cmdrfupa

[cmdrfupa]

Nanami sat at a quiet corner table in a small cafe, one hand wrapped around a coffee cup that had long since cooled. His gaze drifted out the window, taking in the sights of the street but focusing on none of them.

The hum of the cafe, the muted conversations and clinking cups, was soothing. A moment of quiet felt surreal as he waited for you to meet him.

“Excuse me?”

Nanami looked down to see a small girl, maybe six or seven years old, standing by his table. Her eyes were round and curious, and she was staring at the healed web like burn scars on his face and the scars that peeked out from under the cuff of his shirt.

He felt a pang of self-consciousness and was about to glance away, but the girl tilted her head, undeterred.

“What happened to your face?” she asked, her tone as innocent as her question.

Nanami blinked. He wasn’t used to such direct curiosity. Most people (adults) either looked away out of politeness or offered a sympathetic smile that he never quite knew how to respond to. But this child simply waited, eyes bright and expectant.

He took a steadying breath. “I got hurt while I was working,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “But I’m alright now.”

“Oh,” she replied, digesting this. She looked at his hand, tracing her gaze over the marks on his fingers and wrists. “Does it still hurt?”

“Not anymore.” He found himself softening a bit, his usual reserve giving way to something gentler in the face of her openness.

She nodded, apparently satisfied with this answer, and then broke into a grin. “I think it looks cool. It’s like super hero scars. You must be one!”

Nanami couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. “Thank you,” he said. “But I’m not a superhero.”

The girl crossed her arms, as if deep in thought. “My dad says superheroes don’t always wear capes. He says sometimes they’re just regular people who help.”

Nanami felt something twist in his chest at that. “Your dad sounds like a smart man.”

“Sometimes,” she said, scrunching up her nose. “But he doesn’t like coffee or chocolate. He says it tastes like dirt.”

Nanami let out a quiet chuckle. “It does, a little bit. But I like it anyway. And chocolate? That sounds criminal.”

The girl laughed with him “That’s what I think! Chocolate is yummy. He’s nuts.” For a moment, it felt like the weight of everything he’d been carrying was a little lighter.

“My name is Emi.”

“I’m Nanami. It’s nice to meet you Emi. Where are your parents?”

“Behind the counter. They own the cafe.” She smiled as she waved at her dad who gave an apologetic look towards Nanami.

“Do you come here a lot?” she asked, swinging her arms a bit as she looked around the cafe.

“Sometimes. Me and my wife like the pastries here. Or I come here to think.”

She seemed to consider this, then pulled a bright red crayon from the front pocket of her Bluey bag and placed it carefully on the table. “Here. In case you need to write something while you think. Or your wife!” she offered earnestly.

Nanami took the crayon, holding it between his fingers as if it were made of glass. “Thank you,” he said, voice soft. “That’s very kind of you.”

The gentle wind from the door opening brought Nanami’s eyes up and to you as you walked over. “Hi darling.”

You bent to kiss his cheek and smiled before looking over at the little girl. “Well hello! Do we have a new friend?”

“I’m Emi! Is Mr. Nanami your husband?”

You nodded sitting down at the table but still keep contact with the girl.” “Uh huh. He is.”

“Thats so cool. You’re married to a super hero! Did you know that?”

You looked up to Nanami, confused as he chuckled and traced his thumb over the crayons paper wrapping. “It’s.. we’ll get to that in a second.”

[cmdrfupa]

Season of the Harvest

Toji Fushiguro

Old man Toji. My favorite seasons. I am letting the Toeji sentimentals flow. Thank you for reading 🫶🏾💞

The sun was still bright, but it hung lower now, its warmth fleeting like a hand slipping away in a crowd. The air had changed—subtle at first, just a crispness that crept into the evenings. By midday, it was still warm, almost deceptive, but the body knew.

Toji’s body prepared in ways too quiet to notice: a tensing of muscles, instinctively eating more to prepare for the impending change of weather. A slower stretch in the morning, a craving for heavier fabrics and sturdier boots. Summer tried its lingering act, stubborn and golden, but autumn had already staked its claim.

Always standing tall, unyielding, even as the inevitable loomed. His strength was palpable, the kind that made you think of high noon in July, where nothing dared to challenge the heat. But like the seasons, strength wasn’t eternal. It ebbed, shifted, dissolved into something else.

Toji didn’t fear the cold, not in the way others did. He welcomed it. The ache in his bones after a fight was a quiet kind of proof. A not so gentle reminder that he had lived through more storms than most.

Like the turning leaves, his body betrayed him in flashes: bruises that lingered longer than they should, the sharp tug of scar tissue when he moved too quickly. He carried the cold within him, even when the air still smelled like sunburnt grass.

The first real bite of autumn came late in the day. The sun had dipped beneath the rooftops, leaving behind only a smudge of orange on the horizon. Toji let out a breath, watching as it curled into the air, faint but visible now. The chill seeped into his jacket and pressed against his skin. He stood there for a moment, hands shoved into his pockets, his gaze tracing the line of the trees—half-bare now, leaves scattered like forgotten promises across the pavement.

He wasn’t sentimental about the change. Nature didn’t waste time mourning what it lost, and neither did he.

You lived, you endured, and when the frost came, you kept moving. But there was something in the stillness of it all that caught him off guard. It wasn’t the cold itself, but the way it settled into him, deeper than any fight or scar ever had.

