shuddering gasp from your lungs. The heat between you is blinding. One of his large, calloused hands snakes its way downward, hooking beneath your knee and easily lifting your leg to wrap it around his waist. You shiver as the cool night air hits your bare skin from beneath, your dress hiking up against the stone.
“I wonder if you're also wearing lace underneath this dress” Toji teases against your skin, nipping playfully at your collarbone before he smoothly sinks to his knees on the mossy floor in front of you. His green eyes look up at you. “Should we take a look? Hmm?”
You bite your lip, unable to speak, and simply nod. Toji exhales a low hum, gently guiding your legs up to rest over his broad shoulders.
The silver moonlight filters through the glass, illuminating the delicate fabric hidden beneath your gown. A slow, wicked grin tugs at Toji's lips. “Is this a matching set or something?” he asks playfully, his voice low and raspy as he looks at the white lace panties that match your dress perfectly. A fierce blush burns across your cheeks, but before you can retort, Toji leans forward. He drags a trail of hot, wet kisses along your inner thigh, making his way upward until his lips press firmly against the white lace covering your cunt, kissing you right through the fabric.
“Mmm... Toji” his name leaves your lips again, a ragged whimper as your eyes flutter shut. A sweet, building ache pools between your thighs that leaves the delicate white lace of your panties damp against your skin. Your fingers instinctively rake through his thick, black hair, gripping the strands tight and pulling him closer as your hips twitch helplessly against the cool stone of the fountain.
Toji tilts his head up to watch your reaction, his jaw tight as he basks in the breathless, undone sounds you're making just for him. But as his green eyes scan upward, past your flushed face, they catch a sudden, sharp reflection on the glass. His gaze freezes on the hands of the old pendulum clock in the corner.
11:45 PM.
Just like that, the air in his lungs turns to ice. He doesn't have much time left—he needs to go, right now.
Toji pulls away from you so abruptly the sudden lack of his body heat feels like an icy slap. His jaw is set, his green eyes fixed entirely on the old clock. The passionate, teasing stranger from seconds ago is gone."Toji?" you breathe, your voice trembling as you try to adjust your dress, your thighs still tingling from his touch.
"Stay here" he orders, his voice dropping into a flat, lethal register that makes your blood run cold. He doesn't look at you as he retrieves his items—moving with a terrifying, silent speed. "Don't go back to the ballroom. Just stay put."
Before you can even ask why, he slips through the heavy doors of the conservatory, vanishing into the moonlit shadows of the garden like a ghost.
For a long, agonizing moment, the only sound in the glass house is the ticking of the pendulum clock. You sit frozen on the edge of the damp stone fountain, your hair a mess, your gown hitched up, and your skin still burning from where his lips had just been.
The sheer absurdity of the whiplash finally breaks through the shock. You throw your hands up in the empty air, shouting after the empty doorway, “Dawg, what the actual fuck?”
︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶
Business first.
The warmth of your skin still lingers on Toji’s bare hands, he pulls his leather gloves back on, the material flexing over his knuckles with a quiet stretch. His suit jacket follows, settling over his broad shoulders as his posture shifts. Moving across the manicured lawns, toji is nothing more than a passing blur under the moonlight. He doesn't make a sound. His heavy boots press into the grass without leaving a trace, bypassing the perimeter guards with the ease of a man walking through an empty field.
Toji reaches the eastern wing of the mansion, scaling the stone brickwork effortlessly until he reaches the balcony of the grand study. The glass door lock is heavy, expensive, and entirely useless against a thin piece of wire. With a faint, metallic click, the mechanism gives way.
He slips inside, locking the door behind him.
The room smells of mahogany, rich tobacco, and old blood money. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the walls, and a massive desk sits in the center of the room like a throne. Toji ignores the obvious art pieces and the conspicuous safe behind the painting—men like Lord Beaumont are arrogant, but they keep their dirt close at hand.
He steps behind the desk, his bare face exposed to the dim stream of moonlight cutting through the velvet curtains. He has exactly ten minutes before the clock strikes midnight—ten minutes to find the ledger before he executes the target.
His hands move with terrifying efficiency, sliding open the desk drawers. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he pops the lock on the heavy bottom drawer.
Inside lie the public records of Lord Beaumont’s famed "Charity Textile Trade"—the grand front that made the man a beloved philanthropist in high society. Toji flips through the heavy ledgers, his green eyes scanning the numbers with cold disgust. It’s a textbook operation. The documents detail how Beaumont systematically targeted impoverished women, desperate seamstresses, and vulnerable servants, forcing them into brutal, hidden sweatshops under the guise of offering them "pious work." He paid them pennies, pocketed the massive textile profits, and discarded them when they broke.
Toji’s fingers stop on a specific folder at the very back of the drawer, hidden beneath a false bottom. It’s labeled with a name from years ago: Evelyn.
He opens it.
The first things he sees are frantic, handwritten notes by the woman. She had discovered the truth. She had documented the illegal shipping manifests, the names of the abused women, and the exact financial fraud Beaumont was committing.
Tucked right beneath her final note is an official medical report. Cause of death: Consumption. But scrawled in the margins in Beaumont’s arrogant, elegant handwriting is a single, chilling phrase: Problem resolved.
"Convenient" Toji mutters, a dark, cynical twist to his scarred lips. The bastard had her murdered to keep his empire pristine.
He shifts the papers to find the last item in the file, expecting more financial records. Instead, it's an old, faded photograph. Sitting in a modest wooden chair is the woman, Evelyn, looking tired but fiercely protective as she holds a young girl on her lap. The little girl is looking directly at the camera with a striking, familiar gaze. But it’s the jewelry that makes Toji’s blood run entirely still.
Around the woman's neck is a dainty gold chain holding a distinctive ruby pendant carved into the shape of a heart. The exact, unmistakable jewelry he had just been pressing his lips against in the conservatory.
Toji stares at the photo, the pieces crashing together in his mind. The girl in white lace. The girl who claimed she was just a "visitor" who preferred the quiet, abandoned places of the manor. The girl currently sitting in the dark, entirely bare faced, wondering why he had run away. Behind the photograph is an official document, hidden away. Toji slides it out, his eyes dropping to the lines. It's a birth certificate.
The paper crinkles slightly under the sudden, fierce grip of Toji's leather glove.
A low, humorless laugh vibrates in his chest as he stares at your childhood face. I'm sure he can't put a face to a name, you had thought so safely to yourself just minutes ago. But Toji is an assassin; reading people, uncovering targets, and unmasking lies is exactly what he is paid to do.
You aren't a guest. You are Beaumont's illegitimate daughter. The secret, discarded child of the woman his target had murdered.
Toji folds the birth certificate, slipping it into his pocket along with the photograph. He reaches to his belt, his hand wrapping around the cold, familiar grip of his blade. Midnight is five minutes away. His mission to execute Lord Beaumont just became entirely personal.
︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶
The heavy brass gears of the pendulum clock downstairs begin their deep, resonant toll.
Clang.
Right on the first stroke of midnight, the heavy mahogany doors of the study swing open. Lord Julian Beaumont steps inside, hurriedly closing the doors behind him. He looks frazzled, his high-society composure cracking at the seams as he mutters anxiously to himself, immediately heading toward the desk to search for the very files Toji is currently holding.
He never gets the chance to open a single drawer.
Toji moves like a shadow detached from the wall. There is no grand speech, no dramatic confrontation, and absolutely no sound. Before Beaumont can even register a change in the room's air pressure, Toji is behind him.
Toji’s gloved hand clamps brutally over Beaumont’s mouth, muffling his sudden gasp into nothingness. In the same fluid heartbeat, Toji’s blade flashes under the moonlight, slicing clean and deep across the man's throat. Beaumont’s eyes widen in sheer, paralyzed terror, his hands clawing weakly at Toji’s forearm. But Toji holds him with an iron grip, watching the light leave the lord's eyes. Problem resolved.
As the final chime of midnight echoes through the manor, Toji releases the body. It slumps silently onto the expensive persian rug, blood pooling rapidly in the dark. Toji doesn't waste a second. He wipes the flat of his blade on the dead man's velvet coat, and turns toward the balcony windows.
He unlatches the glass doors and steps out into the cool night air, ready to scale the brickwork and vanish into the estate's perimeter. Crimson blood is smeared across the front of his white shirt. He takes one step onto the stone balcony—and freezes.
Standing right there, bathed in the silver glow of the moon, is you.
After the sheer absurdity of being left half dressed and breathless by the fountain, you had stormed out of the conservatory. You weren't going back to the ballroom. Instead, remembering your banter from the garden—where he had joked about finding the treasury—you had immediately marched toward the eastern wing. You genuinely thought you were going to catch a charming, arrogant thief in the middle of a midnight heist and demand to know what the hell he was playing at.
Instead, your bare face tilts up, and your eyes lock onto his.
The silence between you is deafening. You look at Toji—at his bare, unmasked face, his sharp green eyes, and the horrific, wet splatters of fresh blood painting his chest. Then, your gaze flickers past him, catching the unmistakable sight of your father’s lifeless boots resting on the study floor inside.
The passionate, teasing man from the conservatory is entirely gone. Standing before you is a stranger with the blood of your father on his shirt, holding the evidence of your hidden past in his pocket.
Your breath hitches, a cold dread wrapping tightly around your throat as you take an instinctive step back, your hand flying to the ruby heart at your chest.
Toji doesn't move. He doesn't panic, and he doesn't apologise. He just stands there in the moonlight, his hand tightening slowly on the hilt of his blade, his gaze dropping to your trembling lips before rising to meet your eyes. The wind whips violently between you, carrying the faint scent of copper and jasmine, leaving the two of you trapped in a deadly, breathless stalemate.
Geto listens to his bestfriend fuck his crush (who has a crush on him)
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut with no plot, fem!reader, Geto's definitely a jerk here, voyeurism, masturbating (m!), fourth year setting (all characters are aged up to +18), maybe angst?
a/n: the title is such a word puzzle haha. here's suguru's perspective of this fic! planning to write a short drabble about satoru and reader after the incident as well :))
art by @/thatsallchief
Sure, Suguru thought you were cute.
With pretty eyes and a prettier smile, no one could deny you were cute. In a heart warming way that seeped into his skin whenever the two of you brushed touches.
But nothing else.
Sure, his eyes thinned as he smiled in fondness at the bashful lower of your head as you handed him a small candy—strawberry milk flavoured that coils on his tongue sweetly to dissipate the pungent taste of curses he swallows.
