#jjk brainrot

[sukunastoenailclippings]

[nickgoesinsane]

thinking about Kenjaku today so—

Kenjaku first blames his growing obsession with you on his latest vessel.

It’s causing him to chase your affections with the greediness of a starved animal. He had to see you—every morning, every night. If he did not, then every meticulously thought out plan just wouldn’t work. It was the oddest thing!

He decides to humor it.

You’re a strong curse user, what’s the harm in it? You go on dates, hold hands, rut like shameless animals until his legs shake and cum drips down his thighs and still, he wants more. It doesn’t stop. It’s actually getting worse, he’s afraid. (He doesn’t want it to go away.)

He gives you a child with his next vessel, thinks that might be the solution—turning his attention to the next source of amusement. Perhaps your child will become a worthy adversary in the future or even a vessel. Except that child—yours and his—clings to his leg and smiles up at him with the shape of your mouth, the color of your eyes, little hands offering slices of fruit with the same loving selflessness inherited from your character.

The next vessel makes no difference.

And as he stares up at the ceiling, thighs spread to accommodate your body splayed over his like a living weighted blanket, he comes to a sobering realization. One that’s half a decade, three vessels, a house and a toddler too late.

He’s the problem.

He’s in love with you.

Hearing the incredulous huff that leaves him, you grunt against his temple and your hand comes up to cup the side of his face. “Go to sleep,” you murmur, fondly chastising, and kiss the scars he’s allowed to heal over. (When did that happen? When did he take out the stitches? When, when, when—)

The sound of your voice in his ear, low and husky from sleep, sends a shudder down his spine. You feel so good against him—warm and heavy, and your smell is everywhere around him. He squirms, hips rolling and seeking friction, and trails his palms down your back to cup the delicious curve of your bare ass.

“Fuck me first,” he says, because he feels like he’ll go insane if he doesn’t have you now.

You make a soft noise, sleepy but interested. “I have a mission in the morning.” The statement is a half-hearted protest at best, but your breath catches when he reaches between your bodies to wrap his fingers around your hardening cock.

“It can wait,” Kenjaku decides, smiling when you push up onto your hands to look down at him—hair mussed and eyes bleary. You’re so cute like this, he wants to have you forever. (He’ll start looking for a female vessel soon, give you another baby, he can preserve Geto Suguru and—)

His nails dig into your shoulder blades, head tossing back onto the pillow as your cock sinks into him, hard and slick and perfect.

Yes, everything else can wait.

[drenched-in-sunlight]

I have so many things to say about this particular art in the new OP… but specifically about what it means for Sukuna…

So if that’s not the analysis you’re looking for pls just ignore this whole insane rant 😭

I can’t believe I’m seeing straight up Dead Mother homage in JJK… I’ve been obsessing over this painting for years thinking it fits so great with how motherhood is portrayed within the verse.

It’s a whole series by Schiele depicting mothers as death-giving rather than life-giving/ nurturing.

The baby is highly colored, red blood coursing through them full of life. but the mother is emacieted and lifeless, holding them with no joy. The baby looks anxious and trapped, like they are trying to break free. it captures the experience of having a borderline mother, who would withdraw from their baby, lost in their own idiosyncratic logic and paranoid ideals. All the while the child experiences grief, rage, loneliness over assumed culpability for their mother’s retreat.

Now, I can see how this imagery fits with the role of Yuuji & Kaori/ Kenjaku’s connection on the overall narrative. But in the end I think to Yuuji his parents are… just ppl who have passed away. His lineage doesn’t define his growth as a character, it’s the ppl around him like his grandpa, Gojo, Choso, his friends and allies that shape him the most.

The one that carries baggage about dead parents is Sukuna. He who remembers his mother’s plight, he who refers to himself as an unwanted wretch (reiterate this again: the word he used is 忌み which literally means an omen. A cursed child. Yes if you play Elden Ring that’s the exact same word used for Morgott and Mogh), he who wants revenge for a child orchestrated and shunned from birth, he who views the two roads he could have taken in his life as occupied by a mysterious woman and a child.

I always interpret that mysterious woman as his mother - a shrine maiden. A holy person who acted as the mouthpiece of God, yet gave birth to a curse (& yet the proof of his divinity is still there in the form of the purifying fire he wields). Especially in Heian era where spirituality was high and people drew zealous lines between what was holy and what was impure, that could not have ended well for her at all.

I don’t have a particular take on whether his mother did love him or not, but I do believe Sukuna’s experience was reflected well on the Dead Mother painting. A child full of life trapped eternally in the embrace of death. Internalizing the heartbreak of being shunned & labeled a curse, carrying that within himself because that was the only way he knew how to keep going.

If you want to feel extra insane, the second painting after that first one is titled “Birth of a Genius”. With the same composition/ theme but even more unnerving because the child looks even more freaked out.

Do I even need to say more? The symbolism writes itself!

[bunnyyyuu]

includes: f! reader, aged up! characters, dom! maki / sub! yuuta, cunnilingus, bondage, overstim

maki using you to teach yuuta how to eat pussy !!（〃∀〃；）

well, teach might not be the right word. it's kind of like when parents throw their kids into the pool and force them to learn how to swim.

her hand has a vice grip on the roots of his jet locks, shoving his pretty face between your legs — legs that are tied by the ankles to either side of the bedframe. yuuta clearly has barely any clue what he's doing, but, to his credit, he can barely breathe.

his tongue is lapping at your sopping cunny so so so desperately, no direction or technique in sight. it's not even close to enough to make you cum, it's barely even stimulation at all. ugh!!

maki can tell you're dissatisfied — it's written all over your face and clear in your lack of moans — and it brings a scowl onto her face. "yuuta," she hisses, dragging his face against your sex, "try harder."

yuuta tries to mumble some sort of apology from his useless mouth, though it comes out as just a weak whine.

