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maeby-cursed · 2 months

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➴ OH, STUPID CUPID ! ♡

✧ a/n: happy valentine's, dear angels ! ♡

Toji Fushiguro doesn’t believe in Valentine’s Day.

Why would he, after all? It’s merely a capitalist ploy to keep the consumerism engines turning. You can disguise greed in glittery pink polish and white chocolate bonbons but at its core, it won't change its nature.

And so, he spends St. Valentine’s like he would any other day; gets up at dawn, works until his hands are peeled and his back aches and gets home to eat whatever he has left over.

It’s a good routine, the most stable one he’s found for himself in years.

He can't recall a time where the fourteenth of February meant anything at all.

(Except for that one year that it had.)

But he won't think of withered flowers or laughing kisses or other sweets that have since rotten in his memory. A woman, a child, an apartment downtown.

That is all long gone now. The apartment downtown had gotten expensive, and the child had grown older. The woman had gone long ago and there were no more flowers or kisses or laughter.

It’s all capitalism, it’s all vapid and stupid and childish.

So, Toji Fushiguro doesn’t believe in Valentine’s Day. That is until you come along, knocking on his workshop’s door.

You’re obviously lost, mumbling an inquiry about how much you could get for selling a motorbike you keep referring to as "an old piece of garbage".

He can't help but snicker at your wording, a little chuckle that grows into a full chest laugh when he sees what you’ve dragged to his shop. It’s painfully obvious that this thing isn’t yours.

You keep holding the handlebars with careful hands, sparing few disgusted glances to the vehicle, as if its mere existence wounded you.

He asks how long you’ve had it, and where you got it, and how much you’d like to get.

You answer back curtly: two years, your ex, nothing as long as you get rid of it.

You seem annoyed just by having to be there and for some unexplainable reason this amuses him to no end. Maybe being surrounded by car engines in a small workshop with no windows is starting to affect him.

“I’ll take it.”

You raise your gaze from the dusty headlight, shocked by his offer.

“You will?”

“Sure thing. You don’t want it, I could use some new parts, I’ll just scrap it.”

You let out a sigh, relieved, and all the tension dissipates from your shoulders.

“Oh, that… well, that would be great! Thank you.”

Your smile makes him stop in his tracks. Pretty and warm and familiar – something dangerous. His head travels back.

After a second that lasts forever, he acknowledges what you've said, grunting as his only response and getting back to the store with you in tow.

“Could I leave it with you now or…?"

“Bring it back next week, I don’t really have a place to put it right now, y’know?”

You look around the place. It’s full of buckets of paint and car parts, no decor but stacks upon stacks of metallic shelves full of objects you can’t recognize. You chuckle awkwardly, seemingly in a better mood after the compromise you've arranged.

“Right, uhm… Actually, I'm not here next week, could I come back tomorrow?”

Toji turns back to stare at you, and for the first time, really sees you. You look young, probably in your mid-twenties, of bright eyes and shiny hair, and that pretty smile that keeps fluttering over your lips.

He hasn’t done this in a long time… But maybe…

“I close at 10pm today, why don’t you come back then?” he says, closing his fists to stop them from sweating.

Your wondering eyes freeze on him then, and your lips part slightly. He just can't stop staring.

“But it’s Valentine’s Day. Don’t you have any plans?” you ask, shyly.

“I don’t believe in that crap.”

Shit. That wasn’t supposed to come out like that.

“Oh,” you whisper. You're still grinning up at him, but your expression has lost its warmth, instead replaced by a polite awkwardness and doubtful gaze, and now he's kicking himself in his head.

“Sorry, did that bother you?” he asks, hiding his guilt with a smirk.

“No, not at all!" You laugh, playing with your hands. "I… just, I don’t mind it, I guess.

"I know it's not even a real holiday and that it's merely a product of capitalism, and that it’s all about sales and consumerism and all of that, but… I find it nice, you know? Having a day to be with the people you love…" You look around his shop once, before giving him a shy stare. "It’s sappy, I know.” You end with a shrug, your ears flushed.

Toji doesn’t say anything for a minute, he just breathes and takes it in.

Oh, he’s grown bitter, hasn’t he? Old and sour.

His son is out there right now buying flowers with his friends, his coworker is on a date at a fancy place, his one and only friend is buying chocolates for his wife… And he’s here at 5pm, with his hands dirty and his neck sweaty and the prettiest woman he’s seen in a long time in front of him, with no plans for tonight and a lovely smile hidden by a familiar sort of nervousness.

What is wrong with him? Is he truly that fucking stubborn? Can't he deal with a bit of pink?

He’ll admit that he's never minded the chocolates and the roses – even if they aren’t his favorite – and that he always laughs at the cherubs and the cheesy postcards. Of course, he won't talk about how he still hums old 50s songs while he works or how he indulges in a bit of dessert when February rolls around, though.

But he knows. He's always known.

