about . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
i'm a perpetually sleep-deprived, semi-active 31yo wordsmith who loves to create cozy (& occasionally unsettling/traumatic) stories. •ᴗ• and for that reason, i kindly ask that anyone under 18 doesn't interact with my content.
welcome to my online cat cafe! take a seat, grab your fave mug, and stay as long as you need.
fandoms . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
⟢ jjk
𓂃kento nanami
𓂃suguru geto
𓂃satoru gojo
𓂃choso kamo
born again | i. ii. iii.
𓂃hiromi higuruma
𓂃multi
i should have taken more pictures (geto x reader, nanami x reader)
love me again (gojo x reader, geto x reader)
the way of the jjk househusband (jjk men x reader)
⟢ lads
𓂃sylus
𓂃caleb
𓂃rafayel
sweet dreams | i. ii. iii.
𓂃zayne
wherever u r | i. ii. iii.
𓂃xavier
… more to come <3
recents . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
the way of the jjk househusband ≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼
wip . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
1. wherever u r pt. 3≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼
2. born again pt. 2 ≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼
3. i should have taken more pictures pt. 3 ≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼
4. love me again pt. 2 ≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼
5. the way of the (jjk) househusband pt. 3 ≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼
6. sweet dreams pt. 3 ≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼
2. hosting a housewarming with yuji’s favorite (and only) brother. in which you and choso scramble to make a feast for your three grown ducklings.
masterlist. divider by @pixopix.
taglist: @alebrasil0101
“Choso.”
“Oh, the oven’s done.”
“Choso?”
“Just a minute—”
You sigh, and call his name again. There’s a loud clatter—presumably a metal tong—followed by a string of hushed curses, then a meek apology. The scent of baked chicken wafts from the kitchen, and you follow it, half-entranced and mildly concerned. Choso faces you with his rumpled apron, a shy smile nearly distracting you from the source of his distress. The sharp tattoo line on the bridge of his nose is sheen with sweat. You frown, closing the distance between you, and reach to grab the arm he hides behind his back.
“You burned yourself, huh?” you say, raising a brow. He avoids your gaze, cheeks slightly puffy with air. Don’t fall for it, you tell yourself, feeling your ears heat up. He knows what he’s doing!
“...Was in a rush.” he mumbles.
“Well,” Dragging him by the wrist, you push him out to the hall. “Go put a bandaid on. I’ll take care of the rest.”
He listens without protest, giving you time to focus on the task at hand. Considering the small mess he created, the matsukaze he attempted looks solid. You’re tempted to steal a bite, but he’d want his younger brother to try it first.
So, you finish quickly, cutting the chicken into bite-sized squares, and bring out the rest of your assortment of fried vegetables, pork and chive dumplings, takoyaki, and seafood pancakes to the living room—all while resisting the tantalizing call of, well, everything. Just as you place the last side dish on the floor table, your doorbell rings. Before you rise, Choso skids out to answer it. A fresh (and Hello Kitty-themed) bandage covering the side of his forearm, he greets Yuji with a muted, but undoubtedly excited grin.
“Choso!” Yuji shouts, then greets you with an explosive hug, nearly toppling you to the ground. “You guys made all this for me?”
“For us, idiot,” Nobara scowls, with Megumi wordlessly following her from behind. The pair take off their shoes, prompting their jumpy, pink-haired ball of energy to do the same. “And they have sake!”
The rest of the evening flies by. You hardly remember using your chopsticks, with your three visitors ravaging most of what you made. Not that you mind—watching them eat, laugh, and joke around makes everything feel normal again. It’s been almost a decade since Sukuna’s defeat, and lightheartedness, especially for Megumi, doesn’t come as easily anymore.
Sometimes, you still wake up from your nightmares thinking you’d lose your one and only, and had Shoko not been nearby, Choso would’ve easily become a memory. He never allows you to linger in those thoughts too long. Unconscious or awake, at home or outside, he presses against you, his hands always finding yours.
He’s here, they’re alive, and you’re allowed to feel happy.
As expected, Yuji gushes over the matsukaze, earning a generous blush from your boyfriend, while Megumi and Nobara finish nearly three bottles of sake before they knock out. Yuji, being the lightweight he is, waddles to your guest bedroom after just one cup.
It takes a bit of shuffling, but you and Choso are able to clean up the food and maneuver the others onto padded blankets for easier sleeping. Your shoulders and legs are sore by the end of it, but your heart is full, knowing that you’d given your chosen family a night of respite—away from wounds that’ll never heal, a world still brimming with curses, and uncertain days ahead.
“What’re you thinking about?” Choso whispers, landing a soft peck on the curve of your neck. You shiver, and he pulls you closer, the two of you snuggled tightly in bed. He lays a heavy leg on top of you, sinking you into the plush mattress.
“Just how lucky I am,” you reply, sighing deeply. “To have a life we can build together.”
“A life,” he repeats, a low hum vibrating from his chest. “Didn’t think I’d ever experience it.”
“And?” You turn teasingly and catch him by surprise. Even in the dim light, you can see a familiar shade of red coloring his cheeks and nose. “What’s your verdict so far, mister former cursed womb?”
“I can get used to it,” His voice is gruff, now. You feel him lean forward to place a different kind of kiss on your ready lips.
1. eating breakfast with the ex-attorney. in which higuruma rises at the ass crack of dawn to read his emails and cook for you, the love of his life.
masterlist. divider by @pixopix.
taglist: @alebrasil0101
Hiromi wakes after a single alarm, unlike you, with your three alerts that vary in intensity and vibration. He starts his mornings before the sun rises—and despite the fatigue that weighs heavily on his shoulders, he relishes his simple routine of kissing your forehead, washing up, and opening the digital newspaper delivered to his email at 6:00 AM sharp.
He doesn’t practice anymore. Not like how he used to, at least. No more endless paperwork, reviewing case after case after case, searching through piles of evidence for one inconsistency that’d hint at an untold story.
No, he’s found better ways to help people, and he no longer has to rely on a broken system to ensure that justice is properly served.
Still, old habits die hard, and he eagerly reads through numerous criminal court updates for the next two hours.
Until he hears your first alarm, that is. Blaring through several walls of your house, it fails to wake you, just as he expected. He checks the clock and knows you’ll drag yourself out of bed in approximately 30 minutes, which gives him just enough time to move on with his schedule.
The news can wait; something more important is at stake. In the kitchen, he pulls out an onion, a bell pepper, and a handful of button mushrooms. Slice, dice, chop. Substituting his gavel, the knife confidently cubes each ingredient with precision, tears wetting his lashes. (That damn onion. It always gets the best of (ex-)Attorney Higuruma.)
He cracks two eggs into a bowl, whisks them with some milk for maximum fluff, then pours them onto a preheated oiled pan. The vegetables follow not too long after, and he lets them sit for a few seconds before folding each omelet into proper shape. Furikake, pepper, and a sprinkle of chives wrap his soft and yellow masterpiece together, leaving him humbly pleased.
Your second alarm rings, prompting him to move just a bit quicker. He’s still calm, but there’s a subtle sense of urgency in his steps as he hops over, nearly tripping on his slippers, to throw two slices of bread into the toaster. Then comes the coffee, which drips enticingly from the new espresso machine Gojo had gifted you for your wedding.
Hiromi grabs an apple from the fridge and runs it under the sink. He takes a smaller knife now—from the set that Yuji and his older brother gave for your birthday—to peel the fruit and cut it into small, bite-sized slices. All within three minutes, too, which he considers a great improvement since his first attempt, countless years ago.
Your third and final alarm signals the end. Whether he’s ready or not, the judge is coming.
He plates everything together, sets the table, and pours fresh coffee into your favorite mug when you step into the light. Face still groggy, hair unkempt, and one strap of your tank top slipping off your shoulders, the fresh sight of you makes him wish he had you for breakfast instead. He takes a moment to ravish your bare skin with a dark gaze trembling with restraint, but you hardly notice, your attention zoned in on the food in front of you.
“An omelet and toast!” you sing, sleep lifting from your crusty eyes. “Hiromi, this smells delicious.”
The former lawyer straightens up immediately, remembering his purpose. He wordlessly pulls out a chair for you and folds his hands together as if to present new details for a case no jury can give a verdict on.
“Eat first,” he murmurs, and he doesn’t have to say it twice. You take a bite, then another, and another. Hiromi flexes his fingers nervously, missing the reliable grip of his gavel. You continue to chew silently, nodding your head slowly, and he nearly melts to the floor in relief when you begin to swing your legs back and forth.
“...’S really good!”
“Yeah?” he breathes, leaning forward. “Nothing’s burnt? Or too salty?”
“Mmhmm,” you smile, already halfway finished with your meal. “But why am I the only one eating?”
Your husband—with his tousled hair, t-shirt and boxers, and dark circles you’ve come to love—happily picks up his fork, only now feeling the low grumble in his stomach. Today, judgment has deemed him innocent. His past sins of burning both egg and toast have been absolved, and the affectionate smile you throw his way is the sole act of mercy that’ll carry his burdens for the rest of the day.
Summary: You call Rafayel your other whole, because you don't believe in people ever being halves. A decade ago, the two of you had formed an unlikely, but life-changing friendship that has been your north star ever since. Now, he's a globally recognized artist, and you're the trusty manager who ensures his—and his group's—success. When buried emotions and an impulsive, potentially career-ruining decision dissolves your boundaries, you discover a new layer to the man you thought you knew completely.
Word Count: 3.5k+
Content: 18+ mdni, rafayel x nonmc reader, idiots pining after each other, lots of wholesome moments with DEEPSPACE, mentions of greedy corporate/shitty entertainment business, MC's desperate soul searching bc burnout is real but so is love!
Notes: this chapter is a bit of a slow burn. hopefully the next and final one will pay off well if i manage to write it in time! work and adulthood have been kicking my ass :'))) pls enjoy as we manifest caleb's 3rd myth whooooo
i. / ii. / iii | navi | divider by @pixopix
Rafayel looks into your eyes, sinking into an ocean of emotions and memories that reflect the tempest in his own. From the second you decided to entangle your lives and liberate the melodies that he thought he had to hide, he knew that you weren’t ever going to be just a friend. How could you, when you planted the glimmers of light in the depths of his dark, desolate deep space? When new galaxies, birthed by you, swirled into clouds of pink and purple and all the shades of hope that could sustain him, no matter the hardship?