By the time he stepped through the door, the warmth of your home wrapped around him like a second skin. It smelled of tea, faintly sweet and spiced, and something else—something you’d made earlier, though the scent was faint now. He stopped in the doorway for a moment, letting the quiet fill the space between breaths.

You looked up from the couch, a blanket draped over your shoulders, and smiled. “Cold out there?”

He nodded, setting his boots neatly by the door. His movements were slower now, not from weariness but from the kind of ease that only came with being home.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice low but without the rough edge it usually carried. “But it’s not bad. Not really.”

You tilted your head, watching him as he crossed the room. He rubbed his hands together absently, as if chasing the last bit of cold from his skin.

“I thought you hated winter,” you muttered, teasing.

He smirked, sinking onto the couch beside you. The cushion dipped slightly under his weight, and when you shifted to make room, his arm moved easily around your shoulders, drawing you closer. His lips cold, leaving a soft peck on your temple.

“It’s not winter yet,” he replied. “And even if it was... it’s not all bad now.”

You raised an eyebrow, curious. “Really?”

He shrugged, his gaze distant for a moment. “The cold’s... honest, I guess. Doesn’t hide what it is. Makes you pay attention to the small things. Like this,” He gestured faintly at the blanket, the warmth between you growing as he settled under the worn quilt. “You feel it more when it’s cold.”

Toji leaned back into the couch, letting out a soft sigh as you pulled the blanket over both of you. The weight of the day seemed to settle into him, his body naturally finding the rhythm of home—slow, steady, unguarded. You nestled closer, your fingers absently tracing the edge of his sleeve, enjoying the quiet between you.

But then he shifted, almost uncomfortably, his hand brushing over the hem of his sweater. His movements weren’t the usual lazy kind he’d make when settling in, and you noticed the furrow in his brow as he tugged at the fabric around his torso.

“Something wrong?” you asked, glancing up at him.

He hesitated for a moment, then sighed, his fingers still resting on the hem. “Feels tighter,” he muttered, his tone low and almost begrudging.

“What does?”

“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely at himself. He pulled at his sweater again, frowning. “Sweaters didn’t fit like this last year.”

There it was. The quiet admission. You tilted your head, studying him as he sank deeper into the cushions, his arms crossing loosely over his chest. Toji wasn’t a man who often cared about appearances—at least, not outwardly. But the way he avoided your touch now, his usual confidence slipping just a bit, told you this was bothering him more than he’d admit.

You suppressed a smile, knowing better than to tease outright. “Oh, so you’re bulking up for the winter?” you asked lightly, your tone warm and teasing but far from mocking.

His jaw tightened, and he gave a small shrug. “It’s not intentional. Just happens, I guess. Fewer jobs that keep me moving, more food... and running the butcher shop keeps me busy but not enough.” He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Not really ideal.”

“Not ideal?” you repeated, your voice softening. “Why not?”

He shot you a quick glance, his expression carefully neutral, but you could see the faint frustration behind it. “Feels different. Like I’m slowing down.”

You reached up, placing a hand on his chest. “And here I thought you were just getting extra insulated for me,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips.

His eyes narrowed slightly, though the twitch of a smile betrayed him. “Is that right?”

“Mm-hmm.” You leaned in conspiratorially. “Besides, you’re still ridiculously strong. I can’t even open half the jars you close, so I think we’re fine.”

He huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Ridiculous,” he muttered.

“Okay, fine,” you said, grinning. “Intimidatingly strong. Like a bear preparing for hibernation. So cozy, but still oh so terrifying if you cross him.”

This time, the laugh that escaped him was louder, a low rumble that sent warmth blooming in your chest. He leaned his head back against the couch, a hand coming up to cover his face for a moment. “A bear,” he repeated, shaking his head again.

“Exactly,” you said, scooting closer. “I mean, it’s practical. You’re preparing for the cold. Plus, you look good.”

He dropped his hand, his gaze flicking to yours. “Yeah?”

“Mmmmhmmm,” you said, your expression softening. “You’ve got that rugged, ‘I can chop wood and build a fire with my bare hands’ kind of look. Winter suits you.”

For a moment, he just looked at you, his expression unreadable. Then he let out a quiet chuckle, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “You’re full of it,” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward again.

You leaned forward too, resting your chin on his shoulder. “Maybe. But I’m not wrong.”

He turned his head slightly, his nose brushing against your hair. “Doesn’t bother you? That I’m...” He paused, searching for the word. “Bigger?”

You looked down at yourself, laughing then looking at him. “Not even a little,” you said without hesitation. “If anything, I think it suits you. And, let’s be real, you’re basically my personal heater right now. I’m not complaining.”

Toji let out another soft laugh, shaking his head as he leaned back against the couch, taking you with him. His arm wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you closer as the blanket shifted to cover you both.

“You’re something else,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, almost shy.

“And you’re perfect,” you replied easily, resting a hand against his chest again. “Winter bulk and all.”

Outside, the wind rattled the windows, but neither of you noticed. Wrapped in warmth, humor, and each other, the encroaching winter didn’t seem so daunting after all.

His movements were becoming slower now, deliberate. You could see it in the way he shifted his weight, how he flexed his fingers like he was trying to wake them up before his workouts.

But summers’ past and winters creeping in. More years behind than ahead.

So for now he enjoys the warmth you share. His body thankful for the slow pace he finally gave himself with you at his side.

[cmdrfupa]

DROP EM

😌

[cmdrfupa]

Kinda tired of being over talked. About to start biting the opposition idk.