So, maybe it’s not all about the money. Maybe it’s more about being accompanied for once since he was twenty three and alone. Maybe it’s more about taking a shot at getting something good back.

Maybe it's not all capitalism, not all vapid and stupid and childish.

“Yeah… I guess it’s not all that bad.”

“I do like it… sometimes,” you finish, as if completing his train of thought. This hasn't happened to him in a long time. "I’ll be back tonight then…?”

He recovers quickly, smirking briefly before turning to clean his hands with a rag.

“Sure, at 10pm," he says, over his shoulder.

You laugh, cheerful once more, and begin walking to the door.

“It’s a date!”

And, God, he really hopes it can be, if only because it’s Valentine’s Day.

#🎐 𓂃 mae’s typing !#jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk fluff #jjk imagines #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro x you #toji fushiguro fluff #toji fushiguro imagines #fushiguro toji x reader #fushiguro toji x you #fushiguro toji fluff #fushiguro toji imagines #toji x reader #toji x you #toji fluff #toji imagines #toji fushiguro #jjk

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maeby-cursed · 6 months

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KISS ME, TRY TO FIX IT…

𓂃 COULD YOU JUST TRY TO LISTEN ?

a/n: starting a new series of songfics ! this one is very obviously inspired by sad, beautiful, tragic, so you can see where this might be going. enjoy the results of my brainrot ♡ (also, i’ve never written for gojo before, please have mercy)

✧ synopsis: you’ve been waiting for satoru gojo for ten years, but there’s no trace of the man you fell in love with when you were sixteen years old. it’s time to let go, but he might not want to.

✧ pairings: satoru gojo x fem!reader

✧ wc: 2k

✧ rating: angst. so much of it, angst to drown in. might get suggestive at some points.

✧ cw: mentions of drinking, of the great jjk tragedy of 2006 and its aftermath, implied cheating, gojo may be ooc, toxic relationship ??

An ice-cold wind blows through the window as you wait.

It’s not even December yet but it’s already snowing.

Soft snowflakes the size of stars, far away in their firmament, enter your living room. When they land on the sofa, they dissolve, leaving in their wake thousands of specks of water that look disturbingly like tears.

It doesn't matter. You don't think he's going to notice anyway.

It's been ten long years of waiting. Ten long years of fighting, of fixing what's broken and denying that it's ever been broken.

It's over. Let winter freeze everything in its path.

When Satoru walks in through the door, you hesitate for a moment. A moment of madness when you see his hair, as white as the snowfall that has invaded your home. Just a moment when you see him in his burgundy turtleneck sweater, his tight-fitting coat. One single moment when you recognize the cold in his pink cheeks.

But it's all over when you meet his crystalline eyes. The fault is theirs.

"Is the window broken again?" he asks, dropping his keys on the entryway’s table.

The window has been broken since September.

You nod and he grunts, running a hand over his face.

"I'll call someone tomorrow, although you could have said something," he says. This is your fault. Of course.

You keep your eyes fixed on the snow. From the living room you can see the sidewalk across the street, covered in a blanket of white that sparkles under the street lamps. It's so painfully beautiful it makes you nostalgic.

You and Satoru moved into this house three years ago, when he got his teaching position, and you can't quite get over the fact that it's time to say goodbye.

You've spent three years of solstices here. You've seen the sidewalks covered with dead leaves, with thousands of little flowers that broke the pavement in their wake. But it’s never snowed.

It’s not fair, not one bit.

Satoru says no more. He goes to your room and undresses; he replaces his street clothes with a black outfit that seems very appropriate for the occasion. Since you’ve known him, he always takes off his glasses when he crosses the hall of your building, but for once, you wish he'd put them back on.

When he returns, his hair is dripping over his forehead. You hadn't even noticed that he was taking a shower.

But he hasn't noticed that your bedside table is empty, either; that your slippers are missing, that there's a seeping coldness in the hearth of your house, and it's not coming from the window.

"What's for dinner?" he asks, plopping down on the couch with his cell phone in his hand.

You get up.

9:26 p.m., November 8. This is where it ends.

"I don't know. I'm going out to dinner," you say.

He doesn’t even bother to look up.

"Hmm, where are you going? Are you bringing something back or should I order myself a pizza?"

It's painful to watch as nothing seems to touch him. He’s infinite — always infinite.

"I'm going to a work friend's house."

"The one with the lovely curly hair and those pretty hazel eyes?"

Christ.

"No. I'm moving in with Rhea. Dark-eyed, blonde, leggy."

"Hmm, how nice."

A moment passes where he just keeps staring at the screen, and you despair.

"Satoru."

"What's up, baby?"

"I'm moving."

At last – at last – he looks up. In his eyes you see nothing; two blue marbles that have sworn you two to an unjust fate.

"You're moving out? Why?"

