𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶ♱ ྀིྀ Shoko loves when her bunny gets jealous
The smell of menthol and antiseptic was always thick in the faculty lounge, but today, the air felt entirely suffocating.
You leaned against the counter, your fingers white around the handle of your mug as you watched them. On the leather sofa across the room, Shoko Ieiri was slouched back in her usual lazy posture, a half-empty mug of coffee balanced on her knee. Sitting directly opposite her—and looking like he was about to spontaneously combust from sheer anxiety—was Ijichi Kiyotaka.
He was holding a stack of mission reports, but his eyes were glued to Shoko. Every time she made a minor, passing comment or offered a faint, tired smirk, Ijichi would flush a violent, bright red, stammering through his words and adjusting his glasses so frantically it was a miracle they hadn’t broken.
It was pathetic. It was obvious. He had a massive, crippling crush on her.
What made the knot in your stomach tighten, however, was the fact that Shoko didn’t shut it down. She was talking to him regularly, listening to his stuttered explanations with an amused, quiet patience that she rarely afforded anyone else.
"The Tokyo auxiliary budget has been approved for the next quarter," Ijichi stammered, his voice jumping an octave as Shoko leaned slightly forward. "I-I made sure your medical supply requests were prioritized, Ieiri-san."
"Mm. Thanks, Ijichi. You're a lifesaver," Shoko murmured, her voice a low, gravelly drawl. She reached out, her fingers brushing against his as she took the document from his hands.
Ijichi looked like he had just been blessed by a deity. "O-Of course! Anything you need, truly!"
The ceramic of your mug made a sharp, aggressive clack as you set it down on the counter. Hard.
The sound cut through the quiet lounge. Ijichi jumped, his head snapping toward you, his eyes widening in panic as he registered the sheer, icy glare you were leveling at him. Shoko, however, didn't flinch. She slowly turned her head, her dark eyes tracking your rigid posture, a tiny, knowing glint dancing in her pupils.
"I should... I should get back to the director's office," Ijichi squeaked, sensing the sudden, suffocating shift in the room's atmospheric pressure. He scrambled to his feet, bowing frantically to Shoko and then to you. "Have a good afternoon!"
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving a heavy, loaded silence in the lounge.
"You're going to break that mug," Shoko said smoothly, taking a slow sip of her coffee.
"He's annoying," you snapped, crossing your arms and refusing to look at her.
A low, amused chuckle vibrated in Shoko's chest. She stood up, setting her mug down, and walked over to where you were standing. She didn't stop until she was crowding directly into your space, the faint scent of tobacco and her expensive perfume instantly wrapping around your senses.
"Is he?" she asked, tilting her head. She reached out, her cool fingers wrapping around your wrist, tugging until you uncrossed your arms. "Or are you just throwing a tantrum because he was looking at me?"
"He has a crush on you, Shoko. It's written all over his face, and you just let him sit there and drool," you muttered, your chest heaving as the jealousy you’d been bottling up finally spilled over. "You talk to him every single day."
Shoko’s mouth curved into a lazy, wicked smirk. She didn't deny it. Instead, she grabbed your waist, her grip surprisingly firm as she backed you up against the breakroom counter, pinning you in place.
"He's an auxiliary manager. I have to talk to him about logistics," she murmured, leaning in until her lips were brushing against the shell of your ear, her hot breath sending a violent shiver down your spine. "But if I wanted him, do you think I'd be leaving the door unlocked for you every night?"
"Shoko—"
"Quiet," she commanded softly. Her large hand slid up from your waist, her fingers tangling tightly in your hair to tilt your head back, exposing the long line of your throat. "You're beautiful when you're jealous, but you're entirely too loud."
She came down on your mouth before you could argue, her lips parting yours with a fierce, demanding hunger that immediately melted all the anger out of your bones. It wasn't her usual detached, lazy affection; there was a heavy, possessive edge to the way her tongue claimed yours, punishing your insecurity while making it explicitly clear exactly who she belonged to.
You groaned into the kiss, your hands scrambling for purchase on her shoulders, digging into the fabric of her white lab coat.
Shoko broke the kiss just an inch, her dark eyes hooded and heavy with an intense, sudden heat as she looked down at your flushed face. She slid her free hand down the front of your trousers, her fingers slipping past the waistband without a shred of hesitation, finding you already hot, damp, and desperately aching for her.
"Look at you," Shoko whispered, a gravelly, filthy chuckle escaping her lips as she drove two long, deft fingers deep inside your slick channel, testing your stretch. "So worked up just from a few touches. You're soaking wet."
A sharp gasp tore from your throat, your hips bucking up against her hand as her fingers pumped inside you, her thumb instantly finding the swollen knot of your clit and grinding against it with a ruthless, practiced pressure.
"Sh-Shoko, someone... someone could walk in," you whimpered, your eyes darting toward the frosted glass of the lounge door.
"Let them," Shoko muttered, her pace quickening, her fingers driving into you relentlessly, making a loud, wet friction that echoed obscenely against the tile floor. She leaned her full weight against you, pinning your thighs open with her knee. "Let Ijichi walk in. I want him to see exactly what I do to you when we're alone."
The mental image, combined with the devastating speed of her hand, drove you entirely over the edge. You threw your head back against the upper cabinets, a broken, sobbing climax ripping through your body as your internal muscles clamped like a vice around her fingers.
Shoko watched you break, a dark, completely satisfied smirk stretching across her face as she drank in the sound of your ruined whimpers. She kept her fingers inside you until the very last spasm subsided, entirely coating her hand in your wetness.
When she finally pulled away, she took a tissue from her pocket, casually wiping her hand before leaning down to press a bruising, lingering bite to your neck—leaving a mark that would be impossible to hide from anyone tomorrow.
"Next time," Shoko murmured, fixing her lab coat and turning back toward her coffee, "just tell me you want my attention. It saves us both the dramatics."
𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶ♱ ྀིྀ Nerd!Satoru loves the reward you have for him when he helps you pass your exam
The back corner of the university library was always dead after 8:00 PM, buried deep in the fiction archives where the fluorescent lights flickered and the scent of old paper was thick.
Gojo Satoru sat on his heels between two towering oak bookshelves, desperately trying to organize a stack of misplaced reference materials. He adjusted his thick, black-rimmed glasses, the lenses sliding slightly down his nose from the sweat bead rolling down his temple. He was wearing an oversized knit sweater that swallowed his massive, lanky frame, looking every bit the quiet, socially awkward physics tutor he was.
"Satoru."
Satoru jumped, dropping a textbook on medieval literature. He scrambled to pick it up, his blue eyes wide behind his lenses as he looked up.
There you were. You were the girl everyone on campus talked about—popular, effortless, and entirely out of his league. For the past three weeks, he had spent two nights a week stuttering his way through calculus formulas while you sat entirely too close to him, smelling like vanilla and completely ruining his concentration.
"Y-You're here late," Satoru stammered, his voice cracking slightly as he pushed his glasses back up. "The library closes in an hour, and I didn't think you had any more questions before the—"
"I got an A," you interrupted, stepping directly into his narrow aisle. You backed him up until his shoulders hit the heavy wood of the shelf behind him. You held up your graded test paper, a bold red '98%' circled at the top. "The highest grade in the lecture. All because of you."
Satoru’s face instantly flushed a deep, violent crimson. "Oh. That’s... that’s great. You worked really hard, so it makes sense that—"
"And I think a good tutor deserves a proper reward," you murmured, your voice dropping an octave, echoing obscenely quiet in the empty aisle.
Before he could process the words, you put a hand on his shoulder and pushed down. Satoru, entirely uncoordinated and utterly overwhelmed by your sudden proximity, collapsed backward onto his knees. He looked up at you from the floor, his hands gripping his thighs, his knuckles turning white. He looked incredibly small despite his height, a trembling, blushing mess of nerves.
"Wait, here? Someone could—"
You didn't let him finish. You gripped the hem of your short skirt, pulling it up, and unceremoniously hiked one leg up, planting your foot firmly on the bookshelf right next to his head. The position opened you up completely, exposing your bare, soaking center right in front of his face. The intoxicating scent of your arousal hit him instantly, obliterating whatever coherent thoughts were left in his massive brain.
"I didn't say you could talk, Satoru," you commanded softly, towering over him, your shadow completely eclipsing his face. "Use that mouth for something useful."
Satoru swallowed hard, a tiny, pathetic whimper escaping his throat. His blue eyes darted from your face down to the slick, glistening folds of your heat just inches from his nose. His hands shook against his knees. The sheer dominance of you standing over him, pinning him to the floor with nothing but your posture, made his heart hammer like a trapped bird.
"P-Please," he whispered, though he didn't even know what he was begging for.
"Eat," you ordered, grabbing a fistful of his messy white hair and shoving his face straight forward.
The moment his face collided with your wetness, Satoru lost his mind. He opened his mouth, his long, clumsy tongue lashing out desperately to lick at the dripping heat you were presenting to him. He was a novice, but his desperation made him frantic. He sucked at your clit, his tongue lapping heavily at your fluids, swallowing the taste of you with an uncharacteristic, messy hunger.
You groaned loudly, the sound muffled by the heavy books surrounding you. The angle was perfect. You leaned your weight forward, shifting your hips and beginning to ride his face, grinding your swollen center directly against his mouth and nose.
"Ah—god, Satoru, just like that," you gasped, your fingers tightening in his hair, forcing him to take the full, bruising weight of your pelvis.
Satoru tried to adjust, but you were relentless, grinding down hard, seeking your own friction. In your frantic movements, your hip smashed violently against the side of his face. There was a sharp, plastic crack as his thick glasses bent under the pressure, one of the frames snapping right at the temple. The broken lenses slid crookedly down his face, dangling uselessly off one ear.
He paused for a fraction of a second, his blue eyes blinking blindly through the shattered plastic.
"Don't stop," you hissed, your voice entirely unraveled as you accelerated the pace, your hips bucking heavily against his mouth, using his lips and chin as a personal toy. "Keep going."
Satoru didn't care about the glasses. He didn't care about the library. He shook the broken frames out of the way entirely, his unobstructed, striking blue eyes locking onto yours from below—blown-out, dark with a sudden, primal lust that took you by surprise. He reached up, his large hands grabbing your thighs, anchoring you firmly as he drove his tongue deep inside you, mimicking a heavy, rhythmic thrust.
The friction was scorching. You thrashed against the bookshelf, books rattling on the shelves above you as you rode his face mercilessly. The loud, wet, squelching sounds of his mouth wrecking you echoed through the empty aisle.
"Satoru—oh my god, I'm going to—"
You didn't even finish the sentence before your climax slammed into you. Your internal muscles convulsed violently, your thighs locking like a vice around his head as you sobbed into the empty library, soaking his face, his nose, and his mouth with a heavy wave of your ruined fluids.
Satoru didn't pull back. He took every single drop, his tongue continuing to lap aggressively against your twitching clit, holding you up until you finally sloped down, trembling and spent, sliding your leg off the shelf. He sat there on his knees, his white hair a ruined mess, his face entirely covered in your wetness, looking up at you with a breathless, dazed smile.
𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶ♱ ྀིྀ sub!Choso becomes a whimpering mess for reader
⚠︎ Very filthy, Choso calls reader mommy ⚠︎
The front door clicked shut, the heavy silence of the apartment instantly swallowing the distant hum of the evening traffic. You dropped your keys into the bowl by the door, unbuttoning your work coat as you exhaled a long, exhausted breath. It had been a grueling six-hour shift. But as you kicked off your shoes and walked down the hallway toward the bedroom, a slow, predatory smile crept onto your lips.
You had left a very specific task waiting for you.
When you pushed the bedroom door open, the sight before you was exactly as you had left it—only far more undone.
Choso was stripped bare, kneeling at the foot of the bed, his wrists bound securely behind his back with thick, soft shibari rope that ran down to anchor his ankles. A black silk blindfold covered his eyes, soaked through at the temples from his tears. In his mouth, a leather ball gag was buckled tight, forcing his jaw wide and rendering his deep voice into nothing but pathetic, muffled whimpers.
And strapped tightly to the base of his leaking, fiercely throbbing length was a bullet vibrator, humming on a low, agonizingly consistent pulse.
The moment the floorboards creaked under your weight, Choso violently flinched. His head snapped toward the sound, his breath catching in his throat. Hearing your familiar steps, his entire body began to tremble, a pathetic, broken whine catching in the back of his gagged throat. Six hours. Six hours of absolute sensory deprivation, trapped in his own head, unable to touch himself, unable to see, with a constant, maddening vibration driving him to the absolute brink of sanity.
You walked over, stepping into his line of vision—not that he could see you—and stood right in front of him.
"Look at you," you murmured, reaching down to hook your fingers under his chin, forcing his blindfolded face up toward yours. "Still right where I left you."
Choso let out a high, nasal sob, leaning his face desperately into your palm. He was a trembling, weeping mess, thick tears escaping from beneath the silk blindfold and tracking down his flushed cheeks. He tried to nuzzle your hand, his hips twitching instinctively, desperate for even a fraction of your warmth.
"Let's see if you've been a good boy for me, hm?" You let go of his chin and sank to your knees between his parted thighs.
The state of him was a complete disaster. The front of his thighs was slick, coated in the copious amounts of pre-cum that had been dripping from him for hours. His cock was a deep, angry crimson, completely engorged, the tip leaking so heavily it was pooling onto the towel you had thoughtfully placed beneath him. Every time the vibrator pulsed against his frenulum, his lower stomach twitched, his abdominal muscles locking up as he fought the urge to explode.
You reached out, your fingertips lightly grazing the sensitive, swollen head of his shaft.
Choso arched his back with a loud, muffled shriek through the gag, his hips violently bucking upward. He sobbed openly now, his chest heaving as he shook his head from side to side. The ropes bit into his skin as he unconsciously strained against them, completely undone by the agonizingly light touch.
"Ah, ah. No moving," you chided softly, slapping his inner thigh with a sharp, stinging crack.
Choso whimpered, instantly freezing, slumping back onto his heels as he wept. He was completely submissive, entirely at your mercy, his usual protective, fierce demeanor utterly melted into a puddle of needy, desperate compliance.
"You didn't try to rub against the mattress to come, did you, Choso?" you asked, your voice dripping with sweet authority. You slid your fingers down to the base of his length, intentionally pressing the humming toy harder against his sweet spot.
He lost his mind. A string of frantic, muffled denials bubbled past the leather ball in his mouth—“Mmph! Nnh-nnh!”—as he violently shook his head. He was begging. He was completely, utterly whining, his hips twitching in tiny, pathetic circles, silently imploring you to either turn it off or let him finally break. Six hours of unearned edginess had turned him into a hysterical, bubbling mess.
"Good boy," you cooed, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his tear-stained cheek. Your hand slid around to the back of his head, unbuckling the leather gag.
The moment the ball popped free, a thick string of saliva spilled over his lip, and Choso let out a loud, broken wail.
"Please—please, ah, god, mommy, please," he sobbed, his voice completely wrecked, entirely unraveled. He collapsed forward, burying his wet face into your shoulder, his bound hands twitching behind his back. "I was good... I didn't touch it, I didn't come, I swear... please turn it off, it hurts, it hurts so bad..."
"I know it does, sweetheart," you whispered, running your fingers through his messy, dark hair, letting him weep against your neck. You could feel the frantic, vibrating heat of his erection pressing hard against your thigh. "You did so well for me. Six hours is a very long time."
"Make it stop," he blubbered, his nose pressing into your skin as his whole body shuddered with huge, racking sobs. "Please let me come... let me come for you, please... I'll do anything. I'll be so good."
You reached down, your fingers finding the dial on the toy. Instead of turning it off, you clicked it up to the highest, most intense, chaotic setting.
Choso's eyes rolled back behind the blindfold, a strangled, high-pitched scream tearing from his chest as his entire body went completely rigid in your arms as white jets of cum shoot out landing on his tummy.
𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶ♱ ྀིྀ An overworked and exhausted Nanami snaps under the weight of months of unspoken tension when you interrupt his late-night paperwork. ˎˊ˗
MDNI
The clock on the wall of the office ticked past 1:00 AM.
Nanami Kento adjusted his cuffs, his eyes burning as he scanned yet another report on the recent casualties in the Tokyo suburbs. The fluorescent lights hummed a low, irritating note that vibrated straight into his temples. He was well past his designated working hours, a fact that tasted like ash in his mouth, but the paperwork wouldn’t disappear on its own.
A soft knock broke the silence.
He didn’t look up as the door creaked open, though he recognized your footsteps instantly. "If this is about the mission briefs for tomorrow, leave them on the desk. I will review them later."
"It’s not a brief," you said quietly, stepping into the room. "It’s coffee."
Nanami finally raised his head. his mouth was set in a tight, exhausted line. He watched as you set the ceramic mug down near his workspace. The steam carried the rich, bitter scent of dark roast—exactly how he liked it.
"You should be home," he said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated in the quiet room. "Office workers require adequate rest to maintain peak performance."
"Look who's talking," you replied, leaning against the edge of his desk. Your thigh brushed against the corner of his neat stack of papers. You looked down at him, noting the way his hair was slightly disheveled, a few blonde strands falling out of their usual immaculate styling. "You look like you're about to snap, Nanami."
He exhaled a long, heavy breath through his nose. His hand reached out, not for the coffee, but to pinch the bridge of his nose. With a fluid, weary motion, he took off his spotted glasses, setting them carefully on the desk.
Without the lenses shielding him, his gaze was piercing. Heavy-lidded, dark, and tracking your movements with an intensity that made the air in the small office suddenly feel entirely too thick.
"I am tired," he confessed, the admission heavy and raw. "And my patience is exceptionally thin tonight."
"Then let me help you relax," you murmured. You reached out, your fingers tentative as they brushed against the collar of his shirt.
Nanami stiffened slightly. Every pragmatic, disciplined instinct in his corporate-trained mind told him to politely decline, to kick you out, to maintain the strict boundary he had built between his professional duties and his personal desires. For months, the tension between you had been an unwritten rule, a mutual understanding kept under lock and key.
But your fingers dipped lower, undoing the top button of his shirt, your knuckles grazing the warm skin of his collarbone. “Just wanna… help you relax sir.”
A muscle clenched in Nanami's jaw. The restraint he prided himself on—the meticulous, unyielding control that kept him alive in the face of curses—shattered in an instant. Before you could draw a breath, his hand shot out. His fingers wrapped around your wrist. His grip wasn't painful, but it was absolute, unyielding iron.
"You shouldn't have done that," he growled, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a sudden, dark heat.
With a sudden, powerful surge, Nanami stood up. The heavy office chair rolled backward, slamming against the filing cabinet behind him. He didn't let go of your wrist; instead, he used his leverage to push you back, pinning you flat against the heavy oak desk. The coffee mug rattled. A stack of reports scattered to the floor, forgotten.
He crowded into your space, his large frame completely eclipsing yours. The smell of him—expensive cologne, iron, and pure, intoxicating warmth—overwhelmed your senses.
"Nanami—" your voice caught in your throat as his free hand came up, his fingers sliding into your hair, tilting your head back to expose the line of your throat.
"I told you," he murmured against your skin, his hot breath sending a shiver straight down your spine. "My patience is gone."
He didn't waste time with gentle coaxing. His mouth came down on yours with a fierce, demanding hunger that took your breath away. It was a revelation—the pristine, stoic Nanami Kento, completely unraveled by his own desire. His tongue parted your lips, taking what he wanted with a meticulous but breathless intensity, as if he were mapping out every square inch of your mouth.
You groaned into the kiss, your free hand coming up to grip his shoulder. The fabric of his suit jacket was tight under your fingers, his muscles hard and coiled like a spring.
When he broke the kiss, he was panting, his forehead resting against yours for a fraction of a second. His eyes were dark, dilated, and entirely predatory. With an efficient, practice-honed movement, he reached down and unbuckled his belt, the metallic click sounding exceptionally loud in the quiet room. He stripped his tie off in one blind motion, tossing it to the floor.
"If we are going to do this," Nanami rasped, his hands gripping your hips, lifting you effortlessly to sit fully on the edge of the desk, "we are going to do it thoroughly. I do not do things halfway."
He parted your legs, stepping between them, his thighs locking you in place. His large, calloused hands slid up the inner skin of your thighs, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Instead of pulling your clothes completely off, he ruthlessly tore your undergarments to the side, exposing you completely. He drove two long fingers straight inside you without warning, testing your readiness.
You gasped, your hips bucking up against his hand as the sudden intrusion stretched you. Nanami growled at the immediate, slick heat coating his knuckles, pumping his fingers deep inside you while his thumb aggressively mashed against your clit. He was deliberately making you a soaking, desperate mess, the slick friction sounding loud and dirty in the quiet office.
"Look at me," he commanded softly, his thumbs sweeping over your hip bones, pressing in deep enough to leave a mark.
You looked up, breathless, your chest heaving.
Nanami leaned down, his lips brushing yours once, twice, before his teeth nipped at your bottom lip, drawing a soft gasp from you. "Good," he whispered against your mouth, his hands moving to ready both of you. "Keep your eyes on me."
He didn’t hesitate. With a single, fluid motion born of absolute intent, he guided his thick length against your drenched opening and slammed inside, buried deep to the hilt in one heavy, unyielding stroke.
The sudden fullness tore a sharp scream from your throat, which he caught in his mouth, devouring the sound. Your hands scrambled for purchase, your fingers digging through his shirt and clawing into the firm, knotted muscles of his shoulders. The sheer size and heat of him filled you completely, stretching you to a point that blurred the line between ache and pure, dizzying ecstasy.
Nanami froze for a fraction of a second, his head dropping into the crook of your neck as he let out a low, ragged groan. His chest heaved against yours, his heart hammering like a trapped bird.
"God," he rasped against your skin, the uncharacteristic swear slipping out like a confession. His hands tightened on your hips, his thumbs pressing bruisingly deep into your flesh to anchor you. "You are... entirely too tight. You're squeezing me to death."
"Nanami," you choked out, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, locking your ankles behind his back to pull him even closer, desperate to eliminate any remaining distance. "Please. Faster."
The plea snapped whatever fragile thread of restraint he had left.