He pretended otherwise for your sake and for his members. For many of his fans, who, though well-intentioned, wouldn’t take well to the feelings he had for anyone. He’d fooled himself into thinking that having you around as his manager would be enough. Seeing you almost everyday, reveling in your comfort during exhausting tour cycles, bickering with you over spontaneous dinners because he claimed he was too lazy to cook and eat alone. But it wasn’t. No amount of you would ever suffice.
“I’m in love with you,” he repeats slowly, sounding out your name, letting it settle gently on his tongue that tastes faintly of you. “You don’t have to say anything back. I just…wanted you to know.”
“Oh,” You blink several times, as if trying to come to your senses, your arms bunched against his chest. You finger his collar nervously, taking shallow breaths, and lean against him once more, as if needing the support. He nearly collapses at the warmth that sears between your clothes—this love drunk fool—but keeps you steady, unwilling to let go.
“Oh indeed,” he groans, and he finds refuge in the crook of your neck a second time, inhaling your scent. He fights a smile at your rapid pulse, pleased that your reaction is not as dry or controlled as he’d feared.
“Do you want to come inside?”
His head shoots up, narrowly missing your nose. Hell yeah, does he want to go into your home. He’ll probably say yes to staying there forever, fame and music and responsibilities be damned. You laugh when he nods furiously, and take him by the hand. “All right, then. Let’s go.”
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
“Stop acting weird,” you chide, forcing Rafayel down on your couch. He reluctantly lets go of you as you head to the kitchen to fetch him a drink. “You’re here every other night.”
“Not recently,” Rafayel huffs. You can imagine his expression just from the way he breathes, and it makes you smile giddily. “Once my solo album comes out, I’ll be able to come over even less, I bet.”
Cold reality settles in; you pause and stare at your open fridge. Right.
It was your genius idea to release his solo before DEEPSPACE’s group album, which is slated for next year. More traction, more touch points for the fans, more marketing and engagement opportunities. There’s whispers of the boys going global—as if they aren’t popular enough already—where their target audience will no longer be just Asia, and you had made promises that it could easily become a reality.
Because it can. They’re breaking records by the day, and you’re on the verge of hiring your own assistant to filter the amount of calls and emails you receive.
Once again, Rafayel will be in the blinding spotlight, and it’ll be your job to position it in a way that helps him shine best.
You grab two raspberry seltzers and walk back to your friend, who’s now on his feet and examining the new canvases next to your window. He turns to you curiously.
“I didn’t know you were painting again,” he says, not yet detecting your sullen mood. “This is beautiful.”
“Thanks,” You hand him his seltzer and crack open your own.
“Is this…where we went for our prom afterparty?”
“Yeah. When Xavier thought it’d be the best idea to stay up for the sunrise, and it was cloudy,” A smile peeks through as you bring your bottle to your lips. “There wasn’t any view, really, but since everything else was so gray—“
“I thought it was worth remembering. It was right before you got recruited, you know?”
He nods, and takes small sips of his beverage, seemingly as preoccupied as you, but likely for different reasons. You gaze at the painting proudly, remembering when times were simpler and how it was just you, Rafayel, and Xavier before your group grew. It’s not that you don’t like the others—you love them just as much as your brother, each member exhibiting qualities that complement each other’s gaps, and they treat you more like family than their manager, always seeking to experience their greatest milestones alongside you.
Selfishly, though, you sometimes wish for a day where the world doesn’t know them—where they can go to the grocery store undisturbed, date people without worry, move through the mundane and not have it plastered on every magazine with a clickbait title.
But they value their fans, and you do, too. It’s the collective love and support that’s lifted them up, provided an audience for their stories, and not a single DEEPSPACE member will ever take any of them for granted, Rafayel included. You know that if you’re not there to stop him, he’d work himself sick.
“Something’s troubling you.” Now, it’s Rafayel’s turn to lead you to your couch. “C’mon. Don’t shut me out. You’re making me anxious.”
“Nothing drastic,” you giggle, resting your back against a cushion. Your lids shut as you stretch out your legs, and the fatigue of your early morning workout finally starts to hit. “I’m thinking about how happy I am for you guys. Worried, too. It’s a lot.”
“Yeah. I feel like I have no right to complain, given how hard you work for us,” Rafayel chuckles drily. You hear him slide down, and you know he’s settled on one of your floor cushions. “And it’s stupid, but I’m scared of getting so busy I lose myself in all of it.”
“Xavier mentioned something similar,” you note. “You know how many hobbies he has. God forbid he can’t indulge in them during your tour.”
“What, is it embroidering now?”
“No, crocheting.”
“Ah. Explains all the coasters.”
The both of you laugh again and for a moment, you bask in comfortable silence together. You can almost trick yourself into thinking that the kiss in front of your door hasn’t happened at all, let alone the love confession that still refuses to enter your ears.
Rafayel, in love with you? Since when? And why?
It’s messy. Cold guilt trickles into your gut as you think about how selfish you’d be in allowing any of this to happen. There’d been no contractual limits for your dating life, but for Rafayel? He’s the public’s, first and foremost. You don’t have the luxury to call him yours. And if you do, you’ll be shattering his dreams and all the years he spent bringing them to life.
The other option: you date in secret. Keep your relationship (or whatever you want to call it) in the dark. People wouldn’t question your proximity, at the very least. You’d just have to spend time together in the confines of your homes, or go out with the rest of DEEPSPACE to not attract unwanted attention.
Both possibilities are horrible.
Your nails dig into your skin, and you struggle to ease your breathing, lest he notice. You don’t want to process this today—it’s one of your few days off, and you intend to enjoy every second of it— but you know you’ll have to, eventually. You hear quiet shuffling, then Rafayel taking the seat next to you. A warm hand covers yours, squeezing it tightly.
“Hey.”
You turn to him lazily, and peek through your lashes.
“Hey you,” you say, attempting a smile. “I can tell something’s bothering you now. What is it?”
“Did I complicate things by kissing you?”
Your eyes open fully, and he swiftly looks away, shaking his hair to (try to) cover his pinkened ears. Clearly, he’s overthinking just as much as you. It probably doesn’t help that you’re completely alone, and in the safety of your home. No one to take pictures through your curtains; no hidden cameras ready to catch any wrongdoings. Your mind dizzies with the thought of your lips clashing again, warmth traveling all the way down to your toes. You unsuccessfully try to chase the feeling away.
“We kissed each other. It was mutual.” You shrug. “You’re my best friend, first and foremost. Nothing’s going to change that, okay?”
“But what if you felt obligated to? Because of our friendship?”
You raise a brow. “No.”
Clearly, you’re worrying about different things. Here you are, moving ten steps ahead, dreading a future that wouldn’t allow you two to be together, and he’s panicking over something that happened less than 10 minutes ago.
Rafayel fidgets with your hand, smoothing his thumb over your palm. A small “...Okay,” leaves his lips, and the two of you sit in quiet again, fingers laced tightly.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
Tour has officially started, and already, you can hardly tell where your day starts or ends. You get up when the sun’s not out, and leave each concert venue—straight to the airport—at the dead of night. Get up, watch rehearsals, make phone calls, answer emails, meet various event coordinators, rinse, and repeat. Occasionally get chewed out by your higher ups for ‘coddling the boys,’ but that’s nothing new; it comes with the job. You’d gladly be their shield if it means ensuring they get at least six hours of sleep daily.
Even in bed, your frantic energy keeps you up long enough for you to scroll through social media and get early fan reactions—mostly positive, to your relief, with sprinkles of gossip that barely reach the front page. Your heart skips a beat every time you come across a fan edit of Rafayel, his body rolls and sensual expressions slowed down for you to appreciate every pore, every angle, every part of his exposed skin that begs for your eyes to ravage him. And ravage him you do, sometimes even in your dreams, where there’s less clothing involved and definitely little to no talking between you.
Your saving grace is that you’re almost never alone with him, whether in the dance studios or restaurants or backstage rooms. The most you share are fleeting glances and occasional shoulder squeezes, each gesture communicating what words cannot in the brief moments you can exist in each other’s spaces.
With what free time you have, you paint. Xavier had gifted you a traveler’s painting kit for your birthday last year, and it’s come into clutch for the days that wear you down, making you question your many life choices and how they got you here. Your suitcase carries pages of oceans, forests, serene landscapes that you’d experienced before adulthood fully took you captive.
Walks on the beach with Xavier and Rafayel where you and your best friend would watch Xavier scavenge for unbroken shells. Early morning crabbing expeditions with Sylus and Zayne. Your reward would be instant ramen on the boat, fresh crab parts elevating every sip of your broth. Winter hikes with Caleb; he’d be the only one willing to make the trip in below freezing temperature, because the view would be worth it.
Every painting is a cherished memory—and reminds you of the reason you stayed so long with DEEPSPACE. They’re your family away from home. You can’t imagine living a life where they’re not alongside you for every win or loss. You don’t want to fathom not being there for their ups and downs, too.
But when would you be able to walk away? Would you be able to, when the time came?
You blink, and their world tour is already a quarter finished. The rest will play out for 10 more months. Then what?
Another album, another tour, another schedule packed with photoshoots, interviews, and fan events. You see no end in sight, and rather than feeling excitement, you fear that you’ll end up drowning. It’s your paintbrush, really, that keeps you afloat. Every stroke, every blotch of color, every completed piece is a patch of sunlight that drinks the chill of frigid water from your skin, replacing it with warmth.
So you cling to it: this secret hobby of yours. You don’t imagine it becoming anything more—you don’t allow yourself to dream beyond the reasonable boundaries you carved into the sand.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
You hear a knock at your door just as you leave the bathroom, hair freshly washed. Shrugging on your bathrobe, you quickly greet your guests with a wide smile, stomach already rumbling.
“Check before you open for anyone next time,” Sylus says, flicking your forehead lightly. The rest of the members barge into your hotel room, quickly arranging extra chairs around the kitchen of your suite. It’s endearing—a sight you want to capture forever. “Security already caught a few antis on our floor.”
“They never come after me.” you reply, reaching for the takeout in his arms. He swings away deftly and rolls his eyes.
“Not true,” Rafayel calls from the table as he lays out the plastic utensils. “You’re not exactly faceless anymore. Be more careful.”
You nod your head dismissively, sitting on the chair next to him. His long glance at your robe is hard to miss, and you instinctively tighten the tie around your waist, which earns you a small chuckle from him. You pinch his leg as if to say, “Not a word,” and it only makes him laugh harder.
“‘The hell’s wrong with you?” Caleb asks.
“Delusion.”
“Cool, so nothing new.”