Where to begin? Because you have been loving a man destined to save everything and everyone for a decade, because you have been trying to fill a void that is not your size for eight years, because the windows are broken and the bed is cold and Satoru arrives several nights smelling of anisette and the perfume of another, because you don't want to live looking at the Strongest, the possessor of the Six Eyes. Because you thought that in some hidden corner Satoru Gojo was still there, and he isn’t.

"Because it's killing me to live like this.” You settle for that as your explanation and try to keep your stare unwavering.

"Like this how?" he questions, suddenly irritated. "In a luxurious house?" He gestures around him with the cell phone in his hand. "Comfortably, with your dream job? Knowing you'll never have to worry about money?"

"No, Satoru. Like this, without you loving me."

That chills him to the bone.

"Of course I love you."

"Do you? Do you want me for anything other than to warm your bed and your cock? Do you want me here, as your partner? Do you need me for anything at all?"

You don’t gesticulate, you barely move from your spot in the middle of the room. Everything in this fucking place is white and uncannily clean; the sofas, the coffee table, the walls, even the snow; but you and Satoru. He’s in all black, you’re in all red. It’s almost dreamlike, and you struggle to stay grounded.

The only thing you could remove from this house that would grab his attention would be you.

"Yesterday you weren't complaining about any of this, what the fuck is the matter with you today?"

And you can't stand it anymore. The winter current lifts your hair, soaks the back of your neck and disguises your tears.

"THE MATTER IS THAT I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR TEN YEARS. WAITING FOR YOU. WAITING FOR THE MAN I MET AT SIXTEEN TO COME BACK, SLEEPING WITH A MAN OF ABSENT GAZE WHO STAGGERS INTO MY BED WHEN HE'S TIRED OF BEING IN EVERYONE ELSE'S. I DON'T WANT TO BE YOUR DOG, SATORU. I DON'T WANT YOU TO COME HOME AND FEEL OBLIGATED TO GIVE ME A WALK, A PETTING."

The words come spilling out of you without remedy, every wound bursting open through the stitches. He just looks at you.

"You think I don't love you?"

It hurts to hear him say it, it fucking hurts. You were prepared for the yelling and the coldness, even for a quick vulnerable stare. But never for his trembling voice and soft frown.

You inhale deeply.

"I don't think your love is of any use to me any longer."

Satoru stands up at that.

He's tall, tall and beautiful like Michelangelo's David. All your life, you've been feeling like you had no right to touch him. His infinity assured you that was the case.

He takes a step in your direction and whispers:

"Then what should I do now?"

Your eyes, fixed on the ground, rise to meet his. There's something in the void and you're not sure if it's just your reflection.

"What?" you mutter.

"How do I fix it? What do you need that I can't give you? Do you want me to quit work, for us to leave, for me to come home and kiss your temple, to cook for you, to listen to you, to cherish you in bed?” A heartbeat. “I will."

There’s something about the desperation in his tone, you aren’t sure of what to say next.

Satoru knows how to lie, but you don't know how to tell the difference.

"I don't want anything, Satoru. I'm tired," you whisper back, eyes full of water. "I want it to end. I want you to let it end."

He shakes his head, frowning, and through the mist of your tears you recognize that he is crying too.

"There has to be something. Anything. Something I can do, I can do it all."

It's partly true. He's Satoru Gojo; all-powerful, all-knowing. Eternal and young and beautiful and tragic as a poem.

You are just another person. You cried when Suguru left, when Haibara died, when Kento gave up the Jujutsu world and when Ieri locked herself in her office. You clung to Satoru, who resembled an empty seashell more than a person.

You remember those nights back in 2007. You remember blindfolding him so he wouldn't activate infinity by accident, by reflex, out of overstimulation. You remember cutting his hair when he couldn’t and looking for him in his old antics. You remember taking care of Megumi – always reluctant – and Tsumiki – who you felt was too mature for her age. You remember the burden of being eighteen and having lost a world.

And, above all else, you remember Satoru under the rain. Under the pressure of the world you had lost, the one that he was trying to put back together. There was a month where he seemed catatonic; no smiles, drinking anisette as if it were his one source of life. A thirty-day period followed by the rebirth of a person who looked like the one that stood before, but who seemed cold and alien to you.

"Don't you love me, my darling?" he seeks for you, reaching out a hand to brush against your cheek.

Of course you love him. You love him even like this, like you have loved each and every one of his versions.

"I adore you, Satoru. But I can't stay; you can't fix it."

"Of course I can," he reaches out to you, holding your face between his fingers, "Of course I can."

His lips connect with yours — one last attempt, you don't know by whom.

Snow fills the room and it's cold, but you drink from his mouth, from his everlasting warmth; everything in him lasts forever.

Between kisses, you show him everything you have been for years. Ten years of kisses, of hands looking for hands and flesh searching for flesh.

He moves backwards, keeping you between his hands and guiding you towards the hallway and from the hallway to your shared bed.

This is where it ends.

"Satoru..." you whisper.

"I'm here. I'm here, beautiful, my favorite girl. Talk to me."

