꒰ summary ꒱ when a misunderstanding leaves your family convinced you’re bringing a plus one to your cousin’s wedding in Japan, the last person you expect to volunteer for the role is your infuriatingly observant intern, Satoru. it’s supposed to be temporary. professional. strictly off the record. but with your mother already sold on the idea of your mystery boyfriend, and Satoru proving far too good at the role, pretending starts to feel a little too dangerous. also, why is your “intern” secretly the heir to gojo corporation?!
꒰ tags/warnings ꒱ fake dating ⚹︎ undercover ceo! satoru ⚹︎ accountant! reader ⚹︎ satoru is 29, reader is 26 ⚹︎ lots of family pressure. reader has a complicated relationship with her mom ⚹︎ forced proximity ⚹︎ one bed trope ⚹︎ slow burn ⚹︎ mutual pining ⚹︎ wedding chaos ⚹︎ angst and fluff ⚹︎ some suggestive content but no explicit smut ⚹︎
꒰ authors note ꒱ hi cuties! this is a commission piece, and it is about 12k total. this first part is just shy of 6k and the second part will be out next week. i hope you enjoy 🫶🏻 (art by @/hanamin_0123 on x)
"Oi. Boss lady."
“No.”
One problem at a time, and the spreadsheet in front of you wins by default. Because Column F is wrong. It’s been wrong for forty fucking minutes, and if it stays wrong for forty seconds longer, you may actually die here at your desk — hunched over, half-blind, and found by Shoko on a Monday morning with your face pressed into a pivot table like a cautionary tale.
"But… you don't even know what I was gonna—"
"—the answer is no, Satoru."
Unlike the human embodiment of a headache currently lingering on the other side of your desk, the spreadsheet in front of you is at least pretending to be important.
The chair beneath him creaks, and then comes the silence you know too well. It’s the one that comes right before he decides to be a problem on purpose. Attention is gasoline and Satoru is, structurally, a fire hazard. Still, your eyes flick up, and—
"No fair…” he huffs, that ridiculous pout tugging at his lips. “You didn't even let me finish the question."
Your eyes roll back down.
“Mhm.”
"And it was such a good question.”
You turn a page. "Really?”
“Yup.” He’s draped over the corner of your desk now, like gravity has wronged him, whining. “It was such a thoughtful… personal… deeply relevant… extremely genius level getting-to-know-you tier question that—”
You scowl. "—Satoru, enough. Just do your job."
It lands harder than expected. The sigh he lets out is deeply, theatrically offended. And when you glance up again, he’s sprawled over that same corner of your desk you made the mistake of clearing for him on day one because you’d thought, foolishly, that giving him a designated surface might contain him.
It had not.
Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.
Snowy white hair falls against his brow, sleeves rolled to his elbows; looking far too expensive and far too comfortable for someone whose official title is intern. His coffee is sweating beside your open planner — the one with a date next week circled in red: WEDDING, scrawled across the margin in your own handwriting. The condensation trails towards a stack of vendor invoices and—
…
Wait.
Are those the same vendor invoices you asked him to file yesterday?
Fucking great.
“Oh, c’monnn,” he grumbles, blinking at you over the rim of those absurdly expensive sunglasses he insists on wearing indoors. “One question. Just a tiiiiny one. It’s completely harmless. Humor me, yeah?”
You narrow your eyes.
“Satoru, you’ve been trying to ask one question for the last four months.”
“Yeah,” he says. “And you’ve been dodging it for four months. Imagine that.”
Technically… four months and four days. But who’s counting?
With an exhausted groan, your eyes fall shut, pinching the bridge of your nose. Noise drifts in from the hall — the elevator, the printer, a phone trilling somewhere nearby. But when you look up again, it all seems to fall away.
He’s gone strangely still. The smug grin hasn’t disappeared, but it’s softened at the edges, hooked at one corner with his head tilted slightly. And those eyes…
Oh.
That’s — no. You’ve seen his eyes before. Obviously. Four months of them. But right now, with the morning light doing something cruel and unhelpful behind him, they catch in a way that makes you forget you were mid-thought. The kind of blue that doesn’t ask if you’re looking. It already knows.
Which means of course, you look away first. “Fine.” Your hand drops as you mutter. “One question. But if it’s stupid, I’m sending you back to HR.”
It’s not much of a threat. It’s his last day, after all, and for reasons you still don’t fully understand, Satoru has always seemed oddly immune to consequences — which, frankly, feels statistically improbable given the amount of shit he’s managed to pull in the few months of being here.
“One question?” his grin sharpens. You point your pen at him. “Don’t make me regret this.” Yet his pleased chuckle is already making you. “Awhh… look at you. Finally yielding.” His pen twirls between his fingers, nodding with false solemnity. “Okay. So, here’s the thing… throughout these four months working beside you, I’ve seen a lot—"
“—that’s not a question.” You deadpan.
But ignoring you, he reclines back in the chair, hands clasped behind his head.
“Liiiike… I’ve seen the exact face you make when Mei-Mei emails you,” he smirks. “Even noticed you work through lunch more than you should. And I’ve noticed that little line right here—” he gestures vaguely between his own brows “—every time the budget goes sideways.”
Lips parting, you blink.
…why is he so observant?!
For someone who acts like he doesn’t give a shit, he’s strangely attentive.
You clear your throat, huffing. “Okay… what’s your point?” Your hands straighten a stack of papers that doesn’t need straightening. “Is there a question in here somewhere, or are you just reciting my habits back to me for fun?”
His grin is far too pleased. “Relax. I’m getting there.” And leaning forward, his voice drops, like he’s unraveling a conspiracy. “I just find it interesting how you answer work calls before the second ring. Every damn day. Doesn’t matter who it is.” His head tilts with a smug grin. “But for whatever reason, for the past month, your personal phone’s been ringing off the hook, and you never pick up. Not once.”
Heat creeps up your neck. Not because he’s wrong — but because he’s right. And he said it like it was nothing. Like noticing the pattern of your avoidance was just something that happened to him between stamps.
Oh.
Way too observant.
Shit. He couldn't have settled on what's your favorite color!? Or, what superpower would you have!? No. Of course he had to go for the fucking jugular.
His eyes drop to the planner lying open beneath the invoices. The circled date: WEDDING. And his grin sharpens. “Ohoho… I get it now,” he whistles, leaning back in his chair and kicking one leg over the other. “What’d your fiancé do to screw up this bad? Is the wedding off?”
Your head jerks up. “F-Fiancé?!” And he rolls his eyes with a scoff, still grinning. “Knew it. God, he must be really in the doghouse. Or maybe he’s just clingy as hell to be calling that much.”
You blink.
Okay. Nevermind. He’s wrong. That is not even remotely what’s happening. The most committed relationship you’ve had is the one with your coffee machine. And yet… part of it feels almost cosmically cruel.
Because somehow, this is the second time in a month that someone had looked at the scattered pieces of your life and decided a man must be hiding inside them. Except the first time, you never even got the chance to correct it.
After all… how do you tell your mother she’s wrong?
Last month, you still answered her phone calls.
Not because you expected anything different. But because somewhere between the second ring and the third, there’s this gap — this stupid, paper-thin gap — where you still believe she might ask how you’re doing and actually wait for the answer.
Some habits taste like smoke. Some burn like liquor. But yours, unfortunately, had always looked a lot like hope.
Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.
“Oh—uh, hi mom!”
Your phone was wedged between your ear and shoulder while you stepped out of your car, juggling your purse and what was left of your sanity. You were already behind schedule, and your mother was calling — which meant the day had already made its intentions very clear.
“What’s up?” the door slammed shut with your hip. “I’m actually about to—”
“—Trish sent the venue photos,” she blurted, launching into a conversation like always.
Blinking, you shook the bitterness away. Striding toward the towering glass of Gojo Corporation. “That’s—yeah, that’s great,” you muttered, badge in hand as you pushed through the front doors. “But I’m actually heading into work right now? So—”
“—It’s such a beautiful venue,” she ignored you. “Very traditional, very grand. But you know the Zenin family—they never do anything small.” And as she sighed in awe, you resisted the urge to roll your eyes.
The rational part of your brain told you to let this go to voicemail. But the rational part of your brain has never once won this fight. Because…
Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.
"Mom, I'm sure it's lovely, really… but I'm kind of—um, excuse me…" you pivoted around a man in the bustling lobby with a sigh. “Sorry. I’m literally walking into the building right now? But maybe we can revisit this later and—"
"—have you booked your flight yet?"
Your mouth flattened.
Clearly, your half of this conversation is optional.
“No… not yet,” you mumbled, as patiently as you could manage, jabbing the up button harder than necessary. “It’s been a crazy ass week so I haven’t had a chance to, but—”
“—every week is a crazy week for you.” The huff she let out sounded almost offended by the inconvenience of your life. “Why can’t you just book it now while we’re talking? I mean, it literally takes five minutes.”
A miracle, really, that your blood pressure isn’t a medical emergency.
Every week is a crazy week?
Yeah. No shit.
Two managers resigned last quarter. Another got escorted out by security. And their work didn’t disappear. No. It landed on your desk. Because that’s how it goes. That’s how it’s always gone. Group projects. Internships. End-of-quarter disasters no one else wanted to touch. If something needed fixing, it found its way to you.
You’re the one people relied on.
Just… never the one people chose.
“Mother. I’m at work,” you said, stepping into the elevator as the doors slid open, dropping your voice as you stabbed at floor fifteen. “Look—I’m about to walk into an eight a.m. meeting. But I’ll book it tonight, promise.”
“…eight a.m.?” she repeated slowly, before letting out a small, unbothered laugh. “Oh! Right. It’s eight p.m. here. Silly me. I keep forgetting.”
…
Keep forgetting?
She keeps forgetting that she’s ten thousand miles away? Forgetting that twenty years ago she abandoned you in another country to live abroad in Japan—handing you to your grandparents like a detail she'd get back to later?
How convenient that she forgot that.
The elevator slid shut, and you watched the numbers tick upward. “Um. Yeah…” you managed, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice. “Anyways. I’ll book it tonight. After work. Okay?”
"Okay, okay. Sure. Sounds good. But are you bringing anyone?”
Squeezing the strap of your bag, you swallowed the lump in your throat. This again? The last thing you needed was to walk into your shitty eight a.m. meeting looking emotional.
No thanks.
“I… uh…” you cleared your throat. “I um—actually—haven’t decided yet. But anyways, I gotta go, so—”
“Waitwatiwait. Haven’t decided? Does that mean… you actually found someone?!”
Her voice pitched up so fast it almost startled you, and your mouth dropped so low it could’ve hit floor one.
Shit.
“I-I—I didn’t say—"
“—oh, thank God. This is incredible!!” she squealed. “We’ve been so worried. I mean—Trish is younger than you and she figured it out,” her tongue clicked. “People have been asking questions, you know. Your aunt Sara keeps bringing it up every time I see her and—”
“—Mom, I—"
“—It’s about time,” The laugh she let out was relieved, like a problem in her life had finally begun resolving itself. “You can’t keep putting love on hold forever, because men aren’t going to wait around forever. You’re already twenty-six—not getting any younger, dear.”
Love?!
Who has time for that?
And why the fuck is twenty-six the age a woman expires?!
“What’s his name?” she pressed, practically beaming through the phone. “What does he do? Is he from there, or—oh, is he Japanese? Your father would love that, he always said—”
And she was off.
Spinning an entire man out of thin air. An entire future, really. Building him in real time from a tiny slip up you had because you were too tired and cornered and desperate enough to answer the phone in the first place. And you stood there, letting her. Because interrupting her has never once worked in the history of your life.
“—actually, never mind,” she chirped a moment later, as if she was being considerate now. “You have work. I’ll call tomorrow and you can tell me everything, yes? Okay, bye-bye honey—”
Click!
