Oceanic

Hiii my favorite waves! Welcome to Janae’s beach resort come and share your thoughts and opinions!

[naeeebrezzy]

“STAY”

PAIRING: Boxer!Toji Fushiguro x Reader!

WORD COUNT: 2.3k

WARNINGS: Blood, minor injuries, rough intimacy (not explicit), emotional repression, toxic coping mechanisms, mentions of insomnia/PTSD, Toji being Toji™, reader being too soft for her own good

STATUS: One-shot (for now)

SUMMARY:

You weren’t supposed to fall for him. He wasn’t supposed to let you close. But at 1:46 AM in a half-lit gym, bruised and broken from another fight, Toji Fushiguro lets you touch him like he’s human. And for a second—just one—he lets himself believe he deserves it

toji fushiguro x you | boxer au | “stay”

You weren’t supposed to be there.

Not in the gym at 1:46 AM.

Not by the ropes, arms crossed, shadows slicing across your face under the flickering lights.

Not watching him—Toji Fushiguro, hands wrapped in blood-stained gauze, jaw still clenched from a fight that ended forty-seven minutes ago.

He should tell you to leave.

But he doesn’t.

He just sits there on the bench, elbows on knees, blood drying down his ribs like warpaint. He looks up at you like you’re the ghost he deserves. Like you’re something he dreamed up between punches.

“You always watch me like that?” he mutters, voice hoarse.

You don’t answer. You just move closer, one step at a time, until the silence between you gets loud enough to sting.

“You’re hurt,” you say.

He laughs once. Sharp, bitter.

“Ain’t I always?”

You kneel in front of him. His legs are spread wide, like he’s inviting the world to come at him again. But his hands don’t move. Not when you touch his face. Not when you wipe the dried blood off his jaw with the sleeve of your shirt.

He watches you. He always watches you.

“You should rest,” you whisper.

“I don’t sleep much.”

You know. You’ve heard the heavy footsteps pacing behind your door at night. You’ve seen the way he flinches in his sleep when the past drags its claws down his spine.

You run your fingers down the scar on his side. He lets you. He always lets you.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed one day,” you say, almost softly.

Toji leans forward, forehead pressed to yours. His voice is a gravelled whisper, pulled from somewhere too deep to touch.

“Not tonight.”

You stay like that. Him, bruised and burning. You, tired and stupid enough to stay.

You don’t kiss him. Not yet.

But you want to.

And he knows.

God, he knows.

ART-aransmind

DIVIDER-bernardsbendystraws

[naeeebrezzy]

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐷𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝐸𝑛𝑑

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Reader Setting: Summer Pool Party | Fluffy, Quiet Intimacy | Mild Tension | Light Humor

You’re not sure who invited Nanami Kento to the pool party, but when he shows up in a button-down shirt and slacks, looking very much like a man who got lost on the way to a board meeting, you’re stunned into a double take.

He's there, alright. Blonde hair slicked back, sunglasses perched low on the bridge of his nose, towel folded under his arm like a financial report.

“Did you lose a bet?” you ask as he approaches the drinks table with the same cold efficiency he must use when dissecting cursed spirits.

“I was told this would be a professional gathering,” he mutters, eyeing the floaties shaped like flamingos and beer cans. “It appears I was misled.”

You snort into your drink. “Yeah, that tracks. Gojo probably called it that to make sure you came.”

Nanami exhales slowly, the sigh of a man used to disappointment. “Of course he did.”

Despite the chaos—music blasting, someone cannonballing every three minutes—Nanami stays. He rolls up his sleeves, removes his tie, and leans against the shaded side of the house like he’s staking out a mission. The fabric of his shirt clings just slightly to his chest from the heat, and he hasn’t even looked at the pool once.

“You know,” you say, sidling up beside him, “you’re allowed to enjoy things. That’s sort of the point.”

“I am enjoying myself,” he says.

You raise a brow. “Right. This is your happy face?”

He looks down at you, deadpan. “You should see my miserable one.”

You grin. “Bet it’s the same.”

Nanami actually smiles a little. Just barely. A fleeting curve of his lips like a ripple on still water.

“Come on,” you say, tugging at his wrist. “I won’t throw you in. I promise.”

“I’m not dressed for it.”

You point to his bag. “I saw the swim trunks, Nanami.”

Caught. He doesn’t argue.

A few minutes later, you’re sitting at the shallow edge, legs dangling in the water, and Nanami steps out from the house in black swim trunks and a gray T-shirt that fits a little too well. The sun turns the edges of his hair gold. He looks like a man misplaced from his world and dropped into something slower, softer.

“You’re staring,” he says as he sits beside you.

“You’re a walking paradox,” you reply. “It’s hard not to.”

Nanami doesn't respond right away. Then he says, “You’re the reason I stayed, you know.”

You blink. “What?”

“I was going to leave the moment I saw Gojo in a flamingo ring,” he says, calm as anything. “But then you laughed. And I thought… maybe not just yet.”