He began to move. It wasn't the frenzied, chaotic pace of a novice; true to his nature, Nanami’s movements were deliberate, rhythmic, and devastatingly deep. Each thrust was an exercise in absolute power, his hips driving forward with a relentless, heavy force that rocked the heavy oak desk against the floorboards. The wet, messy slapping sound of his pelvis smashing hard against your soaked folds echoed obscenely through the basement.
The friction was immediate and scorching. You threw your head back, your eyes closing as waves of intense pleasure rippled through your core. Every time he pulled back almost entirely, exposing his glistening shaft to the cool air, it was only to drive home again, bottoming out against your cervix, pinning you to the desk with the sheer weight of his body.
"Open your eyes," he commanded, his voice a rough, gravelly friction in the quiet room.
You forced your eyelids open, vision swimming with tears of pleasure. Nanami was looking down at you, his blonde hair falling wildly into his face, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped. His shirt was completely unbuttoned now, dripping with sweat that fell onto your chest. The stark contrast between his usual buttoned-up, immaculate demeanor and this filthy, primal hunger was utterly intoxicating.
"I want to see you," he muttered, his pace quickening, shifting from deliberate to desperate. His strokes became shorter, harder, driven by an urgency he could no longer calculate or control. "I want to see exactly how wrecked you look."
He reached down, his large, calloused hand sliding between your bodies to find the hypersensitive knot of your center. When his thumb locked over it, applying a firm, grinding pressure in perfect sync with his heavy thrusts, your entire body arched off the desk. Your fluids lubricated every heavy plunge, making the friction slick, messy, and entirely consuming.
A high, broken sob escaped your lips. The pleasure was too much, accumulating too fast, a coiled spring winding tighter and tighter in your lower stomach.
"That's it," Nanami encouraged, his breath coming in short, sharp pants against your ear. His mouth sought yours again, smothering your whimpers with a deep, bruising kiss that tasted of sweat and desire. He was driving into you relentlessly now, his pristine composure entirely incinerated by the heat of your body. "Come for me. Let it go."
The world narrowed down to the slide of skin on skin, the heavy thud of the desk, and the overwhelming authority of his touch. You clamped down around him, your internal muscles spasming violently as the climax took you, shattering your vision into brilliant sparks of light.
Hearing your broken cry and feeling the fierce, rhythmic pulsing of your walls milfing him, clamping down on him like a vice, was the final catalyst. Nanami let out a low, guttural growl, his eyes darkening to near-black. He delivered three more deep, punishing thrusts, driving himself as far into you as physically possible, before his body went rigid.
He came with a heavy, shuddering force, a deep groan tearing from his chest as he buried his face in your hair, filling you completely with thick, pulsing ropes of his heat, spilling over where you joined and coating the desk beneath you.
For a long time, the only sound in the basement office was the ragged, synchronized breathing of two people trying to ground themselves. Nanami remained heavy between your thighs, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his heart thudding violently against your ribs.
Slowly, deliberately, the discipline began to return, but the warmth remained. He kissed the side of your neck—a soft, lingering press of his lips that felt remarkably like an apology, and a thank you.
𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶ♱ ྀིྀ where concubine!reader gets hurt in a attack while pregnant with sukuna’s child ˎˊ˗
The incense in the inner chambers of the Hirata estate was supposed to soothe the mind, but to you, it smelled like a gilded cage.
In the Heian era, survival was a luxury dictated by the powerful. And no one was more powerful, or more feared, than Ryomen Sukuna. To the world, he was a calamity walking on four legs, a double-faced demon who left mountains of corpses in his wake. To you, he was the master of your days, the man who had claimed you as his concubine after leveling your home province.
But things had changed. Deep within you, a fragile new life was growing—his child.
Sukuna had not spoken of it much since the news was confirmed by the estate's trembling physicians. He hadn't cast you aside, nor had he celebrated. He simply watched you with those four crimson eyes, his gaze heavier, lingering longer on the slight curve of your stomach. You learned to navigate his quiet, lethal presence, knowing that a single misstep could mean death.
You just hadn't expected the danger to come from outside his walls.
It happened during the late afternoon, while Sukuna was away dealing with a faction of jujutsu sorcerers who had foolishly tried to erect a barrier around his territory. You had stepped into the estate's rear gardens, seeking a breath of fresh air to ease your morning sickness.
The air grew suddenly cold. The ambient cursed energy of the estate shifted violently.
Before you could call out to Uraume, the wooden sliding doors behind you shattered. Three rogue sorcerers, desperate and bloodied from their losing battle against Sukuna's main forces, had infiltrated the compound. They weren't looking to win; they were looking for vengeance.
"So this is the monster’s pet," one of them hissed, a jagged cursed tool gripped in his trembling hand. "Let's see how he likes it when we break his favorite toy."
You scrambled backward, your hands instinctively covering your stomach. "Stay back," you gasped, your heart hammering against your ribs.
You tried to run toward the main corridor, but a blast of wind-based cursed energy caught you from behind. The force of the impact threw you forward. Your body collided violently with the stone lantern in the center of the courtyard before you tumbled onto the hard gravel.
A sharp, blinding pain shot through your side, but your immediate, paralyzing panic was for the child.
No. Please, no.
The rogue sorcerer raised his blade, stepping closer. "Die—"
He never finished the word.
The sky itself seemed to split open. A pressure so immense, so suffocatingly dense with malice descended upon the courtyard that the remaining two sorcerers fell to their knees, vomiting blood from the sheer weight of the cursed energy.
"Dismantle," a bored, terrifyingly calm voice echoed.
In a fraction of a second, the three men were reduced to a neat, crimson mist, their remains painting the white gravel and the pristine paper screens of the estate.
Through your blurred vision, you saw him. Sukuna stood at the edge of the courtyard, his massive frame silhouetted against the setting sun. His four arms were relaxed at his sides, but the raw, unbridled fury radiating from him made the air vibrate.
He didn't look at the blood on the ground. His eyes were locked entirely on your crumpled form.
"Uraume!" he roared, a sound that shook the very foundations of the estate. "Get the doctors. If they do not save them, I will flay every living soul in this province."
In a blur of speed that defied his massive size, Sukuna was at your side. For a man who knew nothing but destruction, his movements as he knelt in the dirt were shockingly tentative.
"Hey," he muttered, his deep voice carrying an edge you had never heard before—anxiety. "Look at me."
"Sukuna..." you whimpered, tears spilling over your cheeks. You were clutching your stomach, curled into a fetal position on the sharp gravel. "The baby... I fell... it hurts so much..."
His primary right hand hovered over you, trembling minutely before he pressed his palm flat against your abdomen. He closed his eyes, his immense cursed energy suddenly dropping from a raging storm to a whisper, probing your body with terrifying precision. He was checking for the faint, fragile heartbeat of his progeny.
When his eyes snapped open, the absolute bloodlust in them had faded, replaced by a tense, hyper-focused focus.
"The brat is alive," he said, though his tone wasn't entirely relieved. "But you are bleeding. Don't move."
Before you could protest, he scooped you into his upper arms. To anyone else, being held by Ryomen Sukuna was a death sentence, but he gathered you against his broad chest with a gentleness that felt entirely foreign on his monstrous frame. His lower hands remained free, hovering protectively around your body like a cage of muscle and bone, shielding you from the cool evening air.
The inner sanctum of his quarters was chaotic. Physicians were brought in by Uraume, practically dragged by their collars, their faces pale with the knowledge that their lives hung in the balance.
Sukuna did not leave the room. He sat on the edge of the futon where you lay, a towering, ominous presence that kept the doctors sweating through their robes.
"If she screams in pain one more time, I will cut your hands off," Sukuna warned quietly, his chin resting on one of his lower fists as he watched a physician apply a soothing poultice to the severe bruising on your side.
"M-Master Sukuna," the old man stammered, bowing so low his forehead touched the tatami mats. "The lady's injuries are superficial, but the shock to her body is dangerous. She needs rest, and... and she must be kept calm. Any further stress could induce labor prematurely."
Sukuna waved a hand dismissively, a silent command for them to get out. Uraume ushered the terrified doctors away, sliding the doors shut and leaving the room in a heavy, suffocating silence.
You lay on your side, your body aching, tears still drying on your temples. The fear hadn't left you. In the Heian era, a weak concubine who couldn't even protect herself or her child was useless. You waited for the harsh words. You waited for him to tell you that you were pathetic.
Instead, the futon dipped significantly under his weight.
Sukuna shifted, sitting cross-legged right beside your head. One of his large, tattooed hands reached out. His fingers, tipped with sharp, black nails that had torn apart gods and sorcerers alike, gently brushed a damp strand of hair away from your forehead.
"You're a fool," he murmured. His voice lacked its usual mocking bite. It sounded grounded, almost tired. "Why were you out there alone?"
"I wanted... air," you whispered, your throat raw. You looked up at him, your eyes wide and vulnerable. "Are you angry with me?"
Sukuna stared down at you. One of his extra eyes, the smaller one on the right side of his face, narrowed slightly. "Angry? I am annoyed that insects thought they could touch what belongs to me."
He shifted his hand from your face down to your stomach, resting his massive palm over the fabric of your kimono. His touch was warm—unbelievably warm. He began to slowly channel a microscopic, tightly controlled thread of Reverse Cursed Technique into you. It wasn't enough to instantly heal a human body—since pure positive energy could be volatile to those without a sorcerer's constitution—but it was just enough to soothe the internal inflammation and dull the throbbing ache in your womb.
As the pain began to recede, a soft sigh escaped your lips. Your tense shoulders finally relaxed into the bedding.
"You're soft," Sukuna muttered, his thumb tracing a small circle against your hip. "Both you and the thing inside you. A stiff breeze could break you."
"Then why do you stay?" you dared to ask, the exhaustion making you bolder than usual.
Sukuna paused. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the crackle of the charcoal brazier in the corner. He looked away, his gaze drifting to the far wall, his expression unreadable.
"Because you are mine," he said finally, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a weight that felt like an unbreakable vow. "The world thinks it can take whatever it wants from me. They think because I am a curse, I have nothing to lose. They are wrong. I keep what I claim. And I have claimed you."
He looked back down at you, his lower right hand coming up to gently cup the back of your neck, pulling you just an inch closer to his thigh.
"Sleep," he commanded, though the rough edges of the order were rounded out by a strange, fiercely protective undercurrent. "I will be here. Nothing will cross that threshold while you close your eyes."
Reaching out, you weakly grasped one of his fingers. His hand was twice the size of yours, but he didn't pull away. He let you hold onto him, a terrifying anchor in a cruel world, keeping you and your unborn child safe in the eye of the storm.
An: sorry for disappearing..I recently got into a relationship so I’ve been busy but here a little Nanami Drabble
The music was deafening, the bass thumping through the floor beneath your heels as you wove your way through the crowded bar. The haze of alcohol was starting to blur the edges of your thoughts, and the weight of the night was pressing down on you more than you’d anticipated. You weren’t sure how many drinks you’d had, but the empty glass in your hand and the warmth in your cheeks suggested it was enough.
You stumbled slightly, your hand reaching out to the bar for support. The bartender raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything as you pushed the glass toward him with a shaky hand.
“I think I’m done,” you mumbled, voice barely audible over the pounding music. Your head felt light, your balance precarious, and a nagging discomfort settled in your chest. You shouldn’t have come here alone.
“Are you okay?” a voice asked, calm and smooth, cutting through the noise like a knife.