And just like that, the elevator went quiet. You were left staring at your reflection in the metal doors, phone pressed to your ear, listening to the silence where your mother’s voice had been.
‘We’ve been so worried.’
…
If they were so worried… why had you spent most of your life learning to take care of yourself? And yet, the second there might be a man, suddenly you’re worth getting excited about?
Funny how that works.
Scoffing, you lowered the phone, shoving it into your bag just as the elevator chimed open. Itadori Yuji’s head snapped up behind the reception desk.
“Morning, boss,” he waved, radiating sunshine as you walked towards the conference room. “Kento’s asking if you’re still good for the budget review at eight… or if I should just tell him to panic.”
Your smile softened, burying the sting. “Yes… I’ll be right there.” And as you stepped through the polished glass doors, you played the role you’d always played.
The reliable one. Twenty-six years old, with two master’s degrees, a career at one of the most competitive corporations in the world, and a team of seven that would quietly fall apart without you.
But…
None of that glitters quite like a diamond ring, does it?
“Oi,” Satoru frowns. “You’re makin’ that face again.”
“Huh?”
Blinking out of your spiral, your eyes trace back to the man across from you. His chin is resting in his palm, those impossibly blue eyes fixed on you with a quiet stillness that makes something in your chest trip over itself — like a lock turning in a door you didn’t know was closed.
“Oh.” You clear your throat, forcing the pen back into motion. “…what face?”
“The one you make when something’s wrong,” he says quietly, gaze unmoving. “When you’re upset and trying to act like you’re not.”
For a second — one terrible, unguarded second — you don’t have a single thing to hide behind. It’s just him, looking at you like your well-being is something he’s been keeping track of in a column you didn’t even know existed.
But then the sarcasm kicks in, right on time. "Wow," you say, forcing your hands back to the papers in front of you. "So… now you read faces?"
“Mm... nah. Just yours, sweetheart.”
And that grin — god, that fucking grin — hooks at one corner like he knows exactly what just detonated inside your chest. You don’t acknowledge it. Acknowledging things have consequences, and consequences with this man are not something you can afford.
"…that’s highly inappropriate," you mutter, shoving it down. "Let’s maybe redirect some of that insight toward the invoices, yeah?"
“Sorry, sorry.” He leans back, hands up like he’s the picture of innocence. “Wouldn’t wanna start shit with your dear future husband.” His grin goes sharp as he twirls his sunglasses between two fingers. “Though, wow. Tough look for him. Whatever he did, he clearly fucked up bad.”
Why does he sound… bitter?
No. You must be imagining it. This is Satoru. Satoru, who treats everything like a joke until proven otherwise. Satoru, who doesn’t care enough about anything to sound bitter over a man who may or may not exist.
You scoff. "You’re making some wildly stupid assumptions right now…"
He perks up at that. "Oh?" With his grin hooking higher, almost hopeful. "Wait. So, there’s no fiancé, then?"
Your lips purse.
What does he care? He’s not your mother.
“I wish you’d be this interested in your actual job,” you sigh, arms crossing. “Those invoices have been sitting there all week.”
“Uh-huh.” He tips his head. “And yet somehow, I noticed you still didn’t answer me.”
You frown.
What the fuck are you supposed to say!?
Oh. Um. Actually, Satoru, there is no fiancé. That’s the problem, actually! My mother invented him the other morning and I haven't worked up the nerve to call her back.
Yeah. No. You'd rather die at this desk.
“Maybe because it’s none of your business.”
“But I—”
“Drop it.”
He stares at you for a beat, then he flops back in the chair with a dramatic huff, long legs kicking out in front of him, mouth dragging into a sulky pout.
“Well, damn,” he grumbles, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair, rolling his eyes. “No wonder you’re single if this is how you shut people down…”
The second the words leave his mouth, he blinks. His gaze flicks up to yours like he hears it too late — like he realizes, all at once, how shitty that sounded.And it only feels worse the moment he sees your face.
God.
Of all the places to hit.
“Oho… wow. Okay. This?” you say with a thin, self-deprecating laugh, chair scraping as you shove back from your seat. “Yeah. This is exactly why I shouldn’t have let you ask, Satoru.” You reach for your planner, your purse, anything to do with your hands besides let them shake.
He straightens, watching you scramble. “Whoa. Wait. I—"
“—because you don’t know when to stop!” The words come out louder than you mean, blinking at the sting behind your eyes. “You just keep pushing and pushing and pushing until you get what you want. Well good. I hope you’re happy.”
Before you can turn away, he’s on his feet. “Wait—” And the moment his hand catches yours, you freeze, breath snagging.
His voice is quieter now. His grip is firm yet gentle, and the air between you shifts, while something warm and uneasy twists low in your chest. The kind of feeling that makes you want to lean in and run in the same breath.
Though your eyes stay down. “Satoru… let go.”
“I didn’t…” he starts, then stops, gaze flicking to where his fingers still circle your wrist — before climbing back to your face, slower this time. “I’m… sorry. I just—” His mouth tightens. “I see how hard you work, okay? I see it. And every time that phone rings, you get this look on your face like it’s already ruined your day before you even touch it. And…” His brows pinch. “Fuck. I dunno why, but it pisses me off!”
Your gaze hesitantly drags to his, and the look in his eyes is softer than they have any right to be — all that blue, stripped of its usual sharpness, turned careful. Like he’s stepping toward something breakable and knows it. Like… if he asked once more, something in you might actually give.
“Satoru…” your breath hitches. “I-I—"
“Oh, finally.”
Shoko’s voice trails in, and your head snaps up so fast your neck almost goes with it. She’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, coffee in hand — looking like a woman who arrived exactly on time for something she's been expecting all week.
Her gaze flicks down to where he’s holding you, and the corner of her mouth twitches.
"Sooo… not to interrupt whatever this is," she says, taking a sip, "but Kento's one eye-twitch away from a medical event. He needs you to sign off on the variance line before he starts reconciling his own will and—"
You're already jerking your hand back. "Yup—coming!" And as you step away, heat floods your face, but you don't look back. Not once. Not even when you feel him still standing there, watching you go.
Because looking back would mean acknowledging that something just shifted. And you are not — not — doing that today.
Unlike those invoices, perhaps some things are better left… unfinished.
You’re gone in a blur of heels, nerves, and professional self-preservation, leaving Shoko trailing behind and Satoru staring at the empty doorway like maybe the conversation might wander back through it.
It doesn’t.
And it’s not long before his mouth is pulling into a slow, petulant pout—just before he flops back in the chair with all the elegance of a man personally betrayed by the universe.
Un-fucking-believable.
He’d almost had you! After four months and four days of being stonewalled, redirected, and professionally shut down, you’d finally looked like you might give him something. A crack. A sliver. And then Kento had to ruin it with his stupid reconciliation sheet, his stupid earnest face, and his stupidly impeccable timing.
…
He could fire Kento.
Should he fire Kento?
As tempting as that thought is, Satoru settles for glaring at the empty doorway a second longer before dragging a hand down his face and raking it back through his hair. There’s no point. This performance will end soon. Because by this time tomorrow, he’ll be on a flight back to Tokyo. Where he can resume the slow, agonizing process of preparing to inherit a company he didn't actually give a shit about.
'Grow up, Satoru.'
'Apply yourself, Satoru.'
'You have no idea what it takes to run something like this, Satoru.'
Right. Because apparently, the heir to a multinational corporation needed to learn humility. Alphabetize files. Sit in a cubicle. Fetch coffee like some goddamn spreadsheet slut with a trust fund and nowhere to put it.
Four years of business school, two years shadowing his father; and yet, this is what they had for him?!
He scoffs. And when his gaze drops to the wreckage of your desk, he’s pulling the stack of vendor invoices toward him with a sigh that sounds put-upon even to his own ears. You’ve been nagging him about filing them for the better part of the week and… the least he can do is clear one thing before he goes.
The stamp thuds against the first page. Then the next. Then the next. And with muscle memory taking over, his face goes blank in the way it always does when boredom finally wins. It’s mindless shit. Still, he’s used to it. So naturally, when the phone on your desk buzzes, he doesn’t think twice; snatching it up, tucking it between his ear and shoulder as he reaches for the next invoice.
It’s probably another budget nuisance. Or Mei. Or one of the other thousand little crises that seem magnetically drawn to your extension.
“Yo,” another stamp echoes. “Satoru speaking.”
There’s a sharp inhale. “…who?”
His brow lifts. “Uh… Satoru?” Another thud of ink slams against the paper and he huffs, annoyed. “What do y’need?”
The line goes quiet for a beat too long. Before the woman on the other end finally murmurs, “Satoru…” Sighing in awe. “What a lovely name. Is that Japanese?”
"Uh… yeah?” he snorts, flipping to the next page. “I mean. Last I checked.”
“Mm… I thought so!” She giggles. And her voice pitches like she's just unwrapped a present she didn't know she was getting. “So… Satoru. Why exactly are you the one answering her phone, hm?”
…
Why the hell does this woman sound so invested? And why is she asking questions that should be obvious?
Frowning down at the invoice, he stamps it harder.
“Because it rang?” He says it like it’s obvious. “And uh—sorry, but. Maybe because I’ve been with her for months, so… why the hell wouldn’t I?”
"Months?!” A soft gasp crackles, far too delighted. “You've—you've been with her for months?!"
"Mmm… four months and four days, technically."
He’s been her intern for that long.
That’s the question, right?
"—technically?!" she squeals, like the word personally seduced her. "Ohmygoodness—oh, this is perfect. Four months and four days—that is so specific.”
He blinks. But she doesn’t give him time to process.
“Look at you Mr. Devoted. Keeping track. I was starting to worry she’d never find someone like you. Every time I asked it's like pulling teeth. But I knew there had to be someone. I told her father—I said, there is a man, I can feel it.”
Pausing mid-stamp, the words slowly begin to catch up. Satoru straightens.
"…sorry. Who is thi—"
“—everyone is so excited to meet you at Trish’s wedding. I already reserved your seat and—"
Her voice keeps going… and going… and going. He pulls the phone away slowly as her voice echoes on the receiver, staring down at the phone in hand to see:
📞 Mom
Oh.
Oh, shit.
This is not your work phone. Your work phone is currently sitting at its dock twelve inches to his left. And it dawns on him that he accidentally just spent the last sixty seconds answering your personal phone like an absolute jackass and—
"Uh…” he backpedals. “Wait. I—"
"I told Sara, I said, we have to meet him and—”
"Stop. I-I really think—"
“—Satoru, what are you doing?’
His head snaps up at the sound of your voice, mouth dropping as he sees you standing at the doorway, eyes wide in horror.
Oh, fuck.
“Who is on the other end of that phone,” you hiss.
He winces, pulling the phone from his ear like it’s toxic — and you’re snatching it right out of his hand. He lets you have it without a fight, sinking back into the chair like he’s trying to physically dissociate from the situation he’s just created while you press the phone to your ear.
“And I mean…” she rambles. “I certainly was never one to wait around at twenty-six, believe me. But—"
"Mom."
"Oh! Honey!” She gasps. “Oh, my goodness, hi—I was just having the loveliest chat with—"
"I'm at work. Gotta go."
"—okay! I can't wait to meet Satoru, he—"
Click!
The phone sits in your hand like evidence.
And Satoru — to his credit — has the decency to look like a man standing in the blast radius of his own stupidity. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Like he’s rehearsing an apology in a language he hasn’t learned yet.
You stare at him.
He stares at you.
And somewhere ten thousand miles away, your mother is already calling your aunt Sara.
“Sooo… funny story…”
“—what did you do?!”
