met some online friends for the first time and hiked with them for the past week! it was Exhausting bc i have the physical capabilities of a goldfish out of water, but lots of sun was actually nice for a change.
i'll slowly come back to the blog – i'll probably answer a few more requests (lots of reqs in my inbox for makima and aki hehe) before finishing that predator/prey toji fic i mumbled about earlier this month
fem csm characters x reader; reader’s pronouns are never specified.
warnings for makima being super duper sus!!!!!! allusions to (but no explicit statement of) her . . . true identity, a DUBIOUS/MANIPULATIVE RELATIONSHIP that you most DEFINITELY want to avoid irl,,,
🢒 a lot of anons sent in asks for gf headcanons for makima and power! later i'll make a post with quanxi and reze though hehe
makima.
she really does try. tries not to extend her influence too far, tries to allow you autonomy of your own mind, tries to understand you as a person instead of . . . something less than her. it would be so, so simple to just whisper into your ear, drag her fingers down your waist, tell you how it would be wonderful if you could just . . .
listen
to
her.
after all, she can give you everything you would need, and everything you could ever want. makima is constantly antagonized by the notion of withholding her abilities to give you the ultimate gift of free will. then again, what you don't know won't hurt you . . .
you're willing enough already, she supposes with subdued disinclination, as you clutch her hand and guide her down the shopping street. designer brands have various shops set up, and if not for the uninhibited glee swimming in your irises, makima would never have thought to stay.
she takes you on these trips, and they're paid for on courtesy of the bureau. on many instances, makima will insist that this excursion is for you, that you don't need to worry about any sort of budget. after all, you're a diligent, faithful devil hunter, and exceptional hunters should be rewarded.
and, you're her partner. of course that plays a part in her spoiling you. of course it does. of course.
she's new to all of this . . . enjoyment. all of the mundane qualities of standard, human life, that sometimes she feels as if her soul (or whatever there is inside of her) is blank and flat and was certainly not made for. she knows that she has to smile, though, when you're happy, otherwise that would seem odd. over time, she's learned that you do seem happy around her a lot, so makima admits that her cheeks have just a tad bit sore.
other dates that the two of you might escape to are the beach, perhaps a soba restaurant, or even just time in her office. at least twice a week, the two of you have alone-time together, and she'd hardly admit that she's compelled to this when you squeeze her hand, braid her hair, or get dressed with her in the morning.
those are fleeting, numbed compulsions within her chest. there's a large chunk of her hollow being that is inclined to feel nothing at your domestic gestures, because eventually you will become futile and there is no point in making something out of the time you have.
but . . . seeing you cry, tug at her sleeves and bury your head into her shoulder after years of being by your side . . . stirs something within that frigid whirlpool of hers. she doesn't just consume your anguish and spit it back out. she tries to taste it in her mouth, digest it slowly, and connect her mind to yours.
there are afternoons when you slink into her office, and she carefully draws you into her lap. makima probes for the cause of your disquiet, for the abrupt pitch in your eyes that is awfully not like you. when she registers a hollowness in those irises, her heart feels staggered.
she can fix it with more dates. with more alone-time, with other contracts with captive devils, and maybe with more hugs – you've always liked those. she can call it a day, and bring you back to your apartment, draw a bath for the two of you, and nestle your head against hers. she can fix you.
one day, the dull compulsion to treat you will be superseded with numbness. yes. after all, you are futile. you amount to nothing compared to her. and she will regard you as such. there is no need to fix you.
power.
on uneventful, dull days, she thinks it'll be easier to steal you away in the middle of the night and make a nice cabin, somewhere isolated and far away from aki and denji. meowy could also live in peace! the three of you would be better off!
then, she remembers that you're attached to those two boneheads for some reason , and there's no way she wants to make you upset via unlawful kidnapping.
so, begrudgingly, she shares you with them. occasionally, power will become touchy about the ordeal – tugging on your sleeve, clawing at your shoulder when you forget to squeeze her hand back, or brazenly chomping down on your neck – and isn't the least bit apologetic when you cry out in surprise, understandably startled by her childish antics.
"let's get sorbet when you're done," power grumbles into your hair, absentmindedly skimming a finger over the outline of your shoulder. "i'll pay this time! just want ya to go with me."
"power, you don't . . . have any money?"