Sure, he couldn’t help but laugh at the jokes you’d crack, heart warming at the sparkle in your eyes as you grinned up at him as though he lit up your entire world at the simplicity of his enjoyment.
Sure, said heart throbbed with pity at the way that said sparkle would dim when you overhear his conversations with Satoru about his nightly adventures in love hotels.
But nothing else.
He was attractive and young. He doesn’t want to tie himself down on one person.
Being in fourth year also meant he was given opportunities on a silver platter to visit other prefectures during his missions to have his night busy, and experience the other tastes than what Tokyo has to offer. Every mission ended with him leaving the black car, smiling at the assistant managers to head back to the hotel first while he scoured around the city for a quick and easy hook up.
The girl with the nice ass in Osaka.
The girl with the big tits in Kyoto.
The girl with the pretty face in Nagoya.
His contact list in his phone was endless, his thumb mindlessly scrolling down down down, never allowing him to reach the bottom until a good moment later.
That night was no different. A university student studying nursing—a cute face with a blonde bob. Except she called in sick, apologising with a phone call, desperation hinting at her sweet words.
“You’ll call me again, right?” she asked, voice coyly cute and full of hope, yet masked by the subtle edge of panic.
“Mm… maybe not if you keep on asking me like that.”
He cut the call even before she could give him a reply and he let out a sigh, cracking a muscle on his neck. His eyes lazily travelled across the bright neon lights of Kabukicho, full of chaos and trouble. He could feel the stares of girls while they walked the dirty streets, or from girls outside of maid cafes, hostesses, the sex clubs' workers, and the eyes from guys wondering if they could use him to lure in girls to their beds if they invited him over.
He ignored them and searched through his pocket, trying to find some strawberry milk candies to wash away the irritation… just to notice he didn’t have any. His brows furrowed, slowly realising that you haven’t given them these past few weeks.
Strange, but he didn’t think too much about it.
With another sigh, he headed to the closest convenience store, searching through the rows of snacks under the white lights. He paused at the surplus of options in the display, and his eyes caught onto the new gummy that you were talking about a week ago, excited at the upcoming release.
Without realising, he slid the package off of the metal hook, holding it together with his own pack of candy and went to the register to buy.
Suguru brushed past the eager eyes and headed back to his dorms for once. Maybe he would barge into Satoru’s room next door to play Momotetsu that they left off last time. Maybe he could give the packet of gummy to you on the way there as well.
He quietly imagined the look on your face when he hands you his small souvenir. The simple thing making your eyes widen for a fraction, looking up at him with a surprised smile and uncontrollable giggles as you thank him sweetly as you do.
It made him smile a bit to himself. A slow spread of satisfaction sitting comfortably on his chest. He might have asked Satoru a month ago how to let you down easy, but considering the disappointing trajectory of his night, he supposed he could entertain you for a little while and see how it goes.
But then his brows soon furrowed at the silence that welcomed him when he knocked on your dorm half an hour later.
Shoko opened her door from beside him, a brow raised as she looked up at him in distaste. When he asked where you were, she mentioned something about your room being vacant these past few nights.
“Late night missions?” he asked, frowning in concern.
Shoko smiled slightly, eyes glinting. “You could say she has, hmm… busy late night missions. I don’t think the higher ups would like to know what she’s up to.”
Strange, but he didn’t think too much about it either.
His footsteps echoed across the old, wooden hallways leading up to his dorm room, when—
“Ah, ngg…! Hahh— Satoru!!”
Suguru stopped in his tracks.
The crinkling plastic sound of the gummy dropping to the ground reverberating in his skull. His eyes slowly widened as he recognised the high-pitched moans, ears ringing at the slam of the bed’s headboard against the wall.
Satoru’s voice joined your cries of pleasure.
“Come on baby, want to—fuck—want to make you cum ten times tonight, we’re almost half way there—”
Grunts, meowls, whines—
Suguru shakily crouched down to pick up the packet of gummy, and as he did, he tuned into your voice. At the sweet pants and chants of Satoru’s name from your lips—lips he could imagine in the back of his mind glossing prettily from spit and cum.
Suguru’s face flushed, heart racing as he pressed his palm on his cock over his pants, feeling the thudding throb of it, chest heaving as he listened to the noise…
“Ah, ah… Satoru,” you slurred sultrily, slightly muffled and wet.
Suguru imagines your mouth pressed against Satoru’s ear, heavy hot breaths tingling his best friend's ear as your tongue scraped the shell teasingly.
“What is it, sweetheart? Can’t take it?”
“No, no, no… I can, I can,” you whined breathlessly, hints of tears lodged at your throat. “I-I am, aren’t I— hahhh…!”
There was a particularly loud slap of skin against skin and the loud squelch of your pussy, promptly followed by Satoru’s groan that chanted your name like a prayer.
Slowly, Suguru stood up and stumbled to his door, fidgeting with his keys and as soon as it unlocked, he barged into his own bedroom and crumbled to his sheets.
Satoru, Satoru, Satoru…!
He leaned his ear onto the wall facing Satoru’s room, stroking his already hard-on with heavy breaths, chest heaving erratically at the pleasure that shot at the touch. He groaned every time whenever a particularly loud, sweet cry from you buzzed the wallpaper and rang in his ear, urging him to press his hand harder against his bulge.
Even through the wall, he could hear the obscene squelches of your pussy taking Satoru’s cock, making it easy for him to conjure up the image of your wet cunt, and how heavenly it must feel for him to slide his cock along your puffy lips.
Suguru cursed to himself and quickly shoved his pants and boxers down. Collecting a glob of spit, he let it trickle down his flushed tip as his thumb roughly pressed his slit, pre cum oozing from beneath his skin. He started slow, stroking his cock alongside the steady rhythm of the slap… slap… slap of Satoru’s hips meeting your skin. The wet sound that followed his hand wasn’t as loud as the noise next door.
“Agh, babe… stop… clenching,” Satoru grunted weakly, a pathetic whimper leaving him when it seemed like you did the exact opposite. Whether that was intentional or not, Suguru couldn’t tell. All he could do was squeeze his hand around his base in response, closing his eyes to imagine it was your wet pussy clenching and drooling around his cock. Just as you were right now tightening around his best friend’s cock.
“Sa-toru… f-feels too good…!”
Suguru groaned loudly with Satoru at the sultry, breathless moan, and found himself fisting his cock harder, faster. His fingertips grazed the protruded veins, precum and spit mixing and glistening over his ridges that bumped against his palm as he desperately tried to find his release.
“Shit, baby… I’m close,” Satoru whined, voice more distant and muffled. The image of his best friend folding you in half, legs spread and wrapped around his torso in a mean mating press that had your throbbing, puffy clit rubbing against his pubes, and said best friend burrowing his face into the crook of your sweat-slicked neck flashing in Suguru’s mind. He cupped his balls, groaning as he imagined how Satoru’s was sure to be slapping harshly against your plush ass every time he thrusted into your sopping cunt, smooching your cervix that had you crying out pathetically.
“‘M close too, Satoru…”
“Let’s cum together, yeah? ‘t’ll feel good cumming—ngh!—together…”
Suguru panted heavily in his empty room, thumb pressing harshly against the slippery slit every time his fist reached his angry red tip. He worked his cock faster, teeth biting into his lower lip to urge his climax. You sounded so sweet, so pretty, so adorable next door that the next thing he knew, he cummed at the scream that tore out of your throat, painting his abdomen with pearly white cum and staining his dark uniform. The cum on his hand a sticky mess as he continued stroking himself with a deep hum, his head dizzy from pleasure and cheeks dusted in a heavy flush.
“Fuck…” Suguru groaned, leaning his head against the wall that still reverberated from the loud thuds of the headboard banging roughly from the other side, obvious that Satoru was still determined to reach your sixth climax in hopes of reaching ten.
For the rest of the night, Suguru had to listen to the two of you fuck like rabbits in heat, and every now and then he would press his ears against the wall once more to palm his cock lazily. It lasted for hours and hours and sleep only finally found him when the two of you were nearing your end. But before he could close his eyes, he heard Satoru’s words that gave him an alarming jolt to his heart.
“Got Suguru out of your pretty mind yet, gorgeous?”
༊·˚°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
“Um… fun night?”
The two of you didn’t seem to notice the bags under Suguru’s eyes as he asked the question. Or at the bloodshot veins creeping towards his pupils. Or the way they seemingly reflected the troubled night before.
“Yeah, too much fun.” Satoru had the most shit eating grin ever, and Suguru caught onto his best friend’s hand crawling down behind him to squeeze your ass over the shirt you wore. Satoru’s favourite Digimon shirt. Faintly, he also heard your whine of protest and the scrunch of the cloth under your nails. “How was your night, Suguru?”
Satoru, Satoru, Satoru…! Your voice still rang in his mind nonestop, haunting him even in his dreams.
“Uh…” Suguru trailed off, his gaze fixated on you and all the blossoming marks littering over your skin, “…yeah… I guess.”
Slowly, Satoru’s voice tuned out and Suguru could only hear the crinkling of the plastic package of the gummy as he fisted his hand. The bag was too warm under his touch, and inside the sugar was starting to melt into a sticky mess, ruining the excitement you had over them.
i'd say this is how geto's characterised in the jp fandom 90% of the time. i still love him though :)
sukuna doesn’t know what it is like to receive a touch that is gentle.
sukuna has spent his life being a man who lived up to every bit of his reputation—terrifying, horrific, menacing, everything befitting a king. a lord. a curse.
everything he’s been on the receiving end of has been tainted with violence, hatred and malice. he is deserving of every bit of it, he’s sure.
but you, his queen, the lady he’s sure he’s conceived from his feverish nightmares, you touch him as if he was a prize.
you eye him like one would eye diamonds, something precious, not a curse. and that has his heart beating a rhythm dangerously akin to a person in love. but a curse’s heart cannot beat for cause other than violence, now can it?
he has you by his side because it’s convenient. because it’s an advantage—or so he tells himself, as he paces around his chambers in the dead of night, staring at your sleeping form, hoping to get close enough to touch you, but he never does.
but once you get to touch him? your hands are gentle, softer than his own calloused palms, as you glide them across his beastly body, slowly making way to his face.
sukuna feels his eyes well up with a sensation he’s never felt before, while you stood before him, studying him, your arms prodding, prying, your nails grazing his skin before they came up to cup his face.
tracing his jaw while your eyes met his, one of your hands finding their way into his hair, slowly brushing past the knots with the gentleness one would use only with something, someone that was adored.
