nanami Stan final boss

21// kenma k: im not good with people, and i don't want to interact with them. and yet, im very concerned about what others think of me

[poniadeaur]

Sugar-husband

When a rushed morning leads to an accidental wallet swap, a fiercely independent woman finds herself spending her husband's money for the first time. Smut

The wallet had been his idea from the start—a matched set, cognac brown for him, softer caramel for you. You'd smiled when he presented them on your first anniversary, the paper crisp and the leather smelling of luxury and intention.

"Nanami," you'd teased, running your thumb over the embossed initials, "are you marking your territory?"

He'd only adjusted his glasses, that familiar, maddeningly calm expression on his face. "Practicality," he'd said. "Matching wallets mean we can find each other's things easily."

But you'd seen the way his fingers lingered on yours when he handed it over, the way his throat worked when you immediately transferred your cards, your cash, your small treasures into its folds. He'd watched you like a man starving, and you'd known— even then— that this meant something else entirely to him.

That was three years ago.

Now, the morning light filtered through the curtains in thin, desperate strips, and you were running late. The project— that beast of a contract that had consumed six months of your life— had finally, blessedly concluded at 2 AM. You'd collapsed into bed without washing your face, without setting your alarm properly, without doing any of the things a reasonable adult should do.

And now your phone screamed at you: 8:47 AM. Your spa appointment was at 9:30. Across the city.

"Shit, shit, shit," you muttered, stumbling out of bed, yanking on the first dress your hands found— a simple navy wrap dress that didn't require thought. You didn't bother with makeup. You didn't bother with coffee. You grabbed your bag, flew to the entryway, and snatched what you assumed was your wallet from the small ceramic dish where you both kept them.

They looked identical from above, after all. The same size. The same shape. The same worn-soft leather that had molded to each of your lives.

You pressed a kiss to Nanami's cheek— he stood at the counter in his undershirt and dress pants, buttering toast, his hair still damp from the shower— and you were out the door before he could turn around.

"Have a good—" he started, but the door slammed.

The taxi ride was torture. Traffic crawled. You checked your phone every thirty seconds, watching the minutes slip away, calculating whether you could still make it, whether they'd still take you if you were ten minutes late, fifteen. Your heart hammered against your ribs. Your skin felt too tight, still carrying the stress of the project, the lack of sleep, the persistent ache between your shoulder blades that had become your constant companion over the past month.

When the taxi finally stopped outside the spa— a sleek, minimalist building with bamboo accents and the kind of reputation that required bookings three months in advance— you fumbled in your bag for your wallet, ready to pay and run.

Your fingers closed around leather. You pulled it out.

And you froze.

The smell hit you first— sandalwood, something him. The weight was wrong. Too heavy. When you flipped it open, there was his ID photo staring back at you, Nanami Kento, 31 years old, with that severe expression and the little furrow between his brows that you knew softened when he looked at you, when he thought you weren't watching.

"Shit," you whispered.

The taxi driver cleared his throat. You looked up, panicked, then back down at the wallet. You could see your own, presumably, sitting in the ceramic dish at home. You could see Nanami finding it, realizing the mistake, maybe bringing it to you at lunch.

But you were here. And the cancellation policy was draconian— you'd lose the deposit, lose the appointment, lose the one thing you'd been looking forward to for ninety days.

And god, you needed it. You could feel it in your bones, in the tension headache pulsing behind your eyes, in the way your hands shook slightly as you held his wallet. You'd aged five years in six months. You deserved this.

"I'll pay him back," you muttered, more to yourself than anyone. "Every yen. I'll transfer it the second I get home."

You pulled out his black credit card— the one he never used, the one he'd told you was for "emergencies" though you both knew he had enough in checking to buy a small apartment outright— and handed it to the driver.

The charge was ¥2,400. You watched the driver's machine print the receipt, your stomach twisting with something that wasn't quite guilt, wasn't quite excitement, but lived somewhere deliciously in between.

"Keep the change," you said, because Nanami always tipped well, and you were using his money, so you should use it properly.

Inside, the spa enveloped you in scent— eucalyptus, lavender, something expensive and clean. The receptionist smiled, professional and serene.

"Welcome back," she said. "I see we have you for the standard package today?"

You opened your mouth to confirm. Then you looked down at the wallet in your hands, at the cards inside, at the small fortune sitting in Nanami's accounts that he never touched, that grew and grew while he wore the same suits, ate the same lunches, lived with the same careful restraint that had defined his entire adult life.

"Actually," you heard yourself say, "I'd like to upgrade. To the premium package."

The receptionist's smile didn't waver. "Of course. That's an additional ¥25,000."

"And the hot stone therapy," you added, emboldened by the way she simply nodded, entered numbers, didn't judge. "And the caviar facial. And the private steam room extension."

"Excellent choices," she said, and swiped Nanami's card.

The machine beeped approvingly. Somewhere across the city, Nanami's phone buzzed in his pocket, and you had no idea.

Nanami realized the mistake at 8:52 AM, standing on the platform at Shibuya Station, reaching for his train pass.

His fingers closed around soft leather. Wrong leather. When he pulled it out, the caramel color glowed in the fluorescent lights, and he knew immediately.

"Damn it," he said, softly.

He turned the wallet over in his hands. He should go back. It would make him late— very late— for the budget meeting with the higher-ups, but he should go back. You needed your cards, your cash, your identification. What if something happened? What if you needed to buy something, to prove who you were, to—

He opened it.

Just to check. Just to make sure you had what you needed. Just to see if there was emergency cash he could take out and leave for you, somehow.

The first thing he saw was the photo booth strip, tucked into the clear plastic window where most people kept their ID. But his wallet had his ID there. Yours had this— four frames of memory from the arcade in Harajuku, six months ago. Frame one: you making a peace sign, tongue out, while he stared stoically ahead. Frame two: you trying to make him laugh, hands on his cheeks, pulling his face into a ridiculous expression, his eyes wide with surprised offense. Frame three: him finally breaking, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, you triumphant beside him. Frame four: him kissing your temple, his eyes closed, you grinning at the camera like you'd won something precious.

Nanami's chest tightened.

He flipped past it. The pressed lavender— from their first date, the botanical garden in Kyoto, the flower you'd tucked behind your ear and he'd stolen when you weren't looking, pressing it later in one of his heavy law books. The small stone from Okinawa, smooth and gray, that you'd found on the beach and declared your "lucky stone," carrying it everywhere since. A receipt from the café in Shinjuku where he'd told you he wanted to marry you, the ink faded to gray but the date still legible, the total still showing the two coffees he'd barely tasted because he'd been so nervous.

A fortune from Meiji Shrine, folded and unfolded so many times the creases were soft as fabric. A hair tie, black and elastic, that had probably been in your hair a hundred times. A sample of your perfume, sprayed on a tester strip, still faintly floral after weeks.

You were everywhere in this small space. Your scent. Your memories. Your life, folded and tucked and carried close to his heart even when you weren't there.

He was hard before he even understood why.

His phone buzzed.

He pulled it out with shaking hands, expecting a message from you, some explanation, some apology for the mix-up.

Instead: Premium Spa Package - ¥45,000. Card ending in 4821.

His card. His money. You were spending it.

He should have been concerned. Should have called you, checked that everything was alright, made sure you knew what you were doing, that you weren't confused, that you hadn't—

Another buzz. Hot Stone Therapy Add-on - ¥12,000.

Nanami's breath left him in a rush. He leaned back against the station pillar, suddenly dizzy, his cock throbbing against his zipper with an intensity that made him lightheaded. You were spending his money. Willingly. Taking what he'd wanted so desperately to give you.

He thought of you at the spa, naked on a table, someone's hands on your skin, working out the tension he knew lived in your shoulders. His money paying for it. His card buying your relaxation, your pleasure, your peace.

Another buzz. Luxury Facial Treatment - ¥28,000.

"Sir?" A station attendant paused, concerned. "Are you alright? You look pale."

"Fine," Nanami managed, his voice rough. "Just— fine. Thank you."

He needed to sit down. He needed to— god, he needed to touch himself, needed release, needed something to take the edge off this sudden, overwhelming arousal that was making it hard to think, hard to breathe, hard to do anything but stare at his phone and will more notifications to come.

He made it to the office on autopilot. Sat through the budget meeting in a daze, your wallet open on his lap beneath the conference table, his thumb running over the worn leather, over the photo booth strip, over the small treasures you'd collected. His phone sat face-down on the table, but he could feel every vibration like a physical touch, each one sending a jolt of pleasure straight to his groin.

At 12:45 PM, during the lunch break he couldn't eat, the notification came: Boutique Purchase - ¥86,000.

Clothes. You were buying clothes with his money. Trying them on, looking at yourself in mirrors, deciding what you deserved, what you wanted, and using his card to get it.

He excused himself to the bathroom— the single stall on the seventh floor that no one used because it was out of the way— and locked the door. He leaned against it, shaking, and freed himself from his trousers with trembling hands.

He came in thirty seconds, biting his fist to keep from crying out, spilling over his fingers while he thought of you in a dressing room, sliding fabric over your skin, spending his money with every swipe of the card. It was the fastest, most intense orgasm he'd had in years, and he was still hard, still wanting, still desperate.

He cleaned himself up with shaking hands, straightened his tie, looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were wild. His face was flushed. He looked like a man who had been thoroughly, completely undone.

And he couldn't stay here. Couldn't sit through another meeting, another discussion of fiscal quarters and resource allocation, when you were out there spending his money, taking what was his to give, finally— finally— letting him provide for you in the way he'd always dreamed.

He found his assistant, a young woman named Mori who had worked for him long enough to know he never took sick days.

"Mori," he said, and his voice sounded strange even to himself, too low, too rough. "I'm not feeling well. Migraine. I need to go home."

"Of course, Nanami-san," she said, her eyes widening slightly at his appearance. "Should I reschedule your afternoon?"

"Please. And—" he paused, considering. "Cancel tomorrow as well. I think I'll need the rest."

He didn't wait for her response. He was already moving toward the elevator, toward the train, toward you.

You were floating.

The spa had been transcendent— every knot in your shoulders worked out by skilled hands, every worry steamed away in the private room, your face glowing from treatments that used ingredients you couldn't pronounce and didn't care to. You'd emerged loose-limbed and hazy, wrapped in the silk robe you'd bought (¥12,000, added to the growing total), carrying the overnight bag (¥8,500) because it was soft and the color suited you.

The boutique next door had called to you like a siren. You'd told yourself you'd just look. Just browse. You weren't really going to buy anything.

But the dress— navy silk that caught the light like water, cut to skim your curves in a way that made you look expensive, sophisticated, like someone who deserved to be taken care of— had been impossible to resist. And when you'd tried it on, and the saleswoman had gasped, had said "Your husband is a lucky man," and you'd thought of Nanami seeing you in it, paying for it, knowing that you were wearing something he'd bought—

You'd bought the shoes too. Cream leather pumps that made your legs look endless. The handbag, structured and elegant, that replaced the worn tote you'd been carrying for three years.

Your phone had buzzed constantly. You'd stopped checking after the first hour, the guilt giving way to something headier, something that felt like power and indulgence and the delicious wrongness of taking what you never allowed yourself to want.

You caught a matinee— a romance, something with beautiful people and sweeping music and a happy ending that made you cry in the dark theater. You bought the wine, the overpriced popcorn, because you could, because it was his money and he had so much of it and for once you weren't going to be the responsible one, the independent one, the woman who never needed anything from anyone.

By the time you stepped out of the taxi in front of your building, the sun was setting, painting the sky in strokes of orange and pink. You carried three shopping bags. Your skin still smelled of lavender oil. You felt, for the first time in months, like yourself again.

And then you saw him through the window.

Nanami sat on the couch in the dark, still in his work clothes though he'd loosened his tie, undone his collar. Your wallet sat open on the coffee table in front of him like an altar. His hands were clasped between his knees, and he was looking at the door with an expression you'd never seen before— hungry, desperate, almost feral.

You froze, your hand on the doorknob, suddenly aware of every purchase, every yen, every notification that had buzzed across his phone while you indulged yourself.

"Nanami," you started, pushing the door open, "I can explain—"

He moved.

You'd never seen him move like that— fast, predatory, crossing the space between. He didn't speak. He just reached for you, his large hands framing your face, and then his mouth was on yours, hot and demanding and nothing like his usual careful kisses.

"Nanami—" you tried again, but he swallowed the word, licked into your mouth with a groan that vibrated through your chest.

"Do you know," he breathed against your lips, his voice wrecked, unrecognizable, "how many notifications I received today?"

"I was going to pay you back," you gasped, stumbling as he walked you backward, his body pressing against yours, solid and warm and trembling. "I swear, every yen, I just didn't want to cancel the appointment—"

"I don't want you to pay me back." His hands were at your coat, yanking it off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. "I want you to tell me. Every. Single. Thing."

He pushed you back onto the couch, following you down, pinning you with his weight in a way that made your breath catch. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, his usual composure shattered into something raw and needy.

"Tell me," he commanded, his hand sliding up your thigh, pushing the silk of your new dress higher, "what you bought. How much it cost. Who paid for it."

"I—" you started, but his fingers found the edge of your underwear— also new, also expensive, lace that you'd bought because the saleswoman had said they matched the dress— and he made a sound like a wounded animal.

"These too?" he asked, his voice rough. "Did you buy these with my money?"

"Yes," you whispered, and the admission sent a thrill through you, hot and shameful and electric.

He groaned, pressing his forehead to yours, his hand moving to tear at the buttons of your dress. "Tell me everything. Start at the beginning. Don't leave anything out."

"The spa," you started, your voice shaking as he ripped the dress open, buttons scattering across the hardwood with small, sharp sounds. "The premium package—"

"How much?" He was kissing your throat now, your collarbone, his teeth grazing the skin with just enough pressure to make you arch.

"Forty-five thousand," you gasped. "And the hot stones— twelve thousand more—"

He made a sound against your breast, his hand palming you through the lace of your bra. "Keep going."

"The facial!" You clutched at his shoulders, nails digging in as he set a brutal pace, snapping his hips against yours. "Twenty-eight thousand— caviar— oh god—"

"Expensive." He bit your jaw, your neck, leaving marks. "You're so expensive. My expensive girl."

"The dress—" you choked out as he hit something deep, something that made stars burst behind your eyes. "Eighty-six thousand—"

"More." He pulled out and slammed back in, making you see white. "What else?"

"Shoes— forty-two— handbag— sixty—" You were babbling now, lost in the stretch of him, the filthy satisfaction in his eyes. "Chocolates— wine—"

"All mine." He hooked your leg over his shoulder, driving deeper, harder. "My money. My girl. Spending what's mine."

"Yours," you agreed, voice breaking. "All yours."

"Louder." He slowed, cruelly, until you were whining, trying to grind against him. "Tell me whose money you spent."

"Yours!" You shouted it, desperate, clawing at his back. "Nanami's money— my husband's— please—"

He rewarded you with a thrust that rattled your teeth, and another, and another, fucking you into the couch cushions with abandon, the leather creaking beneath you.

"Again," he demanded, hand wrapping around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, claiming. "Tell me what you are."

"Expensive," you sobbed, the pleasure building to a breaking point. "I'm so expensive—"

"My expensive wife." He was losing rhythm, getting sloppy, chasing his own release. "Spending all my money— taking everything—"

He snarled and drove into you one final time, grinding against you as he came, hot and endless, and you followed, screaming his name, your vision going black at the edges.

After, when you were both trembling and sweat-cooled on the ruined couch, he gathered you close, pressing kisses to your temple, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth.

"I'll transfer it all back," you mumbled, half-asleep against his chest.

He laughed, low and dark, and you felt him stir against your hip again.

"Don't you dare," he whispered. "Tomorrow, we're going back. You're buying the other dress. The one you didn't get."

"Nanami—"

"And then," he continued, hand sliding down your stomach with intent, "you're going to tell me about every single thing you try on. In detail."

You shivered, already nodding, and he smiled against your hair, happier than he'd been in years.

Finally, he thought, pulling you closer. Finally, she was letting him spend.

[gaysnake777]

unckuna

[suksatoru]

—mrs. steal your girl!

sukuna was used to getting hit on. normally, he flat out rejects anyone that even makes an attempt to flirt with him. tonight he's taken you on one of your usual date nights, but imagine his surprise when the woman who approaches your table is hitting on you instead of him!

