warnings. mdni. fem reader. milf reader. prostitution. age gap. backshots. creampie. blow job/throat fucking. praise. cults/religious themes. sub choso. usage of good boy. squirting. size kink. consensual recording. deff ooc.
@cash_only (Toji Fushiguro)
SORCERER KILLER RAW-DOGS RICH BUSTY MILF TO PAY OFF HIS GAMBLING DEBTS (GONE FILTHY) !
Toji can barely bother to spew out the filthy commentary his subscribers pay for. He’s too busy working—taking you from behind, heavy balls slapping against the round globes of your ass, forcing your manicured nails to clench deep into your expensive silk sheets. He reaches down with his free hand, shifting the phone camera, angling the lens down to show the audience exactly how your soft, well-kept cunt is stretching to take every single inch of his cock.
Then, he stalls. He pulls back slowly until only the flushed-angry red tip remains inside, holding you right on the edge. You let out a soft, breathless murmur of his name. When you glance back over your shoulder with lidded eyes, the faint lines around your eyes, the elegant crinkles of a woman who has lived a little, deepen into a heavy, knowing smile. You aren't some young, terrified brat. You’re a grown woman who knows exactly what she bought, and you aren't ashamed of how much you want it.
Looking at that expression on your face, Toji figures he’s giving you every single yen’s worth. He slams his cock back in. The sudden, brutal bottoming out forces an audible, messy squelch from your needy pussy, tearing a sharp gasp straight out of your throat. His shaft is already heavily coated in a thick, wet layer of your own cream, but it’s barely visible beneath the dim, shifting shadows of the room. Unbothered, Toji reaches over and clicks the camera flash on. The harsh, white light cuts through the dark, exposing everything. He uses his massive, calloused fingers to ruthlessly spread you further apart, getting a perfectly clear, high-definition shot for the camera—showing the internet exactly how wide you stretch around him, glistening and completely filled to the brim.
@honored1inthesheets (Gojo Satoru)
THE HONORED ONE CUMS IN WHINY BRAT'S THROAT: LIMITLESS COCK MAKES HER CRY !
The white glare of his phone screen reflects off your sparkly lip gloss that’s smudged all over Gojo’s shaft. Fat, hot tears are already swelling in the corners of your eyes, your cheeks puffed out and aching in a desperate (frankly pathetic) attempt to stretch around the sheer length of his cock.
“There you go, baby,” the white-haired man above you coos, his voice dripping with mock-sweet sympathy.
After ten minutes of nonstop gagging, whining, and bratty complaints—to the point where thick, bubbly spit began dripping down your chin and pooling right into your cleavage—you’ve finally managed to take him all the way down. Gojo looks down at your warm, tear-stained face with a proud and condescending grin, his fingers tangled in your hair to keep you pinned.
“A hard worker, aren’t you?” he murmurs, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek with fake gentleness. “Took you long enough to fit it in, baby. But look at you now, a real fuckin’ trooper.”
You try to drown out his teasing and focus on your ministrations, determined to wipe that smug look off his face. You bob your head up and down, deliberately pushing his dick to the very back of your throat. Nasty, wet slurping sounds echo through the quiet room with every single movement, the friction so intense that hot tears streak down your round cheeks again, leaving you breathless. It’s an exhausting effort, but it’s all worth it when he finally loses his cool ‘n mocking composure. His hips jerk forward as he releases a thick, heavy load straight into your mouth, his voice dropping as he praises you.
"That’s my pretty girl. Clean it all up for me, yeah? The fans wanna see.”
@purification.ritual (Geto Suguru)
CULT LEADER BREEDS OBEDIENT MEMBER ON THE ALTAR (FILLS HER UP TO THE BRIM) !
“Perfect,” Geto grunts, a low groan vibrating deep within his broad chest as he rolls his heavy hips against yours. He stays buried deep, keeping the thick, sticky mess he just pooled inside your slicked cunt trapped, using the prodding head of his shaft to push his kids even further up against your womb. He handles your hips like property, long fingers digging dark bruises into your soft skin to anchor you beneath him.
“Always been such a good listener, haven’t you?” he murmurs, his voice a smooth, velvet purr that echoes off the dim sanctuary walls. He leans down, his long black hair brushing against your damp shoulder as his lips graze your ear. “Your loyalty deserves a proper reward.”
You lazily nod in response, but it’s more of a dazed response, your head rolling back against the cold cedar of the altar like some flimsy rag doll. Your mind is completely gone—utterly cock-drunk, floating in a warm, ditzy haze of absolute pleasure and devotion. You can barely form a coherent thought, your round eyes lidded and unfocused as you stare up at the flickering candlelight.
You’re just so incredibly honored. After so long spent listening, obeying, and bending to his every single whim, having your messy pussy stuffed to the brim by your savior feels like the highest holy blessing. It’s the best gift you could ever ask for in return.
“Mmm… thank you, Master,” you whimper out, a tiny, pathetic line of spit stringing from your lips as you tilt your hips, desperately trying to swallow every last drop of his offering. Geto lets out a satisfied chuckle at the sight of your ruined, vacant expression. He strokes your cheek with a mock-gentle touch, pleased with how thoroughly he's broken your mind.
“Just keep it all inside.”
@malevolent_cock (Sukuna Ryomen)
MORTAL SLUT STRUGGLES TO BOUNCE ON A KING.
His bored, crimson eyes blink down at your frustrated, pouty face. You glare at his heavily tattooed cock before wrapping your small hand around the thick shaft, trying your best to guide it into your entrance. The stretch is undeniably painful, the sheer width of him making you pause. This is your third attempt, and your tight walls can only manage to swallow him halfway before you stall out, whimpering from the pressure.
“Any day now, woman,” he grunts, his deep voice scraping through the dark. He’s growing frustrated, patience running thin as he’s forced to just lie there while half his cock is being choked by your wet, trembling walls.
You don’t blame him for getting irritated.
Growing determined, your eyebrows furrow and tears prick hot at the corners of your eyes as you try to force yourself down a few more centimeters. Sukuna sighs—a low sound and suddenly, his large, clawed hands find your waist, his grip bruising as he ruthlessly pulls you down in one swift, sudden swoop. The whine that rips out of your mouth is loud and trembling, your core stretching to its absolute limit as he bottoms out inside you.
The pain turns into a blinding, suffocating rush of pleasure. Gaining a sudden burst of courage from the sheer intensity, you start hopping on his cock like a rabbit, your tits bouncing frantically in unison. Messy, loud squelching sounds echo through the room as your juices spray over his lower stomach, your wet cream coating his tattoos with every deep stride.
@yujisolderbrother (Choso Kamo) <— (had no clue what the website was till after btw)
GOOD NEEDY BOY LICKS MOMMIES PUSSY TILL SHE SQUIRTS !
The camera is shaky in your hand, the angles wobbly and uneven. In your defense, it’s nearly impossible to keep a lens steady when you’ve got a pretty boy buried between your thighs, his tongue thrusting deep in and out of your wet, aching hole. He’s eating your cunt out like he’s on death row and you’re his last meal, completely desperate to please you. Choso is needy beyond belief, letting out soft, pathetic whimpers against your puffy folds each time you use your free hand to shove his face harder into your mount.
“Please…” Your name rasps out on his tongue, raw and begging. Strands of his black hair stick to his damp forehead, his dark eyes shining with pure, unadulterated need as he looks up at you.
“You want to make me feel good that bad, Cho?” you coo down at him, your tone dripping with indulgence as your fingers tangle in his hair.
“Want you to feel so good… want to taste all of you,” he whines, sniffling a little and rubbing at his teary eyes with the back of his wrist because he’s so overwhelmed at this point. He’s completely unraveled, just wanting you to cum on his tongue more than his next breath. He pushes two thick fingers inside you, scissoring them in with perfect harmony, his tongue lapping and circling around your sensitive clit. Deciding he's been a good boy (and because you can’t hold on much longer), you finally grant his wish. Your gummy walls clamp down hard, thighs shaking violently as you spray sweet juices straight onto his waiting pink tongue. Choso licks you down greedily as you capture every single second on the shaking screen.
+ these r short nd unedited cuz they’re all wip’s i scrapped, been burnt out asf lately so this is all i can post rn myf
A/N: this took an imense amount of work. please enjoy it. i spent a LOT of time on this.
warnings: long ( over 10kwords). pls give this a chance. smut, PROTECTED smut. slight violence, soulmate AU, shibuya happens, angst with a very happy ending (no one dies).
You know those mornings where the gods themselves seem to wake up and decide: Yes. You. You specifically. You’re fucked.
Yeah. That was you today.