"listen to me," she scolds. and, again, it's just a whine in response.

though, he seems to actually listen. you can almost hear the cogs of his brain turning as his tongue tentatively flattens on the underside of your throbbing clit. the moan the bubbles from your parted lips is enough confirmation that he's finally doing something close to right. so, he does it again. and again. and again. until your choked moans and the lewd, wet sounds of his tongue lapping at your weeping bud fill the room.

"that's better," maki grumbles, and you can feel yuuta's lips curve into a smile at her half-hearted praise.

it's not long before your strangled, pitchy moans grow louder and yuuta's slurping the cum you're despoting onto his eager tongue. maki smiles a little as your squirm and whine through your orgasm — though your writhing is heavily reduced by your restraints. she uses her free hand to gently rub up and down your trembling thigh in a stark contrast to how hard she's gripping yuuta's hair, forcing his mouth onto your twitchy, overstimulated cunt again.

"too much, maki! tell 'im i need a — ah! — break," you gasp out when yuuta's tongue doesn't let up, flicking your throbbing clit like it's all he's ever wanted.

she almost laughs in your face at that. too much? no. he won't be done until he's mastered the art of making a pretty girl cum. "not yet," she says with a small head shake , "put your tongue in 'er, yuu," she instructs the boy.

and, he is so obident to her every command — she has him on the shortest leash, you think — sinking his hot tongue into your hole. he moans against your pussy when it excitedly clenches around the pretty pink muscle. he fucks his tongue in and out of your spasmodic entrance, a small smile on his lips as another climax seems to crash over you.

and, true to maki's word, yuuta spends hours learning between your legs until he is an expert! though, unfortunately for you, you end up a shaking, sniffling mess after far too many orgasms (o^▽^o)

[nanamineedstherapy]

Can you explain why nanago makes more sense than satosugu

OK, sit down, because this isn’t just a ship; this is a post-mortem. I love Nanago/Gonana because it’s the most adult, most tragically plausible what-if in JJK—like something delicate and unsaid that fell through the cracks while everyone was screaming.

First off: Nanami died trying to get to Gojo.

Like, literally. He wasn’t running aimlessly—he was heading toward B5. Toward the prison realm. Toward him. And no one talks about it. No one acknowledges that the final direction of his dying momentum was Gojo. Not safety. Not escape. Him.

That alone speaks volumes.

And here’s the thing: Gojo, with his blinding charisma, never stops performing—even in grief. But Nanami sees through that. And not in the "oh he’s secretly sad" fanon way. I mean deeply, in the kind of way that unsettles Gojo. Like looking directly at the sun and not flinching. That’s why I love scenes where Gojo is radiant, slightly deranged and Nanami is watching with this unreadable, weary softness—a look that says "you’re killing yourself and calling it duty." Nanami was always capable of seeing what Gojo would never say aloud.

Gojo looks bewitching. Nanami looks at him like he’s already mourning him. And that’s the whole ship.

Now here comes the psychological autopsy:

Nanami is a hyper-functional depressive. All structure, routine, and withdrawal. He doesn't know how to ask for an emotional connection, but he knows how to give care in practical, quiet ways—and he craves a target for that care, or it turns inward and rots him.

Gojo is a charisma-addicted, touch-starved man with abandonment trauma so bad he thinks being needed is the same as being loved. He’s terrified of intimacy but craves validation. Most people either worship him or resent him. Nanami does neither—he just sees him.

They don’t just make sense—they stabilize each other:

Nanami gives Gojo structure and care without demanding performance. He’s the only one who’d tell Gojo to sit down, eat something, and shut up—and Gojo would listen.

Gojo gives Nanami purpose outside of grief. Not as an ideal, not as a child to save, but as a man who is barely holding it together. And that’s what Nanami needed—not another burden, but someone worthy of his attention who wouldn't fall apart if he blinked.

Nanami fusses over people like a dad with no kids, and Gojo is a grown man with the emotional injuries of a war orphan. They would’ve grown into each other like vines if the world hadn’t already broken them in opposite ways.

It’s not about “soulmates.” It’s about missed timing.

Adult Gojo could have been saved if Nanami had survived.

And Nanami could’ve finally lived, if he had Gojo to pull him out of the trench of routine.

So… why Nanago instead of Satosugu?

Because Nanago is what happens after grief—after boyhood, after ideology, after the dream has burned out and you’re left with ashes and still have to wake up at 7 a.m. to go to work you hate even if you were once that wide eyed fool who believed in what they did before the real world sucked that out of you, and now, you are just a shell passing through life. Where once you planned for things, now things just happen to you and you take it with an eyeroll because what else should you have expected.

I don't hate STSG, they make sense in their own ways, but that's what it is at the end of the day, when you grow out of that spring, out of that old hoodie—the one you won’t throw away even though the sleeves are fraying and it doesn’t keep you warm anymore. You keep it because it smells like who you were before life ground you down. It has holes in it—even if it feels soft, it won't keep the cold away.