And there it is. A pool party no one will remember for the floaties or the music—but you’ll remember it for the exact moment Nanami Kento let himself float, just a little, with you by his side.

BANNER: @creamflix

[naeeebrezzy]

Title: Grease-Stained Hearts (Mechanic!Geto x Reader

⸻

You didn’t expect your car to give out two miles from home. You especially didn’t expect to be pushing it into a garage tucked behind a row of shuttered stores at 8:13 p.m., with your playlist looping sad girl music and your patience long worn thin.

But fate—annoyingly nosy, always dramatic—had other plans.

That’s when you met him.

“Need a hand?” a deep voice called from the garage doorway, backlit by flickering fluorescent lights and the warm orange glow of a hanging work lamp. His arms were crossed over a grease-smudged tank top, revealing a sleeve of black ink that wrapped around one arm like an ancient spell.

You blinked. “I think my car hates me.”

He walked toward you with the kind of confidence that made your heart misfire. Long hair tied up, cheeks smudged with something dark—maybe oil, maybe magic—and hands that looked like they could fix you faster than the car.

“Name’s Suguru,” he said, offering you a hand that felt rough and warm when you shook it. “Let’s see what’s giving you trouble.”

He knelt in front of your car like it was a living thing, one hand bracing the hood as he leaned in, dark eyes scanning the engine like a puzzle he couldn’t wait to solve.

You tried not to stare. At the way his muscles flexed when he tightened a bolt. At the streak of oil across his jaw you itched to wipe away. At the quiet hum of his voice when he muttered to himself like he forgot you were there.

But then he looked up and caught you staring. Smirked. And said, “See something you like?”

You almost choked. “You’re very—uh—mechanical.”

He laughed. A low, warm sound that did something to your already tired brain.

“Give me a couple hours. I can get her running again.”

You nodded, pretending your stomach didn’t just flip at the idea of waiting here. With him.

—

You ended up sitting in the corner of the garage on a stool that wobbled every time you breathed. He handed you a warm mug of tea—tea, seriously? In a garage?—and explained how he lived upstairs.

It wasn’t long before you were talking about more than just your car. He told you about his tattoo designs (“all hand-poked, by me”), and you told him about your job, your ex, and the exact moment your car started sounding like a dying dinosaur.

“Maybe it was fate,” you murmured into your mug, daring a glance at him.

He was crouched beside your car, wiping his hands with a rag, that smirk playing on his lips again.

“Fate’s a messy mechanic,” he said. “But sometimes it knows what it’s doing.”

Your cheeks heated. “Are you flirting with me while fixing my car?”

He wiped his hands slowly, tossed the rag aside, and stepped closer. “Only if it’s working.”

You stared up at him, your heartbeat loud in your ears. There was oil in his hair. A wrench tucked into his back pocket. And a spark in his eyes that said he’d noticed everything about you from the moment you walked in.

“It is,” you admitted, breathlessly. “Working.”

—

He fixed the car. Of course he did. But somehow, you found yourself back the next weekend—this time with a suspicious rattle and a bag of takeout you definitely didn’t plan.

Geto didn’t ask why you were back.

He just smiled, wiped his hands, and said,

“Been waiting on you.”

[naeeebrezzy]

Ｈｅａｔｓｔｒｏｋｅ

older!lifeguard Sukuna x young!reader

Slow-burn tension, fluff laced with spice, age gap, grumpy x sunshine

Word Count: 1.2k

You weren’t even trying to get his attention at first.

Okay. Maybe a little.

The beach was practically boiling—sun high, waves breaking lazy against the shore—but nothing compared to the heat in your cheeks every time he walked by. Towering. Broad-shouldered. Shirt slung over his shoulder and that damn whistle always resting between his tattooed fingers like it owed him something. Ryomen Sukuna. The lifeguard everyone either avoided or stared at a little too long.

He didn’t flirt like the others. Didn’t smile, didn’t wink. He glared. He scowled like the sun personally offended him, and he treated everyone like they were one head injury away from ruining his afternoon.

And maybe that’s what made you do it.

You waded a little deeper into the water than you were supposed to. Just far enough to make him stand up from his chair. His eyes—sharp and unmistakably annoyed—zeroed in on you as you waved innocently.

He stomped down the tower steps, kicking up sand.

“You deaf or just stupid?” he barked as soon as he reached you, saltwater curling around your calves.

You blinked up at him. “Oh no, I heard. I just didn’t care.”

That vein in his jaw pulsed like a promise.

He grabbed your arm—not rough, but firm—and pulled you out of the surf like you weighed nothing. You were close enough to smell his skin—salt, heat, a little sunscreen, and something unmistakably male. His hand lingered a second too long on your wrist before he let go.

“I swear, brats like you are the reason I hate this job,” he growled.

“Yeah?” you said, tilting your head. “Then maybe stop staring at me every time I show up.”