Satoru flinched, and now, the tears were already rolling down your cheeks — hot, fast, completely unauthorized. Not the kind you could disguise as allergies or blame on the air conditioning. No. The ugly kind.
Great. Fucking great.
You were standing in the middle of your own office, in the building where you work, crying in front of your intern. And Satoru felt the weight of it all at once. In the last four months, he had seen you in every flavor of workplace misery there was. Pissed off, stressed out, one spreadsheet away from actual murder.
But cry?
Never.
And this had his fingerprints all over it.
"Shit," he breathed, panic flashing across his face. "I—fuck. Okay. Please don't—I can fix this. I can—"
"Fix this?" A splintered laugh ripped out of you, and you hated how thin it was. "Fix what, Satoru? You just confirmed a boyfriend to my mother, a boyfriend that doesn't exist—and she is, at this very moment, probably already—"
Another break in your voice cracked, and you squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hand to your forehead hard like you could hold the tears in by sheer force. But it only made it worse, because now you could feel the wetness on your own face, the heat of it under your palm, and the mortification landed like a second wave.
God. How fucking humiliating.
"Hey, hey—it's okay,” his voice softened. “We'll just… call her back. Right? Tell her it was a misunderstanding. Easy."
“Easy?” you scoffed, the word coming out strangled. “Y-You don’t understand my mother, Satoru,” you managed, voice gone thin as thread. God, you sounded like a child. “If she thinks something is true, then it’s true. That’s it. That’s—there’s no correcting her, there’s no walking it back, she’s already told my aunt Sara by now and Sara’s told Trish and—oh, fuck—”
Another sob tumbled out, and your fingers dug harder into your temple.
God. Stop it.
Stop it stop it stop it.
Think.
Think logically. You're good at this. You solve problems for a living.
But every time you tried to grab onto a thought, it slipped — replaced by the echo of your mother's voice, high and delighted. The happiest she'd sounded talking to you in years. Maybe ever.
…what look will she give you when you show up alone?
"I can’t," you whispered, and the word came out waterlogged. "I-I'm supposed to get on a plane to Japan in a week and—do what? Tell them there's no one? Tell them I'm still—"
Single.
The word sat in your mouth like a stone. You didn’t realize you’d gone silent until the silence itself started ringing — your sniffling, the hum of fluorescent lights, the muffled life of the office continuing beyond the door like yours wasn’t actively coming apart at the seams.
And through all of it, you could feel Satoru looking at you. His stillness; holding you with an expression you'd never seen on him before and couldn't categorize if you tried.
"Um…” he looked down, scratching the back of his neck. “Soooo... the wedding's in Japan?"
You blinked. “What?” And as you wiped your face with the back of your hand, his gazed tentatively flicked back up. “The wedding…” he repeated, voice careful. “It’s in Japan?”
"Yes." Your brow furrowed, not understanding. "Why?"
He didn't answer right away. Just looked down at the floor for a second, jaw shifting, like he was turning something over in his head — something he hadn't fully assembled yet but could already feel the shape of.
"Huh… okay."
Okay what?
You watched his expression change in real time — from guilt to calculation to something else. "Right then!" He said, clapping his hands once, bright and sudden. "No biggie. I'll just go with you."
No biggie?
Your mouth dropped.
That wasn’t even an option, was it?
…is he crazy?
“You’re kidding,” your laugh was awkward and breathless. His eyes rolled with a smug grin. “Sweetheart, c’mon,” and he was gesturing between the two of you like the answer was sitting there in plain sight and you were the only person in the room committed to not seeing it. "Your family thinks you're bringing someone? Cool." A hand pressed to his chest with theatrical solemnity. "I'm someone."
You stared at him. Genuinely stared.
Oh. He wasn’t kidding.
Yup. He’s crazy.
"You are not 'someone,' Satoru. You are my intern."
“Yeah. For like… another six hours?"
He checked his watch with a shrug, and your lips flattened.
"…that is not the point."
“Mm… feels a little like the point."
He smirked, but it faded faster than usual, dimming at the edges as his blue eyes hesitated on yours. Something shifted in his posture; the performance pulling back, like a tide going out. "Um… look…" He pushed off the desk, stepping closer. "It’s really no hassle." He said, hands sliding into his pockets. "I already have a flight scheduled. My family's in Tokyo. And I was going back after this internship anyway, so… this just moves my timeline back a little."
He was shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t agreeing to fly across the world with you and walk straight into the disaster that was your family.
…
His family’s in Japan too?
You barely knew anything about him. He kept his life sealed off with the same practiced deflection you kept yours — jokes in place of answers, charm in place of honesty. You never bothered to ask, because asking meant caring and that was a door you never intended to walk through with anyone.
But…
"Just… let me come with you. I’ll be your boyfriend for the weekend. For the wedding. For… whatever you need,” he said. And this time, when he stepped closer, there was no grin to hide behind. "I can be useful. I caused this. So… let me fix it."
Heat creeped up your neck, and you scoffed, weakly.
"Okay… but you can't fix my mother."
"No…” he murmured, tilting his head. His hand came up and brushed a tear trailing down your cheek with a careful gentleness. “But… I can make sure you don't have to walk in there alone?"
Your breath hitched, and when your eyes finally lifted, the morning light was being cruel again — catching in that impossible blue and turning it soft. Like stained glass dipped in sunlight. Like something holy made dangerous by the simple fact that it was looking straight at you.
“Mhn. So, do I get the job, boss lady? Because that look you’re giving me…” a slow smirk curls up the corner of his mouth. “Very encouraging for my boyfriend résumé, by the way. Might get addicted to it and wanna make it a full-time gig.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, looking away too fast to be convincing.“That was not a look. I was just—” You grimace. “…never mind.”
He’s chuckling as you brush past him. And his words are what scared you the most. Which was bad. Very, very bad. Because your mother was one problem. Japan was another. But Satoru looking at you like that?
Shit…
That felt like the kind of complication that didn’t stay neatly contained. And you knew better than anyone. Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.
a/n: hehe. this has been fun to work on! i am excited to share the next part. clearly i love these fake dating/fake marriage tropes aha 🙂↕️ bc this is like... what—my third time doing it? soooo i tried to change things up and make it feel less standard/generic :) but anyways, like i said pt 2 will be out in a week, pls lmk if you wanna be tagged 💖
For the reader rejecting her soulmate by hiding the fact that they're soulmates drabble, can we get that with Gojo Satoru?
Coming from clan of sorcerers and being one of the most promising heirs, reader was hoping that her soulmate was just a regular human being so that she could have a reason to abandon the Jujutsu world and live a normal life. But unfortunately for her, her wishes were granted backwards. So backwards that she got someone from a prominent clan who also happened to be the strongest sorcerer known to man. Not wanting to deal what fate has given her, she hid her true mark made up a fake one and informed her clan she's leaving to keep her "soulmate" safe. They were disappointed but accepted none the less, and just like that she left for a normal life.
Despite thinking she avoided fate, what she doesn't know is that a simple faking of a mark does not sever a soulmates' connection. Especially when fate has forcibly involved her with someone like Gojo.
I love this and I love you for coming up with it. NGL I was influenced by the amazing @envy-of-the-apple and the INCREDIBLE Gojo fics they've made. Don't get your hopes up for this story, it's not nearly as good as theirs LOL
You would turn eighteen at exactly 1 am, on the dot. You had set up a mirror on your bed, aimed straight at your upper arms.
12 seconds to go…
You wondered which arm it would appear on. That isn’t what really mattered, of course.
7 seconds…
You wondered if you could tell if the person was average or ordinary by just the symbol alone.
3…
2…
1…
The silence in your room suffocated you. Your heart sank into the pit of your stomach.
It looked like a hand with the index and middle finger twisted together. You knew that symbol. You’d seen it every damn day.
Gojo Satoru. Your soulmate was Gojo Satoru.
The weight of your fate crushed you. This was even worse than the outcome you had feared the most. You had prayed for an ordinary person, someone who could whisk you away from this world of curses and responsibilities. You just wanted someone who could offer you the normal life you so desperately craved.
Instead, fate had bound you to the most powerful sorcerer alive, a man whose very existence was a magnet for danger and chaos. A man who would never, ever live an ordinary life.
“No fucking way…” you whispered to yourself, shaking your head frantically as though you could just simply deny what was seared into your right shoulder. You couldn’t accept this. You wouldn’t accept this.
You knew what you had to do. Your clan was skilled in concealment techniques and, with a bit of effort, you covered the mark on your right shoulder, and created a false mark on your left. It was a simple sun, unremarkable in every way. The perfect lie you could craft to fool your family, the world, and maybe even yourself.
The symbol could belong to anyone. Anyone but Gojo Satoru, who had been showing off his mark since his 18th birthday last year.
When the next morning came, your parents’ faces fell at the sight of the ordinary sun on your left shoulder.
“Oh, I was hoping you’d get a powerful sorcerer,” your mother had never sounded more disappointed, “Someone like that nice Satoru boy.” You hid a wince.
Your father crossed his arms, “Are you sure you want to leave our world behind for some ordinary man?”
You shrugged, acting like the decision was out of your hands. “I can’t drag an ordinary person who can’t even see curses into our world,” you replied.
Your parents agreed and, without much more resistance, you headed out to a world where everyone was oblivious to the existence of curses.
1 am on the dot for Gojo Satoru was like waking up in a bath filled with ice cubes. He shot out of his bed, panting and ready to fight whatever curse had found its way into his room. Then, he felt a warmth spreading over his soulmate’s mark and he relaxed, a smile playing across his face.
His soulmate had reached her 18th birthday!
Gojo’s smile widened as he pulled up his sleeve and studied the mark on his arm, the intertwined fingers that must match yours. For months, he had anticipated this moment- the day his soulmate would finally know of their connection!
Then, a strange, muted feeling. As if all of the warmth had been sucked out of him and his senses had been dulled. His smile sank into a frown.
His soulmate was attempting to hide their bond.
He was no stranger to concealment techniques- he was a sorcerer of unparalleled strength. But why would his beloved soulmate try to hide her mark?
It bothered him, but also piqued his curiosity. You must know who he was (everyone did), so why were you trying to hide from him?
Gojo’s frown deepened as the muted sensations got stronger. His soulmate was actively hiding from him. He couldn’t help but wonder, irritation spiking, why you would go to such lengths.
This wasn’t some simple concealment- you were rejecting the bond itself. And how dare you? He was the strongest sorcerer alive, you should be goddamned proud to be his soulmate!
He took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. He’d wait until the morning and find out whose birthday it was. Then, he’d approach you and figure out what you were playing at.
One month had passed since your birthday, and you had already gotten yourself a job as a receptionist at a law firm. Your parents’ money would buy you an apartment for a few months, but you’d be expected to take care of yourself after that.
One of the lawyers, a tall, handsome man named Akira, was always stopping by your desk, flirting casually with you. You encouraged it full-heartedly. He was handsome, kind, intelligent and best of all…
He was normal.
Akira smiled as he stopped by your desk for the third time that day, “So, I was wondering-”
Briiiiing
“Sorry, hold that thought,” you winked up at him, picking up the desk phone, “Thank you for calling Hashimoto Law Firm, my name is (Y/n), how may I assist you today?”
There was no response, except for heavy breathing. Unnerved, you tried again, “Thank you for calling, how may I assist you?”
More heavy breathing followed and you gave it one last shot, “If you are speaking, I’m unable to hear you. Please call back again if you are in need of our services.”
You hung up, heart pounding for a reason you couldn’t place. Your right shoulder began to burn and your heart just about stopped altogether.
“What’s the matter?” Akira asked, concern in his voice.
You straightened up, avoiding his gaze, “Just a prank call.”
Akira took the answer with a nod, still looking concerned for you, “Don’t take prank calls too seriously. It’s usually just a kid on the other line.”
