“He remembers those vanished years. As though looking through a dusty window pane, the past is something he could see, but not touch. And everything he sees is blurred and indistinct.”
— In the Mood for Love (2000) dir. Wong Kar-wai
recent works:
JJK characters and their beauty
Our Thing - Megumi x Reader
Runaway Bride - Yuuta x Reader
currently reading 📖: Madonna in a Fur Coat by Sabahattin Ali (1943)
requests: open.
(send me prompts, half-baked ideas, characters, songs, or scenes you want to write about! I’ll be meeting everyone’s request to the best of my abilities <3)
content warnings: implied blowjob and mentions of pregnancy and children
gojo!actor au and he’s just a bit of a loser.
and i mean that in a literal sense. he’s good enough to be nominated for the Emmys, the Oscars — all these prestigious awards — but he never wins.
each year, he dresses up all posh. puts you in a pretty gown and shows up — just to lose. and it’s an annual routine now, you look forward to it. he’s never taken these awards seriously for it to matter anyway. it's all a big joke, and you get free food!
but one year — one year, he wins. it’s shocking — to you, to him, to everyone really. cheers and yips are so loud as he stands up. the next day people will publish articles about how this was deserved, how he should’ve been awarded a long time ago.
he walks up there — a soft red hue of a kiss on his cheek as he manages to stare and directly talk to his wife, despite the massive crowd, despite the mic, despite the bedazzlement. his eyes peer into yours as he speaks of gratitude.
and he finishes up with an endless list of thank yous — to directors, coworkers, production team, fans, his mom, his wife, maybe god if he exists? his wife again. his wife.
it’s the after party — the two of you never go but gojo’s manager warned him and you did your part in urging him, because he did win after all. people would be expecting him. he argues, he speaks of his comfy bed, and you proposition him — you tell him going would mean he gets head in the bathroom and of course, he’s a simple man so he agrees almost immediately.
after you deliver what was promised, under the fancy red glow of the bathroom you’re both in, you rub a hand to wipe your mouth as you stand up, fixing your dress as he fixes his trousers.
he speaks up, his tone rather serious and it scares you just a little. “baby, you promised me," he began. "you said if i won — you’d give me a baby.”
“that was 5 years ago, satoru.” you chuckled, remembering as you fixed his mussed hair.
“and we’re here now — i won. it’s your turn now," his words teasing, but his eyes seeking affirmation in your gaze.
"you want a baby?" you asked as you looked up at his hopeful eyes.
“i want a baby,” he affirms.
“okay,” you smile. your hand trails down to his chest, only to suddenly push him back with force as he flops onto the toilet seat. “let’s give you a baby.”
bonus
"does this mean," he asked, "you'll give me a baby every time I win?"
Contains jujutsu kaisen manga spoilers. Proceed at your own peril.
Content Warnings: hurt/comfort, canon-divergence, thoughts about illness, mortality and death, mention of violence
There’s a patter against the roof of your house, it’s heavy and loud like falling stones. You lie in your bed and it feels toasty and warm and suffocating — all at once.
Your eyes flit to the man beside you. Megumi Fushiguro laid beside you. Half here, half there, and night after night, you've wondered if he’ll wake up and return to being the demon he was once possessed by. Sukuna's been a lingering spectre since his return.
Sukuna's been a lingering spectre since the dawn of time.
He nestles into your neck, “Why are you up?” His words land ticklish and breathily warm against your neck. A shiver coursed through you.
“Can’t sleep,” you respond, your fingers gently carding through his hair. “You shouldn’t sleep with wet hair. You’ll get a cold, 'Gumi.”
He hummed in response, burrowing deeper into your neck as his grip around your waist tightened.
He thinks it would be wonderful to fall ill right now. It’s odd but having been away from the sunlight, from you, and from life itself — for so long — he thinks he'd gladly welcome any illnesses. It’s only a reminder that he’s alive, and a reminder that his body is fighting for him even though he’s unaware of it consciously.
“You think we should go back,” you ask, posing the line of question that has been lingering with you for some time now.
“Back?” he mumbled, his voice languid now. “To Jujutsu Society?”
"I meant school, but it is much the same, I suppose," you mused with a sense of dejection and humour.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I know we have to at some point.”
“We could run away,” you say, your words leaving your mouth, all too suddenly. You don’t even truly mean it but once the words are out, it seems possible. But you suppose anything could seem possible when your boyfriend brushes shoulders with Death himself.
“We can’t,” he responds. His words aren't firm, nor are they defensive but he resigns to it — that no matter how far they ran, they would always return
“We can,” you say, drawling. “We won’t but we can.”
