Tomiverse💫🪐

https://ko-fi.com/papercemetery 20 ✦ fanfic writer currently working on Curated Lives (20 part au) jjk • dark romance • angst masterlist + rules pinned ↓

[papercemetoru78]

ㅇ 나를 커피나 차 사줄래 ? ㅇ Art & stuff ㅇ Rants

ㅁIntro , rules ,navigation

ㅁ About me

ㅁCurated Lives Masterlist

ㅁ The space between us Masterlist

ㅁ Cathedral of Bone

this blog is a safe space to be dramatic about fictional men.

thanks for being here ✦

Note: I don’t own these images, all rights and credit goes to the original creators

[papercemetoru78]

Pairing: CEO Fratboy Sukuna Ryomen x Disabled!

Reader (Modern AU)

Content Warnings: ( MDI 18+) discrimination, bullying, Sexual harassment, p in v, Mature, trauma, Slow burn, a little smut, a LOT of angst ,sex,conflict, family dynamics, power struggles, disability, enemies-to-lovers trope, he falls first and he falls harder.

Word count: 2.7k

Dividers: @mieluno @cursed-carmine

Tag list: @tojis-ball-sack @hoedgayass @tojiswifeforlife @jeshomie @shmd-nora @twione @multisstuff @bobbywobbby @oyashiro-id @cozyunderworld @howlerwolfmax @love-d-luxe

Chapter 3 : Actually the second insult

Each row of chairs rose higher than the last, turning the lecture hall into something almost theatrical. 

The smell of polish hung heavy in the air, making you wrinkle your nose in disgust. 

Your wheelchair in the designated spot at the end of the front row. The only seat with a removable desk panel and far from the stairs. It was a lonely island, separated from the other students.

 "Economic Principles of Global Health," a required elective for your radiography degree.

 It was supposed to give you context, your advisor said. A way to understand the "systems" you’d work within. To you, it just felt like a weekly lesson in how little the world valued accessible care.

Professor Gakuganji droned on at the podium, his pointer clicking against a slide.

 "…and thus, the triage of capital inevitably follows the triage of potential outcome. Investment flows to the most able bodies."

Your pen paused.

Able bodies.

It meant bodies that worked without costly accommodations. Bodies like yours were a written item under ‘liability.’ Your thoughts were interrupted as the 

 door at the back of the hall creaked open.

Someone had arrived very late, the lecture was about an hour in, and class was about to end in thirty. 

The sound of boots echoed down the aisle. Not rushed. Nor apologetic. As if the person actually did not give two shits whether they were late or not. 

whispers moved through the room as the person moved. 

You didn’t even look up, just kept your eyes on your notebook.

The  footsteps didn’t stop at the back rows.They came closer, down the centre aisle, straight toward you.

The seat beside you shifted.

Close enough that your elbow almost brushed this persons’. 

You smelled it before you registered who it was fully. That same sharp scent from the library.

Your grip on the pen tightened.

Of course.

The boots were already there in your line of sight, scuffed. Black cargo pants. His hands resting on his thighs, knuckles still scraped fresh.

Your pen pressed a little harder into the page, now more irritated than ever. 

That asshole. Again.

Unbelievable.

He didn’t look at you. He just slouched back, one arm draped over the empty seat behind him. He stared straight ahead at the monitor, eyes flat with a look of disinterest of whatever was being explained. He hadn’t even brought a bag, or a pen. Nothing.

Like he wasn’t here to participate.

Like he was here because he felt like it.

The air grew thicker, harder to breathe. You focused on the professor’s pointer, forcing your own hand to keep moving across the page.

Mr. Gakuganji paused, glancing at the new arrival with a hint of hesitation, then cleared his throat and continued.

For ten agonizing minutes, you tried to pretend he wasn’t there. But his proximity wasn’t helpful at all. 

Then, during a pause in the lecture as Gakuganji changed slides, he leaned in a little and whispered. Low, rough and meant only for you to hear. 

“So you’re a medical grunt.”

You froze. 

Your pen paused

 “I’m a student.”

“Same thing.” A faint shift of the  fabric of his leather jacket. “Figuring out how to fix broken things.”

“I diagnose them,” you corrected with a hushed voice. “There’s a difference.”

He scoffed,  sounding like he was amused.

 “Diagnose this, then.”

 You finally turned your head.

Only to meet those red eyes that swept over your profile, down to your chair, and back up. 

“Why are you here?” He asked. “They don’t give charity seats for cripples.”

The word landed wrong.

It was so blunt and so deliberately ugly that it stole your breath. 

The word kids had whispered in hallways or muttered by strangers on the bus. But no one had ever said it to your face, especially with such casual cruelty. And this was the second time he’d said it to you. 

For a second, you didn’t respond, probably too taken back a bit. Then you felt it, a hot sting that pricked behind your eyes and your throat throbbing. 

*What is going on with you today, L/n? keep it together.*

You were not going to cry in front of this asshole. 

You swallowed whatever emotions that were getting to you down, turned your head to meet his gaze again and continued to stare him down.  

Then you forced your voice out.

“They give scholarships,” you said, your voice surprisingly steady, “to the student who topped the national pre-med entrance exams” You threw Gakuganji’s term back, laced with venom. “My parents…they sweat for every yen. I’m here because my brain works. The rest of me is  NONE of your business.”

He held your stare and didn’t even apologize nor did he react. He just… absorbed it. Like your anger was amusing. 

*Asshole* you thought 

“Huh,” he scoffed, looking forward again, dismissing you. “Brains. Tch.”

Your jaw tightened.

You were still shaking inside when Mr. Gakuganji’s next words cut through the buzzing in your ears.

“As you all know from the email sent last night, the mid-term project pairs have been assigned, I have assigned the pairs myself," He announced, clearing his throat.

 "I trust you've reviewed them.”

A pause. 

 “…for this project, you will be analyzing a real-world case study.”

He adjusted his glasses and looked down at his tablet.

“Ria Fujiyama, you have been paired with Aiko Hirai”

“Shota Nakamura,  paired with Natsuki Yoshida”

“Satoru….your paired with...Akari Matsumoto”

……..

……………

……

…….,

“And lastly….” 

“L/N Y/N,” Gakuganji read from his tablet, his eyes finding you. Your head lifted before you could stop it.

 “You have been paired with…..

Mr Ryomen.”

The silence was heavy. Then the whispering exploded.

Your stomach dropped through the floor. No. It wasn’t possible. It was a sick joke. You didn’t think Sukuna was serious when he said you were paired together. 

Then in a desperate attempt you shot Sukuna a glance to your left and sent him the sharpest look ever. Knuckles were already turning white because of how hard you were clenching. 

He was already looking forward, his expression unchanged. He just stared at the professor, then slowly, the corner of his lips ticked up. *Was he smirking??* 

Oh, how you felt like wiping that smirk of his face. If only you could stand….

“The project,” Gakuganji continued, raising his voice “will be a cost-benefit analysis of implementing a universal accessibility redesign for a public hospital wing. Due in 15 weeks. Fifty percent of your grade. All the details have already been sent along with the email.”

Universal accessibility. Paired with the guy who’d just called you a cripple. Twice.This had to be a joke. A very bad one at least.

Right??

“Wait!” You snapped, voice cut through the classroom.

A few heads turned.

“There’s… no way that’s correct,” you said, pointing. “Isn’t there anyone else? Like…..anyone else at all?”

A pause.

The professor blinked slowly. “The pairs are correct.”

“No, no, no,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “I think there’s been a mistake. A technical issue or something.

A few students snorted under their breath.

You felt heat rise under your skin.

Next to you, Sukuna leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “Tch. What, you think you’re too good for it?”

The room shifted again. Watching now.

Gakuganji's eyebrows climbed higher. "The pairs were generated by the department's best assignment algorithm. The algorithm I designed. There’s no mistake."

"With all due respect, SIR, the algorithm is wrong." You gestured vaguely at the air. “The algorithm is broken. It needs to be double che-"

"L/n." Gakuganji's voice was flat. "The pairs are final."

"Final?" You laughed, making a slightly unhinged sound. "You can't just say 'final' like that's a real word. Final is for death. Final is not for being strapped to this  menace for ten weeks of my life.” You lashed, gesturing at the pink haired jerk sitting beside you.

The professor sighed, rubbing his temple. “Ms L/n It’s not up for negotiation.”

From your left, a low voice interrupted. "I'm touched. Really. You're already thinking about our future together."

You whipped your head toward Sukuna so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash.

"This is not a future," you hissed. "This is a hostage situation."

"Kinky. I like it."

"I. Will. End you." 

"L/N. Ryomen." Gakuganji voiced. "If you two cannot work together professionally, I will refer this matter to the academic integrity board. Is that what you want?"

You opened your mouth to say something, but  the professor's cold expression made you stop. He really wasn't bluffing. And the academic integrity board was not somewhere a scholarship student wanted to end up.

You closed your mouth. Swallowed your pride.

That same pride tasted like broken glass and failure.

"No, sir," you said through clenched teeth.

The bell rang mockingly . Mr Gakuganji looked at the clock, then at you, then at the door. A wave of relief washed over his wrinkled face, so desperate that you almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“…..well," he said, already gathering his notes, already stepping away from the podium, "everyone that concludes today's lecture. I look forward to your project submissions. Good day."

He was gone before you could form another word. Vanished. *Tch Coward*, you thought.

 With that everyone, erupted into chatter, as they made their way out of class. You just sat frozen, staring at your notes. Anger gnawing at you.

Sukuna stood up then loomed over you for a moment, blocking the light. “My office hours are never,” he said, his tone harsh. “You want to pass? You do the work. Send me the slides. Don’t waste my time.”

And then he was gone, moving up the stairs and out the door without a glance, the crowd of people heading to the next class parting for him like water before a shark. 

You were left alone in the emptying hall, the words echoed. Your brain replaying the moment: the  professor's cowardice, Sukuna's smug smirk, the bell's mockery…You literally just made a fool of yourself again. 