"ryo. ryo, ryo, ryo, i don't know what to get!" you pout, extending a leg underneath the table to graze your husband's calf as he grunts, brows pinched together in concentration as he stares down at the menu

"doesn't matter. i'm ordering half the stuff they have here anyway... you hungry for dessert too?" he questions, and you give him a deadpan look before he dramatically rolls his eyes, eliciting a giggle from you that has the corner of his mouth tipping upwards in a smirk

"fatty," he murmurs, and you make a point to dig the tip of your heel into his shoe, yet even through the pain, he maintains that annoying grin, and you shake your head with a laugh

the restaurant sukuna chose to take you out to tonight was located on the outer edges of the city near the water. your seating is overlooking the ocean, and you're not sure where you should stare—either at the lapping waves shimmering underneath the sparkling sun, or at your husband (an equally irresistible sight). he's wearing a tight black shirt with the first few buttons open, revealing the intricate details of his tattoos and the large expanse of his muscles and chest

a waitress eventually approaches your table. she's pretty—tall, lean, and wearing a dark red lipstick that suits her well—and you feel your heart sink a bit. you're sure she was staring at your table earlier, and you'd already assumed she was keeping an eye out on sukuna. almost subconsciously, you sit a little taller in your chair as she greets you two

"hello! i hope you guys are doing well. what can i get started?" she starts in an extra sweet voice, and you avoid her eyes and instead drum a single manicured finger against the table to distract yourself

you know you have nothing to feel insecure about, but anyone would feel a bit down if attractive women were constantly hitting on their husband, right?

without looking up, sukuna starts

"i'll have a plate of crab cakes, four fish tacos, one chicken marsala, one miso marinated black cob, two fettuccini pastas, one lobster ravioli, and one lava cake—and the center of it better not be undercooked. my wife doesn't like whenever it happens and i want her dessert to be nothing short of perfection." sukuna finishes, and the waitress looks genuinely distressed as she quickly jots down everything he said

"uhm, and all that is for just the two of you?" she questions hesitantly, and sukuna's gaze snaps up with a scowl

"yeah. and?"

you try to stifle your laughter as she quickly shakes her head with a smile, still writing everything down. your husband was... a bit of a big eater.

"no, no, i was just wondering— oh. did you say wife?" she frowns, and you try not to wince at twinge of disappointment in her voice

"if you were thinking i'm single, you're out of luck." sukuna states boldly, not bothering to give her any further attention as he folds up the menu and hands it to her

"uhm... i wasn't wondering about you. i was wondering about you." — and suddenly her gaze is pinned on you, and your eyes widen a fraction

"me?" you squeak in disbelief, and she smirks. it's cocky and slanted and it instantly reminds you of your husband's habit when he's teasing you, and you can't even try to hide the smile on your face as you cover it with your hand, caught off gaurd and embarrassed

"yes, you. you are beautiful. so, are you happily married to this guy, or just marri—"

"that's enough." sukuna stammers, and he looks genuinely mortified by the look of curiosity on your face. you giggle, shaking your head

"thank you... you're very beautiful too." you smile, and she actually blushes at your words, telling you she'll be out with your food soon as she walks back inside the restaurant with a lot more pep in her step than before

sukuna reaches over to pull your hand out of your lap and onto the table, and he adjusts your ring with furrowed brows as you giggle

"ryo—"

"i can't believe that woman's audacity—hitting on my wife! when i get home, i am writing the most deplorable review of this restaurant." he snaps as you let out a sudden laugh

"don't be silly, you big grump! she was nice," you smile, and he drags a hand down his face as if this was the worst day of his entire life.

sukuna wasn't used to women hitting on you. no man ever tried because all six feet of your husband was always looming behind you like a guard dog just waiting to rip someone's head off for looking at you too long, but he never suspected he had to look out for women too!

his brows are furrowed as he rubs a thumb over the diamond on your ring finger, and your gaze softens before you cradle his own larger hand in your own and press a kiss onto his knuckles. he blinks at you a few times before turning away with a huff, the tips of his ears a light shade of pink

"you're mine. you'll never indulge in anyone that tries anything with you, right?" he murmurs, still staring at your interlocked hands as you pout

"of course not." you promise gently, and he seems satisfied by your response as he holds your hand firmly in his own

after a moment of thought, he opens his mouth once again

"do you think we should make out to confirm our status for everyone else here?"

"ryo!"

[beybuniki]

bakugo & midoriya shonen.....

[dynameow]

THEN AND NOW ✶ FT. BAKUGOU KATSUKI

꒰ synopsis ꒱ ✶ katsuki always wondered what the hell his father saw in his old hag of a mother. it takes twenty years, a nasty fight with you, a near-death experience, and a trip to the hospital before he finally gets it

── ✶ word count: 5.8k words ; my drabbles always do this bro

── ✶ before you read: female reader ; pro hero bakugou ; established relationship ; arguing ; (temporary) relationship troubles ; injuries + villain attacks + hospitals (bakugou) ; tame angst with a happy ending! ; communication + resolving arguments ; bakugou’s father makes an appearance ; fluff and banter at the end ; masterlist.

꒰ commentary ꒱ ✶ at the end of the day i will never not be a sucker for the trope where u argue just before a major life threatening incident occurs

It’s 9:32 PM when Katsuki begrudgingly leaves his patrol area and finally calls it quits for the night.

Patrol was supposed to end an hour and thirty-two minutes ago, but he’s been dragging his feet ever since. Taking the long route. Responding to calls that technically aren’t under his jurisdiction. Circling blocks he’s already cleared twice. Anything to kill time. It’s only when Kirishima actively tells him to get the fuck out and stop interfering with his villain count for the night that Katsuki finally accepts defeat and ends his workday.

Ending his workday means going home. And if he goes home, you’ll be there. And if you’re there, he’ll be reminded of your nasty argument from the other night. And if he thinks about that argument, he’ll have to face the fact that the two of you are still stubbornly refusing to speak to one another until the other apologizes first. It’s a ridiculous standoff—an unnecessary one, and he knows it. But neither of you seems particularly interested in ending it, and now his own apartment has somehow become the last place he wants to be. Every room feels charged with an uncomfortable tension. The living room is awkward. The kitchen is unbearable. Even lying down beside you at night feels weird, so Katsuki would rather avoid the whole thing if he can help it.

If he gets home late enough, you’ll already be asleep. Then he can shower, crawl into bed, and pretend the situation doesn’t exist for a few more hours. It seemed like a solid plan in his mind, but unfortunately, thanks to fucking Shitty-Hair, he has no choice but to head home and hang up his costume. 

And judging by the lights still glowing through the windows of his apartment, his luck has officially run out. You’re still awake. Of course.

He trudges in, and there you are—sitting stiffly on the couch in the living room, staring directly at him with your arms crossed and an infuriated glare on your face as you fix him with narrowed eyes. Great.

“Do you have any fucking clue what time it is?” you hiss without missing a beat.

Katsuki should’ve known you’d start nagging the second he walked through the door. Hell, he should’ve turned around and just left the moment he saw the lights on instead of coming in.

“S’not even ten,” he grumbles, kicking his boots off. “Would you fuckin’ drop it—”

“You were supposed to be home almost two hours ago!” Your voice rings through the apartment, sharp and incredulous, and Katsuki is so tired. So exhausted. Too exhausted to deal with this nonsense right now, of all times.

“Yeah, well. Now I’m home. There you go.”

The dismissal only seems to make you angrier. Katsuki practically watches the steam start pouring from your ears as you shoot to your feet, hands planting firmly on your hips. And he just knows your voice is about to get louder.

“That’s it?” you practically screech. He fucking knew it. “You’re out on patrol for an extra two hours, and I hear nothing from you—not even a text saying, I’ll be home late. I’ve been sitting here like an idiot, wondering what the fuck happened, or if you’re okay, and all you can say is now you’re home? Do you just get off on being an asshole or something, Katsuki?”

His shoulders tense immediately as he fixes you with an equally hard glare. There goes his wish for a peaceful, conflict-avoidant night. Of course, as always, you have to drag the conflict right to him and drop it at his feet, spike his temper, and make it ruin his evening. A simple shower and a good night’s sleep was all he wanted. But things are never quite that easy—not with you.

Katsuki feels a dull throb start behind his eyes as he shoots back, “What, was your phone broken or some shit? What exactly held you at gunpoint and stopped you from sendin’ me a text and asking, huh?”

Your jaw drops. “Are you serious?”

“I’m not laughin’, am I? Definitely no jokes here.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you scowl, and he snorts. There’s no humor behind the sound, however.

“Yeah, that’s real mature.”

“Oh no—you don’t get to tell me about what’s mature and what isn’t. Cause if you wanna talk about what’s mature, it’s not disappearing for two hours and acting like I’m insane for being worried!”

“I wasn’t disappearing, I was fuckin’ doing my job.”

“You were supposed to be done with that job hours ago!”

“Well, I wasn’t!”

“You have a smart little answer for everything, don’t you, Katsuki?” you smile sarcastically, “just think you’re so smart and above it all, huh?”

Katsuki doesn’t know if it’s the headache that’s been creeping on him, or the rage, or the pure adrenaline in his system, but he does know that for a short, fleeting second, all he saw was red. 

“Holy fuck, do you ever listen to yourself?”

Your expression hardens instantly. “No, I think you should listen to yourself. You might hear an idiot if you do.”

The apartment goes quiet. Dangerously quiet. 

“You know what?” he says coldly, “forget this. I’m goin’ the fuck to sleep—I’ve dealt with enough bullshit tonight—”

You throw your hands in the air, exasperated. There is a flash of hurt on your face that makes his chest ache, but the sharp stab of pain doesn’t last for long because as quickly as his heart bleeds, his mind makes him forget. It only lets him focus on the anger and the irritation and the way you’ve ruined his night, just like you ruined the one before. 

“Every single time I tell you something bothers me, you act like it’s a personal attack, and then you just dismiss me like I don’t matter—”

“Maybe I wouldn’t dismiss shit if every conversation with you didn’t turn into a fuckin’ laundry list of grievances you got with me!”

“You only take everything I say as a complaint because you refuse to communicate!”

“Because not everything needs to be a damn discussion like we’re in therapy!”

“Right,” you laugh bitterly. “Silly me. God forbid I expect basic consideration from you.”

Something ugly flashes across his face. He knows it. Katsuki knows that when he’s mad, he turns ugly—he’s always been that way. It’s the only way he knows how to be. For the longest time, he thought you were the only person he could hide it from. That you were the only person he could fight the urge to get ugly from because you are just that special. 

But Katsuki is who he is, and he’s learned that he’s a special kind of ugly just for you.

“Basic consideration?” he barks. “You’re sayin’ I’m not considerate?”

“No, sometimes you fucking aren’t and—”

“Oh, that’s fuckin’ rich! I break my back every day keeping this city safe—”

“Well, if the city is the only thing you can be considerate for, why the fuck are you even here?”

It’s silent as soon as the words leave your mouth. Katsuki goes completely still. He can feel it the second it happens—the way his expression shuts down. The way the anger drains out of his face and leaves behind something colder. Something worse. Something so ugly, he has to get out of here before you see it and realize he isn’t worth it. Isn’t worth you. 

“Yeah,” His voice is flat. “Why am I here, right? You know, you can just tell me to leave next time, it’d be a lot fuckin’ easier for you.”

“Katsuki—”

“No.” He grabs the strap of his duffel bag that carries his guantlets from where he’d dropped it by the door, throwing it over his shoulder as he bends down to lace his boots up again.

“Katsuki, that’s not what I meant.”

“Sure.”

“I was angry—”

“Clearly, you’re always fuckin’ angry at me. I’m always doin’ something the fuck wrong, aren’t I? Nothin’ I do is enough?”

Stop, stop, stop. His mind is screaming, begging him not to do this. To get out. To leave and fight that hideous part of him down until he’s far enough that you never, ever have to see it.

“Katsuki, don’t do this right now—”

“Do what?” His voice rises more than it should. Stop—stop now. But he can’t. The ugliest of him is already taking surface and showing his truest of colors. “What exactly am I supposed to say here, huh?” You flinch. He needs to fucking stop, but he doesn’t. “Because apparently, when I stay late to save people, I’m an asshole. When I’m home, I’m an asshole. I breathe, I’m an asshole. I exist, I’m an asshole.”

“That’s not—”

“So what’s the answer?” His laugh is bitter and so, so cold that he doesn’t recognize this version of himself. Not with you. He wants to stop desperately, but he can’t. Because Katsuki is an ugly, hideous, despicable person deep down. No amount of heroism on the surface can hide that part of him that’s on the inside, not from you. “Since you’ve got everything figured out, you tell me what the fuck I’m supposed to do.”

“Katsuki, let’s just sit down and—”

He shakes his head. For a second, he wants it to hurt. He wants it to hurt for you. Stop, stop, stop— “Y’know what? I’m done.”

His hand closes around the doorknob, and your voice comes out shaky and panicked as you whisper, “Katsuki, please just sit down and—”

“I’m not fuckin’ doin’ this shit anymore.”

Then he yanks the door open and walks right back out, slamming it hard enough behind him to rattle the picture frames on the wall.

────────────────────────

Katsuki is six when he first asks his father what the fuck the old man even sees in the hag that is his mother. He remembers the conversation vividly. 

“Dad, why did you marry Mom? She’s grumpy and old, and she yells all the time,” little Katsuki asks, crossing his tiny arms over his chest. “Why d’you even like her?”

Masaru nearly chokes on his tea. “Katsuki,” he coughs. “Your mother isn’t old. You shouldn’t say that—it’s rude.”

“But she is,” he huffs. “She smells like an old lady, too.”

“Well, if she’s old, then I’m even older,” Masaru points out, taking another sip. “So that can’t be a very good reason not to like her.”

“Well, she’s mean.”

“She’s not mean,” his father chuckles, thoroughly amused. 

No matter how many times he sees it, Katsuki doesn’t understand it—the way his father gets that dumb, starry-eyed look whenever Mitsuki comes up. She’s always in a bad mood, and if she isn’t, she’s probably due for one within the next thirty minutes. Why his father would choose to marry such a sour lady is completely beyond his six-year-old comprehension.

“She yelled at me this morning,” he sulks.

“You tried to use your explosions inside the house,” Masaru reminds him, leveling him with a pointed look. “We talked about that. Rules are rules for a reason, young man.”

Katsuki pouts harder. His father is supposed to take his side.

“But she still yelled. And it was mean,” he argues back stubbornly. Masaru only smiles into his tea, shaking his head with fond amusement. For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then Katsuki presses again, “So what do you even like about her?”

The question seems to catch Masaru off guard. He pauses, thinking. “Well,” he says slowly, “she’s funny.”

Katsuki blinks. His father cannot possibly be serious. “Mom?”

“Yes.”

“She’s funny?”

“Very.”

“No, she isn’t,” Katsuki says immediately, deeply offended by the blatant lie.

Masaru laughs, “She is.” Katsuki stares at him like he’s completely lost his mind. Masaru only smiles wider. “She’s honest, too. You always know what she’s thinking.”

“That’s because she says whatever she thinks.”

“Exactly.”

“And she says it loud.”

“That’s true.”

“She says it really loud, Dad.”

Masaru nods solemnly, sighing. “Also very true, son.”

“She should shut up,” Katsuki huffs. His father fixes him with a stern look at that, and he shrinks back just a little. 

“We do not say that about our mother, Katsuki.”

Katsuki rolls his eyes but slumps deeper into his chair all the same. “Fine.”

“Your mother is wonderful,” his father says. “She works hard. She cares about people. She loves our family—she loves us. One day, you’ll see that. And when you do, I think you’ll appreciate her a lot more.”

Katsuki picks at the food on his plate, turning the words over in his head. 

His mother does love him—he knows that much, even if she is annoying. She remembers all the snacks he likes and somehow always comes home with them without him ever having to ask. Whenever he asks for money, she gives him more than he requested—even if it usually costs him an irritatingly painful pinch to the cheek. She wakes up early to bathe him despite complaining about losing sleep because he prefers morning baths to evening ones.

His mother loves him; he knows that to be true. But it’s only true because she is his mother, and he is her son. Mothers love their sons—it’s the rules. Why his father would willingly choose to love that woman remains completely incomprehensible, however, in his mind.