Picture it: your alarm didn’t go off (because you, in your hubris, trusted “vibrate only” mode like a fool). Chairman Meow, furious about the move to Tokyo and his new food bowls (“peasant-tier,” you imagine him saying in his tiny feline Shakespearean brain), had decided the only appropriate revenge was to piss—piss with intention—on your fresh laundry pile.
So instead of ironing a cute fit for your very first day at Jujutsu High, you were spritzing Febreze on a shirt and muttering, “This is how people become alcoholics, Chairman.”
You’re late.
Not just, “oops, forgot my umbrella and need to hustle” late. No. This is the first day at your brand-new grown-up job teaching sorcerers how not to get eaten by curses late. Which is different. It’s cosmically, monumentally, “the gods are laughing at you while they eat their stupid ambrosia on Olympus” kind of late.
And of course, the culprit is none other than Chairman Meow. Your fluffy tyrant of a cat who, upon being relocated from the countryside to your cute, candle-filled, cute-ass apartment, decided to piss on the only pair of pants that both:
Make your ass look good, and
Don’t make you feel like a stuffed sausage after one onigiri.
So now you’re in your emergency pants. The ones with a button so loose it could pop off and murder a man in cold blood.
“Don’t wait up for me,” you hiss at Chairman Meow, who has perched himself on the table, watching you suffer. He blinks. Slowly. Condescendingly. Bastard.
*-*
The Tokyo metro is your last chance at salvation.
You make it. By the skin of your teeth, by the grace of every benevolent spirit that decided not to trip you as you sprinted down the stairs in shoes that squeak like dying mice. The train shudders, the doors beep, and you slip inside with the athleticism of someone whose entire career depends on not fucking this up.
You’re safe. You’re sweaty. You smell faintly of stress and cat pee. But you’re safe.
Until you’re not.
The train halts at your stop. You fling yourself towards the doors, bag bouncing against your thigh, hair sticking to your face, when—
WHAM.
Something collides with you. No, someone. Tall. Broad. Solid in the way brick walls are solid. He mutters an apology, deep-voiced and clipped, but he’s already moving past you, already stepping onto the train while you stagger on the platform like a drunk toddler.
And then—
Oh.
Oh.
There it is. That feeling. That stupid, ridiculous, heart-bursting tidal wave of oh fuck.
It hits you square in the chest, radiating outwards like some lovesick nuclear bomb. You feel everything, all at once—joy so bright it hurts, relief so deep you could drown in it, this euphoria that has you clutching at your emergency pants like they might anchor you to reality.
Sharp and sudden, yet devastatingly gentle. The kind of moment that doesn't just knock the air out of your lungs, but steals something far more vital.
The contact was brief. Shoulder to chest. Hands grazing like the accident they were never meant to be. But in that one second, the entire universe collapsed into a pinpoint of quiet between you. Time fractured. You blinked up at him—and felt it. The pull. The ache. A magnetic hum that thrummed down to the marrow. His eyes widened, shocked, like he’d just remembered a name he hadn’t known he’d forgotten.
Your soulmate.
The word alone makes your knees buckle. Because that’s what this is. What it has to be. You’ve read about it, heard about it, mocked people for getting all mushy about it—and now? Now you’re standing slack-jawed on a metro platform while your heart composes sonnets in real time.
And him. The man. The soulmate.
Blond hair, sharp suit, jawline that could probably cut glass. He’s inside the car, the doors sliding shut between you like some bad soap opera, and he’s staring right at you. Wide-eyed. Silent. Like maybe—maybe—he feels it too.
The door alarms chimed. The world resumed.
And the metro closed its silver jaws around him and took him away.
The train pulls away.
And there you stood. On the platform. Staring at the blur of steel and light, as if it had just stolen the rest of your life. As if the bone-deep rightness you had felt in his touch—terrifying and tender and inevitable—had been something sacred, and now, ripped away. You didn’t even know his name, but it didn’t matter. Your soul already did.
And you’re left on the platform, vibrating like a tuning fork that just got whacked by God’s own hammer.
“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!”
You yell it. Out loud. To the heavens, to the commuters pretending not to hear you, to the pigeons who are already judging you from above. Your soulmate. Your once-in-a-lifetime, cosmically assigned other half. And he just—got on the train.
Didn’t even hesitate. Just zoom, gone, off to whatever Very Important Business Meeting awaits a man who looks like he eats spreadsheets for breakfast.
*-*
You check your phone.
You are so, so late.
There are two options here.
Option one: chase after the train, spend the rest of the day in a lovesick, sweaty haze, maybe get arrested for causing a scene.
Option two: go to your first day of work, pretend like you didn’t just get bitch-slapped by fate, and hope to god your soulmate isn’t the type of man who forgets the most life-changing experience of both your lives in the span of three metro stops.
You clutch your bag tighter, muttering to yourself as you sprint for the school gates.
“Great. Fantastic. Love this for me. First day of work, soulmate’s already ghosted me via public transportation, cat’s a piss gremlin, and my pants are seconds from committing manslaughter. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.”
Somewhere in the distance, Chairman Meow sneezes.
And you think—maybe, just maybe—you’ll strangle him when you get home.
*-*
Nanami Kento is a man of structure. Order. Precision. A man who wakes up, eats a simple breakfast, ties his tie with the exact same tension each morning, and gets on with the business of keeping the world from collapsing under curses and chaos.
And yet.
When he makes it into his office after his little incident at the metro, he sits down at his desk, opens his laptop, and immediately thinks:
What the actual fuck just happened.
Because, really, what the fuck did just happen?
The absolute clusterfuck that slammed into him at the metro station that morning had him… unwell.
Not physically. Physically he was fine. Beige suit unwrinkled. Hair immaculate, not a single strand out of place. Outwardly: perfect picture of a man on his way to a finance job he secretly loathed.
Internally? Part of his brain was throwing it back like a stripper on rent day.
Booty shorts, ass clapping, confetti cannon.
Because apparently, he had just run headfirst into his soulmate.
He was still replaying the exact moment when he slammed into you like the world’s most polite battering ram.
The other half? Oh, that half is, as stated earlier, currently dropping it low, twerking in his subconscious, because holy hell—the bond. The bond is real. The weight of it, the shimmer of it, the way it clings to his ribcage like a second set of lungs.
He can feel it tugging at him. Always there. Persistent. A reminder that his soulmate exists somewhere in this city, breathing, cursing, living.
Which, yes, is beautiful and profound and poetic. It’s also so fucking inconvenient.
He has work.
Numbers to file, meetings to attend, sorcerer-related bureaucracy to tolerate without stabbing someone in the throat. But no—his brain has decided to instead spend the day writing emotional fanfiction about your eyes (were they… actually glowing? or was he just delirious from lack of caffeine?) and the way your mouth opened in shock.
Nanami: I have to focus on the budget report.
Also Nanami: But what if she likes cats? What if she doesn’t? What if she hates cats? What does this mean for our future??
He pressed his fingers to his temple and exhaled, deep and slow.
He was not a man prone to dramatics. But today, he had to accept one simple fact:
The universe had just bent him over and spanked him with destiny.
The entire workday was ruined. Every time he tried to focus on numbers, that rush of euphoria replayed. Her face replayed. The shock in her eyes replayed. The doors closing replayed.
Nanami wanted to scream into his tie. Instead, he sat stoically through meetings, nodded at quarterly reports, and occasionally thought: I need to bash my head into a fax machine.
*-*
The day drags like a wounded dog.
Emails blur. Spreadsheets look like Egyptian hieroglyphs. His patience, never abundant to begin with, is shaved down to the thickness of a communion wafer.
By the time his shift ends, Nanami feels like he’s lived three lifetimes in the span of eight hours, all of them full of existential dread and an alarming number of thoughts about your hair. He adjusts his tie, grabs his briefcase, and trudges back toward the metro like a man marching to execution.
The entire way, he keeps asking himself the same thing:
How the hell am I supposed to find her again?
Tokyo is vast. Millions of people. The odds of bumping into you twice are laughable, astronomical. He’s not the kind of man who indulges in romantic fate-driven optimism. He’s practical. Which makes the bond—the constant pull of it—almost cruel.
Still. He steps up to the platform. The metro screeches to a stop. The doors slide open.
And just as he goes to step inside—
Someone grabs him.
“HEY. HEY YOU. STOP. BLONDIE. DON’T MOVE.”
You.
Y o u.
Dragging him back onto the platform with the feral strength of a woman who has had enough of today’s bullshit.
The doors beep-beep-beep, then close. The train leaves without him. He stares down at you. You stare back up at him.