You swallowed thickly- you had a feeling you knew exactly who was on the other line.
Akira looked up at the clock, “Ah, it’s time to clock out for the day.” You followed his gaze and your stomach twisted unpleasantly.
“Will you walk me home?” you blurted out.
Akira’s eyebrow raised, “Did that prank call spook you that badly?”
“I’m worried it may be my ex,” you lied, “And if he knows where I work, he could be waiting outside for me.”
Akira smiled and offered you his hand, “No ex-boyfriend will get anywhere near you if I have anything to do with it.”
You smiled back.
The walk to your apartment had your heart pounding in your chest and your hands shaking. Akira’s larger, warmer hand slipped into yours and you squeezed it for reassurance.
You were nearly to your apartment complex when Akira whispered, “Someone’s following us.”
You realized there were not two but three pairs of footsteps walking down this street. You didn’t need to look back to know who it was- the burning on your right shoulder told you all you needed to know.
“You keep going, I’ll tell him off,” Akira said.
You wanted to tell him to stay with you, to not risk his life over you. You wanted to tell him that the person he was going to face was infinitely stronger than him.
But you were selfish.
As soon as Akira turned around, you broke into a run. You heard the man make a confused sound, as though he had tried to punch air (or, more likely, infinity) and then a bloodcurdling scream cut off by the pained, guttural noise of someone being punched so hard that their organs were being ruptured.
Maybe it wasn’t that bad, maybe that was your imagination running wild, but you didn’t turn around to see if you were right. Each time you heard that fleshy sound of a fist caving in someone’s chest, you just ran faster.
As soon as you had reached your apartment, you bolted the apartment door shut, grabbed your suitcase, and began stuffing things inside with trembling hands.
Akira was most likely dead and all you could think about was how you had to change jobs and move right away. Were you heartless?
Maybe. But your soulmate mark wasn’t burning anymore and that was all that mattered.
The next morning, you arrived at the law firm, ready to quit. You walked inside and found your boss already waiting for you. “Have you seen Akira? He was meant to be here an hour ago?”
“I haven’t,” you murmured, “Look, I have to quit-”
The door opened behind you and you spun around, hoping it was Akira, safe and sound. Instead, you were met with the sight you wanted to see least.
A tall man with white hair and a blindfold around his eyes. Gojo Satoru in the flesh.
“Oh, Mr. Gojo! Yes, you must be! Ah, why don’t you take that thing off your face?” your boss was quick to welcome the man, “Take a seat, (Y/n), you can take notes for us since Akira’s slept in.”
You remained standing, frozen in place as Gojo walked by you. Your soulmate was scalding hot, burning your skin so hotly that you let out a small hiss of pain.
“I’ll keep this on, if you don’t mind,” Gojo said, his voice carefree, “Now, about what we talked about yesterday…”
You began to inch towards the door.
“(Y/n), please take notes,” your boss said sternly. You jumped at the sharp tone of voice and found yourself helplessly obeying.
I need to quit. I need to leave!
Your thoughts didn’t match your actions. All you could do was hope that Gojo didn’t feel anything on his soulmate mark.
“So, Mr. Gojo, I understand you wanted to start a legal case about securing your soulmate?” your boss asked.
All of the blood drained from your face.
“Yes,” you couldn’t see Gojo’s stunning blue eyes but you knew they were looking directly at you, “You see, she’s a shy one. But, legally, I own her since she’s my soulmate. And she owns me, of course, too, but she’s not the one filing for an arranged marriage here.”
The two men shared a laugh as you began to feel faint. Unsteadily, you wobbled for a moment, before you collapsed to the floor.
“(Y/n)?” your boss stood up, surprised, “Should I call for medical attention?”
“Oh, that’s alright,” Gojo said, reaching out for you with a vicious grin.
♡ TW: noncon, yandere, arranged marriage, infertility, 7-year age gap
♡ FEM reader
♡ P1: DUD
It's been a month since your wedding night.
You're still holding onto the hope that this is all just some fleeting interest of his—something he’ll grow bored of come time. By this, meaning your marriage.
You try to speed it along by making yourself seem as dull as possible, avoiding him to the best of your efforts and otherwise ignoring him if you fail to do the first—anything to make him lose interest.
Even so, you’d obviously still have to be his wife. Until death do you part is a binding vow unfortunately, and so, even if you could make him regret ever making it, you’d still have to be Mrs Gojo on paper, and be bound by the duties that come with that title, but outside of that, hopefully, you wouldn't have to see his face any more than what was absolutely necessary.
If you could get your relationship to where that was the standard, you’d find ways to make it work. You’d be the wife of a very rich man, after all, it would be a shame not to reap the benefits for all they’re worth.
Odd as it may sound, having a kid wouldn’t be so bad either. If you aren’t allowed to leave the grounds, having something to do would be nice.
But the problem of your faulty constitution still remains…
But maybe… you could hit two birds with one stone… and revert his attention away from you while simultaneously earning something to occupy your attention in return.
“There she is—my little wife,” he comes in cheering, full of lazy smiles and devious eyes as per usual.
You’d been hiding yourself away in the reading room—a place you doubt he’s ever visited—and still he found you, just like he always does. Suppose those six eyes are to blame.
Even if you never really understood what they do, you know it’s something bad, judging by the sight of him.
“Ew,” you cringe. “You’re covered in blood, go wash.”
It wasn’t an overstatement. He literally was. White hair and pale skin all filthy with red. He doesn’t seem to think much of it. On top of you despite your comment, with no regard to the book you were reading, with a chuckle against your neck, drawling, “Don't say that, you’ll hurt my feelings.”
You sigh, disgusted with him more than usual, deciding it was time to put your plan into effect, “How ‘bout you go fuck one of your whores instead and leave me alone.” Cringing under his touch, and how he reeks of rust and salt.
“Aw—you’ jealous?” he grins in your ear.
This time you scoff, teeth grit. “Not particularly. I just fail to see the point in having you keening in my ear when there’s nothing to be made from it.” And with another sigh, you mumble the suggestion, “At least a whore can get you an heir.”
He doesn’t seem to pique his interest. Only snorting at the prospect while he continues in his pursuit of touching you beneath your shirt, “Tch, trust me, the last thing I want is a stinky brat running around spoiling all my fun.”
With a grimace, you veer your head away from his onslaught, feeling his bloody hands grip your waist rough, molding your body against his, into that hard bump kept in his slacks.
You swear, trying to talk to him is like trying to talk to a dog with a bone.
“It’s not as though you’d be bothered,” you continue nonetheless, insistent. “Raising the thing would be my responsibility anyway.”
That actually gets his attention. Stopping, he lifts his head from sucking marks into your chest and looks down at you, now with a furrow between his brows.
“You’d really do that? Raise my bastards?” He questions.
To which you just shrug, saying, “Of course. Seeing as I'm stuck here, I might as well do what I’ve trained to do all my life. It’s my only purpose now, after all.”
His brow quirks, repeating your words as a question, “Your purpose?”
He laughs again then, this time more heartily, saying, “Silly wife… Your purpose is much simpler than that...”
Shaking his head at you before leaning back in, now with his lips just a breath away from yours. “Being mine.”
The proximity invites goosebumps, and so do his words. Feeling a deep shudder run through you. Nearly whining as he continues from where he left off, back with his hands around your waist, tugging your skirt up until there’s nothing separating his fingers from your skin, groping into the fat of your haunches with entitlement and want.
Voice getting gruffer as he gorges himself in your warmth like it’s his personal sanctuary, saying “I'm your first in everything. Your first kiss, your first fuck, your first time making a mess.”
“Don't be gross–” you cringe, but he pays it no mind.
Only continuing, “And I'll be your only one until you die—”
For the first time in a moment, you’re the one who laughs, “Tch—I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Tone mocking as you roll your eyes—he’s so full of himself it’s ridiculous.
His head lifts again, looking at you in dumb askance.
To which you just tilt your head slyly, talking to him like the great big man-child he is, “Oh, come on, Satoru. Are you forgetting what line of work you’re in? You could drop dead any day.” With a sneer, you cup his face in your hands in sardonic affection. “You really think I'll stick around to weep at your grave when you go?”
A groan rises from low in his chest. At first you think it’s a growl, feeling victorious about having angered him. But then he all but moans, “It makes me so fucking horny when you speak like that.”
Kneading your hips, he rubs his clothed bulge against you, messaging you both with the friction between his pants and your panties. Too busy touching you to unbuckle his belt.
His rust is only a heated whisper, kissing your cheek with tongue and teeth as he keeps going, “Knock up a whore, get a brat? I don't think so.”
He pops his collar, and wrings his jacket off quickly. Tossing it aside before bearing back over you.
“Though, it’s funny you think you’d even have the time to spare when you already have your hands full with me.”
Looking down at you with those crazed blue orbs—you wish he’d just keep that infernal blindfold on, the way you feel them strip you bare even with your clothes still halfway on.
“Sorry to disappoint, but I don't plan on dying anytime soon.”
Hands on his belt next, he makes quick work of it without taking his eyes off you and that annoyed little face of yours, thinking you’re stupid for ever believing he’d need, want or even be open to sharing it with anyone.
“Nah… it’ll just be you and me playing house all by ourselves. So you better get used to it.”
toxic!satosugu but they're just as toxic to eachother as they are to you-their reluctant friend who has to deal with their constant divorces.
these bitches do not know how to FUNCTION within a relationship. they're constantly fighting and arguing. eventually the tipping point comes and they have a very messy break up (that only lasts a week at most).
one way or another, one of them ends up on your door.
when it's satoru, he'd still be crying, his porcelain skin red and puffy. there'd be a tearful 'we broke up' before he's collapsing onto your shoulder.
when it's suguru, he wouldn't be actively crying, but it's clear he was during the drive. He’d sink into your hug, draping himself over you like a cat for the rest of the evening.
For a while, you had enough sympathy to care about it. You’d try to distract satoru with video games. You’d play suguru’s favorite movies. Somehow they’d always convince you to cuddle on the couch and then on the bed. You’d tolerate them wrapping his hands around you, ranting about how much they hated their ex. And then they’d get right back together a couple days later.
You tolerated it the first time. Then the second. Then the third.
But even you have your limits.
This time, it was satoru who broke up with suguru, so when the white-haired man lets himself into your house (they’ve done this so many times they have their own keys now), you finally decide to call suguru and have an intervention.
Satoru is miffed when Suguru arrives. Suguru definitely feels the same way, considering his expression. You still force them to sit on the couch, because it was either this or murder.
“I’m done.” You finally tell them. “You two need serious help. You either make up right now, or permanently break up because this has to be the worst relationship I’ve ever seen.”
And they just stare at you with wide eyes like they dont understand. Finally, Satoru pipes up.
“Wait… are you breaking up with us?”
It turns out that the two 100% thought you were part of the throuple without ever vocalizing that to you. Now they’ve gotten back together again, but they’ve lasted a lot longer because of a shared goal: getting you back.
meanwhile, you quickly regret trying to couple-therapy these two cuz they are becoming more and more intense about adding you into their fucked-up dynamic no matter how many times you reject them.
You don't know how or why, but you've been isekai'd into the world of Jujutsu Kaisen. Although your first instinct is to stay away from the plot, you've been blessed with an abnormal amount of cursed energy, and for better or worse, you find yourself sucked into the storyline. You decide that you may as well use your newfound powers for the greater good, and if you're lucky, you might succeed in rewriting some of the characters' fates. But it turns out that your presence in this world is an even bigger deal than you first thought, and soon, everyone wants to make you theirs.