“Mom is super annoying,” he says bluntly.

Masaru’s smile softens. “I suppose sometimes she can be, yes.”

“See?” Katsuki perks up immediately, his entire face screaming, gotcha!

“But,” Masaru continues, “I’m sure I annoy her, too.”

Katsuki deflates on the spot. 

More than that, he simply cannot imagine such a thing being possible. His father is calm and nice and makes good food. Katsuki thinks lots of women would like his father—women who also would not find Masaru annoying. The only person allowed to find Masaru annoying is Katsuki himself, and that’s because his father makes rules that Katsuki has to follow. He thinks he’s earned that right.

His mother, however, has no such excuse.

“She gets annoyed with you?” he asks incredulously.

“Of course. Every day, I’m sure there’s something I do that annoys her at least a little.”

“Then why does she like you?”

Masaru thinks for a moment, carefully choosing his words, trying to explain this odd phenomenon that is love. “Because loving someone isn’t about finding a person who never annoys you,” he says finally. “It’s about finding someone who still sees your value even when you’re annoying. Someone who chooses you anyway. Does that make sense?”

His nose wrinkles immediately. “No.” His father stifles a chuckle when Katsuki adds, “That sounds dumb.”

“Maybe,” Masaru hums, eyeing him with bright, endeared eyes.

“I’m not gonna marry someone annoying when I’m all big. Because I’m smart!”

That earns him a full laugh from his father. It’s the kind of laugh that makes Masaru lean forward and wipe at the corner of his eye. In fact, he laughs so hard he nearly spills his tea. “You say that now,” his father says, setting his mug down, “but that’ll change. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“No, I won’t,” Katsuki grumbles. He doesn’t appreciate that he’s not being taken seriously.

“I think you will, son.”

“I definitely won’t.”

Masaru only smiles. He looks at Katsuki the way adults always do when they think he’s young and silly and doesn’t know what he’s talking about. And Katsuki hates that look. He’s smart—excellent, even. Just the other day, he caught his teacher’s mistake during subtraction when nobody else in his class noticed. At this rate, he’s well on his way to being smarter than most adults.

He absolutely knows what he’s talking about.

“Well, we’ll just have to see, Katsuki. If I’m right, you’ll take me out for ramen someday. Deal?”

“Fine,” Katsuki huffs, puffing out his chest confidently. “But you’ll never see that ramen.”

────────────────────────

Twenty years later, Katsuki sometimes wonders if he’s going to have to admit he was wrong and take the old man out for ramen after all.

You are, without question, the most annoying, irritating, vein-popping individual he has ever met. It’s like every decision you make is carefully calculated to inconvenience him specifically.

He has to keep an extra jacket in his car because you never check the weather before leaving the house. He has to double-check your grocery lists before you go shopping because if he doesn’t, you’ll somehow forget the one thing you actually need. He has to make sure you take your vitamins. Every night, he has to remind you to take your makeup off before bed because, apparently, that responsibility has become his problem—and if you wake up the next morning with mascara smeared under your eyes because you didn’t listen to him, then somehow you still find a way to blame him for not wiping it for you.

You are annoying. Every single fucking day, you annoy him. You annoyed him yesterday. You’ve annoyed him today. You’ll annoy him tomorrow. And he’ll tell you exactly that—he’ll call you a dumbass, and tell you to get your life together. Complain about the ridiculous thing you did this time, and accuse you of going out of your way to make his life harder on purpose. But after that, despite it all, he will still love you. 

Twenty years later, now that he’s older, Katsuki realizes he understands what his father meant. That loving someone doesn’t happen because they never annoyed him—loving someone happens because they annoyed him, and he still, despite that, sees nothing but the good.

He loves you. You are annoying and drive him up a wall, but Katsuki knows that you are good. The greatest good that there might ever be, and he might have just ruined it. He probably fucked it all up and lost all the good he had. All the good he’s ever wanted. All the good that he’s wanted to keep for the rest of his life and cherish.

The second the apartment door slams shut behind him, Katsuki regrets it. He regrets being the reason behind that look on your face. That brief flash of panic in your eyes right before he left. That way that your voice sounded when you said his name.

He can’t get it out of his head as he walks out of your building. “Fuck,” He runs a hand through his hair and keeps walking.

The only friends he’d willingly see right now are working, his parents are definitely sleeping (and would ask too many questions he doesn’t want to answer, even if they weren’t), and he is nowhere near calm enough to go back upstairs and just go home.

But his patrol route is still active. So instead of going home and into bed like a normal person who has morning patrol, Katsuki leaves his apartment building behind and heads toward work.

By the time he gets suited up again, it’s almost eleven. By the time it’s midnight, he’s still out. By the time it’s 1 AM, he should call it a night.

Instead, however, he keeps moving. One more block turns into one more street. Anything to keep himself from going home or thinking about the argument. About the way you looked at him. About the things he said. About the shit he ruined for sure.

His thoughts are loud enough in his head, turning him deaf to everything else. He misses things he normally wouldn’t—things like suspicious shadows and warning shouts from another hero.

By the time Katsuki realizes what’s happening for what it is, the villain goes down easily enough—too easily. He curses himself for being so naive, so rash. He’s been fighting as a pro for years. He was a war veteran before he was even a legal adult, for crying out loud. Still, despite all that, the second Katsuki realizes something is wrong, it’s already too late.

The construction site groans around him—metal screeches against metal, and his head snaps upward. All he sees is the upper half of the structure collapsing before he loses his balance and collapses with it. 

“Shit—”

The explosion leaves his palms a fraction of a second too late, and he doesn’t go propelling forward the way he’s supposed to. The half-built building comes down, and Katsuki goes down with it. 

Then everything goes dark.

────────────────────────

It’s 2 AM when you see it on the news. Kirishima sends you a text asking if you’d heard what happened, and by the time you’ve spammed him with messages asking what the hell he was even talking about, he’s gone silent. Something in your gut knows that he’s not answering because he’s too busy rescuing. Too busy being a hero.

Your heart tells you that the person he has to be a hero to tonight just so happens to be Katsuki.

The first report you see hits the news at 2:13 AM. The anchor’s voice is as smooth and polished as ever as she delivers the words that send your whole world crumbling around you. 

“We are receiving breaking reports of a major incident involving Pro Hero Dynamight.”

The footage that floods the screen makes you fall to your knees and muffle your sobs behind a shaky palm—collapsed concrete and emergency responders and heroes rushing in and out of the wreckage. The camera zooms toward the ruined construction site, and Katsuki’s body is nowhere to be seen on the screen. You don’t quite know if that’s a good thing or bad.

“Dynamight was reportedly responding to a villain incident when a structural collapse occurred. We are told he is trapped beneath the rubble. Emergency responders are currently on the scene, conducting rescue operations.”

At 2:37 AM, the hospital gives you a call as his emergency contact. You’re sick to your stomach, not sure how you’ll make the drive there when Kirishima finally texts you again.

Kiri <3: I already told his parents. They’re on their way so don’t worry about it Kiri <3: One of my sidekicks is outside your apartment. They’ll drive you down there Kiri <3: I still have to handle the aftermath and finish patrol so I won’t be there I’m sorry Kiri <3: Keep me updated?

You: Don’t apologize Kiri idk what I’d do without u You: Thank you and pls be safe You: I’ll lyk things as soon as I find out

Kiri <3: Take it easy okay? Kiri <3: He’s come back from worse. It’ll be alright

——

Kirishima’s sidekick gets you to the hospital efficiently, but you are still at your wits’ end by the time you can rush out of the passenger seat and bolt through the sliding doors.

Some part of you is grateful you didn’t have to drive here yourself because you know you would’ve sped dangerously over the limit, missed half the red lights, and probably would’ve gotten yourself pulled over. At the same time, you wish you could’ve been the one behind the wheel, just to get here faster.

“I’m here to see Kats—um, Dynamight,” you say in a rush. “Dynamight…I meant Dynamight.”

The woman at the front desk looks at you with a raised eyebrow, already typing away at her screen as she blandly says, “Valid ID, please.”

You curse under your breath, fumbling through your purse for your wallet, and then fumbling through your wallet for your ID like your hands suddenly don’t belong to your body anymore.

When you practically shove it toward her in your haste, she takes it too calmly for your racing heart and inspects it for a moment. Then looks at her screen. Then back to your ID. Then she types for what feels like an agonizing eternity before she finally hands the card back and says, “Fourth floor, room twelve. He’s stable, but he has some serious injuries that they’ll have to monitor and heal slowly due to his stamina—”

You’re already moving before she finishes. You’re bolting toward the elevators, heart slamming so hard it hurts. The ride up to the fourth floor is torturously slow. When you finally get out of the elevator, you’re halfway down the hallway before you even register the security guard stepping in front of you.

“ID.” Again. Of course. You suppose it is a good thing security is tight for the pro hero unit—even if it does add to your piling weight of anxiety. When you clumsily pull it yet again, he checks it for another cruelly long stretch of time, glancing between the card and the device in his hands before finally saying, “Go ahead.”

You’re already moving.

By the time you reach room twelve, your hands are shaking so badly you can barely hold yourself still. For a moment, you just stand there, frozen. Would Katsuki even want to see you? Is he fed up with you? Would you just make his already terrible night even worse?

You aren’t sure.

You don’t know why you’re in the predicament you’re in right now. You don’t know how you got here or why things escalated the way that they did. You don’t know what you do wrong to push his buttons the way you seem to, to upset him the way that he gets. You think you’re doing the right thing—that you’re doing what’s right for both of you—but somehow, you always seem to mess it up. Always seem to say the wrong thing. Always seem to ruin whatever good the two of you have managed to build between you.

But you love Katsuki, and if nothing else, you know that he loves you too, and you need to see him. So you force down the bile in your throat and push the door open. The first thing you notice when you see him is the bandages wrapped tightly around him. One arm heavily secured in a cast. Gauze lining his shoulder and collarbone that makes your stomach drop in a sick, immediate lurch. Machines hum quietly beside him, keeping track of his vitals.

You never see Katsuki hurt like this—he’s always been practically invincible when he’s on the field, always taking things down before they have a chance at even touching him. And then your brain, cruelly, supplies the thought: but he is not invincible. Not always.

“Katsuki,” you whisper, eyes already welling with tears.

He’s looking at you the second the door opens—but his tired eyes soften with relief, just a little, when they land on you. “You came,” he says, voice rough.

“Of course I came,” you say, sharper than you mean to. How could he think you wouldn’t? How far have you let things go that he could genuinely believe you wouldn’t show up for him? “What the hell happened?”

He sighs, almost embarrassed. “Just…work ‘n shit.”

You sniffle, and he lifts his good arm toward you. That’s all it takes. 

You’re at his side in an instant, squeezing into the small space beside him on the hospital bed and curling yourself against his chest. You’re careful not to disturb any of the machines surrounding him, but you can’t stop thinking about how wrong this feels. How you shouldn’t be the one being comforted right now. How he’s the one lying in a hospital bed, yet somehow he’s still the one rubbing your back and soothing your tears.

“I thought you were gonna die,” you sob. “I—I saw the rubble, and Kiri stopped texting back and...and I thought you got crushed.”

“M’not fuckin’ dying, babe,” he huffs, sounding mildly offended. “A stupid building isn’t killin’ me. That’s a dumbass way to go.”

“You don’t know that,” you shake your head. “You can’t promise that.”

“Listen—”

“And I was sitting there watching the news and thinking the last conversation I ever had with you was that stupid fight,” you continue, looking up at him with trembling lips.

His eyes soften. “I know, but—”

“And I don’t care about the argument anymore,” you say, your voice shaking harder now. “I don’t care about being right or winning or being apologized to first—I should’ve texted you, you’re right. You...you probably felt like I didn’t care, but I do. I care so much, and I love you more than anything.”

You take a breath that does absolutely nothing to steady you. Katsuki is trying to wipe your tears away with one weak arm.

“I love you too—”

“I just want you to talk to me,” you sob. “I know I’m annoying, and I nag and scold and get onto you all the time, and I’m trying not to do that as much—really, I am! But I just...I wish you’d tell me things, too. Y’know? I am the one person you’re supposed to do that with, Katsuki,” you add, your voice cracking all over again. “But sometimes, it feels like I’m the last person you want to do that with.”

His expression tightens. “That’s not—”

“And I want us to work because I’ve never liked someone so much—it stresses me out. Because I love you and I want this to work, and the thought of it not working makes me so anxious I wanna throw up, and...and you act like talking to me is harder than getting crushed under a fucking building—”

“Baby.” He squeezes your cheeks together and silences you as he pulls your face closer, pressing a kiss to your puckered lips. “You talk a lot, y’know that?”

You huff at him immediately, tears spilling down your cheeks even faster. “That is so rude, given the—”

“I’m sorry about the fight,” he interrupts. You pause, and he takes the opportunity to keep going, despite looking painfully uncomfortable the entire time. “And for...walkin’ out ‘n shit. That was fucked up. I don’t talk to you like I should. You’re right. S’weird for me, and I hate it sometimes. I don’t know how to just...say shit like you do. Okay?” He sighs. “But m’gonna try more because you’re right—I need to talk to you. But you gotta get outta your head so much—” He gives your forehead a small jab with his finger. You sniffle and swat his hand away with a watery scowl. It earns the faintest grin from him. “We’re gonna work,” he says. “’Cause we do. That’s all there is to it, okay?”

“But—”

“No buts,” he grumbles. “My ribs hurt. Jus’ let me be right.”

A watery laugh escapes you as you shake your head, cupping his bandaged face between your hands. “You’re really annoying sometimes, Katsuki.”

“Yeah,” he rolls his eyes. “So are you. Still love you, though.”

“Me too,” you breathe, leaning down to kiss the tip of his nose. “Love you so much.”

He pulls you back down against his chest again, rubbing your back as you listen to the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. You trace small patterns into his shirt. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. And things are okay—they are not beyond repairing. You’ll inevitably annoy him tomorrow, and he’ll annoy you the day after that, but you’ll still work. You will still find a way to keep things good the way they always are.

After a few quiet moments, he mumbles, “Hey.” When you look up, he says, “When m’all healed and shit, you gotta force me to go grab ramen with my old man. On me.”

────────────────────────

Katsuki waits almost a month after being discharged from the hospital before he finally makes the call. He’s been trying to stall it for as long as possible, but Katsuki, even at the tender age of six, has always been a man (or boy) of his word. He’s standing alone on the balcony outside his apartment with his phone pressed to his ear, wondering if it’s too late to hang up before the call goes through.

It rings twice. Then his father’s voice is as gentle and cheery as ever. “Katsuki!” Masaru answers immediately. “Hi, son!”

“Yeah, yeah. Hey.”

His father laughs. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I got discharged, didn’t I? S’been a whole month.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re sounding just like your usual self,” his father says. Katsuki can hear the smile in his voice. “What’s up?”

“Nothin’.”

“Katsuki, you never call for just nothing.”

He groans, rubbing a hand over his face with a sigh—it’s now or never. He can’t keep stalling, and Katsuki is, and always has been, a man of his word. If he promised his father ramen over a stupid bet he made twenty years ago, then he’s going to get his father that ramen. Even if it kills his pride. Demolishes it, even.

“Listen, I was thinkin’...maybe we could grab food sometime.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Masaru hums. “Let me ask your mother when she’s free and—”

“Not the hag. S’just you,” he cuts in, rubbing at his temple.

“Oh?” Masaru sounds amused. “Well, okay. I suppose it’d be nice to spend some time as just father and son. What kind of food?”

Katsuki pinches the bridge of his nose. Just say it. Just fuckin’ say it, his mind urges. Just rip the bandage off and say it. Say it. Say the damn word—he grits his teeth and forces out, “Ramen.”

There’s a pause on the other end. The silence stretches on long enough that Katsuki’s eye twitches.

“Ramen, huh?” Masaru finally says, and the way he says it makes a vein all but pop in Katsuki's forehead.

“Old man,” he says warningly, “don’t push it—”

He’s cut off when Masaru starts laughing. “I was wondering when this day would come.”

“Hah? You really kept that shit in your head for twenty years?”

“Of course I did. It was one of my favorite conversations I’ve ever had with you.”

“Why? ‘Cause you love bein’ fuckin’ right all the time?” Katsuki grumbles.