But eventually, you grow out of that version of yourself.

You need to put on a jacket now if you are to survive the cold.

Satosugu is a ghost story.

It’s young love that died in the womb. A "what could’ve been" that stayed locked in one spring. It’s the echo of a summer that never made it into fall. It's young love that never had to deal with gas bills and funerals, and eating alone.

But Nanago? That’s a relationship that could’ve existed. Quietly. Constantly. Fully adult.

Nanago is what happens when you survive.

Barely. Bitterly. Bored and exhausted and ageing by the hour.

Nanago is that moment in adulthood where you realise love isn’t a miracle—it’s logistics. It’s making space for someone else in your day, in your decisions. It’s Nanami packing an extra energy bar that he knows Gojo will forget. It’s Gojo learning not to interrupt when Nanami is reading. It’s quiet, stable, slow. No anxiety, confused for fireworks all the time. Just… not being alone, forgotten.

And that’s what Gojo actually needed.

Gojo didn’t need a second love. He needed a first real one.

STSG meant to break your heart, and they do.

Not because Suguru didn’t love him—he did. But love isn't enough when you're still trying to outrun the world.

Because at the end of the day, Suguru chose to leave him so that he could create a world where people like him, Gojo, small children—little girls like Nanako and Mimiko, could be saved. But he decided genocide was the way because it was easier then having to fucking stick around to not hurt others while hurting himself.

But if killing innocents would have been the solution, then we wouldn't progress; we would just perpetuate the suffering.

Suguru left. Not just Gojo, but everyone. He wanted to fix the world by ending it. Because destruction felt easier than choosing to stay and suffer with people. Because he thought hurting others might finally drown out his own pain.

Nanami left, too—but only because he had to. Not kill, instead, to do a job he hates, for people who would post a job listing for his position by the end of the day, even if he mysteriously disappeared, or was found dead in his apartment, because the neighbours smelled something weird and called the police.

He didn’t believe in the Jujutsu system after Haibara. He knew it would eat him alive. But he still showed up. He still did the job. He died walking into fire, not because he thought it would fix anything—but because someone had to get closer to Gojo. Even if it meant burning on the way down.

Nanami’s not a revolutionary. He’s a nurse in a war.

And Gojo’s the patient nobody knows how to save.

But Nanami would’ve tried.

That’s the difference.

Satosugu was a dream.

Nanago could’ve been a home.

But that being said, if you wanna talk about how powerful of a girl-dad Suguru is, then I will die on that same hill with you. But despite him doing everything, his girls didn't get to live in the world he envisioned. It's poetic because in Hindu religious texts, there's a lot of talk about your parents' karma coming back to bite you.

After all, the debt is still pending.

I love that man. But he left.

Nanami would’ve stayed. That’s the line that divides fantasy from survival.

And Nanami… Nanami needed someone too bright to ignore and too stubborn to let him give up.

Someone who saw his silences and didn’t ask him to explain them. Someone who needed his steadiness without turning it into a leash. Someone who wouldn’t make him feel boring just because he wasn’t breaking apart.

Anyway, I’ll be crying in the pantry again. Please send tissues and financial aid.

Thanks for this amazing ask, Anon :P Hope it was not too raw and adult, but I thrive in looking at things with a realistic perspective.

Hope I made sense :)

The first gif is from @azurepath, they make great renaissance-esque Nanago art :) Update-This meta is written with respect for SatoSugu & love for alt ships. If that offends you, the back button is your birthright.

[elsietopia]

Frat!Gojo Who's Obsessed With His Mean Girl GF's Tits

✦ ݁ ˖ SUMMARY - Satoru Gojo, president of Alpha Sigma Ligma and campus golden boy, has exactly one weakness: his girlfriend's tits. Everyone knows it. His frat brothers joke about it. You—the mean girl of campus—pretend to be annoyed by it. But secretly? You love how obsessed he is. Tonight, after he's been extra good, you reward him by riding him with your tits in his face while he loses his mind.

⤷ frat boy!gojo x mean girl!reader | 18+ MDNI ✦

CW: explicit sexual content, established relationship, frat/college AU, body worship, tit worship, he literally cannot keep his hands off them, obsessive behavior (affectionate), groping (consensual and constant), possessive!gojo, golden retriever boyfriend energy, mean girl girlfriend, riding, praise kink, he's pussy drunk, slight mommy kink if you squint, unprotected sex, creampie, he's down ASTRONOMICALLY bad, "you're mine" energy, public displays of affection, he's a simp and proud, soft dom vibes, worshipful sex, they're in love your honor

Satoru Gojo—president of Alpha Sigma Ligma, campus golden boy, heir to the Gojo fortune—is absolutely, shamelessly, down-bad obsessed with his girlfriend's tits. And everyone knows it.

✦ You're the mean girl of campus. President of the most exclusive sorority, always dressed in designer, sharp tongue that could cut glass. You've made grown men cry with a single look. Everyone's terrified of you. Everyone except Satoru, who looks at you like you hung the fucking moon and personally gets hard when you insult people.

✦ The obsession started the night you met at a mixer. You were wearing a low-cut black dress that should've been illegal, and he walked directly into a wall while staring. You called him "pathetic" and he said "yes ma'am" immediately. Been together ever since. His frat brothers still can't figure out how it happened.