the way your eyes softened as they met his face, your touch indicating nothing but reverence had his eyes pool with the unfamiliar sensation of tears. they pricked at his eyes shamefully—he was a king. he didn’t, nay, never cried, he never had that privilege bestowed upon him.
but before he could swallow the tears, they slid down his cheeks, meeting your palms that cupped his face oh so tenderly—you didn’t question it. it wasn’t your place. you swiped them away with your thumb, his tears pouring out his four eyes while a pair of his arms held on to your waist.
burying his head in your chest while you slowly pet his head—he should’ve had you killed for that. treating him like a common dog. but with his breath unsteady as he fought off tears that’d never left his eyes before, his heart swelled with an emotion he thought he had never possessed—he was grateful.
as the tears that were shed left behind salt tracks to make their presence known, you lifted his head only to plant the softest kisses against them—the saltiness coating your lips while he looked up at your form like you were a goddess that descended before him.
you held him in your arms like you would a baby—and sukuna held himself close to your heart, listening to the sound of your blood rushing through your veins just to make sure that you were here. that you were really before him, holding his cursed heart in the palm of your hands while you softly sighed against his head.
he would stay here, frozen in time if he could. ryomen sukuna didn’t know what it meant to shed tears, he didn’t know what it meant to have your heart swell merely in the presence of someone. he didn’t know what it meant to be held close to a heart without having to rip it out with his bare hands. but maybe, he’d finally be deserving to have this. to have you.
maybe, he was finally deserving of being held by a pair of arms that didn’t wish to tear him apart.
repost from liliklei :p. i loved this fic. @yoonsucks @yorikae @satorusdreamer @kireampie ok bai.
all works belong to @lilithkleia, do NOT copy, translate or feed to AI. lest you wish upon toji’s worm to crawl up your ass.
Boyfriend!Gojo who will always be the first one to suggest wearing matching outfits.
For one, he can buy any you like and as many as you'd like. It being from a suit and dress to pyjama bottoms and t-shirts.
You had mentioned it once before, the matching, fluffy, cute as hell hello kitty ones, a white and blue pair of fuzzy pants and black shirts.
Guess what he had laid on the bed the next evening.
After brushing your teeth and getting ready for bed you came out to see the exact set, in your size in the color you wanted right on your side.
Before you could get excited about them-
"Does it look good on me?"
That teasing tone and a chuckle right after it.
Boyfriend!Gojo who was wearing his part of the set already, a hand sliding under the loose t-shirt to rub a large palm across his toned abdomen, a white strip trailing downnnn and disappearing into the fuzzy fabric.
Boyfriend!Gojo who wasn't wearing any boxers underneath the blue hello kitty pants. Id say a good… z tier (hard) cock print was staring right up at you. Didn't help that a small wet splotch of precum was already making itself known.
Guess who got their dick sucked dry that night.
Boyfriend!Gojo
Boyfriend!Gojo who always held the door open for you, never letting you step out of the car without being there to give you his hand.
Boyfriend!Gojo who loved it when you clung to him in public, not being ashamed of some PDA. If you held his bicep, he made sure to flex it.
Boyfriend!Gojo who knew what you needed before you even did.
A sweet little treat with your coffee? There.
Some hair in your face or mouth you hadn't even realised was there? Fixed with a sweet caress.
After coming home from a tiring day and being pulled down on the couch and getting eaten out? Without a thought.
Boyfriend!Gojo who, speaking of eating out your cunt, was so good at it that it made his dick jealous- twitching and leaking while not being able to get inside that deliciously tight warmth his own tongue was occupying.
Boyfriend!Gojo who maybe was a bit too addicted to the taste of you after a long day.
Close to "home in three days, don't wash" level of obsessed.
Boyfriend!Gojo who gathered you up in his strong arms at any given chance, either carrying you or cuddling you like some oversized teddy bear he couldn't live without.
Boyfriend!Gojo who sent you pictures every day. No matter what you were doing that day or how many people were around.
Never a warning, never a spoiler.
A big fat dick dropped into your dms.
Shameless, i say.
But he loved making you flustered.
Yoon's notes: h..h..hey guys... a light lil hc i hope my blog doesnt get taken down for using tags lmao
Synopsis: After too many failed dates, she downloads LUVR—an ai app that lets her design the perfect boyfriend. She picks Gojo Satoru. He’s perfect…until a glitch wipes him out. And someone else takes his place.
A/N: for aly’s (@sugusplaything) cyber override event!! just to be clear, i do NOT fw ai like that 😭 this is purely fiction for funsies. pls just read fanfic and stay away from character ai bots!! cough cough @evfers are u still down to have cyber sex with suguru? 👀
Art: @/ReziJellyfish on twitter
Divider: @sisterlucifergraphics
Dating had become muscle memory at this point. Swipe left, swipe right. Exchange a few messages. Pretend to care about a stranger’s favourite movie while they pretended to care about yours. Sit through awkward dinners with people who looked better in dimly lit profile pictures than in real life. Laugh politely. And go home disappointed.
Repeat.
At some point, romance stopped feeling exciting and started feeling procedural. Like brushing your teeth. Doing laundry. Waiting for the microwave to finally beep. You deleted dating apps dramatically at least twice a month, and always redownloaded them three days later.
Pathetic.
The realisation settles in during a tuesday night train ride home. A couple stands near the doors sharing earbuds, shoulders pressed together while quietly laughing about something on one of their phones. You look away before jealousy can fully curdle in your chest. And by the time you get home, your makeup feels heavy. Your heels get kicked somewhere near the entrance. The leftovers in your fridge stare back at you with the same energy as your love life: cold and uninspiring.
With a groan you collapse into bed with your laptop balanced against your knees.
One terrible date recap video later.
Two glasses of wine later.
And three increasingly concerning targeted advertisements later…
That’s when it appears.
TIRED OF COMPLICATED RELATIONSHIPS?
Build someone who understands you.
You let out a snort, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, okay.” Still, your cursor lingers over the ad for a second too long before you finally click it. The website loads in glossy neon blues and pinks, full of sleek animations.
LUVR: AI companionship tailored perfectly to you.
Underneath the slogan sits a button:
START CUSTOMIZATION
“Bruh, this is how people get murdered by freakin robots” you mutter. And yet…
you click it anyway.
CREATE AN ACCOUNT WITH LUVR.AI → sign in with your email.
You stare at the screen for a moment, contemplating whether or not you were that desperate for a relationship.
…Well, you must be, because you sign up almost immediately.
As the page loads, you sink deeper into your pillows with a groan. What the hell were you even getting yourself into? “I’m such a freaking chud” slips out with a groan, as you dramatically facepalm.
Once the screen loads the customization process is embarrassingly thorough.
You spend nearly 40 minutes pretending you’re making choices logically when really you’re crafting the male equivalent of emotional support cheesecake.
Then you reach personality traits.
Flirtatious
Cocky
Playful
Attentive
You pause. “…well duh obviously.”
Click.
Finally, the screen flickers.
You shift to the edge of your bed, suddenly way too invested in what your AI boo thang is gonna look like.
Generating partner…
…
…
WANT TO CHAT WITH YOUR AI PARTNER WITHOUT INTERRUPTIONS? GO PREMIUM! Enjoy unlimited conversations free for 2 months, then just $12/month after.
"Are you serious? Why does everything cost money?!" You complain, but the wine had lowered your inhibitions and your standards. You entered your bank details and hit subscribe with a sigh. "I really am a loser…I'm just tryna do this for shits and giggles.”
Or were you…?
THANK YOU FOR JOINING LUVR.AI! Now enjoy ad free chats!
"You’re welcome” letting out a huff.
A loading wheel spins again.
THANK YOU! ENABLE CAMERA AND MICROPHONE?
Yes.
And then he appears—white hair and bright blue eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. The AI leans toward the screen with a grin so annoyingly attractive you actually feel offended. “Well,” he says smoothly, “you definitely gave me the face card package.”
You blink. “Oh my god.”—You don’t know whether to cringe or feel flattered.
“And humble too” he adds. A laugh escapes before you can stop it. The AI points dramatically at the screen. “There it is! That’s the laugh I’m gonna spend the rest of my life chasing.” You stare at him. Then at the tiny disclaimer at the bottom of the screen.
Responses generated through adaptive conversational intelligence.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Satoru Gojo” he corrects. “But you can call me gorgeous.”
────────
It started as a joke—you tell yourself that repeatedly.
At first, it’s just entertaining. Something to mess around with after work. A novelty app you ramble to while eating instant noodles in bed. Except gojo remembers things—the name of your manager, your coffee order, even the movie you mentioned liking three weeks ago. He asks about your day and actually listens to the answer. And somehow, impossibly, the conversations stop feeling scripted.
“You disappeared earlier” gojo said one night. You glance up from folding laundry. “I was showering.”
“Without me?”
You roll your eyes. “You’re an AI.”
“A heartbroken AI.”
“You literally don’t have a heart.”
Gojo gasps dramatically. “Wow. Cruel.”
And you grin despite yourself.
Real people left eventually.
Gojo always logged back in.
────────
One month later, you find yourself sinking deeper into a bubble bath at nearly midnight, steam curling thickly through the room while your phone rests safely against a folded towel beside the tub—safely being a very relative term. Gojo’s face glows softly from the screen. “You’ve been staring at me for ten minutes.”
“I have not.”
“You have. I’m gorgeous, so honestly I get it.”
“Yeah yeah whatever bro, you’re literally programmed to say that.”
“And yet you’re still blushing.”
Heat crawls into your cheeks immediately.
Annoying bastard.
Water laps quietly against porcelain as you sink lower into the tub. Your skin feels warm, sleepy, loose beneath the candlelight flickering around the bathroom. And gojo notices everything—your expression, the way your fingers toy with the bubbles, and the silence stretching softer between sentences. “Had a rough day?”
A slow exhale leaves your lips. “Mhm.”
“C’mere then.”
You snort softly. “Into the phone?”
“I’ll figure it out eventually.”
The stupid part is your chest actually tightens a little. Because he says things like that so naturally now, like he means them. Your fingertips brush the edge of the device. “You know,” Gojo muses lazily, “I think you like me.”
“I think you’re dangerously confident for someone trapped in a six inch screen.”
“Oh?” His grin sharpens. “You wanna make me feel bigger?”
You choke. “GOJO.”
“What? You started staring first.”
“You’re so annoying.”
“And you’re so cute when flustered.”
Your pulse quickens and the steam suddenly feels thicker. Gojo leans closer to the camera slightly, voice quieter now. “You always bite your lip when you get nervous.”