It’s awkward. It’s overwhelming. It’s— oh and you're talking:
“Oh my god,” you blurt, “hi. It’s you. Again. Jesus Christ, okay. Sorry. Um. Hi.”
Nanami blinks. Slowly. He feels like someone just unplugged his brain and forgot to turn it back on.
You, however, are not afflicted with silence. No. You are afflicted with word vomit.
“So! Um! This is crazy, right? Wild. Ha-ha-ha. Totally normal. Just two people slamming into each other on the metro, no big deal, except—” you gesture violently at the space between you, “—there’s like this thing. This bond. This absolute cosmic fuckery. Which, um, I’m guessing you felt? You did feel it, right? Otherwise, wow, this would be mortifying.”
Nanami's brain was buffering. His processing.exe has stopped working
You on the other hand, had an absolutely unhinged infodump mode engaged
“I’m—uh—me. Hi. New in Tokyo. I just started a new job! Biology teacher. Yep. Definitely just biology, nothing suspicious there, ha-ha, why would there be. Anyway, first day was a train wreck, but—oh, speaking of trains, look at that, yours is gone, sorry about that, ha-ha.”
You are sweating. Talking too fast. Pulling out your bag like a magician about to reveal a rabbit. Instead, you yank out a post-it note, scribble furiously, and slap it into his hand.
“That’s my number. In case, you know, you want to—uh—talk. Or, like, coordinate. Or, I don’t know, soulbond activities? Whatever people do in these situations. I’m not good at this. Clearly. But there you go.”
You step back, huffing. Waiting. Watching his expression like he’s about to announce whether or not you’ll be executed by guillotine.
And Nanami—poor Nanami—just stands there. Staring at the post-it like it’s the Rosetta Stone. His mouth opens. Closes. His brow furrows.
You, naturally, assume the worst.
“Oh my god,” you groan, clutching your forehead, realising he might be disappointed, maybe he's part of one of those weird families that don't believe in being with soulmates, maybe he's already in a relationship, maybe— “You’re disappointed. Aren’t you? Amazing. Fate really said, fuck this man in particular.”
Nanami finally speaks. Low, deliberate, like he’s wading through molasses.
“…Kento. Nanami Kento.”
And just like that—oh.
The tension in your chest fizzles. Not gone. Not really. But lighter. Because even if he’s slow, even if he’s processing like a Windows 98 computer, he didn’t run. He didn’t vanish. He gave you his name.
And somehow, that feels like the beginning of something.
*-*
The metro rattles away without you, taking Blond Tall Stoic Soulmate with it, and you’re left standing on the platform like an idiot. Heart pounding. Brain buzzing. Hand sweaty around a pen that definitely wasn’t designed for such high-stakes scribbling.
You did it. You actually did it.
You gave him your number. Which means you are now technically in possession of a soulmate, which is a win. Even if he was staring at you like you were a raccoon who wandered into a bakery. Even if you word-vomited like you were auditioning for the Guinness World Record of Oversharing.
Still. A win.
You step out of the station, take in the Tokyo evening air, and whisper to yourself:
“God. I’m so fucking good at this.”
*-*
Home. At last. Your little apartment greets you like a Studio Ghibli hug—soft lamplight, potted plants trying their best, incense faintly burnt out. It smells like fresh tatami and your lavender room spray. It is home.
And more importantly—
Chairman Meow has NOT pissed on anything.
Not the couch.
Not the laundry basket.
Not even the decorative throw pillow you thrifted and loved with your whole chest.
It was a miracle. A literal miracle.
“VICTORY!” you roar, dropping your bag dramatically in the doorway. Chairman Meow blinks at you from his throne on the couch, tail flicking like a metronome of disdain. His expression said: You fool. I piss when I want. Today I chose mercy.
You collapse beside him, grab his fluffy cheeks, and shout, “THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY FUCKING LIFE.”
He meows. Noncommittally. Probably asking when dinner is.
But no, this is your time. You are radiant. You are glowing. You are practically Disney-princess-twirling through your living room.
*-*
The universe really has no business being this ironic.
Because listen: after the chaos of The Train Incident™ (capital T, capital I, don’t ask questions), you should’ve gone home to a puddle of cat urine, cried into your cursed Febreze shirt, and maybe eaten cup ramen in the dark while whispering, I am unlovable like a weird creature of the dark.
But no.
So life was great, you were overjoyed. You spun in a circle like a ballerina, chanting, “No piss, no piss, no piss—” before collapsing onto your couch with the exhaustion of someone who had sprinted through Tokyo traffic, locked eyes with her literal soulmate, and survived to tell the tale.
“Guess who met her soulmate today? That’s right, baby, it’s me. Your mother. Who is now cosmically shackled to a six-foot-tall tax accountant-looking man with the jawline of a Grecian god. Do you know what that means?”
Chairman Meow: licks paw, ignores you
“It means I am no longer a single, tragic, spinster cat-mom! No more crying over burnt curry at midnight while you watch me with judgmental little raccoon eyes. No more praying to Inari for companionship! The universe delivered!”
Chairman Meow: tries to bite your hand
“Violence will not dim my joy!”
That’s when your laptop pinged.
An email. From your new employers at Jujutsu High. Subject line: Welcome to the Team!
You cracked open the laptop with the grace of a raccoon unwrapping fast food. The email was cheerful, formal, and vaguely threatening in that way institutions always are. You skimmed.
Blah blah blah, you’re the new curse studies specialist, blah blah blah, here’s your faculty handbook, blah blah blah, attached please find a file introducing our currently active sorcerers in Tokyo.
Attached: some document with way too many pages, detailing the active sorcerers in Tokyo, their specialties, their assignments, their blood types, shoe sizes, probably what they had for breakfast this morning.
You saw the attachment.
You ignored the attachment.
Why? Because, Chairman Meow didn’t piss on your sheets, and for once, your life wasn’t on fire. You deserved a moment of peace.
Instead, you launched into a one-woman play starring: You, Your Cat, and Your Soulmate Who May or May Not Hate You. Which meant repeating a step by step of what happened in the morning.
“Okay, Chairman. Listen.” You scooped him up, ignoring his offended yowl. “So this morning was hell, right? Like, you literally pissed on my laundry, and I thought my students were gonna smell the Febreze cloud radiating off me. BUT. But. Do you know what else happened? Do you know what the fuck else happened, Chairman?”
Chairman stared, eyes narrowing.
You gasped dramatically. “I met my soulmate. My soulmate. The cosmic other half. The peanut butter to my jelly. The Romeo to my Juliet—except without the double suicide because that’s fucking stupid. The man. The myth. The very beige legend.”
Chairman Meow sneezed in your face.
You carried on, unhinged.
“He’s hot. Like… unfairly hot. Tall, blond, broad-shouldered. Wears a suit like he’s about to fire you and then rail you against a filing cabinet. I swear, Chairman, when he looked at me, my ovaries tried to unionize. Do you understand the severity?”
You plopped him back on the couch, raking your hands through your hair.
“He didn’t say much, though. Just… processing. Which, fine, yeah, same. But like. What if he is disappointed? What if he wanted, I don’t know, a ballerina supermodel chef who never sweats? And instead he got me, a biology teacher whose defining personality trait is ‘cat owner with seasonal depression.’”
Your phone buzzed.
You stared at it.
Nothing. Not him. Just spam: “Congratulations, you’ve won a cruise to Okinawa.”
“Cool,” you muttered. “The only thing I’ve ever won is diarrhea.”
Chairman stretched luxuriously.
You flopped back on the couch, staring at the ceiling.
“Anyway. It doesn’t matter. He’s not a sorcerer. That’s… that’s gonna be an issue. My life is curses, his life is spreadsheets. We’re doomed. Destined to a tragic love affair where I die dramatically in his arms after being skewered by a centipede demon while he weeps in his beige suit.”
You sighed.
“Fuck, that’s hot though.”
Across the room, your laptop dinged again. The sorcerer dossier sat unopened, glowing innocently on your desktop.
Inside, waiting patiently, was a neatly formatted profile picture of one: Kento Nanami, Grade 1 Sorcerer.
But you didn’t open it.
Because you were too busy telling your cat how good his fur felt and celebrating the fact that—for once—your life didn’t feel like a piss-soaked fever dream.
*-*
Nanami is spiraling.
No, not outwardly—outwardly he looks the same as always: a pressed shirt, a calm jawline, the kind of man you’d trust to deliver a quarterly report without ever blinking. But internally? His brain is throwing an unholy rave.
Because here’s the thing about soulmates that no one really tells you until it’s too late: you can’t fucking ignore them.
