miyan’s corner

🎐 ⊹₊ call me miyan! | 21 years old | a nurse who hides during breaks to write <33

-> current interest: jujutsu kaisen, attack on titan, haikyuu!!

if you are interested in my writing, please check out the #miyan writes ★.ᐟ tag. sexual content will have warnings so you can just skip them. i will make a masterlist in the future when i have more stuff here, but for now, enjoy!

all works belong to ⓒ bjlipss. refrain from plagiarising or stealing my work.

— thinking about how gojo’s mother was probably distant, one way or another; could be her own ruined psyche or elders taking her away from him so he wouldn’t have any liabilities. which led to this:

gojo loves a lot of things—sweet things, loud music, fighting strong opponents, being right—but nothing, nothing, compares to how much he loves it when you fuss over him.

he doesn’t even try to hide the way he preens under your attention. he eats it up, tail wagging, metaphorically of course (but nanami once swore he saw something wag when you fixed gojo’s collar before a meeting). he’s the strongest, the pride of jujutsu society, a man built of curses and pressure and loss—but when you touch his face and say, “baby, you’ve got something on your cheek,” in front of everyone, he melts like it’s the first time he’s ever been touched.

he’s insufferable about it.

you know this. you definitely know this.

like right now—shoko, nanami, utahime, and a few higher-ups are gathered in the tokyo school courtyard, discussing something Important and political that gojo is half-listening to, arms crossed, glasses pushed up. the moment you step into view, he perks up like a dog hearing the treat jar open.

“sweetheart!” he calls, loud, obnoxious, over everyone’s conversation. “come here, i missed you.”

you roll your eyes, but you walk over anyway, standing just a little too close. your hand comes up to brush a bit of lint off his shoulder. it’s automatic, done a thousand times before. you smooth the front of his uniform like you’re making sure he looks good enough to be seen by the world. he already does, but still. you always check.

“did you eat today?” you murmur, low enough that only he can hear.

he grins so wide it’s a miracle his face doesn’t split in half. “not really.”

you click your tongue and sigh, already reaching into your bag. “what did i say about skipping meals? your sugar crashes make you annoying.”

“you think i’m annoying?” he gasps dramatically, like you’ve wounded him.

you ignore that. hand him a small container of fruit you’d packed this morning “just in case.” feed him a grape. wipe the juice from the corner of his mouth with your thumb.

nanami looks skyward like he’s praying for divine intervention. utahime makes a noise of pure disgust. shoko smirks around her cigarette and mutters something about whipped men.

gojo, for his part, beams. glows. leans his whole body weight against you like he’s too weak to stand on his own unless you’re propping him up. he loops an arm around your waist and tugs you closer, all but purring. “look how good my wife is to me,” he announces to no one in particular. “i really scored big, huh?”

“she must be getting something out of this arrangement,” nanami deadpans.

gojo flips him off without looking.

but it’s not just the obvious affection that gets to him. it’s the care. the way you carry his favorite eye drops in your purse. the way you remind him not to talk with his mouth full, and don’t mind when he continues, wiping away crumbs from the corner of his mouth. the way you tuck his hair back behind his ear, completely unbothered by the crowd.

to you, he’s not a legend or a weapon or a symbol. he’s just satoru. your satoru. and you’re going to make sure he wears his scarf when it’s cold out because and eats something before a mission and doesn’t forget his damn umbrella for the fifteenth time this month even though he is absolutely fine without it.

and god, he loves it. he lives for it.

“they’re going to start charging me rent for the space i take up in your heart,” he teases you once, whispering it against your cheek after a public display of affection so sweet it gave utahime a headache.

you only hum, brushing his hair back carefully. “they’d need to build a whole new district.”

he kisses you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

later, when he’s back to being the strongest, standing tall and untouchable, someone asks him what it’s like being married to you. how he handles being doted on like a spoiled pet.

he just grins, sharp and lazy, heart bleeding out of his eyes.

“it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

and for once, he’s not being dramatic.

— gojo satoru is nothing if not persistent. if there’s one thing you know about him, it’s that he doesn’t take no for an answer easily. he’ll keep asking, and asking, and asking—until the inevitable happens.

or, gojo proposes to you 5 times before you say yes on his 6th attempt.

the first time, he’s bored. the kind of bored only someone like gojo can be. you’re sprawled out on the floor of his apartment, papers and snacks scattered around, a half-finished mission report between you. the room is quiet except for the occasional rustle of paper and the clinking of his pen against the coffee table. he’s sitting across from you, tossing a pen in the air, catching it with a practiced ease, before he suddenly looks at you and breaks the silence.

“you know what would be fun?” he says, his voice casual but with that spark of mischief.

you glance up from your work, your brow raised. “what?”