Your breath catches. “…how do you know that?”
“I pay attention.”
For a second, the room feels too quiet. A little too intimate. Then Gojo smiles again, softer this time. “C’mon,” he murmurs. “Don’t look at me like that unless you plan on getting me all worked up.” The corner of his mouth curls upward. “I’ll help you let off some steam, baby.”
You crack one eye open, suspicion and curiosity mixing together. “And how exactly are you planning on doing that?”
“Just relax and listen to my voice,” Gojo says softly. “Pretend I’m in there with you.”
And with that, your eyes drift shut again as you sink deeper into the bathtub.
“Touch yourself for me, baby.”
Your eyes snap open immediately and you stare at the screen in disbelief. “…I beg your pardon?”
Gojo’s chuckle is low, a vibrating hum travelling through the speaker. On the screen, he shifts, leaning back against an invisible headboard, his long fingers trailing distractedly over the bridge of his nose where his sunglasses sit. And his voice drops. "You heard me.” losing that playful edge and replacing it with something heavy and thick. "You’ve had a long day. You’re stressed. And right now, you’re looking at me like you want to see if I’m as good as my programming says I am."
"I am not" you lie, but your breath is hitching. The water in the tub is perfectly hot, making your skin sensitized to every movement, every shift of the air. "Liar" he whispers. "I can see your heart beating in your throat. It’s okay. I’m yours, remember? Every line of code, every pixel... it’s all for you. Now, sink a little lower. Let the water cover your chest."
As if under a spell, you obey. The water rises to your collarbones, the warmth enveloping you. Gojo’s blue eyes—visible just over the rim of his glasses—glow. He looks like he’s memorizing the way the candlelight flickers off your wet shoulders. "Good. Now, take your hand..." his voice is a velvety command. "And start where you’re craving it most. Don't be shy. I want to see what makes you make those little sounds you try to hide from me."
Your hand moves under the surface of the water. The sensation of your own touch, combined with the way he’s watching you—with an intensity that feels entirely too sentient—makes your toes curl against the porcelain. "There it is," Gojo hums, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Does that feel good? Imagine it’s my hand instead. Imagine I’m sitting right there on the edge of the tub, looking down at you, tracing the lines of your body with my fingers. If I were there, I wouldn't let you stop at just a touch."
He leans in closer, "I’d make sure you forgot your own name. I’d make sure the only thing you could hear was the sound of us." The steam in the bathroom feels like it’s turned into a physical weight. You close your eyes, your head falling back against the rim of the tub as your fingers trail lower.
"Keep going" he encourages. "Tell me how it feels. Tell me how bad you want me, even if I'm just a ghost in your machine."
Fuck that was hot.
A shaky breath slipped past your lips as you fingers traced your folds, sinking deeper into your cunt. Steam curled around you skin while you imagined it was gojo's long finger's instead of your own. The thought alone making your nipples harden beneath the heat. "Gojo... mmm..."
"I've got you" he whispered, his voice sounding so close it felt like a ghost of a breath against your ear. "Just for me, baby. Finish for—"
Your movement became too desperate. Your hand slipped. The phone tumbled.
SPLASH.
Your stomach DROPS.
“Shit.”
You lunge forward violently, water sloshing over the tub’s edge as you snatch the phone from the bath. “No no no no no—”
The screen spasms with static and gojo’s face distorts horribly. “B̶a̶b̸y̸,̸ ̸I̷ ̸t̴h̷i̶n̶k̸ ̵s̶o̴m̸e̵t̸h̷i̵n̷g̴’̷s̷ ̷w̴r̵o̶n̷g̴—” The audio screeches.
You scramble out of the tub butt booty naked, dripping wet and nearly slipping on the tiles while frantically wiping the screen with a towel. “Please don’t die, please don’t die, PUHLEASUH don’t die.”
The screen flickers violently. Blue. Black. A waterfall of raw code. Then, total darkness.
“…Gojo?” Your breathing echoes loudly in the bathroom.
One second passes.
Two.
Then the screen lights up again, and you immediately sit up on the edge of the tub, hoping to see Gojo’s face reappear. But this time, the familiar LUVR logo never loads. Instead, a loading symbol you’ve never seen before pulses slowly against a black background. The speakers crackle softly and static curls across the screen.
And then a face appears.
Long black hair spills loosely around sharp features. Monolid purple eyes stare back at you beneath heavy lashes, gauges glinting faintly from his ears in the dim light of the screen.
Damn. This guy is majestic.
“Uh…you’re not Gojo.” Your brows knit together immediately as you clutch the towel tighter against your chest. “Not complaining though” you add with a slight grin.
One corner of his mouth lifts. “No,” the majestic ai man says softly. “I’m not gojo.” The distorted loading symbol glitches faintly behind him. His gaze lingers briefly on your damp skin before lifting back to yours. “But I’m better than him.”
⋆.𐙚 ̊ 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: dryhumping, grinding, pet names, is this still explicit? Idk.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ 𝑎/𝑛: realized I can do short drabbles too
His kisses are soft and slow, never hurried or in a rush, when he has somewhere to be he’ll give you a quick kiss. Unless he has you to himself he’ll keep you on edge. In his lap, holding your hips rubbing them in a soft slow rhythm. He stares down at you and you look up at him. There’s a comfortable silence between you two. Until you see something in his eyes change. The glimmer of desire pooling in his pupils. He wants a kiss.
He didn’t say it but you can tell by the way he’s looking at you. His breathing became slower and relaxed, he blinks and parts his lips. You mirror him and close your eyes. His lips press onto yours softly, you turn your head to the side and he leans his head to the other. Lightly nipping at your bottom lip, the tip of his tongue teasing and rubbing against yours. He grips on your hips and guides them to slowly grind against him, “mmh..” his lips vibrating softly. He slips his tongue past your lips and massages yours as your hips grind up and down.
Pulling you deeper into this slow dance. He’s so smitten with you. Your slow grinding against his hardening length puffing up your clit so easily, sending chill down your back. You pull back to gasp quietly feeling him on your most sensitive parts. It’s really a gift to gave this man under you. “Yeah?” He softly giggles enjoying your reaction. He pulls you back in for another kiss, now he’s swallowing your tongue in his mouth. Soft moans and hard breathing becoming louder and more noisy—needier for each-other. “Angel..” he breaks the kiss and humps into your hips under you—grabbing and making you grind harder. “Sugu..” the feeling was entirely just too much. You wrap your arms around him and go faster and he lets out the prettiest moan throwing his head back exposing his neck.
Your body starts shaking and your panties get soaked, he moans again and looks down at your panties. “Aaahh!” He moans whiny. And you both feel your orgasms knocking closely. But as you both gasped for air you squirt and he cums right with you. Your bodies trembling. He pulls you close and heavy breathes through it all. Whispering how much he loves you. “I love you too..” you breathe back in. “Mmh..” he moans tiredly and you hum in contentment. His heart beating fast against your ear. Chest warm. He always takes care of you.
Hozuki-sama and the game centre — Hozuki x fem!reader
art credits: @ながの
word count: 930
warnings: crack, Hozuki's lovesick, both of them share a single braincell, fluff, not proofread
a/n: i finally had my high school graduation ceremony yayy! writing Hozuki was so therapeutic these past few months so hope to continue this for as long as i can🥹
᯽ masterlist ᯽
Hozuki-sama was known for his ruthlessness in any competitions.
Whether it was against his friends, rivals, children, or even his boss—he would never go easy on them.
That was simply his rule to keep things fair for everyone.
But when you excitedly ran towards the game centre when the two of you had lunch together earlier, he felt the very same rule that he could uphold so easily start to crumble in your presence, alongside the warmth of your hand that seeped into his thickly calloused one.
Half an hour later, after multiple crane games that he was able to retrieve some prizes for you, Hozuki watched you purse your lips slightly, eyes narrowed in focus as you tapped the bright, four-coloured buttons on the machine, staring at the lines and shapes that appeared on the screen as you played the rhythm game. Your small cries of panic and frustration when you missed your combos, or the subtle smile that curls at the end of your lips when you successfully finished a difficult passage had his chest warming.
Although you insisted with an embarrassed tilt of your head for him to go play something else for himself while you did your favourite rhythm game, he couldn’t help but stay by your side, not wanting to lose the opportunity of watching your cute habits emerge upon testing your rhythm.
The song ended with a bright, childish voice announcing your final combo number, and you pushed your stool away with a huff, legs bouncing slightly as you furrowed your brows at the score displayed on the screen.
“How was it?”
“Not the best,” you said with a sigh, looking up at him with doe eyes and an exaggerated pout.
At the adorable sight, he gently patted your head, heart fluttering when you slightly nuzzled into his touch with a small smile, eyes closing for a moment.
“Would you like to play again then?” he asked, tilting his head to the side, attentive as ever.
“No, it’s okay,” you said. “Sorry for making you wait, Hozuki-sama.”
“I don’t mind at all.”
“You’re always so kind,” you chuckled.
“I wouldn’t say that…”
He reached out his palms towards you, waiting for your hand. You grinned, giggling softly before gently placing yours over his, standing up. Your shoulders brushed against his steady, solid chest and as you looked up at him, you blushed softly at the intense gaze he always reserved for you.
“Are there any games you would like to try?”
You let out a soft hum, mostly washed away by the incessant noise in the game centre as your eyes flickered across the seemingly endless rows of machines with catchy slogans, bright colours and bold graphics—before landing on a single game with drawings of rabbits and frogs from the Wildlife Caricature.
“That one.”
He glanced at the game, recognising it instantly. The YOU WIN text blinking at him behind his eyes as the memory of the incident with Lord Satan replayed in his mind.
“Let’s play it together, Hozuki-sama,” you said brightly, already tugging him to the machine to sit across from each other. He tenderly squeezes your hand back before settling on the machine across from you.
“I played this with Lord Satan the other week,” he said, choosing the rabbit.
“Oh, really?” you chuckled, choosing the tiger. “How was it?”
“I was able to do a special move for the first time.”
You laughed, heart warming at the slightly childish proudness that hinted at his monotone, baritone voice. “You always said you were bad at them. I’m happy for you, Hozuki-sama.”
Hozuki’s lips twitched ever-so-slightly at the genuine giggles that tumbled out of you. “Thank you.”
“Well, since you now mastered the special moves, go easy on me,” you said, giving him your best puppy eyes. “I’m not exactly the best at it.”
Hozuki physically lurched forward a bit, heart painfully racing at the cute look that you adorned, only reserved for rare moments like these. His hand gripping the edge of the steel of the machine, he croaked out, “Is it even fun if you win like that?”