[cmdrfupa]

Oh my days 😩😩😩😩

Teri, another dub I fear.

YUKI!!!

[cmdrfupa]

Circling back because it’s Suguru brainrot time (that’s everyday but still. Act accordingly)

Suguru, Beloved

When my brain can’t stop thinking, I let it go into dangerous 2D baddie territory. With Spiro being at the forefront of my mind, have some Suguru HCs because im in the mood to yearn, Spiro has me spiraling and wishing to put his hair in fishtail braids.

General Romantic Headcanons (Pre-Defection or AU Where He Never Defected)

Protective without smothering: Suguru is incredibly observant, and while he doesn’t hover, he notices when something is off with you whether it is mood shifts, stress, or even subtle discomfort. He handles it quietly but thoroughly, making sure you feel supported without having to ask for it.

Undeniably wicked sense of humor: He teases you affectionately, often in ways that test your patience just enough to get a reaction. He enjoys seeing you flustered or annoyed because it’s a sign you’re comfortable around him. He knows when he’s gone too far. And that usually is followed with a hot beverage being made and him distantly hovering you until you are ready to talk.

Intellectual intimacy: Suguru deeply enjoys discussions. From philosophy, history, cursed energy theories to learning about deep sea animals. He falls harder for you every time you challenge him, make him think in a new way or teach him something new. But, if you call him a sapiosexual, he’s walking away (Despises the term. See also: Nanami)

His Public persona is vastly different from the softness his gives you in private: Around friends and the public overall, Suguru holds a calm, charismatic front, but with you, he lets himself relax. He’s warm in subtle ways. brushing hair from your face, touching parts of of your body if you’re in arms reach, murmuring little praises when you least expect them.

Post-Defection / Canon-Divergent "Soft Redemption" AU

Quiet guilt but loud with his love: Even if he’s not openly seeking redemption, his love for you is one of the few things he allows himself to treasure. He doesn’t believe he deserves it, but he protects it fiercely. His heart isn’t in his sleeve, but pinned to his chest for you to see at all times.

Hard to read but easy to feel: Suguru won’t always say what he feels. Thats why he is an expert in showing it. He memorizes your routines, your comforts. He’ll brew your tea exactly how you like it, sit beside you in silence after a rough day, or take your hand when you’re asleep and whisper apologies you’ll never hear. He wants you to feel his presence as if you’ll slip away without it.

Jealous… just not conventionally: He’s not insecure, but he is possessive in a way that’s more existential than petty. Suguru is terrified of losing what little good he still has in this life. He’d never try to cage you, but there’s always a weight behind the way he watches you walk away.

Sleeps lightly unless you’re near: He sleeps best when you’re beside him, and if you move away, he’ll unconsciously reach for you. He never says anything about it unless you do. That’s when he’ll smirk, throwing an arm around your waist and deflect with a, “Hmph. You should stay put next time.”

You're his last thread: You remind him what it means to be human. That can be a burden sometimes, but he never treats you like one. Instead, he holds your hand like a lifeline, grounding himself in your presence.

Late-night talks become rituals: He opens up to you more when the world is quiet. 2AM confessions while his hair is down, his voice is raw and only your opinions matter. He asks you questions like, “Do you think I’m a monster?” but never expects forgiveness, only honesty.

He never asks for you to understand him. Just see him: If you can look past what he’s done and still choose to be beside him, he’ll offer you everything: loyalty, devotion, protection—whatever piece of himself he still has to give.

Domestic Life with Suguru

The kind of man who lights incense when he cleans. He puts on ambient music (or low-volume R&B) and gets lost in his tasks, sleeves rolled, hair half-up. If you join him, he gives you a lazy grin like you’ve just made his day better by existing near him.

Meticulously tidy but not controlling: Suguru keeps things neat and intentional. He says there’s a place for everything, but if you’re messier, he simply builds routines around your habits. Your clutter becomes part of the landscape he knows by heart.

Always makes enough food for you, even if you didn’t ask: He doesn’t say “I made this for you,” but when he sets aside your bowl first, warm and waiting on the counter, the unspoken care is deafening. He has a recipe for Spicy beef noodle soup you’ve been trying to get your hands on since you met him and he isn’t budging. But will make it for you in a heartbeat.

You may catch him hanging his shirts in your closet so they smell like you: You find him wearing your sweaters and oversized shirts around the house like it’s nothing. If you tease him, he’ll shrug and say, “Yours are softer.” But really, he just likes being wrapped in your scent.

Subtle Intimacies

He’s a back-of-the-neck toucher: When you’re brushing your teeth, doing the dishes, or working on something, he’ll pass by and let his hand rest briefly on your neck or shoulder. It’s grounding for both of you. If it’s beena long day, he will press his lips to the nape of your neck and let them linger.

Slow mornings are the only way to start the day: Suguru’s not in a rush unless the world is ending. If you have nowhere to be, he pulls you back into bed with a grumble, tucks his face into your throat, and lets his weight sink fully into you like he’s home.

Post-shower rituals: He’ll dry your hair and help you with post shower routines. Massaging your moisturizer into your legs, then gently run his fingers through your hair while talking about mundane things. From what he read, what groceries you need, whether you should get a cat. It’s intimate, habitual. His way of saying he loves you without needing the words.