00 — prologue
01 — budding friendship
02 — a sudden encounter
03 — set in motion
04 — fateful beginning
05 — anomaly
06 — what lies ahead
07 — moving in
08 — the last member
09 — teacher’s pet
10 — facing the future
11 — on the brink of death
12 — claimed
13 — in mourning
14 — entrusted with a secret
15 — long time no see
16 — memories erased
17 — rude intrusion
18 — someone dearly beloved
19 — a happy day
20 — seize the opportunity
21 — best friends
22 — everyone's favorite
23 — hand in hand
24 — foreboding
25 — cursed place
More chapters are available on Wattpad and Ao3!
⊱.⋅follow + post notifications on for story update announcements or join the author's discord!⋅.⊰
Your family sets you up with potential husbands….. rich, influential JJK men… for a business marriage. You try to scare them off by acting weird but it backfires… and now you have 4 men obsessed with you.
Pairings: Yandere JJK men x Reader
Ft. Gojo, Sukuna, Toji, Nanami
TW : MDNI, some 18+ jokes, fanfic
part 1 - Part 2 - part 3 - Last part
In Which You Learn That Rich Men Are Like Glitter (Impossible To Get Rid Of Once They’re On You)
“You’re fucked.”
Shoko’s voice… through your phone speaker had that particular tone of someone delivering bad news while also finding it hilarious, like a doctor telling you that you have a weird rash but also it’s shaped like a dinosaur.
“I’m aware,” you said, lying on your floor…. your cat was sitting on your chest. “That’s why I’m calling you at…” you checked your phone “…. fuck, is it really 3 AM?”
“What the fuck is wrong with these men?" You stared at your ceiling, which had a water stain that looked like either Jesus or a mushroom. You’d been meaning to get that fixed since you moved in. That was two years ago.
Silence.
Then Shoko started cackling like she’d just witnessed someone slip on a banana peel in real life. “Maybe they’re into weird girls?”
“It’s not FUNNY… ”
“It’s SO funny,” she wheezed.
You groaned. Your cat adjusted herself, digging her claws into your chest.
“Okay but here’s the thing,” Shoko said, and you could hear her typing, which meant she was already stalking, which meant this was about to get worse. “I did some digging”
“And?…”
“And babe.” More typing. “These guys don’t DO second dates.”
“What do you mean”
“I mean… Sukuna’s last 3 arrangements all withdrew. One of em moved to Sweden” More clicking “Gojo fucks his first dates and then ghosts them. Dick and dip”
“SHOKO!!”
“Oh and Toji’s dates end up becoming his sugar mommies.”
You sat up, dislodging your cat, who gave you a look of pure betrayal before walking off to knock something off your counter.
“So what you’re saying is…..”
“What I’m saying is you somehow did the impossible.” She sounds gleeful. “How does that feel?”
“Like I need to fake my own death and join the Swedish meatball girl”
You spend the next hour on the phone, going through theories. Maybe you weren’t weird enough. Maybe you were too weird. Maybe they’re all in a cult and you’re the sacrifice. Maybe this is an elaborate prank show and Ashton Kutcher is going to jump out of your closet.
“Or,” Shoko offers, “maybe you’re just hot and they’re willing to overlook the crazy.”
“I spilled water on Toji’s DICK.”
“Some guys are into that….”
You hung up and stared at your phone. At the four messages still sitting there. Haunting you.
Outside your window, a pigeon was trying to fuck another pigeon on your fire escape, which felt oddly appropriate for this situation.
You can do this.
You are GOING to do this.
(You can not, in fact, do this, and what happens next will haunt you for the rest of your natural life.)
Sukuna Ryomen - After the first date
Sukuna sat in his office, looking out at Tokyo’s skyline, and tried to remember the last time someone had annoyed him this much without ending up in a hospital.
The audacity. The fucking AUDACITY of sitting across from him and dropping designer labels like they were supposed to impress him.
A shameless gold digger. The kind of woman he'd normally have escorted out before the appetizers arrived.
Except.
Except something was off.
He couldn't place it at first. He'd seen gold diggers before. Hell, he'd dated a few. They had a certain ease to them, a comfort in luxury that came from either experience or genuine desire.
You had neither. You looked like someone playing dress up.
"Get me everything on her," he tells Uraume the next morning.
The report landed on his desk five days later. Sukuna opens it expecting a lifestyle propped up by daddy's money.
What he finds instead makes him laugh out loud.
Forty seven pages of utterly ordinary information. No luxury purchases. No country club memberships or spa packages or any of the shit gold diggers usually had.
Groceries from 7 Eleven.
Bank account balance: Depressing
Sukuna leaned back in his chair, staring at your photo attached to the report. You were smiling in it…. holding a cup of what was definitely not champagne while standing in what appeared to be your kitchen.
You looked... soft.
He picks up his phone… a small smile on his face.
Name your terms. I'm interested.
Send (why tf did he phrase it like a challenge?)
Date 2 Sukuna Ryomen
Location : Shopping district
Threat level : High (probable yakuza connections, definitely judging you)
Sukuna picks you up in a black car. The driver opens the door for you without making eye contact, which feels ominous. Sukuna is already inside, taking up most of the backseat.
“Hi!!” you beam at him "I'm so excited for today. I've been thinking about it all week.”
“Have you” He looks amused. That's... new.
Your soul leaves your body for a second, then reluctantly returns when you realize he’s still watching.
“Of course.” you laugh “I love shopping”
Twenty minutes later, you're standing in a store that doesn't have prices on anything. Which means you don’t know what to buy because you have no idea what anything costs.
A sales associate instantly recognises Sukuna "Mr Ryomen. A pleasure. How can we assist you today?"
"The lady wants to shop." His eyes slide to you. "Give her whatever she wants."
This is a trap. This is DEFINITELY a trap.
You approach the nearest display… a rack of coats and pull one off with zero delicacy.
"Ooh, this is cute!!!!" You hold it up, checking the label. Your eyes don't recognise the brand name at all. It's something German, maybe? Or Italian? Fuck. "Is this..." You squint. "Valentino?"
The sales associate's eye twitches. "That's Brunello Cucinelli, ma'am."
"Right, right. Bruno something." You wave your hand dismissively. "Same thing."
Behind you, Sukuna makes a sound. It might be a cough. It might be a suppressed laugh.
"This one….”
"That's a child's backpack."
You stare at the tiny pink monstrosity in your hands. It does, in fact, have a cartoon character on it.
"I knew that," you say weakly. ( Error 404 : Brain not found )
The corner of his mouth twitches. Is that a smile? Is he making fun of you? You can't tell and it's driving you insane.
"Perhaps," he says, stepping closer, "I should help you."
What follows is the most humiliating hour of your life.
Sukuna guides you through the store like a disappointed tour guide at a museum for idiots. He corrects your pronunciation of Louis Vuitton…. twice.
"You don't shop here often," he observes, handing you a dress"Try this."
"I… what?"
"Try it on." He gestures toward the fitting rooms. "I want to see how it looks."
You stumble toward the changing room… (THERE’S A CHANDELIER IN THE CHANGING ROOM) … clutching the dress. The fabric is soft… softer than anything you've ever owned… and when you put it on, you barely recognize yourself in the mirror.
You look... expensive. Like someone who actually belongs in a place like this.
"Well?" Sukuna's voice comes from outside the curtain. "Are you hiding?"
"No." Yes. "I'm just... adjusting."
"Come out."
You step out, feeling exposed in a way that has nothing to do with the amount of skin showing.
His eyes move slowly… face, shoulders, waist, back up. The way he looks at you makes every inch of skin feel suddenly, stupidly alive.
"Better," he says finally. "We'll take it."
"We'll… what? No, it's too much, I couldn't…. "
"I thought you wanted expensive things." He raises an eyebrow
Shit. Shit
"I do" you say, too bright. "This is great. Let's buy all of it.”
You gesture wildly at the nearest rack. Sukuna follows your hand to a display of men's accessories.
"You want me to buy you cufflinks?"
Your stomach drops into your fucking shoes “I… no. Those. Over there. The... things."
"The hats?"
"Yes!!! Hats. I love hats!"
You don't wear hats. You've never worn hats. The last time you tried to wear a hat, Shoko laughed so hard she choked on her drink.
But Sukuna is still watching you with that expression… amused, knowing, waiting (smug asshole)… and you can't back down now.
"Pick one," he says. "Whichever you want."
He pays for it, along with the dress you didn't ask for, and several other items you don't remember selecting.
After your date, you know three things.
One: couture is terrifying.
Two: rich people are stupid.
Three: Sukuna knows
Nanami Kento - After the first date
Nanami Kento was having a problem.
The problem was not work related, though his colleagues would probably disagree given that he’d missed two meetings and had to redo a contract because he’d been too distracted to catch a critical error.
The problem was not health related, though his doctor would probably be concerned about his blood pressure given how many cold showers he’d taken this week.
The problem was that he could not stop thinking about you. About your mouth on that wine glass. About the sound you had made and how he had to grip his fork so hard he’d nearly bent it.
About what you would look like on your knees….
He was in the middle of a client call when his mind wandered to what you would sound like if he…
“Nanami san? Are you still there?”
“Yes. Apologies. Please continue.”
This was unacceptable. He’d built his entire career on discipline and self control. He didn’t get distracted. He didn’t let his personal life interfere with his work. And he certainly didn’t spend five days straight having increasingly inappropriate thoughts about a woman he’d met once.
But here he was. Day five. Still thinking about you.
He tried to rationalize it. Tried to tell himself this was just physical attraction. That he needed to see you again to confirm there was no actual compatibility. That a second date would cure him of whatever this was.
(This was a lie. He knew it was a lie.)
On day seven, he broke.
I would like to continue our discussion. Are you free Thursday evening at 7:00 PM?
He hit send. What the fuck was happening to him?
Date 2 Nanami Kento
LOCATION: French Restaurant, Different This Time
THREAT LEVEL: Low (too polite to murder you, probably)
You arrive five minutes early.
Nanami is already there. Of course. The man probably arrived at the restaurant's founding and has been waiting ever since. His suit is different from last time…. but somehow just as pristine. Just as distracting.
Stop noticing his suits, you tell yourself. You're supposed to be making him uncomfortable, not yourself
"Mr. Nanami." You slide into your seat with what you hope is a seductive smile.
"Please." He stands as you sit…. gentleman, goddamn him…. before settling back down. "Nanami is fine."
"Nanami." You lean forward… smelling his cologne. It’s a nice cologne. Stop smelling him "I have to admit… I was surprised you wanted to meet again. You don't seem like the type to call women for second dates."
"I'm not."
"So what's different about me?"
There's an intensity to his gaze that wasn't there before… or maybe it was, and you just didn't notice. "I haven't determined that yet."
Okay. That's either flattering or terrifying.
You push forward with your strategy and order the messiest thing on the menu… pasta with red sauce, specifically chosen because there's no elegant way to eat it. You twirl your fork, let sauce drip onto your chin.
"Sorry," you say, dabbing at your mouth with a napkin. "I'm such a messy eater. But it's so good. Don't you think food just tastes better when you're not worried about being neat?"
"I... wouldn't know."
"You should try it sometime." You tilt your head. "Don't you ever just want to... let go?"
His eyes turn dark and hungry in an instant, sending your belly into free fall.
Oh
"I assure you," he says, voice low, "I am perfectly capable of letting go. When the situation calls for it."
Your heart rate spikes. “I need the bathroom….. ”
You practically RUN.
When you come back, he’s still there, perfectly composed, looking at you like you’re dessert and he’s planning how to eat you.
“Shall we order dessert?” he asks
“I’m good…..”
“Pity. I was hoping to watch you enjoy something sweet.”
Abort. Abort mission. This is not going according to plan.
Toji Fushiguro - After the first date
Toji wasn’t a stalker. He wouldd like to make that clear.