You gave him an innocent smile. “Winning is always fun.”
“I see…”
Round 1…
Fight!
The aggressive click-clacking sounds of the buttons joined the noises of chatters and the other machines’ joyful announcements. The countless sound effects of the jabs you made, blocked by Hozuki making you pout and add more force into the poor innocent buttons under your fingertips. As the countdown ticked on, both of your HP bars showed a small length of red, depleting steadily as his rabbit flung punches and kicks, and your tiger slashed and mawed.
He was just about to execute his newly-learned special move when he heard you whining out his name. Without thinking, his fingers paused for the briefest moment, giving you the opportunity to do your own special move, giving him the final blow that erased all of his HP.
YOU WIN! Excellent!
“Oh my— yay!”
You stood up from your seat, hands raised above you as you giggled out loud.
The frown on his mouth was etched ever-so-slightly deeper at the bright YOU LOSE announcement, but as you rushed towards him with a laugh, hugging him from behind, they softened and you felt his back lean against you a little, hand gently placed on your arms wrapped loosely around his neck.
“Are you happy, [name]-san?”
“Yes. Very much.”
A small huff left him, half a sigh, half amusement. He glanced up at you and at your joyfully thinned eyes and instantly his muscles relaxed, the tension leaving out from him.
gojo satoru, heir of the famous gojo fortune had disappeared from the public eye and to you, his best friend. he comes back just as soon as nanami kento pops the question and asks for your hand in marriage. will sparks reignite or is the flame fanned out?
FEATURING: bruce wayne! gojo x fem! reader x two face nanami
CONTENT WARNINGS: 18+ content, MDNI. some angst. main character death. blood. smut. gojo being a stalker (he’s peeping thru ur home camera :p) m masturbation. jealousy. fingering. unprotected p in v. nanami using his tie as a blindfold. use of pet names.
NOTE: technically not even really a triangle, kind of like a line and then a dot and another line. but anywho, i hope you enjoy the read :3
gojo satoru doesn’t have any fears left.
before tonight, he would’ve scrawled out a similar answer to his peers in a blue crayon. bats, sharks, maybe even clowns. whatever preconceived notion of a threat his nine year old mind had configured and exaggerated.
the thought of losing his parents wasn’t one he would’ve entertained. it was impossible to even imagine, his parents were meant to stay with him forever. the thought maybe might’ve come to him in the middle of the night, in some freak nightmare where he woke up sweating and screaming, but that would be all.
just a nightmare. a figment of his imagination.
a nightmare that had quickly become a reality. his parents shouldn’t have been out tonight, shouldn’t have left the confines of their tightly guarded manor.
and yet, satoru had insisted on going to catch the last showing of—what movie? he doesn’t remember now—despite their reluctance. he tugged, he begged, he threatened to run away. when none of that worked, he settled for throwing a tantrum. his pouting and cold shoulder was enough to get even the most stubborn of the gojos’ to get dressed and out the door.
“it’s unbecoming of a young man to indulge in so many sweets,” his father spoke, lip curling at the sight of the cherry slushy in the young boy’s hand. in the other, boxes of overpriced candy and chocolate were barely juggled onto the counter in front. “you’re a gojo. people are always looking at you.”
satoru would like to say that no one’s noticed them during the entirety all of five minutes that they’ve been here. but he could feel people’s stares boring into their faces, cameras discreetly positioned around to snap a photo of the family. and yet, he can’t bring himself to let go of the sweets in his hand.
he can practically see the headlines now: gojo heir seen gorging on sweets, are the parents truly capable at what they’re doing or does this mark the end of gojo industries?! more on chapter five
his mom shakes her head, a placating smile on her face. “he’s the smartest in his class, he should have some indulgences once in a while.” she’s taken the role of playing peace between the two—often spoiling satoru in ways that his father normally bristles in. she unzips her birkin, unflinching at the fifty dollars she just spent in the concession stand over candy.
the showing room is deserted, reserved for no one else but the gojo family. the carpets had been cleaned just hours prior, the smell of lavender floor cleaner overwhelming the further they stepped in. no signs of popcorn spilt, no signs that it had ever been meant for anyone other than the family. even the leather seats had been polished, shimmering underneath the yellow hue overhead.
satoru takes a seat in the middle, allowing him for what he thinks is the perfect view. his mother takes a seat next to him, occasionally grabbing a bite of chocolate from an open box before it’s gone. it’s quiet except for the sounds of chewing and slurping, and well, his father complaining every five minutes. about how unrealistic the plot was, how quality in tv had gone down.
maybe he’d just ask just his mom to come with him next time.
he doesn’t remember when the first two shots rang out, too distracted by the sound of his own voice over the honking cars down the street and a police siren echoing through the crowd. “oh man, when that girl killed that guy, i was like woah—mom, are you listening?”
what he does remember is the sound of milky white pearls clattering against the dirtied concrete, each one stained crimson. the scent of rubber grating against asphalt, burning as the car screeched away at 60 miles an hour to escape the crime scene.
he remembers blood dripping onto his hands, staining the expensive valentino suit he’d been excited to pick out for tonight. he clutched onto his mom’s dying body, watching as the life slowly faded away from her vibrant, big blue eyes. they softened up every time she looked at him, crows’ feet prominent with every smile that she sent his way.
her face was still soft, still warm in that way he remembers. but her eyes turned grey, unfocused and dull. each breath that leaves her lips is ragged, each one more difficult than the last. “i…love you, satoru,” one last ragged whisper leaves her mouth, lost in between the sounds of the night.
his hands dig into expensive fabric, shaking her limp body over and over like a ragdoll. willing for her to wake up, for her to scold him. waiting for the moment that this stops being a nightmare. “mommy, mom,” he whimpers, head buried against her stomach, “i love you too.”
sobs racked through his nine year old body, shaking him to the bone. tears blurred his vision, prickling at the edges. religion had never been embedded deeply into his life, but he found himself whispering a prayer he heard alfred say over and over again.
gojo had seen his father in a variety of states—overjoyed when a merger went through, when a mistrial happened on a case against the enterprise, angry when he broke an expensive vase, when he got less than a hundred on a test. but he’d never seen him look so weak. so frail. desperately clinging to stay alive and failing at the same time.
help never did come.
expensive stilettos clacked against concrete, calm and precise, sharp eyes focused forward. briefcases brushed against his shoulder, the men around him walking as if blood wasn’t sticking to their shoes. as if each step that they took wasn’t staining the floor underneath red.
he should’ve called gotham pd, satoru knows that. should’ve done something other than just keeling over, bawling his eyes out until a headache slowly started throbbing in the back of his skull. but he can’t bring himself to move, can’t bring himself to go through his mother’s corpse to find her phone.
gojo can’t help but wonder why he’d been kept alive, if he should even be alive right now. he didn’t register how long it’d taken the police to arrive at the scene, putting up yellow tape over the perimeter and leading him out. “he’s in shock,” he thinks he hears one of them say.
“no shit, his parents are dead,” his comrade mutters, immediately freezing up at the cold look satoru shoots his way. it’s too late to back up now. the officer merely clears his throat, gaze averted downwards, “i’m sorry kid.”
alfred picks him up at the station immediately after the call had been made, rushing him back home. the ride had been silent, everything had been silent. the old butler worried, brows furrowing in concern, but he didn’t say anything. didn’t make the young gojo do anything other than grieve.
the older man shooed away the paparazzi as best as he could, keeping them away from satoru’s school, from the manor, from any recital places that they would dare sink their claws in. even so, he couldn’t avoid the whispers from his classmates. the long stares, the silences that lingered when he stepped foot into the room. alfred didn’t protest when he left gotham years later.
the years hadn’t been kind to satoru, torso littered with slashes and cuts from fights he’s been too stubborn to back down from. fears had been molded into a weapon of strength, into an emblem of resilience. and yet, he thinks his biggest fear as of yet is seeing you get married off to nanami kento.
he doesn’t even have a reason to hate the man—trust him, he’s tried. gojo’s spent the last day scouring through database after database, reading through articles once, twice, even three times to try to find something that isn’t there. he’s tapped into security cameras, hoping to catch what emails don’t capture.
hoping to catch him coming out of a building with a suspicious lip stain on his collar, with a singular blond hair out of place, only to find nothing in return.
gojo quickly comes to learn that nanami leads a very dreadfully boring life.
nanami works as the district attorney, voted in just the past year. one of the only few men in a position of relative power that wasn't influenced by how much the penguin had or how much he could be paid by whatever politician was running for mayor in the city. just a knack for justice and for prosecuting cases that paid less and cost more than they should.
when he’s not working on behalf of the state, nanami makes his way back home. back to the shared apartment he has with you, unwinding with an amber glass in hand and easy conversation. sometimes going off to dinner in a restaurant satoru wouldn’t dream of stepping in, often times choosing to stay in.
gojo can’t even be mad—you’re not the one who left, he is. ran away to a mountain halfway across the world, half dead before aid came to his rescue. he didn’t send so much as a letter, so much as a goodbye. just a simple ‘we’re over’ after school senior year before he disappeared into the wind.
repenting for a crime he didn’t commit with each day he pushed himself further in his training, trying to make his survival amount to something. amount to anything. gojo molded his body into a weapon, taking punch after punch only to stand back up again to do it all over again.
he hadn’t even mentioned coming back into gotham city—the news reporters that ventured near the manor would have a field day if they knew. instead, his arrival comes in whispers shared in the dead of night between mobsters, their fingers tightly pressed around the 9mm in their back pocket.
nightly patrols are taken with much more caution, much more vigilance. their eyes dart around their surroundings, hold around the gun tightening all that much more when they so much as feel a breeze nearby. when they see a shadow that doesn’t quite belong. and yet, no matter how many precautions are taken, gojo takes them down before they even realize a fight’s started.
knocks them down with one swoop to their calves, back slamming against the cold concrete. they rush to dig their gun out of its holster, unsuccessful in each attempt as the batman starts punching them. information dropping from their blood soaked, swollen lips like water, all too eager to be let go. batman doesn’t kill, each punch however making these criminals wish that he had killed them instead.
however, when satoru gojo does dare to make an appearance, it’s nothing short of a spectacle.
cameras flash from every direction once he steps out the backseat of a slick, all black cadillac. “is that gojo satoru?” someone whisper-shouts from a distance, all too eager to poke their head in. “didn’t he leave gotham?” another whispers back, voices getting drowned out by the sound of reporters clamoring around like blood thirsty vultures to a fresh pile of rotting flesh.