Your heart stuttered at the familiarity of it. You turned toward the sound and found him — Nanami Kento. His tall frame was impossible to miss, his blond hair slightly disheveled from running his hand through it. He wasn’t dressed for a night out — dark slacks, a crisp button-up, his tie slightly loosened — but somehow he fit into the chaos effortlessly.
You blinked up at him, your vision swimming slightly. “Nanami?”
His gaze softened, but his mouth remained in its usual firm line. “You’re drunk.”
“Mm… maybe,” you admitted, swaying toward him. His hands were on you before you could tip over, steadying you with a firm grip on your waist.
“You shouldn’t be here alone,” he said, his voice low, close to your ear. His hand brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering against your cheek for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
“I didn’t plan on drinking this much,” you muttered.
Nanami sighed, his brows furrowing in that subtle but familiar way. “Let’s get you out of here.”
Before you could protest, he was easing your arm over his shoulder and guiding you toward the exit. You could feel the warmth of his body through his shirt, the steady rise and fall of his breathing anchoring you as you leaned against him. He was so steady — so Nanami — that the haze in your mind started to clear just from his presence.
Once outside, the cool night air hit your flushed skin. Nanami adjusted his hold on you, his hand sliding down to your lower back as he guided you toward the curb.
“Do you have your phone?”
You shook your head. “Battery’s dead.”
Nanami sighed again, but it wasn’t in frustration. It was that fond kind of exasperation he seemed to reserve just for you. “Of course it is.”
He pulled his own phone from his pocket and tapped a few buttons. A few minutes later, a sleek black car rolled up to the curb.
“I’ll take you home,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
He helped you into the backseat, his hand lingering on your knee as he settled beside you. The driver pulled away from the curb, the hum of the engine soothing. You let your head fall against Nanami’s shoulder, too tired — or maybe too comfortable — to care.
“You didn’t have to come get me,” you murmured.
“You texted me,” Nanami replied.
Your eyes fluttered open. “I did?”
“You wrote: ‘Help. Drunk. Alone.’” His lips curved into the smallest smile. “I don’t take those messages lightly.”
Your chest warmed despite the lingering alcohol in your veins. “Thank you,” you whispered.
Nanami’s hand slid from your knee to your hand, his fingers threading between yours. “Get some rest. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”
You squeezed his hand, your eyes slipping shut as the steady rhythm of his breathing lulled you into sleep. And for the first time that night, you felt completely safe.
how about reader comforting gojo / mediating when their new baby doesn’t like him? maybe his cursed energy makes his presence too overwhelming for them or maybe they just don’t like his freaky blue eyes
Gojo x reader
Gojo Satoru had faced curses stronger than most sorcerers could even comprehend. He had been feared and revered in equal measure. But nothing — nothing — had prepared him for the heartbreak of his own child not liking him.
It had started the moment you brought the baby home. Swaddled in soft cotton, cheeks plump and rosy, their tiny fists would flail happily when you held them. But the second Gojo leaned over the crib, his heart swelling with love and nervous excitement — the baby would cry. Not a soft whimper, but a full-blown scream that shattered the peaceful quiet of the nursery.
“Maybe it’s my cursed energy,” Gojo muttered one night, sitting on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest. His head was tipped back against the wall, hair messier than usual, the pale blue glow of his eyes dim beneath the weight of his exhaustion. “Maybe it’s too much for them.”
You sat cross-legged beside him, your hand rubbing circles on his back. “You’re suppressing it, though. You’re being careful.”
“Careful’s not enough, apparently,” he sighed, dropping his head into his hands. His long fingers tangled in white hair. “I’m supposed to be the strongest. But I can’t even get my own kid to stop crying when I look at them.”
“Or maybe,” you teased gently, “it’s those freaky eyes of yours.”
He shot you a glare, but you saw the sadness lingering beneath the usual mischief. “I’m serious.”
“I know,” you murmured. You leaned in, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “But maybe they don’t know that yet.”
Gojo let out a tired laugh. “Great. So my own child thinks I’m scary.”
“Or maybe they’re just overwhelmed,” you suggested. “You’re a lot to take in, Satoru.”
He huffed. “Gee, thanks.”
You shifted closer, brushing a hand through his soft hair. “They’re still figuring out the world. They don’t know yet that their dad is the safest place in it.”
Gojo’s jaw tightened. His gaze drifted toward the crib, where the baby was sleeping peacefully under the soft blue light of the moon filtering through the curtains. He hesitated, his hand hovering mid-air like he was afraid to disturb the fragile peace.
“Hey,” you whispered, scooting to sit behind him. Your arms wrapped around his waist, chin resting on his shoulder. “Let’s try something.”
He turned his head slightly toward you. “What?”
“Come here.”
You rose to your feet and walked over to the crib, scooping up the baby with practiced ease. Their little mouth opened in a sleepy yawn, tiny fists curling against your chest. You settled back down on the floor, motioning for Gojo to sit behind you.
He hesitated before sliding in close, his long legs bracketing yours. His chest pressed to your back as you leaned the baby slightly toward him.
“Just let them get used to you,” you said softly. “No pressure. Just… be here.”
Gojo’s breath was warm against your neck as he leaned down. The baby stirred slightly, their sleepy eyes fluttering open. Gojo reached out with careful hands, brushing a knuckle along the soft curve of their cheek.
The baby’s gaze met his — wide, round, and unblinking. Gojo held his breath. Their tiny face wrinkled. His heart slammed against his ribs.
But this time, they didn’t cry.
“Hey,” Gojo whispered, his voice so soft it almost didn’t sound like him. His finger brushed along their tiny hand, and miraculously — miraculously — the baby’s hand curled around it.
Gojo’s eyes widened, breath hitching in his throat. His mouth parted like he couldn’t believe it was happening.
“They like you,” you whispered, smiling.
Gojo’s eyes softened, the usual teasing glint replaced by something far more fragile. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He leaned down, brushing the gentlest of kisses to the baby’s forehead. His breath shuddered when they didn’t pull away. His arms circled around you and the baby, his chin resting on your shoulder as his eyes fluttered shut.
“See?” you whispered, turning your head just enough to press your lips to his temple. “They just needed to know you were safe.”
Gojo’s smile was small and quiet. “Guess they’re smarter than they look.”
“Of course they are.” You laughed softly. “They take after me.”
Gojo chuckled, low and warm. His arms tightened around you both, and this time — when the baby stirred and opened their eyes — they didn’t cry. They just blinked up at Gojo with quiet curiosity, their tiny hand still wrapped around his finger.
The first thing you notice when you wake up is warmth—solid, steady warmth, pressing against your back and wrapping around your waist. The second thing you notice is the steady rise and fall of Gojo’s breathing, his chest pressed flush against you as his long arms keep you caged in a loose but firm embrace.
You shift slightly, and he grumbles something unintelligible into your hair before tightening his hold.
“Satoru,” you mumble, voice still thick with sleep.
“Mm-mm. No talking. Sleeping.”
You huff a small laugh. “You’re not sleeping. You’re talking.”
“Shhh,” he sighs dramatically, nuzzling into your neck, lips brushing over your skin as he mumbles, “Just let me live in my denial.”
You roll your eyes but make no move to push him away. It’s rare that Gojo gets to stay in bed like this, without the weight of responsibilities pressing down on him. You’re used to waking up to an empty bed, sometimes with a sweet note left on your nightstand or a ridiculously exaggerated text about how much he already misses you.
But today is different. Today, he’s here, and he’s clinging to you like you’re his personal body pillow.
You hum, resting your hand over his and idly tracing patterns along his knuckles. “You sure you don’t have somewhere to be?”
“Absolutely. No curses, no annoying meetings, no students calling me ‘old’ behind my back.” He groans, dramatically flipping onto his back while dragging you with him so you’re now sprawled over his chest. “I’m all yours today, baby.”
Your heart stutters a little at that, but you just shake your head. “Sounds fake, but okay.”
“Wow. Such disrespect,” he gasps, dramatically pressing a hand to his chest like you’ve mortally wounded him. “And after I freed up my entire schedule just for you? I even told Yuuji that I couldn’t go taste-test all the sweets at that new bakery because I had ‘something more important’ to do.”
You raise a brow. “And by ‘something more important,’ you mean laying in bed all day?”
“Exactly,” he grins, running his fingers up and down your spine. “Laying in bed with you. Huge difference.”
You laugh, letting yourself melt against him, enjoying the lazy rhythm of his hands rubbing small, comforting circles on your back. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, grounding and soothing in a way that makes it impossible not to relax.
Gojo Satoru, for all his endless teasing and over-the-top antics, has always made you feel safe. Even in moments like these—when the world outside is demanding his attention, when his responsibilities as the strongest sorcerer loom over him—he still chooses you.
“Y’know,” he murmurs, tilting his head so his lips brush over your forehead, “we could just stay here forever. Ignore the world. Live in this bed. I’ll teleport us food when we need it.”
You snort. “Teleporting food sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.”
“Not if you believe in me,” he pouts, squeezing your waist. “But fine, if you don’t trust my extensive teleportation skills, I guess I could be convinced to leave this bed. If you bribe me.”
“Oh? And what exactly do you want as a bribe?”
He grins, leaning closer until his lips are just a breath away from yours. “A kiss. At least five. Maybe six, if you’re feeling generous.”
You roll your eyes but cup his face anyway, thumb brushing over the high curve of his cheek before pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “One.”
He tilts his head slightly, catching your lips properly this time, lingering just long enough to make your stomach flutter. “Two.”
You chuckle, pressing a third, then a fourth, and by the time you reach five, he’s smiling against your lips, arms wrapped tight around you like he never wants to let go.
“Mm,” he hums, eyes half-lidded as he looks at you. “Maybe staying in bed all day isn’t such a bad idea after all.”
You laugh, resting your forehead against his. “Yeah. Maybe not.”
And for the rest of the morning, that’s exactly what you do.
The King of Curses was never the type to whisper sweet nothings or hold your hand just for the sake of it. Sukuna’s love was something primal, raw, and often terrifying. It wasn’t wrapped in soft words or gentle caresses—it was carved into the world around you, in the way his presence eclipsed all else, in the way he claimed you with an unapologetic ferocity that left no room for doubt.
Acts of Service
You never had to ask Sukuna for anything—he just knew. If someone so much as looked at you the wrong way, they wouldn’t have the luxury of blinking again before he made them regret it. He never said, “I love you,” but when your hands trembled with exhaustion, he was the one pressing a cup of tea into them, grumbling about how weak humans were. When you fell asleep somewhere uncomfortable, you woke up in the best spot, cushioned by warmth you knew was his doing. And when you were hurt? He fixed it, even if it meant ripping the world apart to do so.
Physical Touch
Sukuna was possessive. Not in the way that shackled you, but in the way that made sure the world knew exactly who you belonged to. His touch was never casual—it was a statement. A firm hand gripping your neck, a claw tracing your jaw as he smirked down at you, the occasional brush of his fingers against yours when he thought you weren’t paying attention. But when you were alone, when it was just you and him, the touches softened. His fingers dragged through your hair absentmindedly, his hand resting on your thigh as if he couldn’t bear to let you be too far. He wouldn’t admit it, but you knew—his hands spoke for him in ways his mouth never would.