His nostrils flared. For a second, the mask cracked—just a little—and something darker flickered behind those red-ringed eyes.

“Keep testing me, princess,” he muttered, stepping back. “You’re not ready for what happens when I fail.”

Hiii everyone ! This is my first time writing for sukuna if you want more or even a part two Im always online !

[naeeebrezzy]

Salt on Your Skin, Stars in Your Eyes

!Playlist!

You’re sitting on a driftwood log, the hem of your shirt damp from where the tide dared to creep too close. People swirl around you—dancing, talking, shouting. But none of it reaches you.

Because across the fire, he’s there.

Geto Suguru.

Not the loudest, not the flashiest. But undeniably magnetic.

His long hair is tied up messily, a few strands clinging to his neck. He wears an oversized white shirt, sleeves rolled up, collar open, salt and warmth in his skin. He’s got that look in his eyes—like he sees through the fire, past the crowd, and straight to you.

And maybe he does.

Because when your eyes meet, he smiles. Just a little. Just enough.

He walks over, brushing sand off his hands. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” he says, voice like honey poured over ice.

You shrug, smiling. “It’s not bad. Just… too many people. Too loud.”

Geto nods, glancing at the stars above, soft waves crashing behind him. “Funny how people need noise to feel something real.” He pauses. “But I think silence says more.”

He holds out a hand.

“Want to walk with me?”

You hesitate—just for a second. Then you take it.

The sand is cold between your toes, and the water kisses your ankles as you walk beside him. You talk—about nothing, everything. Childhood memories. Favorite constellations. What makes the ocean terrifying and beautiful all at once.

“Do you come to these parties often?” you ask, lightly teasing.

He laughs—a low, rare sound. “Not unless I know you’ll be there.”

The words hang in the air. Soft. Sincere.

Your heart trips a beat.

You stop walking. So does he.

“I thought you didn’t do things like this,” you say, watching the moonlight catch in his eyes.

“I don’t,” he murmurs. “But I wanted to see you when the stars were out.”

He steps a little closer. The space between you feels electric.

“Is that okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. It’s more than okay.”

And when he leans in—gentle, cautious, reverent—it’s not fireworks or music or wild crashing waves.

It’s quiet. It’s soft.

It’s the kind of kiss that feels like a promise whispered just for you.

—

[naeeebrezzy]

🌊✨ Thank You ✨🌊

Hey Waves!

I just wanted to say a huge thank you to everyone who liked, reblogged, commented, or screamed in the tags over “Salt on Your Skin” 💙 You made my ocean-hearted soul so happy.

Requests and suggestions are always welcome!

I’m totally open to writing for other characters, fandoms, and thirsts—whether it’s more JJK, Call of Duty, or slashers (yes, I’ll make you fall for the masked murderers too 👀).

So if there’s a scene, trope, or character you want to see brought to life, my inbox is wide open like the damn sea.

Love always,

Kailani 🌊

[naeeebrezzy]

Salt on Your Skin, Stars in Your Eyes

!Playlist!

You’re sitting on a driftwood log, the hem of your shirt damp from where the tide dared to creep too close. People swirl around you—dancing, talking, shouting. But none of it reaches you.

Because across the fire, he’s there.

Geto Suguru.

Not the loudest, not the flashiest. But undeniably magnetic.

His long hair is tied up messily, a few strands clinging to his neck. He wears an oversized white shirt, sleeves rolled up, collar open, salt and warmth in his skin. He’s got that look in his eyes—like he sees through the fire, past the crowd, and straight to you.

And maybe he does.

Because when your eyes meet, he smiles. Just a little. Just enough.

He walks over, brushing sand off his hands. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” he says, voice like honey poured over ice.

You shrug, smiling. “It’s not bad. Just… too many people. Too loud.”

Geto nods, glancing at the stars above, soft waves crashing behind him. “Funny how people need noise to feel something real.” He pauses. “But I think silence says more.”

He holds out a hand.

“Want to walk with me?”

You hesitate—just for a second. Then you take it.

The sand is cold between your toes, and the water kisses your ankles as you walk beside him. You talk—about nothing, everything. Childhood memories. Favorite constellations. What makes the ocean terrifying and beautiful all at once.

“Do you come to these parties often?” you ask, lightly teasing.

He laughs—a low, rare sound. “Not unless I know you’ll be there.”

The words hang in the air. Soft. Sincere.

Your heart trips a beat.

You stop walking. So does he.

“I thought you didn’t do things like this,” you say, watching the moonlight catch in his eyes.

“I don’t,” he murmurs. “But I wanted to see you when the stars were out.”

He steps a little closer. The space between you feels electric.

“Is that okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. It’s more than okay.”

And when he leans in—gentle, cautious, reverent—it’s not fireworks or music or wild crashing waves.

It’s quiet. It’s soft.

It’s the kind of kiss that feels like a promise whispered just for you.

—