Fuck my life

Suddenly a hand touched your shoulder. You flinched.

Mei.

 The acquaintance from your radiology class. She was very kind but her expression was now laced with pity. 

“Oh my god, Y/N. Are you okay? Paired with him? That’s… that’s basically a death sentence for your grade. And he’s so…. Do you want me to talk to the professor for you?”

The pity was worse than Sukuna’s cruelty. It was gentle, made you feel small and broken. It kinda felt like a punch in the gut. 

Like everything was just being rubbed in…

“I’m fine,” you said, shrugging her hand off gently. “It’s just a project.”

But it wasn’t. It felt like a life sentence.

The rest of the day was a blur. In your core radiology lecture, you focused on cross-sectional anatomy with desperation, trying to bury this morning’s encounter in the safe, logical world of MRIs and CT scans. 

Your other shared class with him, you discovered with a sinking heart, was Advanced Statistical Modeling. Of course it was. A tool for a future CEO to measure the world. For you, it was another obstacle.You arrived early and took a seat in the back, near the door. He walked in just as the lecture began, surrounded by his usual group, a white-haired Satoru, the dark-haired Suguru, and an older, terrifyingly man with a scar running down by his lip, the one you’d heard whispers about too, Toji. They took up the entire back row, all looking very disinterested.

Sukuna’s eyes found you instantly, a quick, bored scan before he turned to say something that made Gojo laugh loudly. You felt uncomfortable. Exposed. 

After your last class, the real struggle began: the bus. It was raining with a very hard drizzle that made everything wet. You waited under the shelter of the bus stop, your wheelchair’s brakes firmly engaged on the incline. The bus pulled up, doors hissing open. The driver, a different man from the usual, saw you and his shoulders slumped visibly.

He got out, grumbling about the weather, and slapped the button for the ramp. It extended with a jerky whine. You rolled forward, the small lip where the ramp met the sidewalk catching your front casters. You had to reverse and give it a sharp push to get over it, your shoulders already aching.

“Hurry up, it’s raining,” the driver said, not helping one bit as he returned to  his dry seat and continued to watch. 

Inside, you moved to the designated securement area for people with disabilities. The straps were stiff and cold. You hooked them to your chair, pulling them tight with practiced, straining movements. The driver watched in the mirror, impatient. When you were finally secured, he didn’t wait for you to give a signal. He just closed the doors and pulled back into traffic, the lurch making you grab hold of your wheels to steady yourself.

You looked around scanning the familiar scene of the bus when an old lady across the aisle gave you a small, sympathetic smile. You looked away, out the fogged window, feeling the familiar sense of gratitude and humiliation. You were a chore. A delay. No one likes either. 

He dropped you off at your usual stop. The ramp dropped into a deep puddle at the curb. You had no choice but to roll through it, the icy water soaking through the bottoms of your jeans, chilling your legs. Your socks were now all wet and you were definitely sure you’re about to get the flu.

The bus drove away with another hiss, leaving you in the wet, dimming light.

Home was quiet. 

The passageway felt so hollow and eerie, it always gave you the creeps as you unlocked your door. Inside the apartment was dark, quiet and smelled of dried paint. You put your hands onto the armrest of the wheelchair, dug your fingers in and used every last bit of strength that you had to haul yourself up from the chair to the couch. 

 Your body, still not used to this same old routine, protested at every inch, muscles screaming as you shifted your weight.

Finally, you collapsed onto the cheap, second-hand couch with a heavy plop. A groan escaped your lips as you stretched your now aching back and hips, the familiar throb of pain worse in the damp cold. For a moment, you just stayed there, chest heaving, arms trembling, letting your body sink into the cushions. 

Phone.

A missed call.

Your mother.

You could picture her, wiping her hands on her apron in the steamy back room of the restaurant, with worry etched on her face.

 You sent her a quick text: [ Long day. All good. Talk tomorrow] You couldn’t bear to hear her concerning voice right now, you had to lie about how your day really was.

You checked all your emails for the day and that’s when your eyes fell on the course syllabus for Economic Principles. On the line for ‘Project Partner,’ you wrote, with a hand that trembled slightly: Ryomen Sukuna.

A sudden, hot tear escaped, tracking through the grime and rain on your cheek. You wiped it away angrily. You hadn’t cried over the bus, or the puddle, or the pain. But this… this pairing felt like the universe toying with you. 

You thought back to today’s encounter, his cold red eyes, his utter indifference. 

You do the work. Send me the slides. Don’t waste my time.

The audacity.

You felt this sudden rage flare in your tummy, burning away all the self-pity.

Fine.

He wanted a cost-benefit analysis on accessibility? You’d give him one. You’d bury him in data. In real life costs, not just of ramps, but of lost jobs, of secondary illnesses from inadequate care, of human potential wasted. You’d make it so thorough, so rock-solid, that even he would have to see it.

He thought your brain was your only viable asset?

You’d show him just how sharp your asset could be.

You opened your laptop, the glow illuminating your  face in the dark apartment. The sounds of rain pattering against the window. 

This project, this class, this degree, it was your bridge out of the world of pitying smiles. And no arrogant, pink-haired frat boy was going to blow it up for you. 

You started your research, typing with intense focus. The first email you drafted was to him. Short and Professional. 

To: [email protected]

Subject: Econ 405 – Project Timeline & Initial Data

Review attached. We need to schedule a meeting to divide workload. Suggest next week. 

Y/N

📁🧷(Attached) Draft outline, preliminary research sources.

[papercemetoru78]

👀

[papercemetoru78]

Hey love! It’s been so long can I ask when will the space between us be updated 🥺

Hey! thank you so much for asking 🥹💕 I'm really sorry for the silence, school has been kicking my butt lately. I've been working on SBU chapter 3 and it's almost done! Just need my friend to look it over and then make a few final adjustments. It'll be out this month for sure. Thank you for being so patient with me, it really means a lot🫶🫶

[levitonin]

This was supposed to be quick coloring but I got carried away and rendered it

[papercemetoru78]

Chef Mom vs. Chef Dad Challenge ( One-shot)

Word count: 4,1k words

Pairing: Dad!Nanami, Dad!Gojo Satoru, Dad!Sukuna, Dad!Geto Suguru.

Synopsis: Who really rules the kitchen in your household? According to your children?

AN: Yesterday, I fell down the YouTube rabbit hole (as one does at 2 AM), and stumbled across a HiHo Kids video, specifically, the "Chef Mom vs. Chef Dad Challenge." The kids are just sitting there, being absolutely BRUTAL about their parents' cooking, and the parents are just... taking it.

I watched that video and thought:“ I need this with Jujutsu Kaisen dads.”

Content warning: Fluff, Comedy, Domestic Fluff, crack

The Nanami family

The studio lights flash strongly against your skin as you take your seat behind the small table. Your husband Kento, next to you, sits with his usual calm composure, a covered dish in front of him. You have your own dish you brought from home this morning, covered in the table in front of you.

Between you both, sits your daughter Kaori, wearing her favorite yellow dress, the one with the little sunflowers on it, bouncing impatiently in her seat. Her legs swing back and forth beneath the chair.

"Mommy! Daddy! Can I eat NOW?"

"Soon, sweetheart," you laugh. "They have to introduce us first."

As if on cue, a stagehand holds up a sign:

{Applause}

"Welcome to Chef Mom vs. Chef Dad!" the host announces cheerfully. "Today we have the Nanami family! Our judge today is five-year-old Kaori!"

Kaori waves frantically at the camera. "That's us! That's ME!"

You give her a kiss on her cheek and wave awkwardly to the camera while Nanami watches the exchange with a small, gentle smile, one that still makes your heart flutter.

"Now, Kaori," the host continues from behind the camera, "here's how this works. Mommy and Daddy both cooked something at home and brought it here for you to try. You're going to taste both dishes, and then you'll tell us which one is your favourite. Ready!

"I was born ready!" Kaori declares, then pauses and turns to you. "Wait Mommy what does that mean?"

"It means you're ready," you call out.

"Oh. Then yes. I was born ready."

The crew laughs quietly. You catch Nanami's eye and he shakes his head slightly, but he's smiling.

Kaori nods seriously. "I'm ready.”

"Alright! Let's see what Mommy made first !"

You remove the lid from your container, revealing perfectly arranged onigiri, rice balls shaped into little animals. Bunnies with seaweed ears. Bears with tiny sesame seed eyes. A cat with whiskers made from nori. And something that resembles a dog or might be a very confused raccoon.

"Oh my goodness!" the host gasps. "Look at these! Kaori, do you see what Mommy made?"

"I made your favorites, sweetheart," you say warmly. "Salmon inside the bunnies, umeboshi inside the bears, and tuna mayo inside the cat-”

Kaori's eyes go wide. "Bunnies! Mommy made bunnies!"

Kaori picks up the bunny onigiri, examines it carefully, then takes a bite. Her whole face lights up.

"MOMMY! The bunny has salmon inside!"

"Surprise!" You laugh.

"Kaori," the host calls out, "what do you think of Mommy's onigiri?"

Kaori chews thoughtfully, then swallows. "Mommy's rice balls are tricky. They look cute on the outside, but inside they're... they're..." She searches for the word.

"Delicious?" you offer.

"SNEAKY! They're sneaky! You think you're eating a bunny, but really you're eating a secret!"

"That's... actually a really good description," you admit.

“I made these at five in the morning."

Nanami's lips twitch. "You were very dedicated my love."

"I was very tired. There's a difference”, you respond tiredly.”

You both watch as she takes another bite. And another. Soon half the bunny is gone.

"Okay, now try Daddy’s!” Nanami chimes.

Nanami removes his lid with the same precise care that he brings to everything, inside perfectly arranged, is a beautiful plate of tamagoyaki ( a Japanese rolled omelet) cut into perfect golden rectangles drizzled with just a touch of ketchup in the shape of a little heart, with Kaori’s name in the middle, and a small serving of soy sauce separate, at the side.