Like, literally. People have tried. People have gone, “Oh, haha, I’m too busy to meet my soulmate, what’s the worst that could happen?” And then they just… wasted away. Became like those old sotries from the Victorian women who fainted all the time and coughed blood into lace handkerchiefs. Fate is mean like that.
And Nanami Kento? Nanami Kento is not about to let himself wither like a wilting rose in some melodramatic Russian novel.
But still.
He rubs his temples, pacing his immaculate apartment. His tie is discarded on the counter. His sleeves are rolled up. And the thoughts spiral on repeat, like an angry washing machine:
She’s normal. She has to be normal. She probably goes to bed at ten and wakes up at seven and waters her plants and doesn’t know curses exist. What the hell am I supposed to tell her? That I stay out until three in the morning fighting the kinds of monsters she doesn’t even believe in? That sometimes I come home covered in blood that isn’t mine? That I file expense reports for holy water?
What am I supposed to say? “Sorry, darling, can’t come over tonight, a cursed fetus is trying to kill my boss”?
He sinks onto the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose. Fate, the cruel mistress, has handed him a soulmate who will never understand.
Unless…
Unless he quits.
The thought is so blasphemous he almost laughs.
Nanami, who gave up finance because the corporate world was worse than death, now considering giving up sorcery just to keep from breaking his soulmate’s heart.
Ridiculous.
Insane. But also—he can’t stop thinking about it. He can’t stop imagining it: a normal job, a normal life, dinner at a decent hour, mornings spent in a kitchen that smells like coffee and toasted bread, her laughter somewhere in the background.
He runs a hand down his face. “This is already out of hand.”
Because here’s the other thing about soulmates: the feelings don’t build slowly. No. They come in like a goddamn tsunami. He’s known you for less than twenty-four hours and already his chest aches when he thinks of you. Already he wants to know everything—what your favorite tea is, whether you like dogs, if you’ve ever been to the seaside in winter. He wants. And Nanami doesn’t want easily.
It’s terrifying.
And then there’s the phone.
The post-it with your number is tucked into his wallet like a fragile treasure. His phone sits heavy in his hand. He knows he has to text you. Knows that if he doesn’t, this thing between you will curdle into something sharp and unbearable.
But what the hell does one say to their soulmate?
He scrolls through the drafts he’s typed and deleted:
“Hello. This is Nanami.” = Too cold. Sounds like a ransom note.
“It was nice meeting you.” = Too nice. Too eager. He is not nice.
“Do you like cats?” = Too weird. Soulmate or not, he can’t lead with cats.
“Would you like to meet again?” = Too forward. She might think he’s unhinged.
Nanami exhales sharply. “Ridiculous.”
Finally, after far too long, he types:
Nanami Kento: This is Nanami. Thank you for giving me your number. I hope your day went well.
Simple. Polite. Balanced. Not too open, not too closed. A perfect Nanami message.
He stares at it for another five minutes before hitting send.
Somewhere across town, you are lying in bed, babbling to your cat about how your soulmate is probably the kind of man who eats miso soup very quietly, when your phone buzzes. You screech loud enough to terrify Chairman Meow off the bed. Poor cat tripples in size.
But Nanami doesn’t know that.
Nanami only knows that he has crossed some invisible line now. He’s in it. Inescapably, inexorably in it.
And here’s the kicker: if Nanami had opened his inbox earlier, he would have seen a cheerful email from Jujutsu High:
Inside, right there on page one, your smiling face. The new curse biology teacher. His soulmate.
But Nanami, ever the fool, didn’t open it.
So instead, he sits in his immaculate apartment, already considering life-altering career changes, completely oblivious to the fact that you already live in the same cursed world he does.
*-*
The weeks blur into something almost pleasant.
You and Nanami text.
Not obsessively—he’s not that kind of man. No, it’s more like these small, steady drops of water in the desert. Reliable. Grounding. His style is… minimalistic. Polite. A man who has never once in his life typed “lmao” without meaning it.
Nanami Kento: Good morning.
You: good morning king, chairman meow just tried to climb into my teapot. do you accept custody of this war criminal?
Nanami Kento: No.
You: 😔 coward
You sent him photos of Chairman Meow in increasingly bizarre positions (Chairman sleeping inside your laundry basket; Chairman glaring at you from atop the fridge; Chairman Meow mid-yowl with the caption: screm). Nanami, in return, sent you blurry, solemn pictures of random street cats.
He never fails to answer, though.
He even sends you the occasional cat photo, which you know must have been a harrowing process, because it was all very tame, very civilized. Nanami texted like a man drafting formal correspondence with the Queen:
Good morning. I hope your class goes well today.
I encountered a calico cat near my office. It reminded me of Chairman Meow.
Remember to eat lunch.
Does he bend down in his expensive suit just to capture some stray tabby on his commute? You like to think so. You save them all in a folder labeled “Evidence That Nanami Has a Heart.”
You run into each other on the metro a couple of times. Each time it’s the same thing: brief, intense eye contact. The bond singing between you like a taut violin string. And then beep-beep-beep, the doors close, and off you go. It’s maddening. A romantic comedy with the world’s worst timing.
Still. It’s something.
*-*
And then.
Oh, and then.
The day comes when fate decides to dropkick subtlety straight into hell.
Because the universe is a sick little freak, it decided the next time you actually met in person would be mid-apocalypse.
It hit downtown—fast, vicious, ugly. A grade-two that escalated into several grade-twos, multiplying like cockroaches. Civilians screaming, buildings cracking, and every sorcerer in a twenty-mile radius was called.
There’s a curse. A big one.
The kind of big where your phone is buzzing like it’s being possessed, every available sorcerer being called in. You’re not an attacker—you’re defense, support, the one who makes sure your colleagues don’t get obliterated in the first two minutes.
Your job is shields, barriers, keeping flesh attached to bones. And keep the flesh conscious and breathing please.
You arrive on the scene, curses roiling like smoke in the air, buildings groaning under the weight of it all. Sorcerers everywhere, clashing, shouting, running. The night is lit up with cursed energy like someone dropped fireworks into a hurricane.
And there—front and center—is Nanami.
Mr. Beige Efficiency in person.
You almost don’t recognize him at first. Not in his neat suit, no metro briefcase. Here he’s all lines and sharpness, curse energy crackling down his blade. Cold, efficient, devastating. He’s terrifyingly beautiful, the kind of beautiful that makes you want to throw up and cry at the same time.
You don’t have time to marvel, though, because the fight goes bad. The curse lashes out, a massive arm like a wrecking ball, and—
WHAM.
Nanami is launched through a concrete wall like a human cannonball.
“OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE—”
You sprint. Shield flaring, lungs burning, heart in your throat. You scramble over debris and smoke until—there. A crumpled blond salaryman in a pile of rubble.
“Hey! Hey, stay with me!” You drop to your knees, shaking his shoulder. His eyes flutter open, dazed, unfocused.
“…Am I hallucinating?” he rasps, squinting at you like you’re a mirage in the desert.
Nanami just stares at you. Stares like you’re an escaped convict who has inexplicably wandered into his workplace.
“Oh, thank God. You’re a sorcerer. Do you know how relieved I am right now? I thought I was cosmically shackled to some civilian tax accountant. I was already drafting the lies in my head. ‘Sorry, babe, gotta work late’—but actually I’m covered in blood. That would’ve been a nightmare.”
He blinks. “You’re… a sorcerer.”
You grin. “Surprise, motherfucker.”
Around you, the battle rages. The ground shakes. Someone screams. A sorcerer yells for backup. But in this moment, it’s just you and him. His disbelief. Your relief. The bond humming so loud it drowns out the chaos.
“Look, I know this is a lot, and you probably have a concussion, but holy shit, Nanami, this is a win for us. Like, cosmic jackpot. Soulmate synergy. I can shield your ass while you chop curses in half. It’s like marriage but with more gore.”
Nanami, hoarse: “This is… absurd.”
“Welcome to my TED Talk. Now get up before that thing eats both of us.”
You haul him to his feet, shield flaring around you both as another cursed blast tears through the air. He steadies himself, blade at the ready, still staring at you like he’s trying to reconcile the you he saw on the metro with the you currently holding a shimmering barrier over his head.
And then, finally, finally—something cracks. His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Nanami Kento doesn’t smile. But maybe the ghost of one.
“…I suppose,” he mutters, “this makes things less complicated.”
You laugh, manic, giddy, alive. “Nanami, this makes things so much more complicated.”
You throw up another shield. He slices a curse in half. The battlefield roars around you, but for the first time since you met him, you’re fighting side by side.
And it feels inevitable. Like this is what fate had in mind all along.
*-*
The curse is dead. Finally.