“Hm. We won’t but we can,” he mirrors your drawl in near whispers.
You sigh, your hand moving from his hair to his back before he hisses. “Sorry,” you mumble, retracting your hand immediately. “Does it still hurt?”
"Somewhat," he replied. Your gaze drifted to the claw marks etched upon his back — it will scar but you’re almost glad it will. It's a reminder of his internal fight with Sukuna. A reminder of his way back to mortality. A reminder of his return to you.
“We should see Shoko again,” you say, your hand back to his hair, sweeping gentle patterns back and forth, hoping they’re enough to put him to sleep.
"We will," he promises. "But for now..." He lifts his hand and lays it on your eyes, gently veiling it from the world beyond. "You should sleep. You're tired too."
"I will," you affirmed, managing a faint chuckle. Reaching for his hand, you guided it from your eyes to your lips, leaving a tender kiss upon his bruised, blood-red knuckles.
Truth is you’re scared to fall asleep, you’re scared to watch time pass — what if you wake up and it’s the last day you’ve had with him? But you know it’s an impossible game, really. You can’t sleep because of the future, nor could you reside entirely in the present. What a cruel fate the universe has gifted you with.
You closed your eyes, striving to pretend or perhaps genuinely attempting to sleep. A slew of thoughts, alongside a slew of images occupy your mind but you resign to it, slow breathing and gentle movement of your hand — at least until he falls asleep, you tell yourself as you continue.
Then you heard it, a gentle humming. Your eyes snapped open, fixing upon him. He was humming, his eyelashes flutter open as he looks up to you, and he smiles. A soft smile for a soft man.
You close your eyes with a smile, and you can only assume that he does too as he nestled into you, adjusting himself into a comfortable position. He continues humming — you recognise the tune. His mother's favourite song.
"We should leave," you say with your eyes still closed. "We should."
"If that's what you want," he begins. "I'll walk out with you," he says plainly.
But you know you won't and so, he won't. A cruel endless cycle, yet at least there is grace in knowing he would live to see another day, even if it's to walk you to work, knocking on Death's door as you stand side by side, hand in hand, fervently hoping that the door would remain unanswered.
the music from inside was faint now through the old stone walls. inside, your husband. the term felt strange and tender. he was amidst the crowd being tugged into dancing with different children, whose hands were, no doubt, sticky with wedding cake. your eyes shift over to his friends who were capturing everything before you with disposable cameras to their heart's content.
you had slipped outside quietly, for just a second.
it had been a long day and god, you could do with a cigarette, if only so you had something to do with your twitching hands. but you had quit a while back now, for the sake of your husband but mostly, your own as your husband likes to remind you.
you leaned against the railing and closed your eyes.
“you always run from parties.”
your body went still.
when you turned, gojo stood in front of you. now, you would rub your eyes comically if you could, but you didn't.
he stood against the stone railing, in a black suit, no tie, and the collar open at the throat. his white hair disordered and tangled in strong wind. the years had sharpened him strangely.
for one sickening second, you were twenty again.
“satoru.”
“wow,” he murmured, his gaze moved over you slowly, almost in reverence and wonder. “you're actually married.”
you folded your arms tightly, fingers disappearing into silk sleeves. “i didn’t invite you.”
a smile flashed in a small way on his mouth then.
“no,” he said. “i noticed.”
“well, who invites an ex to their wedding?”
“didn't know we broke up," he said, a lilt of humour to his tone.
and he would be excruciatingly, exquisitely right. you weren't exes exactly. exes had anniversaries and friends who picked sides after a break up. you two didn't have a break up. you two had none of these things.
satoru walked up the stairs a little, to take a glance through the windows. inside, your husband was laughing as one of the children clung to his arm triumphantly.
“he seems normal,” he said.
you snorted softly despite yourself. “that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about someone i dated. and he is.”
"sorry i'm late," he says. "i had to pick out a gift."
“a gift?”
“what?” he tilted his head innocently. “i can’t support your terrible life decisions?”
you narrowed your eyes. “so, where is my gift then?”
"right here," his finger pointed lazily toward himself.
you tilt your head, crossing your arm with a frown. of course.
for a brief second your mind flits through images of him, in different shades and different lightings. always young.
conjuring up an image of the boy who used to would buy and eat dessert from the same fork with you after bloodstained missions. at the boy who you shared rows on planes neither of you remembered boarding. at the man who kissed you in hotel elevators at three in the morning.
inside, the music changed, shifting into something slower.
i’ll be your dream, i’ll be your wish, i’ll be your fantasy…
the melody spilled through the open terrace as someone turned the volume up.
“will you dance with me?” he asked.
you looked at him for a long moment.