"Tamagoyaki," Nanami says calmly. "I've made it for Kaori every Sunday morning since she was old enough to eat solid food."

"Daddy's eggs!" Kaori claps her hands.

"They're the best eggs in the whole world! They're better than Grandma's eggs! Don't tell Grandma I said that."

"I won't," Nanami promises solemnly.

She picks up a piece of tamagoyaki with her fingers. Nanami doesn't correct her, just watches with patient affection and takes a bite. Her eyes close briefly, and when they open, she's smiling.

"Mm. Mm. MM." She chews with exaggerated enjoyment."It's so soft! And a little sweet!"

"Does it taste like Sunday mornings?" the host asks.

Kaori nods enthusiastically. "Daddy makes it every Sunday. Sometimes I help mix the eggs. He lets me use the little whisk."

Then she turns to Nanami. "Daddy. This tastes like... like when you carry me to bed after I fall asleep on the couch. Like when you fix my toys without making me feel bad for breaking them. Like-"

"We get it, Kaori," you interrupt, laughing. "You love Daddy's eggs."

"I love Daddy's EVERYTHING. But especially the eggs."

Next to you, Nanami's ears are slightly pink. You promise yourself to file his reaction away for future teasing.

His expression softens impossibly further. You reach under the table and squeeze his hand.

"So, Kaori," the host leans in, "we need a winner. Daddy's Sunday morning eggs, or Mommy's surprise bunnies?"

Kaori looks at both plates. She looks at you. She looks at Nanami. Then she does something unexpected, she pushes both plates closer together, side by side.

"Both," she says firmly.

"Both?"

"Mommy's bunnies are fun. They make me happy." She pats the tamagoyaki. "Daddy's eggs are cozy. They make me feel safe." She looks up at the host with complete seriousness. "I need fun AND cozy. So both win."

The studio fills with soft "awwws." Behind the camera, someone sniffles.

You feel Nanami's hand tighten around yours. When you look at him, his eyes are suspiciously bright, but he'd never admit it.

"Kaori," he says quietly, "that was a very wise answer."

"Mommy says I get my wisdom from you."

"She says that?"

"And my looks from her."

You burst out laughing. "I definitely say that."

Kaori, meanwhile, has decided the judging is over and is now happily eating from both plates. "Can we do this again tomorrow?" she asks with her mouth full.

"Kaori, don't talk with food in your mouth," Nanami says gently.

"Sorry, Daddy." She swallows. "Can we do this again tomorrow?"

"We'll see, sweetheart."

The Gojo family

The studio feels different with the Gojo family. Brighter, somehow. Louder. Your husband Satoru is already charming the crew, flashing that dazzling smile at everyone who passes.

"Love, stop flirting with the lighting technician."

"I'm not flirting! I'm complimenting his excellent taste in dimmer switches!"

"That's worse."

He grins at you, utterly unrepentant, and drops a kiss on your forehead. "You're just jealous of my rapport with the staff."

"Your rapport….never mind."

At the judge's table, both your twin sons Haruki and Itsuki are already arguing about something. They're five years old, identical in every way except personality. Haruki bounces. Itsuki observes.

"I'm going to win!"

"We're not competing, Haruki. We're judging."

"Then I'm going to be the BEST judge!"

"You can't be the best judge. There are two of us. It's a tie automatically."

"That's not how judging works, Itsuki!"

"That's how I work, Haruki."

"Welcome to Chef Mom vs. Chef Dad!" the host announces. "Today we have the Gojo family! Our judges today are five-year-old twins Haruki and Itsuki!"

The twins wave in perfect unison. "HI!"

"Now, boys," the host explains, "Mommy and Daddy both cooked something at home and brought their dishes here. You're going to taste both and tell us which one you like better. Ready?"

"I've been ready since birth!" Haruki shouts.

"I require more information before I can confirm readiness," Itsuki says calmly.

"That's my boys," Satoru grins, winking at you. "One chaos, one calculus."

"Alright! Let's see what Daddy made!"

Satoru whips the lid off his container with dramatic flair, revealing a tray of colorful sushi rolls, not just any sushi rolls, but rolls arranged to look like little characters. There's a cucumber roll with sesame eyes, a tuna roll shaped like a fish, and several pieces of tamago sushi with little faces drawn on in nori.

“Ta-da!" Satoru beams."Character sushi! Hand-rolled by me, your magnificent father, with love and also some frustration when the rice wouldn't stick!"

"The rice wouldn't stick because you kept eating it," you snorted, reminding him.

"It was quality control! Very important!"

Haruki leans forward, eyes sparkling. "DAD! You made Pikachu!"

"That's... that's actually just a yellow square with eyes, Haruki."

"IT'S PIKACHU TO ME!"

"Did you really make these?" the host asks.

"I absolutely did! Well, my wife stopped me from using food coloring for the faces, so I had to get creative with nori, but the vision was ALL me!"

You roll your eyes fondly. "He made three practice batches. Our kitchen looked like a sushi restaurant exploded."

"Worth it for my boys!"

Itsuki examines the fish-shaped tuna roll critically. "Dad, this fish is eating a smaller fish?"

Satoru peers at his creation. "That's... artistic interpretation?"

"It looks like cannibalism, Dad."

"I'm sure it's FINE."

The crew behind the camera is struggling to stay quiet.

"Okay, boys! Now let's see what Mommy made!"

You remove your lid, revealing a beautiful chirashi sushi bowl, scattered sushi rice topped with an artful arrangement of fresh fish, tamago strips, cucumber, shiso leaf, and pickled radish. It's colorful, elegant, and clearly made with care.

"Ooh, chirashi sushi!" the host exclaims. "That's scattered sushi, like a bowl of deliciousness! Boys, what do you think?"

Haruki leans forward, eyes wide. "Mom's looks like a garden!"

"That's exactly what I was going for, baby."

Itsuki studies it carefully. "Dad's looks like... a party."

"That's... actually really accurate," you admit.

"Time to taste! Boys, which one first?"

"DAD'S CANNIBALISM FISH PARTY!" Haruki shouts immediately.

"Haruki, we're not calling it that."

"Too late, Dad. It's named."

Itsuki sighs but doesn't argue.

The twins descend on Satoru's character sushi like tiny predators. Haruki grabs the “Pikachu” tuna roll. After a moment of consideration, Itsuki takes a cucumber roll with a face. They chew thoughtfully.

Haruki takes a bite and his eyes go wide. "DAD! This is GOOD!"

"Of course it is! I made it!" Satoru boasts, l clearly feeling proud of himself.

"But Dad, you burn toast."

"I've GROWN, Haruki. Character assassination from my own son."

Itsuki chews thoughtfully, studying the fish roll. "Dad, the flavors are balanced. The rice is properly seasoned. The fish is fresh." He pauses. "I'm impressed."

Satoru clutches his heart dramatically. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me, Itsuki."

"I say nice things to you all the time, Dad. You just don't listen."

"The cucumber is crunchy," Itsuki adds. "The face is... looking at me."

"It's looking at you with love, Itsuki! That's the face of parental affection!"

"I think it's judging me."

Satoru gasps dramatically. "My sushi would NEVER!"

"Now try Mom's!"

They turn to your chirashi bowl. Haruki uses his chopsticks with reasonable success grabbing a pice of salmon. Itsukipicks up a piece of tamago.

Haruki's eyes go wide. "Itsuki. ITSUKI. Try the pink one."

Itsuki tries the salmon. His eyes close briefly . When they open, he immediately reaches for another piece and looks at you with something like wonder.

"The pink one is... special," he says quietly.

"That's salmon, baby. Good salmon."

"Mom. This salmon is... it's like... it's like...", he continues.

"Like what, baby?"

"Like when you stay with me when I can't sleep. Like warm milk and blankets and... and safety."

Next to you, Satoru makes a wounded sound. "That's so beautiful and also I'm being destroyed."

"You're not being destroyed-"

"Haruki, what do you think?" the host interrupts.

Haruki has a piece of salmon in each hand and is alternating bites. "Mom's food tastes like... like when Dad's being annoying but Mom just smiles and it's okay. Like... like everything's going to be fine even when it's not."

The studio goes quiet for a moment.

"Honey," you say softly, "that's... that's beautiful."

Haruki shrugs. "I'm five. I have feelings."

"So," the host says, recovering, "who wins? Dad's character sushi or Mom's feelings bowl?"

“Remember-” you gently cut in, placing a hand on both boys’ shoulders. “Baby, it doesn’t matter who wins. We’ll love you both the same at the end of the day. Trophies are temporary. Family group chats are forever.”

Satoru scoffs dramatically. “Wow. Inspirational. Touching. However-” he points both thumbs at himself, grin blinding, “we already know who won. Me. Obviously.”

You let out a short laugh. “In your dreams. They love my cooking.”

He gasps. “Excuse me? They are clearly dazzled by my artistic genius.”

“HUH! Artistic genius,?” you repeat sweetly. “In your dreams, I wouldn’t be surprised if you bought that dish. You once burned instant noodles Satoru.”

“Nuhh uhh, that was ONE time!” he protests. “The stove was aggressive.”

“You set off three smoke alarms.”

“They were emotionally sensitive.”

The twins slowly turn to look at each other.

Haruki and Itsuki look at each other. That identical expression,the one they definitely get from their Dad, crosses both their faces.

"Dad's sushi is fun," Haruki begins.

"Mom's sushi is... nourishing. In multiple ways," Itsuki continues.

"So..."

"Mom wins!" They both say in unison.

They look at the host expectantly.

Some gasps are heard at the back. The host clutches his cue cards like they’ve personally betrayed him.

Satoru straightens slowly, looking between the twins and you like he’s just witnessed the ultimate betrayal.

He presses a hand to his chest.

“My sons. My own flesh and blood. The heirs to my overwhelming greatness.”