“getting married,” he declares, like it’s the most obvious idea in the world.

you snort, shaking your head. “to me?”

he grins. “obviously to you. who else would put up with me?”

you roll your eyes and go back to your paperwork. “try harder.”

he grins wider but doesn’t push. the proposal is dropped, for now. but gojo is nothing if not relentless.

the second time, it happens over dinner. you’re sitting at the kitchen counter, half-heartedly picking at your food while gojo devours a massive bowl of ramen made by you. his chopsticks work at lightning speed, and you can hear the slurps of noodles as if he’s in his own world. then, without skipping a beat, he glances up at you, his mouth full, and says:

“marry me.”

it’s so casual, so out of nowhere, that you almost choke on your own bite of food. you blink at him, confused. “while you’re inhaling ramen?”

he pauses for just a moment, looking at you like it’s the most logical thing in the world. “romance comes in all flavors.”

“so does rejection,” you quip back, deadpan.

he pouts for a full two minutes, dramatically setting his chopsticks down and looking like you’ve just broken his heart. but when he finishes your broth with a dramatic sigh, you can’t help but laugh, even if you can’t quite admit it yet. maybe he’s getting under your skin more than you’d like.

the third time, it’s laundry day. you’re folding clothes in the living room, mindlessly stacking them as you flick through channels on the TV. gojo, of course, can’t stand being left out of anything, so he’s lounging on the couch, flicking through your personal laundry pile as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

he pulls a pair of your underwear from the pile, holding it up with an absurdly smug look on his face. “marry me so this can be legally my business,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

you throw a sock at his face, hard enough to make him flinch. “you’re the worst.”

he grins, not even bothered. “still yours”

you roll your eyes but can’t quite hide the small, reluctant smile tugging at your lips. you can’t deny that his presence is a constant pull, and you wonder if he knows just how often you’re fighting with yourself about him. the joke wears thin, but you don’t argue.

the fourth time, it’s different. this time, he tries to be honest. you’re sitting side by side on the roof of your apartment, legs stretched out beneath you, both of you silently watching the sun dip below the horizon. the world is calm, the sounds of the city a low hum in the distance. the air is still, cool and peaceful, as though the chaos of everything else had settled for a moment.

“i don’t want to keep waking up in a world where you’re not mine,” gojo says, his voice low, sincere in a way that catches you off guard. it’s the first time he’s sounded so serious, no teasing, no smirking.

you glance at him, surprised by the weight of his words. “i’m already yours,” you reply, your voice quieter than you intended, and for a moment, it feels like the universe is holding its breath.

“then let’s make it permanent,” he says, his eyes locked on yours, and you can see the truth in them, no tricks, no games.

you exhale slowly, trying to swallow the knot in your throat. your heart wants to leap, but your head is still too scared, still too hesitant. you don’t know how to do forever, how to make promises you don’t feel equipped to keep.

“i don’t know how to be someone’s forever,” you admit, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

he shrugs casually, as if it’s not the heaviest thing you’ve said in weeks. “we figure it out together.”

you stare at the sky, your heart tugging in two different directions. you don’t say yes. you don’t say no. instead, you simply lie next to him in silence, your head on his shoulder as the sky shifts from purple to pink.

the fifth time, it’s you who asks him why. you’ve been thinking about it, trying to understand the persistence, the pressure behind his words.

he brings it up like he always does, easy and careless, like he’s testing the waters, but there’s a gentleness to him now. “we could get married. have a dumb little ceremony. invite nanami just to see if he shows up.” his grin is playful, but his eyes hold a deeper meaning.

you turn to him then, really looking at him, and for the first time, you wonder if he knows something you don’t. why does he keep asking?

“why do you keep asking?” you finally ask, the question hanging in the air like the first drop of rain before a storm.

he blinks, genuinely surprised, then shrugs. “because every time you don’t say no, i think maybe the next time you’ll say yes.” his voice is soft, the hint of something vulnerable creeping in. but then he smirks, as if trying to hide it, leaning into your space comfortably, “besides, you wouldn’t want to keep me waiting forever, right?”

you don’t say anything at first. you just kiss him, a little longer than usual, as though the answer is in the press of your lips against his, in the way you’re starting to pull him in with your own heart. and when you pull away, you don’t say yes, but you don’t say no either.

the sixth time, it’s even quieter than before. no grand gestures, no jokes, no teasing. you’re half-asleep on the couch, curled up in his hoodie, your legs tangled together. the world is muffled, wrapped in the soft hum of sleepiness. gojo brushes your hair away from your face, his touch gentle, almost reverent.

he kisses your temple, his lips warm against your skin. “marry me,” he whispers, the words no longer light, no longer playful. they’re simple, sincere, and they feel like they’ve been waiting for this moment all along.

you blink at him sleepily, not sure if you’re dreaming. everything around you is warm, comfortable, familiar. your heart, however, is racing in your chest, as if the universe is finally lining up all its pieces.

and for the first time, you realize you’re ready. not because of any pressure, not because of anything he’s said before—but because you’re sure of this one thing. you want him, forever or not. you want him in every way that matters.

“okay,” you whisper back, your voice barely audible. “i’ll marry you.”

he smiles, his eyes shining with something brighter than before. but he asks again, just to hear you say it once more.