He’s ever so soft when you’re sleeping: If you fall asleep near him, (on the couch, in his lap, in bed) he’ll kiss your forehead and trace your cheekbone lightly with his knuckle. If he thinks you’re truly out cold, he’ll whisper things he’s not ready to say when you’re awake. (The first time he said I love you, he thought you were out cold.)

Emotional & Physical Intimacy

Suguru doesn’t rush touch. He takes his time: long eye contact, hands sliding over your sides, kissing you like he’s memorizing your taste. Sex with him is patient, intimate, and reverent. When you have given him the green light, it’s like he’s proving to himself that this, you, are real.

Post-intimacy, he’s quieter than usual: Not out of detachment, but because his emotions are closer to the surface. He'll lie beside you with one hand on your chest, head turned to listen to your heartbeat. It's the one thing that always calms the ache in him.

Not big on grand declarations… But it you tell him you love him, he looks at you like he’s never been seen so clearly. He says it back softly, with intention, like every syllable matters. No flourish or embellishments. Just truth.

Sometimes, you catch him staring at you with a look you can't name. He brushes it off, but the truth is, he never thought he’d have someone who could handle all of him, and that reverence never fades.

Nicknames I see him using more often than not. In my opinion

“My heart” – He says it like a confession. It’s not frequent, but when he does, it’s with awe. Usually spoken when he’s holding you after a long day, or when he’s watching you sleep and thinks you can’t hear. “You’ve become my heart. I don’t know when it happened, but it’s yours now.”

“Darling” – Darling is more of a staple. It’s elegant, quiet, and steady. When he says it, its something that grounds him. It fits the version of him who is learning to live softly again. “You don’t have to worry, darling. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Light” / “Little light” – This one sticks almost immediately. You are the flicker he followed out of the dark. He only uses it in moments of intimacy, when his guard is fully down. “What did I ever do to deserve a little light like you?”

“Sweet thing” – Quiet and a bit nostalgic, like he’s remembering a softer world through you. It slips out when you do something kind or playful. His smile is a little sad, a little enchanted. “Sweet thing. You always know what I need before I do.”

“Love” – Simple, steady. He says it often, but always with a gentle pause before—like it still surprises him that he gets to use the word. “Come here, love.” / “You’ll wait for me, love?”

“Beloved” – Rare, precious. He doesn’t say it often, but when he does, it’s in moments of high emotion. When he’s scared to lose you, or when he’s overwhelmed by how much you mean to him. “Stay, my beloved. Just for tonight.”

Just for funsies lines I feel deep down in my bosom he would spit to his longterm romantic partner in lieu of petnames or nicknames for you:

“You make it easy to believe in goodness again.”

“You’re the only reason I came back.”

“I’ll never deserve you. But I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to.”

Whata yapfest, amirite??? this was suppose to be maybe 500 words MAX but I dont know how to count so...

I hope you enjoyed! thank you for reading!

[cmdrfupa]

This goes so perfectly?

Merman in distress???

“Glocks??? I asked for Clocks by Coldplay!!”

i made a poll asking if i should draw raf with a gun and a few people voted for daniel radcliffe style [🔫]

[cmdrfupa]

V. Kejime (けじめ)

(n) distinction (e.g. between right and wrong, public and private, etc.)

4.1k words

All content warnings and chapters can be found here.

Thank you for reading!

The venue was beautiful in a way that made your stomach turn.

Ivory curtains framed the tall shōji windows, letting in filtered sunlight that bathed the tatami floor in gold. The lacquered altar at the far end gleamed like what you could only imagine heaven to gleam like. Rows of familiar, low floral arrangements lined the pathway between guest cushions. It was the perfect backdrop for a traditional Shinto wedding.

And it felt like a stage you were about to be sacrificed on.

Your mother chattered to one of the coordinators about the potential flower substitutions you didn’t approve of, her tone sickeningly cheerful. “Peonies symbolize good fortune,” she gushed. “We want that energy, don’t we, sweetheart?”

You gave a nod so small it could’ve been a flinch.

Your father, meanwhile, stood a few feet behind you. He stood like a stoic, arms folded, expression unreadable. He had been lively earlier in the car, cracking small jokes and talking timelines. But now he was silent.

Because they were here.

Hiromi entered the space first, followed by his father Hideyoshi, all stone-gray presence and steeled eyes. Their steps were confident, quiet. Hiromi’s gaze found you immediately, and for a moment, something gentle passed through it.

You felt your stomach soothe itself.

“Sorry we’re late,” he said simply. “Traffic near the fifth ward.”

“No trouble,” your mother replied far too quickly with far too much enthusiasm. “We’re just going over the final touches.”

Your father didn’t greet them. Not immediately. Not verbally.

You could feel his body stiffen beside you.

Hiromi's father clocked it instantly. One subtle yet sharp glance in your father's direction and the message was exchanged clearly. As if he’d verbally accosted him. A warning. Or a memory. Or both.

The walk through moved forward like a dance you weren’t a part of. The priest stepped in to explain the ceremonial order, talking through the san-san-kudo, the ritual sake exchange. You nodded on cue. Spoke only acknowledged or when Hiromi lobbed a question your way.

Hiromi stayed near the entire time, but he didn’t force your attention towards him at any point.

As the practice neared its end, Hiromi’s phone rang and every eye drifted to him as he reached into his pocket.

He took a step away, phone in hand, brow furrowed, aggravation sitting in his eyes. “Excuse me a moment,” he said. “I need to take this.”

You watched him move toward the side doors with a twinge of dread in your gut that had no name yet.