“isn’t that horribly inappropriate?" you asked, almost genuinely.
“it’s only a dance.” he was watching you carefully now. not hint of humour. just waiting.
you should say no, you think. instead, you say. “one song.”
his hand unfolded, now open toward you.
in return, you enclosed your palms in his.
he led you farther down the garden, a little closer to the music, but somehow away from the eyes inside.
gravel crunched beneath his shoes. somewhere nearby, you briefly noticed a bright jasmine blooming so richly against the green.
satoru danced beautifully, effortlessly, and infuriatingly so. as he did most things.
you let him guide you to the music. his body did all the work while you followed his movements with each spin, as your arms now encircled around his neck.
“you were always terrible at this,” he murmured.
you conjure another faint memory of your old cramped apartment after a mission that left all of you downtrodden in spirit. shoko was half asleep on the couch. suguru laughing into his drink. nanami had left right after the mission was over.
dancing that night was his idea of evading the sadness that had started to fill up the room. he had started with shoko, flailing her around the room before she grew tired, and then geto, followed by you.
you, who had scarcely danced before. satoru grabbed onto your wrist and spun you around recklessly through the quaint living room while jazz crackled from the old speaker you've now sold on ebay. you stepped on his feet over and over while he merely grinned back in response.
"must you be mean to me on my wedding night," you chided.
“no.” his mouth brushed near your temple when he spoke. “i’m just wondering how the first dance went.”
"you should've showed up on time then."
“showing up unannounced to your wedding,” he mused, “would be too much even for me.”
"you're here now."
“yes.” his hands settled at your waist, warm even through the silk. “if i’d come earlier, you might’ve left him for me.”
"ha." your laugh came too quickly. “never.”
drawing you closer to him, you rested your cheek against his chest. gojo's hands slid down over slowly to rest against the slope of your waist now.
"you cut your hair." his voice reverberating through his chest as he spoke.
“about a year ago,” you hummed.
"it suits you." he said. "it's nice."
his hand stays warm against your waist as the two of you sway slowly beneath the terrace lights. somewhere inside, someone whistles loudly enough to be heard through the open doors. laughter ensues.
“you know,” he said eventually, “when suguru told me you were getting married, i thought he was joking.”
“everyone seems deeply shocked i’m capable of commitment.”
“no.” he paused. “i just never pictured you with someone else.”
you swallowed slowly. “you told me once you’d never get married.”
you remembered the scene too vividly.
rain against enormous hotel windows.
“i remember,” he replied.
white sheets tangled around your bare limbs, he lay beside you in some expensive hotel bed.
i’m never getting married.
at twenty-three, you had felt this had little to do with you, and everything to do with the future woman that fell for him. and so, you had laughed on his warm chest and fell asleep moments later.
by twenty-seven, you realised he meant it.
“you really meant it," you said.
“i did.”
“and now?”
you were not certain what you wanted to hear. you were not certain what answer would wound you least. whether you wanted him to say yes, he would marry you now, or no, never you, never anyone.
if anything had changed. if nothing had.
but satoru only looked at you with that a sense of clarity and honesty he reserved for when things were ending and real. “i was never going to get married.”
your fingers curled slightly against the back of his neck.
the song neared its end. you could feel its death approaching in the languid sway of his body.
"hey," you said, stepping back, finally detaching from him for what you could only hope was the last time.
he hummed in response, expectantly.
“i’ll send you an invitation to the baby shower.”
"how kind of you," he said with a smile. "i'll see you then."
“and for god’s sake,” you added weakly, feeling your throat closing in now. “you’re rich. you better show up with a better gift.”
his smile widened then, bright, but something only vaguely akin to the boy you used to know.
tattoo artist sukuna x painter gf who draws tiny doodles onto his skin. from little stars on his knuckles to flowers cascading up his wrist, with cheap acrylic paint that eventually smears away
"if you're too broke to buy a sketchbook, just ask me," he mutters with a frown.
“grump,” you mutter back without looking up, too focused on perfecting your drawing of may flowers.
at first, you noticed it only in passing, with the sight of a pale blue star still lingering beside his thumb three days past you drawing it on him. then, you realised he prolongs washing them off, waiting until they smear away on their own.
until one eventual night after closing his shop up, he just drops onto the chair, expectantly tapping his thick fingers against the armrest.
“come on then,” he says. “tattoo it for real this time.”
and suddenly, your tiny may flower doodles are sitting permanently beneath his skin, with little stars tucked beside his older, more grotesque tattoos. your handwriting graces the skin just beneath his collarbone, very close to his chest.
just turning him into your very own personal canvas