His father’s voice softens as he says fondly, “No. I just wanted you to find someone who made you as happy as your mother makes me. That’s all I wanted, son—for you to understand what being happy is like.”

The conversation is getting oddly sentimental, taking a turn that makes his chest feel strange, and his heart feel far too fragile. He hasn’t felt like this since after the war, and he doesn’t intend to sit with it any longer. So he mutters, “I still think Mom’s annoying. She yelled at me last week, so she never fuckin’ changes.”

Masaru laughs again. “No, she doesn’t.” Then, after a moment, “So, how does Saturday sound for some ramen?”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

“Will my son be paying?”

Katsuki regrets this call more than anything when he says, “Yes. I’m fuckin’ paying.”

“You know, son,” Masaru murmurs, making Katsuki pause, “I’m glad you get it now. You’ve grown into a fine man.”

Katsuki swallows hard. He turns, eyeing you as you sleep soundly in your shared bed, hugging his pillow to make up for his absence. He can only hope that his father’s words are true—that he is a fine man to you, the way his father always has been to his mother. His eyes never leave your figure as he mutters, “Yeah, well…s’not like I had a bad example or somethin’.”

so anyway i had an argument with my bf the other day but he did not get into an accident and he did not get injured so dont worry. the argument was technically my fault, but im cute and he loves me so its okay <3

[rinaxs]

while taking your wedding pictures in a park, little kids come up to you believing you're a magical princess! so obviously sukuna is your knight in shining armor!

it was supposed to be a simple photo-shoot; one setting of many to come. the park was beautiful and the nature was perfect for the vibe you were going for so it was only natural to take your pictures there. you and sukuna had taken your first look pictures here and of course, he cried no matter how much he tried to stop the waterworks. you were now taking your solo shots, the wind blowing in your veil and dress making the shots perfect. so perfect that you seemed to attract a crowd of onlookers— very tiny onlookers.

you heard their whispers and turned to the side to see a small group of children crowded together. they point at you and mutter as sukuna narrows his eyes slightly, he never was a fan of the leeches called children.

"oh hi there!" you say, voice kind. "i'm sorry, were you guys trying to play here in the grass?"

sukuna is close to telling them to scram when one of the young girls steps forward, "miss, are you a princess?" the others behind her nod in agreement and you even hear comments of them calling you magical.

your heart swells at this, "oh sweetie, i'm not a princess."

"you have to be!" one of the boys exclaims, seeming to be sure of himself. "you're pretty like a princess and you're wearing a dress!"

"yeah and he's a knight!" another girl says, pointing at sukuna who was standing to the side, arms crossed.

before sukuna can even defend himself, another adult jogs up to them. "oh my goodness, i am so sorry! kids lets go, leave the nice lady to take her pictures." the woman seems to be a mother of some of the children and she tries to usher them away as she apologizes to you.

"please, can we take a picture with the princess!" one of the kids asks. the others are quick with their pleads, all asking to get a picture and talk with you, the "princess".

the mom goes to apologize again but you wave her off, "i truly don't mind taking a pictures with the kiddos." the kids cheer and swerve around the woman just as you finish your sentence. and while they swarm around you, you can tell that they are careful to not step on your dress. you crouch down to be at their level as you compliment their hair and ask them what they like to play at the park. some of them are still shy, truly believing that you were a magical princess from some story book. the others were lively and asked you all sorts of questions. like what kind of princess you were, where your kingdom was, and why your knight seemed so grumpy. you ultimately gave up on trying to convince them that you were no princess but you did laugh at the comment of them asking why your knight was always seen with a scowl.

you take your pictures with them, some on their parents' phones and others with your photographer. after all, how perfect was it to capture this moment. being authentically called a princess on your wedding day was practically a sign from the universe. just before the kids leave, they all to take one last group photo but this time, with your 'grumpy knight'.

"you must be pretty strong to protect the princess, huh mister knight," one of the boys asks.

sukuna doesn't know why, but even he decides to play along, "gotta protect her from the monsters, kid."

the kids are in awe and sukuna doesn't even know what possessed him to pick up two of the kids and put one on each shoulder. all the kids giggle in excitement as two more kids jump on him, one on each arm that was used to keep the kids on his shoulders stable. the last kid is the girl that first approached you. you pick her up and tell the kids to smile at the cameras. after some photos were snapped, you and sukuna put the kids down even with their protests. each of their respective parents come to take them away, all apologizing for the trouble and offering congratulations on your wedding.

as the kids wave you goodbye, you see sukuna wave back out of the corner of your eye. you turn to him with a grin on your face, "since when were you such a fan of kids, ryo?"

"i'm not," he says gruffly, quickly putting his hand down to stop waving. "hate those booger brats."

"mhm, sure you do."

EXTRA: years after your wedding and a handful of anniversaries, you always find yourself looking through the photo album of your wedding. no matter how many times you look at the photos, you always find yourself stopping at a certain page. the page that contained several pictures of you and sukuna at the park surrounded by children that were not yours.

sukuna finds you reminiscing on the photo album and doesn't even need to look to know exactly what page you're on.

"wonder where those brats are at now," sukuna says. you hum in response, allowing him to continue with, "probably still walking around calling your ass a princess."

"are you saying im not a princess, ryomen?"

"with how long i've been married to you? you're a queen now, baby."

a/n: first post in a while omg. ive been working back to back #freeme (i say knowing i asked for that sched so i could make money) this is also based off the cutest tt i saw last week but forgot to save :(( ALSO WANTED TO BUST THIS OUT DURING COMMERICIAL. MY CREAM CHEESE CHIVE KNICKS IN FIVEEEEE

taglist: @cttelina @bunbun812 @oksukuna @kriitee @bleepybl00p @sailormarsinanotherlife

[itadoriahh]

YUUJI & THE GANG 🗣️‼️

[nanamineedstherapy]

Muscle Memory

Fushiguro Toji x Wife!Reader (ft. Rest of the JJK Men talking about their wives)

Summary: Toji goes to a “boys’ night” and realizes he can list his wife’s body from memory—but not her life. One skipped night of sex turns their house cold, and he finally drags them into couples therapy to learn how to ask questions he should’ve asked years ago.

Warnings: Marital strain, emotional neglect, miscommunication, sex as a coping mechanism, emotional dependency/codependency themes, alcohol/drinking, references to self-neglect/burnout, therapy sessions/mental health themes, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending. WC: 1.3k.

A/N: This is Toji trying to love like a real husband instead of a reflex. It’s messy, it’s late, and it’s a lot of “we’ve been fine” until they aren’t. Reader’s got issues, Toji’s got issues, and Megumi is the only functional person in the house. No canon accuracy promised—just feelings, bad habits, and one man learning his wife is a person, not a routine.

The flower & engagement banners are mine; line dividers are by @omi-resources.

It was Gojo’s dumb idea.

“We should have a boys’ night. Y’know, for mental health.”

Toji didn’t even remember saying yes.

He just remembered the flicker of tiredness on Megumi’s face when he said he was going. The way his kid had just blinked, like, "Huh. Really?." Like Toji wasn’t the kind of man who got dragged to things like this. Like he wasn’t the kind of man who only said yes to one person now, and that person wasn’t Megumi anymore.

And maybe that’s where it started. They met in a dimly lit bar, all of them, each holding their drinks with varying levels of detachment or desperation. It was noisy enough that no one could hear themselves think.

Gojo was already talking over the music. “So she—I shit you not—she bought three different kinds of milk. Oat, soy, and goat. Because she ‘felt bad’ for the fridge.”

Nanami sighed. “That’s called empathy, Gojo. Something you should try.”

“Empathy my ass. I’m lactose intolerant. She did this on purpose.”

Kashimo chuckled dryly, leaning back. “Mine started labeling my own tools. Like I’m a guest in my damn house. I asked her where the Allen keys were, and she gave me a PowerPoint presentation. Printed.”

“That’s a love language,” Choso muttered, half-asleep into his beer. “Control through order. Passive caretaking. My girlfriend does it too. It’s soothing.”

“Mine leaves me cryptic notes,” Geto said, rubbing his temples. “Like I’ll wake up to a sticky note that just says, ‘Remember the giraffe.’ And then she won’t explain it. For days.”

“Are you sure she loves you?” Sukuna asked with a grin, swirling his whiskey. “Mine stabbed me last week.”

Everyone froze.

“In my defense, I deserved it,” he added cheerfully.

Toji stayed quiet for most of it. Sipped his drink. Watched the condensation run down the glass like sweat on a gunmetal barrel.

They all knew things about their partners. Dumb things. Beautiful things. Annoying, human, real things.

Toji… didn’t.

When it came time to share, Kashimo smirked and elbowed him. “C’mon, Fushiguro. Your wife’s hot and weird. Bet she’s a freak.”

“Yeah,” Gojo grinned, licking the salt off his margarita rim. “Tell us something she does that drives you crazy but makes you love her more.”

Toji stared into his glass. Heard the buzz of a fly trapped in the overhead light. Thought about how she always ran her fingers up his hair when she thought he was asleep.

"...She doesn't organize her underwears," he finally said. "I thought women were supposed to be organized. I find them in my clothes. Sometimes even tucked between my shirts. Even the thongs. It's fucked."

“Jesus,” Kashimo muttered, impressed.

"That's normal," Higuruma finally spoke up. "Mine doesn't organize anything either except for things she thinks are essential to me. Like medicine or documents."

But the table moved on too quickly. The topic changed to kitchen fights, holidays, dream vacations, anniversaries. Nanami casually mentioned his wife’s favorite café and how she liked her tea with yuzu honey only in spring because she associated the taste with safety.

Toji…

He didn’t know what season she liked best. Didn’t know if she had a favorite café. Didn’t know what her face looked like when she was dreaming.

He knew what she looked like writhing underneath him. That was muscle memory.

But he didn’t know what she looked like when she cried.

Because she never cried. Not once.

Not even when Megumi told her he’d been suspended for punching that teacher.

Not when she came home from 16-hour shifts at work.

Not when he’d come home bleeding and said, "Don’t fuss, it’s not deep."

They fought sometimes, sure. Mostly over the little things. Dinner. The door left open. Him not texting back.

But every fight ended in the same way—her fingers in his hair, her lips swallowing his apologies, her back arching like she needed him to erase the conflict from her body before it touched her heart.

And every time, he gave it to her. Without question.

But now… he wondered if that was all she’d ever wanted from him.

When Megumi picked him up that night, Toji was drunk enough to be honest.

“Your new mom. She talk to you?” he asked, half-slurred.

Megumi glanced over, annoyed. “What kind of question is that?”

“About her day. Her job. Her—fuckin’ dreams. I dunno. Herself.”

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t she?”

Toji didn’t answer. He just stared at the glovebox like it was about to kill him.

Megumi was quiet for a while. Then, softer, he added, “She makes me lunch when I study. Leaves notes on the tupperware. Wrote ‘Do crimes, not meth’ once. It was funny. She doesn’t talk much about her past, though. Just...listens a lot.”

“Huh,” Toji said flatly. It was the closest he’d come to jealousy in years.

---

The next time she touched him, he didn’t respond.

She kissed his jaw, slow. Pressed her thighs around him, hot. Laughed softly against his throat. “C’mon, baby. We’re alone tonight.”

He turned his face away.

"...You tired?" she asked, uncertain now. Her voice almost small.

“Not tonight,” he said.

She crawled off him like he hit her.

---

Three days. That’s how long it took before she started spiraling.

The laundry was folded too hard. The dishes clinked too. She stopped humming. Stopped entering rooms he was in. And when she did, it was always with a guarded glance, like she was waiting to be punished or abandoned.

Toji watched her with something like dread.

She wasn’t angry. Wasn’t icy. She was… floating. Unanchored.

And he realized—she didn’t know how to ask to be seen. Didn’t know how to talk about herself because no one had ever asked before.

And he—dumb, muscle-headed, emotionally bankrupt Toji Fushiguro—had been fucking her like she was his wife without ever learning what her favorite season was.

---

He booked it without telling her.

She stared when he drove them to the building. Read the sign twice.

"...Couples therapy?"

He didn't look at her. Just muttered, “We’ve been together five years. And I don’t know your favorite color.”

“I—baby, that’s not—”

“No,” he said. “I don’t know your birthday. I don’t know what you’re scared of. I don’t know your childhood. I don’t even know if you like me outside of sex.”

She swallowed hard. Her hands clutched her coat.

“I thought I did,” he said. “I thought we were fine. But maybe you just needed a body. And I gave you mine.”

Her voice cracked. “You think I used you?”

“I think you disappear every time I try to see you.”

---

The therapist’s office smelled like sandalwood and rules. Toji hated it.

But she talked.

Not all at once. Not cleanly. But in pieces, like broken glass pushed gently across the table.

“I didn’t grow up being asked what I wanted,” she said. “And when I was…it was always conditional.”

Her hands twisted in her lap.

“Sex felt safe. Predictable. I knew what you wanted. I could give it. I didn’t have to ask for anything else. I—I thought you liked it that way.”

“I liked you,” he said, hoarsely.

She looked up, blinking. “You did?”

“I still do.”

The therapist smiled faintly. “Sounds like your love languages are out of sync. But not incompatible.”

Toji grunted. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means she gives love by avoiding herself. And you receive love by knowing the other person.”

“…So we’re screwed.”

“No,” the therapist said. “You just need new rituals.”

---

That night, he didn’t touch her.

He just sat beside her on the couch and asked:

“What’s your favorite season?”

She turned towards him. “W-What?”

“Humor me.”

She paused.

Then—quietly, like she was giving him a key:

“Autumn. It feels like time’s slowing down. Like you can breathe without apologizing. And because Halloween 🎃.”

Toji nodded. Took her hand. Interlaced their fingers.

“You ever cry?”

She laughed wetly. “Only when I’m alone.”

“Well,” he said, “You’re not alone anymore.”

And she finally—finally—leaned her head on his shoulder.

Not to seduce.

Not to distract.

Just to stay.

A/N: I feel like Toji would be a sweet husband when he wasn't traumatized. 💚

Masterlist

[nanamineedstherapy]

I'll wait for you

F1 Driver Soft! Ex-Ryomen Sukuna x F!Reader (Satoru's sister)

+ Brojo being the absolute best brother around.

Summary: You got stood up at a local fair by a man from Hinge, then got trapped beside your ex, and remembered that Ryomen Sukuna could drive a Ferrari for a living but still get scared by carnival rides. Then you relearn that Sukuna still knew your usual order, your cat hates him on sight, and your brother had once told you to stop throwing your life away for him. (Ft. Gojo Satoru, Catoru, Takako Uro & mentioned Geto Suguru Slander).

Or, Satoru got sick a few years ago & you haven't been the same since. Will the F1 driver be able to get you back?

Based on this poll. WC: 6.5K.

Warnings: Contains Fic Spoilers, Crack treated seriously, fluff, exes to lovers, hurt/comfort, mentions of illness (metastatic uveal melanoma (ocular cancer with secondary poliosis)), brief panic attack/sensory overwhelm in public but don't worry Sukuna’s there, nothing graphic & good ending.

A/N: I have never cried this much while writing a fic (at Satoru's parts.) Not beta read; I'll reread it once I'm not smelling colors. Playlist

You arrived at the fair in an outfit that made men stupider, which meant Suguru from Hinge had chosen a historic day to become legally dead to you.

The skirt and the boots were new. The lipstick was so expensive that it made you eat fries with caution and drink water through a straw held at an angle. You had spent twenty minutes deciding between earrings, then another ten pretending that decision said anything meaningful about you on a first date.

Suguru had sent you a voice note that morning.

Can’t wait to finally see you.

He had a calm voice and a nice laugh. One month and a half of decent conversation, book recommendations, a very confident opinion about soup dumplings, and enough green flags that you had lowered your guard by four percent to show up here without thinking of ending up on Dateline.

You checked your phone again.

7:16 PM.

The meeting time had been 6:30.

You called once more, and it went straight to ringing, then voicemail.

You stared opened your chat with Uro.

You: i hope all his hair falls out.

Uro: Did he arrive?

You: if he did he is doing a stealth mission.

Uro: Men from dating apps need ankle monitors.

You: i wore the boots.

Uro: The black ones?

You: yes.

Uro: Jail.

you: he hasn’t picked up once.

Uro: Jail with soap drops.