Gift Giving
Sukuna’s gifts weren’t conventional. He wasn’t bringing you flowers or trinkets—he was bringing you power, protection, proof of his devotion in the form of things that mattered. A dagger infused with cursed energy, something no one but you could wield. Jewelry that carried his mark, an unmistakable sign that you were his. And sometimes, a more brutal kind of offering—a severed hand, a bloodied token from someone who had dared disrespect you. He called it spoils of war. You called it evidence of his love.
Words of Affirmation
Sukuna didn’t do sweet words. He did taunts, insults that somehow curled around affection, threats that promised both destruction and devotion. “Pathetic little thing, thinking you can live without me.” “Tch, who else would put up with you?” But beneath the arrogance, the teasing, there were rare moments when his voice dropped into something lower, something meant only for you. “You’re mine. No one touches what’s mine.” It was never traditional love—never something he’d say outright—but it was undeniable.
Quality Time
Sukuna didn’t just spend time with anyone. So the fact that he chose to be around you, that he let you into the chaos of his existence, meant more than he’d ever say. He watched you with an intensity that made your skin prickle, studied the way you moved, the way you spoke. Even when he acted uninterested, even when he rolled his eyes at your rambling, you knew he heard every word. And at night, when he pulled you against him, when his breath warmed your skin and his hold on you was firm and unyielding, you understood—Sukuna didn’t need to say he loved you. He showed it.
And in the end, you wouldn’t have it any other way.
Reader does "the calling my husband my boyfriend" prank to jjk husband
(I did it backwards..but it’s fine! 😓)
Gojo - Gojo freezes. Like, actually freezes. The bag of snacks he was about to toss onto the counter slips from his fingers, hitting the register with a soft thud. His infinity may as well have been activated because for a moment, it feels like time itself stops.
The cashier, oblivious to his internal crisis, keeps scanning your items. Meanwhile, Gojo slowly turns to you, his usually playful blue eyes now wide with shock—and unmistakable delight.
“H-husband?” His voice cracks, and he immediately clears his throat, trying (and failing) to play it cool. “Oh? Ohhh?” A smirk creeps onto his lips, but his ears are definitely turning red.
You pretend not to notice. “Yeah. My husband,” you repeat nonchalantly, passing him a drink to hold.
Gojo clutches the bottle like it’s a lifeline. “Say it again,” he demands, practically vibrating with excitement now. “No, wait! I should’ve recorded that—say it one more time, please.”
You roll your eyes. “Don’t get used to it.
“Oh, but I will.” He drapes an arm around your shoulder, leaning in close, voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “In fact, I think we should make it official. What do you say, darling? A fancy wedding? Vows? Me sweeping you off your feet—literally?”
You laugh, shoving him off. “We’re not married, Gojo.”
“Not yet,” he corrects with a wink.
Geto - Geto pauses mid-stir, the spoon in his cup clinking softly against the porcelain. His dark eyes flick to you, a hint of amusement dancing in them, but he doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, he takes a slow sip of his tea, as if giving himself time to process what he just heard.
The barista finishes your order and moves on, leaving the two of you alone at your table. That’s when Geto finally speaks.
“My husband, huh?” His lips curve into a small, knowing smile. “That’s a bold claim.”
You shrug, feigning nonchalance. “You don’t like it?”
He hums thoughtfully, setting his cup down before resting his chin on his palm. “No, I love it.” His voice is smooth, deep, laced with something unreadable. “It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
You scoff. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Oh, but it’s too late for that.” His smirk widens, and he leans in slightly, his fingers brushing against yours on the table. “I could get used to hearing that. Maybe you should start practicing it more often.”
You roll your eyes, but the warmth creeping up your neck betrays you.
Geto chuckles, satisfied. “Careful, sweetheart. Call me that too many times, and I just might make it a reality.”
Nanami - Nanami stops in his tracks. His grip on the shopping cart tightens just slightly, knuckles flexing. He doesn’t react outwardly right away—no dramatic pauses, no teasing smirks—just a slow, deep breath as he processes your words.
The employee gives you directions and walks away, leaving an unusual silence between you and Nanami. When you turn to look at him, he’s already gazing at you, brow slightly raised.
“My husband?” he repeats, his tone as even as ever, but there’s something dangerous about how smoothly the words roll off his tongue.
You blink. “What? It’s just easier than explaining.”
He exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “I see.” He pushes the cart forward, resuming your shopping trip like nothing happened. But you notice the way his free hand reaches up to adjust his tie—a telltale sign that you’ve flustered him more than he’s willing to admit.
After a few minutes, he finally speaks again. “If you’re going to call me that, you should at least do it properly.”
You glance up at him. “Properly?”
His gaze meets yours, calm but unwavering. “Yes. With a ring.”
You nearly drop the box of pasta in your hand. “Nanami—”
“Hm?” He continues pushing the cart, utterly unfazed. But you swear you see the corner of his lips twitch—just barely.
Sukuna - The entire room goes silent. The curses scatter like roaches, instinctively sensing the sudden shift in energy.
Sukuna, who had been lazily reclining on his own throne, stiffens ever so slightly. Then, he lets out a low, rumbling chuckle that echoes through the space, filled with something dark and unreadable. His crimson eyes lock onto you, sharp and predatory.
“My husband?” he drawls, voice dripping with amusement—and something more dangerous. “You’ve got some nerve saying that so casually.”
You stretch, feigning indifference. “What? You don’t like it?”
He’s in front of you in an instant, moving faster than you can react. One of his clawed fingers tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His smirk is wicked, teeth bared just enough to remind you exactly who you’re dealing with.
“Oh, I love it,” he purrs. “But tell me, brat—do you even understand the weight of what you just said?” His grip tightens just slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to make your pulse spike. “Calling me your husband… You think you can handle what that truly means?”
You hold his gaze, refusing to back down. “Maybe I can.”
His smirk widens, eyes gleaming with something dark and possessive. He laughs again, low and dangerous. “Then prove it.”
And just like that, you know you’ve awakened something you might not be ready for.
Choso - Choso stops mid-step. You don’t notice right away, too busy paying for your snacks, but when you turn back, he’s just standing there—wide-eyed, frozen, looking like his brain short-circuited.
“My… husband?” he echoes, almost like he’s trying to make sure he heard you right.
You tilt your head. “Yeah? You don’t like it?”
Choso’s mouth opens slightly, but no words come out. He just stares at you, his grip tightening around the bag he’s holding like it’s the only thing grounding him. His face, usually calm and composed, is now deeply flushed—his ears burning red.
“I…” He swallows hard, looking away for a second before sneaking another glance at you. “I like it. A lot.” His voice is quieter now, almost shy.
You smirk. “You’re blushing.”
He immediately looks away, ears turning even redder. “No, I’m not.”
“You so are.”
Choso exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to compose himself. But his fingers tremble just slightly. “You can’t just say things like that without warning.”
“Why not?” you tease.
His dark eyes finally meet yours again, and there’s something serious in them—something sincere. “…Because if you do, I’ll start wanting it to be true.”
And just like that, your heart skips a beat.
Toji - Toji freezes mid-action, a sly smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he slowly turns his head toward you. His dark, calculating eyes never leave your face as he tilts his head, considering you.
“Husband, huh?” he repeats, voice low and dangerously amused.
You shrug nonchalantly, trying to act unaffected. “What? You seem like the type.”
Toji steps closer, his presence towering over you in that signature way of his—unrelenting, like a storm ready to break. He lowers his voice, his breath brushing against your ear as he leans in. “You think I’d make a good husband, sweetheart?” His hand drifts to the small of your back, the touch deliberate but not forceful.
You swallow, suddenly feeling the weight of his gaze on you. “You never know. You seem… capable.”
His smirk deepens, the challenge clear in his eyes. “Capable, huh?” He laughs softly, a dangerous sound. “Is that all I am to you? A capable man?”
Before you can respond, he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze directly. “You call me husband again, and I might just make it a reality. And when I do, darling, don’t think I’m going to play nice.” His eyes darken just slightly, the playful edge replaced with something more possessive.
Your heart skips, and for the briefest moment, you wonder if you’ve just opened a door you might not want to close.
Megumi - Megumi blinks at you, clearly not expecting that. He freezes mid-sentence, his eyes wide and slightly confused, as if he’s trying to process what you just said.
“H-husband?” he stammers, his voice sounding a little too soft and unsure. “Did you—did you just call me that?”
You grin, watching his face flush slightly. “What? You don’t like it?”
Megumi glances away quickly, rubbing the back of his neck, looking anything but confident now. “No… I just wasn’t expecting it,” he admits, trying to brush it off, but his ears are definitely a little pink.
You chuckle, leaning closer, sensing the slight shift in his mood. “What, you don’t think you could be a good husband?”
He tenses up, his gaze flicking to you for a split second before he looks away again. “I… I guess I could be.” His voice drops a little, and there’s a small, almost shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips, though he tries to hide it by turning back to his books.
“You could?” You tease, knowing you’re pushing him out of his comfort zone.
Megumi nods, but then his expression turns more serious, his eyes finally locking with yours. “I wouldn’t want to be anyone else’s.” His tone is softer now, almost vulnerable, but there’s a definite sincerity behind it.
You blink in surprise, feeling your heart beat a little faster at the unexpected response.
“Maybe you should say it more often,” he adds, looking a little shy again but holding your gaze. “It’s… nice to hear.”
And just like that, you realize you’ve flustered the stoic, composed Megumi more than you thought possible.
Yuji - Yuji stops in his tracks, a wide grin on his face, but his eyes immediately widen in complete surprise. “Husband?” He repeats the word like it’s the most exciting thing he’s ever heard, almost stumbling over his feet in his shock. “Did you—did you just call me that?”
You try to keep a straight face. “Yeah, what’s wrong with it? You’re always looking out for me, so why not?”
Yuji’s face lights up, and his usual enthusiasm kicks into overdrive. He starts bouncing on his heels, his grin growing even wider. “Wait, seriously? Husband?” He grabs your shoulders and spins you around dramatically, his voice practically shaking with excitement. “That means—we’re married now, right?! I’ve got a wife! Oh man, this is amazing!”
You laugh, trying to push him off gently, but his grip is stronger than expected. “Yuji, I was joking! Calm down.”
“Joking?” He pulls back, staring at you with a mock-serious expression. “You can’t just say something like that and not mean it! That’s like—like—a huge deal! You can’t just call someone your husband and not—”
“Yuji!” you laugh, cutting him off. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
But Yuji’s eyes are sparkling with joy, and he’s barely containing his excitement. “But what if we do make it real? You know, I’m down! I’m totally ready for the husband life, wifey!” He gives you a big, goofy grin.
You roll your eyes, but the way his face lights up makes it hard to keep a straight face. “We’ll talk about it later.”
“No need to talk,” he says, pulling you into a dramatic side-hug. “You’re already stuck with me now. Husband and wife, baby!”
Gojo - The city was dusted with snow, the streets lined with pink and red decorations that shimmered beneath the streetlights. Valentine’s Day in Tokyo was always a little extra — heart-shaped balloons tied to storefronts, couples walking hand in hand, and cafes boasting limited-edition desserts.
You weren’t sure why you expected today to feel like just another Wednesday. Not with Gojo Satoru as your boyfriend.
Your phone buzzed right as you stepped into your apartment.