He disappeared behind the panel. The moment the door slid shut, something shifted in the room.

“Sweetheart,” your mother called to you, her voice distant now. “Could you check with the tailor again? I think they left your garment bag in the back dressing room. We need to do a quick fitting. In case we need to let the dress out a bit.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Just go, darling. It's fine.”

The priest and both fathers were deep in conversation. Hideyoshi taking in every word while your father seemed to be elsewhere with his thoughts. The coordinator was distracted with writing, noting the way the sun seeped through the thin curtain that faced the west.

You moved, reluctant but compliant, weaving through the sliding screens toward the back wing of the venue.

There was a garment bag.

But there was also a man. Waiting patiently.

You barely had time to register the movement. A sharp grip on your arm. The cold pressure of something metallic at your side. His voice in your ear was low, not cruel, but businesslike.

“Don’t scream. We’re not here to hurt you.” his silken voice slithered through your mind and made you feel sick.

The room blurred as your body went still from shock, your instincts frozen between flight and disbelief.

“We just need a moment of your time. That’s all.” He brought your body closer to his, his firm grip keeping you from even thinking about wriggling.

Then: the room fell dark and you faded into a hazy state.

“We have her. The main estate. Meet us there.”

Silence.

------

The call had lasted all of three minutes.

Unimportant. A merchant dispute about one of the entertainment properties that ended up being a wrong number. He hadn’t needed to step away at all, but you could never be too discreet when it came to these things.

Hiromi returned through the narrow hallway, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, already scanning the room.

His father stood in the corner with the priest and your father, murmuring quietly to his own associate, was now a few paces away from your mother.

Your mother chatted animatedly with the venue coordinator. The only person missing—

“Where is she?” he asked.

Your mother turned toward him, her face lit with practiced delight. “Oh! She went to check on her dress. Back dressing room. She’ll be back in a moment.”

Hiromi's eyes flicked to the side corridor.

“She went alone?”

“Oh, it’s just around the corner,” she laughed. “No need to make it a production. Besides, she needed a moment.”

Something cold curled behind his ribs. He didn’t show it.

He moved towards the back room and through the hallway, sliding open the dressing room door with holding in a breath he didn’t know he needed to exhale.

Empty.

Not just empty. Untouched.

The silk garment bag was hung neatly on the rack. The mirror was pristine. No sign of movement. No rustle, no misplaced item, no anxious presence just moments ago.

He stepped in, looked behind the divider. Nothing.

No signs of distress. No signs of anything.

He returned.

“She’s not there.”

Your mother blinked. “Are you sure? Maybe she went to the restroom—”

“She’s not in the back hall at all.”

The coordinator hesitated. “She didn’t come past me.”

Hiromi turned to your father.

Still standing. Still silent. Still too collected for a man whose daughter was suddenly unaccounted for.

“What did you talk about while I was gone?”

Your father tilted his head. “Nothing of note.”

Hiromi took a step closer. “Then let me make it notable, sir. Your daughter is missing. She left the room during a private walk-through, and no one batted an eye. That doesn’t strike you as strange?”

Your father didn’t respond.

Not immediately.

Hiromi’s voice dropped. “Was this meant to happen?”

“Of course not.”

The answer came too quickly.

“I will call our detail and get to the bottom of this.”

His mind ran through the details like a litany: ‘Two parents. One complicit. One a calculated snake. A venue with more doors than eyes. A call that pulled him from your side at the exact moment you were moved.’

He turned on his heel.

“Clear the hall,” he said, voice sharp and sure. “No one leaves the building. No one touches their phones.”

“But Mr. Higuruma—” the coordinator began.

He didn’t look back. “Do it.”

His father was already moving, placing quiet calls in a cadence only the family would understand.

Hiromi’s jaw ticked as he reached for his own phone. The moment the screen lit, he switched to the security feed access that showed the outside of the temple.

The temple’s outer hallway. The side gardens. One flicker of movement then blurred cloth. A man too close. Then a cut.

Signal disruption.

His thumb hovered over the call log.

Then he looked up again at your mother, who had gone pale.

He’d seen this before. In courtrooms. In backrooms. In the moment someone realized they had overplayed their hand.

“We will find her,” he confidently admitted, voice flat. “And if anyone in this room is apart of this,” his eyes roamed over to your father then to your mother, “if you’ve used her for a game. I swear to you there will be consequences.”

She opened her mouth, but he was already gone.

Out the sliding doors. Into the sunlight.

His pace never broke. His fury didn’t show.

But his mind was already parsing through every connection his family still had, every enemy they’d ever made — and a few names had been surfacing more and more in the shadows lately.

Sukuna.

Kenjaku .

Gojo .

If any of them had you, this wasn’t just a warning.

It was war.

The first thing you noticed was the cold.

The kind of chill that clings to concrete walls and stale air. The kind that tells you you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be.

You blinked slowly, your vision still adjusting to the lack of absolute lighting, lashes heavy with whatever haze they had used on you. It hadn’t been a violent interaction. A quick check over showed bruises, no restraints. But something had been pressed to your face. A cloth? A sleeve?

Your breath shuddered in your throat.

The room was dim, lit only by a crack of fluorescent light bleeding in from a half-open doorway across from where you sat against the wall. No windows. A singular visible camera that sat high up in a corner. A single chair. A concrete floor. The faint scent of incense buried under something more chemical.

And silence.

No humming machines. No muffled voices. Just the thick, eerie stillness of waiting.