✦ He's SHAMELESS about it. You'll be sitting in the library studying and his hand just migrates to your chest like a magnet. You slap it away. He pouts. Five minutes later it's back. "Satoru, we're in PUBLIC." "I know, isn't it great?" Security has asked you both to leave three times this semester.

✦ He talks about them like they're separate entities. "How are the girls today?" "Satoru, they're attached to me." "I know, but they deserve individual attention." He's insane. You're in love with him.

✦ His home screen is you flipping off the camera in a bikini. His lock screen is you at formal in a dress with the most insane cleavage. He shows these to people unprompted. "That's my girlfriend. See her? She's mean as fuck and so hot I could die. Wanna see another picture?"

✦ He's so annoying about it during sex. "Fuck, look at these." "They're perfect." "All mine." "Can't believe you're real." Like sir, we're in the middle of something, can you focus? But then he'll put his mouth on them and suddenly you don't care about his running commentary.

✦ Sometimes you'll catch him just... staring. You'll be doing homework, wearing a normal shirt, nothing special, and you'll look up to find him gazing at your chest with this dopey smile. "What?" "Nothing. Just appreciating the view." "You're such a simp." "Your simp, baby."

✦ After parties, when you're both drunk and stumbling back to his room, he gets even worse. Handsy doesn't begin to cover it. You've had to swat his hands away in the Uber more times than you can count. The drivers have definitely seen things. You tip extra out of embarrassment. Satoru tips extra because he's "grateful for the driver's discretion."

✦ You wore a push-up bra to his game once (he plays club basketball). He missed EVERY SHOT in the first quarter because he couldn't stop staring at you in the stands. Coach benched him. He didn't care. "Worth it. Did you SEE her? In that top? I'm just a man."

✦ His frat brothers have a tally of how many times he's mentioned your tits in casual conversation. They stopped counting at 57 in one week. Suguru has threatened to beat him to death. Satoru just shrugs. "If I die thinking about her tits, I die happy."

✦ You use it against him constantly. Need him to do something? Wear a low-cut shirt. Want him to agree to something? Lean forward. One time you got him to do your entire statistics homework by wearing a lacy bralette under a see-through tank top. He didn't even realize what happened until you were already gone.

✦ He's gotten into TWO fights this semester because guys were staring. Not even cat-calling, just looking. Some sophomore made eye contact with your chest for too long at a party and Satoru had him in a headlock within seconds. You had to drag him off. "He was LOOKING!" "Everyone looks, you psycho!"

✦ His hands are always cold and he uses it as an excuse. "Baby, my hands are cold." "Then put on gloves." "Or I could warm them up..." Already reaching for your chest. You let him. Every time. Because his hands ARE always cold and honestly, it's kind of nice.

✦ He bought you lingerie for your birthday. Expensive, beautiful, completely impractical lingerie that's basically just strategic lace. Makes you model every piece. Takes pictures (for his personal collection, he promises, and you believe him because he's possessive enough that he'd never share). Gets hard immediately every time.

✦ You sent him ONE picture—ONE—of you in his frat t-shirt with no bra while he was in class. He left immediately. Just stood up in the middle of his econ lecture and left. Showed up at your sorority house fifteen minutes later. You didn't leave your room for three hours.

✦ He's a biter. Leaves marks all over your chest where no one can see them. Except you know they're there and he knows they're there and that's enough. You wore a high-neck dress to formal once to hide them and he spent the whole night pouting. "What's the point of my hard work if no one knows?"

✦ The way he looks at you when you wear anything remotely low-cut is OBSCENE. Like a starving man looking at a feast. You've gotten kicked out of two restaurants because the waiter saw his face and decided you needed to "get a room." You did. You always do.

✦ His dream is to fuck your tits. He's mentioned it approximately 400 times. You keep saying no just to watch him beg. "Please baby please I'll do anything I'll buy you that bag you want I'll do your homework for a month please—" You'll give in eventually. Maybe. If he's good.

✦ He falls asleep with his face in your chest at MINIMUM three times a week. Just completely motorboats himself into unconsciousness. You're reading, watching TV, doing homework—doesn't matter. He's face-first in your tits, out cold. It's actually kind of cute. You won't admit that out loud.

✦ He's gotten so good at unhooking your bra one-handed that it's genuinely impressive. You've tested him. Drunk, sober, distracted, in the dark—doesn't matter. Three seconds flat every time. It's his only practical skill and he's incredibly proud of it.

✦ Tonight, after the latest frat party (where his hands barely left your body for three straight hours), you're going to reward him for his devotion. He's been so good lately—aced his finals, planned an amazing date, dealt with your attitude when you were stressed about sorority drama. He deserves a treat.

"Baby," Satoru whines, sprawled across his bed in just his boxer briefs, hair messy from your fingers, lips swollen from kissing. "Come here."

"So needy," you tease, but you're already climbing onto the bed, straddling his lap. You're wearing one of the sets he bought you—baby blue lace that he swears was made for you.

His hands immediately go to your waist, sliding up to cup your chest through the lace. "Fuck, you're so perfect."

"Yeah?" You roll your hips, feeling him already hard beneath you. "You've only told me about fifty times tonight."

"I'll tell you fifty more." His thumbs brush over your nipples through the fabric and you shiver. "Could stare at these all day. Could touch them all day. Actually—" He grins up at you. "—I basically do."

"You're obsessed."