He followed you out on instinct, hands in pockets, expression bored, telling himself he was just making sure you got into a car and didn’t kill yourself crossing traffic.
You were different from the other rich bitches his family throws at him.
He had seen women play dumb before. Usually it's an act… a way to seem unthreatening, to make men feel smarter, to manipulate without being obvious.
This one couldn’t even walk straight… in heels you clearly couldn't handle, and….
You tripped.
Right there on the sidewalk. Over literally nothing. Your bag went flying, contents scattering across concrete.
"Fuck my life," you muttered, loud enough for him to hear from ten feet away. "Fuck it right in its stupid face."
Toji snorted.
He followed you all the way to your apartment building, watched you struggle with your keys for a full two minutes before getting the door open, and then stood on the street below your window like the world's most pathetic stalker.
Your light turned on. Then off. Then on again. You’d probably forgotten something in the dark.
Cute.
The word popped into his head uninvited. He immediately wanted to punch himself for thinking it.
Toji was fucking gone.
Hey, he typed on day seven. You're weird. I'm in.
His family's going to lose their shit when they find out he actually wants a second date for once.
Date 2 - Toji Fushiguro
LOCATION: Some random address in Shibuya
THREAT LEVEL: Unknown (not much details, which is concerning)
The address turns out to be an arcade.
An arcade???
You stand outside, staring at the neon lights and the sounds of digital explosions leaking through the doors, and wonder if you've been pranked.
"You came."
You spin. Toji is leaning against the wall beside the entrance, looking like he wandered in from a motorcycle gang's photo shoot. Leather jacket. Jeans. That scar on his lip curving with his smirk.
You follow him inside, immediately assaulted by flashing lights and the cacophony of a hundred games happening simultaneously.
"What are we doing here?" you ask, dodging a kid running past with a stuffed prize twice his size.
"Having fun." He looks back at you with an expression that's almost... soft? "You do know how to have fun, right?"
You tried your bimbo act. “I…. yes, of course I know how to have fun, I'm very fun, I'm the funnest…”
"That's not a word."
“Oh”
You lose spectacularly at every game you try.
"You're terrible at this," he says, leaning against the machine while you die for the fifteenth time.
You huff, pushing away from the machine. "Whatever…. the game is broken…”
Toji laughs, full and genuine, and something in your chest does a weird flutter thing.
No. Absolutely not. Focus.
"Let me try something," he says, and steps up to a basketball shooting game. He feeds in coins, picks up a ball, and proceeds to sink fifteen shots in a row without missing once.
Tickets pour out of the machine like a waterfall.
He hands you the tickets. "Pick a prize."
"What?"
"You've been looking at that giant cat thing since we walked in. Go get it."
He noticed that?
"I don't need you to win me prizes," you say, trying to recover your strategy "I can win my own prizes…..”
He's already walking toward the prize counter, your tickets in hand. You trail after him, protests dying on your lips.
The giant cat is even fluffier up close. The employee hands it to Toji, who hands it to you
"There," he says. "Now you have something to show for today."
You clutch the ridiculous stuffed animal to your chest and feel something dangerous building in your ribcage.
Don't, you tell yourself. Don't you fkn dare.
But when he drives you home on his motorcycle (motorcycle???)… you clutching the cat with one arm and his waist with the other….you can't help thinking that this was the most fun you've had in months.
Gojo Satoru - After the first date
Gojo knows you're lying before you even sit down.
It's the eyes. The too bright smile. The way your voice goes slightly higher when you're saying something you don't mean.
He's spent his entire adult life surrounded by liars. Business partners who smile while plotting. Models who swear they're "not like other girls" while being exactly like every other girl. Family members who claim to love him while treating him like a prize show pony.
He's learned to spot deception… instantly, instinctively, with a vague sense of disgust.
You're not as good at it as you think.
The church talk? He almost laughed. Your lockscreen might’ve had a church on it, but your nails had remnants of black polish, and there was a tiny tattoo peeking out from your collarbone that you had tried to cover with concealer.
The purity workshop thing? Just to avoid temptation.
Oh, sweetheart.
You wanted him to be tempted…. he thought…. That was the whole point, right? You had dressed like a nun specifically to make him think about undressing you.
Reverse psychology. Classic move. Bold as hell, though…. he'll give you that.
Most women try to impress him. They wear tight dresses and push up bras, laugh at his jokes, agree with everything he says.
You showed up looking like you were about to lead a prayer circle and told him he needed Jesus.
Gojo is delighted.
He pulls out his laptop, cracks his knuckles, and gets to work.
Social media: Private Instagram…. which yes, he has access to…. with party photos going back to college. Twitter that was mostly complaints about your job and retweets of cat videos.
Dating history: College boyfriend for two years, ended badly. Three short term relationships after that, all ending with you ghosting them when you got bored.
Employment: Work in management, hates your boss, online shops during meetings.
“Miss Virgin Mary,” he grins, scrolling through a photo of you doing a keg stand in 2019. “You absolute fraud”
Round two, sweetheart? My place, Friday. Don't worry, I'll be on my best behavior. He hits send
He can practically hear you screaming when you read it.
Perfect.
Date 2 - Gojo Satoru
LOCATION: His Place (concerning)
THREAT LEVEL: Maximum (the man is a predator)
Strategy: Bring actual chaperone.
You arrive with Shoko in tow. She's agreed to play the part of your "church friend" aka chaperone… for the evening, which basically means she's going to sit in the corner, drink his expensive alcohol, and watch you make a fool of yourself.
"You brought a chaperone," Gojo says when he opens the door. He doesn't look surprised. He looks delighted.
"I told you I would." You fold your hands primly. "This is my friend Shoko. She's from my congregation."
Shoko waves. "Praise Jesus."
Gojo's eyes sparkle. "Please, come in."
His apartment is obscene. Floor to ceiling windows with a city view.
Furniture that costs more than your entire existence. A kitchen that's clearly never been used for actual cooking.
You sit on the couch… knees pressed together, hands in your lap, the picture of modesty.
“So," Gojo says, settling across from you. "How's God?"
"Huh? Oh… He's... good. Great, actually. Very blessed."
"Mmm." He leans forward. "And what does God think about us? Did he give you any revelations this week?"
"Actually, yes." You clasp your hands together. "I've been praying a lot, and I really feel like the Lord is telling me to take things slow. Very slow. Probably years of courtship before any... physical contact."
"Years?" he asks
"At least."
"How many years?"
"Um." You hadn't thought this far ahead. "Seven?"
Shoko chokes on her wine.
Gojo's smile doesn't waver. "Seven years. Of no physical contact."
"Exactly."
"No kissing?"
"No." You smile brightly
"No hand holding?" he pouts
"Probably not."
"What about eye contact?" Those blue eyes fix on yours
"I…. what?"
"Eye contact can be very intimate." He's leaning closer now, voice dropping. "Some people find it even more intimate than touching."
You swallow. "I suppose... brief eye contact would be acceptable."
"How brief?"
"A...a few seconds?" you stutter
"Three seconds?" he asks
"Sure?"
"Like this?" And then he just... looks at you.
Three seconds stretch into five. Five into ten. His eyes are impossibly blue, impossibly bright, impossibly knowing. You feel stripped bare. Exposed. Like he can see right through your modest dress and your fake cross necklace and your bullshit act straight to the core of you.
Your face burns.
"Stop that," you manage.
"Stop what?" His smile is innocent. His eyes are anything but….. "I thought eye contact was acceptable."
"Not like that."
He laughs, low and warm, and you feel it in places you definitely shouldn't.
The rest of the evening is a torture. He finds ways to make everything sound suggestive. Offers you water and comments on how good you are at swallowing.
By the time you leave, Shoko is crying with suppressed laughter and you're seriously considering actual prayer for the first time in your life.
"This was fun," Gojo says at the door. "We should do it again."
"I don't think…. "
He cuts you off "Without the chaperone next time."
"There won't be a next time."
"Mmm." His hand reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is feather light. Devastating. "We'll see."
Fuck Fuck Fuck
AFTERMATH - The great ghosting
You decide to disappear.
No texts. No calls. No responses. Complete radio silence. Maybe if you ignore the problem hard enough, it'll go away on its own.
(This has never worked for any problem in the history of problems, but hope springs eternal.)
Day 1: Peace.
Day 2: Your mother called 47 times.
Day 3: Your father sent an email in all caps.
Day 4: Silence.
Day 5: Maybe they gave up….
DAY 6:
A cheese platter arrived at your office.
Expensive cheese in a wooden box with a card: “Since you can clearly tell the difference. - Sukuna”
Your coworkers descend on it like vultures. You barely get a piece.
When you get home: you can't open your front door. Because there's a bouquet blocking it.
Not a bouquet. A monument. Red roses…. hundreds of them…. piled so high you can't see over the top. It takes thirty minutes to drag the whole thing inside.
Card: “Red suits you better. - Gojo”
Three missed calls from Nanami.
Shoko sends you a screenshot of Toji lingering outside your building. “Should I be concerned?" She texts
Day 7
"There's four guys at reception," your coworker, Mei says, poking her head into your office. "They're asking for you.”
Your blood leaves your body “Four?”
"They're kind of... arguing? With each other? Security is considering calling the police."
You walk to reception like you're walking to your own execution. And there they are.
Gojo, arms crossed, glaring at Sukuna. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
Sukuna, looking murderous. "I could ask you the same thing. How do you know [name]?"
Toji, leaning against the wall. "Keep her name out of your mouth."
Nanami, trying to be the voice of reason. "Perhaps we should discuss this calmly….”
"Fuck calm," Sukuna snaps.
Mei appears at your elbow. "Are those guys here for you?"
"Please kill me."
"Do you owe them money?"
"I wish." you whisper
You take a breath. Then another. Then you walk into the chaos.
"Excuse me," you say.
They don't hear you. "Excuse me."
Still nothing.
"HEY!!!” you shout
Four heads turn. Four pairs of eyes land on you. Four expressions shift from hostile to... something else entirely.
Nanami opens his mouth, probably to say something reasonable, but you cut him off.
"Do you all…. know each other?" you ask weakly.
Silence.
“Unfortunately." Toji mutters
Gojo just grins. "Small world, isn't it, sweetheart?"
Your coworkers are watching this like it's the season finale of Love Island.
You are so fucked.
A/n : Your Reblogs and comments are appreciated 🫶💕
Your family sets you up with potential husbands….. rich, influential JJK men… for a business marriage. You try to scare them off by acting weird but it backfires… and now you have 4 men obsessed with you.
Pairings : Yandere JJK men x Reader
Ft. Gojo, Sukuna,Toji, Nanami
A/n: MDNI, 18+, I've decided not to include Geto Suguru😔. I'm sorry cuties
Part 1 - part 2 part 3
Your mother has this particular way of smiling when she's about to ruin your life. It's not malicious per se. She loves you, in her own way. She also happens to see you as an asset that's been sitting on the shelf too long, depreciating while your cousins pop out heirs after heirs
“We’ve found some potential matches for you,” your mother said over breakfast on a random fucking Tuesday “Your father and I think it’s time you settled down.”
The coffee you were drinking nearly comes out your nose, which would’ve been unfortunate because you were wearing white and also because aspirating liquids hurts like a bitch.
“Absolutely the fuck not.”
Your mother didn't even blink. She’d perfected selective hearing around the same time you’d discovered the word ‘fuck’ could be used as a noun, verb, adjective, and general life philosophy.
“Four young men from very good families…”
"We're not in the Bridgeton, mother. Arranged marriages aren't…”
"Business marriages," your mother corrected, sipping her tea "The Kang family did it last year. Their daughter is very happy in Singapore now."