Sylus wordlessly hands out each sandwich order, shutting everyone up promptly. For the next ten minutes, only the sounds of your munching and approving hums fill the air. Rafayel lets out a deafening burp, making you clutch your left ear with a groan, and the silence is immediately broken by everyone’s howls, Caleb’s high-pitched gasps being the loudest. You end up covering both your ears.
“That was disgusting,” Zayne comments sternly, though without a hint of malice. “You’re an idol. Please have some decorum.”
“I’m off the clock, baby,” Rafayel sings, pulling at your wrist. “And my fans love this side of me. They said so during our last UsVerse live.”
“Speaking of, your next one is scheduled tomorrow,” You jab your finger at his chin. “That means you need to shave those three hairs off, Raf.”
“It’s called a stubble, and no more talking about work, you guys. Please.” he groans, dramatically tumbling off his chair. He lies on the floor with his head down in defeat, drawing a deep exhale from Zayne.
Xavier smiles and points at your living room couch.
“Why don’t we watch a movie?”
“The first one to clean up gets to pick,” you say, and nearly fall off your seat as the rest of DEEPSPACE lunges forward to grab their trash.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
Your evening goes by in a blur. Sylus, with his gifted shoulders and superhuman speed, had tidied up your kitchen in a blink, and as expected, chose his favorite romcom that you all watched at least five times (thanks to him).
Still, you didn’t mind spending two hours with your head in Rafayel’s lap, legs perched on Caleb, and Zayne, Xavier, and Sylus huddled up on the floor, eyes glued to the screen. It was like before their debut, except back then, you were cramped together in your apartment living room, snacking on popcorn and fruit ice cream as if there wasn’t a massive burden to be a worldwide success.
You nod off here and there, blinking yourself awake when the boys woo at the main lead’s first kiss, but the rest of the movie flies by with you sound asleep. In the background, you still hear their usual theatrics, Zayne occasionally scolding them not to wake you with their obnoxious chortling.
You startle awake when the room empties and the door closes, and you rise from the couch half-dazed, confused by their sudden absence.
“Hey, they just left,” Rafayel says from the kitchen, his back facing you. He’s rinsing the cups they used for drinks. “I’ll go after I finish—”
“Mmm,” You grumble and shuffle forward until your forehead hits his shoulders, and in your sleepiness, you miss the way he stiffens at your touch. “You can stay. Only if you want.”
“Yeah?” He asks breathily, slowly turning off the faucet.
“Yeah. We barely got to talk. You’re so busy.”
“Says you,” he snorts. “You’re busy taking meetings left and right.”
“So all of us can pay our bills.” This time, your response comes out as a sigh. You hate sitting in those virtual conference rooms more than anyone, especially when investors decide to join and give you unnecessary trouble.
As if sensing your fatigue, Rafayel gently leads you to bed after drying his hands. He sits as you burrow under the covers, then quietly joins you until you’re lying face to face, just a breath away. You stir once, twice, and a final time before finding a comfortable position, and stare at him drowsily, a content smile on your face.
“Are we overworking you? You seem more tired than usual.” Rafayel murmurs, tentatively placing a palm on your cheek. You lean into it gladly, inhaling his familiar scent.
“You guys? Never.”
“But…?”
“Just lots more voices involved. Some with stupid ass opinions.” You twitch in annoyance thinking back at a few specific stakeholders you’d like to wring out.
“Tell me more.”
After a slight pause, you share as little as possible about the new producers they have lined up for DEEPSPACE’s next album concept—even when the current one has barely finished cooking and has been out for less than a year. (There’s no need to tell him the unpleasant details of your….heated exchange.)
Normally, it’s Rafayel and Sylus who draft, mix, and polish up their music, but their title track had been created and pushed out by a particularly renowned producer whose sound can’t be any more different. And the thing is, their fans knew the second they heard the melody. It was the one piece of constructive feedback that popped up consistently, and it’s what you leveraged to fight back.
The title track was catchy, but it wasn’t DEEPSPACE. The lyrics were far from Rafayel’s whimsical storytelling or Sylus’ subtle, but emotionally impactful piano melodies. And you dreaded the possibility of them losing complete creative freedom someday because of an argument you couldn’t win. Becoming nothing but products, walking advertisements, hollow shells of themselves for the sake of profit.
“Hey,” Rafayel stops you abruptly. “You have to remember we have a say, too. They can’t make us do anything we don’t want to do.”
“It shouldn’t be your fight, though. It’s my job to protect you and let your focus be on your fans and music.”
Rafayel interrupts you again by saying your name, concern etched in his fine features.
“Let me protect you, too. You can’t take all the hits for us.”
“But I want to.” you mumble stubbornly.
“Why, because it’s your job?”
“No, because—”
You still, realization shocking you awake. Instantly, you think back to your first meeting, made dreamy by the simplicity of young adulthood. Back to where everything started, and you had an epiphany that was so loud, you suppressed it with all your might.
“You deserve a bigger stage.” You fidget, regretting the words as soon as they slip out of your lips. Who are you to tell Rafayel what he does or doesn’t deserve? This is probably the first time he ever noticed you. He probably thinks you’re one of his secret admirers, waiting to pounce on him at your first opportunity. There’s been many more of them, not that you’re counting.
Oh, the woes of high school. Wanting to be unnoticed by the masses—and secretly hoping for that special someone to go against the grain and see you anyway. You scratch absentmindedly at the splotches of paint on your school uniform, now at an utter loss for words.
“I got my audience of one right here.”
You look up just in time to see his wink, and suddenly, your entire world shifts. Gravity threatens to pull you under, and you clutch the edges of your skirt to keep yourself upright. What a stupid boy. A stupidly handsome, otherworldly, musically gifted boy who had to enter your orbit. How can life ever be the same after this day? How can you dare to perceive anyone else when all you can think of is the universe expanding in his gaze?
This is the reason why you’d stayed away for so long. Somewhere deep within you, you knew that once Rafayel's existence broke down your walls and fully coincided with your own, you’d do everything in your power to keep his world safe.
You were his audience of one, after all. It was the least you could do.
A slowed breath escapes you, and you cross your arms against your chest, suddenly shy and very aware of the lack of space between your body and Rafayel’s. He notices the shift immediately and cradles you closer, as if his proximity can somehow help ease your pounding heart. (It doesn't, but his attempts are endearing.)
“I want to take all the hits for you if it means DEEPSPACE, you, can keep shining,” Your voice softens, shaking a little toward the end. Vulnerability is your weakness, and he knows it. But he makes space for you anyway; that's what he does best, even as someone who's naturally the center of attention. Something close to sadness fills you alongside your fear of being understood so intimately. “Because I love you. I love you so much, Raf, I don’t know what else to do.”
tags: modern AU, Sukuna x f!Reader, graphic designer!Reader, tired girl x tired man, Sukuna's soft and quiet, reader's a bit of a yapper, reader exhaustion realism, quiet intimacy, slow burn, slice-of-life, subtle yearning, emotional restraint, angst
← Week Thirty One · Postscript
Masterlist · ao3
note: the postscript below contains ending notes and spoilers for the final chapter of thursdays, so please read week thirty one first.
if you're here, it means you survived the angst. thank you for staying with these two idiots until the very end. this one's for you.
the moments below are little snapshots from different days—sometimes weeks, sometimes months apart
Not Thursday, late morning
Halfway down the fourth aisle, you realise you’ve already passed the place you meant to check. It’s the usual chaos of having a mental grocery list and a wandering eye that you were captivated by an absurdly bright display of imported cookies. You slow, then stop entirely just to turn in place one, then again. A small, puzzled frown creases your forehead as you look all around the brightly lit store. Eventually, you have to admit to yourself that you’ve lost him somewhere between the soft drinks and the canned goods.
The initial irritation quickly gives way to amused curiosity. The store isn’t massive, and that’s the thing. And he, despite his normally calm exterior, has a way of filling space even when doing nothing at all. He’s definitely not a man who blends into the background, so he should be easy to spot. The fact that he isn’t is what makes it entertaining.
Resigning yourself to a short search, you walk past the dried pasta and the various bags and boxes of baking supplies. You scan the rows of products you aren’t even interested in and finally find him at the far end of the sauces and condiments aisle.
He’s crouched low to the floor, absolutely out of scale with the shelves around him, and that sight pulls a wide, fond smile out of you. One of his forearms is resting on his knee, while the other hand holds a glass jar close to his face. His head is slightly bowed as he reads the tiny print on the label with the same intense concentration he would give to a mechanical diagnosis.
Walking up behind him, you lift your hand and slip your fingers into his hair at the crown of his head. You scratch gently at his scalp, dragging your nails lightly through strands, and Sukuna, without needing to look up or turn, instinctively leans into the touch as his body recognises you before his eyes even need to confirm your presence.
“Couldn’t find you,” you murmur simply.
“Sorry,” he answers in a low rumble, still absorbed in studying the label. “Been here for a while. I’m trying to find one without parsley or coriander so the kid won’t complain for once. It’s harder than it should be.”
The current jar returns to the shelf, and he picks up another, turning it over quickly to read the ingredients list before setting it back down with an audible sigh of exasperation.
A quiet laugh slips out of you, but it doesn’t carry past the aisle, as your fingers idly move against his scalp.
“How about I make the sauce from scratch? It’ll be faster than reading every single label in this aisle.”
That does it. He tips his head back to look up at you, lifting his eyes first, then his chin, and his features soften. The corner of his mouth curls in a small, easy smile that makes your heart flutter.
“That’s a good deal. I’ll grab the canned tomatoes, then.”
“Oh, by the way, look what I have,” you add, shifting your weight and turning a bit so he can see the cardboard box tucked under your other arm. “They had a few tins of your nut mix in the back. Took all of them.”
“Life saver,” he murmurs, and the genuine relief in his voice is something you find absolutely charming. A short, happy chuckle slips out of you.
Apparently, he tends to become slightly unbearable in the garage if he can’t munch on his almonds and macadamias when the clients are particularly trying or manage to piss him off. It’s his small, crunchy shield against the world.
After you drop the tins into the basket, he stands up smoothly, lifting it from the floor. He takes a few steps ahead towards the large display of tomatoes, glancing at you over his shoulder. He points at the cans, then raises two fingers in the air in a silent question.
“Three. If we make a big batch, you’ll have lunch for work tomorrow, too,” you say, and he nods, putting the cans into the basket. “Need anything else?”
With an eager nod, he leans down and presses a quick, hard kiss to your lips. You giggle brightly, caught off guard, and tug lightly on the fabric of his shirt to pull him down for one more peck.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, his eyes bright as he pulls back, already turning away. “One last thing, and done.”
