leoleo

[theleo28]

hi

I'm Leo

I'm 20

i hope we can be friends😊😊❤️

[butterflypeaflowertea]

ever since i was a little girl i knew i was doomed to take things too seriously and think about them forever

[eclipsiee]

staying up late? husband nanami

Nanami was fast asleep, back towards you the only sound being his soft snores that feel up the empty and dark room. Well, almost dark. Your screen was dimly lit as you doom scrolled.

Instagram, TikTok, Pinterest—repeat. You weren’t tired although you promised your husband you’d atleast try to start getting some proper sleep.

You also complain about how unfair it is, how easy he can fall asleep. But you guess that’s just the perks of old age. You turn your sound up a bit as you scroll through reels. Not even five minutes later, Nanami’s up.

His eyebrows furrow as he adjusts his eyesight. “Honey.” His tired voice rings in your ear, you discard your phone elsewhere on the bed. “I tried, I can’t it’s hard for me to fall asleep quickly.” He lets out a huff before pulling you into his chest where you can his heartbeat.

“Maybe, if you reduced the time you spend on your phone before bed—“ he kisses the top of your head. “Then maybe you might be able to go to sleep.”

You let out a weary sigh, “I’ve tried that.” You can hear him scoff. “baby love, you tried it for two minutes and you went back on your phone. “Yeah.” You nod, “still effort.” You feel him shake from the vibration of his laughter. “A for effort.” He teases.

Nanami drapes the blanket over the two of you, His fingers find your cheeks and just your face in general. “Relax them, relax your face muscles.” Once he feels you relax, he then takes his hands off. “Now drop your shoulders.” You do as he says. “Why are you so tense, hm?” He asks through the process.

You let out a deep breath, “Am I tense?” he nods, “Relax your arms and exhale.” You obey, “good, look honey, you’re doing so good.” he whispers into your ear.

You smile against him. “Now this is gonna sound a little silly—“ his hands find your waist. “Imagine some peaceful scenery, where you’re at. Could be the beach, mountains, anywhere”

Your breath comes warm against his chest, “my girl.” he murmurs pressing one more kiss to your head. “my sleepy girl.”

sometimes I write what I want to experience and it’s sad because like 💔💔

[senalaced]

taking satoru's dick for the first time in theory and in practice are two very different extremes. sure you'd felt him from grinding, from holding the weight of him in your palm under the sheets while you two were supposed to be 'watching a movie'. it felt doable for the most part—taking him.

you've heeded all his thinly veiled warnings long enough and tonight of all nights wasn't one where you two could exactly stop at just heavy petting. you'd even laughed at it beforehand, assured him that you could take him for the millionth time.

if you could slap your past self, you would. because now you're barely 2 minutes into him being inside of you. back spread on soft sheets, practically folded in half under satoru. legs slung over his shoulders, panting, practically vibrating from the effort of trying to get used to the sheer size of him.

"fuck—you gotta stop—" his fingers press harder into the undersides of your thighs where he has you held, hips rocking incrementally to get you adjusted to what he's given already. not even halfway in and you're already all noisy. "breathe for me, pretty? so I can give you the rest."

“t-the rest? ” you gasp, voice going embarrassingly high. it feels like he's been pushing in for ages now and now he's telling you that there's more? “that’s not all of it? are you sure?"

"i'm sure, trust me. just a little more." a bit more than a little, but you'd cross that bridge eventually. he presses a kiss to your knee—soft, lingering like he’s trying to ground both you and himself. "you said you could take it."

"i say a lot of things when I'm horny. you know—oh fuck—that!" you snap, voice breaking on the last word. "you're too big. this is all your fault, satoru."

"my fault?" he manages a huff despite the strain in his voice, brows knitted like he's the one struggling here. to be fair, he sort of is. "you said, and I quote—" his hips ease forward by an infinitesimal amount, just enough to have the bulb of him swabbing against your soft insides. it's enough for your jaw to go slack, toes curling near his ears. "—'please just fuck me already'. and to 'stop treating you like glass'." so here he is, not treating you like glass. not holding out on you. large hands press your thighs and knees closer to your chest, his body angled downward to drive into you with short, gentle thrusts.

"I don't even sound like that." you're clawing blindly at the bedding, airy sounds punching out of you like he's owed them.

"mhm. just breathe." he murmurs, voice rumbling low against your skin as he nudges deeper with the next roll of his hips—a slow, steady push, feeding you yet another inch. one hand leaves your thighs to slide up to your stomach, pressing in like he's trying to feel for himself there. "yeah...that's it, let me in.." the same hand settles just above where you're taking him to thumb at your arousal slick clit, your own darting to out the grab at his wrist. to no avail of course, since his thumb just keeps on moving in circle after circle.

“tell me if you need me to stop, yeah?” he whispers, hips tilting just a little deeper. new slick from his teasing helps, sliding deeper with ease. “that's right...all the way. you're doing so well."

it's soft, so sweet and encouraging that you're reaching a hand out to bring him closer to you by the back of his neck. "m'good, 'toru. you're fine."

you can't help but wonder how much more he has left to give, what kind of monstrous beast he's been hiding under his briefs. curiosity gets the better of you, eyes dropping to where you've yet to fully connect.

and boy, do you regret it almost instantly.

it's near obscene. inches of him glistening and buried, folds parted against his girth. even with how long he's been easing in (or how long it feels at least), there's still a gap. his gaze follows yours, nosing gently at your ankle, hand squeezing your thigh. "you okay?"

the glisten of his flesh, the taut flex of his abdomen like he's holding back...no, you're not okay in the slightest.

you can feel your core flutter involuntarily at the sight and god, he feels it too.

“oh fuck,” satoru's voice breaks, forehead tipping down to rest against your forehead. “baby, please don’t do that. i'll...this really won't last long.”

"oops, sorry. sorry."

the bits of soft pink that aren't inside inch in-in-in with every second that passing. it's barely anything left to give, yet, he's being so careful. too careful."

"holy fuck, just do—shit!"

you're arching clean off the bed with the way he suddenly, finally hilts himself inside. bare behind flush to his hips, groomed hairs at his base grazing against your skin.

he’s silent for a moment, breathing slow, forehead still dampened and pressed down against yours. "..okay, I have bad news."

you're a little drunk on him, just lucid enough to manage a small hm, nails scraping through the damp hair at his nape.

"there's...there's a high chance that I'll cum if I move."

even in your state, laughter breaks out of you, the heavy man above you flushing a soft pink from the highs of his cheeks up to his ears. murmuring something about it 'not being that funny' and him 'embarrassing himself here'.

"stay still then." you finally breathe when your laughter dies down just enough, smile all gentle up at him, lips brushing against the sharp point of his nose. "we'll just stay like this all night." the pain had properly eased into a dull, barely there ache at that point—more pleasure than any other feeling. with how he'd taken his time, it'd been almost inevitable.

"can't just not move," he replies through gritted teeth, hips shifting just a hair. enough for you both to feel the heavy drag, the way your walls clench instinctively. "god—I can't not move when you feel like that."

it's endearing in a way, very much flattering. your grin only widens, head lifting to angle your mouth against his with a firm kiss. "i'm close too if that makes you feel any better."

words meant to help only make him whine, throbbing inside you, hips beginning to rock slowly. "you are?"

"mhmm. very close." you let out a strangled sound when his hips angle just right and it's enough for him to give up on pacing himself. his weight crushes your thighs against your chest, pace building. "so just keep moving. please."

the sounds leaving you are a mix of 'ahh's' and calls of his name, all broken, all sending his hips into you a little faster. they stutter as he fucks into you with less and less finesse, 0 rhyme or rhythm just the need to see you cum for him like this. hips slapping against the back of your thighs, paced breaths dually filling the room. "you feel so good. taking me so well." and when his thumb finds your clit again with those same, easy circles? you're a goner. "gonna cum--gonna- oh my god, keep doing that—" he finds that spot from before over and over again like there's a target stuck to it, leaky tip wedging itself right where you need it, pleasure mounting far too quickly. you're crying out at this point, hips angling up into his thrusts. so full it hurts in that perfect, dizzying way.

“fuck, you're gonna make me—”

“shut up and cum,” you choke out. “do it inside. pleaseplease—”

his entire body jolts, pace faltering. you feel him twitch deep inside you before it hits, his hips driving in and out hard—once, twice, and then he’s moaning into your mouth as he spills. he drags you down with him, pressure in your abdomen bursting, unfurling outwards with your release—his name still falling from your lips. helpless sounds that only spur the continued movement of his hips to draw out the pleasure.

you're both shaking, sucking in breaths of air greedily for moments after that. you're still folded like a pretzel, still crushed against his weight. "...that one doesn't count."

"agreed."

-- repost from previous account ˙ᵕ˙ likes and reblogs appreciated, thanks for reading!

[alygator77]

── off the record ၇୧

꒰ summary ꒱ when a misunderstanding leaves your family convinced you’re bringing a plus one to your cousin’s wedding in Japan, the last person you expect to volunteer for the role is your infuriatingly observant intern, Satoru. it’s supposed to be temporary. professional. strictly off the record. but with your mother already sold on the idea of your mystery boyfriend, and Satoru proving far too good at the role, pretending starts to feel a little too dangerous. also, why is your “intern” secretly the heir to gojo corporation?!

꒰ tags/warnings ꒱ fake dating ⚹︎ undercover ceo! satoru ⚹︎ accountant! reader ⚹︎ satoru is 29, reader is 26 ⚹︎ lots of family pressure. reader has a complicated relationship with her mom ⚹︎ forced proximity ⚹︎ one bed trope ⚹︎ slow burn ⚹︎ mutual pining ⚹︎ wedding chaos ⚹︎ angst and fluff ⚹︎ some suggestive content but no explicit smut ⚹︎

꒰ authors note ꒱ hi cuties! this is a commission piece, and it is about 12k total. this first part is just shy of 6k and the second part will be out next week. i hope you enjoy 🫶🏻 (art by @/hanamin_0123 on x)

"Oi. Boss lady."

“No.”

One problem at a time, and the spreadsheet in front of you wins by default. Because Column F is wrong. It’s been wrong for forty fucking minutes, and if it stays wrong for forty seconds longer, you may actually die here at your desk — hunched over, half-blind, and found by Shoko on a Monday morning with your face pressed into a pivot table like a cautionary tale.

"But… you don't even know what I was gonna—"

"—the answer is no, Satoru."

Unlike the human embodiment of a headache currently lingering on the other side of your desk, the spreadsheet in front of you is at least pretending to be important.

The chair beneath him creaks, and then comes the silence you know too well. It’s the one that comes right before he decides to be a problem on purpose. Attention is gasoline and Satoru is, structurally, a fire hazard. Still, your eyes flick up, and—

"No fair…” he huffs, that ridiculous pout tugging at his lips. “You didn't even let me finish the question."

Your eyes roll back down.

“Mhm.”

"And it was such a good question.”

You turn a page. "Really?”

“Yup.” He’s draped over the corner of your desk now, like gravity has wronged him, whining. “It was such a thoughtful… personal… deeply relevant… extremely genius level getting-to-know-you tier question that—”

You scowl. "—Satoru, enough. Just do your job."

It lands harder than expected. The sigh he lets out is deeply, theatrically offended. And when you glance up again, he’s sprawled over that same corner of your desk you made the mistake of clearing for him on day one because you’d thought, foolishly, that giving him a designated surface might contain him.

It had not.

Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.

Snowy white hair falls against his brow, sleeves rolled to his elbows; looking far too expensive and far too comfortable for someone whose official title is intern. His coffee is sweating beside your open planner — the one with a date next week circled in red: WEDDING, scrawled across the margin in your own handwriting. The condensation trails towards a stack of vendor invoices and—

…

Wait.

Are those the same vendor invoices you asked him to file yesterday?

Fucking great.

“Oh, c’monnn,” he grumbles, blinking at you over the rim of those absurdly expensive sunglasses he insists on wearing indoors. “One question. Just a tiiiiny one. It’s completely harmless. Humor me, yeah?”

You narrow your eyes.

“Satoru, you’ve been trying to ask one question for the last four months.”

“Yeah,” he says. “And you’ve been dodging it for four months. Imagine that.”

Technically… four months and four days. But who’s counting?

With an exhausted groan, your eyes fall shut, pinching the bridge of your nose. Noise drifts in from the hall — the elevator, the printer, a phone trilling somewhere nearby.  But when you look up again, it all seems to fall away.

He’s gone strangely still. The smug grin hasn’t disappeared, but it’s softened at the edges, hooked at one corner with his head tilted slightly. And those eyes…

Oh.

That’s — no. You’ve seen his eyes before. Obviously. Four months of them. But right now, with the morning light doing something cruel and unhelpful behind him, they catch in a way that makes you forget you were mid-thought. The kind of blue that doesn’t ask if you’re looking. It already knows.

Which means of course, you look away first. “Fine.” Your hand drops as you mutter. “One question. But if it’s stupid, I’m sending you back to HR.”

It’s not much of a threat. It’s his last day, after all, and for reasons you still don’t fully understand, Satoru has always seemed oddly immune to consequences — which, frankly, feels statistically improbable given the amount of shit he’s managed to pull in the few months of being here.

“One question?” his grin sharpens. You point your pen at him. “Don’t make me regret this.” Yet his pleased chuckle is already making you. “Awhh… look at you. Finally yielding.” His pen twirls between his fingers, nodding with false solemnity. “Okay. So, here’s the thing… throughout these four months working beside you, I’ve seen a lot—"

“—that’s not a question.” You deadpan.

But ignoring you, he reclines back in the chair, hands clasped behind his head.

“Liiiike… I’ve seen the exact face you make when Mei-Mei emails you,” he smirks. “Even noticed you work through lunch more than you should. And I’ve noticed that little line right here—” he gestures vaguely between his own brows “—every time the budget goes sideways.”

Lips parting, you blink.

…why is he so observant?!

For someone who acts like he doesn’t give a shit, he’s strangely attentive.

You clear your throat, huffing. “Okay… what’s your point?” Your hands straighten a stack of papers that doesn’t need straightening. “Is there a question in here somewhere, or are you just reciting my habits back to me for fun?”

His grin is far too pleased. “Relax. I’m getting there.” And leaning forward, his voice drops, like he’s unraveling a conspiracy. “I just find it interesting how you answer work calls before the second ring. Every damn day. Doesn’t matter who it is.” His head tilts with a smug grin. “But for whatever reason, for the past month, your personal phone’s been ringing off the hook, and you never pick up. Not once.”

Heat creeps up your neck. Not because he’s wrong — but because he’s right. And he said it like it was nothing. Like noticing the pattern of your avoidance was just something that happened to him between stamps.

Oh.

Way too observant.

Shit. He couldn't have settled on what's your favorite color!? Or, what superpower would you have!? No. Of course he had to go for the fucking jugular.

His eyes drop to the planner lying open beneath the invoices. The circled date: WEDDING. And his grin sharpens. “Ohoho… I get it now,” he whistles, leaning back in his chair and kicking one leg over the other. “What’d your fiancé do to screw up this bad? Is the wedding off?”

Your head jerks up. “F-Fiancé?!” And he rolls his eyes with a scoff, still grinning. “Knew it. God, he must be really in the doghouse. Or maybe he’s just clingy as hell to be calling that much.”

You blink.

Okay. Nevermind. He’s wrong. That is not even remotely what’s happening. The most committed relationship you’ve had is the one with your coffee machine. And yet… part of it feels almost cosmically cruel.

Because somehow, this is the second time in a month that someone had looked at the scattered pieces of your life and decided a man must be hiding inside them. Except the first time, you never even got the chance to correct it.

After all… how do you tell your mother she’s wrong?

Last month, you still answered her phone calls.

Not because you expected anything different. But because somewhere between the second ring and the third, there’s this gap — this stupid, paper-thin gap — where you still believe she might ask how you’re doing and actually wait for the answer.

Some habits taste like smoke. Some burn like liquor. But yours, unfortunately, had always looked a lot like hope.

Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.

“Oh—uh, hi mom!”

Your phone was wedged between your ear and shoulder while you stepped out of your car, juggling your purse and what was left of your sanity. You were already behind schedule, and your mother was calling — which meant the day had already made its intentions very clear.

“What’s up?” the door slammed shut with your hip. “I’m actually about to—”

“—Trish sent the venue photos,” she blurted, launching into a conversation like always.

Blinking, you shook the bitterness away. Striding toward the towering glass of Gojo Corporation. “That’s—yeah, that’s great,” you muttered, badge in hand as you pushed through the front doors. “But I’m actually heading into work right now? So—”

“—It’s such a beautiful venue,” she ignored you. “Very traditional, very grand. But you know the Zenin family—they never do anything small.” And as she sighed in awe, you resisted the urge to roll your eyes.

The rational part of your brain told you to let this go to voicemail. But the rational part of your brain has never once won this fight. Because…

Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.

"Mom, I'm sure it's lovely, really… but I'm kind of—um, excuse me…" you pivoted around a man in the bustling lobby with a sigh. “Sorry. I’m literally walking into the building right now? But maybe we can revisit this later and—"

"—have you booked your flight yet?"

Your mouth flattened.

Clearly, your half of this conversation is optional.

“No… not yet,” you mumbled, as patiently as you could manage, jabbing the up button harder than necessary. “It’s been a crazy ass week so I haven’t had a chance to, but—”

“—every week is a crazy week for you.” The huff she let out sounded almost offended by the inconvenience of your life. “Why can’t you just book it now while we’re talking? I mean, it literally takes five minutes.”

A miracle, really, that your blood pressure isn’t a medical emergency.

Every week is a crazy week?

Yeah. No shit.

Two managers resigned last quarter. Another got escorted out by security. And their work didn’t disappear. No. It landed on your desk. Because that’s how it goes. That’s how it’s always gone. Group projects. Internships. End-of-quarter disasters no one else wanted to touch. If something needed fixing, it found its way to you.

You’re the one people relied on.

Just… never the one people chose.

“Mother. I’m at work,” you said, stepping into the elevator as the doors slid open, dropping your voice as you stabbed at floor fifteen. “Look—I’m about to walk into an eight a.m. meeting. But I’ll book it tonight, promise.”

“…eight a.m.?” she repeated slowly, before letting out a small, unbothered laugh. “Oh! Right. It’s eight p.m. here. Silly me. I keep forgetting.”

…

Keep forgetting?

She keeps forgetting that she’s ten thousand miles away? Forgetting that twenty years ago she abandoned you in another country to live abroad in Japan—handing you to your grandparents like a detail she'd get back to later?

How convenient that she forgot that.

The elevator slid shut, and you watched the numbers tick upward. “Um. Yeah…” you managed, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice. “Anyways. I’ll book it tonight. After work. Okay?”

"Okay, okay. Sure. Sounds good. But are you bringing anyone?”

Squeezing the strap of your bag, you swallowed the lump in your throat. This again? The last thing you needed was to walk into your shitty eight a.m. meeting looking emotional.

No thanks.

“I… uh…” you cleared your throat. “I um—actually—haven’t decided yet. But anyways, I gotta go, so—”

“Waitwatiwait. Haven’t decided? Does that mean… you actually found someone?!”

Her voice pitched up so fast it almost startled you, and your mouth dropped so low it could’ve hit floor one.

Shit.

“I-I—I didn’t say—"

“—oh, thank God. This is incredible!!” she squealed. “We’ve been so worried. I mean—Trish is younger than you and she figured it out,” her tongue clicked. “People have been asking questions, you know. Your aunt Sara keeps bringing it up every time I see her and—”

“—Mom, I—"

“—It’s about time,” The laugh she let out was relieved, like a problem in her life had finally begun resolving itself. “You can’t keep putting love on hold forever, because men aren’t going to wait around forever. You’re already twenty-six—not getting any younger, dear.”

Love?!

Who has time for that?

And why the fuck is twenty-six the age a woman expires?!

“What’s his name?” she pressed, practically beaming through the phone. “What does he do? Is he from there, or—oh, is he Japanese? Your father would love that, he always said—”

And she was off.

Spinning an entire man out of thin air. An entire future, really. Building him in real time from a tiny slip up you had because you were too tired and cornered and desperate enough to answer the phone in the first place. And you stood there, letting her. Because interrupting her has never once worked in the history of your life.

“—actually, never mind,” she chirped a moment later, as if she was being considerate now. “You have work. I’ll call tomorrow and you can tell me everything, yes? Okay, bye-bye honey—”

Click!

And just like that, the elevator went quiet. You were left staring at your reflection in the metal doors, phone pressed to your ear, listening to the silence where your mother’s voice had been.

‘We’ve been so worried.’

…

If they were so worried… why had you spent most of your life learning to take care of yourself? And yet, the second there might be a man, suddenly you’re worth getting excited about?

Funny how that works.

Scoffing, you lowered the phone, shoving it into your bag just as the elevator chimed open. Itadori Yuji’s head snapped up behind the reception desk.

“Morning, boss,” he waved, radiating sunshine as you walked towards the conference room. “Kento’s asking if you’re still good for the budget review at eight… or if I should just tell him to panic.”