"Guilty." He sits up, bringing his mouth to your chest, kissing through the lace. "Can't help it. They're perfect. You're perfect."

You reach behind yourself, unclasping the bra and letting it fall away. His eyes go wide, pupils blown.

"Jesus Christ," he breathes. "I'm the luckiest man alive."

"You're also the horniest man alive."

"That too." He leans forward, taking a nipple into his mouth, and you gasp, fingers threading into his hair.

"Fuck, Satoru—"

"Love hearing you say my name," he mumbles against your skin. "Love the way you taste. Love—" He switches sides. "—everything about you."

His hands are everywhere—cupping, squeezing, appreciating. He's genuinely worshipful about it, like he's been granted access to something holy.

"Need you inside me," you breathe, grinding down on him.

"Yeah? Can't wait?" His hands slide down to your hips, helping you lift up while he shoves his boxer briefs down just enough to free himself. "Need me that bad?"

"Don't get cocky—"

"Too late." He grins, lining himself up. "I'm always cocky when it comes to you."

You sink down slowly, both of you groaning. He's big enough that even after six months, the stretch is intense.

"Fuck," he gasps, head falling back. "Always so tight. Always so perfect for me."

You start moving, finding a rhythm, and his hands immediately return to your chest. Like a homing beacon. Like he can't help himself.

"There they are," he says happily, watching them move with each roll of your hips. "My girls."

"You're ridiculous—"

"I'm in love." He sits up, wrapping his arms around you, face pressed between your breasts. "In love with you. In love with these. In love with the way you feel around my cock—"

"Satoru—" You're already close, the angle hitting perfectly, his hands and mouth on your chest driving you crazy.

"That's it, baby." He's babbling now, drunk on you. "Ride me just like that. Use me. Take what you need."

"Touch me," you demand, even though he already is.

"Where?" His hands squeeze. "Here? Or—" One hand slides down between your bodies, finding your clit. "Here?"

"Both—fuck—both—"

"Greedy girl." But he sounds delighted about it. "Love when you're greedy for me. Love when you use me like this."

The combination of his cock, his fingers, his mouth on your chest—it's overwhelming. You're riding him harder now, chasing your release.

"Gonna come," you gasp. "Gonna—"

"Do it." His teeth graze your nipple and you shatter. "Come for me, baby. Wanna feel it."

You clench around him, crying out, and he groans.

"Fuck, yes, just like that—so good—you're so good—"

He's still rock hard inside you when you come down, and you realize he hasn't finished.

"Your turn," you breathe, starting to move again.

"Wait—" His hands grip your hips. "Stay just like this. Need—" He buries his face in your chest again. "Need this."

You ride him slowly, deliberately, keeping your chest at face-level. He's in heaven—moaning against your skin, hands gripping your ass, helping you move.

"So good," he's mumbling. "So perfect. All mine. Can't believe you're mine—"

"All yours," you confirm, because you know it drives him crazy.

"Yeah?" He thrusts up to meet you. "These are mine? This pussy is mine? You're mine?"

"Yes—fuck—yes—"

"Gonna come—" His voice is strangled. "Gonna fill you up—"

"Do it." You grind down hard. "Come for me, baby."

He does—buried deep, face pressed against your chest, your name falling from his lips like a prayer. You feel him pulsing inside you, warm and perfect.

[jmliebert]

Nanami as Your Lover headcanons ♡

the word boyfriend doesn’t do him justice—it feels too light, too casual somehow as he treats you with absolute seriousness

there’s a softness he reserves only for you. whether he’s resting his head in your lap or letting you dry his hair with careful hands, these simple moments feel so intimate for him and for you

you bring him a sense of peace he didn’t know he needed. he quickly discovers that he sleeps best when you’re lying on his chest, his arms wrapped securely around you, holding you close, and the thought do things for him (he falls even harder)

in the morning he pulls you closer in bed, nuzzling into your neck and murmuring about how he doesn’t want to get up just yet

evenings with you have transformed his routine. suddenly, he finds time for the books that have been gathering dust on his shelf, reading while you are cuddling to his side

if there’s something you want to do, Nanami’s always up for it. face masks? horror movies? a random pottery class? whatever it is, Nanami is all in—because it makes his lady happy :’)

his sense of humor is subtle but sharp. he loves when you tease him gently, and you can always catch a faint smile tugging at his lips when you do

has a habit of brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering as he looks at you with quiet adoration

cooking for you becomes one of his love languages. he takes quiet pride in preparing meals for you and feels a deep sense of contentment when you enjoy them (like it or not, but if you would let him, he would feed you gladly)

if you’re stressed or overwhelmed, he’ll instinctively take care of you—running you a bath, massaging your shoulders, or simply holding you close in silence

even more strict about keeping to his working hours—not just for the sake of principle, but so he can return to you sooner

when he has the chance, he waits outside your workplace with a bouquet of red roses in his hand, ready to walk you home or take you to dinner

on more tender nights, you’ll find him kneeling in front of you, his hands on yours, telling you in that velvety voice how much you mean to him, and how he wants you to be close to him all the time

on the surface, Nanami may appears calm and composed, unshaken as ever. but the faint flush that creeps onto his cheeks whenever you're around betrays him in the sweetest way. Gojo, naturally, can't resist saying something like this (with a overdramatic whine): "Blushing, Nanami? Should I feel jealous?"