“I’ve been robbed,” he declares solemnly. “Cheated. Sabotaged. Betrayed by my own bloodline.”

He drops to one knee dramatically. “I have taught you confidence. I have taught you style. And this is how I am repaid?”

You cross your arms, victorious. “The truth always prevails.”

He points at you accusingly. “You bribed them with extra dessert.”

“I don’t need to bribe them. I season my food properly.”

The twins look at you again, then back at their father.

Itsuki hesitates. “…Dad, your sushi did look cool.”

Haruki nods and walks over, wrapping his small arms around Satoru’s waist. “We’re not saying you’re bad at cooking.”

Itsuki joins the hug. “You’re good at other things.”

Satoru sniffles dramatically. “Like what?”

The twins exchange another look.

Haruki starts counting on his fingers. “You’re really good at teaching us cool tricks.”

Itsuki adds, “And you run super fast.”

“Being tall,” Itsuki adds.

“And you always carry us when we’re tired,” Haruki says.

“And blindfold fashion.”

Itsuki nods seriously. “And you make the best funny faces.”

There’s a pause.

Satoru blinks.

You laugh, unable to hold it in anymore.

Satoru squints down at them. “…I feel betrayed.”

Haruki pats his side comfortingly. “It’s okay, Dad. Even heroes need character development.”

Satoru immediately straightens. “Ah. So this is my tragic backstory arc.”

You lean in with a teasing smile. “Or your redemption arc. If you ever learn how to use the stove.”

He gasps again. “Unbelievable. Surrounded by critics.”

The host wipes imaginary sweat from his brow. “And there you have it, folks. Love wins. Mom wins. Dad needs cooking lessons.”

Satoru slings an arm around all three of you anyway. “Fine. Fine. I accept this temporary injustice. But next competition?”

He grins.

“I’m making dessert.”

You blink.

“…Hide the fire extinguisher,” you whisper to the twins.

They nod in solemn agreement, abandon all pretense of judging and simply start eating from both dishes. Haruki alternates bites of character sushi and chirashi. Itsuki methodically works through everything, his little face serious with concentration.

As the cameras cut, Satoru wraps his arms around you from behind, chin on your shoulder. "We made good kids."

"We really did."

"Even though they did just emotionally destroy me with their articulate food reviews."

"They're five and they used the word 'feelings' unironically. That's a win."

Satoru presses a kiss to your cheek. "Best team ever."

"Mom, the cucumber is very fresh today."

"Thanks, Haruki. I picked it myself."

"You picked a cucumber?"

"At the store, baby. I picked it at the store."

"Oh. That's less impressive but still good."

As the crew prepares for the next segment, Satoru scoops up both twins, one under each arm. They shriek with laughter.

"Attack of the Dad Monster!"

"Dad, put me down! I'm a serious person!"

"You can be serious later! Right now, we CELEBRATE!"

You follow your ridiculous, wonderful family out of the filming area, already planning how to get the twins down from their inevitable sugar high.

The Ryomen family

Your family arrives with an entirely different energy.

You walk in beside your husband Ryomen Sukuna, carrying your covered dish. Sukuna carries his own, his expression unreadable, his presence so intense that studio assistants find sudden reasons to be elsewhere.

"Ryo," you murmur, "you're scaring the crew."

"They are easily frightened."

"They're just trying to do their jobs."

Sukuna glances down at you, crimson eyes sharp. "Winning is fun. Therefore, this is a competition. Therefore, I am here to win."

"It's a cooking challenge. For fun. With our daughter."

"Winning is fun."

"And if you don't win?"

Something flickers in his expression, gone before you can fully read it. "That outcome does not exist in my calculations."

You can't argue with that logic, so you don't try.

Your daughter Reika already runs to the table and sits. She's five years old, dressed in a tiny kimono-style dress, her pink hair pulled back with a red ribbon. She sits perfectly still, watching her father with an expression of complete adoration. You two follow suit and you both each seat beside her.

When Sukuna meets her eyes, something soft flickers in his, gone in an instant, but you caught it. You always catch it.

"Welcome to Chef Mom vs. Chef Dad!" the host announces, slightly more nervous than usual. "Today we have the Ryomen family! Our judge today is five-year-old Reika!"

Reika nods once. "I am ready."

"Alright. Okay. So, Reika, here's how it works. Mommy and Daddy both cooked something at home and brought it here. You'll taste both dishes and tell us which one is the winner. Sound good?"

"That is acceptable. I have been ready since the moment of my conception.”

Behind the camera, someone chokes.

The host blinks, then recovers. " That's... very dedicated. Let's see what Daddy made!"

Uraume removes his lid with deliberate precision. Inside is a beautiful arrangement of yakitori, grilled chicken skewers with a side of neatly garnished rice, but these are unlike any yakitori you've seen before. The chicken is perfectly charred, glazed with tare sauce, and arranged on the plate to form what looks like... a dragon. A chicken dragon, complete with scales made from carefully placed negi.

The studio goes completely quiet.

"Did... did you make a dragon?" the host asks faintly.

"I did." Sukuna's voice is calm, utterly confident. "Reika appreciates dragons. She also appreciates excellence. I combined both." He shrugged, showcasing a cockey expression.

Reika leans forward, her eyes shining. "Daddy. The scales. The eyes. The-" She stops, pointing. "Are those his teeth?".

“Grilled chicken cartilage. For texture."

"Daddy." Reika's voice is filled with awe. "You're a genius. It's magnificent."

"I know."

Next to Sukuna, you roll your eyes. "Don't let it go to your head, Ryo."

"It's already there. It's been there for centuries."

Behind you, Sukuna's chest puffs up almost imperceptibly. Pride.

"And what did Mommy make?" the host asks, clearly eager to move on.

You remove your lid, revealing a beautiful donabe, a clay pot of chicken and rice cooked together, still steaming slightly. It's simple, rustic, homemade,clearly made with care rather than the drama,.

"Tori to gohan," you say quietly. "Chicken and rice cooked in a clay pot. It's... it's what I make when someone needs comfort."

"It looks so warm and cozy!" the host offers.

Reika studies both dishes with the same intensity her father brings to everything, with her little arms crossed slung over each other and her brow ms furrowed in concentration. "Daddy's dish is art. Mommy's dish is... home."

"Beautifully said, Reika! Time to taste! Which one first?"

"Daddy's dragon. Obviously."

“Tsh.” You roll your eyes, while Sukuna side-eyes you with a small, knowing smirk.

His lips curl slightly, the closest he gets to a smile in public. His eyes gleaming with satisfaction as Reika carefully selects a piece of yakitori from the dragon's tail. She bites into it, chews slowly, and closes her eyes.

When she opens them, she looks directly at her father. "Daddy. This is the best yakitori you have ever made. It is perfect. The char is exactly.The cartilage adds texture without being overwhelming. This is... this is a ten out of ten."

Sukuna's chest puffs up almost instantly and lilips curl slightly. "I know."

"You don't have to say 'I know' to everything, Ryo."

"Yes I do. It's accurate."

"Now try Mommy's!"

Reika turns to your donabe. She uses her chopsticks with perfect form, just how Sukuna taught her, to lift a bite of the chicken and rice. She blows on it gently, then tastes it.

Her expression doesn't change for a long moment. Then, slowly, something softens in her eyes.

"Mommy," she says quietly, "this tastes like... like when I'm sick and you stay with me all night. Like when I have bad dreams and you hum that song. The one Grandma used to hum."

"The one Grandma used to hum, yes."

"It tastes like... like being small and safe and knowing nothing bad can happen because Mommy's there."

Your throat tightens. Across from you, Sukuna's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

So, Reika," the host asks gently, "who wins? Daddy's ten-out-of-ten dragon, or Mommy's...being-held chicken ?"

Reika looks at both dishes for a long, agonizing moment. The studio is completely silent. Even the crew seems to be holding their breath.

"Daddy's yakitori is the best yakitori I have ever eaten," she says finally. "It is powerful and perfect and made with love for me.”

Sukuna's posture shifts in anticipation.

"But Mommy's dish..." She looks at your donabe, then at you. "Mommy's dish isn't about being the best. It's about being there. Always. Every day. Even when the food isn't special, it's special because she made it."

She turns to the host. "I choose Mommy's."

The studio erupts in soft sounds of affection. Behind the camera, someone sniffles loudly.

You turn to look at Sukuna, expecting... what? Anger? Disappointment? The competitive fire you know burns in him?

Instead, he's staring at Reika with an expression you've only seen a handful of times: utter, complete adoration, stripped of all pretense and armor. When he notices you looking, the expression doesn't disappear. It simply expands to include you.

"Oi," he says gruffly. "The brat has taste."

"Is that... are you conceding?"

He makes a sound, not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff. "I am acknowledging that your dish has... significance. This one time."

"Acknowledging my significance. I'm going to remember this forever."

"Don't push it."

Reika, meanwhile, has decided that the solution to the competition is simply to eat both dishes. She's alternating bites of yakitori and donabe with focused intensity, occasionally making small sounds of appreciation.

"Reika," the host asks, "what are you doing?"

"Both dishes are necessary," she says seriously, not looking up from her food. "Daddy's dish makes me feel strong. Mommy's dish makes me feel safe. Sometimes I need both. Like now. Like always.Like-" She pauses, a piece of yakitori halfway to her mouth. "Is that a follow-up question or can I keep eating?"

"You can keep eating."

"Good. Because this dragon isn't going to defeat itself."

Behind you, Sukuna's hand finds yours. His grip is firm, warm, possessive in the best way.

"Oi," he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear. "You made her that. The safe feeling. That's you."

You squeeze his hand back. "You made the strong feeling. That's you."

"Together, then." His eyes meet yours, and for a moment there's nothing else, no cameras, no crew, no competition. Just you, him, and the incredible child you made together. "She is both of us. The best of both of us."

"She really is."

As the cameras finish rolling, Reika finishes the last of the yakitori dragon's tail and looks up at her father. "Daddy, next time can we make a phoenix?"