A sob escapes you as he utters those words. My favorite girl. That’s what he used to call you. Talk to me, he used to plead, that year at sixteen, when everything was about to start.

Isn't it beautiful that it ends the exact same way?

"Satoru, I'm leaving," you press a farewell kiss to his jaw.

"No, you're not leaving," he murmurs, smiling against your mouth, searching for your lips.

You back away and look at him one more time. And you smile, because there's nothing left.

"I'm already gone. Just let go of me, please."

"But..." he starts, his smile hesitant, "But I'm going to fix it."

You take one of his hands between yours and kiss it as it presses against your cheek, before lowering it to your lap.

"Satoru..." You pronounce each syllable of his name carefully and he stifles a cry. "I'm not going to go any further. I've already made the move and Rhea's expecting me at her house in an hour. I love you, I’ll love you until I run out of kisses, but it does me no good to love you. It is of no use to me, this love. I wanted to tell you. I wanted you one last time. Wasn’t it my turn to be the selfish one for once?"

He watches you, and his mouth shuts close. You've never seen Satoru lose.

No, that's not true. There was a time, one time, where you saw him lose everything.

His eyes fill up with you one second and empty the next.

This is his second time.

He lifts his chin with an arrogance that no longer means anything and lets go of your hands.

"Go then, if you want. I'm not going to do anything to stop you,” he drags the words with feign disinterest. “I can't do anything."

That's the last gift he can give you. An honesty unbecoming of him, a truth that will never belong to Satoru Gojo ever again.

From god to human in three kisses and a goodbye.

"Thank you," you say to him. Then you get up, heading for the living room, where your coat and your escape door await you.

He stays in the bedroom – with himself as he always is – after you leave.

And he hides you where he always hides the things he breaks, in the back of his eyes, where no one can reach to see anything.

(reblogs are appreciated !!)

#🎐 𓂃 mae’s typing !#jjk imagines #jjk angst #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #satoru x reader #satoru x you #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru angst #gojo angst #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you

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maeby-cursed · 29 days

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TRACK 1: MISDIAL !

Toji never calls.

It’s one of his most peculiar habits, that although he does carry his phone (a cheap flip-phone he hasn’t ever bothered upgrading) everywhere he goes, he never calls, never texts, never cares to take it out of his back pocket. And most importantly, he never picks it up.

Taking this into account, it’s no wonder that when his phone begins to ring at 4.30am on one of his off days, his first thought is to end it all. He spends so little time with it, he hasn’t quite yet figured how to turn off the sound... and now he’s annoyed.

He grabs the item and stares at it, trying to make sense of the number that flashes on the screen, the green light blinding him momentarily.

“Fucking thing,” Toji mutters, trying to press any button that could make the ringing stop. Eventually he gives up and shoves it under his pillow.

It keeps on ringing.

“You’ve gotta be… fucking…” The phone flips open. “What?”

“Toji?”

He freezes, his hand suddenly tightening around the metal as if to try and cage the sound.

It’s you. Your voice whispers his name once again and he’s never woken up this abruptly since Megumi was an infant.

“Uhm hello,” he stutters. Like an idiot.

“Oh God it’s really you! Fuck, I’m sorry, I meant to call my friend and your surnames are so similar I must’ve pressed the wrong number… Fuck, it’s four in the morning! Christ, I’m really really sorry–”

As you ramble he starts to shake his head, mouth agape, until he realizes you can’t see him. You have his number saved. You are on the other side of the line and he can listen to your breathing.

He starts to feel dizzy.

Did you just ask him a question?

“Uhm, it’s okay, uh… I was about to wake up anyway.” Sure. At 5am on a Sunday.

“Were you? Ugh, I feel terrible… Listen, I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I have to hang up and call my friend or she’ll freak out but I will make it up to you, seriously. Please go back to whatever you were doing! I’m sorry. Again.”

And then you’re gone.

The line goes dead and his hand drops to his lap with the phone still hugged inside the palm. He’s going to engrave the thing into his flesh at this point but he can’t mind.

Toji Fushiguro has known you for two years and yet he was unaware that you had his phone number. Did he give it to you? Did you write it down from the records? You called, you called, you called.

It’s been unbearable these past few weeks; he’s been off taking care of a less than legitimate job, which meant being away from his actually legal office job, which meant less time to stare at you as you pick up calls and take notes and greet clients and smile that pretty smile of yours.

Now, your voice reverberates through his spine and he can’t help but imagine your eyes in the back of his mind.

He’s never been a corny person, he’s not a great romancer and contrary to popular belief, he’s not much of a Casanova, but he knows when he’s in love. Toji’s but a man with a shielded heart whose barriers you’ve taken down with a hammer and a laugh.

So he yields. For the first time since he bought it, Toji opens his phone and saves a number under his son’s.

For the first time in twenty years he chooses to pick up a call, to think of what you’ll come up with to make it up to him, to dream of you searching for him with your eyes… just this once.