Your smile softened, burying the sting. “Yes… I’ll be right there.” And as you stepped through the polished glass doors, you played the role you’d always played.

The reliable one. Twenty-six years old, with two master’s degrees, a career at one of the most competitive corporations in the world, and a team of seven that would quietly fall apart without you.

But…

None of that glitters quite like a diamond ring, does it?

“Oi,” Satoru frowns. “You’re makin’ that face again.”

“Huh?”

Blinking out of your spiral, your eyes trace back to the man across from you. His chin is resting in his palm, those impossibly blue eyes fixed on you with a quiet stillness that makes something in your chest trip over itself — like a lock turning in a door you didn’t know was closed.

“Oh.” You clear your throat, forcing the pen back into motion. “…what face?”

“The one you make when something’s wrong,” he says quietly, gaze unmoving. “When you’re upset and trying to act like you’re not.”

For a second — one terrible, unguarded second — you don’t have a single thing to hide behind. It’s just him, looking at you like your well-being is something he’s been keeping track of in a column you didn’t even know existed.

But then the sarcasm kicks in, right on time. "Wow," you say, forcing your hands back to the papers in front of you. "So… now you read faces?"

“Mm... nah. Just yours, sweetheart.”

And that grin — god, that fucking grin — hooks at one corner like he knows exactly what just detonated inside your chest. You don’t acknowledge it. Acknowledging things have consequences, and consequences with this man are not something you can afford.

"…that’s highly inappropriate," you mutter, shoving it down. "Let’s maybe redirect some of that insight toward the invoices, yeah?"

“Sorry, sorry.” He leans back, hands up like he’s the picture of innocence. “Wouldn’t wanna start shit with your dear future husband.” His grin goes sharp as he twirls his sunglasses between two fingers. “Though, wow. Tough look for him. Whatever he did, he clearly fucked up bad.”

Why does he sound… bitter?

No. You must be imagining it. This is Satoru. Satoru, who treats everything like a joke until proven otherwise. Satoru, who doesn’t care enough about anything to sound bitter over a man who may or may not exist.

You scoff. "You’re making some wildly stupid assumptions right now…"

He perks up at that. "Oh?" With his grin hooking higher, almost hopeful. "Wait. So, there’s no fiancé, then?"

Your lips purse.

What does he care? He’s not your mother.

“I wish you’d be this interested in your actual job,” you sigh, arms crossing. “Those invoices have been sitting there all week.”

“Uh-huh.” He tips his head. “And yet somehow, I noticed you still didn’t answer me.”

You frown.

What the fuck are you supposed to say!?

Oh. Um. Actually, Satoru, there is no fiancé. That’s the problem, actually! My mother invented him the other morning and I haven't worked up the nerve to call her back.

Yeah. No. You'd rather die at this desk.

“Maybe because it’s none of your business.”

“But I—”

“Drop it.”

He stares at you for a beat, then he flops back in the chair with a dramatic huff, long legs kicking out in front of him, mouth dragging into a sulky pout.

“Well, damn,” he grumbles, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair, rolling his eyes. “No wonder you’re single if this is how you shut people down…”

The second the words leave his mouth, he blinks. His gaze flicks up to yours like he hears it too late — like he realizes, all at once, how shitty that sounded.And it only feels worse the moment he sees your face.

God.

Of all the places to hit.

“Oho… wow. Okay. This?” you say with a thin, self-deprecating laugh, chair scraping as you shove back from your seat. “Yeah. This is exactly why I shouldn’t have let you ask, Satoru.” You reach for your planner, your purse, anything to do with your hands besides let them shake.

He straightens, watching you scramble. “Whoa. Wait. I—"

“—because you don’t know when to stop!” The words come out louder than you mean, blinking at the sting behind your eyes. “You just keep pushing and pushing and pushing until you get what you want. Well good. I hope you’re happy.”

Before you can turn away, he’s on his feet. “Wait—” And the moment his hand catches yours, you freeze, breath snagging.

His voice is quieter now. His grip is firm yet gentle, and the air between you shifts, while something warm and uneasy twists low in your chest. The kind of feeling that makes you want to lean in and run in the same breath.

Though your eyes stay down. “Satoru… let go.”

“I didn’t…” he starts, then stops, gaze flicking to where his fingers still circle your wrist — before climbing back to your face, slower this time. “I’m… sorry. I just—” His mouth tightens. “I see how hard you work, okay? I see it. And every time that phone rings, you get this look on your face like it’s already ruined your day before you even touch it. And…” His brows pinch. “Fuck. I dunno why, but it pisses me off!”

Your gaze hesitantly drags to his, and the look in his eyes is softer than they have any right to be — all that blue, stripped of its usual sharpness, turned careful. Like he’s stepping toward something breakable and knows it. Like… if he asked once more, something in you might actually give.

“Satoru…” your breath hitches. “I-I—"

“Oh, finally.”

Shoko’s voice trails in, and your head snaps up so fast your neck almost goes with it. She’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, coffee in hand — looking like a woman who arrived exactly on time for something she's been expecting all week.

Her gaze flicks down to where he’s holding you, and the corner of her mouth twitches.

"Sooo… not to interrupt whatever this is," she says, taking a sip, "but Kento's one eye-twitch away from a medical event. He needs you to sign off on the variance line before he starts reconciling his own will and—"

You're already jerking your hand back. "Yup—coming!" And as you step away, heat floods your face, but you don't look back. Not once. Not even when you feel him still standing there, watching you go.

Because looking back would mean acknowledging that something just shifted. And you are not — not — doing that today.

Unlike those invoices, perhaps some things are better left… unfinished.

You’re gone in a blur of heels, nerves, and professional self-preservation, leaving Shoko trailing behind and Satoru staring at the empty doorway like maybe the conversation might wander back through it.

It doesn’t.

And it’s not long before his mouth is pulling into a slow, petulant pout—just before he flops back in the chair with all the elegance of a man personally betrayed by the universe.

Un-fucking-believable.

He’d almost had you! After four months and four days of being stonewalled, redirected, and professionally shut down, you’d finally looked like you might give him something. A crack. A sliver. And then Kento had to ruin it with his stupid reconciliation sheet, his stupid earnest face, and his stupidly impeccable timing.

…

He could fire Kento.

Should he fire Kento?

As tempting as that thought is, Satoru settles for glaring at the empty doorway a second longer before dragging a hand down his face and raking it back through his hair. There’s no point. This performance will end soon. Because by this time tomorrow, he’ll be on a flight back to Tokyo. Where he can resume the slow, agonizing process of preparing to inherit a company he didn't actually give a shit about.

'Grow up, Satoru.'

'Apply yourself, Satoru.'

'You have no idea what it takes to run something like this, Satoru.'

Right. Because apparently, the heir to a multinational corporation needed to learn humility. Alphabetize files. Sit in a cubicle. Fetch coffee like some goddamn spreadsheet slut with a trust fund and nowhere to put it.

Four years of business school, two years shadowing his father; and yet, this is what they had for him?!

He scoffs. And when his gaze drops to the wreckage of your desk, he’s pulling the stack of vendor invoices toward him with a sigh that sounds put-upon even to his own ears. You’ve been nagging him about filing them for the better part of the week and… the least he can do is clear one thing before he goes.

The stamp thuds against the first page. Then the next. Then the next. And with muscle memory taking over, his face goes blank in the way it always does when boredom finally wins. It’s mindless shit. Still, he’s used to it. So naturally, when the phone on your desk buzzes, he doesn’t think twice; snatching it up, tucking it between his ear and shoulder as he reaches for the next invoice.

It’s probably another budget nuisance. Or Mei. Or one of the other thousand little crises that seem magnetically drawn to your extension.

“Yo,” another stamp echoes. “Satoru speaking.”

There’s a sharp inhale. “…who?”

His brow lifts. “Uh… Satoru?” Another thud of ink slams against the paper and he huffs, annoyed. “What do y’need?”

The line goes quiet for a beat too long. Before the woman on the other end finally murmurs, “Satoru…” Sighing in awe. “What a lovely name. Is that Japanese?”

"Uh… yeah?” he snorts, flipping to the next page. “I mean. Last I checked.”

“Mm… I thought so!” She giggles. And her voice pitches like she's just unwrapped a present she didn't know she was getting. “So… Satoru. Why exactly are you the one answering her phone, hm?”

…

Why the hell does this woman sound so invested? And why is she asking questions that should be obvious?

Frowning down at the invoice, he stamps it harder.

“Because it rang?” He says it like it’s obvious. “And uh—sorry, but. Maybe because I’ve been with her for months, so… why the hell wouldn’t I?”

"Months?!” A soft gasp crackles, far too delighted. “You've—you've been with her for months?!"

"Mmm… four months and four days, technically."

He’s been her intern for that long.

That’s the question, right?

"—technically?!" she squeals, like the word personally seduced her. "Ohmygoodness—oh, this is perfect. Four months and four days—that is so specific.”

He blinks. But she doesn’t give him time to process.

“Look at you Mr. Devoted. Keeping track. I was starting to worry she’d never find someone like you. Every time I asked it's like pulling teeth. But I knew there had to be someone. I told her father—I said, there is a man, I can feel it.”

Pausing mid-stamp, the words slowly begin to catch up. Satoru straightens.

"…sorry. Who is thi—"

“—everyone is so excited to meet you at Trish’s wedding. I already reserved your seat and—"

Her voice keeps going… and going… and going. He pulls the phone away slowly as her voice echoes on the receiver, staring down at the phone in hand to see:

📞 Mom

Oh.

Oh, shit.

This is not your work phone. Your work phone is currently sitting at its dock twelve inches to his left. And it dawns on him that he accidentally just spent the last sixty seconds answering your personal phone like an absolute jackass and—

"Uh…” he backpedals. “Wait. I—"

"I told Sara, I said, we have to meet him and—”

"Stop. I-I really think—"

“—Satoru, what are you doing?’

His head snaps up at the sound of your voice, mouth dropping as he sees you standing at the doorway, eyes wide in horror.

Oh, fuck.

“Who is on the other end of that phone,” you hiss.

He winces, pulling the phone from his ear like it’s toxic — and you’re snatching it right out of his hand. He lets you have it without a fight, sinking back into the chair like he’s trying to physically dissociate from the situation he’s just created while you press the phone to your ear.

“And I mean…” she rambles. “I certainly was never one to wait around at twenty-six, believe me. But—"

"Mom."

"Oh! Honey!” She gasps. “Oh, my goodness, hi—I was just having the loveliest chat with—"

"I'm at work. Gotta go."

"—okay! I can't wait to meet Satoru, he—"

Click!

The phone sits in your hand like evidence.

And Satoru — to his credit — has the decency to look like a man standing in the blast radius of his own stupidity. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Like he’s rehearsing an apology in a language he hasn’t learned yet.

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

And somewhere ten thousand miles away, your mother is already calling your aunt Sara.

“Sooo… funny story…”

“—what did you do?!”

Satoru flinched, and now, the tears were already rolling down your cheeks — hot, fast, completely unauthorized. Not the kind you could disguise as allergies or blame on the air conditioning. No. The ugly kind.

Great. Fucking great.

You were standing in the middle of your own office, in the building where you work, crying in front of your intern. And Satoru felt the weight of it all at once. In the last four months, he had seen you in every flavor of workplace misery there was. Pissed off, stressed out, one spreadsheet away from actual murder.

But cry?

Never.

And this had his fingerprints all over it.

"Shit," he breathed, panic flashing across his face. "I—fuck. Okay. Please don't—I can fix this. I can—"

"Fix this?" A splintered laugh ripped out of you, and you hated how thin it was. "Fix what, Satoru? You just confirmed a boyfriend to my mother, a boyfriend that doesn't exist—and she is, at this very moment, probably already—"

Another break in your voice cracked, and you squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hand to your forehead hard like you could hold the tears in by sheer force. But it only made it worse, because now you could feel the wetness on your own face, the heat of it under your palm, and the mortification landed like a second wave.

God. How fucking humiliating.

"Hey, hey—it's okay,” his voice softened. “We'll just… call her back. Right? Tell her it was a misunderstanding. Easy."

“Easy?” you scoffed, the word coming out strangled. “Y-You don’t understand my mother, Satoru,” you managed, voice gone thin as thread. God, you sounded like a child. “If she thinks something is true, then it’s true. That’s it. That’s—there’s no correcting her, there’s no walking it back, she’s already told my aunt Sara by now and Sara’s told Trish and—oh, fuck—”

Another sob tumbled out, and your fingers dug harder into your temple.

God. Stop it.

Stop it stop it stop it.

Think.

Think logically. You're good at this. You solve problems for a living.

But every time you tried to grab onto a thought, it slipped — replaced by the echo of your mother's voice, high and delighted. The happiest she'd sounded talking to you in years. Maybe ever.

…what look will she give you when you show up alone?

"I can’t," you whispered, and the word came out waterlogged. "I-I'm supposed to get on a plane to Japan in a week and—do what? Tell them there's no one? Tell them I'm still—"

Single.

The word sat in your mouth like a stone. You didn’t realize you’d gone silent until the silence itself started ringing — your sniffling, the hum of fluorescent lights, the muffled life of the office continuing beyond the door like yours wasn’t actively coming apart at the seams.

And through all of it, you could feel Satoru looking at you. His stillness; holding you with an expression you'd never seen on him before and couldn't categorize if you tried.

"Um…” he looked down, scratching the back of his neck. “Soooo... the wedding's in Japan?"

You blinked. “What?” And as you wiped your face with the back of your hand, his gazed tentatively flicked back up. “The wedding…” he repeated, voice careful. “It’s in Japan?”

"Yes." Your brow furrowed, not understanding. "Why?"

He didn't answer right away. Just looked down at the floor for a second, jaw shifting, like he was turning something over in his head — something he hadn't fully assembled yet but could already feel the shape of.

"Huh… okay."

Okay what?

You watched his expression change in real time — from guilt to calculation to something else. "Right then!" He said, clapping his hands once, bright and sudden. "No biggie. I'll just go with you."

No biggie?

Your mouth dropped.

That wasn’t even an option, was it?

…is he crazy?

“You’re kidding,” your laugh was awkward and breathless. His eyes rolled with a smug grin. “Sweetheart, c’mon,” and he was gesturing between the two of you like the answer was sitting there in plain sight and you were the only person in the room committed to not seeing it. "Your family thinks you're bringing someone? Cool." A hand pressed to his chest with theatrical solemnity. "I'm someone."

You stared at him. Genuinely stared.

Oh. He wasn’t kidding.

Yup. He’s crazy.

"You are not 'someone,' Satoru. You are my intern."

“Yeah. For like… another six hours?"

He checked his watch with a shrug, and your lips flattened.

"…that is not the point."

“Mm… feels a little like the point."

He smirked, but it faded faster than usual, dimming at the edges as his blue eyes hesitated on yours. Something shifted in his posture; the performance pulling back, like a tide going out. "Um… look…" He pushed off the desk, stepping closer. "It’s really no hassle." He said, hands sliding into his pockets. "I already have a flight scheduled. My family's in Tokyo. And I was going back after this internship anyway, so… this just moves my timeline back a little."

He was shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t agreeing to fly across the world with you and walk straight into the disaster that was your family.

…

His family’s in Japan too?

You barely knew anything about him. He kept his life sealed off with the same practiced deflection you kept yours — jokes in place of answers, charm in place of honesty. You never bothered to ask, because asking meant caring and that was a door you never intended to walk through with anyone.

But…

"Just… let me come with you. I’ll be your boyfriend for the weekend. For the wedding. For… whatever you need,” he said. And this time, when he stepped closer, there was no grin to hide behind. "I can be useful. I caused this. So… let me fix it."

Heat creeped up your neck, and you scoffed, weakly.

"Okay… but you can't fix my mother."

"No…” he murmured, tilting his head. His hand came up and brushed a tear trailing down your cheek with a careful gentleness. “But… I can make sure you don't have to walk in there alone?"

Your breath hitched, and when your eyes finally lifted, the morning light was being cruel again — catching in that impossible blue and turning it soft. Like stained glass dipped in sunlight. Like something holy made dangerous by the simple fact that it was looking straight at you.

“Mhn. So, do I get the job, boss lady? Because that look you’re giving me…” a slow smirk curls up the corner of his mouth. “Very encouraging for my boyfriend résumé, by the way. Might get addicted to it and wanna make it a full-time gig.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, looking away too fast to be convincing.“That was not a look. I was just—” You grimace. “…never mind.”

He’s chuckling as you brush past him. And his words are what scared you the most. Which was bad. Very, very bad. Because your mother was one problem. Japan was another. But Satoru looking at you like that?

Shit…

That felt like the kind of complication that didn’t stay neatly contained. And you knew better than anyone. Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.

a/n: hehe. this has been fun to work on! i am excited to share the next part. clearly i love these fake dating/fake marriage tropes aha 🙂‍↕️ bc this is like... what—my third time doing it? soooo i tried to change things up and make it feel less standard/generic :) but anyways, like i said pt 2 will be out in a week, pls lmk if you wanna be tagged 💖

[alexiroflife]

how jjk men would react if they found out you sh…

Warning(s): cw//self harm, graphic depictions, mentions of depression, anxiety, sensitive content, angst/comfort

-> if you or anyone you know is struggling with self-harm, suicidal thoughts, depression, etc., know that you aren’t alone. as someone who used to struggle with these things myself, i understand how difficult it can be, but know that you are strong and you are loved. and thank you for the ask, this is a very important topic and i appreciate the vulnerability of the request. sending all the possible love in the world to all of you.

gojo, geto, nanami, toji, choso, sukuna

satoru gojo: satoru has an incredible sense of sight, thanks to his gift of the six eyes, as well as very keen observation skills. he picks up on little habits you harbor very quickly during the beginning of your relationship. you always choose to wear long-sleeved clothing, even when it’s warm, and you tug at your sleeves as though you are desperately trying to conceal a certain part of yourself from the outside world, from him. he doesn’t understand why at first. the thought crosses his mind that you just aren’t comfortable in sleeveless clothing, but you’ve shown him pictures of yourself from a decade ago when you’d wear variations of different tank tops, short sleeves, and more. he doesn’t understand what changed somewhere along the line. perhaps your sense of style has shifted? maybe you don't like your arms? (he can't understand how because he finds them to be the most gorgeous arms he's ever seen).

but no, something is nagging at him in the back of his head, churning the contents of his gut as though there is something he needs to know, to see that you were hiding, and when the moment unveiled itself, he instantly saw. 

you’re in your kitchen while satoru watches you from the other side of the island, leaning over and gazing at your movements with a soft smile. his blue eyes scattered across your body, admiring you while simultaneously searching for any clue, any answer to his hovering questions.

“where’d i put the containers,” you murmur to yourself in the midst of making lunch for the week, moving about your space rather slowly. 

satoru offers his own help, pointing a slender finger over to the space above your head. “did you check that cabinet?” he asks.

you turn over your shoulder and quirk your brow. “oh, do you live here now? suddenly know where everything is?” you ask playfully, a small smile rising to your lips as satoru chuckles. 

“not yet,” he winks. “but i sure am working on it, though. you know i have to make myself familiar with the space in case we share it someday.”

“is that so?”

“or, of that doesn't work out you could always live with me. i’d love to have you.”

“we’ve been together for three weeks, satoru.”

“yeah, but what does that matter when it comes to loveeee,” he pouts and you giggle, shaking your head as you turn back to reach for the cabinet. you stand on your tiptoes and reach out, sleeve of your sweet draping down to your elbow.

satoru is quick to his feet to help you, though you’re more than capable, when he catches the sight of what looks like a scar streaking over the inside of your wrist. his face falls and his brows angle, marching over to you quickly with a look of urgency on his face.

you don’t register how fast he is moving until you feel him behind you. you turn and look up, caught off guard by the way his eyes had hardened and his pupils shrank. your hand stalls on the cabinet handle, the scars on your arm completely slipping your mind momentarily.

“satoru? you okay?”

he doesn’t answer, grasping your wrist in his hand gently and pulling it down from above you. your eyes flicker up to the movement, and when you realize what is happening, your heart sinks. your eyes go wide and you try to tug your arm away, but satoru’s grip tightens slightly, extending your arm by your wrist to display the inside of your forearm before him. 

he thinks his vision is blurring over, his heart ringing in his ears, his breaths quickening as his eyes detail over the row of rigid scars lining from your inner elbow up to your wrist. his world collapses around him, lips stretching into a disbelieving grimace as his wild eyes survey the damage. some of those scars look newer than others, scabbing over with specs of purple, while the others are far older. 

you panic, trying to tug away again, but satoru’s grip on you is too secure. a lump forms in your throat as you search for things to say, anything to say that could take your boyfriend’s attention away, that could excuse the sight before him as something else. “s-satoru, wait-” you stammer, your voice weaker than you had intended it to be. 

satoru looks like he can’t hear you, nose flaring as he stares, and stares, and stares, and suddenly, your vulnerability is bare naked before him, on display for him to judge, to belittle, to curl his brows at and determine as pathetic and weak. you can feel yourself about to cry already, shaken by this sudden attention.