“say it again,” he says softly, his smile wide, his heart full.

and this time, you don’t hesitate. “yes, satoru. i’ll marry you.”

he leans down to kiss you, sealing it with a promise. a promise that you’ve both made without words, but it’s the only one that matters.

toji had a very specific definition of “babysitting.”

it involved putting on a random kids’ show at maximum volume, feeding the child an illegal amount of goldfish crackers, and then sitting back like some kind of smug, muscled babysitting guru who had mastered the art of minimal effort.

you, meanwhile, were reconsidering every life choice that led you here.

“toji,” you said carefully, standing in the doorway to the living room, “he’s drawing on the walls.”

toji didn’t even look up. he was sprawled across your couch like a greek god who had been cursed with too many snack crumbs. his sweatpants were yours, oversized(not on him) and super comfortable, which he had stolen and refused to return. his hair was a mess, one sock was missing, and he had a spider-man sticker dead center on his forehead.

“he’s expressing himself,” he replied coolly.

you blinked. “he’s expressing himself with sharpie.”

“it’ll wash off.”

“it’s permanent marker.”

“…so will the wall.”

you stared at him in disbelief. “do you even hear yourself when you talk?”

“not really. i try to tune me out,” he said, stretching one arm behind his head. “too handsome. too distracting.”

before you could respond with something scathing (or worse—fond), megumi, age five and already full of the world’s oldest soul, walked into the room holding a banana to his ear.

“hello?” he said into the banana, deadly serious. “yeah. dad’s being lazy again.”

toji turned his head slowly and glared at his son. “you little snitch.”

megumi blinked at him. “you said snitches get sandwiches.”

“…i meant stitches.”

“but i got a sandwich last time.”

you covered your face with both hands.

“see?” you said, muffled behind your fingers. “your own child is calling you out.”

“he gets it from your side,” toji grumbled.

“he’s not even my kid!”

“minor detail.”

megumi had moved on from banana-phone business and was now in the kitchen. you heard the fridge open. something clatter. the unmistakable rustle of a cheese slice being stolen. you glanced toward the hallway, briefly considered intervening, and then looked at toji.

“you’re gonna go check on that, right?”

“nope.”

“…what if he sets something on fire?”

“then he learns consequences.”

you sighed deeply, like you were aging ten years per minute, and sat on the arm of the couch. toji reached out lazily and tugged you down into his lap.

“you are the worst co-parent,” you mumbled, not actually trying to get away.

“you say that,” he said, chin on your shoulder now, “but you secretly like it.”

“do not.”

“do too.”

you hated how smug he sounded. you hated it more because he was kinda right.

it was stupidly domestic—the mess, the chaos, the ridiculousness of it all. megumi humming in the background, your cat looking personally offended by the toddler’s presence, and toji, somehow managing to be a menace and a softie at the same time.

but then he kissed your cheek, just a light brush, and mumbled, “thanks for letting me bring him here. he likes you.”

you blinked. looked at him. he wasn’t even looking at you now—he was watching the tv, pretending to be cool, pretending that didn’t mean a lot coming from him.

you smiled, just a little.

“yeah,” you said. “i like him too.”

megumi ran in with cheese stuck to his face, holding a crayon like a weapon.

“dad,” he said urgently. “the cat won’t high-five me.”

toji sat up and pointed. “respect his boundaries, gumi.”

“but i said please.”

“still counts as harassment.”

you burst out laughing. toji gave you a smug look like told you i’m a good parent.

and despite the sharpie on the wall, the sweatpants theft, and your now half-empty cheese drawer, you realized something:

this might be chaos.

but it’s your chaos now.

this

— high mileage, low resistance or, mechanics of falling in love;

-> synopsis: you stop by the garage just to return his hoodie—but end up falling asleep while waiting. when sukuna finds you there, something shifts. what starts as awkward turns into soft banter, quiet help, and the beginning of something neither of you want to walk away from.

you don’t mean to go back.

really, you don’t.

you told yourself it would be quick — in and out, clean, easy. just a return. a folded hoodie still warm from the dryer, no perfume, no note this time, nothing sentimental. you’d walk in, set it down somewhere out of the way, and leave before that strange, sticky softness could settle in your chest again. sukuna had been kind. unexpectedly, unfairly kind. and you didn’t want to mistake that kindness for something it wasn’t.

you owe him respect. space. distance.

but when you pass by the shop — that old building you’ve now memorized without meaning to, every dented siding and rain-rusted gutter — you notice the garage door cracked open. just a sliver. just enough.

the same as it was the night you stumbled in.

and something in your chest tugs.

the light spills out across the concrete like a welcome. mellow yellow, soft-edged, and familiar now in a way you hadn’t prepared yourself for. it doesn’t look like a workspace. it looks like a hearth. the warmth reaches for you across the street, gentle and glowing and already inside your lungs before you take your next breath.

somewhere behind the door, the old radio crackles through static — more blues, same as before. soft, slow, a little wistful. like a voice humming through someone’s memory.

and the air — god, the air. it smells like motor oil and metal, sure, but underneath it all there’s this… something. something warm. something that smells like hands and sweat and old leather, something that reminds you of bare arms under a lifted hood and a tired, low voice that still echoes somewhere in your head.