Nanami isn’t one for public displays of affection. he tries to maintain his composure, even when you sweetness flusters him so much in public. behind the mask of calm, he’s restless, counting the minutes until he can steal you away to a private corner and kiss you hard...maybe squeeze your thigh as well...

however he’s ok with holding hands in public (honestly, it is one of his favourite things to do) plus he occasionally presses soft kisses to your palm which make you melt completely…

unshakeably confident in your relationship. If someone flirts with you, he’s calm (but might be a little bit more possessive than usual in bed that night, even though he knows it's foolish to react that way, but he can't help it)

for him, there’s no one else but you. it’s not that he has to ignore attractive people—he simply doesn’t see them when he’s with you

as composed as he is, the desire he feels for you simmers just beneath the surface. he wants you—badly—but he waits, patient and respectful, for you to be completely comfortable, although is so hard to be patient with you sometimes…

when the moment finally comes, his restraint melts away. he’ll kiss you deeply, savouring the taste of you like he’s been starving, his hips bucking uncontrollably 

he’s a generous lover, a big fan of giving head. nothing pleases him more than leaving you trembling under his touch, as his mouth explores you with relentless precision

he’ll fuck you hard but balance it with tenderness, kissing away your tears and murmuring sweet, reverent words against your heated skin

though sometimes, if the moods takes him, he’s not above whispering dirty, obscene things in your ear while he moves against you. his words sinful, describing in vivid detail how good you feel, how tight you are, and how he can’t get enough of you

adores seeing you in lingerie chosen just for him. the sight makes his gaze darken with desire as his hands and lips worship every inch of you

adores it even more to fuck you hard in it, his hands gripping your hips or ass with bruising intensity. his palm meets your skin in sharp, stinging spanks, the sound echoing alongside your moans, as his breath grows ragged, hot, and heavy against your lips. between desperate, hungry kisses, he huffs into your mouth, his voice low and gravelly, muttering just how irresistible you are and how he can’t get enough of you

afterward however, he’s attentive and caring. he cleans you up, whispers soft reassurances, and holds you close so you feel safe and adored (or dare i say loved?)

when he’s had a little too much to drink, he rests his head on your shoulder, his lips brushing against your neck as he murmurs your name over and over again...

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

hi, you can find more of my works about nanami ♡here♡

support me here <3

[sadinator]

Seven Minutes

jjk college dorm au—seven minutes with choso

word count arounddd 2.5k

The dorms were stuffy with late-night warmth, the kind that stuck to your skin and made everyone just a little more lazy, a little more unhinged. Someone had cranked open the windows, but it did little to ease the heat. Fairy lights buzzed gently overhead, strung up with crooked thumbtacks, casting flickering shadows across the walls and the floor where half the group sat tangled in blankets, snacks, and each other’s personal space.

A half-empty bottle rolled across the floor. Nobara had prior dared Yuji to drink an entire packet of soy sauce, and the poor boy was still gagging on the couch while Todo patted his back dramatically.

It was supposed to be a chill night, but somehow things had spiraled. As they always did.

And now—now you were sitting on the floor, ankle brushing against the leg of Nobara’s jeans, while she held two hats in her lap.

“One for girls. One for boys,” she declared, lifting them with mock ceremony. “We’re playing Seven Minutes in Heaven, and if you chicken out, you have to drink Megumi’s mystery juice from the fridge.”

You heard Megumi mutter an annoyed “It’s just aloe water,” but no one acknowledged him.

Nobara grinned. “Okay, first up…”

Her hand dipped into the “girls” hat, rustling around for dramatic effect. She pulled out a folded paper, peeled it open, and let her grin widen.

“Y/N.”

You blinked. “Of course.”

“Come on,” she purred, waving you up like a magician’s assistant. “Let fate guide your loins.”

Groans and laughter bubbled around the room, but you smirked and stood up, dusting off your shorts.

Nobara held out the “boys” hat with two hands like it was the Holy Grail.

You reached in, fingers brushing against too many slips, some crumpled, some damp (Yuji, probably), and pulled one out.

Unfold.

Blink.

Choso.

The name hit a little harder than expected. The air shifted. Like a ripple across the room, you felt heads turn. Felt the collective curiosity sharpen.

You looked up and saw him.

Choso sat against the far wall, legs stretched out, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, a red solo cup sweating in his hand. His black bangs hung in his face, and his head tilted slightly like he couldn’t tell if this was a prank.

He looked stunned. Not annoyed. Not excited. Just—processing.

“Choso,” you repeated, with the barest laugh behind it.

Nobara grinned like the devil herself. “Ohhh. This is too good.”

Choso blinked slowly. “Me?”

“Unfortunately,” Megumi deadpanned.

Yuji, bless his hyper little soul, hollered, “Go get ‘em, bro!”

You turned to Choso, who still hadn’t moved. “You in?”

He swallowed. His eyes met yours, and something buzzed low in your gut. He nodded—hesitant, slow—but stood without a word. His drink was abandoned on the floor.

Someone pointed toward the coat closet at the end of the hallway.

“Seven minutes,” Nobara reminded sweetly. “And I will be timing.”

The closet was small—smaller than you expected. As Choso stepped in behind you, the door clicked shut, and all the light vanished. Not dim. Not low.

Black.

Total, suffocating black.

You blinked. Nothing changed.

“…Okay,” you murmured, your voice suddenly too loud in the silence. “I was not expecting it to be this dark.”