“satoru,” you whisper, arm trembling within his grasp.

“what is this?” he breathes out so quietly, his voice betraying himself and hardly reaching over a brush through the wind. when you do not answer, those pained eyes are on you, tormented by the sight he has just witnessed. “(y/n), what is this?”

you feel small, avoiding his eyes and looking all over the floor. “i- it’s nothing,” you murmur.

“nothing?” he repeats, as though he has been burned by your response. the white haired man quickly seeks out your other wrist, reaching down to your other side as you try to turn away, but he, of course, manages to seize it and extend it like your other arm and roll up that sleeve. the same row of scars litter your beautiful skin.

satoru’s a mess, frightened, confused, devastated. this is what you had been hiding from him all this time? “this isn’t fucking nothing, (y/n), they’re all over you! what did you do?”

you still can’t respond, you can’t muster up an excuse, you can’t do anything. satoru’s concern is far too overbearing, his gaze too intense, and his hold on you too secure. it feels like he has you laid out on a slab before him, stripped of your clothes as he examines your body with contempt.

he’s disgusted. he’s ashamed, you think. 

amid his grief, he catches the terrified look in your eye, your lips tugged downward as if to prevent yourself from crying. you look so scared.

how could he have not seen this sooner, that you’re hurting? that you’re hurting yourself? 

“baby, what did you do?” he repeats, softer this time as he leans down to look at you, your body trembling in his hold. his thumbs graze your inflamed skin, hesitant to touch you for fear that you may break.

“please don’t,” you breathe out in a huff, voice wobbling as you scrunch your eyes closed. “please, don’t look. just forget you saw it, please.”

“forget i-?” satoru has to stop himself from lashing out poorly, from allowing his emotions to overcome him in what he understands is clearly your moment of need. “how could you ask me to do something like that? (y/n), your arms, baby!”

“satoru, please-” you shake your head. you want to shrink away, to hide, to vanish into thin air. “i don’t wanna talk about it. please.”

“(y/n),” he exhales, closing his eyes to gather himself. “(y/n),” he repeats softly, hands releasing your wrists slowly and sliding up your arms to delicately hold your shoulders. “we can’t not talk about this. you have to tell me what’s been going on. you have to, baby, you have to understand how scared I am right now. help me understand. let me help you, let me take on whatever burden you’re carrying, please, I’ll do anything as long as it means you’re not hurting yourself.”

his hands move to your neck, cupping over the skin as he ducks his head down to look at you more clearly. 

“i can’t stand the thought that you’ve been- and i haven’t-” satoru was stumbling now, throat straining as the urge to cry rose. “why didn’t you come to me? i’m right here for you, (y/n), i always have been. why didn’t you tell me?”

“...it’s embarrassing,” you manage to say, your voice fragile, on the verge of breaking. you can feel your boyfriend’s eyes peering into you even with your own eyes closed. “didn’t want you to see… I didn’t wanna be a burden.”

satoru’s heart is breaking for you, hurt that you could even think of yourself as a burden to him. “have i- have i done or said anything to you to make you feel that way?” he asks genuinely, and you cringe, turning your head to the side to open your eyes.

“no, of course not.”

“then why would you think that, baby?”

you shrug helplessly, tears welling into your eyes. satoru sees you, all of you, his heart thrumming to capture the pain you feel and to lift it from your chest, to help you breathe even just a little bit. he releases a weighted sigh, one of sadness, of love, of heartache for you, and he’s pulling you into him as your arms dangle limply at your sides. 

you scrunch your eyes and immediately break down into him, sobbing into his shirt as his warm hands wash over your frame and cradle your head to him, the muscles in his face tight with anguish. he holds onto you like he’s horrified that you will fade away within his arms. 

“i’m just so tired, toru,” you cry into his chest, dampening the fabric of his shirt. “i’m sorry.”

satoru doesn’t respond, afraid that if he speaks, he’ll end up crying too. you’re his girl, his beautiful, loving girl, and the fact that you have done such harm to yourself is incomprehensible to him. if you love him so, how can you hate yourself enough to have done this?

“how long?” is all he can ask you, breath heaving into your hair and ear. you hesitate, for he already seems so wounded by his discovery. “tell me.”

“...two years…”

he’s crushed. how did he not see sooner? how could he have been so blind after having bragged about being able to see everything so clearly? how could he have left you like this?

he holds you tighter, digging his head into the crook of your neck and hunching over, your eyes now seeing over the curve of his broad shoulder. 

“i’m sorry, baby,” he apologizes to you in turn, fingers curling into your hair as he holds your scalp. “i'm sorry I wasn’t paying attention.”

you’re confused as to why he’s apologizing to you since the entire thing is your fault. satoru has a tendency to take on your emotions, piling them onto his own weight of carrying the title of the strongest. you never understood why he did so naturally and willingly, and why even now as you stood limply in his arms, he’s crying for the things you did to yourself.

he pulls away with shiny red eyes, gazing down into your shiny red eyes and tear stained cheeks. you’re so beautiful, he thinks. he hates that such beauty has been suffering in so much silence.

“(y/n), I love you more than anything in this goddamn world. please don’t- don’t keep doing this to yourself. if you’re hurting, come to me. hurt me if you have to lash out, but don’t hurt yourself beautiful.”

“i would never even think of hurting you, satoru.”

“then don’t think of doing it to yourself,” he says firmly, and you press your lips together. 

“…i-i don’t know how to… to stop,” you mumble, and he’s taking your hands in his and kissing them gently.

“i’ll help you. we can get you help, baby, I promise. just promise me, please,” he begs you, holding your hands close to his heart. “you come to me when you feel like doing that, okay? you come to me. and I’ll do whatever I can. let me help you. let me be there for you. i won’t let you push me out, (y/n).”

you're crying again, tears streaking over your face as satoru’s love captures you within his words, within his warmth as he forces you to understand that you are not alone, and never will be. 

satoru kisses your hands again. his lips reach your cheek, and his hand comes to tuck your head into his shoulder again, holding you and telling you that you have him to go to when your world grows dark.

geto suguru: if suguru could sum you up into one word, he would say that you're his universe.

everything in his life he does for the sake of you and his girls, for the sake of keeping you safe and making you happy. your happiness and your comfortability are the only things that suguru prioritizes above all else, making them his very goal to serve each and every day.

suguru's not the most stable, you know that and he knows that himself. he has his off days, where he falls quiet and the world around him numbs itself and the noise becomes a muffle in his ears until you step into view, giving him a smile and wrapping his big frame up in your small arms, your voice whispering to him and breaking through the fog. you're his sanctuary. you're his safe place, and he loves you so much. he owes his entire life to you, therefore ensuring that you feel just as loved as you make him feel is very important to him.

so when he catches sight of the scars on your stomach one day by accident, when you lift up mimiko to sit on your shoulder as nanako jumps up for you to pick her up to, and her shoe kicks up your shirt from your waist momentarily, suguru freezes.

are you hurt? did someone do this to you? did you do this to yourself?

countless thoughts are racing through suguru's mind as he stares at you in a daze, watching you laugh so joyfully along with the girls as though no trouble plagues you.

but there is. you've just been hiding it. hiding it far too well.

his mind is elsewhere for the rest of the day, unsure of if he had been imagining things or not. he knows you so well, or at least he thinks he does. how have you been hiding those marks littering your lower abdomen? how had he missed them?

he thinks back to the moments you two were intimate and recalls that you never wanted to remove the tanktop you wore or let him kiss further than your ribs. he recalls the days you all went to the beach and you kept a white shirt over your swimsuit or elected to wear a onepiece. he recalls how quickly you change when he's with you, your back turned to him as you rush to throw something on over your upper body.

the signs... they're all there. you've been hiding yourself from him, but why? what have you been doing? have you truly been harming yourself, or is that thought a trick of suguru's worst fears?

he tries to keep himself calm around you and the girls for the remainder of the day until they are put to sleep and the two of you are alone again.

you sit on the edge of your shared bed, rubbing lotion over your arms with your back facing suguru again. he watches you carefully, back resting against the headboards and hazel eyes trained on your figure as though you aren't real.

he waits for the proper moment, waiting for you to crawl up and curl under his side, his arm subconsciously wrapping over your waist as your head lays on his chest. he stares at the ceiling for a moment, thinking as weighty silence overcomes you, then he's cautiously speaking.

"(y/n)?"

the soft call of your name brings your head up to peer at him curiously, blinking innocently. he turns down to look at your face and his heart clenches. while he knows that he knows what he saw, he doesn't want to believe it. he doesn't want to think that you, such a selfless and caring person for him, would hurt yourself.

you hum up at him, wondering what he has called you for. you see the pensive look in his face, the subtle knit in his brow as he stares at you, gears in his head turning. "yeah sugu?" you say gently.

he doesn't want to ask, but he has to. he doesn't want the confirmation, but he needs to know.

"i want to ask you a question..." he says, and you grow slightly befuddled.

"...okay?" you start. "is it serious?"

"yeah, it is," he admits, and you suddenly grow nervous, immediately catching an idea of what this could be about. you don't like the look on his face, the way he appears so serious.

"...alright," you mumble, suddenly meek.

the black haired man stares for a few more moments, just looking at you, taking in your the features he feel so deeply in love with, the features that bring him comfort and peace. "i saw something earlier, when you were holding mimiko," he begins softly, thumb caressing your back to ease you into the conversation.

you feel your heart jolt anxiously, trying to keep a straight face so as to not give your nerves away, but knowing suguru, he could likely already tell that you're getting antsy.

you lift your head to look at him, hand resting over his chest, and his eyes follow you smoothly. his eyes are focused, lips in a firm line.

"your shirt lifted, and i saw your stomach. i saw some marks. a lot of them, actually," he says, and you still completely, like a deer caught in headlights. his hand presses gently into your back, trying to keep you present with him as his concerns grow worse when he sees you stiffen against him. he frowns, denial still taking hold of him. "(y/n), please tell me those aren't what i think they are," he sighs heavily.

you feel caught.

you knew that suguru would find out at some point or another, but that didn't make this moment any less horrifying for you. it's so quiet in your room, so isolating, no background noise of the girls giggling or the distant buzz of the tv to help weaken the intensity of this point in time. you feel like a spotlight is shining overhead, an audience awaiting eagerly for you to reveal your secrets to the crowd.

suguru sits up slightly, his calmness gradually shifting into terrified incredulity. your eyes are on his face but your gaze is elsewhere, far off. you look uncomfortable, stuck, and no explanation hits suguru's ears.

"(y/n)," he says your name again, looking desperately down at you. "tell me i'm wrong."

you wish you could, you really do, but you can't lie to suguru. he knows you too well, he loves you too much, and to lie to him would be like denying his understanding of who you are.

you feel your skin flush with shame and anxiety, heartbeat likely loud enough for your boyfriend to hear.

you worry. you worry about your boyfriend's judgment, for his reaction. is he going to be angry with you?

"hey," he snaps you out of your daze with the drag of your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes as he stares at you helplessly. you look at him and frown, ashamed that you are the reason he looks so pained. "what's going on?"

the question comes out so delicately, it makes your heart break. a whisp of understanding blends into his tone with empathy, yet a crushing sense of sadness and guilt that overpowers the aforementioned emotions. you struggle to look him in his kind eyes, dreading his consolation that you feel you don't deserve.

"talk to me, (y/n)."

you chew angrily on the inside of your lip, looking down at your finger as you pick at his shirt. he watches your brows furl, an array of different feelings capturing your features. "i was gonna tell you about it..." you murmur, and suguru is floored.

"what?" he breathes out as though he has no more air. you wince, lowering your head. "you-" he pauses, mind jumping from one place to another. "you did that to yourself?"

"i'm sorry, i-" you can feel your throat growing tight. "i've been trying to-"

"to stop?" he tries to finish for you, grasping for any kind of explanation. he's devastated, not only because you've been harming yourself, but because you've been so busy looking after him and the girls that he hasn't noticed. you're the one who always comforts him, but while you've been doing that, you've been aching on the inside and trying to hide it.

you nod meekly when he concludes for you. "i just- i thought the feelings would go away, so i didn't say anything, but they're just getting worse and i don't know what to do anymore and i only feel better after i..."

"(y/n)," he stops you gently, his heart shattering upon listening to you ramble, spilling out the things you have been holding onto for what he assumes to have been so long. "you've been dealing with this all this time?"

"...it's on and off," you confess. "some days are better than others, but..."

suguru finds your words familiar, for he often finds himself in the exact same mindset; feeling functional and confident some days, and others, not so much, but you're the reason why he's able to handle his bad days, yet he hasn't been the same for you for as long as the two of you have been together.

he feels almost sick. he loves you to death. you're his everything, but you've been in pain, and he hasn't seen it.

the way he's looking at you now makes you feel guilty, remorseful, embarrassed. you know you should have told him, but you could never find the strength to. you had always been too scared. and the longer you self-harm, the less you are willing to admit to yourself and to your boyfriend that you have a problem.

you're shocked, though, when suguru's hands tighten over you and his face grows bitter, not with you but with himself. "how could i have been so stupid?" he grumbles, distraught. "and so selfish? all this time, you-"

"no, suguru, please, it's not your fault," you try to tell him.

"i should have seen, baby, i should have noticed something sooner. and all this time, instead you've been looking after me when i should have been looking after you."

"don't say that, suguru," you shift, looking sadly into his eyes. "it's my fault. i'm the one who did this, i'm the one who's to blame. i'm the stupid and selfish one, not you."

suguru's frown deepens, sad eyes looking over your face. you blame and belittle yourself just as easily as suguru does, and he can't stand it. he can't stand to see you like this, to be so aware of hurt before him. he wants, no, he needs to take all that pain away from you. he needs to exorcize it, rid your body of it, cast it away so that you can be happy from now until the rest of time. he needs you to be okay.

"i swear on my life, (y/n)," he begins firmly, eyes boring straight into yours, holding your cheek. "i will do everything in my power to get you through this. whatever it takes, no matter how long it takes, i will be here for you. you're not alone, you understand? you don't need to pretend for me. the girls love you- god i love you so fucking much, and i can't stomach to think of the times you've suffered in silence for my sake. i'm no good if you're no good, baby. i need to know these things, i need to be able to help you."

your nose twitches and your jaw clenches as you look into him, breathing growing unstable. suguru has always been so generous and so loving. he has a way with his words and how safe they make you feel even during your worst moments.

"but what if i can't do it, sugu?" you whisper, his thumb catching the tear that leaks from the corner of your eye. "what if i'm not strong enough to get better?"

"you are strong enough," he affirms confidently. "more than strong enough. and when you feel weak, lean on me. but you have to promise me something."

you nod slowly, mutely, keeping his gaze as he stares at you lovingly, wistfully.

"promise me you won't do it," his words come out as a quick, hasty breath. his brows curl further upward, his desperation plain on his pretty face. "promise me you'll let me know as soon as you want to, but don't hurt yourself again, (y/n). don't do it. i'm begging you. you don't deserve that pain."

though you are unsure if you can even make that promise to yourself, you force yourself to try. for suguru's sake. "okay," you mumble, and he sighs, kissing you softly and pulling you to his chest to whisper sweet nothings as his hands soothe over your stomach and your back.

nanami kento: you twist your fingers around each other as you sit in the living room while kento cooks in the kitchen. you're nervous, more nervous than you have been about anything in your entire life, but you know that you need to rip off this bandaid to approach your boyfriend about such a serious matter.

recently, you find yourself returning to the old habit that you believed to have been relinquished. you thought that you had gotten better, that the urge to self harm had completely gone away after having spent so much time in therapy trying to heal, but recently, you've been feeling down again, useless, angry with yourself. you didn't want to tell nanami at first because you didn't think that your current mood would go beyond feeling depressed, but now that you've started scratching away at your thighs and your arms again, you know that you need to let him know what's going on. you know that you can't go on like this anymore.

but you have no idea what to say.

nanami has been nothing but doting toward you, bringing you flowers every morning, making your meals, ensuring that you remember to schedule doctor's appointments or to keep yourself warm when it's cold out- the man's life revolves around your comfortability, and while you know he would be far more offended if you keep this to yourself, you're horrified to see his reaction when you tell him that you relapsed.

nanami is well aware of your past difficulties with your mental health, and he always tells you that if you are ever in a dark space again, he needs to know. even so, he hasn't been with you when you're like this. the two of you got together after the multiple therapy visits that helped you to shift mindsets, so now that you feel this way again, and while in a relationship with nanami no less, you feel petrified.

you don't even notice when he rounds the kitchen counter to make his way over to the dining table, setting down two plates of food. he looks over and catches the way you stare ahead blankly, lost in thought. you've been doing a lot of that lately and he wonders if something is wrong.

nevertheless, he knows that if something is bothering you, you'll tell him. "sweetheart, dinner's ready," he calls out, and you snap your head over to him, his voice bringing you out of your daze.

you stand wordlessly, movements somewhat robotic, as you slowly make your way over to the table. "thanks, ken," you say softly, lacking your usual energy, and at this point, your partner knows for certain that something is off.

he watches you carefully as you sit down, pushing in your seat for you and pecking your forehead before sitting down next to you. "tell me how your day was," he starts, brushing off his hands and reaching one out to rest one on your knee as he always did at the table. he's prying, you can tell, trying to learn if something that happened throughout the day affected your mood.

your heart is hammering loudly, your eyes stuck to the plate and unable to look up at him. "it was okay," you respond.

"just okay?" he questions and you nod slowly. "did something happen?"

you flicker your eyes up to his brown ones suddenly, caught off guard by the question. he sees the questioning in your eyes and replies accordingly.

"you seem to be a little off, this evening, that's all."

you hum, unsure of how to respond to his observation. you look away again, contemplating. just say it, you think. just tell him, just get it over with.

as you struggle against yourself, nanami only grows more concerned. you don't confirm or deny his comment, and the way you turn away has him wondering if he's done something to hurt you.

"did i do something wrong, darling?" he asks.

you furrow your brows and quickly shut down the idea. "no, no. not at all, ken. it's nothing you did."

"then... there is something troubling you?"

you stall a bit more now that you're on the spot, cursing the fact that kento is always so quick to pick up on the smallest changes in your demeanor.

"(y/n)?" he calls you when you don't answer.

"i have to tell you something," you say abruptly. you see nanami's brows raise ever so slightly, soft brown eyes looking over your face in an attempt to read the situation before you tell him anything. "it's... a lot. so i need you to just... bear with me. and please don't be mad."

nanami's brow twitches slightly as he looks at you, head tilting. he grabs the bottom of his chair and shuffles it closer to you, leaning over slightly and running his hand over where it resides on your knee.

"i could never be mad at you," he tells you earnestly, as though it's the most honest thing he's said in the world. "what's the matter, my love?"

god, he's so sweet to you it makes you physically ill that you have to break this news to him.

"...do you remember when we talked about... um..." your voice fades off, nanami's concentrated gaze only making you more nervous for what his reaction will be.

"take your time," he encourages you, and you only feel worse.

you return to chewing on the inside of your lip anxiously, picking at your shirt under the table. the blonde man beside you is ever so patient, allowing you to gather your thoughts before you verbalize them.

"...um...it's.... about what we talked about a while ago..."

"...and that would be regarding?"

"my... past."

nanami furrows his brows, still not quite understanding. "i apologize, honey, what about your past?"

just rip the bandaid. just rip the bandaid.

"my past with self-harming," you rush out, and the weighty silence that follows is enough to make you want to sink into the floor and let it swallow you whole.

you can feel his eyes burning into you, processing what you just told him, and all you can hear is the pound of your heart in your ears as his hand stills upon your knee.

nanami, on the other hand, is completely shocked by your revelation. while he understands that your relapsing has always been a very realistic possibility, he never wanted to entertain the idea that it could very much so happen- at least, not while he's around.

a sense of fear grips him. are you going to tell him that you relapsed? have you already hurt yourself? has he failed to be there when it happened??

"did you-" he doesn't know what he wants to ask, or how. he hates that he is already jumping to conclusions, but the way you are structuring this conversation with him only leads him to believe the worst. "what happened?"

your head hangs low and your fingers taut on your shirt, lips tightening as they press together. you can hear the disbelief in his voice already, and it breaks you.

"i relapsed."

the brown-eyed man clenches his jaw, falling completely silent once more to not react in a way that may worsen your state. you feel his hand tighten into a fist over top of your leg as he lowers his head, rubbing his eyes with his fingers and inhaling sharply. you feel like a child who is awaiting punishment as you look at his hunched state, a million questions of what he will do next running through your mind.

you hate to do this to him. nanami already has so much on his plate, you know this is the last thing he needs to be stressing over. you wish you could be okay for him. it's not his fault that your mind takes you to these places, and you don't want him to bear responsibility as though it is his doing. even so, you already know that he will because that's the type of man kento is. that's the type of boyfriend kento is.

you wait a few more moments in unbearable muteness. after what feels like forever, kento lifts his head again and rests his chin on his fist, elbow propped on his knee. he's looking to the side, deep in anguished thought. he no longer looks surprised, but rather guilty and frustrated. "when?" is the first thing he asks.