Satoru: Come to the rooftop. Now. No questions.
You raised an eyebrow but couldn’t fight the small smile that tugged at your lips. With Gojo, surprises were inevitable. You grabbed your coat and made your way up the stairs, pushing open the door to the rooftop.
The sight took your breath away.
Strings of fairy lights crisscrossed overhead, casting a soft golden glow over a small table set with desserts and a thermos of what you assumed was hot chocolate. A thick blanket was spread out beside the table, lined with cushions. The city skyline glittered in the distance like scattered diamonds.
And there, standing with his back to you, was Satoru. He turned when he heard you step forward, that trademark grin appearing as soon as his eyes met yours. His blindfold was gone tonight, leaving his vibrant blue eyes on full display.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart,” he said, spreading his arms dramatically. “Aren’t I the most romantic boyfriend ever?”
You chuckled and walked over to him. “I mean…you did set the bar high last year with the impromptu trip to Okinawa.”
“True,” he mused. “But this year, I thought — why travel when we can just…stay cozy here?”
He pulled you into his arms, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You sank into him, warmth spreading through you despite the chilly February air.
“You really did all this?” you asked, glancing around the rooftop setup.
“Of course! Who else would go this over-the-top for you?” His voice was teasing, but there was a softness in his eyes that gave him away. “I wanted tonight to be about us. No curses, no missions, no interruptions.”
Your heart gave a little flutter. Gojo wasn’t always the best with words when it came to feelings — but when he showed it, it hit like a freight train.
“Come on,” he said, tugging you toward the blanket. “I brought your favorite pastries from that place you love.”
“You went all the way across town for those?”
“For you? Always.”
You sat together, sharing bites of pastries and sipping hot chocolate as the night unfolded. Gojo kept making ridiculous jokes, most of which made you groan but left you laughing anyway. His hand never left yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles absentmindedly.
As the night wore on, he grew quieter. You turned to find him gazing at you with an expression you didn’t see often — vulnerable, unguarded.
“Hey,” you whispered. “What’s that look for?”
He hesitated, then gave you a crooked smile. “Just thinking about how lucky I am.”
Your chest tightened. You squeezed his hand. “Me too, Satoru.”
Geto - The February air was crisp, the scent of snow lingering despite the clear sky. Tokyo streets were alive with Valentine’s Day cheer — couples strolling beneath pink banners, flower shops bustling with last-minute customers, and cafés offering heart-shaped treats in every window.
But the warmth of the city didn’t quite reach you tonight.
You sat by the window of your apartment, absently tracing patterns on the frosty glass. Your phone sat on the table beside you, the screen dark except for the faint reflection of your own face.
You shouldn’t have expected a message.
Not today. Not from him.
The familiar ache stirred in your chest. It was easier most days, the distance between you and Suguru Geto a wound you learned to live with. But today? When the world seemed to revolve around love and companionship? It hurt.
You squeezed your eyes shut and leaned your forehead against the window.
Stop waiting, you told yourself. He’s not coming back.
But then your phone buzzed. Once. Twice.
Your heart lurched as you snatched it up.
Unknown Number: Look outside.
Your breath caught. The number wasn’t saved, but you knew who it was. Even after all this time, you’d never forgotten the pattern of his messages — the deliberate wording, the weight behind so few words.
You stood slowly, heart racing as you stepped to the window. Outside, beneath the streetlamp across from your building, stood a figure dressed in black. His long, dark hair was half-pulled back, the rest cascading over his shoulders. Even from here, you could feel the weight of his gaze.
Suguru Geto.
Your knees went weak, and your breath hitched.
You shouldn’t go to him. You knew better. But your body moved on instinct — grabbing your coat and rushing out the door, heart beating louder than the sound of your footsteps down the stairs.
The cold night air hit your face as you pushed through the entrance and crossed the street. He didn’t move until you were standing in front of him.
“You’re really here,” you whispered.
“I shouldn’t be,” he said softly. His voice was deeper than you remembered, but it still held that same calm, steady rhythm. “But…I couldn’t stay away today.”
His eyes softened as they met yours, the faintest crack in the mask he wore now. You searched his face, noting the faint scars, the exhaustion in his features. He looked older. Colder. But beneath that? The man you once loved was still there.
“Why now?” you asked, voice trembling.
He hesitated. “Because it’s Valentine’s Day. And no matter how far I go…you’re still the one I think of today.”
Tears burned in your eyes, and you clenched your jaw to hold them back. “Suguru…you left. You chose—”
“I know.” His expression tightened with guilt. “And I still believe in what I chose. But that doesn’t mean I stopped—” He cut himself off, exhaling shakily. “It doesn’t mean I stopped missing you.”
The cold wind swirled between you.
You should walk away. You should tell him that missing you wasn’t enough to erase everything he’d done.
But your heart betrayed you.
You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him. For a moment, he stood still, as though unsure if he was allowed this. Then his arms came around you, holding you tightly, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered against his chest.
“I know,” he murmured, voice cracking.
“And I shouldn’t be doing this.”
“I know that too.”
Neither of you moved. The world faded — the lights, the decorations, the laughter from passing couples. For one night, time stood still.
“Just tonight?” you asked.
His hand cradled the back of your head. “Just tonight.”
Valentine’s Day was supposed to be sweet, but with Suguru, it was always bittersweet.
Because tomorrow, he’d be gone again.
And you’d be left waiting for a ghost.
Nanami - February 14th had always felt like a manufactured holiday to Nanami Kento — an excuse for companies to push chocolates, flowers, and overpriced dinners. He wasn’t a cynic about love; he simply didn’t believe in grand gestures dictated by a calendar, he believed it should be an everyday thing.
But then he met you.
And now he found himself standing in the kitchen of your shared apartment, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, meticulously arranging a plate of homemade chocolate-covered strawberries. Each one was dipped perfectly — because, of course, Nanami wouldn’t settle for uneven coatings — and sprinkled with just the right amount of crushed hazelnuts.
He glanced at the clock. 6:58 p.m. You’d be home any minute.
The apartment was quiet except for the faint jazz music playing from the speaker. A bottle of wine was already breathing on the counter, and dinner was simmering on the stove. Simple. Elegant. Thoughtful. Just like he knew you preferred.
The lock clicked, and he turned just as the door opened.
“Smells amazing in here,” you called as you stepped inside, cheeks pink from the cold. When your eyes landed on him — standing there in his crisp white shirt, apron still tied around his waist — your smile softened. “Did you…cook?”
“Of course,” he said, walking over to help you with your coat. His hands brushed against yours, warm and grounding. “It’s Valentine’s Day.”
“You hate Valentine’s Day.”
“I dislike the commercial aspect,” he corrected. “I never said I dislike making you happy.”
Your heart melted a little. Nanami wasn’t a man of grand speeches or showy declarations. His love lived in the details — the way he remembered how you liked your tea, the gentle hand on your back when you crossed the street, the soft “be careful” every time you left for work.
You stepped up on your toes and kissed him. His hands found your waist instinctively, pulling you closer. His lips, warm and deliberate, moved against yours with that same steady devotion he brought to everything he did.
When you pulled back, your heart was racing. “So…what’s for dinner, Mr. Romance?”
He arched a brow. “Homemade pasta with a cream sauce and seared salmon.”
Your mouth watered. “You made homemade pasta?”
Nanami gave a modest shrug. “It’s not difficult with the right tools.”
You laughed, slipping your hand into his and letting him lead you to the dining table, where candles flickered gently.
The meal was perfect, of course. Nanami didn’t know how to do anything halfway. As you finished the last bites, you leaned back in your chair with a content sigh.
“You really went all out,” you said softly.
Nanami reached across the table, taking your hand in his. His thumb traced absent circles on your skin. “I know I don’t always say it the way others might…but I need you to know how much you mean to me.”
Your throat tightened. “I do know.”
“I don’t need Valentine’s Day to remind me to appreciate you,” he continued, voice low and sure. “But I’ll use any excuse to make you smile like this.”
Tears prickled in your eyes. You squeezed his hand, heart full.
“Well,” you said, blinking them away with a teasing grin, “if this is what happens when you don’t care about Valentine’s Day…maybe I’ll have to start pushing for more holidays.”
Nanami chuckled — a soft, genuine sound that always made you feel like the luckiest person alive.
And when he kissed you again, slow and deliberate, with Nanami, every day felt like Valentine’s Day.
Toji - Valentine’s Day was just another day to Toji Fushiguro. Overpriced chocolates, corny decorations, couples trying too hard — none of it made sense to him. Love? Romance? He’d seen how easily both could crack and fall apart.
But then came you. And somehow, against all odds, you stuck around.
Which was probably why you were sitting on the couch that night, wearing your favorite hoodie, scrolling through your phone, while the clock ticked past 10 p.m. Your gaze flicked to the door every few minutes, even if you tried to pretend otherwise.
You weren’t one to make a big deal out of holidays, but…you’d hoped, just a little, that Toji might remember.
When the lock clicked and the door opened, you sat up. He stepped in with his usual swagger — black coat slung over his shoulders, hair damp from the light snowfall outside. His eyes landed on you immediately.
“Waitin’ for me?” he asked, voice low and teasing.
“No,” you said, maybe a little too quickly. “Just…watching TV.”
He hummed in response and kicked off his shoes. “That so?”
You turned back to the screen, determined not to let disappointment show. But then Toji’s hand appeared in your line of vision, holding a small, slightly crumpled brown paper bag.
“What’s this?” you asked, taking it cautiously.
“Open it.”
Inside the bag was a simple plastic container, the kind convenience stores use for pastries. Through the clear lid, you saw a strawberry shortcake — two layers of sponge cake with cream and fresh strawberries sandwiched in between. It was slightly smushed on one side, like he’d carried it under his arm for a while.
Your chest tightened. “You…got me cake?”
He shrugged, avoiding your gaze. “Figured you’d like it.”
You tried to bite back the grin tugging at your lips. “From that bakery I told you about?”
“Tch. What do I look like, a guy who stands in line for fancy desserts?” He flopped onto the couch beside you, throwing an arm over the backrest. “Nah, just grabbed it on the way here.”
But you noticed the faint red sticker on the container — the bakery logo you’d gushed about weeks ago. The one that was always packed.
You turned toward him, warmth blooming in your chest. “Toji…did you actually go out of your way to get me a Valentine’s Day cake?”
He groaned. “Don’t make it weird, sweetheart.”
“Too late.” You bit your lip, eyes glimmering. “This is…really sweet.”
He grunted, clearly uncomfortable with the compliment. “Yeah, yeah. Just eat the damn cake.”
You didn’t push him further. Instead, you stood, grabbed two forks, and plopped back down beside him. You handed him one and opened the container.
The first bite was soft, sweet, and just a little crooked from the journey here. “Mmm,” you said, closing your eyes. “Perfect.”
Toji watched you, his fork twirling idly between his fingers. “Good?”
“Very.” You held out a forkful for him. He leaned forward, taking it without hesitation. His lips closed around the fork, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he chewed.
“Eh,” he said with a shrug. “Too sweet.”
You laughed. “You’re too grumpy.”
“Yeah? But you still like me.”
“Somehow.”
He set his fork down, watching you for a moment. Then, without warning, he tugged you into his lap. You squeaked as you landed against his chest, but his arms locked around you before you could move.
“Toji!”