And, for the first time in a long long time, he falls asleep just fine, with a smirk toying with the corners of his lips and some hope with the strings of his heart.

#🎐 𓂃 mae’s typing !#and you guys will be like ! 'mae what is this ?' and i'll be like ! 'fuck if i know !'#seriously this is just really random ideas i get and am too tired to elaborate but... yeah #toji fushiguro is a grandpa and i adore him down to his very bones #jjk imagines #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #toji x reader #toji fluff #toji fushiguro x reader

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maeby-cursed · 6 months

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SOMETIMES I'M NOT MYSELF, I LOOK FOR A BETTER DISGUISE…

𓂃 DANCING TILL THE POWER GOES OUT.

a/n: following with my songfic series, this one is inspired by valiente by vetusta morla (the original lyrics are "a veces no soy yo, busco un disfraz mejor / bailando hasta el apagón") ! this is also an angst fic but the vibe in this one is a bit more pungent. i apologize for making toji like this, i will get back to my soft!toji program soon ♡ (this one is vv weird, btw, and i wrote it while suffering from a headache, enjoy)

✧ synopsis: you met toji seven months ago and since then, the only thing you've both agreed on is how much you cannot stand each other. now it's time to go; even if it means giving up trying, and leaving a familiar warmth behind.

✧ pairings: toji fushiguro x fem!reader

✧ wc: 1.6k

✧ rating: angst ! pure angst, discounted and at a good price ! angst and pain; two for the price of one ! of the richest quality and endless suffering !!

✧ cw: toxic relationship, toji suffers from toxic masculinity, a bit of an age gap (toji is early 30s, reader is implied to be early 20s), mentions of toji's shitty ass economy, heavy cursing.

There’s a storm inside your house and it is made of cries locked within the walls of your lover’s apartment.

You and Toji have been arguing for six months out of the seven you’ve known him.

Apparently, May flowers brought November showers (or better said, downpours), as well as a thick darkness, because since last week, Toji's entire street has been without light, water or electricity.

A desert in the middle of a flood, seems almost biblical.

Both of you are in the kitchen – distressingly narrow and painted in a gloom shade of indigo –, in the midst of your fifth discussion this week. The fridge door is open while you talk, but neither of you cares, all of its contents are already wasted, anyways. The light doesn’t even flicker.

You don't know exactly how this particular fight started.

Toji had arrived at his apartment – his, exclusively – late, with a bag of fast food in hand. An individual order. When he’d arrived, he’d looked at you and asked you what you were doing there, and everything had gotten out of hand from that point on.

After six months of waiting for him in the same place, in the same position, in the same corner of his grimy sofa, you'd thought he might remember you, might remember that you are a constant in his life.

Not the case.

The fight escalates to such an extent that you find yourself shouting and gesticulating aggressively.

What starts badly ends worse, your grandmother used to say.

(And yet, it ends).

So now you stand barefoot, in your white slip, looking at him with all the fire you can fan into your eyes.

"I have no fucking idea what is it that you want, Toji Fushiguro, but you need to stop looking for it in me. Either take me as I am or leave me, it's as simple as that."

He looks back at you, his gaze shallow. He always stares at you like this, as if instead of seeing you, he were trying to evaluate you; like you’re nothing but a mere statue to him and he’s looking for a spot where the artist could’ve slipped his chisel.

But you don’t cower before him. Although his height seemed imposing when you first met him, he now seems ridiculous to you. A child hidden behind a brick wall.

"Could you stop talking in code for two fucking minutes?"

"I want you to stop treating me like shit. You caught on now?"

He laughs unfunnily.

"I think I treat you pretty well, girl."

"Really?" you smile. There's a part of you that cringes at the gesture; he's been souring you since you met. Now you're fed up, but you know you'll never be able to return all of the blows he’s knocked you out with. "You think coming home and taking me to your bedroom for five minutes of grunts and sweat is treating me well?"

"Our bedroom."

That does make you laugh.

"Fuck, Toji, I don't live here! You never asked me to move in with you. And I've waited for you but I'm..... I don't even know what I am. Disappointed, maybe?" Your mood begins to shift as you search for him with your stare. You want to see some sort of reaction, something that isn’t a performance, something that doesn’t act as a mirror.

Something that tells you he cares about you.

"I thought I was dating an adult,” you continue, softly now. “That we could talk about it but... God, you're exactly like all the men I've been trying to avoid. All savages, the lot of you; too barbaric to be able to say you feel anything, even if it’s pure lust."

He raises a brow, closing the refrigerator door with a slam and leaning against the countertop with a click of his tongue.

"You want me to tell you that you make me horny?" he asks, with an ironic smirk.

"I want you to tell me that there's something that goes with the sex. Something that can last."

He doesn't say anything, just exhales loudly, huffing with annoyance.

And for some reason, the gesture takes you back two decades ago, when your father used to do that to you. A puff of air like cigarette smoke whenever you wanted something he didn't feel like giving you; mostly his time.