"yesterday," you answer dejectedly, and he almost jerks, his body twitching in reaction. "...are you mad?"

nanami looks at you and his hardened expression immediately softens into something melancholy. "no- no, of course not, (y/n), no," he shakes his head as if the notion is unfathomable, releasing his fist to cup your knee again more securely. "i will never be angry with you for what you're going through. never. no, i'm not mad."

you nod quickly, a meek sense of relief and sorrow taking over you, a weight heaving from your chest upon letting it out. "okay," you whimper.

"come here, my darling," he coaxes you softly, opening and grabbing your hand from under the table delicately to lead you to stand over him. his hand guides over the small of you're back once you're up, leading you to sit on his lap with your back pressed against the table and your legs dangling over one side of his chair.

he holds your forearms gently, looking up at you with sad, understanding eyes. "are you comfortable showing me?" he murmurs so intimately, easing you into his warm consolation.

you don't nod or answer him verbally. instead, you wordlessly roll up the sleeve of your sweater to reveal angry red scratch lines running up your inner forearm. nanami's lips curl in pain as though he can feel the sting of your scars, holding your arm gently for him to look over it.

the sight kills him, though he tries to keep his cool. this isn't about him, it's about you, but goodness, the image of the scars on your beautiful skin makes him hurt like no other pain he's experienced.

"is this all of it?" he asks you, and you shake your head.

"there's some on my thighs," you mutter, looking down.

he nods. "alright," he sighs. "alright."

"...i know you have so much on your plate already... i just-"

"don't. don't even," he stops you, eyes still roaming over your irritated skin. nanami usually commends himself for remaining collected in times of crisis, but he's desperately fighting a part of him that wants to yell out and cry for the sake of you.

he imagines you struggling with this on your own, long before he came into your life, and the thought makes him cringe to picture just how far this must have gotten. these scratches he is surveying now already look bad enough. were the other ones worse?

"(y/n), you know this isn't okay," he looks up at your face and sees how you are avoiding his eyes. you look so small compared to how you usually carry yourself, and it kills him. "to harm yourself like this... you can't treat yourself this way, darling, you know you can't."

"i know," you mumble. "i just had a moment, and now i'm scared that- that i'll go back to how things were."

"as long as i'm with you, you won't. i promise you that," nanami swears. "it was just this one time since you last?"

you nod. "yeah..."

"okay," he nods once more, convincing himself that this is something he can help stop before it gets any more out of hand. "why'd you do it this time, my love? what were you thinking that led you here? is there something i can do differently? is it work? is it a combination of things?"

"i wish it were that easy to explain, kento," you frown, glancing up at him helplessly. "but it's just... it's just a feeling i can't put into words. i can't pinpoint the source. i just... one minute i felt like i couldn't breathe, and the next i was..."

"okay," he repeats, letting you know that you no longer need to say anything more. you don't have to revisit it. he understands. he will take care of it. he'll help you. "okay, darling. how about this. i call off of work tomorrow and we can sit and talk about seeing a new therapist. then we can go out and do whatever you want. just for fun. does that sound okay with you?"

your nose flares and your lips tug to the side as you nod, truly not comprehending how you managed to find a man so patient with you. "yeah, that's good," you say softly, and nanami is at least relieved that you are willing to take further steps into a better direction.

"good," he whispers, rolling the sleeve of your sweater back down so that you no longer feel exposed or feel like you have to think any more about the things you did to yourself when you felt alone. "it's alright, my love. we'll get through it. you'll get past this just like you did last time," he encourages you, moving to caress your shoulder lovingly as you hold his gaze. "it's okay," he tells you again, and you nod weakly, leaning over to plop your head against his shoulder.

nanami holds you to him and exhales, food completely forgotten. his only priority now is to be there for you in the ways he could not before the two of you met.

"thank you for telling me."

choso kamo: choso worships the ground you walk on because he can not fathom a world without, nor the fact that you happened to stumble into his life on a whim. to imagine you hurt is the very worst thing that the man can think of, and the notion that you would hurt yourself is beyond his comprehension.

you aren't actively trying to hide any of your scars when he finds them. the scars are old, faded reminders of the pain that you used to endure and how you attempted to cope with it. while you are now six months free of self harming, the scars remain very present.

choso happens to catch sight of your scars when you are getting changed. he's sitting at the edge of your bed, face flushed, as he watches you blissfully change out of your pajamas and into clothes that you feel are best suited for a walk to the ice cream shop that choso has proposed. it's a bright sunday afternoon, and the brunette is eager to take advantage of the weather with the woman he holds close to his heart as well as his baby brother, who the two of you intend to meet at the store.

you're now dressed in nothing but a large white shirt and underwear, your legs bare as you strut around the space freely. choso's jade eyes follow you as you walk, completely obsessed with the way you move. he could watch you do the most mundane things for hours, which he truthfully tends to do anyway.

your back is to him before you round the bed, disappearing into the bathroom momentarily before coming back into the living room. choso's eyes still don't leave you, tracing over your face down your figure and finally to the front of your bare legs.

he falters, and his brows draw together when he catches dark marks littering over your inner thighs, only revealing themselves with the movement of your limbs as you walk.

the pale-skinned man grows confused and slightly concerned. he's never seen those marks on you before, and simultaneously, never on anyone else he knows either. he finds them to be a strange form of battle scars, especially due to the placement, the small size, and the sheer number of them. some of them take different shapes too, blurring together or over each other, while some stand out alone. they almost look like burns, but it's hard for choso to really tell.

you proceed about your business, searching through your drawer to pull out a skirt, when choso speaks up.

"love? what are those?" he asks curiously, perplexed.

you turn over your shoulder, shutting your drawer closed with your foot. "hm? what's what, cho?" you ask him, unsure of what he's referring.

choso, still slightly flustered by the vision of your half exposed body, nods his head into the direction of your lower legs. "those," he says again, and you look down, still lost.

you lift your foot momentarily, checking to see if something is stuck under or on top of it. you then survey the rest of your body, searching for something out of the ordinary. "uhhh," you trail off. "i'm not sure what you mean, baby. you're talking about my legs?"

you are far too desensitized to and familiar with the image of your scars to process that choso has never seen them before. the brunette, however, is unsatisfied, wanting an answer that you have yet to provide.

he leans forward, lifting his hand and pointing his finger directly to a patch of dark spots peeking out from your inner thighs. you follow his gaze, eyes landing on the culprits, and your shoulders drop in realization. "oh," you say shortly, choso retracting his hand.

he looks at you innocently, awaiting a response while you try to figure out how to explain this sight to him.

you don't want to worry him, but knowing choso, if you lead with the fact that these scars are there because you inflicted them onto yourself, he would have a heart attack, failing to find reason to your words.

even so, you know choso only wants to understand you as much as you desire to understand him. he wants to see the ugly parts as well as the beautiful parts of you that he is so drawn to, and if you hide it from him, that would only create a rift in your budding relationship that you aren't entirely too keen on creating.

you want him to know you, all of you, and these scars are as much of a part of you as the bones in your body and the blood pumping through your skin.

they're a sign of what you've been through, what you've overcome, and who you are now. they're important, and choso should know why they are there.

"that's a good question," you sigh, putting your skirt on the bed as you move to sit next to him at the edge of it. choso immediately turns to you, glancing over the marks shamelessly now that he has a better view of them.

"did someone do that to you?" is the first thought that crosses his mind, red drifting into his vision at the mere idea that someone has hurt you in such an intimate way.

"...no," you shake your head, lifting one leg up onto the bed, brushing his own, as the other dangles. "i put them there. a while ago," you explain honestly.

choso scrunches his brows tighter, eyes flickering up to your face then back down to try to identify what exactly the marks are. "what are they?" he repeats.

you exhale, puckering your lips as you prepare yourself for this difficult conversation. "they're burns, cho. from a match," you tell him.

now, the half-curse is incredibly confused. burn marks? on your lovely skin? in a place where only you could reach? put there by yourself?

you burned yourself?

"i don't understand," he frowns, shifting to face you better. "why would you..."

"i used to be in a really bad place, baby," you purse your lips, watching as his face contorts with consternation as he comes to understand that you purposefully harmed yourself.

"what do you mean? bad enough to do this to yourself?" he sounds mortified, his voice growing ragged the moment his tone picks up volume.

his pupils, moments ago blown pools of affection, are now shrunken dots of shock.

"don't look at me like that," you beg him, placing your hand over his own. his eyes snap to the sudden contact, then back to you with concern. "sometimes, when certain people are suffering from depression, or anxiety, or just overall bad thoughts and they feel like they have to... break out, or maybe punish themselves in a sense... they resort to hurting themselves."

choso gulps, lump forming in his throat as he listens to you with shaking eyes. "and that's what you did? you felt like you needed to punish yourself?"

"it's hard to explain to someone on the outside. i know it sounds... crazy, but it was the only way i knew how to cope with everything that i was dealing with."

"why didn't you come to me instead?" he immediately asks and you give him a sad, knowing look.

"because, we didn't know each other then, cho?"

"i don't care," he shakes his head, eyes keeping yours. "you should have found me."

the idea brings a hint of a smile to your lips, choso's sweetness warming your heart. "i didn't know who you were, baby, that would have been like begging a stranger for help."

"so?" he scoffs. "i loved you the moment i met you. it wouldn't have made any difference to me.

you sigh again, bringing your other hand to rest over top of your boyfriend's as you smile softly at him in an attempt to get him to calm down.

the panic is still written all over his face as he takes in your smile, the vision somehow only making him sadder. you're so gorgeous, inside and out, and that smile is only scratching the surface of your unending beauty.

to know now that your radiance was once outweighed by the torment in your mind encouraging you to harm yourself... well, it makes choso want to ball his eyes out. it makes him want to confront the physical manifestation of your past traumas and pummel it into the ground, bashing its head in for all the hurt that it has caused you.

"i ended up just fine, cho," you reassure him.

"why didn't you say anything before? were you trying to keep it from me?"

"no, baby, i just didn't think to tell you. i kinda forgot about them," you say, and that comment alone makes choso soften his features slightly.

"you forgot..." he recites your words. "does that mean you're better now?"

you hum in affirmation, smiling warmly. "it's been a while since i've hurt myself or done anything like that. i got through it. i'm okay now, these scars are just a permanent reminder of the past."

his frame sags slightly with relief, brows lifting as he looks over you with a blank expression. "i think i understand," he mumbles, looking back down at the marks. "i'm sorry you ever had to go through any of that."

"it's not your fault. you weren't there."

"i wish i had been. so i could have helped more. i know you said you're better, but maybe if i had been there i could've stopped you from hurting yourself at all."

"i wouldn't put that responsibility onto yourself, cho. it was my responsibility."

"still," his brows arch slightly. "i would have stuck with you every second of every day to make sure that you never had a second alone to do any of it. i wouldn't have let you, and i won't let you now." a thought seems to pop into his head when he finishes his last sentence. "you wouldn't go back to trying to hurt yourself, (y/n), would you?

you exhale. "i mean, i'd like to think i wouldn't, but sometimes these things aren't linear," you admit. "i just know that for now, i'm okay."

"the second you're not, though, you'd tell me?"

"yes. i would."

"you promise?"

"i promise, baby."

"okay," he sighs. "because i don't think i'd be able to function knowing you're upset."

the brown haired man leans over, carefully holding your thigh as he looks over your marks again, no longer flustered by your bare skin but entirely focused on the severity of your burns. you look down at him, hands slipping from his own as he surveys you closely like he's a doctor.

"they don't hurt anymore, do they?"

"nope. just scarred."

choso looks at you for a bit longer in silence before looking back up at you from his hunched state. "can i kiss them?"

you laugh softly, hand falling into his hair at you gaze at him with your heart aglow. "you want to kiss them?"

he nods. "so they can feel loved."

you coo, thumb smoothing over his temple as his eyes swell with adoration right before you. "of course you can."

toji fushiguro: toji is absolutely no stranger to scars. he's a human man with no cursed energy, having had his fair share of close calls on risky jobs that have left him with slashes over his calves, small pierces in his flesh, and cracked callouses. then, of course, there's the scar on his mouth bestowed upon him by his oh-so-loving family, which will be stuck with for the rest of his life.

scars follow toji like moths follow a flame, and he's numb to it. he believes that they are a part of life, both physically and mentally, especially with the kind of life that he leads. whether the wound is a large one or a small one he can barely see, he accepts scars as a part of who he is-

who he is.

while toji likes to parade around with a hardened exterior decorated with faded, scabbing wounds, that is something he deems fit for him and him only. he doesn't care what other people do with their lives as long as they leave him the hell out of it, but for the love of all the money that he has acquired over the years slaughtering sorcerers, he will be damned if he finds a single, tiny little scratch on your body.

scars are for toji, not for you, his darling little girlfriend and the day he finds out someone has hurt you enough to leave behind a mark is the day he's putting several bullets into the culprit's head.

toji's worst fear, though he hardly discusses it, is losing you and watching you get hurt. god, he practically lives to protect you, and to feel as though he has failed to do so would wound him detrimentally. he's a tough guy, but you make him so soft, and admittedly he wouldn't want to be soft for anyone but you. you're his rock, his little hot head, and he loves you more than life itself.

if you're hurt, he will lose it.

therefore, when he finds out that you're self-harming? oh, he's on the verge of losing his fucking mind.

he does a double-take when you step out of his room and into the kitchen with a towel wrapped around your body, his eyes widening and his brows arching immediately.

now, toji knows your body inside and out. he's explored every inch, he knows every crook, every crevice, every mark, every texture, and he has never once in the six months you have been together seen the red lines over your inner wrist.

he watches you with twisted lips as you grab an orange from the counter before walking back into his direction. you're almost back into the room when toji calls you.

"uh uh," he stops you, and you pause, turning over your shoulder and purposefully moving your left wrist to press into your towel.

"what?"

"come here," he orders and you give him a strange look.

"why?"

"i wanna see somethin'. come here."

you're quick to snap back easily with your own sarcastic retort, clearly in a foul mood over something. "if you want to fuck, can you wait until i'm fully dried off and after i finish this?' you hold up the orange in your other hand, a perturbed look on your face.

"i don't want to fuck, (y/n), i want you to come here."

toji's voice comes out sternly, and on the verge of anger. you survey his posture, his arms leaning over his legs as he cranes to look at you with a suspicious, firm expression. you can tell that he's serious, and a sudden sense of fear overtakes you that you mask with annoyance.

you don't say a word when you slowly walk up to him, crossing your arms over your chest to conceal your wrist, the hand holding the orange tucked under your elbow.

"what is it?"

toji holds out his palm. "give it."

"...my orange?"

"put it in my hand."

you huff, carefully maneuvering your arm around to keep your inner wrist pointed toward your body as you bring forward the orange and plop it aggressively into his hand. toji watches your other arm the entire time, taking clear note of how you refuse to let your wrist show, and you know you're fucked.

the green-eyed man tosses the orange to the side of the couch and holds out his large palm again, eying you intensely. you look down at him with a frustrated frown, shrugging. "i don't have anymore oranges."

"don't be cute, doll."

"what? do you want my hand?"

"you know i want your hand."

you roll your eyes, raising the hand you had held your orange with when he stops you. "not that one. the other one."

your heart pangs, shaking your entire body as he looks to you expectantly. how the fuck had he managed to notice the scar on your wrist so quickly?

the moment you hesitate, he knows that what he saw earlier is something to be concerned about. you normally never hide yourself from toji, and the way you go about hiding your arm now is defensive enough to raise several brows. he knows you're not dumb, too. he knows that you know exactly what he wants to see.

"(y/n)." he cocks a brow, the severity of his demeanor only making you more uneasy.

he can't see. he can't see what you've just done. he'll hate you. he'll look at you like you're crazy.

"what if i don't want to give you my hand?"

"then i'll just grab it for you, and i don't think either of us wants to go there."

you release a trembling, aggravated breath. you can't get away with anything when toji's around, and while you ponder having chosen to get an orange later, you know deep down somewhere you wanted toji to see. you wanted him to help you, which is why you walked out of that bathroom half an hour after having put those scars on your arm.

"hand, now."

you turn your eyes away with a grunt, slapping your wrist into his hand facing downward. toji is quick to whip it upside once he has a grip on you, and his eyes seem to freeze over the sight of three fresh slices on your upper forearm up close.

his jaw clenches, then unclenches, then clenches and unclenches again as his lips twitch and his eyes adjust to the vision. you're hurt. not only are you hurt, but it looks as though you've recently been hurt. you've hurt yourself.

toji has a hard time figuring out what to do. he's not good with things like this, but he knows that seeing you with scars on your arm is quite literally about to set him off. he always imagined having to defend you from others who seek to hurt you, but never having to defend you from yourself.

he can't fathom it. he's struggling, the muscles in his eyes are twitching, and he can't handle it. he can feel his heart begin to race, unsure if he is angry or scared or mortified or devastated.

there are three lines in your arm. bright red. staring right back up at him.

and you put them there?

no way, you put them there.

but you did. clearly you did, or else you wouldn't be looking so guilty right now.

but when did you? how did you? why did you?

he doesn't know what to think. he doesn't know what to say. he swore he'd always protect you, but how does he even begin to try to protect you from yourself?

"are you out of your mind?"

the question leaves him rather calmly, a low inquiry that you are unsure is meant to be directed as an insult or a genuine ask.

you can't look at him. you don't even know what to think yourself. it had all happened so fast while you were in the bathroom, before you got into the shower.

one minute, you were staring angrily in the mirror, cursing your reflection as your wicked thoughts sprouted grubby arms and guided you toward the pair of brow scissors that you kept in your makeup cabinet on the left side of toji's bathroom.

you wanted to feel in control of the disdain you felt lurking within your soul. you wanted to feel something for fear that you would never be able to feel again, and before you knew it, you were dragging the exposed blade over your skin.

"d'you wanna explain why i'm looking at these cuts on your arm, (y/n)?"

and you know, you know that it's a bad sign when toji uses your name instead of the plethora of pet names he normally elects to call you: doll, princess, mama, girl, pretty baby- anything but your actual government name, and when you hear it roll from his tongue under these circumstances, you can only imagine what's going through his head.

you shift on your bare feet, looking down at your toes. "dunno," is all you say, and toji scoffs in disbelief.

"you don't know?" he emphasizes. "that's all you have to say?"

"if you wanna embarrass me, go ahead, toji. seriously, i'm tired."

"what the fuck makes you think i wanna embarrass you? i wanna know why the fuck my girlfriend walked out of the bathroom with cuts on her arm!"

you rip your arm away immediately when he yells, storming back off into his room and slamming the door behind you.

toji jumps up, suddenly frazzled. he doesn't want you alone in there. he doesn't want you out of his sight.

the navy haired man moves quickly to his door and grabs the handle, only to find it locked. he jiggles it harshly and bangs on the door. beginning to panic. "open the door, (y/n)," he shouts, meeting no reply.

little does he know, your back is pressed against the other side as tears crash over your cheeks. you don't know how you expected toji to react, but the look on his face just now and his tone of voice was enough to send you running off.

you feel ashamed, weak. you shouldn't have gone out there at all. you should have waited until you were dressed, discarding the whole idea of letting toji see what you did so that you could suffer in silence without his help, because what help could he truly provide anyway?

toji's a tough man, but he's soft for you. he would stand in front of a moving train for you. he would sacrifice his life for you, so when you don't answer, he imagines the worst.

"open the door," he says again, weaker, tugging desperately at the handle though he knows it won't budge. he knows he could break the door down, and he's prepared to until he hears you sniff amdist his pounding. he immediately stops, face dropping.

fuck.

this is bad.

he knew it was before, but for some reason, it's only now registering how bad this is.

you're in pain. you hurt yourself because you're in pain and you need him, but he doesn't know how to help you. he's never dealt with anything like this before.

his hand slides from the door and to his side, forehead knocking against the door though his other hand remains tight on the handle. he just needs to see you.

"princess," he mutters defeatedly. "don't make me kick this door in."

silence.

"please," he softens even more. "please, (y/n), let me in."

the house falls quiet once more and you give in. you feel so lost, and the only person who can at least comfort you, in his own way, is toji.

you slowly turn to unlock the door and step back as toji opens it swiftly, staring down at you with wide eyes and at least relieved to see that you haven’t done any further harm to your body.

he does, however, see your tears.

his face tightens as he bends down to scoop you up in an instant, your legs and arms tightening around him as you snivel into his shoulder, his large palms sliding over your body. he feels your small body tremble against him as he walks the two of you over to the edge of his bed, sitting down as you cling to him like a koala.

"i dunno what happened," you whimper into him. "i dunno why i did it. i dunno. i dunno."

you say it over and over, your voice as broken as toji feels listening to you.

he wishes he knew what to do. he wishes he was better equipped to handle this, but never in his worst nightmares did he dream that he would find you here, his fiery girl, the love of his life.

he's been so busy trying to protect you from the outside world that he hasn't even thought about the things that could harm you from within.

he stays silent as you babble to him through tears, holding you just like he knew how. he doesn't want to picture those scars on you. he doesn't want to picture what led you to put them there. he just wants to hold you, to at least let you know that he's here and he's not going anywhere. he may not know how to help, but he knows how to love you and he hopes that's enough.