You stood slowly, hands brushing the wall behind you. Painted cinderblock. You turned your attention back to the door. Cracked open just enough to tempt you, just enough to threaten.

You didn't move toward it yet.

Instead, you let your thoughts move backward, sifting through what you could remember.

The temple. The walkthrough. Your parents. Hiromi.

You’d stepped away, or thought you had. You couldn’t remember why. Had someone called you? Told you there was an issue with the tailor? You vaguely recalled your mother’s voice. A nudge of urgency. A gentle insistence.

“Just go, darling.”

It echoed in your mind.

You'd trusted her.

And now… you were here.

Something that sat deeper than fear began to rise in your chest. A slow burning sense of betrayal bubbled like a cauldron that was going to overflow.

And that’s when you heard it.

Footsteps.

Crisp. Slow.

Then a low, aged voice spoke from the other side of the door as it slowly opened.

“You favor your mother more than I expected. Same sharp little eyes.”

You didn’t flinch.

The door opened wider.

A man stood there, cane in one hand, robes pressed and pristine. Much too formal for a thug, too old to be just muscle. His voice, though quiet, carried the weighted cadence of someone used to being listened to. Feared.

“Naobito Zenin,” you murmured. You didn’t need confirmation. You knew that face from old newspaper clippings and whispered warnings behind boardroom doors.

He smiled faintly. “Good. So your father didn’t raise an idiot.”

You didn’t respond.

Naobito stepped into the room and gestured to the chait. “Sit, girl.”

“I’ll stand.”

He chuckled. “Stubborn. You’ll need to be.”

A pause, then:

“Do you know why you’re here?”

You lifted your chin, heartbeat steady but loud in your ears. “I think I can safely assume this is some type of half assed attempt at stopping my nuptials and my own blood has something to do with it.”

Naobito’s eyes glinted with amusement. “Clever.”

“I don’t think Hiromi will come quietly,” you added, carefully speaking.

Naobito’s smile flattened. “He doesn’t need to. And we don’t want him to. Your father already has.”

The words landed like a stone in your chest.

You clenched your jaw. “You’re lying.”

“Ask him when you see him again, you brat.” Naobito said, walking a slow circle around you. “If you see him again.”

Silence.

“Oh don’t go quiet on me, girl. You’ll see that snake again, don’t worry.”

Naobito looked at you, studying the rings that sat on your ring finger and the state of your hair, almost disappointed in how disheveled you looked.

“You’re not a Zenin, girl. But you’ve been placed in our path. That means something. If your father wants to pretend he still holds cards, we’ll play a round until we get tired of you. But don’t make the mistake of thinking anyone here is playing fair.”

You met his gaze. “You kidnapped me. Don’t talk to me about fairness.”

His laughter was short, sharp. “You’re spirited. That’ll make things more entertaining.”

He turned toward the door, pausing only to glance back.

“We’ll be seeing each other again soon. And please don’t see this as your permanent place of captivity. You’ll have better quarters in the next half hour.”

With that, he left.

The door shut behind him, completely this time, with a metallic clunk. Locked.

And this time, you heard voices.

Not silence.

Low and muffled. Talking. Arguing.

One of them sounded... familiar.

Young. Arrogant.

Your pulse ticked faster.

The trap was no longer a fog.

It had a shape now. A name. A dozen implications crawling beneath the surface.

The Zenin family had you.

And if you were here, everything was shifting faster than anyone could control.

Your marriage. Your family. Hiromi.

Except maybe him.

The compound was loud in the way a predator's lair might be: music playing like a warning, and the echo of clashing metal from some back room where knives were being tested on meat that might not have come from livestock.

Hiromi had smoked a full pack trying to not slit the throat of every single person who had told him to calm down or think before he acted in the last four hours.

But to him, the longer it took to find you, the less likely the chance of you being alive was in his eyes.

Less likely of a chance to find you in one piece.

He shook his head, gripping the car door handle as it slowed in front of a familiar warehouse.

Hiromi adjusted the lapel of his dark sports coat as he stepped out the car and moved through the gated entrance. Two men tried to stop him.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t look. He moved, and both men were on the floor, groaning, not dead, but embarrassed.

As he stepped inside, the scent of stale beer and tobacco hung heavy. Neon lights blinked above men with jagged smiles and sleazy looks of lust as they gawked at the few gogo dancers who wriggled in slow motion.

None of them tried to stop Hiromi.

The room fell to a hush as he approached the back of the compound, where Sukuna waited like a king on a throne of rot.

He was seated on a cracked leather bench, shirt unbuttoned, tattoos licking up his chest like smoke, a gold ring between his fingers and the glint of a grin behind his teeth.

A tall, rubenesque woman who was laid across his lap slowly got up and walked past Hiromi giving him a low head bow before she left the room.

“Look who the hell decided to crawl in.” Sukuna’s voice was rough and gleaming. “Didn’t think you were allowed to come to the fun side of town anymore, Higuruma.”

Hiromi didn’t sit.

“Where is she?”

Sukuna let out a whistle, long and theatrical, leaning back.

“Always with the manners. You ever get tired of acting like a clean man in a dirty world? No fun in that.”

Hiromi didn’t blink. “I won’t ask again.”

A pause.

Then, Sukuna’s grin curled wider.

“You think I took your girl?” he asked, motioning lazily for someone to bring him a drink. “I’ve done a lot of crazy shit, Higuruma. But dragging a bride out of her own wedding rehearsal...at a temple no less? That sounds more like your family’s flavor. Or maybe hers.”