You don't know where the memory comes from, but it hurts. It burns and coats your throat with bile.

"There’s nothing," he whispers, at last.

Now you really have to make an effort not to vomit.

Silly girl, you say to yourself, you already knew that. But it's no use.

"And I had to dig that out of you with a spoon, baby," you tell him, dripping with sarcasm.

He doesn't notice how you pale, how you grab the skirt of your dress and bite the inside of your cheek. He doesn't smell your despair, nor the copper drops emanating from the wound you've caused yourself by biting on your skin.

Toji's not a bloodhound, no matter how much he resembles one. He's just an asshole.

Your words make him frown and stick out his jaw. You recognize his hint – you’d recognize him by taste alone –, it's the gesture he makes before he fights.

"And what the fuck did you expect? For me to telepathically figure out whatever shit you’re thinking?"

"No, Toji. I just wanted an answer." That’s it, you suppose.

You sigh, unclenching your fists without relaxing your shoulders, and head for the bedroom. Except for your cell phone and a pair of nightgowns, you have almost nothing here. Let him keep the panties, if he gave them back to you, you'd burn them anyway.

He follows when you pass him by on your way out of the kitchen, and, for once, he looks incredulous.

"What? You think we’re done chatting?"

"I don't even feel like looking at that asshole face of yours anymore."

Every word that comes out of your mouth stabs him in the spleen. He's never seen you like this.

You have nothing left to care for, nothing left to protect from the storm, nothing to hope and pray to see bloom. Your land is infertile and all you feel is frustration, so there's no more measuring yourself.

To hell with all this.

"Yesterday it was all about cuddling and today you're leaving,” he says. “What did you expect?" At that, he smiles with malice, one that, unfortunately, is not unfamiliar to you. "That we were going to fall madly in love? That this was about more than sex? Oh, but you're just a little girl. I've been with a hundred of the likes of you."

He's lying. You know he's lying.

This man has never loved a woman in his life – you pity his mother – but he's not a manwhore either. He wears things out until he’s outgrown them.

It's funny — he’s always looked too big on you.

Your head turns around, but you stay frozen where you are, kneeling in front of the bottom drawer of his nightstand. On your knees, you almost look like you're praying, but your eyes condemn a truth that hurts him. It burns and coats his throat with bile.

"I never expected you to fall in love with me, Toji. I'm not that stupid," you look at the drawer again, taking clothes and shoving them carelessly into your bag. "I'm just young."

“I may be young, but give me time.” Those words, the ones you told him when he met you, a little over half a year ago, ring in his ears. “I can take a hundred men like you.”'

He remembers them now, gall climbing up to his uvula. Your smile back then clashes with your current tears. You have aged seven years in seven months.

He can see it in your posture, in the expensive fabric of your dress and the way you tie your hair back. He can see it in the depth of your cupid's bow, in the care with which you hold your hands.

You know how to handle dynamite now, but you can't stop gunpowder from blowing up.

Toji is speechless. He doesn't want you to leave, but he's already worn you out, you've already woken up from your reverie. He hasn’t outgrown you yet.

When you get up, your cheeks are covered with tears. You wipe them away carefully; you would’ve never done that back when he met you.

You were free then; of wild smiles and clumsy hands, of loud cries and smell of freesias. Young with bravado, a shell of the sea.

Seeing you like this, knowing you're going away, turns his stomach. This is the last time, and you don't smell like freesia anymore. You're all orange and lavender, unmistakable and silent.

Toji raises a hand and brings it up to you. For a split second of madness you think he's going to slap you, but he simply catches a strand of your hair; only instead of tucking it behind your ear, he lets it curl around your cheek.

His hand falls to his side – he wasn't raised to be like this. He wasn’t raised to get you to stay.

"Get out," he murmurs, the timbre of his voice low and plangent.

You close your eyes for a moment, just to find his image behind your eyelids; smiling and defiant, with a glass of champagne in his hand and kohl-stained eyes.

The tide inside washes away everything else.

"You don't have to tell me twice."

What starts badly ends worse, you think.

(And yet, it ends).

(reblogs are appreciated !!)

#🎐 𓂃 mae’s typing !#jjk imagines #jjk angst #jjk x you #jjk x reader #toji angst #toji x you #toji x reader #toji fushiguro angst #toji fushiguro x you #toji fushiguro x reader

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maeby-cursed · 6 months

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COFFEE CUPS AND THE EFFECTS OF FALLING IN LOVE | K. NANAMI

a/n: okay, this was supposed to be a quick drabble but i have an essay due tomorrow and decided to write eight hundred words of pure nanami fluff instead. (also, nanami is yuji's legal guardian in this because yolo).

✧ synopsis: nanami doesn’t fall in love. until a new coworker shows up on his office floor and turns his world upside down.

✧ pairings: kento nanami x f!reader

✧ wc: 890

✧ rating: pure self indulgent fluff !

Kento Nanami swears he doesn’t fall in love.