You walk through the store together, drifting between aisles without rushing, and somewhere along the way, his hand finds yours, his fingers threading through yours, and he gives a light squeeze.
Sukuna stops in the frozen aisle, releases your hand, and reaches into one of the wide freezers, digging inside with a frown. Finally, he straightens with a small, triumphant smile, holding up a tub of chocolate chip ice cream.
“Wanna split this?”
The sight of the box brings the memory neatly back to that first Thursday evening, sitting together on the tailgate of his Jeep, sharing a tub of exactly the same flavour, and you beam at him.
“Absolutely.”
After paying, he gathers the bags in one arm, and once you’re outside the store, his free arm comes around your shoulders, pulling you firmly into his side. He plants a kiss on the top of your head, and your own arm goes around his waist, snuggling into the warmth of his body.
After both of you get into the Jeep and the groceries are dropped onto the back seat, he starts the engine and pulls out of the lot. A few minutes into the drive, without taking his eyes off the road, his left hand slides over the console to rest on your thigh. It stays there for the entire drive, except for the brief moments when he has to change gear.
Not Thursday, sometime in the afternoon
“Hey,” you say softly into the phone when he picks up on the second ring. The late afternoon light is fading through the window of your parents' dining room, casting long shadows across the walls.
“Hey,” he answers in that low rumble of his. “You won’t believe it. I actually wrapped up early today."
“Oh?” You settle deeper into the slightly stiff but surprisingly comfortable wooden chair, adjusting the cushion beneath you. “Miracles do happen, then. I was sure you’d be pulling an all-nighter with that engine you were wrestling with.”
A soft huff of amusement reaches you through the line. “Let’s call it that way. Actually, Jin called. He’s got some last-minute paperwork to handle at home, something about taxes, I think. Asked if he could drop Yuji off for a few hours. Said he needs the quiet.”
“Cool uncle duty?” you tease, but the mere thought of him with his nephew immediately warms your voice.
“Yeah,” he replies, and you can hear the fondness he never even tries to hide where the kid is concerned. “He’s excited. Apparently, he’s got a new colouring book—a dinosaur one, this time—and wants to tell me all about it.”
You laugh brightly, and the sound echoes lightly in the quiet room. “A very serious matter, indeed. Okay, so you boys have fun. Call me later when he's gone? Or text, if you’re too tired.”
There’s a brief moment of silence on his end, a pause that stretches and makes you wonder what’s on his mind, like he’s lining something up, before deciding to let it out.
“Hey,” he says instead.
“Mm?”
“I was thinking,” he continues, and his voice turns softer, losing that edge of casual banter. “Wanna sit with us?”
You freeze, your hand tightening around the phone, and a bright, nervous joy immediately bubbles up inside you, startling in its intensity. You’ve only been dating Sukuna for a short time, and you know how important Jin and his son are to him. Meeting Yuji, even casually, feels like a monumental step.
“With you and Yuji?” you ask, just to be sure you heard it right.
“Yeah. Figured it was time.”
“Oh—yes, I’d love that,” you answer, and your bright and slightly overwhelmed smile widens, stretching your cheeks until they hurt, even though he can’t see your shock and delight. Before he can say something else, however, you gently add, “If Jin’s okay with it, of course. I don’t want to step on anything.”
“He’s fine with it,” Sukuna says quickly, confirming your suspicion that he’d thought this through. “I already asked.”
“Okay then. Should I bring something?”
“Just yourself,” he murmurs, and you can hear the poorly masked excitement in his tone. “Yuji has enough chaos for both of us. Just come by whenever you’re ready.”
⸻
For a moment after you arrive, you hesitate on the doormat. Weeks ago, Sukuna made it explicitly clear that there’s no need for a formal knock, and you should just walk straight in, but today feels different. You lift your hand and gently tap your knuckles on the wooden door twice as a quick courtesy knock before turning the handle and stepping inside.
Sukuna always leaves the door unlocked when he knows you are on your way, and you usually go straight in, but knowing Yuji is there, you want to give your boyfriend a proper heads-up and avoid startling the kid.
A moment later, Sukuna appears, framed by the hallway light, casting a warm, yellow glow around him. He looks impossibly good, somehow softer and more domestic than the man you had been used to for months in that grocery store, dressed in a faded, dark tee and well-worn sweatpants. As soon as his eyes land on you, they go still, then trace a slow path from your eyes down to your mouth. He quickly covers the short distance between you, and one of his hands finds your jaw, brushing his thumb lightly across your cheekbone. He leans down, pressing a brief kiss to your lips.
"Hi," he murmurs right against your mouth, and without waiting for a reply, kisses you again.
The second one is deeper, slower, and undeniably more insistent. His hand slides from your jaw, up the back of your neck, his fingers tangling lightly in your hair to keep you exactly where you are.
When the kiss breaks, he rests his forehead against yours as you laugh softly, a little breathless, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of him—tobacco, vanilla, and oil, so uniquely Sukuna.
“Hi,” you echo, just as quietly, pulling back only enough to see his eyes. “I missed you too.”
It is only then that you remember the bag dangling from your wrist. You lift it slightly as he finally steps back, allowing you to enter fully. His eyes immediately drop to the bag, attentive as ever, and a small crease forms between his eyebrows.
"What's that?" he asks, reaching out without hesitation to take it from you.
"I know you said I don’t need to bring anything," you begin, slipping off your boots and placing them neatly beside his by the door. "But... I thought we could cook dinner. If you didn’t already have something planned."
For a brief moment, he looks genuinely surprised, and the hardness around his eyes softens considerably.
"I didn’t," he says, and his voice is much softer, more relaxed than earlier on the phone. "That’s... yeah. That’s good."
He leans down again, pressing a quick, feather-light kiss to your temple, and you smile at him, feeling the warmth spreading through you.
"I figured Yuji might be hungry."
As if summoned by the very mention of his name, a sudden sound of small, fast footsteps thunders down the hallway, accompanied by an excited voice already mid-sentence, the words spilling out too fast to be clearly understood.
“Uncle Kuna you said she was coming and I didn’t believe you because you always say things and then they don’t happen and you promised and—”
Yuji skids to a stop right in front of you, wide-eyed, with a huge grin already stretching across his face, and a missing front tooth only adds to his overwhelming charm. Sukuna’s hand comes down and ruffles the boy’s messy, pink hair, with just a bit more force than is necessary, but Yuji doesn’t even flinch.
"Yuji," Sukuna says, and the usual sharp tone softening into something almost unrecognisable when he speaks to his nephew. "Remember what we talked about?"
The boy straightens instantly, quickly wiping his hand on his pants, suddenly very serious about the responsibility he’d been given.
“Hi,” he says, sticking his hand toward you. “I’m Yuji.”
You chuckle softly, amused by his sincerity, and gently shake his small hand. "Hi, Yuji. I’m—" you tell him your name, and he nods, accepting the information. Without warning, he grabs your hand surprisingly hard and begins dragging you towards the living room with the determination of a small, unstoppable bulldozer.
"Uncle Kuna said you might come and then you did and look look look look," he insists, pulling you along.
"Okay, okay, what am I looking at?" you ask, giggling as you willingly allow yourself to be led.
Sukuna watches the two of you go, shaking his head at his nephew’s energy and chuckling quietly to himself. He locks the front door and heads to the kitchen to put the groceries away.
Yuji plonks himself on the floor in front of a sprawling mess of crayons, markers, and paper, starting his narrative as soon as he sits down, and talks nonstop from that moment on.
"This is a dinosaur but it’s also a truck and it has fire powers and this one is uncle Kuna but stronger. He’s got four arms, look.” He gestures widely at a particularly colourful stick figure with an additional set of limbs.
You sit down beside him, crossing your legs and leaning in to inspect the drawing with appropriate seriousness. "Wow. That’s a lot of responsibility for one dinosaur."
"It’s important," he informs you solemnly, nodding his head with the wisdom of a five year old. "He protects things."
Sukuna snorts quietly from behind you, reappearing from the kitchen. "That so?"
Yuji nods vigorously, bouncing slightly. "He does. And you don’t because you’re bad at magic."
"That’s not true," Sukuna replies flatly, his smile instantly gone. There’s a faint flicker of genuine offence in his tone. "I’m excellent at magic."
“You are not,” the boy says with conviction, shaking his head. “You don’t even have fire. Dad says so. He says you’re boring.”
Sukuna mumbles something low under his breath, and you’re pretty sure it involves a colourful suggestion about kicking Jin’s ass when he comes to pick up his son later that evening.
“I literally work with engines. That’s magic,” he deadpans after clearing his throat loudly.
“But not fire,” Yuji insists, pointing a stubby finger at the drawing of a dinosaur. “Engine is… car.”
You bite your lip, your shoulders shaking slightly as you fight to stifle a laugh. The kid beams, clearly sensing he’d won the argument, and reaches for another drawing, already moving on. Sukuna scoffs, but you can hear the smile hidden in the sound even without looking at him.
“He’s right,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at him with amusement in your eyes. “Different skill set.”
Sukuna clicks his tongue in mock annoyance but lets it go, moving closer to settle down on the rug near both of you. Just then, Haru pads silently into the room, flicking his tail lazily from side to side. He stops right beside you, immediately demanding attention by shoving his head forcefully into your hand, purring like a tiny engine.
"Oh," you murmur, your fingers sinking into his soft black fur. "There you are, handsome."
“He likes you,” Yuji declares, oblivious to the fact that you’ve been in this house many times already and have woken up with Haru sleeping on your pillow on several occasions. "That means you can stay."
Sukuna exhales through his nose, amused. “Good to know. I’ll make a note of the cat’s approval.”
“Yeah, imagine if he didn’t. You’d have to break up with me,” you giggle, looking at your boyfriend, who simply shakes his head at you.
He reaches out, his hand resting lightly on your knee, and the faint curve of his mouth confirms he’d never do such a thing, Haru’s opinion notwithstanding.
⸻
"Dinner?" you ask a little while later, looking up from Yuji’s colouring page to meet Sukuna’s eyes.
He just offers his usual nod and walks over to where you sit with his nephew. Without a word of warning, he swoops down and scoops Yuji up, his hands under the boy’s armpits. The kid lets out a surprised, delighted squeak before erupting into bright laughter as he is carried towards the kitchen and gently set down on the high counter.
"Sit," Sukuna instructs calmly, keeping one hand resting lightly at Yuji’s side to keep him balanced. "Hands to yourself. We don’t want flour on the ceiling this time."