"A phoenix?"

"From the ashes of your defeat."

Sukuna's eyes narrow. "I wasn't defeated. I was... strategically outperformed."

"That's what defeat means, Daddy."

"That's what defeat MEANS to people who aren't me."

Reika looks at you. "Mommy, is Daddy always this stubborn?"

"Always, sweetheart. It's part of his charm."

"It's not charm," Sukuna grumbles. "It's accuracy."

You lean up and press a kiss to his cheek. "It's both. That's why we love you."

He doesn't respond, but his hand tightens around yours, and when Reika reaches up for him to carry her, he scoops her up without hesitation andsettles on his hip.

"Come on, you two," you say. "Let's go home. I'll make more rice."

"With the good seaweed?" Reika asks.

"With the good seaweed."

"And Daddy can make more yakitori?"

Sukuna nods once. "Tomorrow. Tonight, we eat your mother's victory dish."

"It's not a victory dish, Ryo. It's just dinner."

"It's a victory dinner. There's a difference."

You shake your head, smiling, as the three of you walk out together, a family, strong and safe all at once.

Thank you for reading! Likes, reblogs, and comments are deeply appreciated! 💕

[axzybrevz]

Ryomen Sukuna

Biker Sukuna

Creds to mochikuyo

[solarsdiary]

reminding myself that 7 kudos is 7 different people who have read my story and actually liked it

and idk about you but if 7 people came up to me in real life and said “hey we really liked your writing” i would just cry on the spot

[papercemetoru78]

Cathedral Of Bone (coming soon)

Pairing: (Sukuna Ryomen x Physical Therapist!Reader)

Synopsis: Your last fighter died on your watch. Now, you have one rule: never again. But when your boss forces you to take on a new client-infamous. Ryomen, the richest, coldest, most undefeated man in the MMA world, who is crumbling from the inside out. You’re hired (actually bribed) to fix his broken shoulder, you walk into a den of furry & spite. He calls your rehab a humiliation. But in the quiet spaces between exercises, you see the cracks in his armor. You feel the terrifying weight of a man who has never been weak, begging you his enemy, his only lifeline, not to see him break.

Warnings: (Original fanfic) Heavy Angst, Past Trauma,Pain, Enemies to Lovers, Billionaire CEO, MMA, Hurt, Comfort, Emotional Damage, Slow Burn, eventual smut.

Tags: [Open]

A/N: Guys this idea grabbed me by the throat and wouldn't let go. I know it’s literally going in the same direction as all my other fics, but…hey, I’m a sucker for angst. I really love the realism in fics and the slice of life trope, the daily human struggles people often face.

The image of Sukuna, a man who’s arrogant and proud having to be so vulnerable just wrecked me. Prepare for pain & for slow burn 🔥 You’ve been warned⚠️

#chapter 1 #chapter 2 #chapter 3 #chapter 4 #chapter 5 #chapter 6 #chapter 7 #chapter 8 #chapter 9 #chapter 10 #chapter 11 #chapter 12 #chapter 13 #chapter 14 #chapter 15 # bonus chapter 1 # bonus chapter 2

[papercemetoru78]

Pairing: CEO Fratboy Sukuna Ryomen x Disabled!

Reader (Modern AU)

Content Warnings: ( MDI 18+) discrimination, bullying, Sexual harassment, p in v, Mature, trauma, Slow burn, a little smut, a LOT of angst ,sex,conflict, family dynamics, power struggles, disability, enemies-to-lovers trope, he falls first and he falls harder.

Word count: 1.7k

Dividers: @mieluno @cursed-carmine

Tag list: @tojis-ball-sack @hoedgayass @tojiswifeforlife @jeshomie @shmd-nora @howlerwolfmax @love-d-luxe

Chapter 2: The Second Insult

A week had passed since the incident at the Dean’s office. A week of you trying to forget his cold red eyes and the feel of being priced like faulty inventory. You’d thrown yourself into your routine with a vengeance: early morning bus struggles, hours in the cadaver lab, late nights in the medical library with your cheap thermos of tea. The scholarship that kept you here at Keishin demanded perfection, and you intended to give it.

The medical library was your sanctuary after sunset. The silence was deeper, the aisles were empty. You were deep in the radiology section, balancing a heavy tome on osteosarcoma imaging on your lap while trying to maneuver your chair to reach a high shelf. Your grabber tool was on the fritz. You sighed, putting the book aside and positioned your chair directly under the shelf. You could maybe, if you stretched and used the shelf edge for leverage, just hook the edge of the atlas with your fingers and pull it down.

Suddenly a low and grating voice cut through behind you.

“That’s a good way to tip over and crack your skull. If you fall, the lawsuit would be a nuisance. For me.”

You flinched, your balance wavering. A large, tattooed hand shot past your shoulder, easily plucking the thick atlas from the shelf. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. The scent of him was a dead giveaway: sandalwood, clean sweat, and that underlying metallic bite, you recognised was already filling the space around you

Sukuna Ryomen. Ugh. Not this guy again.

He leaned against the shelf beside you, flipping through the atlas as if he owned it. He was dressed down again: black pants and a tight grey t-shirt that did nothing to hide the powerful build and the dark ink curling up his neck. He looked more like a fighter than a CEO tonight. More dangerous.

“I had it,” you said, voice tight.

“Didn’t look like it.” He didn’t glance at you. His eyes were on a detailed image of a bone scan. “Huh. Looks like a modern art piece. Expensive one. Pretty though.”

“It’s metastatic carcinoma”, you said flatly. It’s death.”

“Same difference.” He snapped the book shut and held it out, not placing it in your lap, just holding it in the air, forcing you to take it from him. A power play. “Studying your own fate? Morbid.”

You wrestled the heavy book onto your lap. “Studying to save lives. Something you might not grasp, since your only skill seems to be writing checks to make problems disappear.”

A slow, wicked smirk spread across his face. He’d been expecting a fight. He craved it. “Checks solve most things. Including stubborn, inconvenient students who block library aisles.”

You looked pointedly at the three feet of empty space to your left. “Your spatial awareness is as underdeveloped as your empathy. You could fit a truck through there.”

He pushed off the shelf. Instead of moving, he walked to the end of your row, pulled out a heavy wooden chair from a study carrel, and dragged it, the legs screeching horribly on the floor, right into the center of the aisle, blocking you. He straddled it backwards, arms crossed on the chair back, a smug, immovable wall.

“Now you can’t,” he said, his tone one of pure, childish satisfaction.

You stared at him. This was the feared Ryomen heir? He was behaving like a toddler who’d stolen a toy. A massive, tattooed toddler.

“Are you five?” you asked, with genuine disbelief. “Did your nanny not give you enough attention today?”

“I’m facilitating. This is a lesson in… creative problem-solving. Get past me. Come on, use that famous brain.”

This was starting to get ridiculous.

“Do you get off on this? Picking on people who can't just walk away, because you know that if they could, they would.” You continued.

His smirk didn’t falter. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, taunting murmur. “I get off on interesting things. And you, sweetheart, are the most interesting thing to happen to me in years. A little mouse with a scalpel for a tongue. In a cage with wheels. His eyes dragged over your chair, then back to your face. “You hate that thing, don't you?.”

The question was so personal, so brutally personal, it stole your breath. “It's a tool,” you snapped. “Like your money. It gets me where I need to go.”

You continued, your patience, worn thin by a day of physical strain, snapped. “The only problem here is your presence. The solution is for you to evaporate.”

“Tried that. Boring.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping. “My money gets me what I want,” he corrected, his gaze intense. “Does your... tool... do that?”

“Come on, little cripple. Show me how you handle a real obstacle.”

The word ‘cripple’ was a match to gasoline. It was so deliberately, clinically cruel.

“Get. Out. Of. My. Way. Sukuna” Each word was an ice chip.

“Make me.” His eyes gleamed with challenge.

You saw red.

Fine. If he wanted a spectacle, you’d give him one. You reversed your chair a foot, took aim, and slammed the wheelchair forward. Before your heavy, reinforced front wheels and footplate could ram directly into his shins.

He moved faster, planting his boot flat against your front wheel, stopping you dead. The impact jarred up your arms.

“Tsk. Violent.” He didn’t sound angry. He sounded delighted. “I like it.”

“Let go.”

“Ask nicely.”

You were trembling with rage. You’d spent your life navigating around obstacles, asking nicely, being polite. It had gotten you this far, but it had also gotten you trapped in a library aisle with a human hurricane. You were done asking nicely.

You reversed your chair sharply, then slammed the wheelchair forward again, this time aiming for the chair he was sitting on. The footplate of your chair rammed into the legs the chair.

The impact was satisfyingly loud. CRACK. The chair legs splintered. The force knocked the chair sideways, and Sukuna, taken by surprise, had to throw a hand out against the shelf to keep from toppling onto the floor.

For a moment, there was only the sound of heavy breathing. His, and yours.

He righted himself slowly. The amused glint was gone, replaced by a cold, flat intensity that was somehow more terrifying. He looked from the destroyed chair to you, his expression unreadable.

You met his gaze, your chin high. “Creative enough for you?”

“You,” he said, his voice deathly quiet, “have a death wish.”

“I have a study schedule,” you shot back, heart hammering. “You're on it. Under 'obstacles to be removed.”

For a long moment, he said nothing, he just stared. Then, he did the last thing you expected.

He laughed.

A full, deep, genuine laugh that shook his shoulders and made his eyes crinkle at the corners. The sound was so incongruous in the tense silence that you just stared.

“You,” he said, wheezing slightly, “are completely fucking deranged.” He kicked the ruined chair aside. “You just declared war on a library chair. On my behalf. I’m touched.”

“I declared war on the obstacle,” you corrected, heart still pounding. “The chair was just collateral damage.”

He wiped at his eye, the laughter subsiding into a dangerous, appreciative smile. “Noted. So noted.” He stepped aside, clearing the aisle with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. “Your path is clear, Your Majesty. Try not to commit any more furniture homicide on your way out.”