Falling in love is irrational, illogical. It’s a silly, whimsical infatuation experienced by childish people; like his work colleague – and constant annoyance – Satoru Gojo. People like him cannot control their feelings and always act upon instinct, that’s their problem.

But Kento Nanami doesn’t fall in love, he doesn’t smile sheepishly or giggle like a schoolboy, he doesn’t have time for such nonsense. He’s got taxes to do.

He doesn’t fall in love even when you come into the office that first day of August, with a pretty bag and shiny heels and a kind smile that stabs him in the stomach; the place where he keeps all things soft and unknown.

He doesn’t fall in love, yet when you come into his life, weird things start to happen.

He begins making extra coffee in the mornings, and he tells himself that it’s because his work days keep getting longer, but if he were honest to himself, he’d admit that he just packs it to offer it to you.

“I made extra but I don’t want it. I assure you.” Is what he says to you the first time you talk, stopping you on the way to the coffee machine.

He begins to feel excited about work, even if it’s just to see you walk by his desk on the way to the elevators twice a day, and he hides his smile poorly when you do so.

He combs his hair and shaves carefully and irons his ties. He pays attention to the idles chitchat his coworkers make, hoping to hear anything about his lovely new colleague.

He comes home and checks his emails, scouring them in search of your name.

He spends an entire evening researching a recipe he heard you mention during lunch and when he finally realizes what he’s doing – five hours deep into it – he cannot convince himself to care. Instead he tries to find out if you like wine the next day. And carnations. And men with blonde hair who never fall in love.

Five months go by since Kento Nanami meets you and of course he’s not in love.

Yet Gojo seems a little smugger nowadays, always leaning against your desk with his stare set on him. And Geto always seems to need to vacate the room whenever you enter, leaving you two alone. And Yuji begins to ask for you when he comes home late at night.

Does he really talk about you that much?

Eventually, you realize how strange his behavior is with you.

He glares at Gojo when he makes a harmless tease about you and Kento looking good together. He runs after Geto when you’re in the breakroom alone with him. He hides Yuji in his office whenever he drops by.

Does he really dislike you that much?

Eight months go by since Kento Nanami meets you and he begins trying to stay away from you, acting like it’s not a struggle.

You’re not used to people avoiding you for no reason, and his change of heart doesn’t go unnoticed, especially with how nice he was those first few weeks.

So when late February rolls around, cold and bitter, you knock on his office door.

“Mr. Nanami?” You call, shyly, from the outside of the room. You feel weird calling him mister, he’s barely older than you, but you don’t want to anger him any further.

“Come in.” He says, starting to panic. Why are you here? God, did you notice how weird he is around you? Did you catch him looking at your employee access card’s picture again? Did you figure out why you are the only one who finds a cup of coffee on her desk every morning?

“Uhm, I’m sorry to bother you so late, sir,” you say, your voice quiet and your gaze soft. It is late. About to be 10pm and he’s yet to pack his things; he was waiting for you.

He’s not in love.

“But I was just wondering… uhm, have I done anything to upset you?” His mouth falls slightly agape at your words and a frown settles deep between his eyebrows. It doesn’t suit him at all. You try to rectify. “I mean, it’s just… you seem a little odd lately! Not odd odd, just…” You groan and sigh. “I just feel like you’ve been avoiding me for the last few weeks and I’d like to know if I’ve done something, if I could fix it… sir.” You add with a small smile.

He looks at you dumbfounded, the first pure emotion you’ve seen on his face since you’ve met. His eyes find yours in a desperate attempt to crack you.

You think he’s angry? You think he’s bothered by you?

He’s infatuated, he’s smiling and giggling like a fool whenever you walk by, whenever you smile, whenever you drink his coffee and look into his eyes. Did you never catch him gazing at you? Don’t you know?

His resolve breaks at the confusion present in your face.

The whole world has centered into that kind smile you have and he cannot fight it any longer. He’s not a stupid man, he knows when he’s lost, and when he’s about to win.

Kento Nanami is in love – with you. And it’s about time you know.

(reblogs are appreciated !!)

#🎐 𓂃 mae’s typing !#jjk fluff #nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami fluff #jjk x you #jjk x reader

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maeby-cursed · 6 months

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CABLE TV AND SOMETHING TRUE | T. FUSHIGURO

a/n: listen. i do not know what this is. this man does things to me and i think i should not be blamed for that. plus it's 3.25am and my brain is soup. (also, toji is a good dad to tsumiki and megumi in this).

✧ synopsys: toji fushiguro is not an elegant man, but he likes you enough to pretend. at least until you make him realize how much nicer being true feels.

✧ pairings: toji fushiguro x f!reader

✧ wc: 1k

✧ rating: fluff and a somewhat edgy toji !

Toji Fushiguro isn’t an elegant man.

He doesn’t have fancy tastes; doesn’t care for boulevardiers, for Hitchcock films or shiny McLarens.