You stood near a booth where a man in a foam hot-dog hat shouted about ring toss prizes. A toddler screamed at a plush duck. Couples passed with paper trays of fries and stupidly linked hands. Then you got startled by a generator coughing behind the cotton candy stand.

Your phone buzzed again.

Uro: I have to pick up my niece from my sister’s. She tried to feed a Lego to the dog.

you: that’s advanced.

Uro: I’d have brought her, but she's three, so fairs are still beyond her. Go enjoy the place. You already paid for parking and the outfit.

you: I got stood up.

Uro: But your boots are innocent, babes. Just eat overpriced food, and have fun. God knows you need it.

You looked down at your boots.

They really were.

you: fine. if i die on a carnival ride-

Uro: I’ll sue the park.

You put your phone away and bought cotton candy from a teenager. Pink sugar melted against your tongue. It was too sweet, coating your teeth, but the outrageousness helped.

The fair had a local committee feel—half the lights flickered, the prizes looked as if they had been won in divorce court, a banner near the main stage promised LIVE MUSIC AT 8 but the band currently tuning looked prepubescent.

You wandered because you were good at taking yourself out. That skill had come from practice. Movies, cafes, bookstores, and whole birthdays turned into errands because if you waited for people to show up on time, you spent half your life facing an empty chair.

So you did the stalls.

You threw darts at balloons and missed every single one, which the booth guy treated as a genuine tragedy.

You watched a little boy win a plastic sword bigger than his arm and immediately whack his father in the shin.

You texted Uro a photo of a plush frog with one eye sewn higher than the other.

you: this is suguru.

Uro: Too handsome.

you: true. suguru had better hair.

Uro: Frog has better commitment.

You laughed and got powdered sugar on your lips.

By the time you reached the rides, the sun had dropped behind the school building beside the fairground. The Tilt-A-Whirl sat near the back, painted red and yellow, its bulbs blinking in frantic loops. The cars spun in drunken circles while a group of teenagers shrieked.

Your stomach did a happy little flip with them.

You loved rides that ruined balance—Ferris wheels were pretty, carousels felt decorative, and the Tilt-A-Whirl was nonsense with bolts. It made your insides lift and swoop, and for three minutes your head cleared out.

You bought a ticket and climbed into an empty two-person car with your cotton candy tucked against your side. You hoped the operator would forget about you or place a woman beside you.

You continued to eat through your leftover cotton candy while looking at what other rides you could go on after this one.

The car dipped as someone sat right next to you.

You half turned.

Tattoos.

Black Line Tattoos.

Your hand clenched around the paper cone.

He was looking away, one elbow braced on the edge of the car, his phone in his hand. His hair was shorter than when you had last seen him. He wore a black jacket over a plain t-shirt, and the side of his neck still had that faint tan line from racing gear. He looked rich in the way drivers did after sponsors got involved—expensive, mildly sleep-deprived, capable of getting photographed beside a model and smirking through the headline.

You looked away so fast your neck nearly clicked.

Fine. Fine. He hadn’t seen you.

Maybe.

The fair was crowded. The ride was loud. The universe had placed him next to you as a practical joke, but you had survived worse jokes.

You reached for the lap bar to lift it.

It locked.

The operator gave the car a bored shove.

The ride started.

Your soul left your outfit.

Sukuna still hadn’t turned. He was watching someone by the fence. You followed his line of sight without moving your head much and caught sight of Yuji waving both arms while Choso held a paper plate piled with funnel cake. Some younger cousin or family friend bounced beside them with a flashing wand—so they were out on family night.

Aww cute.

No.

Horrible.

Your exit routes had been sealed by machinery and his entire goddamn bloodline.

The first spin was mild—your car rolled around the platform, gaining momentum. Wind pulled at your hair, and the cotton candy trembled in your grip.

Sukuna’s knee hit the side.

You tried to look at him from the corner of your eye without turning fully toward him.

His jaw had tightened.

Oh.

You remembered now.

He could take corners at speeds that made sports commentators develop religion. He could slide a car through rain, through smoke, through the hideous math of another driver trying to cut him off.

Yet put him on a county fair ride operated by a boy named Mason with an energy drink, and Ryomen Sukuna became a trapped alien.

The car swung harder.

His hand landed on the seat between you, palm pressed flat.

You turned your face away and bit the inside of your cheek.

Another spin, faster. The platform tilted. Your stomach tingled in the way you loved, a bright swoop that rushed up your ribs. You almost laughed.

Sukuna made a sound that could have been a cough—if coughs carried primal fear.

You stared at the painted horse on the booth across the ride and, without looking at him, placed your hand over his.

He seemed too busy fighting for his life to notice.

But the car spun again, and his hand gripped yours on instinct, hard enough to make your rings press into your skin. He still didn’t turn. Maybe he thought you were a stranger. Maybe he was far gone in battle with the Tilt-A-Whirl deity. Maybe he had recognized you from the first second and decided mutual delusion was better than conversation.

You kept your face angled away.

The ride grew faster and meaner, so your laughter broke out, helpless and breathy. Sukuna’s shoulder bumped yours, his body almost lurching forward.

When the ride slowed, you pulled your hand back before he could catch it properly. The lap bar lifted, and you stood while everyone around you stumbled out.

Sukuna finally turned.

His eyes caught on your waist, right where his hand used to land before dawn when his alarm went off and he reached across the bed half-asleep, finding you before he found his phone.

Recognition moved through his face with vulgar speed.

You were already moving through the crowd.

You didn’t run because that would imply guilt. You were simply a dignified woman fleeing a carnival ride because your ex had discovered your waist by sight.

He called out your name, but it was so loud he couldn't hear his own voice.

A child with a glow stick cut across your path. You dodged. Someone spilled lemonade near the duck pond game. You stepped around it. Your heart was making a ridiculous amount of effort for a body that had only eaten sugar.

You almost reached the row of food trucks when a hand closed around your arm.

You turned.

Sukuna let go at once.

For a second he looked exactly as stupid as you remembered him.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I thought that was you.”

You stared at him.

His mouth opened, then closed. His eyes flicked over your face, the boots, and the cone of cotton candy crushed in your hand.

“You changed your hair,” he said.

“You still scared of rides at a carnival.” Adreline made you blurt it out before you could stop yourself.

His face loosened, his crimson eyes relaxed into his features, and it reminded you too much of the day you’d last seen him.

You cleared your throat. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“How have you been?”

“Driving in circles for money.”

“Healthy career path.”

“You?”

You nodded toward the fair in general. “Being abandoned beside a corn dog booth. Thriving.”

His brow moved. “Abandoned?”

Your phone buzzed in your bag. Probably Uro asking if she could pay an Etsy witch to get Suguru stalked by goats.

“Long story.”

Sukuna studied you, then glanced toward the ride. “You stayed on.”

“I was trapped.”

“You held my hand.”

“You were dying.”

“I was assessing structural failure.”

“Mason looked very qualified.”

“The operator?”

“He had a whistle.”

Sukuna’s mouth twitched. “Powerful credential.”

You hated how fast your face warmed. You hated the stupid, familiar muscle memory. You hated that the air between you could still find the old groove with one push.

“I saw your last race,” you said, because your mouth had chosen arson.

Genuine surprise crossed his face. “You watch them?”

You scrunched your nose mildly, accidentally. The way you did when you’d been caught.

Sukuna stared at that tiny movement. He’d never told you about that one tell.

His expression did a weird thing—softened at the edges, then caught itself.

You swallowed. “Some highlights came on. At a gay bar with friends.”

His brows rose. “I have gay bar fans?”

“You have fans with questionable betting habits everywhere.”

“Which bar?”

You refused to explain that you had begged the bartender to put the race on while you sat alone PMSing, a gin and tonic beside your hand, pretending you wanted sports because sports had become a pathetic substitute for his absence. You had watched his car move through the screen while drunk men argued behind you about karaoke. You had missed him so badly you had ordered fries you didn’t want just to stay until the podium interview.

“Some place downtown,” you said. “The bartender said you were probably annoying.”

He leaned a little closer. “You care about other people’s opinions of me?”

“I was doing community outreach.”

“So you follow me.”

“You have gotten hard to miss.”

He smiled then, infuriatingly flustered beneath the smirk. “Are you seeing someone?”

Your grip tightened on the cotton candy cone again.

You could have said you had been stood up by a man whose most impressive quality was voice-note confidence. You could have said everyone after Sukuna had felt as if they never really saw you. You could have said you had wanted him to be there so many times that no one would ever compare.

Instead, you said, “How’s the model?”

“The model?”

“The one from the news at the rooftop dinner. Tall one.”

He huffed. “You follow me pretty closely for somebody asking casual questions.”

It should have made you laugh.

That was the script. He teased, you deflected, he leaned closer, you rolled your eyes and pretended your heartbeat didn’t sing for him.

Instead, something inside you slipped.

Satoru would have loved this. He would have demanded screenshots, then called Sukuna a pink-haired lizard, then told you to stop acting as if a breakup suddenly made you mature. 

Your smile thinned before you could poker-face it.

Sukuna saw.

He stopped teasing so fast it hurt more than anything.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

He looked at your face as if he could pull the answer out, then seemed to think better of it. His hand flexed at his side.

“I fly back the day after tomorrow,” he said, instead. “Before that, can we get coffee tomorrow night?”

You watched a father lift his daughter onto his shoulders near the balloon stall. The little girl had blue face paint smeared across one cheek.

You said zilch.

Sukuna’s mouth tightened. “I need an answer. I can’t call you.” He paused. “Same number?”

You had blocked him so thoroughly your phone treated his existence as malware.

“Same number,” you mumbled.

“I’ll pick you up.”

“I can drive.”

He ignored you. “You live at the same place?”

“Next to the old one.”

“Six then.”

“I didn’t agree.”

“I did for both of us.”

You should have hated that.

But your lips twitched before you could stop them.

He saw that and looked pathetically relieved for a man paid to risk death.

At home, you called Uro from the couch.

She answered with, “Tell me Suguru got shingles.”

“I saw Sukuna.”

There was some scrambling on the other side.

“Ryomen Sukuna?”

“How many Sukuna exes do you think I have?”

“With your taste? I fear categories.”

You told her everything—the Tilt-A-Whirl, the hand, the gay bar lie, the coffee.

Uro went silent.

Then she sighed. “You should go.”

You sat up. “Why?”

“Sukuna didn’t cause this.”

You looked toward the TV, where a cooking show contestant was crying over burned fish.

Uro lowered her voice. “You ended it because of Satoru.”

Your throat tightened.

“You told Sukuna he was boring,” she continued. “Which was insane, by the way. That man has a lethal jawline and a deadly career.”

“He did become boring.”

"No, honey, you panicked because your brother relapsed, and the illness came back worse, and Sukuna was training for the season that could make his career. You thought he’d throw everything away and come sit in oncology waiting rooms.”

You pressed your thumb under your ring, twisting it.

Uro added, “You also kept telling everyone you were fine, which was your least convincing era.”

“I couldn’t make him choose.”

“You chose for him.”

You closed your eyes.

“Go for coffee,” she said, smiling. “You can still leave if he’s gotten stupid. I’ll key his car.”

That made you laugh, but it hurt coming out.

After the call, you fell asleep with your boots still beside the couch.

Satoru woke you by poking your ankle under the blanket. “Breakfast.”

You opened your eyes in the old house, in his room, on the giant bed you had practically moved into during the bad months. The emergency bell sat on the nightstand beside many bottles of prescription eye drops, a strip of tablets, and the ugly plastic water bottle he hated because it made him “feel eighty in a hospital commercial.”

He stood at the doorway in sweatpants and a sweatshirt, hair white around his face and paler at the lashes. Before the cancer, he had black hair and caramel eyes. He used to say the universe stole his color and made him ethereal.

You sat up too fast. “Why are you moving around?”

He waved a hand. “I made pancakes, nurse warden.”

“You’re meant to rest.”

“I am resting.”

“Satoru.”

“I feel better, let me have this.” His smile spread, bright and crooked, a little thinner than it used to be. “Breakfast for my baby sister.”

You followed him to the kitchen because arguing with him had once been a full-time job and you missed him having the stamina for it.

The pancakes were your favorite—he'd made them with extra fruit and too much syrup. He had even warmed the plate.

You took a bite.

The taste was wrong.

It was floury, flat, and a little bitter.

Satoru’s smile faltered. “Meds messed with my taste buds again, huh?”

“It’s good.”

“Liar. Give me the bowl. I’ll remake it.”

You pulled the plate closer. “It’s perfect.”

“Add more syrup.”

He sank into the chair across from you, breathing a little heavier than he wanted you to hear.

“Will Kento or Shoko come by today?” you asked.

“Don’t feel like socializing.” He sighed, stretching his shoulders with a wince he couldn't hide well. “I was thinking we watch a movie.”

You fully looked up.

He shrugged. “Unless you have better plans. Like maybe calling your bubblegum-haired ego a problem."

“Sukuna has a name.”

“Sukuna has anger issues.”

You laughed.

Satoru leaned back, pleased. “Call him back.”

“I broke up with him.”

“Why?”

“He should focus on his career.”

“If he’s going to be worth anything, he should learn to multitask." He speared a piece of fruit from your plate. “If he has a girl, she’s high maintenance. He’ll have training.”

“You barely know him.”

“I know he looks at you as if you’re a pit stop he wants to marry.”

You choked on syrup.

Satoru waited until you stopped coughing. He passed you water, then kept his hand around the glass for a second, as if he knew you might use it to hide your face.

“I’m serious,” he said.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. “That’s new.”

“Don’t get cute. That’s my job.”

“You’re bad at it.”

“I’m excellent at everything. Keep up.” His smile faded before it could become a joke. “You shouldn’t have broken up with him because of me.”

You looked down at your plate. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. You make every decision like every part of your life has to consider me first.”

“That’s not—"

“It’s true.”

You pressed your fork into the pancake. “You’re sick, Satoru. You need me.”

“I know that.” His voice stayed steady, but his fingers tightened around his mug. “I need my sister. I don’t need you to turn into a nurse with no life after me.”

Your throat burned. “That’s a horrible thing to say.”

“It’s a horrible thing to watch.”

You looked at him then.

He held your eyes, tired and pale and still your brother under all of it. The same brother who had signed your school forms when your parents forgot, who had shown up to parent-teacher meetings in his uniform because he had practice right after, who had made your lunch badly for a month before he learned how to pack fruit without smashing it. He had been loud about everything except the things that mattered most.

“You think I don’t see it?” he asked. “You don’t sleep unless I sleep. You don’t eat unless I complain first. You keep your phone face down because you’re scared he’ll call and you’ll want to answer. None of this is good for you.”

You swallowed.

“Sukuna makes you happy,” he said. “He also annoys you, which is good. You get unbearable when nobody argues with you.”

A weak laugh left you, then quickly turned into tears you blinked away.

“I’m scared too.” Satoru leaned back, breathing through the small cost of sitting upright for more than his body was able to bear right now. “I don’t want to say that because then you look at me like your whole chest got kicked in. But I’m scared. And I still don’t want your life to shrink down to this house.”

“Satoru—”

“No. Listen to me.” His voice cut through yours, low and clear. “Love me. Take care of me. Fight with doctors. Make ugly pancakes taste worse with extra syrup. Fine. But don’t throw away someone you love because you think suffering alone is what you deserve.”

You wiped away the tears that came treacherously anyway.

“I raised you better than that,” he said, softer now.

You tried to smile anyway. “You raised me to be dramatic and suspicious.”

“I raised you to have standards, and somehow you picked a race car demon, but I’m choosing peace.”

“He’s not a demon."

“He has face tattoos.”

You laughed again, a little bit bigger this time.

Satoru opened his arm to let you tuck in. “Promise me you’ll call him. If he’s useless, I’ll hate him with you. If he shows up, let him.”

“You make that sound easy.”

“It won’t be.” His hand rubbed against your temple, careful and warm. “Do it anyway.”

He grinned, and for a second he looked sixteen again—school jacket half-zipped, practice bag slung over one shoulder, his mock-test rank posted near the top of the board. Boys copied his notes despite hating him. Girls found reasons to borrow erasers. Teachers used his name in warnings and compliments in the same breath. He played whichever sport had a vacancy that week, won enough to make coaches greedy, then came home with convenience-store candy for you because you had texted him a sad face during math.