"i'm not letting you out of my sight, y'hear?" he says gruffly into your ear and you nod meekly. "i'm not letting this happen ever again. not as long as i'm alive."

he mentally swears to rid your house and his of any and every sharp object he can find and to throw it all in a safe as you sink into him.

toji knows how to protect and toji knows how to fight. though he's more acclimated with fighting others, if he has to fight to protect yourself from your innermost demons, then hell, he will find a way to do just that.

sukuna ryomen: lord help you and lord help anyone within a fifty-mile radius when the king of curses discovers that you've been harming yourself.

sukuna is not at all very good with his words or his expressions of affirmations. he is a being of action, and he believes that he has proven his love for you enough by simply allowing you to be in his presence longer than anyone else ever has or ever will.

at first, when he sees a scar or two on your leg, he thinks its just an accident or a result of you being clumsy. then, three more pop up, then five, then far more than he's even willing to count, and he decides that this scar pattern is somehow intentional.

he knows no one else has marked them onto you because he is prepared to kill anyone who comes too close, especially if they have ill intentions. if you were in danger at someone else's hand, he would be the first to know and the person meaning you harm would be dead before they could even think about touching you.

therefore, when he sees that the only person normally within your company is him, uraume, and yourself, the process of elimination leads him to you.

he goes about confronting you rather harshly, as well, for he knows no other way to be.

you're out in the garden of his large residence one day, soaking up the sun, when you hear familiar, loud stomps heading your way from behind.

you turn around and squint to peer up at sukuna, who is standing over you with a menacing glare in his crimson eyes. you don't necessarily find this out of the ordinary, so you greet him as usual.

"hi, kuna," you say sweetly. "you good?"

he is not good. not at all, so he gets straight to the point. "come inside, woman."

you quirk a brow. "why? i just got out here?"

"do not question me."

"can it wait, like, fifteen minutes?"

"do you wish to live in the next fifteen minutes?"

you sigh, entirely too used to sukuna's facade of cruelty around you. you know by now that the king of curses would never dare to hurt you.

"i do intend, to live, yes," you smirk.

"then you will come inside as i have demanded."

"no, sukuna. i want to stay out here for a bit. i've been inside all day."

the pink haired man fumes, teeth grinding together in agitation. he doesn't want to delay this conversation any further than it has already been delayed, but of course, you choose to be difficult.

"very well, we will do this out here," he growls and you smile.

"good."

you don't prepare yourself for when sukuna grabs the back of your chair and whips out around to face him with the unpleasant screech of the legs against the cobblestone. you wince, then retract your face when sukuna lowers his to stare at you from mere centimeters away, one of his arms grasping to push up the lose leg of your shorts up to reveal the set of scars littering your skin.

your eyes go wide, his movements too quick for you to process all at once.

"are these your doing?" he hisses and you gulp.

"s-sukuna-"

"i did not ask for you to say my name. i asked if these scars are your doing."

his eyes are piercing, striking directly into yours. "what are you talking about?" you whisper shakily.

"are we going to pretend like you're an idiot now?" he snarls. he's so mean, but he feels it's for good reason. your body has been tainted, and for some reason, you have been doing the tainting. he needs to know why.

you shake your head weakly. "no..."

"then answer me properly. i will not repeat myself a third time."

you bite down on your lower lip, heart ringing in your ears. you didn't even know sukuna paid attention to you enough to catch wind of something like this.

"yes... i did this," you finally tell him, and sukuna is livid.

"and why would you be doing something so foolish? scars are not something you are meant to give yourself, human."

"please don't be a dick, sukuna, not right now."

"i am asking a perfectly reasonable question and i expect you to answer it," he glowers. "now."

"you wouldn't understand if i told you," you frown and he clicks his tongue.

"stop assuming things of me before i lock you inside of my room where you can not escape or even fathom doing something like this to yourself again under my supervision."

you curl your brows, frowning up at your boyfriend. "if i tell you, you'll call me foolish."

"because this is foolish," he grunts. "but i will not if my doing so will get you to fucking explain yourself."

you shake your head, looking down and contemplating before deciding to just get it over with so that he can stop putting you on the spot. "sometimes i just feel shitty," is all you elect to say.

but sukuna is hardly satisfied with this response. "so you choose to inflict pain upon yourself instead of calling upon me?"

"i told you, you wouldn't understand," you say. "it's not something i can easily explain to you either."

sukuna narrows his eyes. "fine."

he lowers himself to grab you legs and throw you over his shoulder. you squeal, grabbing onto his back as he begins to walk you back into his home and toward his room. "sukuna!" you kick your legs around. "put me down!"

"no. you're coming with me, and you're going to sit and talk me through every single thought that has crossed your little mind to make you think that injuring yourself in such a way is tolerable within the walls of my residence. then after that, you'll come with me everywhere i go from this point on."

"what?!" you exclaim from where you hang upside down. "I don't wanna go everywhere you go," you wine.

"too bad. you should have thought of that before you decided to harm yourself."

sukuna is horrible with words, and far more horrible with expressing his concerns, but despite your temporary discomfort with how he goes about approaching the situation, you can still see in the pinch of his brow and the stiffness of his posture, combined with his refusal to let you go without a proper explanation, that he cares very deeply for your wellbeing.

[veejiez]

tattoartist!suguru losing nonchalance when reader flirts with him?

im down bad for him holy hell

Oh, he's falling to pieces, got it bad for the girl he just met 'n he's gonna make a drunk little bet — y'think he's crazy enough to get your name tattooed on him? Or crazy enough to ink his name into your skin?

ㅤ★ wc; ~3k

ㅤ★ note; continuation of tattoo artist Suguru Geto!

ㅤ★ an; aaa!! you got my brain whirring like a laptop... tysm and i hope this makes u blush and kick ur feet as much as i did while writing!! 🍰✨

ㅤ★ tagz; @ohimsummer 💗@fairiesthrum💗 @heartofjasmina 💗 @kwonan 💗 @ghost-buddies 💗 @madamecorbie 💗 @mima0127 💗 @moggleatlife 💗 @natasaa13 💗 @yemmuishomeforthementallyunwell 💗 @wakashudou 💗 @khaothick 💗 @candy-s72 💗 @creamflix 💗 @starriesworlds

ㅤ★ warnings; sum alcohol/drunkenness

“So, was she joking, or am I your type?” Suguru asks, black eyes staring right into your soul.

“Mm, well…” you hum, giving his form a look-over – god, if only you could feel how hard his heart’s beating when you do this. “Maybe.” You reply teasingly.

“Aw, just ‘maybe’?” he groans, now leaning his hip against the edge of the display case that housed the studs and gauge earrings.

“Yeah, just ‘maybe’ – I’m teasing. No, she wasn’t joking; I’ve always had a thing for the black hair, black nails, bad boy look…”

“The ‘bad boy’ look…?” he questions, recalling what your friend had said earlier about bad boys being just your type.

“Yeah, the ‘bad boy’ look.” You giggle.

His heart beats even harder, muttering a naughty little “Well, lucky me.”

“Nah, not so fast – I’m a smart woman.” You warn.

“Oh, are you?” he clicks his tongue in defeat, “Damn, would you believe that my type is smart women? No, no I’m serious… I’ve got a thing for smart women.”

Your cheeks grow hot, the heat spreading to your ears.

“I can assure you that the ‘bad boy’ look is just an aesthetic; I’m really an artsy dork making a living off doodling on people’s bodies.” He shrugs.

“Hm… maybe, maybe not.”

You rub your lips together. He briefly licks his bottom lip. You look him up and down. He looks you up and down. Body language open and alive with attraction, the both of you stand in this air of electric tension that Shoko spies from the other end of the room.

She watches as the two of you giggle like little flirts, observing how totally absorbed the two of you are in each other’s company. When you catch her eye, Shoko gives you a wink and points at her wrist, mouthing “five more” – fair enough, the two of you have promised to get pizza.

Pizza first, boys later, right?

Five minutes more go by – adding to the total of four hours spent at the tattoo & piercing parlor. But despite her discomfort and need for a change of scenery, Shoko decides to linger around just a little longer so that the two of you can indulge in each other just a little more.

But now you're getting nervous – Suguru has you breathless, holding you in a battle of who can flirt harder? which you're starting to lose.

He's captivated by you. This 6’3, tattooed, goth-grunge, slightly dorky man chuckles and smiles like he hasn’t had this much fun talking flirting with someone in years.

It's going well, then your smile trips him up. I know, it’s always the smile, huh? If you see enough of it, you slip… and that’s exactly what's happened to Suguru. He quickly grows obsessed with the way your cheeks look when you smile – the image burns into his memory without him even realizing it in the moment.

No, in the moment he doesn't realize the magnitude of your effect on him. He's just thinking about himself, about you, about —

“I’ve gotta go,” you say goodbye finally, “I don’t want to keep my friend waiting. But you’ll probably see my face here again… she loves dragging me along for these kinds of things.”

He stutters, “Oh! Oh… yeah – yes. Of course. Looking forward to it… maybe next time, you’ll be the one getting ink in your skin.”

“Yeah right.” You smile.

It’s your French exit that makes his heart throb in need.

No, don’t leave yet… I like you – don’t you ever wonder how many acquaintances in your life have thought this when leaving your company? And you’ll never even know.

Oh, Suguru was thinking so hard about asking you to exchange numbers or to meet up for coffee, but he didn’t want to come off as too forward – no, no… he had to maintain his mysteriousness. Or at least, he had to cling to whatever was left of it after revealing his inner dorkiness to you.

*****

After you leave, he wanders in and out of his studio, has small interactions with his co-workers, and doodles ideas for tattoos down.

Throughout all of these things, your face is at the forefront of his mind. Your voice echoes in his head as he recalls every detail of the conversation you two shared. Then he starts smiling softly as he applauds himself for being so gutsily flirty with you… a stranger, just someone, who he probably won’t see again…

A girl with no name.

God, why was he so slow? He didn’t even ask for your name. Suguru groans.

Yes, he probably won’t see you again… not unless your friend brings you along for her next visit. How long does he have to wait? Weeks? Months? That’s insane.

Suguru stops doodling, stares at the scrap of paper, and then looks up at the wall displaying his works. He rubs his fingers back and forth across his mouth.

I gotta.

He looks over to his phone. He reaches for it, takes it into his veiny hand, unlocks it, and scrolls through his list of contacts.

And then he dials his client’s number. Shoko Ieri.

*****

Now, it’s been just under an hour since you and Shoko left the tattoo parlour. She’s complained three times about the pain because exactly three times she has leaned back on the seat – squishing the fresh ink wound against her chair. You just cruelly laugh at how her eyes twitch in pain and each time.

The two of you sit eating pizza.

“He liked you. Why don’t we go back and you ask him for his number?” she teases.

“No way… he’ll think I’m too forward.” You shake your head.

Then three minutes later, Shoko's phone goes off. She reaches into her backpack. She looks at the caller ID, then at you, then at the caller ID, then –

“… is that him?”

“It’s him.”

“What’s he calling for! Me?”

“Absolutely he’s calling for you – I can bet gold on that.”

It stops ringing. She tells you she’ll text him back but guess what? She doesn’t even need to, because he calls again.

“Relentless.” She giggles. “I’m answering.”

“Pretend I’m not here!”

She winks at you and answers, “Hey, Suguru, what’s up?”

The two of you lean in until your foreheads press together – it’s still hard to make out every word.

“Yo.” You hear his smooth voice coming from the other side, “Sorry to bother you… (muffled)… your friend (muffled)… so embarrassed, so don’t tell her that I’m calling… (muffled)… what was her name?”

You clap your hand over your mouth when you hear those snippets.

She gives you a devious look before saying, “Oh! Well, she’s right here with me, actually, so you can ask her yourself.”

Mouth full of pizza, you freak out and X your arms to signal a fat NO WAY SHOKO! and fall to pieces all with the taste of pepperoni on your tongue.

But she just hands the phone over to you anyways, then proceeds to silently laugh as you spit out your pizza before talking.

“Hehlooo?”

“H-hey.”

You get right to the point. “My name’s Yn…”

“Oh… I like that… I’m Suguru.”

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you.”

“Suguru. Suguru Geto.” He raises his voice.

Cheek hot against the screen of his phone, Suguru is silently freaking out at the tense silence. He can feel his stomach starting to flip. His mind blanks.

“Anyways! Um, that’s all.”

No. That’s not all. He has a novel’s length worth of things to talk about with you.

At this point, Shoko rolls her eyes at the two of you being so awkward on the phone and decides that she needs to take matters into her own hands.

So she snatches the phone from you.

“ – Suguru? Say, you wouldn’t be free on Saturday, would ya? Yeah, I’m going on a date with this guy… and I’d love to make it a double date with you and Yn if you’d like to –”

You hear him stutter out a yes, absolutely before Shoko can even finish her sentence. She grins.

Suguru can sense that the two of you are smiling and giggling. He can predict that the two of you are probably going to gossip about him being the 'dork from the tattoo parlor that called not once, but twice for the name of a girl he just met' – but he doesn’t care. He’s been presented an opportunity and taken it.

To hell with seeming too eager.

When the call ends, Suguru blows out a breath through his lips. Then he promptly texts his best friend. Dark strands of hair slip out of his sloppy bun as he puts his face over the screen, thumbs swift and eager.

Toru 🤞😜 lol bravo... but i thought u said she was out of ur league??

Sugu i mean... yes. she's way too pretty and smart for me. but i'm not gonna pass up this opportunity

Toru 🤞😜 still can't believe u called ur client just to get her friend’s name... lol

Sugu you would understand if you met her ok

Toru 🤞😜 damn she must be something else

Yes, yes you are something else — Suguru can’t even begin to describe why. Translating his thoughts into words isn’t his thing; he translates them into art.

****

It's later in the day. You're lazing around Shoko's apartment.

She confirms the time and place of the double date, and cackles on her couch while kicking her feet, teasing you for being so crazy about a guy you just met – her tattoo artist.

You just couldn’t stop talking about Geto Suguru.

“Shiiit, should I even let you and a bad boy like him be alone in a room together?”

“I can control myself.” you assure her.

She slowly shakes her head at you.

“Yeah right… but can he? I don't trust neither of you... miss crazy and mister crazy... you might just wake up with his name in your skin.”

You giggle to yourself, biting your thumb. “Maybe…”

“Oh girl…” she groans, causing you to giggle into yourself, “You’re gonna be licking the tail of his dragon tattoo by the end of the date tomorrow.”

“H-h-he has a what? And where?” you stuttered, lashes quivering.

She shakes her head at you. “God, you’re screwed…”

*****

It's Saturday night. The bar's more alive than ever.

You've learned that Geto Suguru does, in fact, have a dragon tattoo inked up his toned arm – and a tight-fitting black tank top that shows it off along with his martial artist’s physique, too.

He’s got a glint of the devil in his black eyes. Softly-delivered dirty jokes ready to roll off his pierced tongue. A habit of tilting his head and looking hungrily at your lips and neck.

“Martial arts, huh?” you ask with stars in your eyes.

“Mhm, I could teach you a few things.” He purrs in reply.

Your stomach starts squeezing and flipping – that’s got to be the flirtiest 'mhm' that you’ve ever heard in your whole life.

“You think so?” you purr back.

Now it’s his turn to feel that squeezy, flippy feeling in his stomach.

Fuckfuckfuck is all he could think when he looks into your eyes.

I’m gonna fall to pieces. You’re gonna be the death of me.

“Uh…  do you two need some privacy?” Shoko teases.

Oh. It’s a double date. How could you forget? Shoko is literally sitting beside you at the bar with her date. But for a second there, it really felt like it was just you 'n this deliciously tattooed bad boy.

“Maybe.” Suguru chuckles coyly.

“There’s a hotel just next door…”

“Shoko!” you scold, playfully shoving her arm.

She giggles into herself, sipping down her cocktail innocently as if she didn’t just electrify the air between you and Suguru. His throat’s tensing, foot’s tapping up and down on the bar stool – boy’s got long spider-legs, huh?

Now after that, Suguru grins wider – showing off his pretty canines – his posture assuming something self-soothing; he holds his elbows, arms squished against his ribcage, which just makes his biceps more pronounced. Oh why, why did he have to wear a tank top like that? Surely he’s aware of the effect it has on girls. Or maybe he’s oblivious…

Nah. He's not.

*****

“Did it hurt?” you ask, trying to blink out the tipsiness from your love-drunk eyes but you’ve got three cosmopolitans surging through your veins.

“Not really… I’ve got great pain tolerance.” Suguru replies.

“Oh really?” you blink up at him again and his mind goes blank.

“Look at that...” He murmurs softly, not breaking eye contact with you. Where’s your friend and her date? Who knows. It’s just you and him now – and that’s all he wanted.

“Hm?”

“Not every day I see eyes like that…”

You widen your lips into a smile, “You’re laying it on thick.”

“Am I? Sorry – see, this is what happens after you feed Suguru too much rum. I just can’t keep my mouth shut.”

“That’s terrible… need someone to shut ya up?” you flirt.

He tilts his head at you, loose strands of hair shifting across his cheek. His left brow quirks up – he’s so taken aback by your forwardness but he falls right into it.

You just giggle flirtatiously after making that comment and pull the straw of your drink between your lips, sucking the remnants of a cosmopolitan into your mouth as sensually as you dare to in front of a bad boy who’s got bedroom eyes on you.

“I think I could do with some shutting up…” he admits.

“Mm,” you hum, “y’think by our third date you’re gonna snap and kiss me hard like we’re in a movie?”

Suguru smiles bashfully and looks down into his drink, swirling the melting ice cubes with a straw – slowly, round and round, they clink. Then he draws his gaze back to you, catching you with a sultry side-eye, and now it’s not just the ice cubes that are melting.

“Nah-uh…”

“Nah-uh?” you question.

“… I think it’s you who’s gonna snap first.” He says.

“Wanna bet?” you tease.

“Sure. What’ll be at stake?” he asks.

He keeps his sultry gaze on you as you look off to the side in thought for a moment. Your friend’s joke echoes in your mind.

“… you might just wake up with his name in your skin.”

Then you look back to him – his heart throbs but he’s trying to keep it together here, pulling his straw to his lips to get a sip of whatever rum still exists in his glass.

“Loser gets a regrettable tattoo?” you suggest.

He looks at you with a little bit of disbelief at your boldness.

“How regrettable?” he questions, one eye squinting shut in suspicion. He's wondering just how wild you actually are.

“Like my name on you? Or vice versa.”

He covers his mouth and lets out a chuckle hearing this. “You want me to tattoo my name on ya skin?” he teases. “Sure, I’ll bet on that.”

You can’t believe that he’s matching your crazy.

You stutter, replying only after a lingering moment of hot eye contact, “… there’s no way I’m gonna snap first…” you say boldly, proceeding to pop the cherry of your drink into your mouth and eating it right in front of the poor boy’s eyes. “ ‘m gonna have you walkin’ around with my name on you.”

Eyes glued on your lips, his breath catches in his throat.

“Yeah?”

Ooh, there it was. That feeling. That body singing electric songs feeling… that tummy-tightening, blood-rushing, skin-flushing feeling – it hit him all at once. He knows that if he were standing, his knees would have buckled now for sure, or at least he would have felt the tremor of your words under his feet.

He’s unsteady – smiling uncontrollably, looking dishevelled and softly drunk. Those rouge lips are begging to be kissed.

The bar grows quieter and quieter.

You’re hardly able to call each other anything more than strangers, and yet you’re leaning into him, closing the distance.

The tips of your noses are just inches apart now. You’re in each other’s air. He eyes out your lips, feels your hot, liquor-scented breath tickle his face.

But when you try and close the distance, he raises his hand and presses his thumb against your soft lips, stopping you.

“What happened to that bold statement, huh? Keep it together, baby; the bet’s on.” He feathers against your face.

*****

Tumbling into Shoko’s apartment after a night out drinking, you smile and giggle into the pillows of her bed.

She’s letting her hair down and swapping out her tight dress for jammies when she looks at you in your gleeful state.

“Someone’s in love.” She teases, coming over to tickle you.

“I’m not in love!”

“Oh, quit the act; I saw how the two of you said goodbye – you could barely hold yourself together. Drunk or not, I ain’t seen two adults giggling like that before.”

“Sh!” you swat her, “Not! In! Love!”

She takes a look into your eyes and observes your smile, then shakes her head. You're drowsy, so you make a dive into her bed and fall asleep almost instantly.

Shoko pulls a blanket over you, affectionately ruffling your hair.

“Madly in love, at the very least.”

[gingerteawrites]

SAVE ME, SAVE YOU - NANAMI KENTO

A/N: I was fighting real demons (writer block) while writing this chapter, y'all. Thank you so much for all the love on the previous parts and for everyone keeping up with this, I appreciate you all so much🥹.

Synopsis: Getting isekai'd into the world of jjk was not on your bingo card. But presented with the opportunity to save your favorite character's life, there really is no turning back.