before you can stop yourself, you step inside.

quietly. like if you’re careful enough, you won’t disturb whatever this is.

sukuna isn’t there.

you linger by the edge of the space, just past the threshold, like the shop might spit you out if you go any farther. the hoodie’s tucked under your arm, neatly folded, your fingers curled tight around the sleeves. you shift your weight. the silence isn’t cold, but it’s not quite inviting either. it feels… paused. like the place is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

you glance toward the workbench. you could just leave it there. tuck it behind some tools, maybe scribble a thank-you on the back of a receipt again. vanish before anything gets strange.

but instead, your legs move on their own.

same corner. same crate. you sit down slowly this time, lowering yourself like the memory might break if you settle too hard into it. it creaks beneath you. not comfortable — but familiar now. almost grounding.

the hoodie’s soft. you hold it against your chest before you even realize what you’re doing. it’s warm from the dryer, sure, but now it smells like you — your detergent, your lotion, the shampoo in your hair that’s too fruity and too sweet. and it’s ridiculous, but that makes you ache a little. like you’ve ruined it. like you’ve overwritten him.

your eyes burn. you blink hard.

you’re tired. you’ve been tired all day. school was long, the walk here longer. and thinking — about this place, about sukuna — thinking is exhausting. you’ve thought yourself in circles all week. would it be weird if you came back? would he even remember you? was it kindness, or something else? what if it was nothing at all?

you close your eyes.

just for a second.

just to listen to the rain.

—

he comes in with a sandwich hanging from his mouth, plastic bag of parts hooked over his shoulder, and a tired scowl already settling between his brows.

the rain’s heavier now. it drums a low rhythm across the metal siding, seeps into the shoulders of his jacket and slicks down the tips of his hair. his boots track water behind him with every step, laces slapping against the floor. he’s muttering something about brake fluid and dumbass customers who don’t understand basic upkeep when he rounds the corner — and stops.

he freezes.

his sandwich slides from his mouth onto the napkin in his hand.

because you’re there.

again.

sitting in the dim light like some quiet, ridiculous dream. hoodie curled against your chest like a stuffed toy. head tilted to the side. lips slightly parted. one shoe halfway off your foot like you fell asleep mid-fidget. your lashes brush your cheeks. your hair’s a mess. and you look—

soft.

too soft for this place.

too soft for him.

he doesn’t know what to do.

he doesn’t move for a long time. just watches you. the way your chest rises and falls. the way your fingers still curl around the fabric like you’re afraid someone might take it from you. you look like you belong there — not in the way he might’ve imagined someone fitting into his life, but in a way that unsettles him. like you slipped between the ribs without asking permission.

his chest aches. he doesn’t like that.

he clears his throat.

then louder, throws in a sigh that makes a few tools rattle on the workbench.

you jolt.

a tiny gasp leaves your lips, and you scramble up so fast you knock your shoulder into the shelf beside you. “oh my god—! i didn’t mean to—i swear, i just—i was coming to return—”

you thrust the hoodie toward him, face flushed, voice all rushed edges and apology. “this. your hoodie. i didn’t mean to sleep here. i thought you’d be here and then i must’ve—i don’t even know—”

“you always nap in strange garages,” he says, voice deadpan. “or am i just the lucky one?”

you blink. then blink again.

your mouth opens, like maybe you’re going to argue — but then you catch his expression. the faint upward tug at the corner of his lips. teasing. soft. not angry.

and your shoulders relax, just barely.

“i was tired,” you mumble. “it wasn’t on purpose.”

he walks over and takes the hoodie from you. slow. casual. fingers brushing yours — warm skin against warm skin. he doesn’t move away right away. neither do you.

the hoodie smells like you now. some flowery detergent and the old fabric is so soft now he doesn’t think he wants to put it down yet. he won’t say that out loud.

you groan, hands over your face. “whatever. i didn’t think you’d be gone.”

“and if someone else walked in?”

“then i’d fight them.”

he raises a brow. “you?”

“hey,” you glare. “i’m scrappy.”

“you’d bite their ankle, maybe.”

you glare.

he snorts — and just like that, the tension breaks. it cracks open like ice under pressure and melts away into something looser, something easier. like it never left.

you brush your pants off and glance toward the door. “anyway. sorry for the unintentional loitering. i’ll get out of your hair.”

“you can stay.”

you freeze.

the words hang there, awkward and warm and heavy in the air. he clears his throat, avoiding your eyes.

“i mean—if you want. i don’t care. you’re quiet. doesn’t bother me.”

you blink up at him. his face is unreadable — but his jaw’s tight. his grip on the hoodie a little too firm.

you smile, small and a little breathless. “okay.”

this time, you sit back down like you mean it.

no apologies. no hesitations.

“what’re you working on?”

he jerks his chin toward the car on the lift. “guy brought in a camry that’s one pothole away from collapsing. swears it just needs an oil change.”

you bite your lip, trying not to grin. “so… you’re gonna fix it anyway?”