"The Kang daughter cries on Instagram Live every other Tuesday." You stared at her
"She has a Birkin collection. Tears dry, sweetheart. Leather lasts." She stareed back
“Mother, I can’t…”
Your father finally lowered his newspaper “Then we’ll need to reconsider your position at the company. And your living arrangements.”
Ah. There it was. The threat wrapped up in a neat little bow .
Agree to this circus, or lose your cushy job (where you mostly online shopped). And your apartment (paid for by your parents)
You wanted to tell them to shove their arranged meetings up their….
But you also really, really likedhaving money. And not having to eat instant ramen for every meal. And your bathtub. You’ve gotten very attached to that bathtub.
So you smiled “Of course. When do I start?”
Your mother’s face lit up “Wonderful! We’ll have the files sent over.”
Files.
They had FILES on these men.
Nothing says true love quite like a background check and a financial statement.
—
Four names: Satoru Gojo, Toji Fushiguro, Ryomen Sukuna, Nanami Kento
Four strangers
Fuck that.
If they wanted you to do this, fine. But nobody said you had to make it easy. They’d be begging their mothers to call the whole thing off by week’s end.
And that’s where your brilliant, genius, absolutely foolproof plan came in.
(It's going to blow up in your face spectacularly, but you don't know that yet.)
The files arrived the next morning. You spread the folders across your kitchen counter like you were planning a heist instead of four dates.
Dates. Meetings. Whatever.
—
Folder 1
FUSHIGURO TOJI, 28
His photo looked like a mugshot.
Okay, it wasn’t actually a mugshot, byt he had that vibe.Scar on his lip. Expression that said “I’d rather be literally anywhere else and also fuck you.”
Technically the heir to a massive Zenin equity firm.
Technically. Because apparently Toji was the family disappointment. Estranged from his relatives, only showed up when he needed money. Multiple failed business ventures. A reputation for being a fuck up who lived off his family name while giving them middle fingers in return.
Ah. A broke rich boy.
His social media accounts existed but were barely used. Most photos were him tagged by other people at bars, looking annoyed. One photo of him at what looked like an underground fight club.
Wait.
You zoomed in.
Was that blood on his shirt?
Jesus Christ.
Day 1 - Toji Fushiguro Tuesday, Hotel Bar, Shinjuku
Operation: Bimbo infiltration
Strategy: “Think born yesterday”
Toji shows up at the restaurant looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else. Hes only here because his family threatened to cut off his credit cards.
He doesnt give a shit about marriage or alliances or any of this corporate dynasty bullshit. He likes money. That’s it.
He's not even trying to hide it… slouched in his chair, jacket thrown carelessly over the back, phone out on the table. He barely looks up when you approach.
Perfect. This should be easy.
“Ohmygod, hi!” You chirp “You must be Toji”
And then you trip over absolutely nothing on your way to the table, catching yourself on the edge with a little yelp.
"Oops!!! I’m such a dum dum,” you giggle, batting your eyelashes.
He raises an eyebrow. "You okay?"
"Fine, fine” You wave your hand and somehow knock over the water glass in the process. Ice and water spill across the table, dripping onto his lap.
"Fuck… "
"Oh my god, I'm SO sorry” You grab a napkin and start dabbing at his pants, which puts you in very close proximity to his crotch. "I'm such a mess, I can't believe I did that….”
He grabs your wrist, stopping you. "It's fine. Just… sit down."
You sit, face arranged into earnest distress.
"I'm really sorry. I'm just so nervous. These meetings make me all jittery and I get butterfingers and then I do stupid stuff and…” You take a breath. "Sorry. I'm rambling. I do that when I'm nervous. Ramble, I mean. Just talk and talk and….”
"Got it.” He cuts you off “You're nervous." He takes a long sigh then and looong sip of his drink.
"Super nervous. You're really intimidating, you know?” You laugh, too loud. "But I'm sure you're really nice underneath, right? Like a, um, a cinnamon roll. Tough on the outside, soft on the inside?"
He stares at you.
“Or not.. That's okay too. Not everyone's a cinnamon roll. Some people are just, um, bread. Regular bread. Which is also good!!! Bread is great."
"Are you done?” He finally snaps
"No. I mean yes. Im sorry." You bury your face in your hands. "I'm so bad at this. I don't know why my parents thought I could do this, I can barely order coffee without messing it up… "
The waiter appears. You manage to mispronounce three items on the menu before Toji takes over and orders for both of you.
"Thanks," you smile brightly "I'm not good at fancy words. All those French names, you know?"
"It's Italian."
"Ohh, silly me” You laugh again.
Toji pinches the bridge of his nose.
The hour continues like this. You ramble…. while Toji's expression shifts gradually from bored to annoyed to something approaching existential despair.
By the time you finally stand to leave (knocking your purse off the bar in the process), he looks like he's genuinely considering faking his own death to avoid a second meeting.
"This was so fun" you smile brightly, gathering your scattered belongings. "We should totally do it again.
He grunts and it might be the sound of his soul leaving his body.
One down
Folder 2
Nanami Kento, 26
Oh.
He looked… normal? Everything about him screamed “responsible adult.”
Investment banker. Impeccable reputation… and they really emphasized IMPECCABLE in the file.
No scandals. No messy breakups. No public relationships at all.
Every article described him as “the perfect gentleman” with 3 P’s … Punctual. Professional. Polite.
He was too perfect. Suspiciously perfect.
Day 2 - Nanami Kento Wednesday, French Restaurant, Roppongi
Operation : Make the Gentleman Squirm
You're five minutes late on purpose.
Nanami is already seated, of course… in his perfectly tailored suit, checking his watch with a small furrow between his brows.
"Mr Nanami, I apologize for the delay," you say sweetly, sliding into your seat.
"It's fine." His tone suggests it is very much not fine. "Traffic, I assume."
"Something like that." You lean forward on your elbows, knowing exactly what that does to your cleavage. “You're even more handsome in person."
Those hazel eyes meet yours, then quickly… very quickly… drop to the menu. “Thank you."
"I mean it." You let your eyes drag down his body, slow and obvious. "That suit fits you really well. Custom, right? Must do wonders for your shoulders."
A faint flush creeps up his neck.
Gotcha.
"I... yes. It's custom."
"I bet you work out." You tilt your head. "You look like you work out. What's your routine? No, wait… let me guess. You're a morning gym guy. Up at five type ."
"Five thirty, actually."
"Close enough." You grin "I'm more of a 'stay in bed until the last possible second' type myself. We're practically opposites.”
He clears his throat. "Perhaps we could order?"
You order something light… you're not really hungry… and spend the entire time making unnecessary eye contact with Nanami.
"I read that you've never had a serious relationship. Is that true?" You ask
He stiffens. "I've been... focused on my career."
"Mmm." You lean closer. "So you're not really experienced then. With women." You trace the rim of your wine glass with one finger.
His eyes follow your finger. Then snap back to your face. “I wouldn't say….”
"It's okay." You reach across the table and pat his hand. Let your fingers brush. "I can work with that. I have lots of experience."
His hand jerks back like "That's... very forward of you."
"Is it?" You bat your eyelashes.
The flush has spread to his ears now.
You spend the rest of the date making increasingly suggestive comments.
The food arrives. You eat slowly, making a show of enjoying every bite. At one point you let out a small sound… and watch Nanami's knuckles go white around his fork.
He sets his fork down. Picks up his water. Takes a very long sip.
By the time the check arrives… he pays, of course, because he's ‘polite’… Nanami Kento looks like he's been through a war.
"Call me." You wink. “ I had fun.”
You left him standing there, looking like he needed a cold shower and possibly a priest.
Two down.
Folder 3
Ryomen Sukuna, 29
His photo was… intimidating.
Tattoos visible even in what was clearly a professional headshot… which, props to whoever convinced him to sit for that. Expression that suggested he was mentally planning your murder.
CEO of a luxury hotel chain with international reach.
Also: multiple arrests.
Three assault charges, all dropped. One arson investigation, dismissed. Suspected ties to organized crime, never proven. The Itadori family's lawyers are apparently worth every yen, because this man should be in prison, not on a dating profile.
You switched to social media. His accounts were private, but fan accounts existed. FAN ACCOUNTS. For a CEO with anger issues??
Rich and dangerous. Probably bored of women throwing themselves at him.
Day 3 - Sukuna Ryomen Thursday, Private Members' Club
Operation: Gold Digger
You walk in wearing every piece of designer clothing you own. Dress with the Dior label clearly visible.
Sukuna makes no move to stand or pull out your chair when you arrive.
“Hi!” You slide into the seat across from him, dropping your designer bag on the table with a heavy thunk. “ Sorry I'm late”
He nods once… crimson eyes dragging over your outfit with absolutely zero expression.
Not impressed. Not disgusted. Just… nothing.
“This place is so fancy. Is it expensive? It looks expensive." You lean forward, smiling brightly.
“Yes.” his expression doesn't change
Okay. Man of few words. You can work with this.
Silence.
The kind of silence that would make most people uncomfortable.
You push through it.
"So," you continue, "I looked you up. Your family is like, really rich, right? What's that like?"
His eyebrow raises slowly. Like he couldn’t believe you’d just asked that. “Is that relevant?"
"Well, yeah." You laugh "I mean, that's why we're here, isn't it? To see if we're a good match? And I think lifestyle compatibility is super important."
Something that might have been disbelief crosses his face.
You flag down a waiter and order the most expensive thing on the menu.
"I love nice things," you explain. "and I can always tell quality when I see it. You can't really put a price on quality, you know? This dress, for example…” You point at the dress “….twenty eight thousand yen. Pre season Dior. I have a personal shopper who gets me things before they hit the regular collections.”
The waiter returns with the champagne. You make him pour you a glass and immediately hold it up to the light, examining it critically.
"This is the '98, right? Not the '02? Because I can tell the difference."
You absolutely cannot tell the difference. You bought your last bottle of wine from a convenience store.
"You're quite….. direct," he says finally…. watching you with an expression that's impossible to read. Disgust? Annoyance? Homicidal intent? All three?
Three words this time! Progress.
"I just believe in honesty." You take a sip of champagne. "I know what I bring to a relationship, and I know what I expect in return. Fair trade, right?"
"And what do you bring?" Sukuna asks, and you can't tell if hes genuinely curious or just morbidly fascinated by your audacity.
You gesture to yourself again, "Isn't it obvious?"
Sukuna picks up his wine glass and drinks half of it in one go. He spoke maybe twenty words total throughout the entire meal.
By the end, he looked ready to flip the table.
"This was fun," you say brightly as you leave. "We should do it again sometime. Maybe somewhere with better champagne?"
He just stares at you like you're an alien species.
“I’ll wait for your message” You give him a little wave. “Ciao!”
Three down
Folder 4
Gojo Satoru, 27
“Oh fuck off” The photo alone made you want to throw your wine at the wall. Gorgeous didn’t even cover it. He looked like someone had designed him specifically to make women stupid.
You kept reading, already annoyed.
Heir to Gojo Enterprises. Worth billions with a B.
There were photos. So many photos.
Gojo at charity galas with models. Gojo at clubs with actresses. Gojo at a beach in Monaco with someone who was definitely an Instagram influencer.…. always with beautiful women who looked like they’d never eaten carbs.
Rich, bored, and fucking everything that moves.
You grabbed your laptop and did what any sane person would do… went full stalker mode on social media.
His Instagram was a goldmine of red flags. The comments were even better.
“Marry me”
“I volunteer as tribute”
“He can ruin my life”
Jesus Christ.
This man has probably seen more lingerie than a Victoria's Secret buyer.
A manwhore with a trust fund
Day 4 - Gojo Satoru Friday, the Peninsula Hotel
Youre going to vomit.
Not from nerves… well, maybe partly from nerves, but mainly because you’ve stress eaten an entire sleeve of crackers in the Uber.