Yuji leans back slightly on his palms, swinging his legs lightly against the cabinet, and a wide, genuine grin stretches across his face as he gazes up at the ceiling lights.
“I’m sitting,” he confirms, and he almost sounds compliant.
“We’re making oyakodon,” you tell Yuji, and his head snaps down, eyes immediately wide with excitement.
“That’s the egg one, right?” he asks quickly, listing the ingredients on his fingers. “With the chicken and the rice and—uncle Kuna you make the rice really good—the rice is the best part!”
“The rice cooker does most of the work,” Sukuna mutters, but a faint, pleased curve touches the corner of his mouth.
When you gesture toward the appliance, he moves to plug it in. Next, you ask him to handle the chicken thighs. He nods, reaching for a knife and the cutting board. Meanwhile, you turn to the stove to start the broth, pouring the dashi into the pot and immediately stirring with a wooden spoon.
Yuji, however, becomes a one-person commentary track, a nonstop stream of thoughts, observations, and questions, narrating everything you do and refusing to take even a single breath. He’s practically vibrating with curiosity and energy.
“Are you stirring because it has to mix or because it’ll burn and did you know one time I burned toast and it smelled really bad and the smoke alarm went off and dad got mad but I didn’t mean to—”
“Yuji,” Sukuna says, remarkably patiently, slicing neatly through a piece of chicken. “Inside voice.”
“I am using my inside voice,” Yuji insists loudly, leaning over the counter to make his point, and you press your lips together, fighting the urge to laugh openly at the volume of his ‘inside voice.’
The broth warms gently on the stove, beginning to steam, and Yuji continues his narration, detailing every step as if he’s afraid something might happen if he stops talking.
“Now it’s bubbling,” he declares, leaning closer, peering into the pot. “Now it’s not bubbling as much. Is it supposed to bubble like that or is that a bad bubble. Uncle Kuna one time the pot bubbled over and it made a mess and water went everywhere and—”
“That was because you turned the heat up,” Sukuna cuts in.
“I was helping! I wanted it to cook faster!” Yuji protests instantly, voicing his wounded pride.
“You were not,” Sukuna says flatly, though there is absolutely no heat or irritation in his voice.
He continues cutting the chicken into small pieces, and Yuji leans in, craning his neck dangerously close to the cutting board, completely unfazed by the sight of the sharp blade.
“Why do you cut it like that?”
“So it cooks right,” Sukuna answers. “And so you don’t choke on it.”
“I don’t choke,” Yuji declares immediately with certainty, as if he hadn’t choked on a piece of gummy candy just the day before, scaring his father into a brief state of panic.
“You absolutely choke,” Sukuna replies flatly.
You add soy sauce, mirin, and a spoonful of sugar to the broth, tasting it once, then again, frowning as you consider the flavour.
“Needs a bit more,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else.
It’s then that Sukuna steps closer, holding out a second, smaller cutting board with a neat pile of sliced onion directly in front of you, surprising you because you don’t even know when he started on the onion.
“Here,” he murmurs.
You take the board from him and slide the vegetable into the pot, stirring slowly as it sinks into the warm broth, and the steam rises, warm against your face.
Sukuna stays right there, sliding his arms around your waist and settling his large hands flat and against your stomach. He leans in, and his mouth hovers just beside your ear.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, and the sound is so quiet and deep it’s almost completely swallowed by the gentle simmering of the pot.
Your heart skips a beat at the unexpected intimacy. You turn your head, tilting it up slightly to meet his lips with yours in a soft, brief peck that lingers for just a few seconds before you pull back with a smile playing on your face.
“EW! EW! I saw that!” Yuji shouts, slapping both hands over his eyes, but peeks through his fingers anyway. “That’s gross! Why are you doing that with your mouths?!”
Sukuna exhales through his nose, completely unimpressed by the dramatics. “Because we can.”
“That’s STILL gross!” Yuji whines, kicking his foot on the cabinet. “You made a noise! I heard it! It was like slurp!”
You press your lips together, trying not to giggle, your shoulders shaking. “It wasn’t a slurp, Yuji. It was just a kiss.”
“But it was sticky!” he insists, deeply offended. “Kissing is sticky! Like when peanut butter gets stuck in my mouth!" He lowers his hands and squints suspiciously. “…Are you going to get a baby now?”
You choke on a laugh, and Sukuna watches the performance with a slight twitch in his jaw. His amusement is fading, slowly giving way to a thin thread of pure impatience.
“Are you finished, brat?”
“NO!” Yuji kicks his foot on the cupboard door again. “I’m going to tell dad you’re doing weird mouth stuff.”
Sukuna sighs, letting out a long, drawn-out sound of surrender. He reluctantly lets go of you to reach into the cabinet and takes out a small piece of chocolate, holding it out to the boy.
“Take it and stop talking, or I will put you to bed now.”
Yuji’s hands drop immediately. “Dark chocolate?” he whispers, and his earlier outrage vanishes as if it had never existed.
“Yes,” Sukuna confirms, jiggling the square slightly. “One piece. Now.”
You return to the stove as Sukuna adds the diced chicken to the simmering broth, and the kitchen quickly fills with an amazing, savoury smell of cooking food. Yuji swings his legs again, slowly sucking on the piece of dark chocolate to make it last longer, while Haru wanders in, weaving lazily between your legs before hopping onto the sun-warmed windowsill to supervise.
“Kitty,” Yuji whispers loudly.
Haru flicks an ear and ignores him completely.
⸻
Yuji is halfway through a monologue involving a dog, a spaceship, and this strange rock thing that he keeps saying is “definitely a volcano, uncle Kuna, look!” when the doorbell interrupts his animated storytelling.
The boy rolls off the couch with a huge, over-the-top sigh.
“That’s dad,” he announces cheerfully, which belies his earlier performance, sprinting towards the hallway with surprising speed for a child his size.
Sukuna, who has been listening with detached amusement, rises silently and follows, closing the distance between them quickly. By the time the muffled sound of the front door opening reaches the living room, a chorus of overlapping voices—Yuji’s high-pitched chatter and a deeper, familiar rumble—echoes in the entryway.
A moment later, Jin enters the living room with Yuji, clutching firmly to his father’s leg and carrying on with his story at an impressive, full speed.
Jin looks… paradoxically, exactly like Sukuna and yet not at all. The resemblance is undeniable, with the same bone structure and the identical imposing height. But where Sukuna’s looks sharp and heavy, Jin’s is lighter, markedly easier, like the edges have been sanded down or softened by the wide smile he seems to wear as naturally as a favourite jacket. Almost like he possesses a warmth that Sukuna often keeps heavily guarded.
His eyes are a shade lighter and noticeably less intense than his twin’s crimson, and almost immediately they flick curiously towards you. He takes you in with an assessing and genuinely interested look, and Sukuna steps slightly closer to your side without realising he’s done it.
“This is—” Sukuna begins, his voice low and gravelly, but suddenly stops himself. He realises he has never needed to formally introduce you to anyone before. Instead, he opts for the simplest approach: just saying your name, with a tone that makes it clear that is all the introduction you need.
You offer Jin a genuine smile and step forward to bridge the small gap between you. “Hi. It’s really nice to finally meet you, Jin. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Jin returns the smile easily, and a palpable, genuine warmth radiates from his expression.
“Likewise,” he replies. “I’ve heard… bits and pieces myself. All good ones, of course.” His eyes briefly flick toward Sukuna, shining with a teasing amusement and brotherly mischief, but he’s clever enough not to elaborate on the ‘bits and pieces,’ leaving Sukuna to merely narrow his eyes slightly.
Yuji, apparently never one to let an opportunity for truth-telling pass, tugs insistently on Jin’s sleeve.
“She made dinner,” he announces loudly, tilting his head back to look at his dad. “And uncle Kuna helped and they kissed and it was gross, dad.”
“That’s enough, brat,” he mutters, his voice strained, as he presses a large hand firmly over the kid’s mouth.
Jin throws his head back and laughs loudly, a bright, unrestrained sound that echoes easily through the living room. It’s a sharp, joyful contrast to Sukuna’s usual low chuckle.
You tilt your head, glancing toward Jin. “Did you eat already, on the way back? We honestly made far too much.”
He hesitates, clearly defaulting to the ingrained polite refusal, but the smell coming from the kitchen is too tempting, and he ends up shaking his head.
“It’s ready to go. If you’re hungry, I can heat a bowl up for you in two minutes,” you add quickly, gesturing towards the kitchen.
Jin looks from you to Sukuna, eyebrows lifting just a fraction, and a silent, entirely unspoken conversation seems to pass between the two brothers
“Sure,” he says finally. “That would be great, thank you.”
Sukuna passes behind you on his way to the tea cabinet, leaning down instinctively, and his lips brush the very crown of your head in a quick, gentle peck. You barely notice the touch; you have become so thoroughly used to his constant, small touches. Since you first showed up at his door, it feels as though you both are starving, making up for months of withheld physical contact.
“You want tea?” Sukuna asks Jin, reaching for the kettle.
“Yeah,” his brother answers, his eyes following you curiously as you move efficiently through the kitchen space.
As you portion the food into a bowl and slide it into the microwave, Sukuna brushes past you again to get the cups, and his fingers lightly graze your forearm. You lift your head to look at him, smiling brightly. He returns it with a curve of his lips before moving on, completely at ease and completely himself.
Jin watches all of it from where he’s leaning casually against the wall, still managing to keep Yuji from launching himself onto the tabletop. He isn’t exactly staring, more like… taking it all in: how Sukuna appears more relaxed and the usual tension he often carries is completely absent; how naturally he initiates physical contact; and, most importantly, how effortlessly he smiles whenever you are near.
The microwave chimes its short beep, and you pull the hot bowl out, setting it gently on the small dining table for Jin.
“Careful, it’s hot,” you warn.
“Thank you,” Jin replies, pulling out the chair and settling into it with a tired sigh that speaks volumes about a long, exhausting day.
Sukuna sets a steaming cup of tea down for you, then another for Jin. As he passes behind you to get his own mug, his hand rests briefly on your lower back. Jin’s warm smile deepens just a little bit more as he sees that.
There’s no need for him to say anything about the change, because whatever version of his brother is standing in front of him now, it’s so much different from the one he has known for a long, long time.
And that difference makes him genuinely, deeply happy.
Not Thursday, late evening
Your phone is propped against a heavy ceramic bowl on the small table in your rented apartment, angled just right so you can watch him with ease while you eat your takeout pork katsu. His is balanced somewhere on the counter in his kitchen, and the camera catches him from the side as he moves between the stove and the sink. Despite the five-hour drive separating you, the familiar, often-cluttered space around him feels oddly and comfortingly close.