Navigation: Previous part here <<—>> Next part loading...

Content: Nanami x female reader, transmigrated reader, sfw, we see lots of the jjk cast, angstttt. 4.5K words

ACT IV

“Get excited kids!!!” Gojo’s voice booms across the wooden panes of the small classroom, his comical smile standing in direct contrast to the students’ deadpan expressions. Being the eccentric teacher was a big, big responsibility. One that he dedicated his entire being to.

And unfortunately, the energy was not always reciprocated. A second of silence passes. Then another excruciating one.

“I saiddddd, get excited!” He repeats, graciously extending them the opportunity to correct their reaction when a chair comes flying at him, stopping an inch from his face as it collides with the rippling barrier of his infinity.

“Get to the point, old man,” Maki’s expression remains firm beneath her lenses, unafraid to say what everyone else thought. “Nobody has the time to waste on your shenanigans.”

“Killjoy.” A pout upon his glossy lips, Gojo set the chair down with a wave of his hand before clearing his throat. “Well,” he claps his hands, expression turning just a smidge more serious. “We are gathered here today to welcome a new member to our lovely Jujutsu high.”

“A new student!? Fushiguro, we’re getting a new classmate,” Yuuji taps the raven-haired boy's shoulder, earning himself a deeper scowl than that which already adorned his face.

“Is it a girl?” Nobara perks up.

“A girl? Is she pretty?” Panda is up, ears twitching with curiosity.

“Salmon roe,” Inumaki’s arms are crossed over his chest, brows raised.

“There goes the enthusiasm!” Gojo’s battery is loaded all the way up, arms wide open to the sky, as if an old prayer had been answered. “Give a warm welcome toooooo…” his voice draws out, akin to that of an announcer before a boxing round, “____-san!!!!”

All eyes fix on the door when it is quietly slid upon, and then upon your figure with every step taken into the room, which is as intimidating as it is familiar.

Last time you had managed to make your way over to the campus had been under the cover of darkness—a clandestine mission to obtain the power that you now possessed. But stepping into the space, now filled with all the people you had grown endeared to while watching the show awoke a completely different feeling in your heart.

One that soared and spiralled, and utterly mussed every clearly aligned goal you had set for yourself.

You’d never imagined that asking for Satoru’s help would land you in the role of instructor at Jujutsu high. You’d barely had your abilities for a few months; what exactly did he expect you to teach these kids?

Above all, this was a detriment to your sole purpose which was to save Kento. Observing from afar had allowed you to hone in this goal, undistracted by your affinity for the rest of the cast.

You decision had been to make you sole motivator in this story Nanami Kento, but it only takes a second for your eyes land on each of the kids—for their fates to dance before your eyes with the swiftness of blood-stained silk fluttering in the wind—and that pernicious kindness takes root.

What kind of monster could watch all the atrocities waiting to knock on these kids’ doors and not do anything?

Before you can overthink yourself into a hole, you bow politely, reminding yourself of time and place.

“Hey everyone, my name is ___. I’ll be helping out as one of your instructors.”

Mouths fall open.

The words strong and pretty are whispered shyly into the air.

You can’t help the flutter of giddiness that emerges from your heart. It had been long since you’d felt something so light.

Mobilizing jujutsu high’s talent might have been the best idea you’ve had.

A few weeks have passed, the preparations for the Kyoto Sister Exchange school intense as ever.

In the sun-drenched expanse of grass near the school’s training grounds, the first and second year students are sprawled, limbs heavy and aching from hours of labor. Especially with your hand-on-hand combat drills, from which you had afforded them a short respite while you dashed off to fetch refreshments.

“Kugisaki!” Yuuji groans, scowling at the girl who shoves him again.

“You’re in my spot, dummy!”

“Last time I checked, you didn’t have your name on it—” his complaint is interrupted by another kick, directly in his side this time.

“I said move!” She only grows more irritated, until he’s forced to crawl away so that she could settle next to Maki.

“Y’all need to stop before _____-san yells at us again.” Megumi lazily stares at the bunch, sitting a little further away. Ever the recluse.

The form of a large cloud drifts over the group, offering momentary reprieve from the assault of the sun on their senses.

“She’s so nice though,” Yuuji comments, finally getting over the firm hit he ate from Kugisaki. “She only yells when we’re being genuinely annoying.”

“She’s unpredictable, that’s the problem,” Maki turns towards the rest of the group, one arm resting over her knee. “One second she’s docile and the next she feels terrifyingly strong.”

“Her cursed energy output is erratic too,” Panda sneaks in to plop on the group, who loudly protests when his warm fur hits their already-overheating bodies. “Hehe, sorry guys,” he rolls off, and sits up without missing a beat. “But yeah, I have no understanding of her cursed technique. She’s not a part of any major clan either, so she must be terrifying in actual combat.”

“Does anyone actually know what grade she is?” Nobara inquires, leaning over Maki’s shoulder.

“Bonito flakes.” Inumaki replied with a shake of his head.

“She has to be at least a first grade though,” Panda mutters, eyes solemnly closed. But then, a sly smirk takes over his animalistic features. “I wonder if she and Gojo-san would be a good match?”

A chorus of noooooooo! erupts among the small group. Talk of romance always had a way of exciting imaginations.

“She’s way too good for him!” Nobara declares with a firm expression. “He couldn’t take himself seriously even if the world was ending. Their personalities don’t match at all.”

“What if she’s into women?”

“I think her and Nanamin would get alo—”

“—Am I interrupting something?” Your presence looms over the small group, hands planted firmly on your waist and a bagful of popsicles clutched between your fingers.

The students stumble over themselves, muttering excuses, but you only smirk at them, throwing over the goods.

“Take five to enjoy the popsicles. After that we’re running drills.”

“The objective of today’s mission is to retrieve Sukuna’s finger and exorcise any neighboring curse. Our team has already placed a veil over the old estate…” Ichiji’s droning unfortunately enter one ear and slip right out of the other.

How even could you truly focus?

When Nanami Kento himself sat in the backseat right next to you. Close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating from his pristinely suited-up self.

Another deviation in the storyline.

Nanami was never sent on a mission to find one of Sukuna’s fingers.

“...Both of you, please be careful. In the worse case scenario, you will be faced with a newly realized special grade curse.” The conclusion of the man’s speech brings you back to consciousness.

“I could have worked on this by myself,” Nanami echoes, making your neck snap so your eyes landed on his face.

Stern.

Calm.

Utterly displeased.

He doesn’t return your gaze, only addressing Ichiji once more. “I mean no disrespect, but it is unheard of for multiple high grade sorcerers to be assigned to a mission like this one.”

You are right, you almost breathe out. But instead, you opt on hiding the disappointment brought about by his displeasure by facing the window.

This was Satoru’s doing; pulling strings to indulge your wishes.

The ransom I require is someone’s life. Your past words echo in your mind. The very objective you’d been killing yourself for.

You were now in the best position to achieve this; closest to Kento, where you could protect him. There was no way on earth you would let him feeling grumpy stop you.

“Whether or not you could have been by yourself doesn’t matter anymore, now does it?” His eyes widen when your voice echoes in the confines of the moving vehicle.

You had harbored a quiet, almost nervous energy during the entirety of the ride from jujutsu high. But now, detachment laced your tone, the reflection of your face on the window staring back at him. “We’ll focus on getting the work done and getting back in one piece.”

Well, that was certainly easier said than done.

Special grades were a challenge. One you’d faced many times, but had somewhat gotten used to over your grueling time traning yourself.

But special grades who were fueled by the essence of Ryomen Sukuna were something else entirely. You were effectively trapped within the veil, now fortified by the curse into an inescapable cage.

A crude domain, but powerful enough to be a threat.

The only way out was to exorcise it.

You adjust roughened gloves over your fingers; the leather at the knuckles chipped to the point that it exposed raw, bleeding skin. Nanami had since lost the tan jacket, cursed weapon in one hand and tie wrapped around his other hand. Your eyes linger at his side, where a deep gash tints his blue shirt with a shade a crimson, almost purple in their mix.

“I’ll create an opening,” he instructs, standing but a foot away from you. Across from your pair, the curse prances around the gigantic dance floor, distorted smiles pulling at its grotesque lips. Perfectly amused by your efforts to defeat it. It pisses you off. “You look for a flaw in the structure of the barrier while I attack it.”

Your brows furrow immediately.

“You want me to leave you here.” Your assessment cuts right through.

“At least one of us can get back safe that way. I’ll hold out until you get backup,” His gaze remains fixed ahead, unaware of the rage that was starting to churn deep within you.

“Out of the fucking question.”

Your cursed energy is molten lava before eruption; bubbling over in anticipation of a mighty explosion. Ready to smother an entire civilization.

The overwhelming feeling of it pouring right out of your fingertips causes Kento’s eyes to widen, seeing the anger pulling at your being.

“Stop trying to die, Nanami Kento,” you grit out, the words ripping at your heart and his all in sync. The deliverance you dreamed for him was not to be obtained through his suffering. Death was not the portion to be afforded after a life of miserable toiling. “I will not allow that.”

A declaration sealed in fate.

A last warning before lunging at the curse, who had in turn, grown impatient with the fight.

It takes an instant, but the curse deploys its power such that the grand floor muddles into an all-engulfing sludge. You jump and land on one of the pillars still stading, closing your eyes to focus your breathing.

You feel Nanami’s presence still close to where you left him. He was still bleeding from his wound, and a lot.

Your eyes snap open, unleashing Amplify such that your cursed energy pours out of you in erratic waves. The curse’s deformed eyes widen as it moves to take a step back. But it is far too late to rewrite its fate.

Your eyes are almost glazed over, with a single focus taking seat in your heart, engraved onto your soul and entending right to the tip of your fingers.

You rip the curse right through the center, and Sukuna’s finger falls to the palm of your hand.

Like pieces of ash sent to the wind, the barrier crumbles around you, leaving the dilapidated estate behind.

In front of you, Nanami crumbles to his knees.

“Can you stop being so stubborn and just let me take you to Shoko?” You grit out, Nanami’s arm looped around your shoulder, walking slowly through desolate streets at the outskirts of Tokyo.

It was late enough that you didn’t need to look at a clock to know that anyone would hardly answer a call. Still, being this close, feeling his skin right on yours. Feeling the way he held back from putting his entire weight on you, despite how utterly spent he was. That was enough to make your heart hurt.

“Damnit,” you curse under your breath. You had tried healing him, but using RCT on someone else was a completely different playing field than using it on yourself.

And with his cursed energy spent, coupled by the fact that you were returning space devoid of curses, your own strength had begun to dangerously dwindling.

“You don’t need to be doing this. I could call a cab to get home by myself” He groans out, wincing with every word uttered.

“And bleed out in the backseat? I doubt you'd ever be allowed in one again after that.” You pull at him so that he gives you more of his weight, even though his figure already towered over yours.

You wouldn’t let him be hurt and be alone anymore. Not on your watch.

The trek back to his place takes everything out of you, especially when faced with the mountain of stairs that led up to the 7th floor.

He fumbles with his keys before you grab them from his hands, unlocking the door to a dark apartment. You both stumble over to the black leather couch that faces the small TV, finally letting your body feel part of the exhausting it ached with.

Nanami flops on there entirely, breaths laborious and eyes shut. It takes you but a moment to find the switch for one of the smaller lamps, considerate to not offend either of your eyes with overhead lighting.

“Do you have a first aid kit?” you lean in close, whispering the words so that his eyes open slightly to focus on your frame.

“Second drawer by the window.”

You’re off in an instant, quickly fetching the equipment and making a detour in the kitchen for more supplies. You return and sit on the floor by his side, eyes swirling with concern when they land on his body once more.

Your fingers find the fabric of his shirt, tugging slightly before you remind yourself to ask. “May I?” his response comes with a weak nod, and you free it from his waistband before undoing the buttons and revealing the expanse of his chest and abdomen.

The injury is not an large as you had feared, but it sat right atop barely-healing stitches.

How was he even able to move? You bite your lip at the realization of how much pain he must have been enduring, even from the beginning of your fight together.

And despite that, he had still insisted on shielding you from the beginning. On taking the lead and creating openings for you to escape.

“Self-sacrificing fool,” you mutter, biting harder to prevent yourself from tearing up. You wet a clean cloth you had found in the kitchen and begin cleaning the surface of his wounds before he can question your statement.

Pain shootes through his being and he winces, a groan resounding low in his throat. Instantly, your fingers pull away from the wound and land on his cheek in a soothing motion.

“M’sorry, sorry, sorry,” pacifying words leave your lips. “’I’ll be quick, I promise. Just hold on for a bit.” Your promise is kept, featherlight touch working through his injuries, stopping the bleed and mending the torn flesh.

Brief, but enough time for the man to regain the better part of his lucidity. He sits up despite his worried gaze, leaning back against the couch with another groan.

“Get up, please,” you didn’t realize you were still on the floor, giving a quick nod before settling a safe distance away from him on the couch.

Nanami breathes once more, eyes gazing upon your being with a clarity that had been absent for the better part of the evening. Settling on your fidgeting fingers, on your nervous eyes and even on the slight tension in your muscles.

A deeply familiar disposition.

The body language belonging to one who had been holding back tears. His heart is torn open, beset with an emotion that he couldn’t quite name amid the confusion. Why on earth did you care so much? What made you think he was worthy of saving, like you had done today?

“Thank you,” rather than seek answers now, he settles on extending an olive branch. “And my apologies for being curt earlier.”

“I understand why you were annoyed,” you breathe with a slight chuckle. Being sent on a mission with one who was essentially a stranger couldn’t have been pleasant. “But I appreciate you apologizing.”

A few moments of awkward silence pass, and you have to distract yourself by observing the surroundings.

Now under the warm light of the single lamp, the apartment came to life. A modest place with sleek furniture and clever design choices, but decidedly cold.

The kind of place clearly used for only the barely necessities. Work, eat, sleep, rinse and repeat. Nanami’s cycle took shape in the empty corners of the room, a shadow of a life lived on autopilot.

A man merely surviving. What could you ever do to show him that he deserved to live a life awake?

“I’m going to shower,” his announcement pulls you out of your trance.

“Alright, let me whip something up before heading out,” you’re up and heading to the kitchen. You know you’re probably overstaying your welcome, but you weren’t settled enough to leave him quite yet. The selfish part of you, the one that rejoiced at the contact of your skin on his, at his gaze on yours, still demanded more. “Call out if you need any help, okay?”

You hold his gaze until he nods and turns away, taking tired but careful steps toward the bathroom.

Finally alone, Kento breaths a long, tired exhale. Today had been a long, painful bout of confirmation. Confirmation of his own weakness in this world that was rapidly devolving in mind-numbing insanity. He was watching himself become obselete; a first grade sorcerer in a world where anomalies of power could easily trample him underfoot.

And you.

You who shook him to the core—who looked at him as if he was the entire world.

But also you, whose actions spoke louder than words. Whose fierce protectiveness resulted in an absurd display of power.

You were built for this world.

And it didn’t take an idiot to see that you belonged among the greats; the few that jujutsu society deemed worthy.

Did you have a domain? The one thing denied to him by the jujutsu dieties? Had you been delivered into perfection yet?

Before he can dwell any more on his inadequacies, Kento leans against his sink, pristine porcelain stained by the dried blood on his fingers. He catches the reflection in the mirror.

Once again, that strange, tired man stares back at him. Looking like death itself, despite starting to feel some life seep back into his limbs. His gaze falls to the floor, avoidant.

I need to wash up, he repeats in his mind, exerting every ounce of will to start undressing.

His hands fumble with his belt for way too long until it slips off and to the ground, and the routine is repeated with the tan pants, now dyed a messy shade of brown and red. The challenge comes with the socks. Treacherous little things that he laid just beneath his reach.

The very thought of bending down lit his nerves his pain.

That doesn’t stop him from trying, though.

And try he does.

Over and over again, until his breath is labored and his eyes sting with tears.

Fuck.

Why was he crying now?

Was it the sheer weight of exhaustion? Was it the fact that the man in the reflection looked like he was on the verge of breaking? Or was it simply the possibility of assistance that stood just beyond the door.

Call out if you need help, okay?

Your name falls from his lips before he can deny himself the one grace. A quiet, almost broken call that has you flush against the door in not even a minute.

“Kento?” your call is soft. Reassuring in a way that has his pulsing heart calming down. How could you evoke such a feeling of safety within him already? “Everything okay in there?”

“I—” he clears his throat slightly, realizing how much his voice betrayed his brokenness. “Need help with something.”

“Alright, I’m coming in,” you give him a moment before pushing into the bathroom. You find him resting against the sink, body slightly hunched with the weight of fatigue. Your eyes remain fixed on his face when you walk further into the bathroom, catching him by the shoulders. “Here, let’s rest for a bit first.” With the gentlest of tugs, you help him sit on the toilet, putting some weight off of his aching side.

“Better?” your voice is soft, fingers planted on his shoulder in a soothing motion.

He nods, not trusting his voice in the moment.

“What can I help with?” Your eyes remain on his, a focus almost strong enough to make him forget about how exposed he was.

“Socks.” He breathes through his mouth, slightly lifting his legs as if presenting the object of his misfortune. Your fingers fall on him like a caress, slipping into the soft cotton material and then pulling them away.

“I’ll get the shower going too, if that’s okay,” another nod has you moving about the bathroom, collecting various necessities and keeping them at arm’s length for when he gets out of the shower. After a couple minutes of busying yourself, you quietly slip away, leaving little room for awkwardness.

Leaving him no time to notice your cheeks burning from the sheer intimacy of the moment.

“I’ll be out here if you need anything.” Your voice resounds beyond the now closed door, a final sign for Nanami to get off his ass.

He struggles in the shower for what feels like hours, but the warm water on his skin feels like a rebirth. A baptism into new life, washing away the grime, the dirt and even some of the loathing. A deep sense of gratefulness washes over him too, knowing that everything he needs is within reach when he’s done.

How ever could he repay this debt to you?

Finally out of the bathroom, his sense are welcomed by the warm scent of tomato soup and grilled cheese. You set it down on the table, before looking at him, a sheepish smile pulling at your full lips.

“Your fridge didn’t have much to work with, so you’ll have to excuse me if this is mid.”

He chuckles under his breath, a sound that you don’t miss.

You don’t seem to miss anything when it comes to him.

“I am grateful for any food.” You reach for him when he starts wobbling over, wordlessly helping him sit on the couch. “You really didn’t have to stay. I’m sure you’re exhausted too.”

“You don’t need to worry about me, I wasn’t as badly hurt as you.” You try to brush him off with a wave of your hand. But he remains unconvinced.

Your heart almost stops beating when his fingers wrap around your hand, pulling the digits closer for inspections.

“Your knuckles are still hurt from earlier.”

You have almost entirely forgotten how to breath. If he notices, he makes no remark of it. Only trails his thumb over them once before letting go.

“I don’t understand why you care for me like this,” spoon in hand, he tastes some of the soup. The fruit of your labor. Filling his heart more than his stomach. “You look at me with unsettling affection. Just like that day at the cafe.”

Now your heart truly stops.

He’d recognized you.

He’d remembered you.

Half of you wants to panic. What if he thought you were a creep? A stalker? What if he was about to ask you to stay away from him? What if he was about to declare his disgust towards you?

The irrationality of your fears doesn’t escape you, but that doesn’t stop you from feeling it.

So you do what you do best. Shove it away.

“What is your dream, Kento?”

The question seems to catch him somewhere unguarded. He watches as you lean back into the cushions, your body sinking into them as though exhaustion has finally claimed its due. Your eyes flutter shut. A long breath leaves you, slow enough to fill the silence between you both like a tide rolling over still water.

“Mine is to watch someone finally relax,” you murmur. “To breathe in the sea salt carried by the wind, and let the weight in their shoulders melt away. To know that they are deserving of the peace.”

Your eyes open then, finding his.

There is a sorrow in them so tender and immense it unsettles something deep within him.

“I think,” you whisper, “I want to rest too.”

The confession leaves you feeling flayed open, your heart laid bare between his hands before he has even chosen whether to hold it gently or discard it altogether. Shame prickles hot beneath your skin.

Was it too much? Too strange? Had you crossed some invisible boundary you could never step back over?

But he only stares at you.

And then Resonance blooms again.

It moves through you like the strike of a tuning fork against bone.

The signatures of your cursed energies answer one another instinctively—his deep and endless as still water beneath the earth, yours aching and fever-bright, pulsing like a wounded heart. They tremble at the same frequency until the space between you disappears entirely.

An unbreakable bond.

The terrible, beautiful completion of what began in that café, when you’d feared with quiet horror that you were stealing something from him merely by being near.

His gaze remains locked on yours, holding a contradiction so profound it steals the breath from your lungs: bewilderment and understanding intertwined so tightly they become one and the same.

Your hearts beat in parallel.

And somewhere beneath flesh and bone, your souls begin to echo each other.