"aki's wallet is free real-estate. don't snitch."
if the two of you aren't out buying food, then you're most likely hanging out in the outskirts of the city – which is a feat in itself, since tokyo is huge. on the train rides to the more rural areas, you tell power about different manga that you've been reading recently. she seems to like those, especially the ones with lots of action.
count on her touching you all the time. it doesn't matter if the two of you are in public, with aki and denji, or even in front of old man kishibe. power clings to you like a koala because she really, really just enjoys being near or on you. and besides, it's not like she's bothering any body else about it!
in the less populated, less crowded areas you venture to, power is surprisingly not as boisterous as when she's in the city. she doesn't feel like she needs to yell, or prove her presence to anybody, because it's just the two of you. that doesn't mean she does a 180 – far from that, still. her voice quiets, her mannerisms are less exaggerated.
she beckons you to a fallen tree, scratching the moss off of it, and drags you down to sit with her. power will tell you to talk to her about other things in your life, especially about your childhood. she thinks that she's incredibly fond of your voice, especially when you're not conversing about the present. there's a quality to the timbre of your words that are . . . more intimate, without a guard, as if the two of you revolve around each other in a starry, spacious vacuum.
yeah, being alone with you is the best. she won't feel like an island any more, so long as she has you and meowy.
not that you need her to tell you that! what else are her bite marks on your neck supposed to be for?
"y'know, meowy's gettin' a little too close to you . . . what's the deal? hoggin' the space that's supposed'ta be for me. can ya tell 'em to move over a lil' bit?"
some other, miscellaneous things power likes doing with you: showing you around her division of the bureau, how she morphs her blood into various weapons/what exactly she can do with them, going clothes shopping with you and hearing you tell her that she looks very very nice in what she decides on!, giving meowy baths together, wearing your clothes that come straight from the laundry, having splash fights with you in the hot springs, and checking out manga stores with you (occasionally mixing up manga that are supposed to be in different genre sections).
aki's wallet is no longer his, needless to say. power insists that his income is better spent on what the two of you can do to enjoy your mortal life, although fails to realize that you reimburse aki shortly after each excursion you go on. also needless to say, power would be livid if she found out.
fem csm characters x reader; reader’s pronouns are never specified.
warnings for makima being super duper sus!!!!!! allusions to (but no explicit statement of) her . . . true identity, a DUBIOUS/MANIPULATIVE RELATIONSHIP that you most DEFINITELY want to avoid irl,,,
🢒 a lot of anons sent in asks for gf headcanons for makima and power! later i'll make a post with quanxi and reze though hehe
makima.
she really does try. tries not to extend her influence too far, tries to allow you autonomy of your own mind, tries to understand you as a person instead of . . . something less than her. it would be so, so simple to just whisper into your ear, drag her fingers down your waist, tell you how it would be wonderful if you could just . . .
listen
to
her.
after all, she can give you everything you would need, and everything you could ever want. makima is constantly antagonized by the notion of withholding her abilities to give you the ultimate gift of free will. then again, what you don't know won't hurt you . . .
you're willing enough already, she supposes with subdued disinclination, as you clutch her hand and guide her down the shopping street. designer brands have various shops set up, and if not for the uninhibited glee swimming in your irises, makima would never have thought to stay.
she takes you on these trips, and they're paid for on courtesy of the bureau. on many instances, makima will insist that this excursion is for you, that you don't need to worry about any sort of budget. after all, you're a diligent, faithful devil hunter, and exceptional hunters should be rewarded.
and, you're her partner. of course that plays a part in her spoiling you. of course it does. of course.
she's new to all of this . . . enjoyment. all of the mundane qualities of standard, human life, that sometimes she feels as if her soul (or whatever there is inside of her) is blank and flat and was certainly not made for. she knows that she has to smile, though, when you're happy, otherwise that would seem odd. over time, she's learned that you do seem happy around her a lot, so makima admits that her cheeks have just a tad bit sore.
other dates that the two of you might escape to are the beach, perhaps a soba restaurant, or even just time in her office. at least twice a week, the two of you have alone-time together, and she'd hardly admit that she's compelled to this when you squeeze her hand, braid her hair, or get dressed with her in the morning.
those are fleeting, numbed compulsions within her chest. there's a large chunk of her hollow being that is inclined to feel nothing at your domestic gestures, because eventually you will become futile and there is no point in making something out of the time you have.
but . . . seeing you cry, tug at her sleeves and bury your head into her shoulder after years of being by your side . . . stirs something within that frigid whirlpool of hers. she doesn't just consume your anguish and spit it back out. she tries to taste it in her mouth, digest it slowly, and connect her mind to yours.
there are afternoons when you slink into her office, and she carefully draws you into her lap. makima probes for the cause of your disquiet, for the abrupt pitch in your eyes that is awfully not like you. when she registers a hollowness in those irises, her heart feels staggered.
she can fix it with more dates. with more alone-time, with other contracts with captive devils, and maybe with more hugs – you've always liked those. she can call it a day, and bring you back to your apartment, draw a bath for the two of you, and nestle your head against hers. she can fix you.
one day, the dull compulsion to treat you will be superseded with numbness. yes. after all, you are futile. you amount to nothing compared to her. and she will regard you as such. there is no need to fix you.
power.
on uneventful, dull days, she thinks it'll be easier to steal you away in the middle of the night and make a nice cabin, somewhere isolated and far away from aki and denji. meowy could also live in peace! the three of you would be better off!
then, she remembers that you're attached to those two boneheads for some reason , and there's no way she wants to make you upset via unlawful kidnapping.
so, begrudgingly, she shares you with them. occasionally, power will become touchy about the ordeal – tugging on your sleeve, clawing at your shoulder when you forget to squeeze her hand back, or brazenly chomping down on your neck – and isn't the least bit apologetic when you cry out in surprise, understandably startled by her childish antics.