You spent the afternoon watching a dumb action movie. It had three explosions in the first twenty minutes and a villain with an accent from nowhere. He kept making comments under his breath, weaker than his usual running commentary but smug enough.

Halfway through, his head tipped against the back of the couch, heavy medication dragging him under.

“You’re missing the part where the car jumps through a hospital.”

“Mmph.” He made a lazy sound, eyes closed.

You let him sleep.

The medicine did that to him lately—took his words first, then made his limbs sluggish, then the rest of him slower to react. You checked the time on your phone, compared it with the notebook on the table, and saw his next dose still had some time. Fine. He could sleep. You could give him that.

The movie kept playing—someone on-screen was shouting about a bomb as Satoru breathed beside you, shallow but steady, so your body allowed itself to unwind.

You must have drifted off too, because when you opened your eyes again, the room had shifted into evening. The TV had gone to the streaming menu, and the house had that late-day smell, dust, syrup, old coffee in the mug by his elbow.

Your neck hurt from the couch angle.

You yawned and nudged his knee with your foot. “Toru. Go to bed.”

He stayed slumped against the cushion.

You rubbed your eyes and sat up properly. “Seriously. Your back’s going to hurt more if you sleep here.”

His hand rested palm-up on the couch between you—long fingers, pale knuckles, and a small bruise near the wrist from the last blood draw. You nudged his palm.

“Medication time soon,” you added. “Come on. I’ll help you walk.”

He stayed still.

A small irritation rose in your chest, familiar and domestic. The type of annoyed you got when he acted dramatic during eye drops or complained about water tasting “aggressively round.”

“Satoru.”

You leaned closer and shook his shoulder.

His body moved with the shake, then settled.

Your irritation thinned.

“Toru?”

You touched his cheek.

It was warm but too still under your palm. His lashes were pale against his skin, white from the treatment and the strange pigment loss.

“Hey.” Your voice came out softer. “Wake up. You have to take the evening meds.”

The notebook lay open on the coffee table—pills and drops listed by time. The little boxes you had drawn and checked and checked again because order made you feel useful.

You reached for his wrist.

His pulse was hard to find.

Your own pulse got in the way, slamming through your fingertips.

“Satoru, stop it.”

You pressed harder at his wrist, then shifted to his throat the way the nurse had taught you during one of the discharge briefings.

“Wake up,” you said, even louder. “Go to your bed. You’re too tall for the couch, and I’m sick of hearing you complain about your spine.”

His head stayed angled toward the TV.

You grabbed his shoulder with both hands.

“Satoru!”

The name came out in a cracked scream.

You shook him again, rougher than you had touched him in months.

“Stop. This isn’t funny. Toru, get up.”

You bent close to his mouth.

For one awful second you thought you felt breath, then realized it was yours hitting his skin and coming back.

“No,” you said, and the word came out small, stupid, and useless.

You pressed your ear to his chest.

You waited.

You moved your ear, searching.

You held your own breath so you could hear his.

Nothing came.

Your hands began to shake so hard his shirt wrinkled under your fists.

“Toru,” you whispered.

Then you screamed for him.

The dream broke there, same as it did every time.

You woke on the couch in your apartment, gasping, sweat cooling under the collar of your shirt. The TV had gone to sleep, your phone had slipped between cushions and outside, daylight had already moved across the room and started fading again.

You had slept through most of the day.

Coffee was in an hour.

You got ready in simpler clothes because the idea of another date outfit made you feel stupid. New jeans, clean socks and the oversized white cashmere sweater Satoru had bought you years ago, back when he had money, black hair, caramel eyes, and a talent for buying gifts that made you cry in private.

Downstairs, Sukuna waited beside a car you couldn’t place. New or rental.

He straightened when he saw you.

Then he opened the passenger door and held out flowers.

You stared at them.

They were real flowers—pink and white, wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine.

“For you,” he said when you kept staring at them.

“I gathered.”

“You going to take them?”

“I’m thinking.”

He waited.

You took them.

He looked away, and the edge of his mouth moved, almost smug.

You wanted to beat the smugness off with the said flowers, but instead you got in.

The car ride carried all the comfort of small talk. He asked about traffic near your building. You asked about his flight schedule. He mentioned a sponsor event. You said the fair food was probably giving him diarrhea. Sukuna laughed.

The cafe was small, upscale, and filled with people who seemed able to drink espresso after sunset without ruining their nervous systems.

Sukuna held the door. You hated that too.

At the counter he asked, “Usual?”

You nodded.

He ordered it correctly.

You took a table near the wall.

“So,” he said once he sat, “what are you doing these days?”

“Work sabbatical. Finishing my degree.”

His eyes stayed on you. “That good?”

"Please, I don’t need judgment from a man who believed cigarettes were breakfast.”

His mouth twitched. “I matured.”

“You bought a sports car.”

“It was assigned.”

“What? Corporate custody?”

“Something along those lines.”

The server arrived with drinks plus a small pizza cut into uneven squares. Your usual.

You stared at the tray for a second too long.

He sipped his coffee. “How’s Satoru?”

Your body became hyperaware of your reality.

The hiss of the steamer grew enormous. A chair scraped behind you. Someone laughed near the window, high and sudden. The chili oil on the pizza smelled acidic. The sweater collar touched your throat.

“He died.”

Sukuna froze. “What”

“It’ll be a year soon.”

His hand hovered near the table, then lowered. “How?”

You folded your napkin, then unfolded it. “Peaceful, according to the doctors.”

His jaw worked. “Are you living alone?”

“Yes.”

“Family?”

You almost smiled. “Satoru was the family.”

The words hurt to speak aloud.

Sukuna knew you had family, but having and being reciprocative with affection and meeting a child's needs were two different things. They didn’t like you or satoru much.

“Have you…” Sukuna looked at you for a long moment. "Cried since?”

Your hands felt cold.

“What?”

“Since he passed.”

You pushed back from the table—the legs screeched. The cafe turned its head toward you in a hundred tiny ways. Every cup, every voice, every light on the wall became a separate grating sound.

Sukuna rose with you, fast enough to catch your wrist before you could knock something over.

You flinched, and he released you.

Then he stepped close enough that his voice could reach your ear and no one else. “Breathe. You can skip the answer. I pushed.”

You shook your head.

“Breathe,” he said again. “Look at me or the door. Pick one.”

You looked at the door because you didn't have the capacity to look at him right now—his crimson eyes were too expressive at the worst of the times.

"Please…" You took a deep breath in. “I want to go home.”

“Okay.”

The drive back was short.

He made zero attempts at conversation, keeping both hands on the wheel, eyes on the road. At your building, he parked and walked around to open your door.

“I can get upstairs.”

“I know.”

He followed anyway, carrying the pizza and flowers, as if the evening had become a delivery service with unresolved romantic history.

Inside your apartment, Toru stood in the hallway—white fur and blue eyes. A body shaped by luxury and criminal entitlement.

The cat looked at Sukuna, then at you, then back at Sukuna.

Sukuna stared.

You mildly introduced them, “That’s Toru.”

Toru blinked slowly, withholding citizenship.

Sukuna took off his shoes. “Does he bite?”

“He does and also loudly meowdels every old man complains he has.”

“Fair.”

You went to the couch because your bones had become heavy. Sukuna went into the kitchen without asking, which should have annoyed you, except you were less overwhelmed now. He filled the kettle. Opened cabinets and found the pan.

Toru followed him and sat near the fridge, supervising with contempt.

“You eat?” Sukuna asked the cat.

Toru’s tail moved softly.

“Useful answer.” He paused, then asked. “She eat?”

You pulled a pillow over your face, quite far away to hear any of this.

Sukuna continued, fully serious. “Blink once for very little. Twice, if she survives on coffee.”

Toru blinked once.

“He seems credible," Sukuna calls out to you.

“He licks plastic bags.” You yell back.

Sukuna smirked towards Toru and tapped his nose, making the cat paw at its nose. “It’s okay. Witnesses are allowed to have flaws.”

The cat squared up and hissed, which meant he was flawless.

From the couch, you heard the scrape of a knife, the tap of the cutting board, and the click of the stove. He made coffee first. Then stir-fry, simple and fast, with vegetables cut the way you used to cut them and sauce mixed from memory.

Your recipe.

Stolen.

Also, the only thing he’d eat after a long day.

You hadn’t realized you had fallen asleep until Sukuna stood over you with a bowl in one hand and the remote in the other. You woke up with the smell of garlic and soy.

“Sit up.”

You sat up because your body, treacherous thing, wanted the food.

He sat beside you with his own bowl and put on a terrible movie. Some action sequel where cars exploded for reasons that offended even him. Toru jumped onto the armchair and watched Sukuna as if waiting for a confession.

The first bite loosened your chest. Warm rice, vegetables, and sauce with slightly too much garlic because he remembered you liked it.

“You still cook it wrong.”

He glanced over. “You’re eating fast for a critic.”

“You stole my recipe.”

“I improved it.”

“You put too much ginger.”

“You need flavor.”

“You need to be humbled.”

“Tried it. Bad fit.”

A huff of a laugh escaped before you could stop it.

Sukuna looked at your face, then back to the TV.

You ate half the bowl before speaking again. “Satoru wanted a cat.”

Sukuna kept his eyes on the screen. His body shifted into less performative ease and more attention.

“Our parents would never let us have one,” you continued. “Which made sense in the practical way. Then it made less sense because they weren’t indulgent with anything, so it became this larger question of why they had children at all.”

Toru groomed one paw, deeply unmoved by human origin stories.

“Satoru used to send me photos of cats. He said once he got better after treatment, he’d buy a bigger house and fill it with cats who were babied and spoiled.”

Sukuna set his bowl down.

“During the last months, his hair went whiter. Lashes too. The doctors explained it, saying it was pigment cells, immune response, and treatment side effects. His eyes were the first problem. He couldn’t see well, but you could work around that while the meds still worked. There were tools, routines, labels on bottles, brighter lamps, audiobooks when reading hurt too much. Then—”

You swallowed because if you’d stopped now, it’d stay stuck in there forever and eat you worse. “Then the liver got worse. He had these drops, and scans, and appointments where everyone used gentle voices at us.” You swallowed. “He made jokes about turning into a designer ghost.”

Sukuna made a small sound, almost a laugh, because Satoru had deserved that much.

The crying began softly—a few tears you could have blamed on the movie.

Then Sukuna moved closer and put his arm around you.

“I kept thinking if I managed the appointments and the meds and the food and the calls, it would make a difference. If I stayed in his room and stayed awake, I’d catch everything. If I heard every breath, if I woke up fast enough...” Your spoon rested against the bowl.

“It didn’t matter.”

Sukuna said your name.

Your face hit his chest, and the sound that came out of you was ugly and torn loose. Years of holding yourself upright broke down into his shirt. He moved the bowl away with one hand and pulled you in properly.

You cried until your nose ran, until Toru abandoned the armchair and jumped onto the couch, until Sukuna’s shirt was damp and his hand had settled at the back of your head, warm and familiar in a way your body accepted before you realized.

“I told you that you were boring,” you choked out because he deserved that.

“I remember.”

“I was lying.”

“I know.”

“I thought you’d ruin everything.”

“You should’ve let me choose.”

“I’m sorry.”

His mouth pressed to your hair. “I know.”

His eyes burned once before he blinked hard and looked away. The wins had come with the money, the cameras, and the noise.

None of it fixed the part of him that still looked for you after every flight, every podium, every room full of people talking too much.

Every success felt a little thinner because every hotel room still ended with him reaching for a phone he couldn’t use to call the only woman he’d ever cared about.

Back then he’d known you were lying, he just hadn’t known how to make you come home.

You cried harder because you probably hadn't since your brother left.

At some point the movie ended and the streaming app tried to play another. Toru fell asleep against your thigh. Sukuna kept holding you until your body gave out.

You woke once when he carried you, mumbled something unintelligible, and fell asleep again.

He carried you to your bedroom.

You hadn’t slept there in weeks. The bed looked almost staged.

Sukuna set you down and left only long enough to bring water, your phone, and Toru, who protested being handled until Sukuna told him, “Your landlord requires supervision.”

Toru bit his arm.

Sukuna winced and let the cat curl up to you.

Sukuna got into bed beside you fully clothed. He didn’t crowd you at first. He lay on his back, one arm open.

You moved into it.

The sweater smelled faintly of your perfume and old cashmere. Sukuna smelled of coffee and the same cologne he used to wear when he had early flights and kissed you in doorways while pretending he had plenty of time.

You slept deeply.

Morning arrived without the usual panic of dreams.

For a few seconds, you knew that before you knew anything else. Your body had rested properly because your jaw didn’t ache and your hands weren’t curled into fists under the blanket.

Then you reached beside you.

The pillow held a dent, but Toru had claimed Sukuna’s side of the bed and looked pleased.

Your chest tightened, then eased in a tired, resigned way.

Of course. He had a flight. He had said so.

Maybe last night had been a mercy visit from an ex with guilt and good arms.

That was fine.

It had helped.

You could survive that much.

You got up to feed Toru.

A note was stuck to his bowl in Sukuna’s handwriting.

I’ll be back next month. Unblock me.

You stared at it.

Toru headbutted your ankle because romance meant little compared to tuna.

You fed him first.

Then you unblocked Sukuna.

A text came through almost at once with a photo.

You were asleep on his chest the night before, your cheek squashed against his shirt, Toru sitting on your hip as if guarding property. Your hair was everywhere and your mouth was slightly open. Sukuna’s jaw was only partly visible, but his hand rested over your back, his thumb blurred mid-stroke.

Below it came a calendar invite, already adjusted to your time zone.

1:30 PM Video Call.

Don’t dodge me.

You clicked on the calendar and saw that he'd squeezed it in after his team debrief. It was surreal to see that your ex had a Ferrari schedule, a flight, and a body people paid millions to keep functional, and still he had blocked out time to annoy you himself.

You accepted it.

Then you went into the kitchen and saw the flowers resting in a mug of water on top of the fridge.

And inside, cold brew waited in a glass bottle, labeled with tape.

Eat something first.

Beside it sat the remaining pizza, wrapped properly, and a container of leftover stir-fry.

You took out the bottle of cold brew, took a photo of it, and sent it.

You: i’m sorry, and i’ll wait for you.

The typing bubbles appeared so fast you almost dropped the phone.

A picture arrived.

Toru sat on the kitchen counter near the same coffee bottle in the gray morning light, tail curled around his paws, blue eyes aimed at Sukuna behind the camera. Beneath it, Sukuna had written:

Your brother might approve.

A/N: I hope you loved this piece as much as I did writing it even if the keyboard was blurry through most of it. I wanted to write only crack and fluff in this; however, Satoru stole my keyboard midway. So hopefully the next story I post isn't going to be as hurt/comforting.

Want to read the same pairings but with Gojo as the endgame?

Masterlist | Rabies | Chuki

Header Images from Anime & Pinterest, dividers are mine.

[onlyfanfictasies]

how nanami loves his women(blackreader x olderbf!nanami)

nanami always focused on personality over looks when it came to his relationships, all his friends tried to figure out his type but.. they could never figure it out.

the only thing his exs (he only had two) had in common is that they were extremely nice to everyone.

until.. he saw you.

soft brown skin glowing in the sun, which is burning his skin at a rapid rate in a not so attractive way as he stands there squinting to admire your beauty.. not your body, but your face, skin, legs shit even how your style is somehow perfect.

“ma’am?” you turn around to see a tall blonde man, muscles almost bursting out the white shirt he’s wearing yet, he’s timid?

“ma’am?” you chuckle and smile “I look that old?” his eyes widen slightly and he immediately shakes his head “no no, of course not I- shit, I just thought.. you look very beautiful and I was wondering if you’re single?”

you cross your arms and raise your eyebrow with a nod letting his stutter over his words. “mhm?” “may I get your number?” you hum and look at him up and down. “yeah, you can have my number” you smile brightly. you look down as he takes out his phone and hands it to you, which you put in your number and your name with a red heart next to it.

“text me later, mkay?” he nods quickly his tips of his ears red and his cheeks filling with blood, nanami never gets nervous.

so when nanami got the second date, he didn’t hesitate to do everything right and ask you to be his girlfriend, properly. flowers, manners he even paid for everything including your nail and hair appointment even down to your dress.

ps. let me live in my delusions that nanami would be nervous, (he definitely would) also this has been sitting in my drafts

wanna see more? click here

©onlyfanfictions don’t steal my work i spend a lot of time on every single thing i make, i hardly have the brainpower to make it lol. no ai thank you.