Its body collapses into sludge, the air still humming with that sour, electric taste of cursed energy dissipating. Your shield flickers out around you, leaving nothing but raw night and smoke and the faint ringing in your ears.
Nanami is alive. Bruised, bloodied, covered in equal parts human and monster goo, but standing. Sword at his side, chest heaving, eyes locked on yours like you’ve just rewritten the laws of physics.
And you—
You launch yourself at him.
Like full throttle, Olympic long-jump, straight into his chest. He grunts, staggered, and before he can even say “what the hell are you doing,” you’re kissing him.
Now, Nanami knew.
Everyone knows.
Everyone’s heard the stories: that first kiss between soulmates isn’t just a kiss, it’s a goddamn detonation. It’s like plugging your soul into a socket that was carved out for it since the dawn of time. It’s supposed to be euphoric. Overwhelming. Unbearable.
But “knowing” and feeling are two very different things.
The second your lips crash against his, it happens.
The bond, which had been this quiet, persistent hum, explodes into a full orchestra. It’s everything—light, sound, touch. Fireworks behind his eyes, heat coiling through his veins, every wound he’s ever carried momentarily soothed by this impossible, consuming rush of you.
It’s not subtle. It’s not gentle. It’s total.
He clutches your waist, stunned, drowning. It’s like breathing for the first time after years of holding his breath. Like warmth after endless winters. Like home.
And you feel it too. That first, exquisite filling. The hollow part of your soul, the part you’d always tried to laugh off, suddenly gone. Replaced by something whole, infinite, electric. You’re giddy, trembling, alive in a way you never knew you weren’t.
The kiss ends because, frankly, both of you need oxygen. You pull back, foreheads pressed together, gasping, cheeks wet with sweat and maybe tears, and you blurt out the only thing your unhinged brain can manage:
“Sorry I just, like, attacked you.”
Nanami, still reeling, still clutching your waist like you might vanish: “…It’s fine.”
Nanami, after a long pause, the ghost of a laugh in his throat.
“It’s more than fine. I’ve never felt—” he exhales hard, searching for words, “—anything like this.”
You grin, delirious. “So you’re saying you liked it.”
“…Yes.”
“Cool, cool. Just checking. Because otherwise that would’ve been embarrassing.”
The battlefield is still smoldering around you, colleagues shouting, sirens in the distance. And there you are, clinging to each other, sweat-slick, blood-streaked, glowing from the inside out. It’s not the most romantic setting. But somehow it is. Because for the first time, you both know. No more doubt. No more what-ifs.
“I want to see you,” Nanami says suddenly, the words ripped straight from the tidal wave inside him. “Outside of this.”
You blink. “Like…?”
“A date,” he clarifies. His voice is steadier now, but his hands still tremble slightly where they rest on your waist. “A proper one. We deserve that much.”
You beam. “Hell yeah we do.”
*-*
Hours later, when you finally stumble back into your apartment, bandaged, bruised, but very much alive, you collapse onto the couch with a ridiculous smile plastered across your face.
“Chairman Meow!” you shout, voice cracking with joy. “Your mother is in love!”
Chairman, unamused, flicks his tail and stalks away.
You’re too giddy to care. You dance around your tiny living room, replaying the kiss in your head, the feel of his hands, the raw awe in his eyes. You flop down at your desk, open your laptop, and—oh. That stupid email. The one from weeks ago. The one you ignored.
Curiosity piqued, you click it open.
Faculty profiles. A whole list. And there, staring back at you in black and white:
Nanami Kento.
Grade 1 Jujutsu Sorcerer.
You freeze.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
You slap the desk. Chairman Meow bolts.
“This whole time—this WHOLE goddamn time—I thought I was cosmically shackled to a tax accountant, and he’s been a sorcerer all along?!”
You throw your head back, laughing like a lunatic. “WEEKS. WEEKS of agony, of mental gymnastics, of worrying about lying to my poor sweet normal soulmate, and it was RIGHT HERE in the goddamn PDF. I hate myself. I hate this school. I hate bureaucracy!”
You cackle until your sides hurt.
*-*
Meanwhile, across town, Nanami sits at his desk. He’s showered, bandaged, exhausted, still humming with the ghost of that kiss. He powers on his computer to submit a report, and—oh. An unread email. From weeks ago.
He clicks it. Faculty profiles. And there, plain as day:
[Your Name].
Curse Biology Specialist.
Nanami stares. Long. Silent.
And then, against all odds, Nanami Kento laughs. Just once. Short, sharp, incredulous.
“Fate really has it out for me,” he mutters.
But he’s smiling.
*-*
Here’s the thing about Nanami: man could fight curses bigger than apartment complexes, watch his colleagues (and his taxes) burn, and still keep his shirt crisp.
But somehow, somehow, the simple act of preparing for a first date with his soulmate has him spiraling like a maiden about to faint into a chaise lounge.
Not because he thinks you’ll reject him.
No.
Nanami’s practical enough to know you won’t—he felt the bond as violently as you did. It’s more that this is real. Tangible. For the first time, Nanami’s life isn’t all paper reports, curse guts, and disappointment.
There’s you. You’re not a maybe, not a whisper of fate. You’re here, alive, waiting for him.
And Nanami Kento? He hadn’t thought he’d get this. Not because he didn’t want it—he wanted it badly (disgustingly badly, in fact, like “googling first date etiquette” badly)—but because his life was a thousand percent incompatible with happiness. Pragmatically, rationally, statistically incompatible. He never thought he’d have this at all. That he’d deserve this.
Not in a mopey, “boohoo, the world is cruel to me” way, but in a cold, accountant-like analysis of his own life: being a sorcerer ages you like milk, makes you disposable, makes you broken before you’re thirty-five. Who builds a future out of that?
Yet here he is. And here you are. And fate—annoying, hilarious, bureaucratic fate—has decided he gets this after all.
And yet.
He dresses the way Nanami Kento dresses: suit, but not stiff. No tie. First couple buttons undone like a scandalous Regency gentleman. Sleeves rolled up just enough that you’ll probably want to lick his forearms. He checks himself in the mirror once, twice, three times before muttering:
“Pathetic.”
Then, very softly: “This will do.”
Nanami is nervous.
Which is funny, because Nanami does not do nervous. He does schedules. He does clean lines. He does calculating cursed techniques mid-battle while covered in blood and eldritch goo. But the concept of taking his soulmate—his soulmate—on a first date? Yeah. That’s the thing that has his stomach tied in neat little origami cranes.
He had, against all sense, gone on forums for “what to do on a first date.” Terrible idea. Half the posts were “I proposed the first night and we have seven kids now,” and the other half were “she ghosted me after we went to Costco.” Both horrifying in equal measure.
So: café. With cats. Rescue cats. Elderly cats, disabled cats, cats who’ve seen some shit. Nanami relates.
*-*
The café is small, tucked into a quiet corner street. A cat café, but not the sanitized, cutesy Instagram kind. This one is soft-lit, smells faintly of coffee and paw pads, filled with old shelter cats, HIV+ cats, one-eyed goblins, and retirees in fur coats. The kind of place that makes you feel like you’re inside a Studio Ghibli film, except the extras are all resentful tabbies.
Of course he’s early. Of course he picks a table tucked in the back, where a massive three-legged Maine Coon has already claimed the tabletop as his throne.
When he gets closer, he realises said Maine Coon is the size of a Subaru.One eye. Radiating contempt.
“Please don’t move her. She’ll leave when she feels like it.” Says an employee.
“Understood.”
And honestly? He doesn’t mind.
Something about this battle-scarred beast resonates with him. They sit together in silence, man and cat, two weary veterans of a war no one else understands. The cat looks at him with a dead ancient eye, and Nanami thinks, yes. Same.
Then you arrive.
Oh, you.
You do not walk into the café. No. You make an entrance. Every two steps you stop to greet a cat. Cooing, bowing, showering them in poetic affection like they’re emperors on tiny velvet thrones.
Nanami watches. Nanami contemplates proposing. Nanami tells himself to stop being fucking weird.
By the time you finally reach his table, you’re already carrying a cloud of cat hair and joy around you like an aura. Of course Nanami is about three seconds away from proposing marriage on the spot. Do not be weird, he tells himself. Do not be that person. Control yourself.
“Hi,” you grin, eyes catching on the Maine Coon. “Oh my god, look at her. She’s magnificent.”
Nanami, gravely: “She is.”
“She’s bigger than my landlord.”
“…Possibly.”
“Do you think she pays taxes?”
“Unlikely.”
You beam at him like he’s just told the funniest joke you’ve ever heard, and he feels his heart rupture cleanly in his chest.
Nanami wants to marry you again. Stop it, control yourself.