"let's get sorbet when you're done," power grumbles into your hair, absentmindedly skimming a finger over the outline of your shoulder. "i'll pay this time! just want ya to go with me."
"power, you don't . . . have any money?"
"aki's wallet is free real-estate. don't snitch."
if the two of you aren't out buying food, then you're most likely hanging out in the outskirts of the city – which is a feat in itself, since tokyo is huge. on the train rides to the more rural areas, you tell power about different manga that you've been reading recently. she seems to like those, especially the ones with lots of action.
count on her touching you all the time. it doesn't matter if the two of you are in public, with aki and denji, or even in front of old man kishibe. power clings to you like a koala because she really, really just enjoys being near or on you. and besides, it's not like she's bothering any body else about it!
in the less populated, less crowded areas you venture to, power is surprisingly not as boisterous as when she's in the city. she doesn't feel like she needs to yell, or prove her presence to anybody, because it's just the two of you. that doesn't mean she does a 180 – far from that, still. her voice quiets, her mannerisms are less exaggerated.
she beckons you to a fallen tree, scratching the moss off of it, and drags you down to sit with her. power will tell you to talk to her about other things in your life, especially about your childhood. she thinks that she's incredibly fond of your voice, especially when you're not conversing about the present. there's a quality to the timbre of your words that are . . . more intimate, without a guard, as if the two of you revolve around each other in a starry, spacious vacuum.
yeah, being alone with you is the best. she won't feel like an island any more, so long as she has you and meowy.
not that you need her to tell you that! what else are her bite marks on your neck supposed to be for?
"y'know, meowy's gettin' a little too close to you . . . what's the deal? hoggin' the space that's supposed'ta be for me. can ya tell 'em to move over a lil' bit?"
some other, miscellaneous things power likes doing with you: showing you around her division of the bureau, how she morphs her blood into various weapons/what exactly she can do with them, going clothes shopping with you and hearing you tell her that she looks very very nice in what she decides on!, giving meowy baths together, wearing your clothes that come straight from the laundry, having splash fights with you in the hot springs, and checking out manga stores with you (occasionally mixing up manga that are supposed to be in different genre sections).
aki's wallet is no longer his, needless to say. power insists that his income is better spent on what the two of you can do to enjoy your mortal life, although fails to realize that you reimburse aki shortly after each excursion you go on. also needless to say, power would be livid if she found out.
hello, thank you for asking! orz i'm doing okay, im trying to write some csm girlfriend headcanons, and drafting out some toji (from jjk) not sfw HSALFJ. it's summer for me, so i should theoretically be able to get those things done within prompt time.
jjk characters x reader; reader's pronouns are never specified.
tender qualities that each character holds for their s/o.
characters include kento nanami, satoru gojo, suguru geto, and toji fushiguro.
warnings for suggestive analogies with satoru; mentions of events that occur in the manga until ch. 78, and dubious relationship/general unhealthiness, for suguru; suggestiveness for toji.
kento nanami.
kento's fondness of you isn't openly apparent to the third party. however, between the two of you, he's not all stone and cold as he sets himself up to be.
there's an uncomplicated, domestic sentiment to his affections. it's in every attentive inquiry of "what would you like for dinner?", and in every forewarn about his potential absence due to "work-related matters– i'll be back by tomorrow, so don't fret." kento is seldom one for soft gazes, yet every time you look up in earnest towards his caring, you dare let your eyes believe that there's a kindliness in his jaw that wasn't there prior.
his hands are larger, rougher than yours; made for corporate gain (among other violent things), and have no business against your skin, he thinks ruefully to himself. but kento proves himself wrong each time those lithe, worn fingers extend to the homes between yours. the privacy of your abode is where he uncovers salvation, perhaps the only remedy he'll ever allow himself to greed for. on rare, uninhibited days, perhaps a sight of your hands laced together can be gleaned by passersby on tokyo's streets.
if there's a dreary sky above, count on kento to have an umbrella at the ready. also be prepared for him to pop it over your heads the instant it drizzles, and adamantly refuse to let you carry it for him. "accommodating me is unnecessary," he'll flatly explain. although the stern lilt in his voice is simply out of obstinance, and not callous indifference to your concern (nevertheless, behind those glasses, tenderness blooms in his irises).
romantic outings for the sake of romantic outings are, admittedly, few and far between, and unfairly held down by the weight of his career. when the moon is high above but the city isn't quite asleep, he's lighter on the mattress: jostling you while you're in the midst of rest is only another disservice that's waiting to transpire, looming over his weary shoulders as he strips from his suit, and sets his glasses down on the nightstand. it's in these instances where he more consciously mulls within himself, his thoughts morphing into images and scenarios from their baser origins as abstract feelings.