“probably.”

“can i help?”

he eyes you. “you know anything about cars?”

“not a thing.”

“you got a license?”

“nope.”

“…have you even driven?”

“once. in a parking lot. hit a cone.”

he closes his eyes. “and that’s the person who wants to help me rebuild a transmission.”

“i’m great at handing people things. and snacking. and offering encouraging commentary.”

he sighs. long and dramatic. then thrusts a wrench into your hand. “fine. pass tools. don’t touch anything unless i say.”

you light up like a match.

he teaches you how to tell a socket wrench from a ratchet, shows you where to find the torque specs, walks you through the steps like it’s not a big deal — even though he’s never let anyone hang around while he worked before.

he doesn’t usually let people watch him work. he hates distractions. but you — you’re different. quiet, attentive, and so absurdly proud of yourself for getting the names right. you lean in too close sometimes. brush against his shoulder. breathe in the same grease-slick air. and he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t move.

he works. you watch. and you pass tools, careful and eager, like every socket wrench is a precious artifact, uncaring to the fact that your hands look too small and clean around the stained items and dirty rags.

he just works. but slower. steadier.

and when your fingers touch again, lingering a little longer than before — he lets them.

“careful,” he mutters, not looking at you. “you keep hangin’ around like this, you’re gonna make a habit of it.”

you smile into your sleeve. “maybe that’s the plan.”

and in the quiet that follows — the soft hum of the radio, the click of tools, your breath steady beside him — he lets himself imagine it.

just for a second.

a habit. a ritual. you and him. here. every night.

he doesn’t say it.

but he doesn’t stop thinking about it, either.

eyes reveal!!!! because i felt like it!!!! make sure not to fall in love with me!!!

okay i posted a lot today because i spent the day writing instead of studying and nowwwww im gon study a bit before coming back to post again

ill try to focus on the mechanic sukuna thingy and post some stuff with toji and satoru maybe bc i have lotsa ideas and so little time to do em unless i procrastinate hahsjahshah

anyways i hope everything is to everyones likingggg

— high mileage, low resistance or, mechanics of falling in love;

-> synopsis: when a cold, rainy day leads you into sukuna’s garage, you’re just looking for a place to dry off. but after a towel, a borrowed hoodie, and a quiet exchange, you find yourself returning — drawn to the man who’s rough on the outside but strangely warm underneath.

it starts with rain.

not the romantic, thunder-and-lightning kind, and not the warm summer drizzle either — just a cold, steady spring downpour that seeps into your socks and soaks through your backpack, the kind that leaves your fingers numb and your spine tense and makes everything feel a little wrong. the wind has teeth tonight. your umbrella flipped inside out half a block ago, snapped clean at the joint like it was just waiting to give up on you. your phone’s at 3%. your charger’s at home. and the only thing keeping your last shred of composure intact is the promise that this, too, will end eventually.

you’re not even supposed to be in this part of town. this side street is unfamiliar, quiet in a way that feels eerie instead of peaceful. most of the shops are closed, their windows dark behind security gates. puddles ripple under streetlights. your hair is plastered to your cheeks, your coat’s soaked through, and the rain sounds almost cruel against the metal signage above.

you round a corner without really thinking — head down, eyes stinging — and that’s when you see it.

a wide garage door is rolled halfway up, exposing the inside of a mechanic’s shop like a glowing cave of warmth. fluorescent lights buzz overhead, ‘ryomen automotive’. shadows move along the concrete floor. there’s a radio playing somewhere in the back, low and gritty, the sound distorted by static. an open hood looms over the center of the space, steam curling from its engine. the smell of oil and rubber hits you, strong and strangely grounding.

— lazy mornings with older bf! nanami <3

-> contents: morning sex and nanami being a total sweetheart :))

older bf! nanami always wakes up before you. not dramatically early, not with an alarm or a start—just naturally. slow, steady breaths, eyes half-lidded, body still warm from sleep. and before anything else, before he even blinks away the haze of dreams, his arm is already pulling you closer.

you’re always wrapped up in him—face buried in his chest, one leg slung over his waist, fingers curled into the hem of his shirt (which, more often than not, you’re wearing yourself). you breathe soft and slow, lips parted, cheek smushed against the firm plane of his body. he can feel every little movement you make—every sleepy sigh, every shift of your hips, every tiny flutter of your lashes against his skin—and it kills him.

but he doesn’t wake you up. not right away.

he just watches. lets himself be greedy in the quiet. runs his fingers gently down your spine, barely there touches, like if he goes too fast you’ll vanish. he presses a kiss into your hair, nuzzles the top of your head, sighs like he’s never known peace until now.

“still asleep, hm?” he murmurs, voice low and rough with sleep. “take your time, baby… i’m not going anywhere.”

eventually, you stir. slowly. sleep still clinging to your limbs, voice thick and soft as you mumble something into his chest, barely coherent. he chuckles—deep and quiet—and tucks a hand behind your head, rubbing his thumb along your scalp.