The air between them stiffened.

Hiromi tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable.

“I remember the last time you underestimated me.”

Sukuna laughed. A genuine laugh that made him sit up.

“Yeah,” he said, the grin slipping for just a moment into something that resembled respect. “You cracked three of my ribs and nearly slit my throat in front of thirty of my men. Good times.”

Hiromi didn’t smile.

“I’m not here to relive memories.”

Sukuna waved a hand dismissively. “Relax. If I’d taken her, you’d have found pieces of her left behind for your engagement scrapbook. I don’t play games, Higuruma. You know that.”

Hiromi’s silence lingered long enough to draw tension from the room. The men watching now weren’t laughing.

“You’d know if it was me,” Sukuna added, eyes sharp. “And I’d want you to know.”

Hiromi studied him.

Finally, he spoke up,

“If I find out you’re lying—”

Sukuna stood up slowly, all wolfish charm peeled away.

“Then come back and kill me,” he said. “I’ll make sure the door’s open so you don’t take down the gate watchers this time.”

The two men stood face-to-face. Rivals who had bled near each other, but never bled together. Their energy crackled. Power always recognized power.

Hiromi turned on his heel and left.

“I’ll see you at your reception, Higuruma. And I won’t be empty handed, don’t worry.”

No threats. No dramatics. Just the low burn of fury gathering beneath Hiromi’s skin.

The world was loud outside. But not here.

-------------

Hiromi's private office was soundproofed by design. It wasn’t to block out the city, but to keep the silence in.

Dim lighting washed over stacks of ledgers and old legal binders, old case files from his days of covering up his families wrong doings, and red-sealed dossiers that any judge would almost kill to see. The air smelled faintly of menthols and cold steel. A bottle of aged scotch sat untouched on the desk beside a polished fountain pen and a map of intersecting clans, names redacted by his own hand.

He sat in his chair, jacket still on, fingers steepled against his lips. The room wasn’t empty. A man stood in the corner, his trusted, pink haired shadow. But Hiromi hadn’t spoken since returning.

Only after several minutes did he move. A hand reached for the edge of the desk. He pulled forward a plain black folder.

Sukuna’s name was now crossed out. Too flashy. Too prideful. Not subtle enough to stage something like this.

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

“He would’ve left a nail,” Hiromi murmured. “And a message carved into the floor.”

The silence answered him like a nod.

He set Sukuna aside and opened the next folder.

Gojo. Old money. Older grudges.

Hiromi narrowed his eyes at the name.

'He hates my father. But he'd never make the first move... Not without provocation. And not through a woman. He’s too traditional for that.'

He flipped it closed.

And paused.

Another folder remained.

Its edges were more worn. Labeled but handwritten, unlike the others. Kenjaku.

Hiromi didn’t open it right away.

Just stared.

Kenjaku was the kind of name that sat in the air long after it was spoken. A ghost of a man in tailored suits. A man whose power was felt through his absence in spaces. You never saw the knife when he went for the kill. You just felt the blood run down your ribs.

Hiromi leaned back in his chair, gaze dark.

“He cost us five men and a seat at the council table  all those years back. He plays long games. He’d see a wedding as a political vulnerability. A fault line.”

He remembered something his father once said:

“Kenjaku isn’t a rival. He’s erosion.”

Hiromi opened the folder.

Photos. Surveillance. A list of aliases. A note from two years ago: “Declined invitation to truce negotiations. Cited irreconcilable philosophy. Watch closely.”

“It might be him,” Hiromi muttered, standing slowly.

He looked to Yuuji in the corner.

“Call the driver. We’re visiting the mausoleum.”

The young mans brow twitched. “Sir?”

“That’s what he calls his estate now, isn’t it?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Hiromi grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the desk drawer and slid them into his breast pocket, smoothly walking around the desk and tucking his gun in his waist band.

“Let’s see if the dead man can explain where my fiancée is.”

You didn’t know how long you'd been in that room. Time seemed to have stopped and you seemingly would’ve been okay with that if you weren’t in this predicament.

No clock. No daylight. Just the hum of something electric and footsteps always going in the opposite direction of your room.

But something shifted.

You heard footsteps. Two pairs of steps now. Quieter. Not steps of someone patrolling but steps of someone who was moving with intention.

Then the door opened.

Two men, neither of whom you recognized stepped in with an air of confidence. One had a scar beneath his chin and a cigarette tucked behind his ear. The other had calloused hands and avoided eye contact.

They didn’t speak to you. Just assessed you then the room for a moment and motioned for you to stand.

“You’re being moved,” one of them grunted. “Don’t try anything stupid.”

But of course you tried.

The taller ones grip on your shoulder loosened as he closed the door behind him and the moment they opened the second door with their eyes shifted to the corridor, you ran. Barefoot, heartbeat thudding in your ears, you sprinted left, not knowing where it led, just knowing it wasn’t here.

A few feet of freedom. You heard the sound of a truck idly waiting somewhere. You were on the ground floor. A corner turned. Splashes of color from paintings. Signs of life. A sliver of—

A hand fisted in your hair.

You screamed as your momentum snapped back, scalp burning, breath stolen from your lungs.

“Tch. And here I thought you had some sense in that pretty head of yours.”

The blonde tips were only in your line of vision for a split second before you were yanked, being dragged backwards. You tried digging your heels into the cold floor but nothing was stopping you from being handled like a rag.