-----------------

I hope I didn't get too lost in the poetry sauce with the ending hehe. Please comment if you want to be added to the taglist

Reblogs and comments are much appreciated (❁´◡`❁)

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[sweethearticism]

𝐀 𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒. ( ♡ 𝚃𝙾 𝙳𝚁𝙸𝚅𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙾𝙻𝙳 𝙼𝙰𝙽 𝙲𝚁𝙰𝚉𝚈 )

𝚂𝙰𝚃𝙾𝚁𝚄 promised himself that he wouldn't touch you, his newly arranged wife. but he swears that you're trying to give him a heart attack with how bad you want him, someone twice your age.

꒰ age gap (40s/20s) :: arranged marriage :: suggestive ꒱

𝓞𝙻𝙳𝙴𝚁 𝙲𝙻𝙰𝙽𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙳!𝚂𝙰𝚃𝙾𝚁𝚄ᅠ🌷͏͏♡ ͏͏ᅠ𝓐𝚁𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙶𝙴𝙳 𝚆𝙸𝙵𝙴!𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙴𝚁

Satoru should have known you'd be a problem from the moment you said I do.

You were nothing he expected, everything he wanted, and something he couldn't have.

He knew he was in trouble from the day you flashed him those pearly white and crooked your head at him so cutely. Fresh out of your wedding ceremony and sprawled across your now shared bed. Waiting for a man with more creases settling into his skin than years to your name.

He sat still on the bed's edge. Quiet.

"You okay?" You asked. Sweet, sweeter than his scars deserved.

"Y'know," he drawled, cocking his head to mimic you. "You're awfully calm for a girl who just got married to someone old enough to be her dad."

He should have known the clan would pull something like this. Unfortunately, he could not outrun his elders. Forty four and without an heir was a stain on their name.

And now, you're here. Sweet, pretty, young you.

Smiling at him as if he hung the stars in the sky.

"Well," you intentionally mimicked his drawl. Huh, so you had spunk?

The mattress dipped beside him. Your soft knees brushed on his thigh's side. Your hands looked softer. Delicate. Probably fragile in his scarred ones.

"I guess that's right. You're twice my age— buuuuut."

Warmth bubbled in his side as you nudged him. A smile on your strawberry balmed lips.

"You seem nice enough." A dramatic? Sigh. "Real handsome too. Wouldn't say you're pushing fifty at all."

He blinked.

You stretched, still smiling. "Experienced, attractive, rich— what more could a girl ask for?"

His brows shot up. In all of his years as the Strongest, Satoru could only count on one hand the number of times in which his breath hitched.

You'd be responsible for it becoming two hands. Three, even.

What, with the way you batted your eyes at him at the dinner table. How you hung off of him during meetings.

It was odd. Not what he was expecting in the slightest. You should feel disgusted. Or unnerved.

He was your father's age.

Hell, his hands were wrinkling.

So why. The hell. Were you more into this than he bargained for?

"Don't you want a guy your age?" He scoffed at you one day during dinner.

You arched your brow. Huffed as you fixed one of your golden hoop earrings.

"Now why wouldn't I want my lobster buttery?"

Yeah. That's when he realised you were crazy.

Or maybe that should have been only a few days after your wedding, when he walked in to the sinful sight of you lounged on the bed. Silk kissing your soft skin. Teasing.

In a baby blue. Lingerie.

"What the hell are you wearing?" His hand covered his eyes. Over the blindfold. Not that it mattered. His six eyes knew what it wanted to see.

"A surprise for my husband." You smiled.

It felt like a taunt. He slept on the couch that day.

You were a little too excited about the thought of giving yourself away to a man who had finished school by the time you were born. A little too eager to press against his aging skin.

"We're married." You'd claim.

"Am I so wrong for wanting you?"

Of course not. But he sure as hell wasn't going to let your first time be with someone like him.

Not to mention the day that you—

"Remember how I said you're suppeerrr rich?" You cooed.

Satoru stared down at you. Mapping the morning sun that caressed half of your face in the dining hall.

His arms folded, the white fabric of his haori tucking against his chest. "Yes?"

He couldn't help but drawl, amused. Because his pretty arranged wife was full of surprises.

"Well, I was wondering."

Satoru really should keep his infinity up around crazy girls like you.

Your delicate fingers surged sparks into his veins. Your softness pressed into every inch of him.

As your hand treaded his bicep, so his sanity threaded. Thinned.

Doll eyes. Oh fuck. Why were you giving him doll eyes? Stop that.

"Could you maybe. . . spare your wife a little gift?" You asked.

Sweet.

Sinful.

The devil sure was pretty.

He cleared his throat, but he was still thirsty. Starving, even. White lashes hung low over blues as he watched every inch of you.

"What do you want?" He asked.

You leaned closer than he should have allowed you to. Pouted.

"There's this new pair of shoes on the market. Real pretty. Pink. I think it'd look soooo good on me."

"Yeah? That why you married me? For my money?"

"Well I could always work for it."

Your hands traced to his chest. That's where he should have stopped you.

He didn't.

You were nothing he expected.

Everything he wanted.

And something he couldn't have.

"Sweetheart," the words dripped dark. His brow quirked. Your fingers were getting a bit too comfortable with his haori ties.

His eyes hung heavy. Voice heavier.

"You know I've got scars older than you, right?"

It was meant to scare you off. But Satoru should have known better.

Again. He should really put his infinity up around crazy girls like you.

Instead of flinching. Or wincing. Or even curling your lip— you smiled.

Fucking. Dazed.

Were those hearts in your eyes?

Your fingers fiddled with his belt. Your giggle slipped into a sigh. Too dreamy. Too sweet.

"Yeah?" You hummed.

He laid a hand over yours. Gentle, because that's what pretty things deserved. But firm, because they never listened either.

Pulling you away, Satoru shook his head with a deep sigh.

"Anyone ever tell you you're crazy?"

Your pout returned. "So is that a yes to the shoes and a no to the sex?"

"Yes."

"Well, can you call me sweetheart again, then?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose. As you hung on his arm with those big, bambi eyes of yours. Oh, he sure had his hands full with you.

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised. divider: @/cheriisoda.

꒰ 🌷 ⸰  ✦ enjoyed this piece?   ꒱ consider joining my patreon or commissioning me <3 I appreciate all the support!

[gojosconsort]

︵ ೀ mdni. being anxious around suguru the first time you undress in front of him

suguru notices the moment you start shutting down.

you’re both on his bed, clothes half-gone, and suddenly you’ve gone quiet. too quiet. your arms are crossed over your chest even though he hasn’t even touched you yet. your eyes are squeezed shut so tightly it looks painful.

“hey,” he murmurs, voice low and gentle. he stops moving immediately. “talk to me.”

you swallow hard, voice small. “can… can we keep the lights off? and can you… maybe not look at me too much?” your words crack at the end. “i’m sorry. i know it’s stupid. just… please.”

suguru’s heart twists.

he’s seen you anxious before, but never like this. not when it comes to being bare in front of him. you look so small, curled in on yourself, lips pressed together like you’re trying not to cry.

“it’s not stupid,” he says softly. he reaches over and clicks the lamp off, leaving only the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains. the room falls into gentle darkness. “nothing about you is stupid to me.”

he stays on his side of the bed for a moment, giving you space. then he asks, careful and patient, “can i come closer?”

you nod, eyes still closed.

suguru moves slowly, like you’re made of glass. he pulls the blanket up over both of you, covering you to your chest. only then does he gently tug you into his arms. your body is stiff at first, trembling slightly.

“i’m right here,” he whispers against your hair. “we don’t have to do anything tonight if you don’t want to. we can just lie like this.”

you shake your head, voice barely there. “i want to… i just… i feel so ugly right now. like if you see all of me you’ll change your mind.”

the words hit him harder than anything ever could.

suguru exhales shakily and presses his forehead to yours. “listen to me,” he says. “there is nothing about you that could make me change my mind. not one single thing.” his hand finds yours under the blanket and laces your fingers together. “you’re safe with me. always.”

it takes a long time for you to relax even a little. suguru spends it kissing your knuckles, your wrists, the inside of your elbow—every place he can reach without pushing. he whispers how beautiful you are, how much he loves the way you laugh, how your voice calms the noise in his head. he tells you he’s not in any rush. that he would wait forever if that’s what you need.

when you finally whisper “okay… you can touch me,” he still moves like you might break.

his hands are reverent. slow. he maps your body with gentle palms, never lingering too long in one place, always checking your face even in the dark. every time you tense he stops and kisses you until you melt again.

when he finally slides inside you, it’s careful and deep and so full of love it hurts. you’re still anxious, still hiding your face in his neck, but he holds you like you’re the most precious thing in his world.

“breathe, baby,” he murmurs, hips rocking slowly. “i’ve got you. just feel me. just us.”

you cum with a soft, broken sound, tears slipping down your cheeks. suguru follows right after, burying himself deep as he whispers your name like a prayer.

afterwards, he doesn’t pull out right away.

he stays wrapped around you, one hand stroking your back in slow circles while the other wipes your tears away with his thumb.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper. “i ruined it.”

“you didn’t ruin anything,” suguru says, pressing kisses to your damp cheeks, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. “you trusted me with something scary tonight. that’s the opposite of ruining it.” he pulls the blanket higher around your shoulders and tucks you against his chest. “i love you. every part of you. the anxious parts too. especially those.”

you let out a shaky breath and finally relax fully in his arms.

suguru keeps holding you long after your breathing evens out, heart aching with how much he loves you. he presses one last kiss to your forehead and whispers into the dark:

“i’ll keep you safe. always.”

[aquasprings]

➽─────── gojo…fumbled you. ───────❥

access the verse here!!

a/n~ thank u to the brilliant anons and comments who wanted me to continue the verse but with the other frat guys!! introducing the gojo verse 😉 enjoy!!

the party is already loud by the time they get there, bass thudding through the walls so hard the apartment feels like it’s shaking. choso stays close to his girlfriend, hand hovering at the small of her back and she keeps smiling at him, soft and reassuring like she always does, and it settles him a little. she’s throwing a party to celebrate end of midterms, something “lowkey”, but it very quickly spun into fifty people crammed into her apartment.

gojo, on the other hand, is already plotting. “i’m telling you,” he says, leaning back against the kitchen counter like he owns the place, hand holding a red solo cup. “tonight is light work. i could walk into any room here and leave with, dunno, minimum three numbers.”

geto snorts from beside him. “three? aim higher, satoru. you’re getting lazy.”

“i’m pacing myself,” gojo shoots back, grinning. “quality over quantity.”

“you just said three.”

“three quality numbers.”

choso’s girlfriend rolls her eyes with a smile. “you’re insufferable.”

“i’m charming,” gojo corrects, already scanning the room, gaze flicking from group to group like he’s window shopping. “there’s a difference.”

that’s when she spots you.

her whole face lights up and she slips out of choso’s arms, weaving through people until she reaches you, and suddenly you’re both laughing about something, arms looping together.

“guys,” she calls, tugging you along, “this is my best friend, y/n.”

you step into the circle, smiling carefully. “hey, guys. hi, choso."

choso gives you a shy nod. “hi, y/n.”

geto smiles, polite but curious. toji barely acknowledges you, already halfway to the drinks.

gojo doesn’t look at you at all.

he’s too busy craning his neck over your shoulder, eyes darting past you like you’re just another body in the way. “minimum three numbers,” he repeats without looking, patting geto on the shoulder. “suguru. i’m seeing options.”

your mouth twitches. “wow,” you say, dry as dust, “don’t all look at me at once.”

gojo finally blinks and slowly he drags his gaze down to you, and his tongue feels thick in his mouth because shit.

you're the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.

shit, and you're standing right in front of him.

there’s a beat. “huh.”

you raise a brow. “riveting response.”

geto’s mouth quirks. choso’s girlfriend looks between you two like she just lit a match and tossed it into dry grass, and she facepalms.

gojo straightens, like he’s recalibrating mid-conversation, suddenly he's aware he’s been talking at full volume about “quality numbers” in front of you.

“sorry,” he says, recovering fast, flashing that easy grin. “didn’t realize i was being introduced to—”

to someone who looked this good, he wants to say. someone like you.

“someone with ears?” you cut in.

gojo’s mind backtracks for a split second before grin sharpens. “—someone this rude.”

“only rude when i’m annoyed.”

“so all the time?”

“only when people earn it.”

they stare at each other for half a second too long, something sparking, quick and bright and a little dangerous. choso’s girlfriend claps her hands once awkwardly. “okay, perfect, you two can fight later. y/n, drink?”

you nod, letting her pull you toward the kitchen again.

gojo stands there, a little awe-struck. he stares at the space you just occupied, mind still catching up to the present.

geto leans in, voice low. “three quality numbers, huh?”

gojo doesn’t answer. he’s still staring at where you disappeared into the crowd, like if he looks hard enough he can rewind the last thirty seconds and not sound like an idiot.

“…shut up,” he mutters finally, scrubbing a hand over his face.

your friend pours you a drink with a smirk. "so? thoughts?"

"the white-haired one's an asshole," you grumble.

she laughs immediately, bumping her shoulder into yours as she slides a drink across the counter. “gojo? he is, but like…a manageable one. he's actually really sweet. you get used to it.”

“i don’t plan to.”

“mm.” she hums into her cup, watching you over the rim like she knows something you don’t. “we’ll see.”

you take a sip, eyes flicking back out into the living room. unfortunately, the pest is already looking.

gojo doesn’t even pretend to be subtle about it. he’s half-turned toward the kitchen now, cup dangling forgotten in his hand, gaze locked on you and his lips twist into a small smile.

you narrow your eyes slightly.

he straightens instantly, looks away fast. suspiciously fast. for a guy who just spent ten minutes talking like he’s god’s gift to women, he suddenly looks like he’s been caught committing a crime.

you watch him for another second, unimpressed, then turn back to your drink.

“you’re staring,” your friend sing-songs under her breath.

“i’m not.”

“you literally are.”

“i’m observing,” you correct, taking another sip. “like a case study. frat boy in his natural habitat.”

she snorts. “and what have we learned so far?”

you glance over again, just in time to catch gojo pretending to be deeply invested in a conversation with geto, nodding way too seriously at something that definitely isn’t that interesting.

“he’s a fraud,” you say simply.

“ouch.”

“did you hear him? ‘three quality numbers’?” you mimic, lowering your voice into a lazy drawl. “who says that out loud, for fuck's sake."

"well, he didn't think you were listening."

“that’s the problem. he doesn’t think.”

as if summoned by your words gojo looks over again. this time when your eyes meet he freezes for half a beat before he forces himself to walk over, running a hand through his hair.

you sigh quietly. “here we go.”

he stops a step too close, like he misjudged the distance, then leans back awkwardly to compensate. “hey.”

you blink at him. “hi.”

there’s a long, long pause.

toji and geto watch from across the room, snickering.

gojo clears his throat. “so. uh.” he gestures vaguely between you and choso's girlfriend. “you’re… her friend.”

“incredible deduction,” you say flatly. “did you major in that or is it natural talent?”

your friend elbows you lightly. "y/n."

his mouth opens, then closes, before his grin flickers back, a little less steady this time. “you’re mean.”

“you’re observant,” you shoot back.

he shifts his weight. “so what’s your deal?”

you tilt your head. “my deal.”

“yeah, like—” he waves a hand, searching for words that don’t immediately make him sound stupid. “what you’re about.”

“i’m about not giving my number to guys who treat parties like a shopping spree.”

gojo’s ears go a little pink. “that’s— okay. that’s not—”

"oh, it's not?" you tilt your head, stare unimpressed. "cause swear that's what you were yelling about five minutes ago."

“…okay,” he says slowly, like he’s trying to rebuild a sentence from scattered lego pieces. “in my defense, i was not yelling at you specifically.”

you blink. “that’s worse.”

“no, wait—”

“you were yelling at the concept of women in general?”

“no,” he says faster, then winces at how that sounds. “i'm not like that."

you tilt your head slightly. “you introduced yourself like that.”

gojo opens his mouth, and nothing comes out. he closes again.

since when am i at a loss of words?

"you're very articulate," you say, taking a sip of your drink, severely unimpressed.

“i’m usually more articulate,” he says, and immediately hates how that sounds.

you give him that same, blank stare. "sure," you say, flat.

there’s a beat where his brain tries to catch up to his mouth, but they’ve clearly stopped coordinating. he tries again. “i just mean—i don’t usually—i’m not like...stuck on words.”

“you seem pretty stuck now.”

gojo exhales through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair again. you're still looking at him like that - all unimpressed and unfazed. like you don't care that he's satoru gojo.

it's a new feeling, and humiliatingly effective.

because you’re still looking at him like that.

“you’re just...you’re really hard to talk to.”

your expression doesn’t change, but something in your eyes sharpens. “that’s a you problem,” you say simply.

silence again.

he’s not used to silence like this. usually there’s someone filling it for him. laughing, reacting, leaning in. you just stand there, existing,

it makes him feel weirdly off-axis.

from somewhere behind you, a guy calls your name. “y/n! you coming to play?” the guy asks, nodding toward the living room where people are setting up some drinking game.

you glance at him, then back at your friend, who's curled up against choso's arm. “yeah,” you say, already stepping away from gojo like the conversation has naturally ended. “i’ll come.”

just like that, you're gone into the crowd. no look back at him.

“wait,” gojo says, too fast.

you pause briefly, look at him over your shoulder. “what?”

he opens his mouth and nothing comes out again.

for once, there’s no punchline ready. no smooth recovery. no stupid confidence parachute.

just him stupidly blanking. “uh,” he manages finally, then clears his throat, tries again. “nothing.”

you give a small shrug like he’s already been filed away as unimportant, and turn back to follow the group.

gojo stands there, arms limp at his sides.

geto strolls up beside him, sipping his drink. “that went well.”

“shut up,” gojo says automatically, but it’s weak.

geto glances toward the living room where you’ve already disappeared into the crowd. “she’s too pretty for you.”

"shut up," he repeats.

the rest of the party feels like slow motion. the music's still loud, people are still chattering, but his attention keeps snagging back in one direction.

you.

he keeps catching flashes of you between bodies. your laugh when someone says something stupid. the way you lean in when you talk, like you actually mean your words. the way you fix your hair, or how your tongue darts over your lips.

it’s irritating.

it’s worse than irritating.

it’s distracting.

a girl slides up to him sometime later, glittery eyes, thick fake lashes and a practiced tilt of the head. “hey,” she says, hand brushing his arm like it belongs there. “you’re gojo, right?”

“yeah,” he says automatically, still looking past her shoulder.

she leans in a little. “i’ve seen you around campus. you’re kind of hard to miss.”

“uh-huh,” he replies, eyes flicking again.

she laughs softly, clearly taking that as encouragement. “you wanna get out of here? it’s kinda loud in here.”

“maybe,” he says.

she blinks. “or we could just go now.”

“yeah, maybe.” he doesn’t mean to sound bored but you just walked past the kitchen again and someone said your name and you smiled and it did something annoying to his brain.

the girl follows his gaze this time, sees you. then looks back at him, slower now. “oh,” she says.

gojo doesn’t notice the change in her tone, he’s still half watching you across the room like he’s trying to figure out what you’re doing and why it looks like that matters. what guy you're talking to. who's making you smile like that.

“so that’s what this is,” she adds, voice flattening.

he finally looks at her properly. “what’s what?”

she lets out a small, offended laugh. “never mind.” then she scoffs, sharp and unimpressed, and turns on her heel. “weird,” she mutters as she walks off.

gojo stares after her for a second, confused, then immediately looks back for you again.

“dude,” toji calls from the kitchen counter, watching the whole thing like it’s entertainment. “what happened to three numbers? that chick was into you.”

“i didn’t—” gojo starts, “she wasn’t—”

“interested?” geto finishes lightly, leaning against the counter beside toji. “she was, until you spent the entire time ogling y/n like there was no other person in this room.”

gojo tries to laugh it off, but it comes out distracted, thin. his eyes flick again, instinctively, toward the living room, where you were moments ago, but you're gone now.

where'd she go?

his chest tightens with something he doesn’t name.

“i think,” geto says slowly, watching him, “you might be cooked.”

“i’m not cooked,” gojo says immediately.

toji raises an eyebrow. “you look cooked.”

“i’m fine.”

“you were staring at her like a lost dog,” geto adds, amused.

gojo finally tears his eyes away like it physically costs him something. “i wasn't staring.”

a beat.

toji just hums. “mm.”

"where's choso?" gojo says, rubbing a hand down the back of his neck. "haven't seen that guy for most of tonight."

"eh, i saw him talking to his girlfriend on the balcony a bit ago," toji says, pointing to the sliding back door.

"cool, cool," gojo mutters, pushing his way through the crowd to the back, where choso and his girlfriend are indeed standing, talking to a few guests. (well, choso's standing behind her, holding her hand, and she's animatedly chatting to the group).

she spots gojo and waves. “hey,” she says brightly. "what's up?"

“hey,” gojo replies, slower than usual.

choso glances up. “you good?”

gojo hesitates. “yeah. where’s y/n?”

choso's girlfriend blinks. "oh. she left, like, two minutes ago."

something in gojo’s expression shifts before he can stop it. “left?” he repeats.