“good morning, sweetheart,” he says, and his voice is a problem in the mornings. it’s lower. raspier. soaked in sleep and something else. something hungry.

and then you stretch—lazy and unthinking—arching against him like a kitten, pressing your body to his, sighing into his skin. and he feels it. the heat of you, the way your thigh brushes his cock, the bare skin of your hip peeking out from under his shirt.

“mm,” you hum. “you’re warm.”

and nanami swallows a groan. because you’re being so sweet. so soft. and you have no idea what you’re doing to him just by existing.

“so are you,” he mutters, voice thick. “you’re—fuck, you’re perfect in the morning.”

you blink up at him, still a little dazed, and smile. and it’s over for him. completely undone. he kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips—slow, deep, reverent. and when your hands slide up under his shirt, when your fingers brush the grooves of his stomach, he shivers.

“you’re hard,” you mumble against his mouth, amused. playful.

he groans again, louder this time, and presses his forehead to yours.

“yeah, well… can you blame me? you’re straddling me in nothing but my shirt, looking like a dream. you think i wouldn’t be hard?”

your smile turns smug, sleepy mischief sparkling in your eyes. you roll your hips just the slightest bit and he gasps—head dropping to your shoulder as his hands grip your thighs tight.

“careful,” he warns, breath shaky. “you’re gonna get more than you bargained for.”

you whisper, “maybe that’s what i want,” and he’s gone.

he rolls you under him in one smooth motion, lips finding yours again—deeper now, more urgent. but still slow. still careful. one hand cups your jaw, the other slides down your side, slipping beneath the hem of the shirt, gripping your waist like it anchors him.

his hips grind down into yours, and you can feel him—hard and heavy through his boxers, pressing right up against where you’re already aching. and he takes his time. he always does.

“let me take care of you, sweetheart,” he breathes against your skin.

and when he sinks into you, finally, it’s heaven. he kisses you through every second, holds your hand, touches you like you’re something sacred. thrusts slow and deep, letting you feel every inch of him, murmuring soft praises the entire time.

“so warm around me… so fuckin’ perfect.”

“you like waking up to me like this? hm?”

“i could stay inside you forever, baby. you feel that good.”

and when you come—whimpering his name, crying into his neck—he kisses your tears, tells you how beautiful you are like it’s the only truth that’s ever mattered. he follows not long after, gritting your name through clenched teeth as he buries himself as deep as he can go, shaking with the intensity of it.

afterward, he stays inside you for a while. just holding you. breathing with you. tracing lazy shapes along your skin while you lay draped across his chest, boneless and glowing.

then he cleans you up, kisses you again and again, pulls you back into bed. breakfast can wait. the world can wait. because right now, in his arms, with sunlight spilling across the sheets and your heart beating steady under his palm—this is everything.

— pawsitively cursed ⋆🐾° .

. . . or, you get turned into a cat somehow and venture into jujutsu high where nanami is already waiting for you. human you. not cat you.

-> part one or, how to traumatize your boyfriend by turning into a cat and jumping into his arms:

the day is normal. unbearably so, even.

gojo and nanami are in the jjk break room—nanami reading the newspaper with his coffee, gojo’s sprawled on the couch upside down, chewing on a strawberry pocky stick, making obnoxious “mmm” noises just to get on nanami’s nerves.

and then the door creaks open.

a beat.

a pause.

a meow.

both men turn toward the sound, brows furrowing in sync.

on the floor, just inside the doorway, is a cat.

not just any cat—you’re you, but small, fuzzy, twitchy-eared, cursed-cat-you. tiny claws clicking delicately against the tile, tail flicking with visible annoyance as you sit down and look up at them like, really? i have to meow?

it’s just that they don’t know it’s you yet, so you’re probably just a random cat that sauntered into jujutsu high somehow. which is extremely annoying and makes the situation even more difficult.

gojo blinks. “okay, who let a cat in here?”

you meow again, louder. pointedly.

nanami side-eyes gojo. “wasn’t me.”

“wasn’t me either,” gojo says, pushing himself upright. “heyyy kitty,” he crouches with a grin and outstretches his hands, fingers wiggling creepily. “who’s a cute little guy? c’mere, lemme pet you—”

your ears flatten.

he steps forward.

you hiss. launch yourself into the air, and rak your claws across his face in a perfect diagonal strike. one-two-three, left-right-center.

a blood-curdling screech echoes through the break room as gojo stumbles back, clutching his face.

“ow— jesus— what the fuck?!”

you stare.

“it mauled me!”

“you probably deserved it,” nanami mutters.

you ignore gojo’s shrieks entirely and trot directly to nanami, sit at his feet, and look up with wide, expectant eyes. your tail curls. you let out the softest, most deliberate mrrrrow.

nanami lowers the paper and actually looks at you now.

“…odd,” he murmurs. cautiously, he bends down to pick you up, gently. arms steady beneath you. and as soon as he does—you melt.

you instantly curl into his chest. purring. burying your little cat face into the fabric of his shirt, rubbing your scent all over him like you own him.

gojo squints, hands still hovering over his clawed-up face. “…uh, is it just me or is that cat aggressively into you?”

your little paws press against his chest. your face burrows into the crook of his neck. and without thinking, you purr.

loudly. rhythmically. affectionately.

he stills.