he'll consult with you about those plans in the morning. tucking away these shells of thought somewhere else for the night, kento settles himself beside you with the faintest of airy sighs into the cool daze of your bedroom.
he turns toward you, the silver haze of the moonlight being just enough to illuminate your face through the darkness. he thinks to himself that, slightly, you smell like fresh laundry. soothing. home.
kento also thinks to himself that he might need to retire, soon, if he's to make a better home for you.
satoru gojo.
the concept of personal space doesn't exist in satoru's dictionary. hell, it doesn't even exist in his reality. you can be covered from head-to-toe in curse-warding talismans, but none of them will repel the demon that is satoru gojo. a hundred won't work, nor will a thousand. he is his own breed of menace, and shamelessly prides himself in being a rare kind.
casual, unceremonious squeezes on your shoulders from those spry fingers of his in front of his students. they'll climb up your neck and stick like salt into a wound. you must be a masochist, then, because the fervent trail of electricity that he burns into your skin is nothing short of exhilarating.
if he didn't have any remaining shred of common decency, then he might convince you that you're an exhibitionalist, too.
if he's not lingering around your form like a gull to a seaport, then he's probably tangled up in something urgent. however those matters are always short-lived, and he somehow manages to crowd your space with a break-neck swiftness that leaves you whiplashed. clingy? that's probably the most surface-level, succinct, word to use.
satoru would much rather be called "dutifully loyal." much more encompassing and positive than being referred to as a tac to a wall.
count on ruffles to your hair as he passes you by in the hall, and a cheeky wave as you swirl around, insistent on finding the one and only culprit. when you set your mind on payback, satoru has all-too conveniently disappeared, with the only proof of his existence being his (recently left) jackets in your closet.
"it's the same as the uniforms here, so you might as well!" he confidentially reassures you on the small note that's tagged onto the clothes. he also conveniently forgets that you don't wear the tokyo metropolitan uniform in the first place – or perhaps he just doesn't care. knowing him, it's probably the latter. (you keep those jackets until he decides to show his face again, anyways, and he knows this too.)
after a hop, skip, and a jump from various prefectures, there's always a coupon left on your desk from his return. "15% off of orders!" the ticket will usually say, vibrant and cutely decorated with drawings of strawberries and candies; it's satoru's opportune way of seducing you out for a mid-day date, away from the high-school and the faculty in exchange for the pedestrian lifestyle.
thankfully, his wallet is as big as his mouth (if not impossibly bigger), and you even have time to visit a park after satoru's insistence. if the sun never sets, he'd drag you to all sorts of other places, too; time is the only thing that keeps him at bay, those that are close to him realize.
with you, however, satoru thinks maybe he can negotiate with the clock (read: night does not exist, and you're still out and about in the urban food and shopping stalls, until you pass out and he resorts to carrying you back the train system to tokyo.)
suguru geto.
"let me carry that for you. at this rate, your back's going to give before you hit twenty."
if it wasn't his voice that you willingly let gnawed at your senses, then it was his gaze that pierced straight through your being and bloomed a stem through your chest. suguru was nothing but gripping in his younger days, and even as he he stands – no, towers above you now, a different man with the same face – you numbly wonder if that gnawing has become too much, too soon.
but you say nothing. and suguru knows that you won't ever say anything.
he was gentler at jujutsu tech, without any heaviness behind his hands when he reached for yours, or a harsh crook of his fingers in motions. his voice carried your name as if ushering blossoms in the spring – but still, ultimately, ripping you from your perch. from the safety of your branch.
suguru no longer extends himself for your fingers. instead, he beckons you towards him with the knowing tilt of his jaw, an expectant glint in his eyes. his embrace is everything but comforting, but it's the only warmth that you've known for the past two years.
his palm rests at the small of your back. (in jujutsu tech, orbits coalesced into your clothes and eased into your skin at his touch.) it's a light, fleeting pressure, despite the pads of suguru's fingers expanding vastly across the plane of your back and bisecting your spine. at this rate, there will soon be grooves for them to slot in.
he inquires what you want to eat for the night (you respond with whatever he'd prefer to have). he suggests going out to the balcony, afterwards, for a quiet, undisturbed view of shinjuku (you comply, allowing his fingers to slide against your back). as you reach the railing, there's a part of you that dimly wishes that this instance could carry gentler undertones than it currently does. it isn't undisturbed at all.
suguru's hand flits upwards, gingerly drawing a line up your shoulder blades that prompts you to squirm (albeit briefly) under his vigilant scrutiny. his fingers curve over your shoulder, latching, vines to a garden.
"you should rest," his voice is uncomfortably near, digging into the shell of your ear, scratching against your flesh. you suppress the urge to shudder, yet suguru's hold on you tightens. "tomorrow will be a long day for you."
toji fushiguro.
toji is the antithesis to security. gradually, the manner by how you're kept on your feet is rendered unimportant, and the only certainty in your relationship with him are crass words and, more tenderly, nights when toji can sleep beside you following a good job's work. he always comes home after being paid, after all.