[hqismm]

In sickness and in health

— ft nanami x black fem!reader

Syn. You underestimate two things: your fever, and how quickly Nanami will drop everything for you.

Cw .ᐟ : Husband!Nanami, fluff, sick fic WC : 1.1 k

© Art creds : @dickerystuf

If you hold back one more cough, you might actually explode. 

It’s day three of pretending you aren’t sick because the second Nanami finds out, he’ll abandon work entirely and hover over you like a mother hen.

You know how important his job is to him. Even after exhausting shifts and bruises hidden beneath dress shirts, he still insists on working so hard to give you the best life possible. 

Usually, you can handle a slight fever on your own, but today feels different.

You wake up drenched in sweat despite feeling a violent chill throughout your body. Bonnet half way across the room, and head throbbing where it rests against the pillow. 

The short walk to the bathroom nearly kills you. And by the time you stumble back into bed your body gives out against the mattress, trembling from the effort.

You curl beneath the blankets, dizzy and exhausted, using the last of your strength to order chicken soup and tea from a nearby restaurant.

You try to stay awake until it arrives but your eyelids are heavy and eventually you succumb to sleep.

—

The vibration of your phone buzzing against your cheek jolts you awake sometime later. 

Oh shit. The food.

You try sitting up too fast and immediately regret it.  Every muscle in your body aches. There’s absolutely no way you’re making it to the front door. Groaning, you scroll through your contacts before pressing the only person nearby enough to help. 

The call rings twice.

“Heyy, how’s my favorite nanami,” Satoru’s sing-song voice answers cheerfully. “Have you finally come to your senses and realized im the better sorceror?” 

Your short laugh is cut off by a cough so hard it rattles your chest. 

He pauses.

“…Why do you sound like that?”

“Please tell me you’re on lunch break already,” you mumble weakly. “I ordered food but I’m too sick to go to the door, can you stop by the apartment to bring it inside for me? Pleaseee? I’ll owe you.”

Across the office, Nanami looks up from the paperwork in front of him the second he hears your voice through Gojo’s speaker.

His expression changes immediately.

Gojo notices too.

“…Wait,” Gojo says slowly, glancing over. “You’re sick?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Don’t tell Nanami.”

Nanami stands before Gojo can even respond.

“Give me the phone.”

Your stomach drops at the sound of his voice.

“…Kento?”

“You’re sick.”

It isn’t a question.

“I was going to tell you later—”

“You can barely get a word out without wheezing”

“Baby, I’m fine.”

“Yet you called Gojo instead of me.”

The disappointment in his voice somehow feels worse than anger.

You hear rustling, then keys.

“I’m coming home.”

“Ken—”

The line disconnects.

—

Exactly twenty minutes later you hear the front door unlock. 

Nanami walks in carrying multiple bags you definitely didn’t order. Besides your tea and soup he carries a plastic bag filled with medicine, electrolyte drinks, and basically enough supplies to survive a mini apocalypse. You’d roll your eyes at his antics if it wasn’t hard enough keeping them open. 

His tie is gone. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. Hair slightly disheveled like he ran straight from work.

The second he sees you trying to sit up, his face tightens.

“Don’t you dare get up.”

You still try anyway.

He’s at your bedside instantly, one hand against your forehead, the other steadying your shoulder as he gently pushes you back into the pillows.

“You’re burning up,” he mutters, brows pinching together. “How long has this been going on?”

“…Three days.”

Nanami goes completely still.

“Three,” he repeats flatly.

You wince under the weight of his stare.

The exhaustion in his face twists into shame.

“Fuck. What kind of husband am I if I don't even notice you’re sick?”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Why’d you hide it from me?”

“Because you would’ve called out of work.”

“I would have.”

There’s no hesitation in his answer.

That’s what gets you. He’s not even frustrated.Just genuinely hurt that you were suffering alone while he sat completely unaware.

His expression softens slightly when he notices yours crumpling.

He sighs quietly, sweeping your braids behind you. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

Despite the scolding tone, he carefully opens the soup container, testing the temperature before handing it to you.

When your shaking hands struggle to hold it steadily, Nanami simply takes the spoon back with another quiet sigh.

“Cmere, open your mouth.”

You shoot him a weak glare but obey anyway, letting him feed you spoonful after spoonful while he watches carefully to make sure you eat enough.

The warmth of the soup settles heavily in your stomach, exhaustion pulling at you all over again.

Nanami notices immediately.

Without a word, he sets the container aside before piling blankets around you. 

He leans down then, pressing a lingering kiss against your feverish forehead.

“You should’ve called me first,” he says quietly against your skin.

Guilt twists in your chest. “I didn’t want you worrying.”

“That was never your decision to make. You’re my wife. I love you and i’ll always worry about you.

“Mm sorry Ken, I love you too, I just didn’t want to be a burden.”

The words come out slurred with exhaustion, barely above a whisper.

Nanami’s expression softens immediately.

“A burden?” he pulls away slightly, like the thought itself burns him.

His hand slides up to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing beneath your eye with careful affection.

“You being sick is not an inconvenience to me.”

You blink tiredly up at him while he adjusts the blankets tighter around your shoulders, making sure not even a sliver of cold air gets through.

“I take care of you because I want to,” he continues. “Not because I have to.”

The fever leaves you too drained to hide how much the words affect you. Your eyes sting slightly as you lean further into his touch.

Nanami notices, of course he does.

“Baby,” he coos softly, brushing his lips against your forehead once more. “Don’t cry now.”

“I’m not,” you mumble weakly, voice wobbling. 

A rare hint of amusement flickers across his face.

“You’re a terrible liar, love.”

Before you can argue, he slips into bed beside you fully clothed, ignoring your weak protest about getting him sick. He simply pulls you carefully against his chest, tucking your head under his chin as one arm wraps securely around your waist.

“Next time you feel like this, I’m your first call. Understand?”

You hesiate. “…Even if you’re working?”

“Especially if I’m working.”

You let out a tired hum of agreement, curling closer into his chest.

“Good,” he says quietly. “Next time your first instinct should be your husband, not the six-foot manchild.

[senatortedcruz]

I am in fucking tears

[hunnismokah]

nerdjo before it got too overwhelming with all the aus !!!!!

[nanamihearts]

MET YOUR MATCH — RYOMEN SUKUNA

pairings — heian era!sukuna x fem!reader

➤ in which the king of curses, known for terror and bloodshed, will become your husband. sukuna normally slaughtered others without thinking twice, but you were the only person who could curse, fuss, and walk away unscathed. with any remark he made, you could make a witty retort twice as fast. he grumbles (but secretly loves it.)

Sukuna never had to say a word. His presence spoke volumes, and made people bow their heads with horror-stricken resignation. Others dare not look at him, as they didn't want to become another example of his wrath. Everyone in your village knew of him, where he lurked: a forest on the outskirts. A forest nobody attempted to traverse.

Until you were sent to find herbs. You had a hard time finding the plants you needed, so you made the decision to wander through the forest. If no one has ever been there, the place must have an abundance of plants. You thought, but there was still a small, lingering fear of coming across him.

That was the day he first saw you, but you were still unaware. It was nearing sunset, the sky calming down to soft orange hues. Everything in the forest was still clearly visible, and he wasn't necessarily hiding. Sukuna would make himself known if he wanted to be.

His first thought was that you were a beautiful, yet foolish woman. Why would you come here alone? Wander so far away, just for herbs?

Once he saw you struggling with a certain herb, he made a fast, upward motion with his pointer finger. The plants stem fell off, ending your struggle.

You were taken aback, cursing under your breath with confusion. You could feel a chill, and goosebumps appeared on your skin. You secured the plant, but it wasn't by your own devices.

"I helped you, and I get no word of gratitude?" A deep, throaty voice spoke.

That explained your recent chills. You turned around to see the man you thought was a myth. Seven feet tall, two pairs of arms: the bottom pair crossed, the top pair resting on his hips. The wind ruffled his black haori and light-colored pants. He had foreboding stature, yet to you he was enticing, alluring. He was looking down at you, eyes slighty narrowed with analysis, trying to figure out your next move, how you would react.

You didn't scream or run, but you replied. "I usually don't thank men who lurk from afar. If you had made yourself known, I would've."

That wasn't what he expected. His eyebrows furrowed, making small wrinkles on his forehead. "It is not lurking when it is my forest."

"Then do you prefer the word stalking?" You stood to your feet. "I believe that's a better fit."

His scowl deepened. "You are lucky I've let you stay here for so long. I'm sure you are not oblivious, you know who I am. What I am capable of."

"I do." You nodded. "Yet, my village needed herb, which this forest has plenty of. So, I suppose I will thank you for that."

His lips twitched, wanting to say more, but he pushed it back down. "You will leave now." His voice boomed. "Go, while I am still giving you a chance."

Sukuna's words held no malice, and his threats were always empty. Every other day, he'd spot you in the forest again picking and cutting plants. He caught on to the routine, figured out where you'd enter, and left a pile of plants near it. The pile increased in size as the weeks passed, and the small basket you carried wasn't enough anymore. Sukuna crafted you a bigger one. When your yukata got caught on a branch, he left you a new one. A blue yukata bright as the sky on a spring morning, that's how he saw you.

When the herbs turned into gifts, you realized this was a courting attempt, as much as you didn't believe it.

You went back to the forest, but not looking for any herbs. You wanted to find Sukuna, but he found you first.

He stated your name. "Do my gifts suffice?"

"Your gifts have been nice, but they've also made me weary. I've given you no reason to do this, so there must be something you want in return."

"You're smart." The corner of his lips curved into a smirk. "I want you to be my wife."

He stated it like it was common knowledge, not a proposal. Not asking for lifelong devotion.

"Your wife?" You questioned, dumbfounded. "That's not humorous at all."

"Do I look like I am trying to make you laugh?" He met your eyes, repeating his prior statement. "I want you to be my wife. You are gorgeous, I've given you gifts, are you not satisfied?"

"I just told you I liked your gifts, didn't I? It's just, what did you expect from me? I am not all powerful like you are."

"Your words hold more power than I have ever seen." A genuine compliment. "They can quickly irritate me, but I've grown to appreciate the irritation. You could say i've grown fond of it." Sukuna slightly swayed. Only admitting something like this could make the King of Curses waver.

You smiled. "You're nothing like what I've heard. You're sweet."

His fond expression quickly turned into a frown. "Watch yourself. I have uttered those words for nobody else. Nobody but you."

Sukuna became your husband, and you moved into the estate. Spacious halls to accommodate his frame. Everything was left neat and tidy due to the servants who worked. You'd adjusted to living there, but not to his huge body.

Both of you were in the bedchamber, moon high in the sky. You attempted to sleep, but one of his arms would occasionally fall onto you. Every time you moved it, he would grumble.

"Wife," he huffed. "could you stop moving while I'm trying to get a moment of rest?"

"You're telling me to stop moving? You have not stopped moving since you've laid down!"

"That is not true." He quickly denied.

"It couldn't be more true! You, stop moving your arms."

"Or what?"

"Or I will move to the guest room. No, I changed my mind, you will move to the guest room."

"You think you can—" He turned over and assessed your glare. "fine."

You slept soundly that night, and he only kept one arm around you. That was more comfortable for you, and the only thing he wanted was to hold his wife.

[chuluoyi]

fear

- gojo satoru x reader

his best friend’s defection is still a hard topic for him to swallow, and it leads into an unexpected argument that spurs you to leave, only to unlock a new fear in him when you get into an unfortunate accident afterwards.

genre/warnings: angst, gojo being mean, one scene with a worried nanami *wink*, injured reader, hurt/comfort, fluff in the end

notes: *sigh* my coping mechanism is still gojo’s past arc, which is why this piece takes place on that timeline. just a little context: reader is in the same class with nanami & haibara and was in the same mission that took haibara's life. this is probably the longest oneshot i've written so far sooo… enjoy! :)

general masterlist

A year and a half had passed since Suguru embarked on his path as a curse user. In that one year and a half, Satoru had finished his last year at Jujutsu High, and now was in the halls of his alma mater, speaking to the newly appointed headmaster who was none other than his teacher.

"You're applying to become a teacher?" Yaga asked again with a frown. He still couldn't wrap his head around it. Granted, he was his most troublesome pupil. "Why, Satoru?"

"If I said it's because I want to train young sorcerers to be strong, would you believe me?"

That was not a lie. It was actually 50% of his main reasons anyway. The other 50% was to repent what he missed with Suguru when he chose his dark path—his contempt with the current system of this jujutsu world.

"I would," Yaga responded gruffly. To him, Satoru was irritating, but he also knew that he was also extremely capable, and thus everything he did wasn't just out of nowhere. "But you still have to submit your applications. We can't make an exception even if you come from a prestigious clan."

"That's fine with me," he grinned. "Thanks, sensei."

On summer days, he'd get reminded of Suguru and silly things they had done together. Eating shaved ice, cycling together, driving either you, Shoko or Nanami mad. Satoru missed those days, it hadn't been the same ever since. Not knowing if his best friend was alright—if he was still alive at all—was exhausting.

Sometimes, he felt like he was the only one who was affected by his departure, the only one who stayed right where Suguru left him. Shoko didn't seem ruffled, if anything she just went to more bars and pachinko parlors as of late. Nanami was always a recluse, he never disclosed his feelings. You mourned him, but it was clear that most part of you would always be more focused on Haibara's death.

Satoru understood that he couldn't force anyone to feel what he felt, and he had no right to. But sometimes, he just wanted someone to connect with at his level. Someone to get him just like Suguru did.

And so when he got back to his condo that night—just right next to the one he rented for Megumi and Tsumiki, since he had moved out of his dorm—to find his girlfriend there with a big smile and a tray of cupcakes, unaware of everything and anything, he merely scoffed to himself.

"Satoru, you're back," you acknowledged, beaming like the sunshine you were. "I just baked these for the kids. Do you want some?"

Usually he'd smother you, throw some pickup lines here and there and say yes, but today, he just felt drained. "No." And with that, he stalked away to the bathroom, not glancing back at you.

It was wrong. But tonight he just wanted some peace and quiet, and so keeping his silence seemed to be the best choice as he didn't want to start a pointless argument with you. But you weren’t anything but observant, and definitely noticed that something was amiss with him.

"Are you... alright?" You approached him warily after he came out of the bathroom with wet hair. "Where were you today?"

"Just somewhere," he replied curtly. Afterwards he turned on the hairdryer, drowning the whole place with the noise even as you stood behind him with a visible question mark.

But you were still there after he dried his hair. "Is something bothering you?" you asked with a tilt of your head, concerned. By all means, you mean well. You just wanted to know if he could use your help at all.

When you pulled that expression, he couldn't help feeling annoyed, like he wanted you to take a hint, but you just didn't. "If you know, then just shut it."

It was probably the first time since the two of you got together that Satoru actually said something harsh. But you still tried to be reasonable though, bless you.

"Satoru, I don't know what got into your nerves like this, but I think sleeping through it might help. Have a rest."

"Why are you talking as if you know it?" he snapped, finally turning to you with his cold gaze. "You might not know anything, so don't be a know-it-all. Just mind your own business."

Now you were frustrated with his reply. "Once again, I don't know what happened to you. But if you're taking it out on me because I'm the closest you have—"

"Who said that?" Satoru didn't know where he got all this venom from. It was just at the forefront of his mind and he just got the urge to spew it. "You're considering yourself closest to me? Where did you get that big head from?"

You were aghast, and you blinked a few times to get your bearings. "Let me guess, it's about Geto-san, isn't it? Or the higher ups. Either of that must be what causing you to blindly place your anger on me."

"So what if it was? It isn't like you'll understand anyway."

"Satoru," you started, trying to even your breathing. "What happened to Geto-san isn't your fault. I've been telling you this. It can't be helped—"

"Can't be helped?" he jeered. "Do you know why it has come to this?" his tone took a dangerous edge as he stepped closer. He reached for you, grasping your wrist.

"Maybe because I was too blind back then. If it weren't for you—if only I didn't spend that much time on you, maybe he would still be here."

Did he just say that? Did he just imply that he had regretted the two of you getting together?