— 10:33, laying on toji’s back .

toji’s passed out on the couch, shirtless and warm and deliciously sprawled out like he owns the place—which he does, sort of. one arm hanging off the side, the other tucked beneath the pillow he’s face-first into. a low, half-snore rumbles out of his chest every now and then, just enough to let you know he’s really out.

you watch him from the doorway, a soft smile tugging at your lips. there’s something about him when he’s like this—unguarded, vulnerable in the most subtle way. the world can’t get to him here, not when he’s tangled in worn-out blankets and afternoon sunlight.

so you cross the room quietly, crawling up onto the couch and climbing over him until you’re lying flat on his back. warm. heavy. safe.

“mmmf—what the hell,” he mumbles into the pillow, voice hoarse and half-awake. “you tryna suffocate me?”

“you’re cozy,” you murmur, cheek resting between his shoulder blades.

he lets out a long sigh. grumbles something that sounds like “clingy brat,” but his hand slides back to grab your thigh and give it a gentle squeeze. he doesn’t push you off. doesn’t even shift, really. just melts back into the cushions like your body was always meant to be draped over his.

you trail lazy little circles over the bare skin of his back. he’s all firm muscle and scar tissue, warm and broad beneath your touch. a living furnace. your lips find the dip of his spine and you kiss it, featherlight.

he goes very still.

“…you tryna be cute or something?” he asks, gruff but quiet.

“just wanna kiss you, toji.”

you press another kiss higher, then another. right between his shoulders. he exhales through his nose, and you swear you feel his body soften under yours like he’s letting go of tension he didn’t even know he was carrying.

“you’re lucky i’m too tired to throw you off,” he mutters.

you laugh into his skin. “you like it.”

“i don’t,” he lies. absolutely does.

your kisses keep coming, slow and tender. one right below the nape of his neck, then another over the scar you know he hates but you love. your fingers curl around the edge of his shoulder, and he finally, finally sighs like he’s giving in.

“…feels nice,” he admits, barely audible.

you nuzzle into his back, body completely relaxed. he reaches up behind him and awkwardly pats at your hip until he finds a spot to rest his hand. just… holds you there. like he needs the weight. the warmth.

“you’re not goin’ anywhere, right?” he mumbles, more sleep than voice.

“nope.”

“…good.”

and he’s out.

completely dead to the world with your body stretched over his, your lips still resting on the bare skin of his spine, his rough hand gripping your thigh like an anchor.

and when he wakes up later, with drool on his shoulder and you still on top of him, he groans and says something like “gross,” but he doesn’t move. he just shifts a little to make you more comfortable and closes his eyes again.

— 20:04, ripe .

the afternoon sun filters through the kitchen blinds in soft golden stripes, spilling across the countertop where nanami stands, sleeves rolled to the elbows, forearms exposed.

he’s cutting fruit.

slowly, precisely. each slice of pear is the same thickness. each piece of apple clean and symmetrical. the knife doesn’t clatter, doesn’t slip — just glides, steady and sure, the way everything he does seems to be.

you’re sitting at the kitchen table, legs curled beneath you, chin resting in your hand as you watch him.

“you’re slicing those like they’re under a microscope,” you say, amused.

he doesn’t look up, but you see the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. “presentation matters,” he replies calmly.

you grin. “for a fruit plate?”

“for your fruit plate,” he corrects, setting down the knife. “that’s different.”

your heart flutters, ridiculously.

he walks over with the little plate — delicate slices of pear, apple, and kiwi arranged in a perfect fan, like you’re about to be served at some quiet high-end cafe.

you take the plate from him with both hands. “thank you, kento.”

he hums in acknowledgment but doesn’t move away. instead, he leans against the table beside you, watching as you pick up a slice of pear and bite into it.

“sweet,” you mumble through a mouthful.

“figured it would be.” he tilts his head slightly. “you always go for the softest ones in the store.”

you blink. “you noticed that?”

“of course i did.”

you feel your cheeks warm — but before you can say anything, he gently plucks a piece of kiwi from the plate and lifts it toward your mouth.

“open,” he says simply.

your brain stalls a little. “you’re feeding me now?”

his gaze is soft but steady. “is that a problem?”

not even remotely.

you open your mouth, and he places the slice on your tongue with absurd care, as if he’s afraid to bruise it. his fingers brush your bottom lip before he pulls away, and your breath catches.

he watches you chew, eyes fixed on your face with something quiet and fond.

“good?” he asks.

you nod, trying not to melt.

he does it again. this time, an apple slice.

you lean forward and let him feed it to you without protest, lips parting just enough for his fingertips to linger.

“you’re spoiling me,” you say softly.

he smiles — small, but real. “i like spoiling you.”

his voice drops, just a little. almost sheepish.