"where'd you wanna go?" his arm swings around your shoulder, dragging you down into his lap with a casual effortlessness. "i can rent a suite in kyoto. or, y'know, maybe get ya somethin' nicer to wear for la– "
they're throw-away comments, you reassure yourself, although the damn bastard knows you get hot in the face at his words. a crooked finger hooks itself underneath your chin, drawing you closer to his face. the scar across his lips stretches in time with the wicked, knowing grin that splits across his visage. "got somethin' you wanna tell me, sweetheart?"
with toji, there is roughness and turbulence and a hasty landing. the only cushion you can afford is a hot shower, and admittedly, it's never taken alone. it's a miracle that the bath can hold both of you; one glance at his built stature, and a wiser mind would caution that the framing would break.
his skin is dry – rugged, as if grated unevenly by sandpaper. to whatever merits toji has, he tries to be gentle with you: the digits that comb through the strands of your hair are as impatient as they are thorough, and this applies even more so to the rest of your body.
patched flesh litters his body, the product of mending's hasty task.
his gaze is impassive as he observes your eyes rake over his vulnerable figure. you're marveling, no doubt, but he isn't one to complain when your eyes are solely fixated on him. whatever sentimentality in your mind at the sight of his wounds are lost, however, as soon as he soaps your hair, slotting your back against his abdomen.
you drown in his shirt as soon as you're dry – courtesy of his imposition. there is no "your side" of the bed. everything on the mattress is toji's space, especially you. unconcerned hands and limbs tangle around you, firm with their hold, and tucks your head underneath his chin. he radiates like a furnace.
"sleep," toji sighs above you. the digits that wrap around the back of your neck abruptly tangle in your hair, forcing your gaze up. "don't overthink that pretty head of yours."
jjk characters x reader; reader's pronouns are never specified.
tender qualities that each character holds for their s/o.
characters include kento nanami, satoru gojo, suguru geto, and toji fushiguro.
warnings for suggestive analogies with satoru; mentions of events that occur in the manga until ch. 78, and dubious relationship/general unhealthiness, for suguru; suggestiveness for toji.
kento nanami.
kento's fondness of you isn't openly apparent to the third party. however, between the two of you, he's not all stone and cold as he sets himself up to be.
there's an uncomplicated, domestic sentiment to his affections. it's in every attentive inquiry of "what would you like for dinner?", and in every forewarn about his potential absence due to "work-related matters– i'll be back by tomorrow, so don't fret." kento is seldom one for soft gazes, yet every time you look up in earnest towards his caring, you dare let your eyes believe that there's a kindliness in his jaw that wasn't there prior.
his hands are larger, rougher than yours; made for corporate gain (among other violent things), and have no business against your skin, he thinks ruefully to himself. but kento proves himself wrong each time those lithe, worn fingers extend to the homes between yours. the privacy of your abode is where he uncovers salvation, perhaps the only remedy he'll ever allow himself to greed for. on rare, uninhibited days, perhaps a sight of your hands laced together can be gleaned by passersby on tokyo's streets.
if there's a dreary sky above, count on kento to have an umbrella at the ready. also be prepared for him to pop it over your heads the instant it drizzles, and adamantly refuse to let you carry it for him. "accommodating me is unnecessary," he'll flatly explain. although the stern lilt in his voice is simply out of obstinance, and not callous indifference to your concern (nevertheless, behind those glasses, tenderness blooms in his irises).
romantic outings for the sake of romantic outings are, admittedly, few and far between, and unfairly held down by the weight of his career. when the moon is high above but the city isn't quite asleep, he's lighter on the mattress: jostling you while you're in the midst of rest is only another disservice that's waiting to transpire, looming over his weary shoulders as he strips from his suit, and sets his glasses down on the nightstand. it's in these instances where he more consciously mulls within himself, his thoughts morphing into images and scenarios from their baser origins as abstract feelings.
he'll consult with you about those plans in the morning. tucking away these shells of thought somewhere else for the night, kento settles himself beside you with the faintest of airy sighs into the cool daze of your bedroom.
he turns toward you, the silver haze of the moonlight being just enough to illuminate your face through the darkness. he thinks to himself that, slightly, you smell like fresh laundry. soothing. home.
kento also thinks to himself that he might need to retire, soon, if he's to make a better home for you.
satoru gojo.
the concept of personal space doesn't exist in satoru's dictionary. hell, it doesn't even exist in his reality. you can be covered from head-to-toe in curse-warding talismans, but none of them will repel the demon that is satoru gojo. a hundred won't work, nor will a thousand. he is his own breed of menace, and shamelessly prides himself in being a rare kind.
casual, unceremonious squeezes on your shoulders from those spry fingers of his in front of his students. they'll climb up your neck and stick like salt into a wound. you must be a masochist, then, because the fervent trail of electricity that he burns into your skin is nothing short of exhilarating.