“So,” you begin, smiling as you lift another crisp bite with your chopsticks, “we spent most of today trying to decipher the client’s design guidelines.”
He glances toward the screen with a quiet huff without stopping the stirring of his pasta sauce.
“That bad?”
“That bad,” you confirm, laughing lightly under your breath. “It was like someone took five different opinions, already conflicting opinions, filtered them through three people who don’t know how to explain things, and then wrote them down in bullet points that all flat out contradicted each other.”
He takes the pan off the heat and reaches for a large plate. “Sounds familiar,” he mutters.
“I swear. We kept rereading the same paragraph, trying to figure out if they want something minimal, bold, playful, serious, or futuristic. Finally, at one point, someone just deadpanned, ‘What if it’s all of those?’ and the three of us just stared at each other in defeat.”
“And then?” he prompts, spooning the sauce over a mountain of fresh pasta.
“And then,” you say, grinning wider, “we did the obvious thing and made a list of questions. Like, actual, clear questions. And got on a call with the client.”
He finally looks over properly, interest flickering across his face. “Let me guess. It made sense immediately.”
“Immediately,” you laugh, rolling your eyes. “Turns out they knew exactly what they wanted all along. Clean layout, strong contrast, nothing fancy. Half an hour into the call and we’re all sitting there, looking at each other, like… oh. That’s it.”
He shakes his head as he moves to the table with his plate, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So the problem wasn’t the work.”
“Nope,” you say lightly, leaning back in your chair. “Just the translation layer between people who think they’re saying something smart and people who have to actually build the thing.”
“That tracks.”
You take another bite of your katsu, still smiling. “Honestly, it was kind of fun once we figured it out. There’s something satisfying about untangling a mess and realising it was never that complicated to begin with.”
“Sounds like you had a good day, all things considered,” he murmurs, his eyes soft and slightly half-lidded as he looks directly at you on his screen.
It’s one of Sukuna’s favourite things about your life now—that your work hasn't left you defeated and exhausted for months now, and that you talk about it with such a different energy than when he first met you. Even if this means you’re five hours away from him for three days a week.
“I did,” you say simply, and you mean it. “Amazing. Thirty minutes of actually talking to the right people, and suddenly everything makes sense.”
He exhales through his nose, and a sharp chuckle escapes his lips. “Must be nice.”
You raise an eyebrow, picking up on the shift in his tone. “What?”
He glances down at his plate, then back at the phone, and his expression turns momentarily sour. “I spent half the afternoon undoing a mess that could’ve been avoided if someone had just listened to the instructions the first time.”
“That sounds ominous. What happened?” you ask, with a grin, already intrigued.
“It was Yuji,” he says flatly, like that explains the scale of the destruction. “Jin dropped him off at the garage today.”
Your eyes light up immediately. “Oh no.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, shaking his head, but the severe expression is already softening into an unwilling smile. “So the kid told me he wanted to help. He had his little tool belt and everything.”
“Of course he did.”
“He lasted about five minutes,” Sukuna continues, sounding both resigned and faintly amused at the same time, and you can’t stop yourself from giggling. “Then he picked up a tray with about forty bolts and washers on it, tripped over absolutely nothing, and sent them flying everywhere.”
You laugh louder, covering your mouth with your hand. “Everywhere?”
“Everywhere,” he repeats with emphasis, leaning closer to the phone. “Under the workbench, under the big lift, behind the compressor. I spent fifteen minutes on my hands and knees looking for one stupid washer while he kept bringing me bolts from a drawer, asking if it was that one. Or that one. Or maybe that one.”
“And was it ever that one?” you tease, shaking from laughter.
“Not once,” he says, taking a large bite of pasta. “And I’m pretty sure he brought the same one at least twice.”
“Please tell me you didn’t lose any.”
“I didn’t,” he says, rolling his eyes. “But I did lose my patience.”
“So what did you do?”
He exhales through his nose, and a quiet laugh slips out of him again, deeper this time. “I put him on my shoulders. Figured if he couldn’t reach anything, he couldn’t ‘help’ either.”
“Did it work?”
“Mostly. I gave him two small wrenches, and every few minutes he tapped my head and handed me one, and I had to pretend to use it, give it a serious nod, and give it back.”
You close your eyes with a broad smile, imagining the hilarious and absolutely absurd scene of your huge boyfriend giving a small boy a piggyback ride while diagnosing engine issues.
“I wish I could see that. It must’ve been so adorable!”
“And at the end of the day, I finished cleaning up the last of the bolts with him narrating the entire process,” Sukuna adds. “Apparently, I was doing it wrong, but he couldn’t explain how to do it right.”
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you say, with fake, over-the-top sympathy, “You poor, poor, long-suffering man.”
“Fortunately, he fell asleep in the car on the way back,” he says, softer, letting genuine affection show through. “I dropped him off at Jin’s because he called he was already back from whatever shit he was doing.”
Sukuna complains constantly about Yuji, the chaos he causes, and the noise he makes, but whenever you see them together, or even when he just recounts the small, silly details like this, his expression and his voice become unquestionably gentler. It’s obvious how much those afternoons mean to him and how effortlessly he shares that softness with the kid without any hesitation.
“Hey,” you say after a moment. “My parents called earlier.”
His brows lift slightly. “Yeah?”
“They want us to come over for dinner on Saturday,” you continue, setting the empty takeout box aside.
He doesn’t look up right away, just hums in acknowledgement, chewing slowly. “Okay. What time?”
“Four. Early dinner, you know, their usual.”
He just nods, and you beam at him again.
“Dad’s gonna be thrilled. He’s been complaining that I came alone last week, you know,” you add with a laugh. “Couldn’t accept that I had a day off and you were stuck at work.”
He clears his throat, keeping his eyes at his plate for a second before taking a bite, but you recognise the small tell immediately. Your dad adores him, treats him like family without caveats. Even if Sukuna never puts it into words, you know how much that acceptance means to him.
“Tell him I’ll bring something,” he murmurs, meeting your eyes again.
For a moment, you sit in comfortable silence, watching each other exist, letting the quiet stretch, content in the simple fact that this, too, is part of what you’ve built.
“So,” he starts at some point, and one of his hands lifts to run along the back of his neck, “you’re back in two days, right?”
“Mhm. Wednesday evening.” You smile, warmth blooming in your chest. “What? Miss me already?”
He tips his head slightly, pretending to seriously consider the question. “Maybe,” he finally allows, the corner of his mouth twitching.
You squint at him, intentionally exaggerated, and he rolls his eyes before breaking into a genuine, deep chuckle. It’s low, deep, and absolutely unguarded, and ever since you met him, it’s been your favourite sound in the entire world.
“I love you, angel,” he murmurs, looking at your eyes through the screen.
“Love you too, Ryo,” you reply softly. “I’m gonna head for the shower in a minute, and later call Yuki. She’s been bombarding me with texts since morning, so…”
“New boyfriend?” He rolls his eyes again at the mention of your friend's dramatic love life, but a smile doesn’t leave his face, and you nod. “Okay. Call me tomorrow before work, then?”
“Like always,” you promise, leaning closer to your phone to blow him a kiss.
After a moment, you end the call, and the screen goes dark. Before you even walk the few steps to the kitchen to put the empty takeout box in the bin, your phone lights up again with a text from him.
“We should introduce her to Choso. I’m tired of hearing about this one.”
Not Thursday, midday
You park halfway along the street when a childish giggle escapes you, overwhelmed by excitement, because you got back a day and a half earlier than expected and didn't tell a soul, especially not him.
The garage door is half-open, and when you step inside, the air instantly thickens around you, heavy with the scent of motor oil, gasoline, and burnt rubber. For a long moment, you simply stand there, letting your eyes adjust to the sharp lighting, and the sound of clacking metal guides your gaze to the centre of the floor.
He’s beneath a car slightly hoisted on a lift, with only his legs and the hem of his grease-stained work pants visible. One arm is extended above his head, muscles tensing slightly as he slowly turns a torque wrench.
A surge of uncontrollable affection floods over you, and you softly clear your throat, immediately wishing you hadn’t made that sound so early. But you’re unable to stop the wide, silly grin that has plastered itself across your face now that your boyfriend is so close.
“Hello? Is anyone there?” you call out, pitching your voice a little higher and trying to add a hint of real uncertainty to your tone. “I… I think my car broke down on the street.”
You need to clamp a hand over your mouth as the sudden, violent shake of suppressed laughter threatens to ruin everything when you receive the typical, automatic response from a mechanic and not the slightly rough, familiar greeting from your boyfriend.
“What’s it doing?” Sukuna’s voice is muffled but deep, carrying clearly from beneath the vehicle.
The words are followed by the faint metallic click of a tool being set aside. There’s a brief, noticeable pause, where you sense your voice has finally registered in his mind, and you can almost feel the moment his brain attempts to process the familiarity of the sound. But then, he sharply shakes his head to dismiss the thought. It sounded like you, but that’s impossible. You are, after all, three hundred and fifty kilometres away, so it must be exhaustion playing tricks.
His boots push against the concrete, and a second later, Sukuna rolls out from under the car on the creeper. He's absently wiping the grime from his fingers with a rag, his mind still miles away as he mentally prepares to handle an unexpected client and diagnose a problem that doesn’t, in fact, exist.
Finally, he looks up. The rag stops, forgotten, in his hand. His eyes, usually sharp and intense, lock onto you and simply stay there. You watch, absolutely amused, as his brain bluescreens in real time. The professional mask he’d been wearing vanishes, replaced by a look of complete and utter confusion, as nothing he's seeing makes sense with what he expected.
You're standing smack in the middle of his messy garage, but you're not messy. You're wearing the nice, fitted outfit you wore to the office, your hair is still neatly pulled back, and a huge, silly and triumphant grin is plastered across your face.
Sukuna stares at you like he's running a serious diagnostic and asking himself countless questions. Is she real? Am I this tired? Did I huff too much engine cleaner? Your shoulders start shaking slightly as you watch the slow, painful process of him working it out.
Before he can even fully process the fact that you are here, you’re crossing the garage floor, closing the distance quickly. You reach him, grab the collar of his work shirt to tug him down, and stand on your toes to crash your lips into his.
His body reacts instantly, purely on reflex, bypassing his shocked brain. His hands shoot up, eager to pull you in and hold you close against him, as they always do, the way they need to now that you’re back.