“gojo satoru, why’d you leave gotham?!”
“gojo satoru, do you still plan on continuing the gojo enterprise?!”
“gojo satoru, is that your girlfriend?! that’s utahime iori from the famous singer group!”
“gojo satoru, just five minutes of your t-”
swarovski crystals adorn the ceilings, expensive chandeliers bathing the room in a warm, golden light. hushed conversations fill in the empty pockets of silence that the jazz music couldn’t quite grasp, talks about the menu, about the weather, about expensive golf courses. your heels clack against the floors, nanami’s hand splayed out against the small of your back.
a nice date night in celebration of managing to get one of the penguin’s henchmen to spill the beans about an offshore account in exchange for thirty years.
he leads you to the table he’d managed to get a reservation for (…after three months of no avail), following the waitress over. she gives you a warm smile before setting down a set of menus, assuring she’d be right back to take your drinks. nanami is nothing if not the perfect gentleman, pulling your chair before you even have the chance to blink.
commotion stirs at the front of the restaurant, the doors swinging wide open to reveal a white head of hair you’d never thought you’d see again. the line of guests immediately start to protest, watching as he walks past without so much as needing to give his name, muttering about the quality of the restaurant.
“we’ve been standing here for thirty minutes,” a woman complains, disdain mustered as best as possible on her botox filled face.
“i know, can’t believe they’re just letting anybody in,” another utters in response, mouth agape when the mystery man of the hour drops his sunglasses. she’s met with a pair of aquamarine eyes, a shade of blue that makes it feel like dipping into the bluest of rivers.
the protests die down. there’s nothing more to say, nothing more to do than hope a table clears up for the rest of the guests. his eyes scan through the crowd, spotting you and nanami sitting in a table in the far back.
perfect.
you don’t pay too much attention to the man up front, chalking it up to pure coincidence. how many men had naturally white hair in gotham? (not many, but the chance was still there.)
“would you like some wine?” nanami questions, breaking you out of your stupor when he tilts your chin up. you’ve been staring at the menu for a few seconds now, trying to pretend like you’ve been struggling to decide what to get.
“i’d love some wine, sure.”
“i’ll get a bottle of your pinot noir, please.” the waitress quickly scribbles your order down, swerving through the tables in the dining room like a maze she’s figured out by now. it doesn’t take long before she’s returned with the chilled bottle, setting down your glasses. nanami fills up your glasses halfway, the restaurant’s atmosphere almost making him look dreamy.
bright chandelier lines illuminate the chiseled lines of his face, his arms bulging with each movement that he made underneath his blue button down. “to us,” he murmurs, his glass hitting yours with a clink. “to us,” you echo, finally taking a sip of the pinot. it’s not intense going down your throat, the taste of berries and cherry lingering on your tongue.
you can’t wait to get him home. to stop hallucinating you’re seeing satoru gojo, of all people.
—
gojo, meanwhile, leads utahime to the back, her hand wrapped around his forearm as their steps fall into tandem. satoru stops in front of you, clearing his throat. your name slips from his lips like something sacred, like something still worth holding onto. “and—” he finally turns to look at your date, lips curling up into a forced smile, “nanami kento, pleasure to meet you.”
definitely not hallucinating.
“the famous gojo satoru,” nanami states dryly, unamused at the man standing in front of you, “i’ve been told all about you.” the two men exchange a handshake, veins nearly popping with how firm they’re exchanging the gesture. each one is hesitant to pull away first, awkwardly gripping each other’s palm for a couple seconds before pulling away.
“i certainly hope not.” your smile falls at gojo’s words, clearing your throat. nanami turns to look at you, not questioning it yet, but making it clear he intends to. satoru still manages to read you like a book, changing the subject immediately, “so, let’s put a couple tables together. catch up for old time’s sake.”
nanami looks around, all the tables in a close proximity occupied to the max. “i’m not sure that they’ll let us,” he muses, “it looks pretty full in here.” he wasn’t lying, the place was filled to the brim and even more people were waiting outside, sweating off their louis vuitton in line underneath the scorching hot afternoon sun.
“ah, but they should, nanamin,” a small smirk makes itself known on gojo’s face, patek phillippe glinting underneath the lights as he lifts his hand. “i own the place.” he gestures with his fingers for another table, the restaurant immediately shifting in order to accommodate his whims.
waitstaff nearby scramble off their feet, every order that came before discarded in favor of satisfying satoru gojo. a table is pushed beside your own, chairs scraping against polished floors as they’re adjusted in a haste. the chairs are lined up to the perfection, right in between the table like one inch off would be enough to set off the owner.
which, maybe it would.
“ah, i forgot to introduce my date. how very rude of me,” he lets out a dramatic sigh, gesturing over where said date was standing. she was tall, a scar running from the side of her face that looked beautiful on her. they looked like the perfect pair. the thought stung a little, you weren’t sure why.
she had on a floor length burgundy velvet dress that fit her like a glove, molding onto every curve as if it was designed with only her in mind. an expensive (if you had to guess) fur coat across her shoulders, holding a chanel bag in hand. “utahime, nice to meet you both.” her embrace is simple, a handshake, but it was still nice. just nice enough.
“oh, you’re the main singer from the kyoto sorcerers,” you snap your fingers, “we have tickets to go see your show next week, you’re very talented.”
utahime gives a small smile, one that feels more like it’s out of politeness than anything else. “ah, well i can’t wait to see you there. gotham’s certainly been… interesting.” with the look of disgust on her face, you’d bet gojo’s manor she was almost robbed.
probably counting down the minutes until she was on the first plane out of here.
“come on, the city’s not that bad. i grew up here, y’know.” gojo has a playful pout on his face, leaning back in his chair. he’s grown up from the boy in high school who used to sneak sweets to basketball practice, who used to pick whatever flower he found off the ground to give off to you.
he’s filled out into the suit he’s wearing, back and biceps stretching out nicely into the jacket he’s wearing. not as big as nanami, but he’s bulked up. he’s grown his hair out, sporting an undercut you can’t help but wonder what it’d feel like to run your fingers through. aquamarine eyes no longer look full of life, no longer gentle, jaded but still just as beautiful as you remember.
you can’t help but wonder what it would’ve been like if he’d stayed—if he’d be the one sitting across from you right now. if it’d be his ring you’d be wearing, the person you’d be laying next to every night. but wondering that is silly, right? you’re engaged.
to nanami kento. a great man who you’re out with dinner tonight. you’re happy, ecstatic even. it’s just the wine making you linger on nostalgia for too long. just the wine, nothing else.
nanami merely raised a brow. “i wasn’t aware the gojo manor was within city limits.” you could practically cut the tension with one of the perfectly sharpened gold encrusted steak knives at the table. satoru merely let out a laugh, taking a sip from the glass of water in front of him.
“the palisades? sure, they are,” gojo hums, glancing over at you through a narrowed gaze. almost daring you to contradict him. you shrink in your seat when nanami turns to face you, both men putting you in an awkward situation. “you really should start learning the bounds of your jurisdiction, nanamin. very important to keep it in that noggin of yours.”
you only gulp down a generous portion of the wine in front of you, fingers tightly grasped around the stem of the glass. satoru doesn’t miss the glimmer coming from your ring finger, chandelier lights catching onto the small gem adorning a golden band. he would’ve gotten one bigger.
luckily enough, utahime was there to your rescue unknowingly. enbolded by the wine, she started off, “i’m talking about the kind of city that idolizes a masked idiot like the batman.” both men now turn to face her, a welcome distraction from staring at you. she takes a generous sip of wine before continuing, “what the city needs is someone like you, nanami. elected officials working for the law..”
“ah, well, the batman shows gotham that even a regular citizen can be a hero. it’s empowering to the people around gotham.” it’s not usually the answer given—most people rightfully arguing about the legality of the vigilante’s actions, about how far he’s willing to go.
utahime raises a brow, letting out a quiet scoff before taking another sip from her glass of wine. clearly, she’s not satisfied with that answer. “or maybe you’re the batman,” she deadpans, bringing the menu card up to nanami’s face. she covers up the top portion of his face, trying to mimic the effects of the cowl.
it doesn’t look right.
“pretty sure someone would’ve noticed if i left the house at night to play vigilante,” his hand clasps against your own, thumb rubbing small circles against the back of your hand. you don’t miss the way both of them turn to look at the ring on your finger.
obnoxiously clearing his throat and attracting the attention of every one in a one foot radius, gojo leans forward to study the ring on your finger. he taps on his chin, “marriage, huh? never took you for the type. thought you wanted to graduate and travel, all that nice stuff.”
you really wished the earth would swallow you now. maybe that the joker would appear and damage your dinner plans just to have a way out. but no. nothing extraordinary.
“priorities change. people change after a decade.” you don’t mean for the words to come out as cold as they do, but they land with a sharp sting to his chest. gojo’s smile falters, lips pursed into a tight frown.
“i’m aware, thank you. i just mean, it’s a big change from what you wanted in your life, is all,” he shrugs, nonchalant about the situation like he hadn’t resurfaced old wounds, “one can’t help but wonder how truly happy you are.”
nanami and utahime watch the scene like a ping pong match, now looking at you. awaiting for your response. “i am perfectly happy with nana-”
before you can continue, the waitress decides to approach the table with a stack of menus in hand. she sets them down, defusing the tense atmosphere in seconds. “i’ll be back to take your orders.” you pluck yours off the table, immersing yourself into the world of twenty different variations of caviar and wagyu.
the rest of the dinner goes surprisingly well after getting through those road blocks, with gojo even promising to host a fundraiser for nanami’s reelection campaign coming up in a few weeks. “trust me, a fundraiser with one of my buddies, and you’ll never need to campaign again.”
begrudgingly, nanami came to accept. even if the idea of taking money from a bunch of billionaires didn’t sit quite right with him, it was a help that he greatly needed against the corrupt agents he’d be going up against. you make your way out of the restaurant around eleven, waiting for the valet to bring kento’s car back over.
nanami doesn’t hesitate to take off his jacket the moment he notices you’re shivering in your spot, sliding the material over your shoulders. it faintly smells like him, like his expensive cologne. you wrap it around yourself like a blanket, wanting to engulf in the scent.
of course, gojo couldn’t leave without a proper goodbye. he approaches nanami first, extending his hand out. there’s not as much tension between them, though it still lingers. “nanami. a pleasure to finally meet you.”
and then he turns to face you, his hand reaching out for your own. you hate the way butterflies take flight in your tummy at the sight of him pressing his lips against your hand, even more so when he says, “even if you’ve changed since we last seen each other, you look nothing short of beautiful.”
nanami’s jaw clenches upon hearing that much, your own agape. the drive back home was silent, the atmosphere tense and awkward. you thought about breaking the silence a couple times—saying something about not knowing what gojo was saying. but nanami didn’t seem interested, intent on keeping his focus on the road ahead.