if he didn't have any remaining shred of common decency, then he might convince you that you're an exhibitionalist, too.
if he's not lingering around your form like a gull to a seaport, then he's probably tangled up in something urgent. however those matters are always short-lived, and he somehow manages to crowd your space with a break-neck swiftness that leaves you whiplashed. clingy? that's probably the most surface-level, succinct, word to use.
satoru would much rather be called "dutifully loyal." much more encompassing and positive than being referred to as a tac to a wall.
count on ruffles to your hair as he passes you by in the hall, and a cheeky wave as you swirl around, insistent on finding the one and only culprit. when you set your mind on payback, satoru has all-too conveniently disappeared, with the only proof of his existence being his (recently left) jackets in your closet.
"it's the same as the uniforms here, so you might as well!" he confidentially reassures you on the small note that's tagged onto the clothes. he also conveniently forgets that you don't wear the tokyo metropolitan uniform in the first place – or perhaps he just doesn't care. knowing him, it's probably the latter. (you keep those jackets until he decides to show his face again, anyways, and he knows this too.)
after a hop, skip, and a jump from various prefectures, there's always a coupon left on your desk from his return. "15% off of orders!" the ticket will usually say, vibrant and cutely decorated with drawings of strawberries and candies; it's satoru's opportune way of seducing you out for a mid-day date, away from the high-school and the faculty in exchange for the pedestrian lifestyle.
thankfully, his wallet is as big as his mouth (if not impossibly bigger), and you even have time to visit a park after satoru's insistence. if the sun never sets, he'd drag you to all sorts of other places, too; time is the only thing that keeps him at bay, those that are close to him realize.
with you, however, satoru thinks maybe he can negotiate with the clock (read: night does not exist, and you're still out and about in the urban food and shopping stalls, until you pass out and he resorts to carrying you back the train system to tokyo.)
suguru geto.
"let me carry that for you. at this rate, your back's going to give before you hit twenty."
if it wasn't his voice that you willingly let gnawed at your senses, then it was his gaze that pierced straight through your being and bloomed a stem through your chest. suguru was nothing but gripping in his younger days, and even as he he stands – no, towers above you now, a different man with the same face – you numbly wonder if that gnawing has become too much, too soon.
but you say nothing. and suguru knows that you won't ever say anything.
he was gentler at jujutsu tech, without any heaviness behind his hands when he reached for yours, or a harsh crook of his fingers in motions. his voice carried your name as if ushering blossoms in the spring – but still, ultimately, ripping you from your perch. from the safety of your branch.
suguru no longer extends himself for your fingers. instead, he beckons you towards him with the knowing tilt of his jaw, an expectant glint in his eyes. his embrace is everything but comforting, but it's the only warmth that you've known for the past two years.
his palm rests at the small of your back. (in jujutsu tech, orbits coalesced into your clothes and eased into your skin at his touch.) it's a light, fleeting pressure, despite the pads of suguru's fingers expanding vastly across the plane of your back and bisecting your spine. at this rate, there will soon be grooves for them to slot in.
he inquires what you want to eat for the night (you respond with whatever he'd prefer to have). he suggests going out to the balcony, afterwards, for a quiet, undisturbed view of shinjuku (you comply, allowing his fingers to slide against your back). as you reach the railing, there's a part of you that dimly wishes that this instance could carry gentler undertones than it currently does. it isn't undisturbed at all.
suguru's hand flits upwards, gingerly drawing a line up your shoulder blades that prompts you to squirm (albeit briefly) under his vigilant scrutiny. his fingers curve over your shoulder, latching, vines to a garden.
"you should rest," his voice is uncomfortably near, digging into the shell of your ear, scratching against your flesh. you suppress the urge to shudder, yet suguru's hold on you tightens. "tomorrow will be a long day for you."
toji fushiguro.
toji is the antithesis to security. gradually, the manner by how you're kept on your feet is rendered unimportant, and the only certainty in your relationship with him are crass words and, more tenderly, nights when toji can sleep beside you following a good job's work. he always comes home after being paid, after all.
"where'd you wanna go?" his arm swings around your shoulder, dragging you down into his lap with a casual effortlessness. "i can rent a suite in kyoto. or, y'know, maybe get ya somethin' nicer to wear for la– "
they're throw-away comments, you reassure yourself, although the damn bastard knows you get hot in the face at his words. a crooked finger hooks itself underneath your chin, drawing you closer to his face. the scar across his lips stretches in time with the wicked, knowing grin that splits across his visage. "got somethin' you wanna tell me, sweetheart?"
with toji, there is roughness and turbulence and a hasty landing. the only cushion you can afford is a hot shower, and admittedly, it's never taken alone. it's a miracle that the bath can hold both of you; one glance at his built stature, and a wiser mind would caution that the framing would break.