You could hear him breathing. Not heavily—just quietly. Carefully. Like he didn’t want to make a sound.

You shifted slightly, trying to find space, and your arm brushed against something solid. His chest, probably. He made a noise—soft, choked off, like a startled gasp he didn’t mean to let out.

“Sorry,” you said quickly, half-laughing.

“It’s fine,” Choso said, voice low and strangled.

He sounded like he was holding his breath. And failing.

You waited a beat, letting the silence hang. Your eyes strained to adjust, but there was nothing—not even a sliver of hallway light under the door. Just the two of you, trapped in body heat and darkness.

“…So,” you tried again, tone light, teasing, “seven minutes, huh?”

Choso didn’t respond.

You tilted your head toward where you thought he was. “Are you—okay?”

He cleared his throat. “Y-yeah. I’m fine.”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking in the dark. “You sound like you’re about to pass out.”

“I just—” He paused. You could hear the rustle of his sleeve as he rubbed the back of his neck. “This was… uncalled for.”

You blinked. “What, did you have someone else in mind?”

“No!” he said too fast. Then quieter: “I mean… I just didn’t think I’d get picked. I wasn’t even really paying attention. Yuji put my name in.”

You laughed under your breath, taking a step closer. You didn’t mean to bump into him again—but you didn’t pull away, either.

He was warm. Stiff.

Like every nerve in his body was screaming do not move do not move do not move.

You could practically feel him vibrating with tension.

“I mean,” you whispered, “you’re kinda just standing there like you’re about to die.”

“…I might,” he muttered.

You bit your lip. “Wow. Am I that terrifying?”

“No,” he said again, breathier this time. “You just… keep talking. And I can’t see anything. And I don’t know what you’re doing.”

You smirked, voice dipping a little. “You think I’m gonna bite you or something?”

Silence.

You felt him shift slightly, then mutter under his breath:

“…Wouldn’t mind.”

You paused.

“What was that?”

He groaned—quietly, like he regretted everything. “Forget that.”

Oh no. Absolutely not.

In the dark, with no one watching, you let yourself smile. Wide. Wicked.

You took one more step forward, until your chest just barely brushed his. He inhaled sharply. You felt it more than heard it.

“Choso,” you whispered.

“…Yeah?”

“Do you want me to?”

Another breath. Then—barely audible.

“…I don’t know.”

He sounded so unsure. So desperate not to say the wrong thing.

You leaned in, lips close to his ear, your voice sugar-sweet:

“I think you do.”

He didn’t respond with words.

But his hands—awkward and hesitant—hovered near your waist. Not touching. Just waiting. Like if he did reach out, he’d melt into the floor.

He whispered, almost pained:

“Can I…?”

You nodded—then realized he couldn’t see you.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Yeah, you can touch me.”

And that was it. That single line.

His hands, warm and shaky, settled on your hips like he thought you might break. His forehead dropped gently to your shoulder, breath stuttering against your neck.

He whispered one last thing, voice muffled:

“…You’re really close.”

You laughed. “It’s a closet, Choso.”

His grip tightened—just a little.

“Yeah. I noticed.”

He didn’t move for a long time. Not really.

His forehead stayed against your shoulder, his breath unsteady, chest rising and falling in shaky little intervals that made you wonder if he was actually going to survive the next few minutes.

You could feel his fingers twitching against your sides. Not grabbing. Not exploring. Just barely existing.

Like touching you was the first time he’d ever touched anyone at all.

And maybe it was.

“Relax,” you whispered, smiling slightly. “I’m not gonna bite.”

He made a sound—half laugh, half strangled exhale.

You blinked, thrown for a second, then recalled his remark about you biting him earlier on.

You stifled a laugh.

“I’m not gonna forget that,” you teased. “Sorry.”

You felt him wilt.

“You’re evil,” he mumbled. His voice vibrated softly through your collarbone.

You slid your hands up, barely brushing his biceps. “So you’ve said.”

He stiffened at your touch—again. His arms tensed under your fingertips, like he wasn’t sure if he should hold you or raise them above his head and surrender.

“You’re really bad at this,” you murmured.

“I know,” he said immediately. Miserable. Pathetic.

You felt bad. Almost.

But also—he was kind of adorable.

“Okay,” you said, like you were speaking to a wounded animal. “Let’s just… start small.”

“…Start what?”

“Touching me,” you said plainly.

He stopped breathing.

“Choso.”

“Yeah?”

“Put your hands on my waist again.”

“They’re already there,” he whispered.

“Okay, then pull me closer.”

He hesitated so long you almost gave up.

Then, slowly—painfully slowly—his fingers curled tighter around your waist. He dragged you forward by like half an inch. If you weren’t already pressed to him, you wouldn’t have felt it.

“…That’s it?” you asked.

He made a broken little noise. “I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

That got a reaction.

His fingers flexed. Not rough—just firmer. He guided you the rest of the way in, and this time your body fit snug against his. You could feel the rise of his chest against yours. The way his breath hitched every time yours exhaled.

And below that—

Definitely not just nerves.

You grinned in the dark. “Choso.”

“…Yeah?”

“I can feel that.”

He made a noise like he got shot.

“I—I wasn’t—” he rushed out. “I wasn’t even thinking about that—well, I was, obviously—but… fuck.”

You actually burst out laughing this time. He groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, like if he pushed his face far enough into your skin he could disappear entirely.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “This is so embarrassing.”