He was raised in a house that preached pragmatism, and even though he’s rejected every aspect of his childhood since then, there are some lessons that feel carved into his very bones. Yet he doesn’t complain.

He drinks his beer and watches whatever is on cable and drives the same pickup truck he bought at twenty years old. He’s satisfied with the life he’s built for himself.

But things change a little when he meets you on an arid night, mid-december. You’re a friend of Shiu’s new girlfriend, a college graduate successful in her field, invited to this party on her own merits. He’s just there because he’s best friends with the CEO.

Suddenly, at the sight of you, he has to excuse himself, rushing to the bathroom to fix his tie and to try to do something with his chopped hair – what that something is, he doesn’t know, he’s been cutting his own hair since he was twelve, never received any advice from a hairdresser. He ends up splashing a bit of water on it and slicking it back. He looks… fine. Better. But he feels like a doofus.

Nevertheless, he goes back to where you are and you carry on your conversation, not making any notes on his changed appearance (the same cannot be said for Shiu, who still refuses to let the incident go).

Things only change more from there. He quits his job at the metal company he used to work for and he lands a position as an employee for Shiu’s corporation.

He begins wearing a suit and tie, working overtime, slicking back his hair with actual gel. He’s Mr. Fushiguro now. A respectable man with a respectable salary and respectable tastes.

Quickly, he adapts to his coworkers’ habits; old-fashioneds, Scorssese movies and black Bentleys.

He sees you more and more often and each time he feels like that day at the party. He’s got money now, and he spends it, but he still thinks something is missing.

You’re just so… right.

You’re always dressed just right; shiny heels, a-line dresses, clean up-dos. Always speaking just right; with care and patience. Always smiling just right; dazzling anyone around you.

You’re the perfect mix of grace and moxie, climbing your job’s ranks with ease.

He’s an imposter in a clean cut jacket and an expensive car.

His kids have picked up on it, too. Megumi keeps commenting how annoying it is that he cannot eat in the new car, how pungent his dad’s new cologne is, how greasy his hair looks like that. While Tsumiki silently awaits for him every night, asleep on the sofa by the time her dad gets home, and tries not to protest when he doesn’t show up to dinner anymore.

But after a few months it all begins to feel pretty pointless.

He doesn’t like this. He misses his beer, his evenings watching cable, his pickup. He misses his kids.

He’s not an elegant man. He didn’t even finish high school. He’s used to the smell of metallurgy, to working with his hands, to scrubbing black muck of his peeled fingers every night before dinner. He’s used to eating takeout and working out, not sitting in his ass around all day.

So the next time he sees you, he’s back to being the CEO’s best friend. His hair falls sloppy over his eyes and his tie is undone. He doesn’t feel like a doofus.

He also brought Megumi and Tsumiki this time and they’re off wandering somewhere, probably by the buffet table.

You near him. Perfect dress, perfect greeting, perfect smile.

“I just met your little girl,” you say, a peculiar glisten in your eyes.

“Right, she’s around here with her brother,” he replies, taking a swig off his beer.

“She’s really cool. I complimented her Hannah Montana bracelet and she began listing her favorite songs in alphabetical order. Good taste, too.”

He stops drinking at that.

“You know the show?”

“Are you kidding? I used to watch it with my friends all the time when I was her age. Surprised she knows it. Did you buy her the DVDs or something?” you ask.

He simply shakes his head.

“She must’ve caught some rerun on cable.”

He awaits your reaction. Maybe an abrupt “oh”, or a cordial smile. What he doesn’t expect is for you to grab his arm and exclaim:

“Are you kidding? I’ve been searching for a way to rewatch it for ages. I’m so glad they’re still putting it on.”

And it’s like he can finally see you. In a second, you stop looking like an idea and begin taking the form of something true and kind and real.

You’re so close to him he can feel your body heat, can count the beauty marks on your clavicle, can smell the perfume of your hair. He hears the subtle drawl in your voice and the sincere excitement of your words. He feels your pulse against his wrist and something takes him back to his first ever love, when he was nothing but a boy in primary school trying to act nonchalant.

You’re not a doll. You’re not a picture. You’re a living, breathing person holding him by the arm and staring into his eyes and something begins to feel very right inside Toji.

“You can come over any time to watch it with ‘er, ya know,” he offers. “If you’d like.”

He’s not pretending, he’s not being respectable. And he’s not embarrassed.

“Are you inviting me to your house, Mr. Fushiguro?” you tease.

“And I’m offering you our cable TV.”

“Well, I’d be flattered to go,” you say with a grin. “You sure know how to seduce a woman.”

His eyes meet yours. They have creases in the corners from smiling so much – like his.

Very right.

“Well, what can I say? I’m a man with elegant tastes.”

(reblogs are appreciated !!)

#🎐 𓂃 mae’s typing !#what is this ? i do not know #jjk fluff #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk imagines #toji x you #toji x reader #toji fluff #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro x you

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