his skin is dry – rugged, as if grated unevenly by sandpaper. to whatever merits toji has, he tries to be gentle with you: the digits that comb through the strands of your hair are as impatient as they are thorough, and this applies even more so to the rest of your body.
patched flesh litters his body, the product of mending's hasty task.
his gaze is impassive as he observes your eyes rake over his vulnerable figure. you're marveling, no doubt, but he isn't one to complain when your eyes are solely fixated on him. whatever sentimentality in your mind at the sight of his wounds are lost, however, as soon as he soaps your hair, slotting your back against his abdomen.
you drown in his shirt as soon as you're dry – courtesy of his imposition. there is no "your side" of the bed. everything on the mattress is toji's space, especially you. unconcerned hands and limbs tangle around you, firm with their hold, and tucks your head underneath his chin. he radiates like a furnace.
"sleep," toji sighs above you. the digits that wrap around the back of your neck abruptly tangle in your hair, forcing your gaze up. "don't overthink that pretty head of yours."
jjk characters x reader; reader's pronouns are never specified.
tender qualities that each character holds for their s/o.
characters include kento nanami, satoru gojo, suguru geto, and toji fushiguro.
warnings for suggestive analogies with satoru; mentions of events that occur in the manga until ch. 78, and dubious relationship/general unhealthiness, for suguru; suggestiveness for toji.
kento nanami.
kento's fondness of you isn't openly apparent to the third party. however, between the two of you, he's not all stone and cold as he sets himself up to be.
there's an uncomplicated, domestic sentiment to his affections. it's in every attentive inquiry of "what would you like for dinner?", and in every forewarn about his potential absence due to "work-related matters– i'll be back by tomorrow, so don't fret." kento is seldom one for soft gazes, yet every time you look up in earnest towards his caring, you dare let your eyes believe that there's a kindliness in his jaw that wasn't there prior.
his hands are larger, rougher than yours; made for corporate gain (among other violent things), and have no business against your skin, he thinks ruefully to himself. but kento proves himself wrong each time those lithe, worn fingers extend to the homes between yours. the privacy of your abode is where he uncovers salvation, perhaps the only remedy he'll ever allow himself to greed for. on rare, uninhibited days, perhaps a sight of your hands laced together can be gleaned by passersby on tokyo's streets.
if there's a dreary sky above, count on kento to have an umbrella at the ready. also be prepared for him to pop it over your heads the instant it drizzles, and adamantly refuse to let you carry it for him. "accommodating me is unnecessary," he'll flatly explain. although the stern lilt in his voice is simply out of obstinance, and not callous indifference to your concern (nevertheless, behind those glasses, tenderness blooms in his irises).
romantic outings for the sake of romantic outings are, admittedly, few and far between, and unfairly held down by the weight of his career. when the moon is high above but the city isn't quite asleep, he's lighter on the mattress: jostling you while you're in the midst of rest is only another disservice that's waiting to transpire, looming over his weary shoulders as he strips from his suit, and sets his glasses down on the nightstand. it's in these instances where he more consciously mulls within himself, his thoughts morphing into images and scenarios from their baser origins as abstract feelings.
he'll consult with you about those plans in the morning. tucking away these shells of thought somewhere else for the night, kento settles himself beside you with the faintest of airy sighs into the cool daze of your bedroom.
he turns toward you, the silver haze of the moonlight being just enough to illuminate your face through the darkness. he thinks to himself that, slightly, you smell like fresh laundry. soothing. home.
kento also thinks to himself that he might need to retire, soon, if he's to make a better home for you.
satoru gojo.
the concept of personal space doesn't exist in satoru's dictionary. hell, it doesn't even exist in his reality. you can be covered from head-to-toe in curse-warding talismans, but none of them will repel the demon that is satoru gojo. a hundred won't work, nor will a thousand. he is his own breed of menace, and shamelessly prides himself in being a rare kind.
casual, unceremonious squeezes on your shoulders from those spry fingers of his in front of his students. they'll climb up your neck and stick like salt into a wound. you must be a masochist, then, because the fervent trail of electricity that he burns into your skin is nothing short of exhilarating.
if he didn't have any remaining shred of common decency, then he might convince you that you're an exhibitionalist, too.
if he's not lingering around your form like a gull to a seaport, then he's probably tangled up in something urgent. however those matters are always short-lived, and he somehow manages to crowd your space with a break-neck swiftness that leaves you whiplashed. clingy? that's probably the most surface-level, succinct, word to use.
satoru would much rather be called "dutifully loyal." much more encompassing and positive than being referred to as a tac to a wall.
count on ruffles to your hair as he passes you by in the hall, and a cheeky wave as you swirl around, insistent on finding the one and only culprit. when you set your mind on payback, satoru has all-too conveniently disappeared, with the only proof of his existence being his (recently left) jackets in your closet.