You didn’t wait. You pushed forward. As you passed him, his hand came down. Not on you, but on the handle at the back of your chair. He didn’t stop you. He just let his palm rest there for the duration of your passing, a warm, heavy, possessive imprint you felt through the metal.

“This peer facilitation project,” he said, his voice close to your ear as you passed him, low and sure. “The one you’re stuck with me on? I’ll be seeing you. A lot. Get used to it. It’s going to be a bloodbath.can’t wait.”

You froze, then slowly turned your chair to look back at him. “What project?”

He leaned against the splintered remains of the chair, looking like a king atop his rubble. “Economic Principles of Global Health. Paired project. Mid-term grade. Professor Gakuganji assigned the pairs today.” His smile was all teeth. “Guess who’s partners, sweetheart?”

The world tilted. No. It couldn’t be. That class was a requirement, but it was huge. The odds were impossible.

He saw the dawning horror on your face and his smile widened. “See you in class, partner. Don’t be late. I hate tardiness.” He pushed off the rubble and walked away, whistling a tuneless, victorious little tune.

You sat alone in the ravaged aisle, the atlas heavy on your lap, the ghost of his touch on your chair, and the sinking certainty that your life had just become infinitely more complicated.

He wasn’t just an obstacle. He was a disaster. And he was now your academic responsibility.

You didn't see him slip the crumpled course schedule he’d plucked from your unattended backpack back into its side pocket. He’d gotten what he came for: your classes, your hours. The game was officially on.

Across the city, Sukuna dismissed his driver and took the elevator up to his penthouse. He didn’t pour a drink. He went straight to his laptop, logged into the student portal, and pulled up the course roster for Economic Principles of Global Health.

There it was. L/N, Y/N. Paired with Ryomen, Sukuna.

He hadn’t lied. Gakuganji, after a very persuasive call from the Ryomen Holdings legal department about “fulfilling court-mandated service through structured academic partnership,” had been most accommodating.

Sukuna leaned back, the image of you: small, furious, launching her entire chair like a battering ram, flashing behind his eyes. The sound of splintering wood. The fire in your gaze.

‘Creative enough for you?’

A slow, real smile touched his lips. He’d met his match. And he was going to have more fun tearing you apart and putting you back together than he’d had in years.

The game was on.

[lanaloveydove]

like oh um… haha

[papercemetoru78]

Pairing: CEO Fratboy Sukuna Ryomen x Disabled!

Reader (Modern AU)

Content Warnings: discrimination, bullying, Sexual harassment, p in v, Mature, trauma, Slow burn, a little smut, a LOT of angst ,sex,conflict, family dynamics, power struggles, disability, enemies-to-lovers trope, he falls first and he falls harder.

Word count: 2k words

Dividers : @mieluno @cursed-carmine

Tag list : @tojis-ball-sack

Chapter 1

The smell of antiseptic in the lab was sharp. The formalin-tinged silence of preserved flesh. It was a smell of stillness, of death held in pause so the living could learn. You breathed it in, finding a grim comfort in its honesty. Here, under the white lights, you could see the muscles, the bones and the nerves. You could see how things worked and what happened when something was done to them. The lab was a place where everything just made sense where you could see the cause and the effect of things.

Your hands covered in blue gloves, were steady as you traced a path through the greyish tissue of the donor, an older man who had gifted his body to science. “See this nerve cluster?” you said, your voice calm and clear in the hushed room. “They’re like live wires. If they’re severed here, the signal dies. The brain shouts, but the leg can’t hear.”

Sakuya and Toma, the grad students that were assigned to you, leaned in. In this sacred, somber space, they didn’t see the wheelchair first. They saw the knowledge in your hands, the certainty in your voice. In this room you were not “the girl in the wheelchair”, you were a guide to the body’s hidden truths.

The lab door swished open, breaking the spell. The Dean’s assistant, a young man in a suit that seemed to pinch at his shoulders, stood wringing his hands. “Y/N? Dean Isao Nakamura needs you. Immediately.”

A cold feeling traced down your spine. “Immediately” was never a good word. “Immediately” meant problems. Usually problems about ramps, doors, or budgets.

“I’m in the middle of a lab demonstration,” you said, your voice cooling.

“It’s urgent. Regarding your place in the advanced program. And a new… partnership thing.” His eyes darted to your chair and away, fast.

The cold feeling turned into a hard knot in your stomach. You peeled off your gloves, the snap in the quiet room was loud. “Fine.”

The trip to the Administration building felt like crossing into a different world. The biology halls were old, the lights buzzed. The floor was marked with years of carts and shoes.The Admin building was all new money. Glass walls, shiny floors that smelled like lemon polish, so quiet you could hear your own heartbeat.

The sound of your wheelchair wheels on the polished fancy marble stone. Whirr-whirr-whirr, was the only noise you made.

The Dean’s door was ajar. Voices spilled out. Not just the Dean’s oily voice, but others. One was light, melodic, and dripping with such profound boredom it felt insulting. The other was a low rumble you felt in your bones before you processed the words.

You stopped at the door and looked in.

Dean Nakamura was behind his huge desk, looking pale, almost as if he had eaten something bad. A man that somewhat resembled a lawyer in a severe black suit stood beside him, holding a tablet like a shield. But they were just background noise.

The two young men by the window were the spectacle.The sun behind them made them into shadows.One was impossibly tall, with hair white as bone and dark sunglasses perched on his nose. He lounged against the glass, a smirk playing on his lips as he scrolled on his phone. Satoru Gojo. His family’s name was on half the buildings in the city.

The other…

He was bigger. Wide shoulders in a suit that probably costs more than your sister makes in a year. He didn’t lean, he stood with a grounded, imposing stillness. Tattoos, intricate and dark, crept up his neck from beneath his collar. His hair was a shock of pink that shouldn’t have been intimidating but absolutely was. His face was all harsh, beautiful lines, a mouth set in a cruel curve, and eyes the color of old blood.

Sukuna Ryomen.

He wasn’t a student; he was an event. The youngest CEO in the country, heir to an empire so vast it was abstract, a notorious figure on campus for reasons that ranged from boardrooms to underground fight rings. He was here because it was convenient, a god slumming it in mortal skin.

And he was making the Dean sweat.

“…the terms are non-negotiable, Nakamura.” Sukuna’s voice was that low, grating rumble. It didn’t request; it dictated. “Three months. The judge called it ‘community service.’ My public image requires a… polish.” He said the word like it was dirt on his tongue.

“Mr. Ryomen, please, there are more suitable avenues! A named scholarship, a charitable donation—” the Dean pleaded, mopping his brow.

“The court order specifies ‘hands-on engagement,’” the lawyer interjected, smooth as oil. “A structured peer mentorship program fulfills the requirement.”

Gojo let out a soft laugh, still looking at his screen. “Peer. That’s rich. Who’s the lucky loser drew the short straw?”

That’s when the Dean’s desperate eyes found you in the doorway. His face lit up with a terrible idea. “Y/N! Excellent! Come in, come in!”

Every eye in the room swung to you.

Gojo’s smirk widened into a grin. The lawyer looked you up and down, taking in the chair, your old sweater, your calm face. Sukuna’s head turned slowly. Those blood-red eyes swept over you, not with interest, not with pity, but with the cold focus of a predator assessing a new, unexpected creature in its territory.

“Y/N is our absolute best! Top of her classes! A true testament to perseverance, overcoming so much—” the Dean babbled, building his doomed sales pitch.

“What do you need?”

The question shut the Dean up. It came from Sukuna. He was addressing you directly, his stare locked onto yours. It wasn’t kindness. It was impatience. The question of a man for whom every problem had a price tag.

You felt your spine straighten. “I need the machines in Lab 3B repaired,” you stated, your voice as cool and steady as it had been in the anatomy lab. “And I need to return to the work you interrupted.”

A beat of silence. Gojo snorted a laugh. The lawyer’s mouth twitched. Sukuna didn’t blink.

“I mean,” Sukuna said, slow, deliberate, as if explaining to a child, “what do you need? For your… situation.” A slight, dismissive tilt of his chin toward your wheelchair. “This place isn’t built for you. The ramps are afterthoughts. The doors are too heavy. It’s a compliance lawsuit waiting to happen.”

He was listing facts. Your facts. The daily, grinding realities you’d fought against for years, it’s as if he read your diary. But hearing them in his detached, analytical tone, in this room, felt like a violation.

“My situation,” you said, letting the word hang in the chemically clean air, “is my business.”

“Barely,” he countered, his gaze dropping to the worn rubber of your hand-rims of your wheels. “It’s inefficient.”

The cold knot in your stomach erupted into white-hot fire. The Dean, sensing the impending explosion, lunged for control. “This is the perfect solution! Mr. Ryomen will be your peer facilitator this term! He’ll assist you with mobility, with resources, with—”

“No.”

The word was flat, final, and absolute.

The silence that followed was deeper, heavier.

“No?” Sukuna repeated. Something shifted behind his eyes. It wasn’t anger at being told no,it was pure, unadulterated shock. The universe had produced a sound he did not recognize.

“I don’t need a helper,” you said, your grip on your wheels so tight until your knuckles ached. “I need the administration to follow the law. I don’t need a…” Your eyes swept over him, from his polished shoes to his perfectly cut hair, the watch that could buy a car, the way he owns the air around him. "...a trophy

for corporate guilt.”

Gojo whistled, low and appreciative. “Damn.”

Sukuna uncrossed his arms. He took one step toward you, and the room seemed to shrink, the air thickening. He loomed, a presence of pure physical and social dominance. You could smell him now—expensive sandalwood soap and something else, something primal and metallic,something like the air before lightning.He looked down, and for a fleeting second, the bored billionaire vanished. You saw something older, more dangerous: a wolf looking at a small, barking dog.