The Maine Coon eventually hauls herself off to terrorize another table, leaving the two of you to talk. And talk you do.
About work. About curse biology. About students who eat cursed bugs on a dare. About curse techniques that go “boom” versus curse techniques that go “bonk.” About Chairman Meow and his piss vendettas. About Nanami’s job, his routines, his quiet, dull fondness for bakery sandwiches.
You order coffee. He orders tea. You both get pastries shaped like cat paws. At one point you hold up your paw pastry and whisper, “Behold, beans.” Nanami nearly chokes trying not to laugh.
The date feels like… ease.
It’s not that it’s flashy, or dramatic. It’s not even especially romantic. It’s just… alive. Like breathing fresh air after years underground. Nanami has never felt so aware of his own pulse, his own worth, his own body not as a weapon, but as a place where something good resides.
He feels alive. Not the bare minimum, “yes, my heart is technically beating” alive he’s been used to. But alive alive. Like there’s more oxygen in the room because you’re in it. Like he isn’t just enduring his own existence, but inhabiting it. For the first time in years, he feels worthy of being here.
Which is terrifying. And intoxicating. And maybe he should propose. No. Stop. Don’t be weird.
He watches you speak, and the thought flashes again a couple minutes later, unbidden, I could marry her.
Nanami clenches his jaw, forces himself to focus on his tea. Self-control. He needs self-control.
*-*
The evening winds down, cats are yawning, and Nanami insists on walking you back to the metro. You accept, happily, because of course you do.
It’s calm, a soft night. He walks beside you, hands in his pockets, listening as you ramble about a student who swore he saw a cursed raccoon playing pachinko. You’re laughing, hair bouncing, eyes lit up. Nanami is… well.
He’s doomed.
And then you reach the platform.
And then you look at him.
And then—you’re kissing again.
Except this time, it’s not the battlefield, not blood and fear and adrenaline. This is slower, deeper, sweeter. And yet somehow hotter, filthier, more. His hands grip your waist. Yours curl into his shirt. You press against him shamelessly, and he—he’s kissing you like he’s been starving his entire life and finally, finally gets to eat.
It is, without exaggeration, indecent.
People are staring. A salaryman coughs loudly. Someone mutters, “Get a room.” Nanami ignores them all.
“Oh my god, are we seriously making out in a train station right now?”
Nanami, breathless: “…Yes.”
“Public indecency speedrun. Incredible.”
Nanami kisses you again just to shut you up.
You giggle—no, cackle—and kiss him again, because if public indecency is a crime, you’re going down swinging.
The train screeches into the station, cruel, interrupting, the embodiment of the word cockblock. The doors open, your train, and you groan into his mouth. A shrill beep-beep-beep, telling you to board.
You both freeze.
“Do I… do I just leave? After that?”
“…Unfortunately, yes.”
“This is sick and twisted. Ugh. Fine. Goodbye, my beloved.”
“You’re acting like we’ll never see each other again,” Nanami says, exasperated, though he refuses to let go of your waist.
“Dramatics are my coping mechanism!” you hiss, before finally peeling yourself off him and skipping toward the open doors.
Nanami watches you go, chest still heaving, lips still tingling, and thinks—no, knows—that he’s completely, catastrophically, irrevocably in love.
For the first time in his life, he does not feel tired. He feels—worthy. Alive. Loved.
*-*
The weeks before Shibuya? Heaven. Literal heaven.
The kind of heaven where angels don’t just strum harps—they do your taxes, hand you fresh melon pan, and personally iron your shirts.
Revolting, really. Nanami—Nanami, motherfucking Kento—is walking around like someone swapped out his blood with champagne. He doesn’t skip to work, because he has dignity, but if anyone looked too closely they might notice the tiniest, imperceptible pep in his step. A lightness. Like gravity decided to let him off the hook.
There is a pep in his step so aggressive it could qualify as a cursed technique.
Why? Because you exist. Because your bond exists. Because dates exist. Little ones, big ones, ones where you drag him into bookstores and monologue about cursed bugs for forty-five minutes, ones where he takes you to ramen shops where the broth could kill a man from sodium overdose.
It’s all absurd. It’s all wonderful. He’s alive in a way he never thought possible.
*-*
And then: Shibuya.
Shibuya is a nightmare.
A human meat grinder. Screaming civilians, curses pouring from every shadow, blood like water on the streets. Nanami is steady, calm, cutting through it all with precision. But inside, he’s tired. He’s so tired.
And then Mahito comes.
Mahito, smug, giggling, eyes glittering with sadism. Nanami blocks, dodges, strikes—but Mahito is slippery, unpredictable. He feints, he lunges, he slips under Nanami’s guard.
And Nanami knows.
He knows he won’t dodge in time. He knows the touch will come, the transfiguration will seize his flesh, and he’ll die screaming. He knows this is the end.
And fury—raw, bitter fury—swallows him whole.
That boyish, nightmare grin of Mahito will be his last sight.
Nanami knows. He knows. The angle is wrong, his guard is broken, and Mahito’s grotesque hand is already lunging for him. Contact. Just one touch, and he’s finished.
Nanami isn’t afraid of dying. He’s furious.
Furious he barely had time with you.
Furious that fate dangled you in front of him only to yank you away.
Furious that you’ll wake up alone, tethered to an absence, your soul buzzing with the wrongness of his death.
Furious he won’t get to meet Chairman Meow properly, won’t get to argue over who makes breakfast, won’t get to live the boring, beautiful, messy life he’s craved all along.
For one burning second, he thinks: At least she’ll survive this. At least she’ll live. Because in this world? The death of a soulmate can be enough to kill the other.
He’s furious he barely had time with you. Furious that his death will carve you hollow. Furious he never got to see you sleepy in the morning, never got to propose to you in some idiotic way like he’s been secretly planning since the cat café.
His death is inevitable. And then—
BLAM.
Mahito’s face smacks against something invisible. Full cartoon sound effect. Bonk. Nose squished. Expression mangled.
Nose first. Thunk.
Nanami stares, stunned. Mahito blinks, rubs his nose, hisses.
Nanami blinks.
Mahito blinks.
And then you’re there.
*-*
"Keep your fucking hands off my boyfriend, you uncanny valley skank.”
An invisible barrier shimmers around Nanami, your curse technique humming with violent glee. You step forward, hair flying, eyes blazing, shielding him with all the wrath of a goddess who just found someone insulting her favorite poet.
Nanami’s heart, already thundering from near-death, goes feral.
“Did you seriously think you’d get to touch him? With those hands? Bitch, please.”
Mahito recoils, snarls, tests the barrier again, but it holds. He can’t touch Nanami. He can’t touch anyone you shield.
Nanami, rasping: “You—”
You, without looking back: “Later, Ken. Focus on breathing.”
Ken. You called him Ken. Nanami almost collapses right there.
Then you add towards Mahito:
“Get fucked, you discount Tim Burton extra!”
The battle rages on. With you there, the tides turn. The shield makes Mahito sloppy, desperate. He lunges at others, but you’re quick, throwing walls between him and his prey. Nanami strikes when you open gaps, precision killing intent in every swing.
And then, as you both fight like twin storms, Kenjaku arrives. And Mahito—smug, infuriating Mahito—is devoured.
Nanami survives.
*-*
Later, Nanami is in his apartment.
The adrenaline has worn off. The silence is thick. He sits on the edge of his bed, suit torn, bandages tight, and realizes—he almost died. He really, truly almost died.
And he’s in shock. He doesn’t know what to do with the enormity of it, the weight of that one second where he was certain he’d never see you again.
The next day, you call.
“Hi. I didn’t call last night because I figured you needed space to process your near-death experience, but now I’m calling because I need you to process it in my apartment, thanks.”
“…Alright.”
Your apartment is cozy chaos. Maximalism. Stacks of books. A tea set. Plants leaning dramatically toward sunlight. And Chairman Meow, perched on the arm of the couch like a tiny emperor ready to pass judgment.
Nanami enters cautiously. He meets Chairman Meow’s golden eyes.
Chairman: mrrrp.
Nanami bows, gravely.
“Chairman.”
The cat flicks his tail, grants him permission to exist, and jumps down.
“Well. You passed the test.”
“I had no doubt.”
You make him tea. He sits, watching you bustle around the kitchen like you’re preparing a royal banquet instead of boiling water. He feels like he’s intruding on something sacred. He feels like he’s exactly where he belongs.
You sit together, tea steaming between you. You talk. About Shibuya. About fear. About life, and death, and how absurdly fragile everything is. About how much you mean to each other already, despite the little time you’ve had.
It’s heavy. It’s soft. It’s everything.
*-*
And then the talking stops.