"it's the same as the uniforms here, so you might as well!" he confidentially reassures you on the small note that's tagged onto the clothes. he also conveniently forgets that you don't wear the tokyo metropolitan uniform in the first place – or perhaps he just doesn't care. knowing him, it's probably the latter. (you keep those jackets until he decides to show his face again, anyways, and he knows this too.)
after a hop, skip, and a jump from various prefectures, there's always a coupon left on your desk from his return. "15% off of orders!" the ticket will usually say, vibrant and cutely decorated with drawings of strawberries and candies; it's satoru's opportune way of seducing you out for a mid-day date, away from the high-school and the faculty in exchange for the pedestrian lifestyle.
thankfully, his wallet is as big as his mouth (if not impossibly bigger), and you even have time to visit a park after satoru's insistence. if the sun never sets, he'd drag you to all sorts of other places, too; time is the only thing that keeps him at bay, those that are close to him realize.
with you, however, satoru thinks maybe he can negotiate with the clock (read: night does not exist, and you're still out and about in the urban food and shopping stalls, until you pass out and he resorts to carrying you back the train system to tokyo.)
suguru geto.
"let me carry that for you. at this rate, your back's going to give before you hit twenty."
if it wasn't his voice that you willingly let gnawed at your senses, then it was his gaze that pierced straight through your being and bloomed a stem through your chest. suguru was nothing but gripping in his younger days, and even as he he stands – no, towers above you now, a different man with the same face – you numbly wonder if that gnawing has become too much, too soon.
but you say nothing. and suguru knows that you won't ever say anything.
he was gentler at jujutsu tech, without any heaviness behind his hands when he reached for yours, or a harsh crook of his fingers in motions. his voice carried your name as if ushering blossoms in the spring – but still, ultimately, ripping you from your perch. from the safety of your branch.
suguru no longer extends himself for your fingers. instead, he beckons you towards him with the knowing tilt of his jaw, an expectant glint in his eyes. his embrace is everything but comforting, but it's the only warmth that you've known for the past two years.
his palm rests at the small of your back. (in jujutsu tech, orbits coalesced into your clothes and eased into your skin at his touch.) it's a light, fleeting pressure, despite the pads of suguru's fingers expanding vastly across the plane of your back and bisecting your spine. at this rate, there will soon be grooves for them to slot in.
he inquires what you want to eat for the night (you respond with whatever he'd prefer to have). he suggests going out to the balcony, afterwards, for a quiet, undisturbed view of shinjuku (you comply, allowing his fingers to slide against your back). as you reach the railing, there's a part of you that dimly wishes that this instance could carry gentler undertones than it currently does. it isn't undisturbed at all.
suguru's hand flits upwards, gingerly drawing a line up your shoulder blades that prompts you to squirm (albeit briefly) under his vigilant scrutiny. his fingers curve over your shoulder, latching, vines to a garden.
"you should rest," his voice is uncomfortably near, digging into the shell of your ear, scratching against your flesh. you suppress the urge to shudder, yet suguru's hold on you tightens. "tomorrow will be a long day for you."
toji fushiguro.
toji is the antithesis to security. gradually, the manner by how you're kept on your feet is rendered unimportant, and the only certainty in your relationship with him are crass words and, more tenderly, nights when toji can sleep beside you following a good job's work. he always comes home after being paid, after all.
"where'd you wanna go?" his arm swings around your shoulder, dragging you down into his lap with a casual effortlessness. "i can rent a suite in kyoto. or, y'know, maybe get ya somethin' nicer to wear for la– "
they're throw-away comments, you reassure yourself, although the damn bastard knows you get hot in the face at his words. a crooked finger hooks itself underneath your chin, drawing you closer to his face. the scar across his lips stretches in time with the wicked, knowing grin that splits across his visage. "got somethin' you wanna tell me, sweetheart?"
with toji, there is roughness and turbulence and a hasty landing. the only cushion you can afford is a hot shower, and admittedly, it's never taken alone. it's a miracle that the bath can hold both of you; one glance at his built stature, and a wiser mind would caution that the framing would break.
his skin is dry – rugged, as if grated unevenly by sandpaper. to whatever merits toji has, he tries to be gentle with you: the digits that comb through the strands of your hair are as impatient as they are thorough, and this applies even more so to the rest of your body.
patched flesh litters his body, the product of mending's hasty task.
his gaze is impassive as he observes your eyes rake over his vulnerable figure. you're marveling, no doubt, but he isn't one to complain when your eyes are solely fixated on him. whatever sentimentality in your mind at the sight of his wounds are lost, however, as soon as he soaps your hair, slotting your back against his abdomen.
you drown in his shirt as soon as you're dry – courtesy of his imposition. there is no "your side" of the bed. everything on the mattress is toji's space, especially you. unconcerned hands and limbs tangle around you, firm with their hold, and tucks your head underneath his chin. he radiates like a furnace.
"sleep," toji sighs above you. the digits that wrap around the back of your neck abruptly tangle in your hair, forcing your gaze up. "don't overthink that pretty head of yours."
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