“Let’s make this quick,” he said, his voice dropping into a quieter, more intimate register that was somehow more threatening. “What’s the fix? A new building? Tear this one down? Name it. We’ll have it done by Friday.”

It was the most devastating thing anyone had ever said to you.

Not because it was cruel, but because it was so utterly,shallow. The daily fight with curbs and heavy doors and people’s stupid stares, the pain you wake up with and go to sleep with, was reduced to a line item. A check to be written. He wielded his wealth like a sledgehammer, offering to smash the complex tapestry of your existence into simple, manageable rubble, and he genuinely believed he was offering help.

The fire in you burned away everything: fear, caution, even most of your anger, leaving behind something diamond-hard and razor-sharp.

You didn’t raise your voice. The quiet was more than enough.

You looked directly into those chilling red eyes. Your voice, when it came, was clean, cold, and.

“The only thing that needs knocking down, Mr. Ryomen, is the huge mountain of stupid you’re standing on.” You saw the faintest twitch in his jaw, the first crack in that marble facade he held. “But I don’t think your money can buy a shovel for that. Some things don’t have a price. And some things,” you finish, letting your gaze sweep over him one last time with deliberate dismissal, “aren’t worth anything at all.”

You didn’t wait for a response. You turned your chair with a practiced, smooth motion and pushed yourself out into the hallway. The sound of your wheels on the marble,whirr-whirr-whirr,echoed like a retreating heartbeat in the stunned silence you left behind.

You didn’t look back. But you felt it. A heat on the back of your neck, a pressure. It wasn't just anger.

It was focus. Pure, undiluted attention from a force of nature that had just discovered something intriguing, and utterly defiant, in its path.

Back in the office, Sukuna slowly turned his head to watch the empty doorway. Your words hung in the air, almost tangible. Astronomical wall of arrogance. Not worth the effort. The Dean looked physically ill. The lawyer typed furiously.

Gojo pushed his sunglasses up, grinning like it was his birthday. “Well,” he sang. “That was a first.”

Sukuna didn’t speak. He stared at the space you had occupied. Mountain of stupid? The vast, yawning boredom that was his constant companion… shifted. It didn’t disappear. It simply rotated, like a spotlight swiveling to illuminate a single, unexpected spot on a dark stage.

No one ever talked to him like that. No one looked at him like he’s gum on their shoe.

A quick fix? A boring obligation?

No.

This, he realized with a jolt that felt disturbingly like vitality, was going to be a project.

A slow, dangerous smile, one that never touched his cold eyes, curved his lips.

“Draw up the facilitator contract,” he said, his voice cutting through the quiet. He was speaking to the lawyer, but his mind was in the hallway, on the echo of your wheels. “The full terms. I’ll sign.”

“Sukuna,” Gojo laughed, delighted. “She just filleted you and left you on the marble.”

“I know,” Sukuna replied, finally tearing his eyes from the door. His expression was stark, serious in a way that promised chaos. “I felt it.”

The tedious game of his existence had just discovered a new player. One who didn’t know the rules, and more importantly, didn’t care to learn them. And for the first time in a long, hollow time, Ryomen Sukuna wanted to play.

You took the long way back to your apartment, the adrenaline slowly leaching away, leaving your hands trembling and your hip a deep, throbbing ache. The confrontation replayed in your mind on a loop. You had just declared war on a titan. Over what? Over the right to your own dignity.

Stupid, you thought, your heart beating fast against your ribs. You were so stupid.

But beneath the fear, a small, fierce coal of pride glowed. You had looked the dragon in the eye and told him he was made of clay.

You didn’t know the fight had already been accepted.

Didn’t know he was already planning his next move.

You just knew you’d meant every word.

[papercemetoru78]

𓆩 The Space Between Us 𓆪

Pairing: CEO Fratboy Sukuna Ryomen x Disabled!Reader (Modern AU)

Synopsis: He’s a king with a checkbook, used to bending the world to his will. You’re a brilliant student in a wheelchair, impossible to buy, impossible to ignore.

He offers to buy you a new world; you hand him a map of his own ignorance and tell him to build a ramp instead.

When an unstoppable force meets an immovable, beautifully furious object, everything shakes. From the wreckage, something magnificent begins to grow. He’s about to learn that the strongest power isn’t wealth, it’s the woman who refuses to be sold.

Content Warnings: discrimination, bullying,Sexual harassment, p in v, Mature, trauma, Slow burn, a little smut, a LOT of angst ,sex,conflict, family dynamics, power struggles, disability, enemies-to-lovers trope, he falls first , he falls harder.

Word count: ?? (Ongoing)

AN: Hi! This is my little fic about a man, a wheelchair, and all the chaos that happens when they collide. Thanks for reading and please be gentle with my characters, they’ve been through a lot

Tag list: [open] @tojis-ball-sack @hoedgayass @tojiswifeforlife @jeshomie @shmd-nora @howlerwolfmax @love-d-luxe

•Chapter 1 • chapter 2 • chapter 3 • chapter 4 • chapter 5 • chapter 6 • chapter 7 • chapter 8 • chapter 9 • chapter 10 • chapter 11 • chapter 12 • chapter 13 • chapter 14 • chapter 15• chapter 16 • chapter 17 • chapter 17 • chapter 18 • chapter 19 • chapter 20 • chapter 21 • chapter 22 • chapter 23 • chapter 24 • chapter 25 • chapter 26 • chapter 27 • chapter 28 • chapter 29 • chapter 30 •

[papercemetoru78]

Curated Lives - Chapter one - The Assignment

Read Chapter one - The Assignment from the story Curated Lives by papercemetoru78 with 1 reads. nananami, nanamikento...

Note: I don’t own these images, all rights and credits go to the original and very talented Artists💜💜💜💜

Images source: Pinterest

[papercemetoru78]

THE ASSIGNMENT- Chapter One

Pairing: Affluent Multi-trillionaire client Nanami Kento x employee Reader

Warnings/Diclaimer ⚠️‼️: adult / explicit content

(18+), consensual sex, desire, guilt & inner conflict.

Strong angst, smut, masturbation, p in v, cheating, employee x client dynamic, love triangle, public sex, office sex, possessive Satoru & possessive Nanami, high society, Skycastle like dynamic in workplace, competitiveness, heavy angst, arranged marriages, jealousy.

Word count : 2,4k words

The first thing you were told about Nanami is that he doesn’t waste time, the second is that he shouldn’t like you.

When it comes to the assignment, Nanami isn’t just a client. He’s a verdict.

Treat him like one. Never let him read you.

That’s what you were told.

The doors of Kurosawa Group slide open before you can hesitate.

Security guard recognizes you before you reach the desk.

He nods, already lifting the barrier. Your ID card flashes once under the scanner, green light blinking softly.

Inside, everything gleams.

Glass. Steel. Marble polished to a mirror shine. Morning sunlight pours through the high windows, scattering across the open space like it belongs here. The building always smells faintly clean, not floral, not warm, something expensive and deliberately neutral.

Your heels click softly against the floor as you step inside, posture straight, calm expression. You’ve learned how to move through places like this without hesitation. Learned how to belong.

Even if you didn’t always.

At the front desk, Mrs. Shindō looks up and smiles, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She’s impeccably dressed, as always, hair pinned neatly back. one of the rare gems in this place.

“Good morning, Y/N-san,” she says, warmly. “You’re right on time.”

“Good morning Mrs Shindō,” you reply, stopping at the desk. “You’re early today.”

She chuckles. “I like to be here before the building wakes up.”

You sign in, sliding the tablet back.

“It’s beautiful outside,” she adds, glancing toward the windows. “A shame we’ll spend all day in here.”

You smile politely . “At least we can pretend the sunlight is for us.”

She hums in agreement, lowering her voice just slightly. “Busy day?”

“Always,” you say. Then softer, “But manageable.”

Mrs. Shindō studies you for a moment, not critically, just observant. “You always say that.”

You thank her, bowing your head slightly before moving on. As you walk away, her gaze lingers. She doesn’t look worried. Just… thoughtful.

Mrs. Shindō is one of the few rare gems in this establishment, she doesn’t sharpen her smile before wearing it. Proof that Kurosawa Group hasn’t polished everything down to bone.

You thank her and move on.

The elevator doors close, sealing you inside with your reflection.

The elevators swallow you whole.

As it rises, your reflection stares back from the mirrored walls polished, composed, untouchable.The kind of woman who belongs in a skyscraper that scrapes the edges of the clouds.

No one would guess you used to sprint across the subway with untied shoelaces.

No one would imagine you lived in a cracked apartment with peeling wallpaper, The window that never quite shut, no matter how hard you pushed and pulled.

You never complained. You knew what you signed up for. I mean it was all you could afford.

Scholarships. Rankings. Scores no one could argue with.

First in your prefecture.

Top of your class.

Then first or second, depending on who tells the story, in the entire country.

You didn’t buy your way into Kurosawa Group.

You outperformed everyone who tried.

The elevator door opens.

Your desk used to sit in the open floor, swallowed by the many other cubicles, phones ringing endlessly, keyboards tapping like a nervous system that never slept. Eyes everywhere.

Especially his.

Haruto.

Son of an affluent family. Not powerful, just wealthy enough to believe he was untouchable. He liked to stand too close. Talk too long. Laugh when you didn’t respond. At company dinners, he’d lean in, pour you drinks you didn’t ask for, tell jokes that made the table go quiet.

“You’re too serious,” he’d say, smiling. “Relax.”

You never did.

The night it crossed a line came after a successful project, a private staff gathering with expensive wine and congratulatory speeches. Haruto pressed a glass into your hand. Even after you politely refused over and over, he didn’t listen, and you were left with no choice but to accept it. Someone even laughed when you refused.

Before you could protest again, a hand took the drink from you.

“I’ll have it,” Satoru Gojo said easily, downing it without breaking eye contact with Haruto.

The table went still.

Satoru didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. He just smiled, pleasant, distant and Haruto leaned back in his chair like he’d suddenly remembered somewhere else he needed to be.