“Hush.” He kissed your neck, the rough scrape of his stubble sending a shiver down your spine. “Only did this stupid Valentine’s thing for you, y’know.”
“I know,” you whispered, heart racing.
“Don’t expect this every year.”
“Of course not,” you teased. “Just every other year.”
He nipped at your ear in response, making you squeal. The cake sat forgotten on the table as Toji buried his face in your neck, holding you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
Valentine’s Day might not have been his thing, but for you? He’d put up with the sweetness — cake, cuddles, and all.
Sukuna - Valentine’s Day was laughable to Sukuna.
Love? Affection? Gifts wrapped in pretty ribbons and declarations whispered in the dark? Disgusting. Humans were so easily swayed by fleeting emotions, so eager to bend to each other’s will for the sake of something as trivial as romance.
Yet here he was. Sitting on the edge of your bed. Waiting for you.
The box of chocolates on the nightstand mocked him — heart-shaped, adorned with a delicate satin bow. He didn’t even know if you liked chocolates. He just knew that the cashier had smiled a little too sweetly at him when he bought them, and he’d had to resist the urge to rip her tongue out.
The things he did for you.
The door creaked open. “Sukuna?”
You stepped inside, cheeks pink from the cold, hair slightly mussed from the wind. Your eyes found his immediately — sharp and glowing even in the dim light.
“You’re here,” you said softly.
“Obviously.” He tilted his head, gaze raking over you. “Who else would be stupid enough to sit around waiting for you?”
You snorted, shrugging off your coat. “Nice to see you too, Your Highness.”
Sukuna watched you with a predator’s patience as you moved around the room, kicking off your shoes and tossing your bag onto the chair. You always did this — acted casual, like the King of Curses lounging in your bedroom was perfectly normal. Maybe it was, by now.
But tonight, he was restless. And he hated it.
“What’s with the face?” you asked, eyeing him.
His jaw tightened. “Tch. Nothing.”
Your eyes flicked to the nightstand. “Wait…what’s this?”
Sukuna didn’t respond as you picked up the box. The bow slipped between your fingers, and you looked at him with wide eyes.
“You bought me chocolates?”
“Don’t read into it.”
“On Valentine’s Day?”
“Coincidence,” he muttered.
You bit your lip to contain your smile. “Uh-huh. Sure. The King of Curses went out and bought chocolates for a mortal on Valentine’s Day…by accident.”
His eye twitched. “Careful, little one.”
But your delight was contagious. You sat beside him, holding the box close like it was some priceless artifact. “Seriously, Sukuna…thank you. I didn’t think you’d—”
“Yeah, yeah,” he interrupted. “Don’t get sappy.”
Too late. You were already leaning into him, resting your head on his shoulder. His muscles went rigid at first — softness wasn’t something he welcomed — but then his arm settled around you, palm splaying over your hip possessively.
“You know,” you said after a moment, voice playful, “if you wanted to spend Valentine’s Day with me, you could’ve just said so.”
He scoffed. “I don’t want to spend it with you.”
“Oh?”
“You just…happen to be the only person I tolerate.” His fingers slid up your side, brushing the hem of your shirt. “And I had the night free.”
“Of course.” You tilted your head to look at him. “No other humans to torment?”
“Not tonight.” His gaze dropped to your lips. “But if you keep running your mouth, I might make an exception.”
“Mm. Terrifying.” You leaned up, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the corner of his mouth. His breath caught — just for a second — before his hand tangled in your hair, pulling you in for a rougher, deeper kiss.
When you finally pulled apart, your lips tingling, you whispered, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Sukuna.”
He smirked, thumb running over your lower lip. “You should be terrified that you’re mine.”
“Maybe,” you said, voice soft. “But I’m not.”
The chocolates sat forgotten as Sukuna kissed you again, harder this time — desperate to remind you, on this silly mortal holiday, that you belonged to him.
And maybe, just maybe, he belonged to you too.
Yuji - Yuji Itadori had never been great with romantic stuff. Sure, he could crack jokes, be a goofball, and brighten any room with his smile, but Valentine’s Day? That was a whole new level of pressure.
But this year was different. This year, he had you.
And Yuji Itadori was determined to make it special. “Okay, okay, wait,” Yuji muttered to himself, pacing his tiny apartment. “Flowers. Check. Chocolates. Check. Dinner reservations—” He glanced at the takeout containers on the counter. “Uh…sort of check.”
He ran a hand through his hair, the nerves starting to eat away at his confidence. He just wanted tonight to be perfect.
You deserved that.
The knock on his door made him jump. “Okay,” he whispered, straightening his sweater and taking a deep breath. “Cool. Calm. Romantic. Yeah, I got this.”
He opened the door, and there you stood — cheeks flushed from the cold, bundled in your favorite coat, smiling at him like he hung the stars.
“Hey,” you greeted, voice soft.
“Hey,” he said, a little breathless. “Wow. You…you look amazing.”
Your lips quirked up. “I’m literally wearing jeans and a sweater.”
“Yeah, but you make it look good.”
He stepped aside to let you in. The warm scent of takeout curry drifted through the room, along with the faint aroma of the candles he’d lit — all mismatched shapes and sizes, creating a cozy, slightly chaotic glow.
“Yuji,” you said, turning to him. “This is…so cute.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks pink. “Yeah? Not too much?”
“It’s perfect.”
He visibly relaxed. “Good. ’Cause, uh, I kinda went all out.”
He motioned toward the table, where a small bouquet of daisies sat in a glass jar. Next to it, a heart-shaped box of chocolates and two plates of steaming curry rice waited.
“Yuji,” you whispered. “You really didn’t have to do all this.”
“Yeah, but…I wanted to.” He shifted on his feet. “I mean, it’s Valentine’s Day. And you’re, like, the coolest person I know. And I…” His voice faltered. “I really like you.”
Your heart melted. “I really like you too.”
The tension in his shoulders eased, replaced by that signature grin. “Okay, cool. Awesome. Let’s eat before the rice gets all weird.”
Dinner was filled with laughter, teasing, and Yuji’s endless supply of goofy jokes. The curry was delicious, and the chocolates turned out to be your favorite kind — something he claimed was a lucky guess but had secretly researched for weeks.
Later, as the candles burned lower, you sat on the couch, leaning against him while he scrolled through movie options. His arm draped around your shoulders, his thumb absentmindedly tracing circles on your arm.
You tilted your head up to meet his gaze. “More than okay. It was perfect.”
His smile turned shy. “Good. ’Cause, uh…I kinda wanna make it a tradition. You know…if you want.”
You reached up, cupped his face, and kissed him — soft, sweet, and lingering. When you pulled back, his eyes were wide, lips parted in surprise.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “I’d like that.”
Yuji’s grin stretched wide as he pulled you into another kiss, this one filled with pure, unfiltered happiness.
Valentine’s Day might not have been his forte, but with you? He was pretty sure he’d nailed it.
Megumi - Megumi Fushiguro didn’t care about Valentine’s Day.
Or at least, that’s what he told himself. Every year, he watched people get swept up in the holiday — chocolates, flowers, declarations of love — and he thought it was all pointless. Why dedicate one day to something that should be shown every day?
But then he met you.
And suddenly, Valentine’s Day didn’t seem so ridiculous. The afternoon sun cast a pale, cold glow through the windows of Megumi’s apartment. He stood at the kitchen counter, scowling down at the small box in his hands. It was a simple gift — dark chocolates you liked and a handwritten note tucked beneath the lid.
Nothing fancy. Nothing loud. Just…something to show you that he cared.
He set the box down and rubbed the back of his neck. “This is stupid,” he muttered.
But when his phone buzzed with your On my way! text, his heart kicked into an anxious rhythm. Too late to back out now.
When you arrived, you were all smiles, cheeks pink from the cold. “Hey, Megumi.”
“Hey,” he said, stepping aside to let you in.
The warmth of his apartment was a welcome relief, and you sighed as you slipped off your coat. “Smells nice in here.”
“I…made tea,” he said, clearing his throat. “Thought it might help warm you up.”
“Aw,” you teased lightly. “Thoughtful as always.”
His ears burned at the compliment. “Yeah, well…it’s cold out.”
You followed him into the living room, where two mugs of tea waited on the table. You sat beside him on the couch and curled your legs underneath you, taking the warm cup with a grateful hum.
“So,” you said after a sip, “any big plans today?”
He shrugged. “Not really.”
“Right. Because you don’t care about Valentine’s Day.”
“I don’t,” he said quickly.
You gave him a knowing look but didn’t push. Megumi had always been a little awkward when it came to expressing emotions — but you’d learned to read the small gestures. The way he made you tea when it was cold. The way he always stood closest to you in crowds. The way he remembered your favorite foods without you ever having to remind him.
After a moment, his gaze flicked toward the table beside him. “Uh…I got you something,” he said, voice low.
Your eyebrows shot up. “Wait — seriously?”
He grabbed the box, hesitated, then handed it over without meeting your eyes. “It’s not a big deal. Just…open it.”
You carefully undid the ribbon and lifted the lid. Inside were neatly arranged chocolates and a small, folded note. Your chest tightened at the sight.
“Chocolates and a card?” you teased, though your voice was soft. “Megumi, you’re going all out.”
He groaned and rubbed his forehead. “Don’t make this weird.”
You unfolded the note and read his handwriting:
“I know Valentine’s Day is supposed to be about big, romantic gestures, but I think the little things matter more. Like how you make everything feel lighter, even when things are hard. I might not say it much, but…I’m really glad you’re here. Happy Valentine’s Day — Megumi.”
Your vision blurred for a moment, and you set the note down with a wobbly smile. “Megumi, this is…perfect.”
He shifted uncomfortably, face flushed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You reached over and squeezed his hand. “I’m really glad I’m here too.”
He squeezed back, his thumb brushing yours. His eyes softened, tension melting from his shoulders.
“Good,” he said quietly.
The chocolates sat untouched for a while as you leaned into his side, your hand still held firmly in his.
Megumi Fushiguro didn’t need grand gestures or fancy gifts to show he cared. For him, love was quiet, steady, and honest.
You shuffled into the kitchen, still caught in the haze of sleep, stretching as you walked. The air smelled of something warm and rich, and when you blinked your eyes open, you saw it—a steaming cup of coffee waiting for you on the counter.
Your lips curved into a small smile as you picked it up, the warmth seeping into your fingers. Just the way you liked it. Just the way he always made it.
Leaning against the doorway was Nanami, already dressed for work, rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt with practiced ease. His tie hung undone around his neck, and his hair was still slightly damp from his morning shower. He looked up from adjusting his cuffs, watching you take your first sip.
“You didn’t have to,” you murmured, voice still soft from sleep.
His gaze flickered to yours, something fond lingering in the way he looked at you. “I always do.”
And he did. Without fail, every morning before he even touched his own coffee, yours would be ready, waiting for you like clockwork. It was a small gesture, one he never called attention to, but it made your heart ache in the best way.
Setting your cup down, you took a step closer and reached for his tie, straightening it with gentle fingers. “You’re spoiling me,” you teased, looking up at him.
Nanami let out a soft huff, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Good.”
Then, with an ease that made your breath catch, he leaned down and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead. It wasn’t rushed, nor was it thoughtless—just a quiet, steady kind of love, the kind he gave so effortlessly.