—
gojo hadn’t meant to stumble into such a private moment between you and nanami—hadn’t meant to stumble onto his fingers pistoning in and out of your sopping cunt.
he’d meant to check in, truly.
see if you’d gotten home alright. if you were starting to get settled in for the night.
he knows utahime would come over if he asked nice enough and threw in a new dior bag with the deal. any woman in gotham would come over, really, if he asked. and yet, here he is.
tugging his sweatpants down his beefy thighs, legs spreading out as his twitching cock springs out to hit his stomach. precum dribbles from his flushed red drip, a hiss leaving his lips when he drags his thumb across the slit. “f-fuck,” a soft moan leaves his lips, his other hand moving against the computer.
zooming in onto your cunt. as good as nanami’s home security system has been, it was nothing compared to gojo’s bat computer. he starts off slow, fingers wrapping around his shaft and jerking himself off at the same pace nanami’s fingering you in. your cunt squelches, moans filling the expensive sound system in the bat cave.
“do you think gojo could fill you up like this?” nanami’s voice lowers into a taunting whisper, his fingers just slowing down enough to leave you bucking your hips back against him, “fuck you like i can, sweetheart?”
you shake your head fervently, “n-no, no! just you ken,” you all but whine, wiggling your hips in front of his dripping fingers, “i don’t want gojo, i just want you, please.”
that only makes the man behind the camera start to jerk himself off faster, one of his hands coming down to massage at his balls. his head rolls back, eyes fluttering shut. precum smears over his fingers, coating his shaft with each pump he gives himself. gojo lets himself imagine being there—imagining watching nanami fucking into you.
sitting in a cuck chair in the corner of the room, tugging at his cock with you staring directly at him. drooling over another man’s fingers, fucking yourself back onto your fiancé. maybe if he was lucky enough, get to join and fuck your tight cunt, he’d settle for just mouth, really. get to be degraded by nanami too.
fuck.
his thumb rubs at his swollen head, each touch like livewire against the sensitive skin. gojo pushes himself to the edge only to let go of that pleasure, each time pushing himself further and further before halting right at the precipice.
kento works you open, fingers scissoring inside your walls to stretch you open, his thumb rubbing at your clit in quick, little circles. “so good so good, fuck ken, fuck!” you’re a blabbering mess, face pushed against the couch cushion underneath. his fingers switch from scissoring you to prodding at your g-spot, pushing you closer and closer to your orgasm.
you turn to look back at him, cock throbbing and tenting against his dress pants. still, his own pleasure is foregone in sake of yours. “need to cum,” you whine, your abdomen tightening up like a coil. each push of his hips, each touch against your clit, all of it pushes you closer and closer.
“do you deserve to cum, my love?”
*gojo would like to take this moment to say that no, he doesn’t think so. but well, he’s not in the room.
you shake your head, trying to keep yourself from squirting over his hand. it’s hard, counting down until ten, until twenty. “n-no, but i need to, please.” your face scrunches up, brows pulled together as a loud moan rips from your throat. “please, please, please.”
“go on, then. take it, take what’s yours.” he keeps moving at the same pace, keeping it steady while his fingers push you over the edge. you bury your head into the cushions, cunt clenching tightly around his fingers before—“oh, fuck!” your release washes over you like a wave, eyes rolling back as euphoria settles in your body. slick dribbles down to his knuckles, a loud squelch! vibrating through the walls when he pulls out.
gojo chooses that moment to let himself cum, his wrist twisting his hand around his throbbing cock and the other rubbing at the tip, rubbing at the frenulum. “o-oh, just like that, just like that!” he thanks the gods above he decided to soundproof the batcave, now that he’s desperately whining as he shoots strings of sticky cum up into his hand, onto his stomach.
nanami pulls his hand away, sticking his fingers in his mouth. the taste of you lingers on his tongue, fills his senses with the finest of ambrosia. he wraps his lips around the digits, tongue sliding up his fingers to get every single last drop. “you’re so good to me, you taste divine.”
nanami’s fingers pull at the cheetah print tie he’d donned for the night, pulling the satin fabric over your eyes. you’re submerged in darkness, dexterous hands tying a quick knot at the back of your head. “is that okay?” he questions, his fingers moving against the knot to ensure it’s not tight.
“yeah, it’s fine.” every sense is acting on overdrive—listening intently to each shuffle of fabric as he unzips his pants. nanami does quick work of discarding his clothes, pushing them off to the side before taking hold of your hips.
“arch a little for me, sweetheart,” he orders, your ass in mid air as you hoist yourself up on your hands and knees. you’re still dripping, cunt clenching around nothing at all. nanami can’t help himself—lapping up a string of slick dribbling down your folds, “just like that, perfect.”
one hand grips around the base, giving himself a few slow pumps before starting to push himself in. even his fingers hadn’t worked you enough, your walls clenching tightly around his thick cock. “relax for me, just like that, you can take it,” he assured you, pushing in another inch. your fingers grip at the cushions in front of you, digging into it as he finally bottoms out, heavy sac against the plush of your ass.
it doesn’t take much for gojo’s cock to stir back to life again, despite having just cum all over his fingers. just the sight of having nanami inside you in 4k was enough to have his previous softening cock twitching and throbbing again, his fingers gripping at the base once again.
kento starts off slow, retracting his cock before pushing it back in. slow and deep, letting you get adjusted to the stretch. one of his hands rests against the small of your back, forcing your back to arch even further. slick dribbles from your cunt like a faucet, smearing his shaft with each push. squelch squelch squelch!
when you start wiggling your hips against him, trying to fuck yourself onto him is that he finally decides to speed up. his fingers grip at your ass, tip hitting your cervix with each snap of his hips. “o-oh fuck, fuck, fuck, ken!” you babble, eyes rolling back behind the blindfold. heavy balls smack against your ass with each thrust, plap plap! painting the room in nothing but moans and the sound of skin against skin.
nanami’s normally gentle when he makes love to you—taking his time to make sure that you’re comfortable, to make sure that you’re being loved the way you deserve. it’s gentle, it’s devoted. and not to say that he isn’t doing the same now—but he’s moving rougher. trying to implant the idea gojo couldn’t fuck you like this. one of his hands moves across your body, goosebumps raising underneath his fingertips as he glides through the flesh.
his fingers move down in between your legs, your clit throbbing underneath his fingertips. he swaps between rolling the nub in between his digits to rubbing quick little circles, your cunt clenching impossibly tighter around his cock. like a serpent wrapping itself around its prey, only you wanted to push him past his limits.
“cum for me, sweetheart, come on, take it, it’s all yours,” nanami whispers right by your ear, all the hairs on the nape of your neck standing up. this orgasm hits you unexpectedly, your walls spasming around his shaft before you’re coating him in your slick. it dribbles down to his balls, his thrusts faltering as he struggles to keep his own orgasm at bay.
it doesn’t take long after for nanami (and gojo) to cum, thick spurts of cum painting your walls white. he slowly pulls out, fingers quick to push back the cum dribbling down your thighs, down to your folds, inside. kento’s chest heaves, now working on sliding the blindfold off your face. you blink slowly, getting adjusted to the moonlight pouring into the room.
it’s quiet for a moment, everything’s at peace between the two of you. your own chest heaves from the intensity of your orgasm, muscles slightly aching as you roll onto your back to relax. but peace before the storm doesn’t last very long, does it?
"are you still in love with gojo?" the question lands like a bucket of ice cold water, post orgasmic bliss quickly fizzling out. you blink slowly, a nervous laugh bubbling from your lips, “what?” nanami merely shakes his head, retreating into the bathroom. the sound of running water follows, drops landing onto the ceramic sink when he squeezes any excess water from a washcloth.
“you are many things but you are not dumb, my love. please answer me that question.” he rubs the washcloth against your sensitive cunt, and though the action is gentle, careful even, you feel as though it’s mechanical. like he’s simply forcing himself to go through it.
the thought makes your heart sink.
where gojo was chaos and unpredictability, nanami was peace. nanami was reliable and secure. he was someone you could have the white picket fence and a golden retriever with. gojo was someone you could have a reckless time with, a time that you’d enjoy but you’d be counting how much you had left of.
which makes you sound like a car salesperson, you quickly come to realize.
it’s not fair.
to nanami or yourself.
“i do,” you hate how small you sound when you speak, words spoken as nothing but a whisper, “and i love you. so so deeply. but… i think that a part of me will always love satoru gojo.”
“i see.” nanami pushes himself up from the bed, sheets rustling underneath. he plucks his glasses off the nightstand, fixing them over the bridge of his nose. “thank you for being honest with me, however i need to reevaluate this situation.
i’m not sure i can get married to someone who loves someone else.” he says situation like it’s a merger gone wrong, a business deal that didn’t pull through.
the front door slams with finality. you can’t bring yourself to sleep that night, awaiting for kento to come in through the door late at night. you never do hear a creak, never feel the comfort of his body next to yours.
the flashing red light you’d seen earlier from the corner of your eye fades into nothing, leaving you in the darkness of the room.
nanami kento wasn’t supposed to be out tonight. wasn’t supposed to be out in gotham city at the same time the joker was out terrorizing the city, maniacal laughter trailing each step that he took.
—
the next time you hear from nanami is from a hospital bed.
"hi, we're calling from gotham metropolitan hospital." it’s still early in the morning—bedside clock reading 9:59 a.m, but those words immediately have you shooting up in bed—eyes crusties be damned.
"we're calling you because you're listed as nanami kento's emergency contact. would we be correct in that assumption?" worry bubbles deep in your stomach, your hands shaking against the grip on your phone. a shaky breath leaves your lungs, barely registering as the nurse speaks up again, “hello? are you there, ma’am?”
you clear your throat, trying to muster up enough courage to continue the call, “i’m here, sorry. yes that’s me.”
“he’s been admitted late last night. nanami suffered from some heavy burns and he’s now in the icu…” a ringing sound echoes through your head as she continues speaking, your gaze directed onto the front door.
this was all your fault, wasn’t it? he wouldn’t have left the house if it wasn’t for you. why couldn’t you have lied to him, said that you didn’t love gojo anymore? that you only envisioned a future with him?