Also, your shapewear was cutting off circulation to your legs.
Why did you wear shapewear under a modest funeral dress? What were you even shaping? The outfit is practically a potato sack.
Too late now.
You're dressed like you're going to a funeral. Or church. Or a funeral at a church. Currently clutching a small cross pendant you borrowed from your grandmother's jewellery box.
You push open the door… which is heavier than it looks and you nearly face plant, great start… and immediately spot him.
Gojo Satoru is impossible to miss. Jesus fucking Christ, those eyes.
He's scrolling on his phone, completely at ease, probably sexting three different women right now.
He looks up when you walk in and smiles
Oh no.
"You must be my future wife," he says, and his voice is warm honey poured over gravel. "I have to say, the photos didn't do you justice."
Don't react. Don't react. You're a good Christian woman who doesn't react to sinful men.
You arrange your face into something you hope reads as "scandalized."
"Thank you for taking the time to meet with me," you say, voice soft and earnest like you're greeting a pastor.
“Of course.” He pulls out your chair… gentleman points, you suppose… and gestures. “Please.”
You sit, immediately folding your hands in your lap like you were at a prayer meeting.
He settles back into his chair, still smiling. That smile hasn’t faltered once. Is it surgically attached to his face?
“Can I get you anything?” he asks. “Coffee? Tea?”
“Just water, please.” You smile sweetly.
The waiter brings water. You thank him quietly, taking small, delicate sips like you were in a Victorian novel.
Gojo leans back, completely comfortable. “So, I have to admit… I was curious when my parents mentioned this meeting.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” That smile somehow got wider. “They said you were… different from the usual arrangements.”
Different. That could mean anything.
“Different how?” you ask, tilting your head innocently.
“Just different.” His eyes are doing that sparkly thing. Is he always this sparkly? Its unsettling. “But I’m already intrigued.”
Oh, he was intrigued now.
Just wait.
“That’s very kind of you,” you say, voice still sweet and soft. “I should probably mention something upfront, though.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Mr Gojo” You fold your hands more carefully, sitting up straighter
"Satoru, please." He sits back down, legs crossed, "Mr Gojo is my father. And he's an asshole, so."
You don't laugh. "I believe in traditional values."
"Oh?" his smile flickers
You pull out your phone and show him your lockscreen… a stock photo of a church you found on Google last night. "I actually volunteer with my local congregation here. We do purity workshops for young women."
"Purity... workshops?"
"Mmhm. Teaching them to save themselves for their future husbands." You tilt your head. "Do you go to church, Mr Gojo?"
“No.”
Just flat out “no.” Not even trying to soften it.
“Oh.” You bit your lip, looking concerned. “That’s… we might need to work on that. I could help you.”
“And I should mention” you add, voice dropping to a more serious tone “ We should have a chaperone for our dates until we’re engaged.”
“A chaperone? Why?”
“Just to avoid temptation!!!! Once we’re engaged we can spend more supervised time together.”
Gojo drained his entire coffee in one long gulp.
The server came by to check on you. Gojo looked at them like they were a life raft. “Actually, could I get another coffee? Double shot.”
Every time Gojo tries to steer the conversation toward something normal…hobbies, work, interests…. you bring it back to your values.
By the time youre finished, Gojo looks like he’s aged five years.
“I’ll be praying about this,” you add brightly. “About whether God is calling us together. I’ll let you know what He reveals to me.”
“Right. God. Sure.”
“Have a blessed evening” You give him your sweetest smile and leave him standing there, probably questioning every decision that has led to this moment.
All down
—
Now you just had to wait for them to reject you.
The week that follows is blissfully silent. No calls. No texts. You’ve done it. You’ve successfully repelled four of the most eligible bachelors in the country through the sheer power of being a fucking nightmare.
You wake up on the eighth day, the morning sun streaming through your window, a victorious smirk on your face. You stretch, feeling lighter than you have in weeks.
The war is over
You reach for your phone on the nightstand to check the time.
And freeze.
Four notifications. Four messages. All received within minutes of each other, night.
Your heart plummets into your stomach. No. No, no, no.
With trembling fingers, you open them.
From: Gojo Satoru… Round two, sweetheart? My place, Friday. Don’t worry, I’ll be on my best behavior.
From: Ryomen Sukuna Name your terms. I’m interested.
From: Nanami Kento… I would like to continue our discussion. Are you free Thursday evening at 7:00 PM?
We’ve all heard about reader getting isekai’d into another universe and bonding with the characters, but what if it was the opposite and the yandere was isekai’d while reader’s just a background character.
————-
You were the mere daughter of a baron. You were pretty, yes, but nothing to gape in awe at. To summarise, you were nothing special. Then how come the heir of a grand duchy followed you around like a puppy seeking its masters attention? Especially since it was only the day earlier that he smitten with another young miss, who he’d declared with his actions was to become his future fiancée.
Yandere! Noble who suddenly approached you out of nowhere one day. You weren’t friends and had hardly ever spoken; to ask directions or work in pairs, perhaps. He was way too cheery speaking to you. It was completely out of character for him. Where did the normally stoic and unphased young man go? He was certainly not to be found here. No, this man chatted your ear off and did not understand that you wished to be left alone. It didn’t feel very safe anymore when all his admirers glared daggers your way. There was one you were especially afraid of. He was head over heels in love with her before. What has changed? You always saw them together and she was the only one he’d smiled at genuinely. Now he didn’t even spare her a glance.
Yandere! Noble who sought you out whenever he had free time. He wanted to accompany you in breaks between your classes at the academy, he wished to escort you to town and he even showed up outside your estate. His change in behaviour was puzzling, but not as much as the shift in his speech. What were these ‘bruh’, ‘sigma’ and ‘I’m cooked’? You didn’t understand any of it, no matter how much he used it around you. You suppose you were thankful he did turn it down a notch when in others company. You already had a hard time with it, you didn’t think it was necessary for others to suffer as well.
Yandere! Noble who had been shocked when they died and woken up in the world of their favourite romance game. They had read a lot of isekai novels but never once thought the thing was actually real. Wait, if this was their favourite game, then wouldn’t that mean that you were there too? Yes! Maybe they should thank Truck-kun for hitting them on their way to work. This was much better than any ordinary life a citizen could have. At first they thought they’d be stuck in the body of a villain or a side character, but they were pleasantly surprised to find themselves being the male lead of the game. He was rich, noble, influential and devilishly handsome. He had everything.
Yandere! Noble who immediately went to the academy to find you. When playing the game, they never found themselves attracted to the female lead, despite the fact she was modelled after the general population’s preferences. It just didn’t work for them. No, they liked you. Loved you even! It didn’t matter that you were nothing more than a simple background character. You were way better and cuter than any other love interest! You kept to yourself and didn’t have many friends, however you were still very kind and modest. On top of that, you were also an animal lover- exactly like them! The two of you also shared one other interest. They wanted to know if you shared more, but unfortunately the information on you was limited(not created because you’re not important).
Yandere! Noble who wrote an email to the game developers about how they should make extra content that should only feature new information and updates on you. They insist it would sell well(no one except them would buy). Sadly they never got a reply back. Rude ass company. Maybe they should’ve claimed mental health damage because the love interests were bad, so they could sue.
Yandere! Noble who couldn’t care less about the female lead. Unfortunately they got isekaid to at the point of the game where you’d have to enter a relationship with the female lead, that you could break off eventually if you wanted to chase after someone else. And sadly for her, you were the only option. The look on her face was laughable as they told her they could give rats ass about her and how they’ve found someone much better than her in all ways.
Yandere! Noble who then realised they were not bound by any rules. In a lot of isekai the person would have to follow some original rules at least in the beginning, but there was no system or points you needed to collect. They could do whatever they wanted. They had the power, the looks, the wealth and what they wanted was you.
There is no way you’d ever say no to a future grand duke, right?
satoru would definitely be the kind of husband to entertain women who come up to flirt with him. although for his own selfish logic.
he’s so used to attention and flirtations. people flock to him, men and women alike— and he enjoys it all. he’s all smiles and lazy banter like he’s just waiting for the punch line.
he had only been waiting for you outside your workplace for 5 minutes before a woman approached him. the woman who’s been twirling her hair and talking about some blah, blah, blah, satoru has been grinning and replying with a charming smile and faux interest.
and then she finally says what he wants to hear, “ …so you and i could just go back to my place if you want, or yours.” she winks at him, and satoru leans in with the face of a man who’s waited his entire life to hear these words.
“oh, actually, my wife’s fucking me tonight. we’re going all raw, like, she’s gonna let me cum inside, every last drop. so i’ll be very busy. i just can’t wait to see her.”
pause— the woman takes 2 seconds to process before her face mortifies into an amalgamation of horror and pure disgust. and satoru just beams like an excited child. like he finally gets to talk about his favourite thing in the world.
“i got her this lingerie,” he gestures to the bag in his hand, stretching like a cat, “i swear this colour’s gonna ruin me. she looks gorgeous in every colour though, can’t believe she married me. can’t believe i get to fuck her every night.”
“i— wha—” the poor woman would’ve been fine with a simple no, but satoru insists on further worshipping his wife, “like you know I actually begged her for 3 weeks to give me a chance. the most beautiful woman i’ve ever seen. see—”, he takes out his phone from his pockets, unlocks his phone to show her the homescreen wallpaper, “isn’t she just actually perfect? she has the prettiest moans ever.” and the homescreen is you sleeping in his arms, under the sheets. the lack of clothing leaves nobody wondering what had happened prior to the pic.
the woman walks away muttering profanities, absolutely disgusted. but satoru is still admiring his wallpaper.
tw ! smut, mdni, aged up characters, corruption kink, fem!reader.
megumi is so into corruption and he almost hates himself for it.
he likes the shy girls with little to no experience who go all wide eyed and squirmy when they’re told something nasty. he likes the girls who’s brains get a little bit fuzzy when they’re praised for the first time, when calling them a good girl makes their lashes flutter and their skin warm up.
megumi likes the girls who need to be guided through big crowds or held up in tight spaces because they’re a little clumsy and might fall. he has a l dirty little thing for the ones who post pictures with their pouty, glossy lips and pictures the same pigment smeared along his lengthy dick — teaching them how to suck it just right, messing up their angel faces with tears and spit and all sorts. sometimes he likes to be needed by sweet, innocent things who wear their skirts a little too short and adorn those frilly ankle socks that are enough to drive a man like him mad.
maybe it’s a little gross of him, to prey on the weak and the pure — slaughtering them like a lion feasting on a lamb. he can’t help that he likes the way your the lace frills around your ankles socks dangle over his broad shoulders when fucks you deep and slow against your girly sheets, amongst your soft plushies and pillows.
he can’t help but to relish the taste of your drooly lips and the sound of your babyish tears when he hits that special spot along your sticky, wet insides. megumi wants someone to dote on, someone to press into the sheets and ruin for better ( or for worse ). he wants to be the one who teaches these precious little gems like you how to be bad and the perfect little fuck toy all for him.
flashes of guilt often cross his mind, makes his brows crease at the centre of his forehead midway through bending you over the edge of your bed and ploughing your poor pussy until there’s a darkened wet patch staining your sheets. he really shouldn’t be doing this, not to someone as innocent as you. who doesn’t know any better.
but then you cry out his name in warbled gibberish, reaching back for fushiguro’s large, veiny hand because you like being used by this and how he makes your legs tremble and shooting stars strike a path before your very own glossy eyes. you like this just as much as he does. and suddenly, megumi doesn’t care
because he’s found a twisted happiness in the idea of corrupting you so bad that no one else can satisfy the misguided, devious thoughts in your head. so that you’ll seek him out for pleasure and pain, because you know just what he likes and he’s taught you exactly what he wants you to like. <3
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