The kind that made you want to stay in this moment forever.
You let your fingers linger on his chest, feeling the warmth beneath the fabric of his shirt. “You know,” you mused, voice barely above a whisper, “if you keep this up, I might start expecting it.”
Nanami smirked, tilting his head just enough for his lips to graze your temple. “Let me spoil you for a lifetime,” he murmured against your skin.
Your heart skipped a beat.
You smiled, reaching up to cup his face, your thumb brushing against his cheek. “Deal.”
And in that quiet kitchen, before the rush of the day could pull you both away, Nanami kissed you like it was a promise.
Jjk men who lends their jacket for their s/o, bc their freezing?
!pre relationship
Gojo - The autumn air was sharper than you expected, slipping through your clothes like a whisper of ice. You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to ignore the way your skin prickled with the chill. The plan had been simple—just a quick walk through the city after dinner—but now, with the wind picking up, you regretted not grabbing a jacket before leaving.
Gojo, of course, was unfazed. Dressed in his usual effortless confidence, hands tucked in his pockets, he didn’t seem to notice the cold at all. But he did notice you.
“You shivering?” His voice was teasing, but there was something softer beneath it. He cocked his head, his signature smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.
“No,” you lied, even as another gust of wind made you wince.
He hummed, clearly unconvinced. Then, without warning, he shrugged off his jacket—a thick, expensive thing that smelled like him, all faint cologne and something undeniably Gojo. Before you could protest, he draped it over your shoulders, his hands lingering just long enough to make your heart stutter.
“Can’t have you freezing on me,” he said, grinning. “What kind of gentleman would I be if I let that happen?”
You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the warmth that bloomed in your chest. “I never said you were a gentleman.”
“Ouch,” he laughed, nudging your side as he fell back into step beside you. “You wound me.”
Despite your words, you pulled the jacket tighter around yourself, letting its warmth seep into your skin. It was big on you, the sleeves dangling past your hands, but you didn’t mind. Especially not when Gojo glanced over, a satisfied gleam in his eyes.
Yeah. Maybe you’d “forget” to give it back.
Geto - The evening air was colder than you had expected. You hadn’t thought much of it when you left earlier, but now, with the wind sneaking through the fabric of your sleeves, you wished you had. Hugging your arms to your chest did little to stop the chill, but you refused to say anything.
Unfortunately for you, Geto noticed anyway.
“You’re cold.” It wasn’t a question—just a quiet observation, spoken with that calm certainty he always carried.
You started to shake your head, ready to deny it, but before you could, he was already moving. With an easy shrug, he slid his jacket off his shoulders and draped it over yours, the weight of it warm and steady. The scent of him—clean, familiar, something faintly like incense—wrapped around you as much as the fabric did.
“You don’t have to—”
“Just wear it,” he said, voice amused but firm. His fingers brushed against your arm as he adjusted the collar, making sure it covered you properly. The touch was fleeting, but it sent warmth curling through you in a way the jacket alone couldn’t.
You sighed, giving in. “You’re annoying.”
Geto chuckled, stuffing his hands into his pockets now that they were bare to the cold. “And yet, you’re still wearing my jacket.”
You pulled it tighter around yourself, the sleeves far too long for you, but somehow, that only made it better. When you peeked up at him, he was watching you with that small, knowing smile of his—the kind that made you feel like you had already lost whatever argument was about to happen.
Nanami - The night air was sharper than you expected, chilling you to the bone despite your best efforts to ignore it. You folded your arms across your chest, trying to preserve what little warmth you had, but the wind wasn’t forgiving. A small shiver betrayed you.
Nanami noticed instantly.
Without hesitation, he let out a quiet sigh and slipped off his jacket. Before you could protest, he draped it over your shoulders with careful hands, his touch lingering as he adjusted the fit, making sure you were properly covered. The weight of it was warm, comforting—so distinctly him.
“You should have told me you were cold,” he murmured, his voice softer than usual. Not scolding—just concerned.
You glanced up at him, ready to argue, but the look in his eyes stopped you. There was no frustration, no exasperation. Just quiet care.
“I didn’t want to bother you,” you admitted, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself. It was big, the sleeves comically long, but you didn’t mind. If anything, it made you feel even warmer.
Nanami sighed again, this time more gently, almost amused. “You’re never a bother,” he said simply, like it was the easiest truth in the world.
His hand came up, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face before settling lightly against your shoulder. His thumb brushed over the fabric of the jacket—just once, absentmindedly, as if reassuring himself that you were warm enough.
“Better?” he asked.
You nodded, swallowing down the sudden warmth spreading through your chest. “Yeah… better.”
A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips before he stepped back. “Good,” he murmured. “If you get colder, just tell me. I won’t let you freeze.”
Sukuna - The cold night air bit at your skin, creeping through your clothes no matter how much you tried to ignore it. You hated showing weakness around him of all people, but your body betrayed you—a small shiver ran through you before you could stop it.
Sukuna, who had been walking just ahead of you, suddenly stopped. Without turning around, he let out a low chuckle.
“You’re trembling,” he mused, voice dripping with amusement.
You straightened, forcing yourself to scoff. “I’m fine.”
He finally turned to face you, his crimson eyes gleaming with something unreadable. His gaze swept over you, slow and knowing, before he let out a dramatic sigh. “Pathetic.”
Before you could snap back at him, he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it in your direction. You barely caught it, startled by the unexpected gesture. The fabric was thick and warm, and the scent of him—smoky, sharp, and undeniably Sukuna—lingered in every fiber.
You stared at him, suspicious. “You care?”
He smirked, stepping closer until he was towering over you. “Don’t get the wrong idea,” he said, voice dropping into something almost dangerous. “If you freeze to death, it’ll be annoying.”
You rolled your eyes but slipped the jacket on anyway, unable to hide the way your body instantly relaxed into its warmth. It was big—far too big—but strangely, that made it all the more comforting.
Sukuna watched you, his gaze dark and unreadable. Then, with a scoff, he reached out, tugging the collar higher around your neck with a rough but precise touch.
“You look ridiculous,” he muttered, though there was no real bite to his words.
You smirked. “And yet, you still gave it to me.”
His eyes narrowed, but instead of responding, he simply turned and kept walking. “Hurry up,” he called over his shoulder. “I’m not waiting all night.”
You smiled to yourself, pulling the jacket tighter around you as you followed after him.
Toji - The night air was sharp, cutting through your clothes no matter how much you tried to ignore it. You rubbed your arms, trying to preserve what little warmth you had, but it wasn’t doing much. The last thing you wanted was to complain—especially not in front of him.
Toji, who had been walking beside you, let out a low chuckle. “Tch. You’re shivering.”
You rolled your eyes. “No, I’m not.”
He shot you a knowing look, sharp green eyes glinting under the dim streetlights. “Yeah? Then what’s this?” Before you could react, he reached out and ran a calloused finger down your bare arm, making you shudder for an entirely different reason.
You smacked his hand away, scowling. “You are such an ass.”
He only grinned, that lazy, cocky smirk of his settling on his lips. But before you could snap at him again, he did something that genuinely surprised you—he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it at you.
The weight of it was warm, heavy, and carried him all over it—faint cologne, something smoky, and a little bit of gunpowder, like trouble and comfort all at once. You blinked at him, caught off guard.
“You’re giving me your jacket?”
Toji scoffed. “I ain’t giving you anything. Just borrowing it before you turn into an icicle. Don’t get used to it.”
Despite his words, his hand reached out again, this time grabbing the collar and tugging it snug around your shoulders. The gesture was rough, almost impatient, but weirdly…gentle. You swallowed, caught somewhere between rolling your eyes and letting your heart stutter.
“You’re warm now, yeah?” he asked, his voice quieter this time.
You nodded, trying to ignore how ridiculously huge the jacket was on you. “Yeah…”
“Good.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, his smirk returning. “’Cause I’m not carrying your frozen ass home.”
You snorted, pulling the jacket tighter around you. “Sure, Toji.”
He glanced at you, something amused—maybe even a little fond—lingering in his gaze before he turned away. “Hurry up,” he muttered, resuming his pace.
You smiled to yourself, knowing damn well he was walking just a little slower for you.
Megumi - The night air was colder than you expected, creeping through your clothes and making you instinctively rub your arms for warmth. You didn’t say anything, though. Complaining wasn’t really your thing—especially not in front of him.
Megumi, walking beside you with his hands stuffed in his pockets, glanced over. His expression, as always, was unreadable, but his sharp eyes didn’t miss a thing.
“You’re cold,” he stated plainly.
You shook your head, forcing a small smirk. “I’m fine.”
Megumi let out a quiet sigh, one that sounded suspiciously like you’re impossible. Without another word, he slipped off his jacket and held it out to you, not even looking in your direction as he did.
“Here.”
You blinked at him. “You don’t have to—”
“Just take it,” he muttered, a faint hint of exasperation in his tone. But despite the gruffness, there was something so Megumi about the gesture—quiet, thoughtful, and without any expectation of thanks.
You hesitated for half a second before slipping it on. The warmth was immediate, and the scent of him—something clean and familiar, a little bit like pine—wrapped around you. The jacket was a little big, but you didn’t mind.
“…Thanks,” you said, your voice softer now.
Megumi simply hummed in acknowledgment, eyes still fixed ahead. But after a beat, he glanced over at you, his gaze flickering to where his jacket swallowed you whole. His lips parted slightly like he wanted to say something—but instead, he just shook his head, stuffing his hands back into his pockets.
“…Just don’t get sick,” he muttered, looking away again.
A small smile tugged at your lips. “You’re sweet, you know that?”
Megumi scoffed, his ears suspiciously pink. “Shut up.”
You laughed, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself. He might have pretended not to care, but you knew better.
Yuji - The cold was relentless, biting through your clothes no matter how much you tried to ignore it. You rubbed your arms, silently cursing yourself for not checking the weather before leaving. Yuji, walking beside you, had been talking animatedly about some movie he watched recently, but his words suddenly trailed off.
You glanced up at him just in time to see his brows knit together in concern. “Wait… are you cold?”
You immediately shook your head. “Nope. Totally fine.”
Yuji squinted at you, unconvinced. Then, without another word, he stopped in his tracks. Before you could question it, he yanked off his jacket in one swift motion.
“Here.” He didn’t wait for you to protest—he just grinned and draped it over your shoulders, pulling the fabric snug around you like it was second nature. His hands lingered at your arms for a second, rubbing warmth into them before finally stepping back.
You looked up at him, surprised. “Yuji, you really don’t have to—”
He waved a hand dismissively. “No way! What kind of friend—” he paused, tilting his head, “or super cool guy would I be if I let you freeze?”
You huffed a laugh, shaking your head at him. “Super cool guy, huh?”
“Obviously,” he said with a wink. “But I’d be an even cooler guy if you let me buy you something warm to drink too.”
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. His jacket was big on you, the sleeves almost swallowing your hands, and the scent of him—warm and a little sweet, like citrus and something undeniably Yuji—wrapped around you.
“…Fine,” you relented. “But only because I don’t want your jacket to go to waste.”
Yuji grinned, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he fell into step beside you again. “Yeah, yeah, whatever helps you sleep at night.”
He nudged your shoulder playfully, and despite the cold air still biting at your cheeks, you felt warm.
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