And the kissing starts.
It escalates quickly. Too quickly. You’re straddling his lap on your couch, tea forgotten, Chairman Meow glaring from the windowsill like a disappointed chaperone. His hands are on your waist, your shirt is riding up, your mouth is everywhere. It’s messy and desperate and hungry.
“We’re about to fuck, aren’t we?”
Nanami, breathless: “It seems that way.”
And then—
Ding.
You both freeze.
Nanami pulls back, reaches for his phone. Calmly, like he didn’t just have his tongue in your mouth thirty seconds ago.
“The sushi’s here.”
“…The what?”
“Sushi.”
“You ordered sushi? To my apartment?”
Nanami shrugs. “I assumed we’d get hungry, I didn't want to impose you to cook.”
“Oh my god?? You planned for post-sex sushi?”
Nanami, entirely unbothered: “Well in this circumstance it would be 'pre-coital sushi'”
“…I’ve never been more attracted to you in my life.”
So you both eat sushi. Still flushed, still buzzing, still grinning like idiots. The near-death, the shock, the weight of it all—it’s still there. But so is this. So is you.
Nanami doesn’t say it out loud, not yet. But in his head, the words ring clear:
I’m going to live. For this. For you.
*-*
It starts with a documentary.
Of course it does.
Nanami, stoic and devastating in casual wear, is sitting with you on your couch, tea in one hand, remote in the other, watching a documentary.
Said documentary is about octopuses. Because apparently, according to you, “octopuses are the perfect metaphor for the human condition, also they’re freaky little guys, look at how they solve puzzles, Ken, look at him GO!”
And Nanami—this man, this grade-one sorcerer, this perfectly pressed tax consultant of a human being—is actually watching. Nodding. Serious. Like, “Yes. That octopus really is a freaky little guy.”
But here’s the thing: you’re not watching the octopus anymore. Oh no. You’re watching him.
At first, it’s innocent. A little squeeze at his arm. Fingers brushing his chest. Your head on his shoulder. Nanami tells himself you’re just comfortable. He tells himself to breathe evenly. He tells himself focus on octopus, not her hand.
And then—
“Oop,” you whisper like a fucking menace, and his shirt is off.
Nanami glances down at you. Raises one elegant brow. Doesn’t say a word.
“What?”
“…You’re not paying attention to the documentary.”
You, climbing fully onto his lap: “Oh, I am. But in the spirit of the octopus, I’m about to solve a puzzle with my mouth.”
You’re on his lap now, straddling him like a throne, your lips finding his. The kiss is urgent, messy, all tongue and heat, pulling groans from his chest that he’s not sure he’s ever let out before. Your shirt? Gone. Somewhere. Chairman Meow is glaring from the windowsill like a furious nun, but you don’t care.
“Sorry, Chairman. Close your eyes.”
Chairman: mrrrp.
Nanami, between kisses: “We should—”
“Shut up.”
He does.
The soulmate bond hums in the air between you, crackling with every touch, every gasp, every desperate little press of lips to skin. Being near him has always been good—warm, grounding, euphoric—but this? This is like mainlining divinity.
Here’s the thing about being in close proximity to your soulmate: it’s already euphoric. Even brushing against each other feels like champagne bubbles under the skin. But sex? With your soulmate?
It’s not sex. It’s… annihilation.
The moment Nanami’s mouth finds your throat, your chest, your stomach—you’re undone. When he finally settles between your thighs, you realize something terrible and glorious: this man knows exactly what he’s doing.
And not in a “vague idea, let’s poke around and hope for the best” way.
No.
Nanami knows. He knows anatomy, pressure, rhythm, patience. He knows the clit is not a myth. He knows how to use his hands in tandem with his mouth. He knows how to keep you on the edge until you’re begging, sobbing, clawing at his hair.
His mouth is devastating. His tongue precise, deliberate, unhurried, like he’s savoring the act of worship itself.
Your hands clutch at his hair, your thighs trembling, every nerve in your body singing. And the bond? The bond is making it insane. Every flick of his tongue reverberates through your chest, through your soul. You’re weeping and laughing and gasping his name like it’s scripture.
“Oh my god—Ken—holy shit—”
You’re not just seeing stars. You’re seeing galaxies, collapsing suns, the goddamn heat death of the universe. When you come, it’s not just physical—it’s soul-deep, the bond lighting up like it’s about to electrocute both of you into another dimension.
You collapse back, trembling. He licks his lips, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and looks up at you like a man seeing salvation.
“Was that—”
“Good? Sir, I think I just ascended.”
*-*
And then.
The dick reveal.
You’ve imagined it, obviously. You’ve speculated. But when he frees himself from his pants, you have to pause, breathe, recalibrate your entire worldview.
Nanami’s cock? Gorgeous. Unreasonably gorgeous. Polite, even. Not aggressive, not obscene—just perfectly thick, perfectly shaped, flushed prettily at the tip like it knows it’s about to change your life.
“Oh my god.”
“…Is that good or bad?”
“That’s art. Put it in the Louvre. Put it on currency. Put it in me now. That’s a very… polite-looking dick.”
“Polite?”
“Yes. Respectful. Well-proportioned. Not scary, not aggressive. Just. Polite. Very handsome. Hello, sir.”
And then he does the unthinkable. The hottest thing yet.
From his wallet, smooth as anything, he pulls out—
A condom.
“Are you kidding me?” you gasp. “You’re responsible? You brought a condom to my apartment like a gentleman?”
Nanami shrugs, entirely too calm for the situation. “It seemed practical.”
You, clutching your chest: “Hot. So fucking hot.”
And then he’s inside you, and it’s… oh. Oh, it’s insane.
Normal sex is great. Fine. Fantastic, even.
But soulmate sex? Soulmate sex is nuclear. It’s your souls colliding like meteors, every nerve ending hijacked, every kiss a detonation. It’s an out-of-body experience where you swear you can feel his emotions pulsing through you: his awe, his devotion, his need.
You cling to him, nails digging into his back, his name spilling from your lips over and over. Nanami holds you like you’re the only thing tethering him to earth, movements steady but desperate, like if he doesn’t keep moving he’ll explode.
Nanami is controlled, precise, but he’s also ruined. Every thrust is deep, deliberate, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged as if he’s afraid to let go. You hold him tight, nails dragging, whispering filth and poetry in equal measure.
“Ken—Ken, you feel so—oh my god—you’re killing me.”
“You’re… perfect. Too much. You’re—”He whispered in a strangled voice.
He breaks on a groan, burying his face against your neck, like the weight of this bond, this heat, this love, is too much to bear.
You come again. He follows, clutching you like a lifeline, shaking with it, both of you swallowed whole by the bond until you can’t tell where you end and he begins.
After, you’re both sprawled out, a sweaty mess, your souls humming like struck bells.
“That was… nuclear. That was illegal. We should be arrested.” You mumbled hoarsly.
Nanami, exhausted but smiling faintly: “You talk too much.”
“And you love it.”
Nanami, pressed a kiss to your temple. “…Yes.”
Chairman Meow jumps onto the couch, tail flicking, and curls up at Nanami’s feet like he’s been accepted into the family.
And Nanami? For the first time, maybe ever—he feels like he’s home.
*-*
The evening after nuclear soulmate sex, you two retreat to bed like weary soldiers after battle—except the only thing conquered is your dignity (long gone, RIP) and the mattress beneath you. It’s soft, warm, the sheets smell faintly of lavender and whatever fabric softener you panic-bought at the store.
He slides into bed beside you, immediately stiff as a board, like the concept of casual cuddling is a foreign policy issue he’s not yet briefed on. But you fix that fast—tossing yourself across him, anchoring your limbs to his like you’re Velcro. He exhales, finally, the tension bleeding out of him as his arm wraps around you, and there it is: the melt. Nanami Kento, world’s most uptight man, melting into you like butter on hot toast.
Chairman Meow? Oh, he’s there too.
In fact, he’s attacking Nanami’s foot under the blanket, claws out, tail wagging in the way only cats who plan violence wag their tails. Nanami takes it like a man, because apparently even cats are allowed to abuse him.
“He likes you.”
Nanami, bleeding: “That’s… one interpretation.”
*-*
Later, much later, Nanami wakes up.
He’s a light sleeper—occupational hazard, you don’t live long as a sorcerer otherwise. Beside him, you’re dead to the world, mouth slightly open, drooling on his chest like a goddamn cherub of chaos. Chairman Meow is curled into the crook of his knee like a warm, furry landmine.
And it hits him.
This life—this ridiculous, messy, beautiful life—is his.