After that, things moved quickly.

Yōzuke Gojo noticed.

Back then before he handed everything, every asset,power to Mr Gojo Satoru, everything ran through him. Elder Group member. Architect of half the companies that moved money through this city and many that moved it far beyond Japan. Kurosawa Group was only one node in a much larger network.

Yōzuke-dono never doubted your intelligence, your efficiency, the way you outperformed consultants twice your age. He liked that.

But He doubted your place.

Your lateness was dissected publicly. Approval came wrapped in humiliation, your background referenced just often enough to sting. Yet you were kept close. Watched. Tested.

You endured.

Haruto thrived in that environment.

It ended the day Satoru noticed.

He was gone within the week,fired cleanly, efficiently, like he’d never been part of the system at all.

Your desk disappeared by the end of the day.

Now seated in a big luxurious mansion like office, your office occupies a space that once belonged solely to Mr Satoru Gojo, half-frosted glass, bamboo panelling a deliberate division between you and him. Not hidden. Not exposed.

Just protected.

You tell yourself there’s a logical reason.There has to be. You refuse to look too closely at the alternatives.

The room smells like bergamot and money that’s never worried about rent.

You set your bag down, straighten a file, prepare for the day and-

A knock.

Light. Familiar.

“Morning,” Satoru says, leaning against your doorway like he’s posing for a magazine he’s too good for.

“You’re early.”

You’re not.

Everyone knows you’re exactly on time because being early once meant waiting in the cold before the building unlocked, being late once meant Yasuke-dono staring at you like you’d offended the entire Gojo lineage.

“Good morning, sir,” you reply.

He smiles subtly. Not professional. Not improper. Just… pleased.

He steps inside, pacing once before your desk, sunglasses still perched in his white hair like he’s forgotten that he’s indoors.

He leans against your desk, casual. Unbothered.

“Okay, listen,” he says, snapping his fingers once.The sound so sharp ricocheting into the air. “You’ve been requested”, he says leaning against the edge of your desk like a bored angel who has never known stress in his life.

Your stomach tightens.

“And before you ask, no, not by me.”

He places a folder on your desk and lands with a heavy thud.

Gold-stamped. Heavy.

七海 建人

Nanami Kento.

Stamped in gold.

You don’t touch it.

You’ve never seen a file like this. Gold means importance,it means Elder Group, someone whose influence doesn’t stop at borders. A rare Pokémon. A rare kind of client.

There’s a rumour, everyone knows it.

In 1956, when Gojo Ichinose-dono still held direct control over Kurosawa Group, an employee received a folder just like this one.

Same gold.

Same weight.

He took it home that night.

And never came back.

Mr Nanami requested you. Directly.” His grin sharpens “congrats,babe. You’re officially in the deep end.”

Making you now more worried than ever, the rumour not helping your case.

You blink “Requested…me?”

Confusion wurlpulling your brain because usually regarding your assigned clients, never have they actually sorted out for you specifically, nevertheless known your name.

“Mm-hmm.” He tilts his head, watching your reaction under a microscope. “I didn’t even recommend you, you know. He called you out…by name”

Your throat tightens. “Is that…good or bad?”

Satoru grins, “Depends. Do you handle pressure well?

He studies you, his gaze lingering but not too long. He never looked at you long but when he did, it felt like you were being examined.

“Did he say why?” You ask.

Satoru snorts. “Do they ever? High-profile clients love being mysterious, it’s like a disease.

You try not to smile.

His irreverence is like oxygen.

Satoru leans against the table again and crosses his legs. “Okay. Job rundown” His voice shifts, still playful, but laced with authority only he gets away with. Nanamis’ schedule this month is a goddamn hydra. He wants a personal liaison with the highest discretion rating. Someone who can adapt on the fly and handle…dynamic contingencies. He leaned closer,lowering his voice just enough for you to notice the weight behind it. “And by contingencies, I mean real people, real stakes. No stimulations, no rehearsals. One mishap and the consequences are very, very real. I mean you already know this l, That’s why your still here Ms Y/N.”

You don’t answer, because he already knows the truth, you do. You always have

I mean that’s why your still here.

That's why Nanami specifically requested you.

A slow beat.

And suddenly you feel dehydrated, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth, not a trace of saliva.

Nanami Kento.

The most infamous client on Kurosawa Gojo holdings’ books. The kind of man who sends other clients into sudden silence when he enters a room. A man carver from gold, discipline, immaculate suits and rumours that cling to him like shadows that just learned to breathe.

You’ve only met him twice, barely. A glimpse in the hallway. A brief nod during a executive gala reception of Mr Satoru Gojo.

“That means trouble.” You muttered.

“That means,” Satoru says, tapping your forehead, “you keep your head on straight and don’t ask questions he doesn’t want to answer. Otherwise you’ll be fine,you’re good.”

Your pulse steadies, barely.

A soft, polite knock interrupts. Satoru glances towards the door. “He’s early”

Of course he is.

The door opens Nanami steps in, quiet, commanding with every movement. At his side is his assistant, who you shortly come to know as Mr Akiyama and a few bodyguards who fan out and carefully scan the room. Mr Akiyama behind the guards with a notebook in hand, eyes alert but neutral almost bored looking. A subtle presence like a shadow that could strike if necessary, Mr Nanami Kento. His presence bends the room around him, silent gravity dressed in a Yohji Yamamoto suit, gold watch gleams at his wrist, an unreadable expression dresses his face.

His gaze lands on Satoru first.

Then it holds on you. Heavy with weight, with decision.

“Good Morning”, he says smoothly. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“You’re early” Satoru says, unbothered. “But since when do you even care about that?”

Mr Nanamis’ eyes don’t leave yours, as he replies, “I dislike delays.”

Your breath catches at the subtle edge under the words.

You realise the words don’t hold impatience,but expectations. A reminder of who he is in the hierarchy of his world. Not your boss,but definitely not someone you can treat casually.

A soft step draws your attention.

Akiyama moves forward, stopping just beside Nanami, posture precise. His eyes flickers to you, brief, assessing, before he offers a polite, practiced bow of his head in which you return.

Good morning,” he says calmly. “Akiyama. I handle Mr. Nanami’s schedule and correspondence.”

His gaze sharpens for half a second longer, as if committing your face to memory.

“You must be Y/N.”

It isn’t a question.

You nod, returning the greeting. “Yes. Nice to meet you.”

Akiyama allows the faintest curve of acknowledgment, professional, restrained.

“The pleasure is ours,” he replies, already jotting something down in his notebook. “Mr. Nanami has heard quite a bit about you.”

That finally does it.

Mr Nanami turns a little,attention narrowing. “You’re the one assigned to me.”

Not a question.

You answer swiftly. “Yes sir.”

His brows lift, noting.

“I don’t require honorifics,” he says quietly. “Professional clarity is enough.”

Satoru doesn’t even bother hiding the smirk he proudly displaying a perfect smile, extremely perfect teeth that almost blinds the room.

He knows that‘that tone meant: Nanami already has opinions.

Nanami steps closer, not invasive,but just close enough.

The space between you two changes shape, something harrowing beneath the professionalism, like a storm

“I’ve read your file,” he continues. “You come recommended. Highly.”

A pause.

His gaze traces over your posture, the way your hands steady, the breath you refuse to let tremble.

“You’re precise. That’s useful to me.”

Useful.

Not pretty words. Not flattery.

An evaluation.

Satoru claps his hands once, breaking the tension. “Wonderful. Great. Fantastic. Now that the mutual admiration club has convened, let’s move to logistics-”

Nanami cuts in. “I’d prefer to discuss those with her directly.”

Satoru freezes.

You nearly do, too.

“…Alone?” Satoru asks.

“Yes.”

Nanami doesn’t blink.

Of course he doesn’t. Men like him don’t toss words,they place them like exact weights on a scale.

Satoru lets out a long theatrical sigh. “Fine,but if you two start rearranging my office without me, I’m revoking both of your snack privileges.”

Nanami ignores him completely.

He nods towards the door, “Walk with me,” he says.

Your heart sharpens, a deep spike.

You follow

not only because he orders you to, but because something in you knows that this assignment is going to change everything.

Maybe it’ll ruin you a little or maybe build you into something sharp.

Satoru watches you go with a soft proud smile, like he already knows this is the beginning of the point of your life that you won’t be able to neatly burry.

Nanami leads you down the quiet hallway lined with mirrored glass. He moves like a man who negotiates with empires before breakfast, shoulders squared and measured steps.

“Before we begin,” he says without looking at you, “I’d like to establish two things.”

Your throat goes tight. “Of course.”

“One,” he says, tone low but crisp, “I expect efficiency. If something requires my attention, I want it delivered without delay.”

He glances sideways at you. “You seem capable of that.”

You nod.

“And two…”

He stops walking.

You almost bump into him, but don’t. Barely.

He turns fully to you, eyes warm but carrying something heavier underneath. A warning, maybe. Or a promise.

“This arrangement,” he says, “remains between us. I don’t appreciate unnecessary interference.”

A breath.

You meet his gaze.

“Are you expecting interference?”

The corner of his mouth lifts, just barely.

“Always.”

Something electric chills through your spine.

He continues walking, and you fall into step beside him, though you can’t tell whether he’s leading or you’re being pulled by something you don’t have words for yet.

This isn’t just a job.

It never was.

Not with a man like him.

And before the night ends, you’ll learn exactly how deep this assignment goes.

[gojosbf]

Art References in Jujutsu Kaisen s3 opening: The Kiss - Gustav Klimt // The Scream - Edvard Munch // Ophelia - John Everett Millais // Dead mother l - Egon Schiele // Two Sleeping Children - Peter Paul Rubens // Camille Monet and a Child in the Artist's Garden in Argenteuil - Claude Monet

[papercemetoru78]

Almost done with this Pennywise artwork ✍️ Who else has been watching the Welcome to Derry series? I literally loved how the whole show turned out 💀😭

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