Then they stop mid-motion.
You feel the restraint and the internal battle in him when his grease-blackened palms hover just short of your face, fingers splayed out, but not touching. He exhales a deep, shuddering breath against your mouth, angling himself back slightly so his shirt doesn't brush against your clean blouse and stain it.
“I’m filthy,” he murmurs, breathing heavily.
You laugh softly into his lips, absolutely not surprised that his first thought is to protect your clothes.
“I don’t care,” you answer, and you mean it with every fibre of your being, trying to press your body closer to his anyway.
But Sukuna does care. He stops you, gently gripping your wrists and holding them trapped against his chest instead of allowing you to wrap your arms around him, and his forehead dips toward yours, stopping just shy of contact.
“Let me be perfectly clear,” he murmurs again, but his voice drops lower now, gravelly and hoarse with genuine need. “There’s absolutely nothing in this world I’d like more than hauling you flush against me, angel.”
And with that, he leans down properly, kissing you deeper and with such intensity that makes him groan into it. Then, he steps away, breaking the kiss with a sigh of frustration.
“Wait,” he mutters, walking towards the sink at the side of the garage to scrub his hands. The water is still running dark when he calls out over his shoulder, “You’re early.”
You lean against the edge of the metal workbench, watching him and his determination with which he scrubs the grime from his skin. You’re almost certain you’ve never seen anything more absurdly, endearingly him in your entire life.
“Yeah,” you answer, smiling at him. “Thought I’d get a second opinion on my catastrophic engine failure.”
Sukuna lets out a deep chuckle, drying his hands. Afterwards, he reaches for a stack of clean, neatly folded work shirts he keeps on a high shelf, takes one out and pulls it quickly over the one he already has on.
“You are ridiculous,” you say with an eye roll, though you can’t hide the affection in your voice. It’s absolutely adorable how much effort he puts in to keep your nice clothes clean.
When he comes back to you, he doesn’t hesitate. His palms cup your face fully, thumbs brushing beneath your cheekbones before they slide down to rest on your waist. He pulls you with him as he walks backwards toward the couch nestled in the corner of the garage, right next to his dad’s old Mazda.
When his ankles touch the cushions, he drops to sit, and you fall onto him, laughing breathlessly. He adjusts his hold instantly, lifting you so you can straddle him fully.
“Now,” he rasps in that gravelly, hoarse voice, while his eyes darken and hungrily rake over your face. “Where were we?”
His hands come up, one finding the small of your back to keep you close, the other grabbing the back of your neck. And this time, it’s him, with no restraint and no hesitation, crushing his lips into yours.
notes: okay. now we’re really at the end of the journey. like i said before—this chapter wasn’t planned. it’s only here because of, and thanks to, all of you. i hope it managed to heal your hearts a little after all the angst i dragged you through.
let me say it once more: thank you for following the journey of these two idiots and their stupid routine. as you can see, they no longer see each other only on thursdays. they got their happy ending and get to live a long life together.
thank you for loving them as much as i did.
and you, my amazing readers… i hope to see you again soon for sukuna’s pov of thursdays.
ps i’ve been crying for over an hour because this is actually over.
THE WAY OF THE (JJK) HOUSEHUSBAND | MINI-SERIES ≽^•⩊•^≼
Characters: JJK Men x Fem!Reader
Summary: It's not that he quit his full-time job. Not completely. In this economy, you need both your salaries to make a decent living, especially when trying to afford property in Tokyo. But when he nearly worships the ground you stand on and doesn't want you to lift a finger—unless it's to pamper him—he’ll gladly take on the role as your house husband too, curses be damned. What does life look like when he's your beloved baking, coffee/tea-brewing, cleaning, fixing, and organizing extraordinaire by day, and dangerously efficient sorcerer by night?
Content: f!reader, 18+ mdni, mildly suggestive, overall cozy and domestic, somewhat ooc sukuna, yearning pining utterly lovedrunk lovesick men, little to no angst
Notes: my friend and i discussed what kind of husband each jjk man would be and i knew i had to write about it, even with tons of househusband AUs probably out there. i'd love to read some if you have recs! once i wrap up zayne and rafayel's mini fics i'm def doing this for the lads ensemble too :) bc who doesn't love a doting curse-exorcising spouse?
Please let me know if you'd like to be added to my taglist. You must have your age visible on your profile!
Chapters:
i. eating breakfast with the ex-attorney
ii. hosting a housewarming with yuji’s favorite (and only) older brother
iii. getting a surprise office visit from the honored one
iv. fixing your gaming computer with a special grade sorcerer
v. visiting a romance bookstore with the salary man
vi. being nursed by the king of curses
...and more to come. :)
Characters: Tattoo Artist!Geto x Bookstore Owner!Reader x Author!Gojo
Summary: Young love is sweet; it’s easy to believe that such a pure thing can last forever. Seven years ago, childhood friend and college sweetheart, Satoru Gojo, shattered all illusions of a shared future after breaking your heart. Fast forward to your late 20s. You keep yourself busy with your bookstore, a good crowd of friends, and a certain dark-haired man who tries to break down your hardened walls. What happens when Satoru—now an accomplished bestselling author—walks back into your life, convinced that your love story deserves another chance? Do you allow him to pick up the pen again or rip out the pages of your history altogether?
Word Count: 1.3k
Content: f!reader, 18+ mdni, suggestive, angst, hurt/comfort, gojo still being an oblivious softhearted asshole, geto being a green flag, reader processing a breakup and who she is outside of it
Notes: im going to be so honest im torn trying to decide who reader will end up with lmao i love gojo and geto equally
Taglist: @loreleis-world @kingraspberry12-blog @we-rice-boi @witchbybirth @alebrasil0101
to be included, please have your age in your profile. lmk if i forgot you!
masterlist | chapter ii. blue | navi | divider by @pixopix
You remember all your firsts with Satoru. First shared furniture, first lovemaking, first real argument as a couple, and most importantly, the first and last time the man tore you into tattered pieces.
There’s no me without you, he’d claimed. It’s always been us.
A sweet lie that a younger you believed. Maybe he’d fooled himself too, drunk on your history together. Who were you without Satoru, really? Who was he without you?
You were forced to reckon with his ghost for years afterward, and with age came a sobering realization that what you mistook as intimacy was codependency.
Did you have any friends outside of him? Hobbies that didn’t involve his participation? It even came down to the books you read. Did you enjoy scifi as a genre because it truly resonated, or was it yet another commonality that could allow you to exist in his orbit?
A year after his departure, you found friendship in unexpected places. An impromptu high school reunion—one he decidedly didn’t attend—led you to Shoko, Ijichi, and Yuki. A spontaneous night out connected you with Choso and his younger brothers, who own a cafe down the street from your shop. Higuruma, the one person you tried dating (and failed) after Satoru, introduced you to his colleague, Nanami, who frequents your shelves almost as often as Suguru.
Your bubble before Satoru had been small, limited, almost suffocating. It was all you ever knew, and you never fathomed that it’d expand to what it is now: vast, free, fully yours.
Still a ghost, but with less force, Satoru haunts you as a bestseller in Japanese Literature, in the form of a 300-page novel that you begrudgingly sell to your patrons. (You hate that it’s good.) He remains two-dimensional, strictly on print, occasionally visiting you in dreams that get foggier by the day.
Your time apart, you learned, has taught you that there is, and always has been, a you without him. And you like her better.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
“Mmm, it’s been a while,” you echo, drumming your nails on your laptop. Seven years, but who’s counting?
Satoru flicks his eyes to Suguru, who mirrors him with muted contempt, then back at you. You keep your expression carefully empty, almost looking bored. As if the love of your life—a previous life—hasn’t somehow found your bookstore and crossed the threshold of your sanctuary ever so casually, just because he could. Bastard. You want to feel nothing for him, yet the edge of your vision darkens, and your chest aches as if crushed.
“I…” His voice dies, and you see him swallow heavily before finding the rest of his words. “I wanted to talk.”
“I’m about to close, actually,” you reply. “If you have any inquiries about hosting an event or signing, you can email me at—”
“God, no. I mean, yes, I’m here for that too, but—”
You slam your laptop shut, and he jumps, your name tumbling pitifully out of his mouth. Suguru begins to rise from his seat, his book neatly tucked away in his pocket, and swiftly makes his way toward you. For nearly a minute, your uneven breaths fill the silence. Then, the tears come.
Angry, confused, and hurt, you wipe with your palms furiously, ignoring the panic emanating from both men, which you would have found funny if you weren’t so miserable. Suguru puts your belongings into your bag, zips it up, and drapes your sweater over your trembling shoulders.
“I think you should leave, man,” he murmurs, throwing a charged glare. What you told him about Satoru is limited, but he knows enough that your visitor is capable of ripping your stitches apart—stitches that he tries to preserve every day he spends with you. “Come by at a better time.” Or never. Turn around and leave her life for good.
Satoru clenches his fists, a helpless, guilty witness to your undoing. He knows what he’s done is unforgivable—no amount of time or explanation will exonerate him. How he conveniently chose to erase himself, disappearing for years before resurfacing as a published writer with a book he swore you’d be a part of.
He has no excuse, only that he’d allowed fear to control him, his insecurities and doubts greater than the love you poured into his entire being. And for what? How has he fared after choosing your absence, believing that leaving you would be better than working out the wrinkles in your relationship?
“I’m…so sorry,” You barely hear him, can’t even look at him fully because his head hangs low, but you know him well enough that he’s crying, too. Still, after all these years, he’s an open book. You’ve read him from front to back, and you fear that his story is one you may never forget.
“I’m doing really, really well without you,” you laugh dryly, and Suguru intertwines his fingers with yours, squeezing you gently. His solid grip grounds you in the present, because the past, though it stabs you, is merely a chapter. You’ve lived many chapters since then, when you thought you lost everything. “Satoru, we can do business. But nothing beyond that, okay?”
Satoru doesn’t respond, just basks in your unexpected warmth. Most likely pity, because here he stands, successful but brutally alone, and there you are, healed and accompanied by a stranger that looks at you like you’re the sun.
You were his light, too. Still are, and he realizes you always will be.
What can he do about that?
He nods, smiles weakly, and leaves the way he came.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
“I’m assuming that was him?” Suguru asks, rubbing meditative circles into your lower back. You rest against his chest, the two of you nestled in your thick sheets. He’d taken you to a simple dinner (spicy katsu curry, much to your delight) that lifted your spirits, and not only because your meal was delicious. You nod gingerly, your cheek resting against his bare skin, and you mindlessly twirl a lock of his hair between your fingers.