For so long, Nanami told himself he wasn’t meant for it. He was too much sorcerer for the civilians, too much civilian for the sorcerers. He was built for utility, not joy. He knew his future: work, curses, an early death, a quiet funeral. He thought love was something he’d forfeited before he ever had the chance to try.
He loves you so much it feels like grief. Like punishment. Like fate finally decided to give him something beautiful and is just biding its time before snatching it away. He presses his face into your hair, silently begging the universe not to take this from him.
But now, here he is. In your bed. With your chaos. With your love.
And it hurts, in that terrifying way only happiness can hurt. Because what if he loses it? What if this is ripped away? He brushes a thumb across your cheek, careful not to wake you, memorizing every line of your face. He thinks about how your laughter has already rooted itself into his bones, how your touch feels less like skin and more like salvation, how Chairman Meow—goddamn it—even the cat is in his heart now.
And he realizes—he is so completely, devastatingly in love with you that it feels like drowning and breathing at the same time.
*-*
Months later things are very different.
You and Nanami find an apartment together.
It’s not extravagant, not huge, but it’s perfect. Hardwood floors, tall windows, just enough space for Chairman Meow to commit his war crimes in peace.
The first week? Chairman Meow pees on everything. Your shoes. Nanami’s briefcase. The curtains. You catch Nanami—stoic, deadly, efficient sorcerer—kneeling on the floor with Chairman Meow in his hands, voice low and serious:
“Chairman. This cannot continue. You’re better than this.”
A meow.
“This is unacceptable behavior.”
Chairman: stares, unrepentant.
“Are you scolding him like he’s one of your subordinates?”
Nanami, without missing a beat: “He needs structure.”
And the worst part? Chairman Meow listens. (Mostly.)
*-*
Living with Nanami is an experience. You wake up to breakfast that looks like it belongs in a Michelin-star restaurant, plated with precision. Poached eggs. Freshly ground coffee. Toast that is somehow toasted evenly on all sides.
He flips eggs with the precision of a goddamn surgeon. You’re in his shirt, sitting on the counter like a slut in a romcom.
“It’s just breakfast.”
“It’s a religious experience.”
*-*
Sometimes you watch him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from his shower, veins in his forearms flexing as he whisks eggs, and you think—how the fuck did I scam my way into this?
Other times, he rails you into the mattress so hard you see god, same man who then puts on glasses to read the paper. Whiplash. Incredible. Five stars.. And then makes you tea. Balance.
But the best part? Nanami is serious about you. Not in the “flowers and poetry” way—though he’s surprisingly good at both—but in the “this is my partner, this is my future, I am building a life with her brick by brick” way.
Every time he looks at you, it’s there in his eyes. That quiet, unshakable devotion.
“Kento, stop staring, you’re creeping me out.”
“…You’re beautiful.”
“Gross. Kiss me.”
And he does. Every time.
So yeah.
You’ve got a hot man in your bed, a hot man making you breakfast, a hot man scolding your cat like a middle manager, a hot man railing you into oblivion and then fixing your blanket after because responsible.
How fucking nice is that?
A/N: sorry this took forever, i got so carried away haha, hope you enjoyed. i'll be making more soulmate AU's just bc i think they're very fun, and actually some of the first fics i ever read.
:: cws :: hurt to comfort to fluff, established relationships, something short and sweet. 𓏲˚ ۪
The static on the line vibrates right against your eardrum. It’s 2:14 AM, and you’re tired. It’s been three weeks, twenty-one days of dead silence from your situationship slash talking stage slash man that’s not really your man. Your phone burns a hole through the dark on your nightstand. You don’t even say hello. You press the glass to your ear, listening to the heavy, uneven hitch of his breathing.
"Hey," he whispers.
The sound is raw, similar to sandpaper over silk. There’s none of that blinding, obnoxious Gojo Satoru theater in his voice, it’s the quiet, hollowed-out weight of a man who hasn't slept in a month.
"Satoru?" Your voice is small, thick with sleep.
A ragged breath hits the mic on his end. "I'm outside. Well. Outside your window, specifically. And I’m drenched." A weak, self-deprecating chuckle breaks through the static. "Even Infinity doesn't feel like keeping the water off tonight." Liar. You know how he is.
You sit up, the blankets pooling around your waist. "Come inside. The window's unlocked." A second later, the latch clicks. A chill cuts through the bedroom air, followed by the soft, heavy thud of socks on your floorboards. He’s a massive, dark silhouette in the shadows, his white hair damp and hanging loose over his forehead, completely covering his eyes. The blindfold is stuffed into his pocket.
He doesn't move toward the bed. He stands there, hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders uncharacteristically slumped. The strongest sorcerer alive, looking entirely fragile.
"I tried," he says, his voice cracking slightly on the syllable. He swallows hard, the movement of his throat sharp in the dim light. "I tried to do the whole... distant thing. To give you space. Keep you out of the mess. But I’m stupid. I’m so stupid."
You slide to the edge of the mattress, reaching out. Your fingers catch the damp hem of his sleeve. "Satoru, what's wrong?"
He collapses forward. Not hard, but like a tree finally giving into the wind. He drops to his knees by the bedside, burying his face directly into your lap. His hands come out of his pockets and wrap around your waist, gripping the fabric of your shirt like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing keeping him above water.
He’s warm, radiating that intense, overwhelming heat he always has, but he’s trembling. Just a little.
"I can’t do it," he mumbles, his voice muffled against your thighs. "Everything is loud. The noise, the people, the higher ups... it’s all just constant noise. When I’m with you, it stops. My brain actually shuts up."
You run your fingers through his hair. It’s soft, despite the dampness, clumping between your fingertips. He lets out a long, shuddering sigh at the touch, leaning into your palm like a stray cat.
"Three weeks," he whispers, tilting his head up just enough so you can see the brilliant, fractured blue of his eyes in the dark. They’re wide, blinking up at you with a desperate, sweet vulnerability that he only ever saves for this room. "Twenty-one days. I haven’t eaten properly. I broke three coffee mugs because I wasn't paying attention. I can't function, baby. I’m completely useless without you. It’s pathetic."
"It's not pathetic," you soften, leaning down to press your forehead against his damp hairline.
"It is," he insists, a tiny, genuine trace of his usual pout returning to his lips. He pulls himself up, shifting until he’s crawling onto the mattress, crowding your space until he can wrap his long arms completely around you, pulling you flush against his chest. He tucks his chin into the crook of your neck, breathing you in.
"I love you," he confesses, the words tumbling out fast, urgent, completely devoid of his usual smirk. "I love you so much it makes me dizzy. Please don’t ever let us argue for that long again. Just let me stay here. Let me be small for a little bit."
You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, holding him tight, feeling the rapid, steady thud of his heart against your ribs. "You can stay, Satoru. As long as you need."
He relaxes completely, his heavy frame going pliant against yours, burying his face back into your neck with a soft, content sigh. The strongest man in the world, finally safe enough to sleep.
Oh this looks fun 💖🥺 use this picrew maker to make yourself and tag your moots
No Pressure Tags: @steelandvibranium @rednnedy @mel0-dy @rositxespinosa @leavemealoneplzs @millimeraki @wallflowerwrites @ladyrebeccacoen @sanatavadd and anyone who wants to join!
i literally look EXACTLY the same it feels like I'm doxxing myself😭😭😭😭
Thank you so much for tagging me Suzyyyyy, i had so much fun creating this!!!!💖💖💖
No pressure tags (i don't know who else has done this soooo, ignore this if that's the case) : @sassandscribbles @pinksplace @heldbybarnes @juniebjonesin @sheriff-bodecker @eterna1reverie @erina00 @stargazingfangirl18 @thezombieprostitute @alpinebarnesworld @buckysdecaflove @buckybsdoll
series synopsis - in a world where soulmates were real, fate ties you to ryomen sukuna like some cruel and twisted joke. where people felt their soulmates in soft touches and quiet comfort, all you’ve ever known was phantom pain, sleepless nights, and a violent rage that didn’t belong to you. by the time you finally meet the man ruining your nervous system, the city already knew him as its most feared underground boxer. how would you survive? [mdni 18+]
chapters
⚡︎ ⋆.˚ prologue
⚡︎ ⋆.˚ one - coming soon
⚡︎ ⋆.˚ two - tbd
⚡︎ ⋆.˚ three - tbd
⚡︎ ⋆.˚ four - tbd
⚡︎ ⋆.˚ five - tbd
⚡︎ ⋆.˚ six - tbd
i haven’t decided if there’s going to be a taglist, i’ll let you know if there is one!
i just logged back in to tumblr after hiatus and what the actual FUCK is going on rn?? why's everyone arguing? someone pls give me the rundown i'm litch begging