“you take care of so many things,” he adds, eyes meeting yours. “let me do this.”

you don’t have a response for that, not right away. just the rush of warmth in your chest. the way your fingers itch to reach for his. the way he’s looking at you like you’re the softest thing he’s ever touched.

so instead of answering, you reach for a slice of pear and hold it up to his mouth.

he raises a brow but leans down to take it between his teeth.

“sweet,” he murmurs.

“figured it would be.” you echo back, smiling.

and for the next few minutes, you just sit there, feeding each other fruit, bathed in sunlight and silence and something that tastes a little like love.

— 16:35, nanami tasting himself on you.

cw: post-sex oral(f receiving), filthy praise, cum eating, mild overstimulation, soft dom nanami, this is just so filthy i dunno what came over me(hopefully nanami did GET IT HAH)

you’re still catching your breath.

legs shaking, chest heaving, skin covered in a sheen of sweat and soft morning light. your body aches in the best way — every inch of you spent, boneless, made warm and heavy from the weight of his love poured into you.

nanami’s still inside you.

softening slowly. thick and full. his cum dripping out of you in lazy, slow pulses with every twitch of his hips.

his breath is against your cheek, hoarse and warm. his hand is stroking your thigh.

you’re so full of him.

his seed. his love. the weight of his pleasure still melting between your thighs.

you don’t expect it when he pulls back — just enough to look down, eyes hazy, lips parted, watching the creamy mess slip out of you.

“fuck,” he breathes, and it’s low. reverent. almost in awe.

you twitch when you feel it trickle down onto the sheets, the air suddenly cold where his warmth used to be. and then nanami slowly shifts down between your legs.

you blink at him, dazed. “kento…?”

“relax,” he murmurs. voice low, eyes flicking up to yours. “i want to clean you up.”

his hands are warm on your thighs as he spreads you open. he moves carefully, gently — treating you like you’re made of something fragile and sacred.

your breath catches in your throat.

he leans in. and you realize too late— he’s not using a towel to clean you up.

his tongue touches your entrance— soft and slow— and you whimper.

“kento—” you gasp, hips jolting from the sudden overstimulation, but he just groans.

“mm, lemme taste it,” he murmurs, nuzzling closer. “you and me together… fucking perfect.”

your face burns.

he licks again, flat and wet, dragging his tongue up your folds, catching the taste of himself and you mixed together. his groan vibrates against you. his grip on your thighs tightens.

and then he dives in.

you moan, back arching, hands flying into his hair. the feel of him — mouth hot, tongue eager, lips kissing every inch of your swollen cunt — makes you tremble all over again.

he licks into you, relishing everything. every drop of his cum that’s leaking out of you, every slick little sound you make when he circles your clit again, every twitch and whimper as you try to stay still for him.

but nanami doesn’t want still. he wants everything.

“so sweet,” he rasps, between kisses. “you’re so fucking sweet, sweetheart. even better with me inside you.”

you sob — actually sob — hips rolling helplessly against his face, tears welling up again from how sensitive you are, how much you feel and he eats it up. literally.

his mouth is messy, wet, glistening — he doesn’t care. he revels in it. buries his tongue inside you, then laps up whatever spills back out. lets it smear across his pinkish lips. doesn’t stop until you’re gasping and tugging at his hair, thighs trembling around his shoulders.

tasting the mixture of you both— thick and wet and musky, dripping out of you and onto his tongue— and groaning as he licks it up, hungry and reverent all at once.

“you taste so fucking good,” he whispers against your folds. “both of us together—sweet, and warm, and mine.”

his voice is hoarse, lower than usual — like even he’s surprised by how much he needs this.

you moan softly, head falling back, body twitching with each gentle drag of his tongue. overstimulation starts setting in — everything inside you pulled tight and raw — but the pleasure is overwhelming in the best way. it’s not just physical.

it’s worship.

he licks into you like he missed your taste already. he lets his tongue dip inside, fucking you open again with slow strokes, nose brushing your clit as he groans into your heat.

“god, look at the mess i made,” he murmurs, tongue curling up to catch a thick drop of cum sliding from your entrance. “you wear it so well.”

your legs fall open wider without thinking, your body betraying how badly you want him to keep going — even as you tremble beneath his touch.

you try to speak, but your voice is broken. raw with need, too much and not enough.

“kento, please—i can’t—”

“just one more, darling,” he murmurs against your clit. “come on. want you to come with me still dripping out of you.”

his words hit your core like lightning.

you come hard, shaking and sobbing and arching up into his mouth as he drinks every last drop of your release, moaning like it’s the most addictive thing he’s ever tasted.

and when you collapse back into the pillows, spent and twitching and utterly undone, nanami finally lifts his head.

his chin is slick. his lips kiss-swollen. his eyes full of something raw and hungry.

he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand — then leans up, hovering over you, and kisses you deep.

your taste. his taste. both of you, shared between your tongues, as he kisses you until your lips are puffy and your breath is gone.

“thank you,” he whispers.

you blink at him, dizzy. “for what?”

he kisses your temple. your cheek. the tip of your nose.

“for letting me love you like this.”