“He was my best friend. S’ known me longer than anyone else.”
“Has he ever told you why he left?”
“Not directly, no,” you laugh humorlessly. “...but I’m pretty sure his book is about me, from what I’ve heard. It sells well.”
Suguru twitches, then hums deeply. “A coward, I see.”
“Always has been, that idiot. But I loved him despite it.”
You close your eyes to block out the rest of your senses, finding solace in the steady, rhythmic pulse of his heart.
“...And now?”
Your mind blanks, as if submerged in murky water, then floats to the surface with a collage of faded memories. Of softer days and lighthearted tiffs before adulthood hardened you and Satoru, separating your paths before anything truly real could bloom from the malleability of your youth.
“I don’t know what I feel, honestly,” you admit, exhaling sharply. Suguru continues to pat you, giving you space to process. “I know I was able to find myself without him. My world got so much bigger after he broke up with me. I don’t want it to shrink again.”
You lift your chin to face Suguru, boring into his gaze. What would you do if he were to leave? Take your half a year’s worth of long nights and shared secrets? Would you be as devastated, withered into an empty husk?
No, you think. You would keep moving forward, exploring the undiscovered. You would be a little chipped, sure, but remain as whole as you'll ever be.
As if reading your thoughts, he lowers himself to kiss you softly, distracting you (and himself, frankly) from the uncertainty of what comes next. You reciprocate with more fervor, your plush lips melding against his with startling clarity. He groans in mild surprise but welcomes you in, his grasp moving further down and disappearing under your flimsy pajamas.
Yes, yes, yes. You’d be whole, with or without him. But Suguru, in the few months he’s known you, has lit up your sky with an unexpected cascade of stars, illuminating the mountains and lakes and wildlife you wouldn't have noticed otherwise. Is it so bad to enjoy it all without knowing where he ends?
Characters: Eventual Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader
Summary: After losing your legal guardian to a grade two curse and being saved by Masamichi Yaga, you find yourself leaving your small town in Tochigi to join Tokyo Jujutsu College. There, you learn that family is more than blood, and that your chosen people can become a sanctuary that you build with your hands, brick by brick.
Word Count: 1.3k
Content: coming of age, jjk college au, character deaths, angst, hurt, comfort, found family, inspired by the hidden inventory movie photos bc they all deserved more screen time, an entire season of just being silly, geto never defects, super ultra slow burn, subtle pining, pace picks up a decade later
Notes: nanami sucks at communication, gojo's an idiot but a lovable idiot, and geto gets a little jelly. we love our quiet yearners; it's even greater when there's two of them!
MASTERLIST.
I. moving in (you meet a boy who carries the moon in his eyes)
ii. mission (rush hour crowds can be scarier than curses)
iii. soccer (athletically inept, you accept that losing can be fun)
iv. study date (you fall asleep to laughter and delirium)
v. home-cooked meal (geto’s mom becomes yours, too)
vi. amusement park (you learn that shoko hates heights)
vii. bicycle ride (you think this is what sisterhood is like)
viii. a night out (you and your friends ignore curfew)
ix. sleepover (you confess to your crush)
x. sports day (gojo breaks his leg; it becomes your favorite memory)
bonus i. i hope my people never move away
bonus ii. where are you?
navi | divider by @pixopix | pic by mappa(?)
II. MISSION
“Why’s there so many people? Where are they all going?!” Satoru grips the edge of your sleeve, his glasses slightly crooked. You swallow a laugh and continue to weave through the platform, shifting right and left to maneuver your way to the front where the air is less sticky. It’s the final wave of heat that hits just before autumn, and despite the sweat sticking to the nape of your neck, you find yourself feeling rather melancholy that your first season at Jujutsu College is already over.
“Work. Or school,” you reply, finally slowing your pace. He shrugs off his jacket and slings it on his shoulder. “We’re all starting our mornings together. It’s kind of nice, isn’t it?”
“Sure, sure.” He fans himself with exaggerated motion, ever the melodramatist. Under normal circumstances, you would have found it annoying, but today, after what you went through, you're grateful how naturally he can ease the dread. Leaning in, he whispers, “...If only they knew what was underneath this station. Those things were ugly, huh?"
“They'll never know, thanks to you.”
“Thanks to us. You did your part.”
You’d expected a grade three spirit—that’s why you and Satoru were sent here, after all. Satoru, to oversee the mission, and you, to practice the few techniques you’d learned. But it’d been too easy—too clean, and when the grade two appeared from the shadows, its arms emitting strange, purple tendrils and mouth dripping sewer water, you could only hope that your juvenile connection to the city flora could be enough to restrain it.
It wasn’t, but you were too busy fighting for your life to even feel a sliver of embarrassment. Had Satoru not been there, you’d have lost a limb, perhaps even more.
He’s powerful. You’d felt it the first time you met him. But seeing him in action today confirmed your suspicions that he would surpass everyone someday, including your dark-haired friend.
“Gojo,” Above the bustling noise, a clear, deep voice reaches your ears. You and Satoru turn at the same time, the latter instinctively pushing you behind him. He only relaxes when Kento emerges from the stairs, his chest heaving heavily, honey-dipped eyes startlingly alert. He flits his gaze between you and your partner who exhales a sharp breath before waving. It seems that Satoru wasn’t as relaxed as you’d thought, his attention just as frazzled as yours. It humanizes him, somewhat.
Kento approaches wordlessly, stopping just a few feet from you. You meet his scrutiny nervously, hoping to the gods that he doesn’t notice the specks of dark red on your shirt, which you expertly concealed with your jacket despite the heat. Satoru remains unfazed and yawns.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in Tokyo?” he asks, resuming his fanning.
“I was assigned with Haibara a few blocks away. Finished early.”
“Everything okay?” you add, peeking over Satoru’s shoulder. Kento nods curtly, his lips fixed in a careful straight line. Always on guard, he’s the most difficult to read out of your other peers. A part of you wonders if he views you as the weak link, and although you wouldn’t disagree with him, the thought erodes your self-confidence every time Satoru or Suguru have to step in to make sure you don’t get hurt.
Call it divine intervention or good timing—just as your conversation dwindles, the train rumbles into the station already half-packed, but ready to swallow everyone whole. Satoru reaches for you and Kento just before you all get pushed, three bodies floating helplessly in a sea of jaded workers, half-asleep students, and overly excited tourists. He curses when his hand slips, but Kento quickly latches to your arm and holds you steady as you involuntarily inch against the opposite side of the car.
“Get off in three stops!” Satoru shouts, holding up his fingers. “Don’t forget!”
You swallow and refuse to look up, your stare focused narrowly on your shoes. Kento cages you between his arms as people continue to squeeze in despite the rising complaints, and a young girl definitely elbows you on purpose, causing you to reel forward. He grits his teeth when your bodies press together, and he rushes out a strained apology as if inconvenienced by your proximity.
Do you smell like blood? Or do you just…smell?
“No, I’m sorry,” you murmur, leaning against the closed door. “Just three stops, right?”
As the train sways with uneven speed, you make yourself as small as possible by curling your shoulders inward and hugging your messenger bag to your chest. Just three stops. Just three stops. Just three stops.
“Are you hurt?” He frowns, pointedly looking at the stains on your clothes. “Why are you hunched over like that?”
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” you grumble, chagrin heating your cheeks.
“...But are you hurt.” he speaks his question like a statement, irritation seeping its way into his already harsh tone. You sigh and shake your head, saying nothing more. He contemplates your response, obviously dissatisfied and somewhat remorseful, and grits his teeth, scrambling internally to draw you back out of your shell.
Everything he does creates more distance, whether he expresses concern or curiosity, and he desperately wants to figure out what it is about him that repulses you so visibly. You look like you want to hurl, and he’s certain it’s because of his probing.
He knows his personality takes time to unravel, but his attention to detail and pursuit of utmost excellence is what’s gotten him far, and he’s not keen on becoming someone he’s not. Still, envy pricks him once in a while when he compares himself to the likes of Satoru, whose openness attracts everyone, or Haibara, who emanates gentleness and childish wonder. They're good, and he's...him. Committed, but callous. Loyal, but hardened.
His first interaction with you had also been far from ideal (which he doesn’t want to revisit) and his hesitance has only allowed your misunderstanding to fester. If only he could get past his reservations to be honest with you—how you and your nervous fumbling linger in his thoughts too long, how he wants to watch your flora-manipulation evolve and join the ranks of sorcerers like Gojo and Geto…because as far as he is from your inner circle, he longs to scuff those lines and see how you’d treat him without the rift that he’d unintentionally created.
Unfortunately for Kento and fortunately for you, the train finally pulls into Satoru’s destination, and you hurry out with relief radiating from every inch of your body. Kento follows you stiffly, scanning the rest of your torso for any visible injuries, and is close to asking you about your mission when a familiar face captures your attention and quickens your steps.
“Suguru!” you call, a grin replacing your scowl. You break into a jog, and Kento has to bite down even harder when Geto greets you with a smile of his own. “How’d you know we were coming here?”
“Satoru told me we’re all meeting for lunch,” He reaches for your shirt and rubs the fabric, brows knit together in concern. Unlike your reaction to Kento, you don't even flinch. “Are you hurt?”
“Just a few scratches,” you laugh. “I guess nothing gets past you.”
“She kicked ass,” Satoru comments, slinging an arm around your shoulder. “Need to tell Yaga about enforcing stricter regulations for our supervisors, though. There was a grade two where it wasn’t supposed to be.”
“Shit. It should’ve been an in and out,” Suguru stiffens. With the hem of your shirt still between his fingers, he tugs you closer. “If you weren’t there, she—”
“—Would have defeated it regardless,” Kento interrupts, ignoring your surprise. “I wouldn’t underestimate her. We both saw her technique in practice. We both know what she's capable of. Yaga wouldn't send her if she wasn’t ready.”
Well. Not what any of you expected (and it's the most you've heard him talk, you think) but you feel a flicker of pride anyway, oblivious to the sudden chill settling between the two young men.
“He’s right,” Satoru chuckles, more keen to the unspoken tension. Despite your protests, he affectionately rubs his cheek on the top of your head. “Our girl is strong and independent, so you can untwist your panties. Can we go eat now? I'm starving.”
He doesn’t wait for a response and merely drags you along, your shorter legs struggling to catch up, and the sight lifts the corners of Kento’s lips, just a bit. Only Suguru notices, but he says nothing as they trail behind, walking toward the end of the tunnel where a bright, sunny day awaits.