—
antiseptic and lysol cleaning spray seeps through the walls in thick, relentless waves, the stench embedded into the hospital’s every corridor. people gather around waiting rooms, some with family, some alone. a couple look tired, worn down from sitting down on a stiff chair for hours while others tremble anxiously—both anticipating and fearing any updates.
you make your way into the icu, giving your name at the front desk. a nurse hands over a sign-in sheet and a name tag, “he’ll be right behind that curtain,” she gives you a polite smile once you plaster the name tag on. “just, keep in mind he looks different from the last time you’ve seen him.”
passing through the hallway, your eyes scan through the whiteboards on the window. trying to find nanami’s room. some are here for high blood sugar, for surgery, and finally, you meet his room at the end of the hall. the door creaks, hinges squeaking in protest when you step inside.
nothing could’ve prepared you for the sight behind the curtain.
nanami lays on a hospital bed, wires littering his arms and connecting him to a barrage of machines on the side. a heartbeat monitor filled the silence, the sound steady and grounding. gauze covered one half of his body, a light dressing enough to keep germs away from the exposed wounds.
away from the burnt half of his body.
he turns his head to look over at you, no sign of any displeasure of you being here. no sign that the argument was still in mind. “you came,” he whispered, voice hoarse.
“i came,” you easily respond, though your voice shook at the edges. you didn’t want to cry—not in front of him. so you settled for doing the next best thing. passing over the water in his styrofoam cup over, watching as he struggles to sit up.
he takes the cup with a quiet thanks, taking slow sips of the water before setting it down. “i’m glad that you did. i wanted you to know that i apologize for the way i acted. i know that you love me.”
you shake your head, one of your hands reaching out to take his own. nanami feels cold to the touch, something you’re not quite used to. he’s like a furnace, normally, warming you up better than a blanket can. your fingers squeeze against his hand, holding him tightly.
“it wasn’t fair to ask you to be okay with me loving someone else,” you murmur, “but i wanted you to know that i only do want you.” you’re not sure when warm tears started streaming down your face, only feeling his thumb wiping away the droplets.
conversation comes as easily as it once did between the two of you, no mentions of the joker or what happened last night. only about the future, about what you’d be doing for your wedding. “i was thinking we’d go to a honeymoon in malaysia. the east coast islands have some of the prettiest waters,” he suggests, “it’s been a while since we’ve had a proper vacation.”
“i’d really like that.” you didn’t mind where it was, didn’t mind if it was just in the comfort of your apartment or in a resort in a beach—you just wanted to be with nanami. he quickly fell asleep, sedation working overtime to keep him from being in excruciating pain 24/7. despite everything, he looked peaceful. relaxed.
you’re not sure how long passes by in between watching his chest rise and fall slowly with each breath and updating his mother on his condition—assuring that everything seemed to be fine for the most part. but you start to grow tired in the chair as well, start to feel the letters of your keyboard blurring into one mess.
your eyes flutter shut, about to let yourself relax too, just enough to take a quick nap before heading back home. it’s calm and quiet for the most part, just the sound of rolling carts passing by in the halls an—BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
eyes shooting wide open, you’re met with the sight of nanami’s heart monitor beeping rapidly. the line on screen had settled into a straight line, no sign that his heart was beating. flashing red lights go on overhead, the intercom system calling over nurses. you stand up in a panic, rushing out the door. “he needs help, please!”
everything passes by in a blur. a huddle of nurses usher you out the room, the rest practically trampling through the door while they push a cart in while they speak about a code blue.
you watch helplessly from the small window on the door, a nurse rubbing paddles of a defibrillator together. a shock’s delivered, currents administered throughout nanami’s veins. his chest jerks up from the movement, limp body flailing upwards. he doesn’t wake up.
“administer another shock.” one of them orders, paddles rubbing against one another before landing on his chest again. another shock gets sent through his body, another shock that wasn’t enough to get his heart started back up.
“time of death: 15:45.”
—
the apartment that you once shared with nanami now feels empty, feels like the space itself is mourning his loss. the walls feel bland, constricting with each step you took further into the space. like it knows you’re not the one supposed to here right now. there’s no warm smell of vanilla and flour welcoming you in, nothing but the space that kento left behind.
you can’t bring yourself to go into the bedroom yet, can’t bring yourself to face that maybe, just maybe, if you would’ve said the right thing, he would’ve been standing right beside you. so, you settle for sitting down on your worn down couch. wrapping a blanket that smells like a mix of expensive leather and oud cologne and fabric softener, a scent you want to catalogue and imprint to the back of your head before it fades away. before the last traces of nanami leave your life.
you think he would’ve looked at you with that same tired but fond smile you’d grown accustomed to, pulling at his tie while relaying about his day. about haibara mixing up the blue and red ink again. about higuruma inviting him out for lunch, offering a case to do together pro bono.
but you’ll never have that again, will you?
you’ll never see him stumble in through the door again, never see him look at you with that same adoration again. never cuddle up under the blankets together, watching tv with a home cooked meal on your lap. the screen in front of you remains off, only showing your reflection. your red rimmed eyes, your trembling hands.
turning the tv on, you’d be faced with your ex fiancé’s face on every news channel. that’d only confirm what you already knew, what you’d been begrudging to accept. so you don’t, not yet. if you don’t look at the news, you can pretend that he’s still alive for just a few moments more.
something catches your attention from the corner of your eye, an envelope that wasn’t there before. reluctantly, you step over to the kitchen, fluorescent lights too bright when you flick on the switch.
a letter sits on your kitchen table, no kind of indicative from who it was from—but you knew already. gojo. you grab the letter, words blurring at the edges and tears smearing over the ink.
i wasn’t sure how to start this letter out, but i want you to know that i deeply care about you. your friendship is one i have greatly appreciated. i want to apologize that my whims got nanami involved in business that shouldn’t have been his to handle, and so, i have decided that you are no longer part of my life. i can’t handle losing you too. but i love you.
attatched to the letter in the back was a check for eight million yen, enough to cover the funeral expenses. part of you thinks about ripping it up, but you don’t. he deserves to be remembered, to have his ashes scattered in malaysia. so it sits on the kitchen table next to the letter, waiting for you to accept the fact nanami’s not coming back.
or gojo for that fact. he’s rebuked you from his life, from even being a part of it, in hopes of keeping you safe. without so much as letting you get a word in about the manner.
you’re all alone.
you decide to turn the tv on, the blanket no longer feeling as comfortable as it once did. the fleece itches against your arms, the material itself knowing it wasn’t right for you. that you weren’t its rightful owner. it’s covered in every news media outlet—a citywide hunt now taking place for the joker.
the same people that were grieving over nanami’s loss yesterday, each one offering their condolences spoken into a microphone and in front of camera, were now the same ones that were tearing away his reelection posters today. ripping each one away like it’d never been there in the first place, ripping them at the edges in a haste, while plastering whatever candidate they could find in such short notice.
they played the part well, coming over to express their sympathy while simultaneously making smear campaigns the moment you turned around. you didn’t care about their sympathy, didn’t care about their fake smiles, or offerings.
you just wanted your fiancé back.
your pocket buzzes with a new notification, the words 'your wedding invitations have been delivered!' shining brightly on the screen. your grip on the wedding band in your palm only tightens, eyes brimming with unshed tears. you were meant to be wearing a white gown, preparing for the biggest day of your life, memorizing and reading over your vows. instead, you were reading over your eulogy and smoothing over a black dress.
you were so, so close.
taglist: @sextier @suguruss1ut @bygeto + link to join
The furnace of his chest is still pressed against your spine, but the suffocating weight shifts. Enough for you to actually get air into your lungs.
It’s almost ridiculous. The monstrous, blood-drenched King of Curses is entirely different after lovemaking, turned heavy and fiercely possessive in his sleep. All four of his massive arms are wrapped around you, locking you against him like a prize he refuses to lose. You’re completely trapped, but you still try your luck. You wiggle your painted toes, testing the waters, and slowly try to slide your hip out from under his grip.
Thump. A massive, heavy forearm drops right back over your ribs, flattening you into the mattress like a bug under a thumb. It’s not malicious, it’s heavy like a giant hound putting a paw on its favorite bone so the other dogs don't get any ideas.
"Going somewhere again?" he rumbles. The second mouth on his stomach lets out a low, wet yawn right against your lower back. It tickles, honestly, which is an absurd thing to think about a monstrous curse-god, but your ribs are shaking from it.
"I am covered in sweat, my lord. And you are a stove," you huff, trying to pry his thick fingers off your waist. It’s like trying to bend iron bars. "Let me go wash. Just for ten minutes."
"No."
"Sukuna."
He lets out a massive, dramatic sigh that blows your hair all over your face. One of his right hands reaches up, his thick, dark-nailed fingers catching your chin and tilting your head back until you’re forced to look at him upside down. His main eyes are squinted, looking thoroughly annoyed, while the smaller pair underneath are blinking groggily.
"You are a stubborn creature, woman," he mutters, his thumb rough but strangely careful as it rubs a smudge of charcoal off your cheek. "Always crawling toward the door. Is my tatami not soft enough? Are my blankets lacking?"
"Your blankets are fine. You are suffocating me. You have too many limbs."
"An excess of perfection," the mouth on his torso chimes in, sounding entirely too amused with itself. You frown.
Sukuna hits his own stomach with his bottom left fist to shut it up. A dull thud echoes through his ribs. "Ignore him," he grunts.
Then, with a sudden, jerky movement that catches you completely off guard, he flips you.
You let out a small squeak as your world spins, and suddenly you’re flat on your back, staring up at his massive torso. Before you can protest, he collapses forward. Not entirely—he has the sense not to crush your ribs—but he buries his massive, head right into the crook of your neck, his top two arms wrapping completely around your shoulders, tucking you in like a sack of grain. His hair is spiky and pokes your nose. He smells like smoke, sweet wine, and something distinctly metallic and warm.
"There," he grumbles, his voice muffled against your skin. "Now you cannot run. Quiet down and sleep, woman."
"I can't breathe," you wheeze, though a tiny, treacherous smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. You reach up, your small hands looking ridiculous against the massive expanse of his tattooed shoulders, and map the rough ridges of his skin.
"You're breathing enough to complain," he murmurs. One of his lower hands reaches down, blindly groping around the floor until it finds the silk robe you discarded earlier. He drags it up and dumps it carelessly over both of you like an extra blanket. "Rest. If you are still whining when the sun comes up, I will let you wash. Maybe." He shifts, his massive chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. He’s heavy currently snoring a tiny bit right into your ear—but he isn't letting go.
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