You felt your lower lip start to tremble and something seemed to obscure and blur your vision, making it hard to see him clearly. "You... don't mean that."

"Really?" the corner of his lips curled into a disparaging smile. "You never know. Before you know it, this can be over already. After all, I could have anyone out there that I want. Maybe someone less nosey than—”

That did it. You wrenched your arm out of his grip violently, as your first tear fell. His smirk vanished too, replaced with a total stillness to cover his sudden panic that was followed by a sudden sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach.

"You selfish, self-obsessed jerk," you hissed through watery eyes. He was taken aback, even amidst your anger and possible fear of him, your still managed to throw daggers at him. "Fine. You have it. I'll see myself out."

Satoru never wanted you to leave. Honestly, he would've made you stay. But he wasn't in the right state of mind and it was too late to take back what he said. He didn't want to mess this up even further.

You left the cupcakes, even throwing it away just to spite him. Driven by pain and humiliation, you choked back your sob and didn't spare a glance at him as you shut the door.

Peace and quiet. There he had it, he thought as he clenched his fists, at the cost of everything else.

Leaving that condo, every step you took felt like needles piercing your shattered heart. You wiped your tears roughly. No, you refused to cry over such asshole. He made it clear, didn't he? Whatever it was that you two shared, it was at the cost of his best friend leaving him. So now the blame was on you.

If you were thinking clearly, you would've understood that his words were likely a result of his own pent-up pain and frustration that he had kept to himself for some while. But you had no patience for that or even pinpoint what you felt right now—anger, disappointment or dread, or perhaps all three. You just felt wrongly accused.

Your feet brought you back to your dorm in the school. Now it wasn't as bustling as it once were. After Satoru and Shoko's graduation, you didn't really get close to anyone. There was Ichiji, but he treated you more like a mentor rather than a classmate.

As you sank into the comforts of your bed, You replayed the events, trying to find where it went wrong—and found nothing. After all, you had already said all that could be said. It wasn't just him who lost Geto, but you, Shoko and Nanami did too, but it was more convenient for Satoru to blame everyone else rather than trying to understand that they too shared this pain.

Nevertheless, you were disappointed. You didn't expect half of what he spouted, and it got you doubting everything you had.

"You've royally fucked up."

Satoru exhaled, glaring at Shoko through the corner of his eyes. "Yeah, maybe."

The reverse cursed technique user threw him a blank stare, taking in everything from his disheveled hair to his wrinkled trousers. "Gojo, as much as I can’t care less about your sorry ass, I'm saying this not out of concern for you, but rather for Y/N. You are an asshole."

The puff of smoke she blew expanded to create a cloud-like shape. "Yaga-sensei was our teacher. His student is now a mass murderer and wanted dead. Can you even imagine how he feels? And I can't believe I'm saying this—but weren't there three of us?"

A week had gone by and instead of doing the right thing like trying to get into your good graces, Satoru was in Shoko's infirmary in the headquarters instead. He didn't exactly know what he was looking for by going here. Maybe some lingering taste of his happier student days, and Shoko was the only one remaining.

Three of us, huh... she was right. That was precisely why he came here after all.

"You're just sulking because it seems no one cares about your best friend being the best there is. But have you thought about how our juniors also lost Haibara? Right in front of their eyes? Haibara was our friend too."

He was wrong, of course he was. Satoru realized that now. But it felt wrong to ask for your forgiveness now, not to mention the disrupting thought he had—should he let you go for good altogether?

The phone suddenly rang with such fervor that made Shoko utter a swear word. She was on call duty for the rescue team today, and it was supposedly a peaceful day until Satoru decided to barge in to become her company. "Hello? Ichiji? What—speak clearly, I can't hear you."

She switched it to loudspeaker. "...iri-san! Ieiri-san—h-help—please—"

It was noisy, and blaring at the same time, and Ichiji was... Sobbing? Choking? His voice was terribly muffled and—

"L/N-san!" he cried, and Satoru remembered at that moment that you should be in a mission with Ichiji, he remembered you telling him before.

"Hic—s-she fell... hic—she fell! B-blood! She i-is bleeding so much! I-Ieiri-san—hic—s-send help! Please!"

"Hey, stay awake. Breathe. Just breathe."

Everything hurt. Most notably, your head. You could hardly think straight when all you felt was blinding pain and how your breaths came in short wheezes. 

Your vision was blurry. The numbness had started to set in and chills ran up and down your spine. You couldn't make out who in front of you was. Was it Ichiji, who went with you in this mission? The only thing that glared was blue.

"You can't sleep, you hear me?" the voice was commanding, willing you to do his bidding. It was familiar, but usually his tone of voice was much lighter, happier.

Satoru.

But why was he here? He wasn't in this mission. It was supposed to be a mission for you and Ichiji.

You remembered getting the cursed spirit after manifesting your domain expansion, until in its last ditch attempt, it went after Ichiji. You had no choice—even when your cursed energy had burned out, you still shoved him away at the cost of being flung from the top of a building.

Not again. Not after Haibara. You’d gladly pay the price if it meant you didn't have to see anyone die in front of you again.

"I..." You managed to croak out—breathing hurt, and you felt your hands being grasped tightly.

"Hey, just breathe. Y/N. Look at me.” Through your blurry haze, you focused on that cold blue, and you saw him. Satoru's sharp eyes, pursed lips and frown. He's really here.

Satoru always said that if there was a cursed spirit apocalypse, then Ichiji would be the first to die. You used to scold him for that, but now as you a laid here possibly dying in your own pool of blood, you found it to be true.

Yet at the same time you knew that with him here, Ichiji must be safe already, and it gave you reassurance so great even when you were on the verge of dying. "I... can't..."

"Yes, you can. Just look at me," he firmly rebuked, his voice came out in a hiss. For all the time you had been with him, you had never heard him so forceful. "If you close your eyes now, I won't forgive you. So please, just hang in there."

It was a struggle to take in any air and darkness encroached on your vision as your consciousness began slipping away.

And everything faded to nothingness.

Satoru honestly thought he had no fears. His worst fear had fully realized after all—Suguru going away into the darkness. What more could he possibly fear?

But when he heard Ichiji's distress call for rescue team, about how you fell from a rooftop of a building and unconscious, he realized that it was a fear he didn't know existed. His mind got disoriented and he teleported to the scene on impulse. He just had to see it for himself. With their petty argument still lacking closure, he felt even worse.

And the sight before him gave him so much fright he never thought was possible.

It was a mistake, he should have brought Shoko along.

You had laid there like a broken doll, your eyes dimmed, and not been able to breathe. He desperately tried to keep you awake, his presence beside you, yet it didn't seem to matter. He watched helplessly as you passed out in his arms.

Satoru felt nothing. The panic that had set in was suddenly gone as your limp body slumped against him, replaced by incessant ringing in his ears and tremor wracking his nervous system. It wasn't long until the rescue team came to retrieve you and even then he still felt numb. He rejected the idea that you might possibly die on him.

That went on until Shoko, who assisted in the emergency treatment, came out of the surgery, sweat on her forehead.

"It's even worse than the aftermath of the guardian deity mission last year," Shoko explained with a grim expression. "Her brain has sustained damage and it affects everything. It may take her quite a while before she can go back to the field."

When she said that, Satoru felt terror washed over him again. You almost died—was all he perceived.

The two of you had no contact for a week just because of his ego. He could still recall that day with vivid clarity, feeling a burning ache in his chest. If someone were to ask him what heartbreak was like, now he certainly would he able the to tell them the two instances in which he experienced them. What he felt now mirrored the same stinging sensation he had felt when Suguru left him.

He visited you when he was allowed to, and you were still unconscious, with many machines connected to your body. It was a sight he still couldn’t bring himself to get used to. He had seen you injured before, but never seen you in your own pool of blood, so this made him feel sick to his stomach.

"Stupid," he whispered, gently rubbing your forehead. His eyes remained fixated on you as you rested, his insides still churning with emotions. "You're not weak, and you're not hopeless." Once upon a time, Satoru might have thought of you as weak, but now he knew better.

"So why you always pick the worst decision?" The more he thought this could've been avoided, the more irked he was. The thought that he could have done something to prevent it intensified the sting of guilt, and he continued to punish himself with it.

And the more he dwelled on the idea that he had hurt you prior to this, the tighter his breath became.

But that was who you were. Self-sacrificing to a fault. And he loved you for that. There was no way of him letting you go now.

It astonished even himself—that he was capable of this love thing. At first it was an attraction, but now that you had been going on for more than a year, it felt like it was no longer a silly infatuation after all.

"Hurry and wake up, will you?" Satoru gently brushed your hair aside, his eyes fixed on you. He didn't know it even as his gut twisted, his frown deepened and his touch quivered, that he was worried sick. "I have a lot to make up for."

And he left you with a tender brush of his lips against your forehead.

Nanami Kento was the first person you saw when you awoke from coma.

You struggled to regain your senses, still feeling absolutely broken. The dull throb on the back of your head was still there, and as if you had found yourself trapped in a fog, you were only able to move sluggishly.

"You're awake?" his gruff voice greeted, laced with concern. In his hand were a bucket of fresh flowers and fruits basket, which he soon placed at the table next to your bed.

It was unexpected, because ever since the tragedy that costed Haibara's life, the two of you had been drifting apart.

You nodded, and let out a hum in response—all you could manage at the moment.

"Thank God." Nanami sounded relieved as he pinched the bridge between his eyes, and you were moved that he had shown this degree of concern.

Your remaining classmate, who suffered the burden of Haibara's life just like you. He was always quiet or brooding somewhere, hiding his own feelings.

You felt tears pricking the corner of your eyes. The fact that he visited you meant that he hadn't decided to cut you out of his life yet.

"Gojo-san is out today, but he'll be back by afternoon," he said, mistranslating your tears as some sort of a want to have your annoying—ex?—boyfriend at your side.

The two of you were still not on talking terms, weren’t you?

You so badly wanted to say thank you to him—and tell him that no, you weren't looking for Satoru—but it came out hoarse and barely above a whisper.

"Huh?" Nanami then realized what you were trying to say, and a faint smile graced his lips. "Just... get well soon, L/N. Have a good rest."

Just before you drifted back to sleep, you could hear him sigh and mutter, "Hello, Gojo-san? L/N has awakened. Just letting you know is all.”

You weren't sure how much time had passed when you woke up the second time, but the curtains were already drawn and only darkness came from the window. Your body felt lighter, but you still felt like a mess and and couldn't help but groan in discomfort.

Satoru was there, he perked up at the noise you made. And you realized that it was the first time in about a week that he faced you after that disasterous almost-breakup.

He walked up to you, his expression was more hopeful than you had ever seen him before, like a kid whose wish had been granted. He slowly shifted to sit beside you.

"Hey, welcome back." His voice was soft. It was a change of pace for him, as you were used to seeing him all loud and silly.

Now your voice no longer sounds like a lead. "Hey."

"How are you feeling?" he asked and you took a moment to look at him. He was smiling, but exhaustion reached his bright eyes, dimming them. "You know, with the whole you passing out and almost dying thing?"

His words were almost humorous as he spoke, like he didn't know what else to say except try to lighten the mood, but there was also a strain on his tone, like he was holding back.

"I'm quite fine now, I suppose..." You still felt the lingering pain and dizziness as you slowly sat up. Satoru reached out to steady you—and you realized how his fingers trembled when they made contact with your body—as his brows furrowed with worry when you winced.

"You don't look like it though." His voice dropped and the humor was gone, replaced by this haunted look. You blinked. It was probably the first time you had seem him this ruffled.

He immediately pulled you into a hug, cradling your head to his neck gently, as if to protect and shield you from the world altogether. Exhaling heavily, he leaned on you. "You scared me, you know that?"

You wondered out loud if you really had that hold over him. "Did I?"

"You can't do that to me, you hear?" Satoru stroked your hair, nuzzling his face on the crook of your neck. His voice quivered. “Don't ever do that again.”

He pulled you tighter against him, but still careful not to crush you.

You let out a snicker, letting go of everything you felt during this horrible week. "Heh, afraid to lose me, huh?"

"Shut up,” he grumbled. “What were you thinking anyway? How did you calculate that freefalling is better than letting that cursed spirit attack Ichiji?”

"He was defenseless. He could die, you know that."

"And you also can," he quipped, upset, pulling away enough to look you squarely in the eyes, his eyes devoid of any expression, yet filled with a raging wave that you could only interpret as undiluted concern.

The emphasis in his tone made you recoil and feel guilty. If you were in his shoes, you probably would've said the same thing and so you had nothing to say to that.

But the more pressing agenda in the list was the unspoken silent treatment the two of you saw fit to use against each other for the last few days. Satoru was the one who decided to address it first.

"About that night..." he faltered, looking away. "I didn't mean what I said. I'm sorry."

Satoru always had trouble processing emotions. This time too. He must've a hard time dealing with the anxiety caused by the possibility of him losing you for good, no matter how much he tried to be unaware of it.

"..." You wanted to respond, to make him understand your point, but somehow right now you were just too weary. And he sensed your reluctance. So you blurted the first thing that gnawed at your mind.

“You said you could have any other women out there—”

"No, really—" he started to panic, and it was blatantly too, which surprised you. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Us. I don't regret anything. I’m not breaking up with you. Being with you is the happiest I've been ever since Suguru left."

“That's...” you blinked, before letting out a small sigh. “Okay. Fine then. Let's just put it behind us for now.”

“I—” he almost wheezed, his bright blue eyes were overtaken with sheer urgency to explain how wrong everything had been that night. “You must know that I didn’t mean any of it. And that I hate hurting you the way I did. I won’t—”

"Satoru, I understand," you let out another sigh, fidgeting with your fingers. "Sometimes when I’m reminded of Haibara, I also get sad. I don't want to presume but I think I know how you feel. Just next time, maybe," you shifted your gaze on him, seeing how you had his attention fully. Gojo Satoru, the strongest now, was looking at you as if you had his fate in your hands. "Just tell me if you need space and I would have understood."

"Yeah, okay, sure," he responded immediately, relieved, before a lopsided grin appeared on his face, turning him back into your dork slash boyfriend. "So, am I forgiven now?"

"A thank you would be nice."

In the end, he chuckled, seemingly resigned. "You should sleep more."

He positioned himself into bed next to you, and you let him pull you into his chest again. You could feel how his taut back started to relax upon the contact. He pressed his lips on your forehead in a fleeting kiss.

"Promise me you won't pull that stunt again.”

You smirked. "I can't. What if Ichiji—"

"Then just let him die."

You swatted his arm playfully, pressing your head to his chest as he continued to run his fingers on your hair. He cushioned you carefully, and you felt the tension in him slowly melt away with each breath you took. In your mind, you figured he needed this closeness more than you did, if anything, for the sake of his sanity.

“I love you,” he whispered by your ear, kissing it lightly.

“Mmhm.”

As you felt Satoru's calming presence, it helped ease you into slumber. You soon found yourself in a deep sleep, comfortably held in his embrace.

Epilogue

Ichiji gulped as Satoru stared him down, sizing him up as if he was the most despicable creature on this planet.

Okay, he might be. He was a coward, all he could do was trembling in the face of evil. But he had come in peace, even bringing fruits as an offering! He felt bad too that he was the partial cause for you to be this injured.

He was used to Satoru terrorizing him—calling him names, slapping him, and whatnot—and he could take it. Just this time, he really looked like he could murder him on the spot if he wanted to. A small part of Ichiji mourned that you were his girlfriend, because that pretty much sealed his fate that Gojo Satoru could indeed murder him on the spot because he had a valid enough reason to.

"You are—"

"No! I'm sorry, Gojo-san! I'm sorry for my incompetence!"

"Hah?"

If he was mildly irked before, now Satoru was visibly irritated.

"You're not cut out to be a jujutsu sorcerer," he started. "You're useless. You just get in the way most of the time."

Ichiji kept his head down. No, no. He can't cry!

"Get your driving license or I'll slap the shit out of you."

"Oh?" and before he knew it, Satoru had stalked away, leaving him in the dust. How rude! But...

Get a driver license? Quit the jujutsu work?

Hey, that sounds like something I can do!

[anobodycalledlynn]

Love the pain followed by comfort! 😊💕

[hunnismokah]

gojo back bc i was ovulating

[3-aem]

and again