“It’s kinda cute,” you said, brushing your fingers up the back of his neck.

He shivered.

“Cute?” he echoed, muffled by your shoulder.

“Yeah.” You smirked. “Like a little perv.”

He groaned again—longer this time. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“You’d die happy.”

His voice was barely a whisper. “I think I already am.”

You felt the seconds ticking away in that cramped little closet, the heat building, the air thinning. Your thighs pressed together. His hands still on your waist, still frozen, like he wanted to move but didn’t know where to start.

So you took them.

You gently slid your hands down his arms, found his wrists, and guided them lower. Over your hips. Down to the small of your back.

“There,” you whispered. “Not so scary, right?”

He didn’t respond. Just gripped a little tighter. You could feel his forehead against your collarbone, his lips just barely brushing your skin.

Then: “Can I…?”

You tilted your head.

“Can you what?”

He swallowed. Hard.

“Can I kiss you?”

Your heart stuttered.

“…You wanna?”

He nodded against your neck. Quiet. Desperate.

You lifted your chin, letting your lips graze his ear.

“Then do it.”

And for once—

He did.

His lips ghosted over yours before he could commit.

So soft you weren’t even sure if it counted. Like he’d never done it before—like even the idea of kissing you made him feel unworthy. His hands were still trembling behind your back. Not pulling. Not pushing. Just holding.

As if he thought you might vanish.

“…That was it?” you teased gently, breath curling between your mouths.

You felt the air shift in front of you—embarrassment radiating off him in waves. You couldn’t see his face in the pitch black of the closet, but you knew exactly what it looked like: wide eyes, flushed cheeks, jaw locked in silent panic.

He pulled back a couple inches. “Sorry.”

You didn’t move.

Instead, you tilted your head just slightly, voice low and warm and careful:

“Look… we only have seven minutes in here.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just stood frozen, the air between your bodies trembling.

You swallowed gently and asked, “Are you serious about this?”

A beat of silence. Then:

“…Mhm.”

It was barely audible. Just the smallest, breathless hum.

You smiled. Not mocking. Not smug. Just kind. Not that he could see, anyways. “Okay.”

Your hands moved first. One slid up to the back of his neck, fingertips brushing under the loose tie of his hair. The other rested just beneath his ribs, steadying him.

“Let me help you out, then.”

His breath hitched like the concept of being helped through this was somehow more flustering than the kiss itself.

But he didn’t stop you.

You guided his face back down to yours, slow and soft. And this time, when you kissed him, he really kissed you back.

Still hesitant. Still a little shaky. But it wasn’t the same as before. His lips moved with yours now, following your lead, catching your rhythm—slow and open and warm. You could feel how hard he was trying. Not in a desperate way. Just in that earnest Choso way, like every second meant something.

You let your hand trail up into his hair, gently undoing the loose tie holding it together. The strands spilled down like black silk, and you felt him stiffen under your touch.

“…S-sorry,” he mumbled against your mouth, not even sure why.

“What for?”

He breathed unevenly. “I… don’t know what I’m doing.”

You smiled against him. “You’re doing just fine.”

The sound he made was pathetic. A muffled little groan into the corner of your mouth as if that alone might end him.

Your hands were patient. Calm. One combing through his hair, the other curled lightly around the side of his neck, thumb tracing his pulse. You could feel how fast his heart was going.

“Just breathe,” you whispered. “We still have time.”

Choso tried. He really did. But every time you kissed him again—slower, deeper, softer—he crumbled a little more. His hands were still hovering like he was scared to touch too much, but eventually, they found your waist. Tentative. Gentle. Like this was the real first kiss.

And maybe it was.

He leaned into you more. Let his forehead rest against yours again between breaths.

“…I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything this badly,” he whispered.

You blinked.

“Then stop holding back.”

You felt him swallow hard. And this time, when his lips met yours, there was no ghosting.

It was real.

Unfortunately…

The closet door creaked open, and the light pouring in felt offensive. You squinted, blinking against the warm lamp glow of the living room.

Choso didn’t move.

His hands were still on you—barely. Like he was afraid if he let go, none of it would’ve been real.

“Time’s up, lovebirds,” Nobara called, voice smug as hell.

You stepped back first. Carefully. Gently peeling yourself from him, and immediately missing the heat of his body. Choso followed, slow and rigid.

Everyone turned to look.

Yuji blinked from the couch. Maki raised a brow. Panda snickered.

Choso’s face was scarlet. He kept his eyes on the ground. His shoulders hunched like he was trying to shrink.

He didn’t say a word.

You cleared your throat, brushing past the group quickly and giving Nobara a glare that said “Don’t.”

She held her hands up, grinning. “I didn’t say anything!”

Choso followed after you instinctively.

The hallway was darker. Quieter. Safer.

You stopped when you reached a corner just far enough from the others’ eyes and turned to face him.

He looked lost.

Flushed, stiff. You weren’t sure he was breathing. His eyes met yours for a second—then darted away again.

His hands clenched at his sides. His voice was soft—hoarse from lack of use.

“I didn’t want it to end yet.”

You felt your chest twist a little.

You stepped closer. “Then don’t let it.”

He finally looked at you—really looked at you.

And something in his face crumbled.

You took his hand.

“Come with me,” you whispered.

He nodded.

i don’t like this one too much, but if anyone does then i’ll write the smutty p2 I had in mind muehehe. lmk chat