“yeah,” she says, oblivious to the way his tone changed. “said she was tired. she had work early tomorrow or something.”

he looks past them again, instinctively, like maybe she’ll still be there if he just checks harder.

choso watches him for a second. “you didn’t notice?”

gojo scoffs lightly, too quick. “i noticed. i just thought she might've been talking to you guys, or something.”

choso shakes his head. "sorry."

gojo's head rushes. how could you leave without him talking to you more? he hand't even gotten your number. he didn't know anything about you.

"fuck," he grumbles, rolling his head back.

your friend stares at him, small smirk playing on her lips. "i'll tell her you're deeply concerned about where she's gone."

"no!" gojo says quickly. "i mean, erm. no, it's chill. i'll see her around."

she hums under her breath as gojo walks away, slumped in defeat.

"gone?" geto asks from inside.

"gone," gojo confirms, slumping back against an empty chair. "i'm so fucked."

"if it's any consolation, she wasn't into you," toji says, and gojo glares at him.

"that doesn't matter. i fumbled," the white-haired man complains, dropping his hand against the side of the couch.

geto smirks. “you didn’t fumble,” he says calmly. “you tripped, fell down a flight of stairs, and took out the railing on the way.”

toji snorts. “landed face first, too.”

“shut up,” gojo mutters, dragging both hands down his face. “i didn’t even get a chance to recover. she just left.”

“you had, like, an hour,” toji points out.

gojo sits up straighter now, shrugging toji's comment off. "i'll just see her again."

toji snorts. “and do what? give a powerpoint apology?”

“i don’t need a powerpoint,” gojo scoffs. “i’ll just talk to her. properly this time.”

geto’s smile is small, knowing. “and what makes you think she’ll give you that chance?”

gojo pauses then his mouth tilts, something sharper returning, something stubborn. “she will,” he says.

toji huffs. “based on?”

“because she didn’t ignore me,” gojo says slowly. “she could’ve. she didn’t.”

geto watches him, intrigued.

“she stayed,” gojo continues. “she argued. she kept talking. if she actually didn’t care, she would’ve just walked away way earlier.”

toji considers that. “…hm.”

gojo glances up, a little more confident now. “and she looked back.”

“once,” toji says.

“still counts.”

geto lets out a quiet laugh. “you’re building a whole thesis off crumbs.”

“it’s a good thesis,” gojo insists.

“it’s a delusion,” toji says.

“it’s optimism.”

“it’s desperation.”

gojo rolls his eyes. “you guys are so negative.”

he leans back again, arms spreading along the back of the couch, staring out at the party that suddenly feels way less interesting. “i’ll see her again,” he repeats, more to himself this time. "i have to."

toji glances at geto, then back at gojo, smirking. “yeah. you’re cooked.”

gojo doesn’t even argue this time. "i'm not fumbling again."

taglist <3 :

@your-nightmaredoll @eiaf4uwn @authortheclown @universalstarfly @candytoothless @maliciousmountainprophecy @hyperfixation-dot-gov @fallensoxul @ydkobitoo @cutiepie14 @pompomballsfromouterspace @just-moix @perfectly-myself23 @sluticzxtss @v4mp1r3b4tzz @wolf-monkey @kjovn @gloryyofthesnow @creamofsneky-blog @tojirin @undedin @valberryboos @notanimpokay @tsnataly @ssushi @frickpickle @glitt3rpuss @hannahzg8 @pinkmanz-grl @artbligh

[philcollinsenjoyer]

about 90% of fanfiction takes place in a utopia where men are thoughtful and unsure of their place in the world

[razorberries-art]

✨ Say Hello To My Little Dipper ✨ Watercolor & ink painting ◦ Available

[kaiserresque]

Molecular romance

One awkward smile, two 'study mates', and a love story that’s chemically inevitable.

Synopsis: You only stopped at his science fair booth out of pity—but the tall, nervous guy with crooked glasses and a galaxy model has other plans.

Satoru Gojo is brilliant, awkward, and talking a mile a minute about black holes like it’s the most romantic thing in the world. You weren’t looking for a tutor. Or a crush. But he’s got stars in his eyes—and maybe, now, so do you.

Pairing: Nerd!Gojo Satoru x reader

Genre: MDNI, College AU, Fluff, Slow-burn-ish, Smut

Prologue: Space boy down bad

Part 1: Tinder and other forms of torture

Part 2: Extra credit

Part 3: Pillow talk

Part 4: Tipsy terror

Part 5: Just a seat, right?

Part 6: Misread signals

Epilogue: Loading...

Taglist is open

[dreamcubed]

the alchemy | oliver wood x reader

song; the alchemy [taylor swift] pairing; oliver wood x fem!ravenclaw!reader genre; f2l, fluff, humour word count; 2,4k timeline; chamber of secrets warnings;swearing, referenced masturbation, not canon compliant summary; in orderto help oliver wood pass the time while quidditch is cancelled, you offer to help him in the dating scene

why the FUCK did this take me so long to write? omfg

masterlist

"where's the trophy? he just comes running over to me."

——————————————————

With a basilisk roaming rampant, quidditch had been cancelled until further notice. You didn't claim to understand the motivations behind such a decision: surely everybody was safer if they were all together down on the pitch for a match? But, you didn't play, so you idly moved on with your life.

Someone who had not taken the news so easily was the Gryffindor quidditch captain: Oliver Wood. Upon hearing such news, he had stormed directly to McGonagall's office and given her an earful that surely must have made her deaf. His yelling could be heard on that entire floor, and gossip could reach even further. You had chuckled at the news, but some pity for the man lingered. Quidditch was his passion to the point he ate, slept and breathed it. And, now, assuming the basilisk was taken care of by the end of the year, he only had one more year to win the cup.

You weren't close to him despite being in the same year, as you resided in Ravenclaw, but you supposed that you moved in similar social circles. And maybe that was the reason you halted in your tracks when you arrived down at the Black Lake to do some reading.

Oliver Wood was stood there at the edge of the water, skipping stones with so much force that it could hardly be called skipping. He would grunt when he threw one, causing it to do one or two pathetic skips before sinking below the surface. Clearly, he was brimming with rage, and it didn't take a genius to figure out why. His anger had not remotely dissipated in the many months since the cancellation was put in place.

"Wood," you said simply, making him snap his head around. Your approach had been far from quiet, so he really must have been consumed in his thoughts for you to take him by surprise.

"L/N, what are you doing here?" he asked gruffly, scouring the grassy shore for another flat stone.

"It's my favourite reading spot," you replied, moving to sit under your preferred tree, which wasn't far from him, "I take it you're frustrated?"

He threw another stone, "How could they cancel quidditch?"

"My guess would be because there's a giant snake on the loose trying to kill students?"

"So? How does cancelling quidditch make that less likely?"

You sighed, but you couldn't disagree, "I think that parents would probably criticise if the school carried on like nothing was happening."

"If anything, everyone needs something to be happy about at the minute."

You slumped back against the tree trunk, "I agree with you, Wood, just playing devil's advocate."

He turned around to look at you properly, "You don't even play quidditch, why do you care?"

"I don't," you said honestly, "But you've got me thinking about it now."

"I'm just so angry," he seethed.

"I can tell."

Wood pulled his hands down his face and sat carelessly down on the grass in front of you, "It's all I care about."

"Sounds like someone needs a stress reliever," you couldn't help the suggestive undertone you added to your words, even though that wasn't what you meant.

"Like what?" he eyed you curiously.

You shrugged, letting the flirty smirk on your lips drop, "How would I know? I don't know what you do to relax."

"Quidditch."

Such a response made you laugh, "Anything else? At all?"

He shook his head.

"Well, you sleep, don't you? Eat? Is that not relaxing?"

Wood's expression could only be described as skeptical.

"Masturbation?"

By the way he started choking, your casual statement had caught him off guard, which made you laugh again.

"Sorry," you giggled, "Just wanted to see your reaction."

You saw him let out a slight chuckle.

"This is what I do to relax," you held up your book, "It's not my passion, per se, but I enjoy it."

"I can't sit still long enough to read."

"Well, if you're a movement kind of guy, do you work out?"

He nodded, "I just spend the entire time thinking about quidditch and get angrier, though."

You hummed, "Makes sense, you probably work out for quidditch."

Wood nodded.

"Well— sounds like you need to do something that has no connection to quidditch."

"Like what?"

"I don't know," you shrugged, "Try dating?"

He furrowed his eyebrows, "I don't have time to date."

"You do now."

"I wouldn't even know how to go about that."

You let out a laugh at his words, "Practice on me. Ask me out on a date."

He raised an eyebrow, but sighed and nodded, "Hi, you're Y/N, right?" He thickened his Scottish accent, which admittedly made your stomach flip. "Well, I think you're really pretty, and I was wondering if you'd want to go on a date with me?"

"Not bad, not bad," you chuckled, "A little cliché but could work. Who d'you have your eyes on?"

"Uh, no one?" he said slowly, "The only girls I think about are the ones on my team."

"Okay, what about one of them?"

"They're all at least two years younger."

You hummed, thinking about the girls you knew, "How about Penelope Clearwater?"

He shrugged noncommittally.

"Esmeralda Arachwood?"

"Who?"

You sighed, "Have you really never fancied anyone?"

"Other than famous quidditch players I've never met, no."

"We can work with that, then. What's your type? Hair colour? Eyes? Height?"

"I don't know."

"You're useless," you shook your head, "Okay, I'm gonna set you up with Clearwater in Hogsmeade this weekend."

"What? You can't do that," he frowned at you.

"I can and I will. Get her flowers, pay for the food, all that mushy romantic stuff."

Wood groaned.

***

You sat in the courtyard, waiting for the carriages to return from Hogsmeade with students in tow. After much persuasion, you had managed to get both Wood and Clearwater to go on this date, and were anxious to learn the results of your meddling. So, when the line of chariots approached, you stood up and witnessed passengers begin to disembark.

Only, when you caught sight of the potential couple, Clearwater was storming away from Wood after throwing the flowers on the ground. She stomped right past you, muttering, "Thanks a lot, L/N."

Shocked, you turned to Wood, who was slowly nearing you.

"What the fuck did you do?" you asked.

"Apparently I spent the entire time talking about quidditch, and didn't ask her one question."

You stared at him incredulously.

"And, then, when she pointed that out, I said quidditch came before love."

At his words, you damn near face-palmed. "Fuckin' Azkaban, Wood."

"I was nervous, okay? And when I'm nervous, I think about quidditch."

"Right, we'll try this again. Only, I'll give you some guidance and prompts this time."

"Can we please stop this? I don't think dating's for me."

"You cannot conclude that after one date."

Wood rolled his eyes, "Fine."

***

Despite your extravagant and elaborate attempts to train Oliver Wood for his date with Arachwood, he once again failed spectacularly. Surprisingly, quidditch was not the issue this time— rather the fact that he accidentally let a door swing into her face and then kept walking without realising. For ten metres.

While Esmeralda was treated in the hospital wing, you were starting to wonder if Oliver truly was a hopeless case. It did not make sense to you, though, because he was handsome and athletic, he had a charming accent, and he was kind. At the end of the day, he had only one major red flag: his insane obsession with quidditch and everything that came with it. Having spent a lot of time with him now, you could safely say that ninety percent of what came out of his mouth had something to do with the sport.

The other ten percent was him complaining about your matchmaking schemes.

However, those schemes came to a vicious halt when the basilisk was successfully taken care of, with enough time left for all teams to prepare for a final quidditch tournament. All matches were to take place over the course of a week: Ravenclaw vs Slytherin, Gryffindor vs Hufflepuff, then winners played each other, and the losers did the same.

Needless to say, Oliver was ecstatic, and as he excitedly told you all of this, the words you had planned to say to him died in your throat. It warmed your heart to see him so truly happy, but it hurt at the same time. You had come to enjoy his company and his rants, and now you were going to lose them. That, and for some reason you felt salty that he had never once been that joyous around you.

"I just— I can't believe it," he beamed, "I have to gather the team right away. We can't stop practicing."

"Have fun," you half-smiled, but it was clear that your heart wasn't in it.

Oliver frowned, "What's up, lass? Something wrong?"

You shook your head, "Nothing, don't worry. Go, practice."

He still did not look like he believed you, but he nodded and left nonetheless, and you watched him walk away with a heavy heart and even heavier hurt.

***

Oh, you loved him.

The realisation hit you like a Killing Curse, as you listened to your dorm mate talk about her boyfriend like he was the greatest thing to ever happen. As she gushed and gushed, annoying your entire dorm, it dawned on you that you thought of Wood the exact same way she thought of her boyfriend. You had to fight the urge to join her by talking about him the same way, and such a conclusion made you sick to your stomach. Both out of the ickiness of viewing a man on such a high pedestal, but also because Wood was far too obsessed with quidditch to even consider you in a romantic light. You had witnessed firsthand how little interest he had in dating.

And now? Now your blossoming friendship would likely disappear into nothing as his time was once again taken up by his one true love. Maybe it was for the best. You probably wouldn't be able to get over him if you still spent time with him.

How had you fallen for him anyway? He was handsome, and intelligent, and funny, but you had zero proof that he had been listening to you when you talked about yourself. Never once had he overly expressed interest in your life and your hobbies.

Rowena, you were so stupid. A classic lovesick fool.

***

"L/N!" that achingly attractive voice called as you left your shared lesson, the first time he had spoken to you in a few days.

Unable to ignore him, you paused and turned around.

"You didn't come."

"Didn't come where?"

He frowned, "You didn't come to my match. We beat Hufflepuff— we're playing Slytherin for the Cup tomorrow."

You hummed, "Yeah, well, I'm not a Gryffindor or Hufflepuff. Why would I go?"

Wood appeared to contemplate your words for a few moments, "Yeah, but— I was playing."

You raised an eyebrow, trying your best to maintain a cool and unbothered façade. "So?"

"We're friends, aren't we?"

Friends. That word made you want to vomit. "Yeah, I— I guess. Sorry."

"You'll come tomorrow, won't you? Please."

"If I manage to finish my—"

"Ancient runes essay, yeah, I know. Godric, you've been going on about it for weeks."

You had actually only mentioned it twice before, and the fact he remembered was the smallest glimmer of hope that he did listen to you.

"How far off are you?"

"Oh, just the conclusion," you attempted to say casually, but the became distorted in your throat.

"Perfect, please come! It won't be the same without you."

You didn't see why, but found yourself agreeing.

***

The stands of the stadium were roaring with excitement and adrenaline, shaking the wooden structures as people chanted and jumped. Almost everyone was in attendance of this match, likely rejoicing in the basilisk fiasco being over and using the tournament as a celebration. You watched Wood as he hovered by the hoops, his careful eyes never leaving the quaffle that was being passed between the chasers.

Everyone knew that when it came to Slytherin vs Gryffindor, it was really Slytherin vs everyone. Nobody wanted the green house to win except the residents themselves.

Even when Slytherin took the lead in points, the buzz and hope of the opposition did not cease, as there was still Harry Potter— the best seeker that Hogwarts had seen in years. You knew that Wood put a lot of faith in the young boy, who had unknowingly reignited the hope of winning the Cup. And as pained as you were, seeing Wood so happy and passionate warmed your heart in a way nothing else could.

The Slytherin team scored again, and the cacophony of boos easily overpowered the minority of cheers. Wood looked frustrated beyond belief, evidently cursing himself for having let another goal through. But the match was not stopping, not until the snitch was caught.

Minutes stretched into hours, with both teams racking up points.

Finally, gasps littered throughout the stadium, the unmistakeable sign that the golden snitch had been spotted and was being pursued. For once, you pulled your eyes away from Wood, watching Potter and Malfoy engage in a furious chase for the tiny ball. They flew higher and higher up, the tension growing as the end of the match seemed to be in arm's reach.

The chase stopped.

Harry Potter proudly held up the shimmering glint of gold for the entire stadium to see.

And cheers erupted everywhere.

You quickly looked back at Wood, who looked nothing short of shellshocked as he took in the information that he had finally done it. He had accomplished one of his dreams. Eventually he snapped out of his shock, but as his teammates rushed to the ground to be presented with the trophy, Wood turned his attentions elsewhere. He was scanning the crowd for something— someone.

His eyes focused in your direction, and he darted over, hovering in front of you with the biggest smile you had ever seen him wear.

And then he kissed you with a force stronger than gravity, overwhelming every single one of your senses.

"You're the one I want," he spoke breathlessly.

"You're the one I want too," you replied without thinking.

He grinned.

"Now go get your trophy!" you said, frowning.

"No need. My trophy's right here."

————————————————

masterlist

written; 14/07/2024 —> 31/07/2025 published; 31/07/2025 edited; —/—/——

[sugussugar]

tw suguru x insecure, avoidant, depressed reader + fem reader and mentions of s/h, please read at your own risk

suguru geto wants to understand you.

there's just something about you. something he never noticed in your six years of friendship. the way you act so normally, yet everyone around you knows it's fake. you're not okay.

he doesn't understand why it took him so long to notice something was up with you. he considers himself pretty good with this type of thing, at least he did. but now, he isn't sure what to believe.

but it's clear as day that you've never really been okay. he sees it all now. the way you cover your smile when you laugh, the way you always stay rather quiet around others, the way you've never let others see you cry, the way you let yourself get shoved around and walked on like a welcome mat with little to no resistance, the way you hide your body for more reasons than one, the way you always seem to have a blade on hand with the excuse of “just in case”, the way you make subtle cries for help then shake them off as ‘jokes’. it's so clear now.

he feels almost angry that he never noticed. he remembers when he was that depressed. he remembers splitting his skin open and praying for someone to notice. he swore he'd never let anyone close to him, especially you, ever feel that way.

he wants to know exactly what's happening in your mind then empty it out and replace it with happier thoughts. he wants to see a genuine smile on your face, he wants you to stop hiding. he wants to ask you “are you okay” and hear you pour out your problems. he's tired of repetitive “i'm okay”'s and “don't worry about me”'s. he craves to have your trust.

but you hide. you hide away like a child from their drunken father, like the moon from the sun. he could chase you forever but ultimately it's futile. you will always be ten steps ahead. he will always be ten steps behind, and that will dwindle down to eight, then six, then three, and then you'll be gone.

suguru geto knows he's going to lose you. he's trying to fight it, but he knows the end, and he knows it's near.

[reignpage]

How Gojo grovels after breaking up with you

Satoru peers up from the sofa. “What’s for dinner, baby? Should we get food delivered? I’m up for anything.”

Jaw dropping, you reply, slowly like he’s an idiot, “There is no dinner. There is no we. You made sure of that.” Stomping over, you grab him by his arm and use all your weight and force to get him up from your couch. To no avail. He’s not called The Strongest for nothing, after all. “Get your fat ass up and out of my apartment!”

“Don’t be mean,” he whines. “It’s turning me on.”

You can’t believe this. Can’t believe that he’s here, lounging in your living room, trying to reach for your thigh to stroke the bare skin there, when just this morning, Satoru had broken up with you. 

“A fucking text, Gojo,” you spat out. “You broke up with me through a text message that read, ‘too busy, gotta cut you loose. love ya always!’ And now, you just strut back in here, thinking you can act normal and I’ll let you back in? Are you fucking kidding me? Do you think I’m a pathetic fangirl who’ll let you walk all over her? Get. The. Fuck. Out.”

He pushes himself up to his feet, sighing. Satoru combs his hair back as he towers over you in his usual uniform. “Really hoped it wouldn’t come to this. Here goes nothing.”

In a flash, he falls to his knees and clings to your body like a leech. 

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. Oh, fuck, baby. I’ve been so busy these days. I thought you were going to break up with me. I’ve never been broken up with, and it was scary, and I was just thinking of my pride, like I thought it would hurt less if I was the one who broke up with you first, but when you blocked me on everything and I couldn’t send you any funny tiktoks about dogs standing up on their hind legs, it started to set in, y’know? Like, this immense pain in my chest. I actually thought I was dying. And I knew I had to apologise and beg for you to take me back, but when you opened the door, all I could think about was how beautiful you are and the speech I had planned disappeared, and I just walked in like a dick, and now I’m on my knees literally begging and crying for you to forgive me. I’m so sorry, baby. Please take me back. Please, please, please. I can’t live without y—”

“Shut the fuck up,” you say, pushing him and his snot-nosed face from your stomach. He’s left a Gojo print of wetness on your shirt. Disgusting. “You’re the worst, you self-sabotaging, manchild.”

Satoru, through wet tears, gazes up at you. “I love Sabrina. She really captures my essence, I think. She’d hate me for what I did to you, of course, but I like to believe she’d be moved by my ability to throw all sense of dignity out the window to show you my sincerity… so what do you say?”

“Ugh,” you groan to yourself, “I have the worst taste in men.” Resigned to his inescapable hold, you grumble, “Alright, get up. Let’s unpack why you’re so goddamn impulsive.”

He kisses your belly button in gratitude and sheepishly asks: 

“You have all night?”

just a thought I had as I was drying my hair. he'd definitely like to play it cool at first lol