He pulled you back by your hair with just enough force to wound you into submission, not enough to break anything — at least not yet. You clawed at his wrist but he only smirked, dragging you down the hallway like a misbehaving pet.

“You know…” he beamed conversationally, “if you’re going to make trouble, at least wait until you’re not being upgraded. We put effort into this next room. You could at least pretend to be grateful.”

The new door was carved with the Zenin crest. It swung open without him even touching it. The gruff man with the scar on his chin stood keeping the door open.

The heavy hand shoved you forward and the door closed almost immediately behind him.

You stumbled into a far nicer room than you expected. Freshly polished wood floors, warm lighting, a bed with soft-looking sheets. There were windows. Actual windows. One of them opened to a view of a quiet koi pond framed by manicured stones. The moonlight gently reflected off the surface.

Almost peaceful.

If he weren’t standing behind you.

Naoya.

“Better, right?” he murmured, voice oozing false gentleness. “You look like someone who appreciates the finer things. Just a shame about those manners. We’ll work on that, pretty.”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t give him a flinch. Didn’t give him your fear.

That made him chuckle.

“Still pretending you’re not scared? Is this that icy little front you put up around Higuruma?” His eyes gleamed. “Cute. Really. But you’re not dealing with a man who thinks rules are something sacred.”

He stepped closer, fingers brushing a lock of your hair back into place. The same hair he’d almost yanked from your scalp seconds earlier.

“Your father,” he whispered, “thinks that poor marriage is a chessboard. Thinks he can sacrifice a queen to get back in the game. But he’s not half the player he imagines.”

You didn’t look at him.

Your jaw tightened. Your hands stayed clenched.

Naoya smiled, just a little. His lips lightly grazed your temple.

“I’d do more than pull your hair… but I don’t like to play with my food before I eat it.” The cold metal from his tongue ring felt like molten lava as he flicked your ear.

He turned before you could speak.

“Sleep tight. I’ll be here to have you up bright and early.”

The door shut behind him. It locked.

A soft, final click.

And the koi outside the window kept swimming, unaware.

[cmdrfupa]

MY FAVORITE RED FLAG IN AM ARMANI SUIT. APRIL, IVE READ THIS 5 TIMES

AHHHHHHHH

hanma shuji | a whole red flag Words: 1.6k Summary: You don’t want to consider that Hanma Shuji’s attention is more than fleeting. Happy belated birthday @cmdrfupa ! Thank you for being a wonderful human being. Please collect your man. Warning: Hanma Shuji is his own warning, vauge description of violence, smoking, blood

You’d never imagined being thankful for this bastard's smug face. 

Once again, a pinstripe suit tailored to perfection dons his form, the tie is crisp gold, matching the highlights in his pushed back hair. You wonder, did he get them redone because of you? You mentioned it at the last meeting, his roots were showing. As a joke, a tease, a shield, ward off this tall man who drips of danger and promises sin.

His charisma, rizz, he called it, can be assessed another day.  Because right now, you need his witch hazel yellow eyes on the punks behind you.  Normally, you’d have caught them sooner, normally you’d have made a stink and have them regretting ever considering you a mark. But the days have all run long this week, the nights have been shorter, and if Hanma Shuji has told you to use him…then why not use him like this? “Oh honey, I knew you missed me.” He clocks the release of tension in your shoulders, how your hands ease their hold on your reusable grocery bag.  And then he tilts his head, widening his field of vision away from your visage and to the seals thinking they’re sharks.  “Oh pretty, you brought me gifts.” He moves like a ghost. The only real proof he’s moved is your sense of smell shifting from the night air to orange, cedar, and expensive.  The hand with ‘punishment’ tattooed on it barely graces your shoulder before he’s on them, no questions asked, no words spoken.

The only talking is his fist and their jaws.  Down they go, a perfect storm of violence, power, adrenaline. Not even three minutes, he stands tall, stretches his arms wide, cracks his neck and adjusts his tie as he turns, grinning. There’s that tension again, the one in your hands as your grip fastens on the heavy tote, control, you must maintain control. He’s excited, a predator seeking approval from his future mate – there’s no other way to appraise the look in his eyes. He’s still hungry afterall, what good is a fight if he hasn’t worked up a sweat. It’s clear he’s waiting for you to move, maybe for you to notice the drip of blood down his knuckles. On purpose, he kept his rings on, on purpose he may have torn his own skin. 

Afterall, a law abiding citizen, who takes her own bags to the grocery mart, wouldn’t let a man who defended her honor leave with crimson dripping down his fingers, right?

“You, good Ma?”   Shuji’s eyes sparkle, from you to the newcomer. A little too late for an old man like that to be playing bodyguard.  “We’re good here, Toji.”  You turn and smile, Fushiguro Toji has…always held a soft corner. He’s out here, smoking it seems.You frown, didn’t he give this habit up?  The heat of his body is evident, the purr of his voice draping over your shoulder, “Another gift for me, pretty?” The instant reaction, you grab his wrist before he can move, the tote bag falls as an exclamation to your, “No!”  Eyes pleading, as confusing as this man is, Hanma Shuji, you don’t wish him an early death. And he may be a shark but he’s not Fushiguro Toji, he doesn’t know what waters he’s attempting to dive in. “Aww, worried about me?” He’s an idiot, the biggest idiot ever. Out of the corner of your eye, Toji drops the cigarette, puts it out, and starts his body towards your direction. It’s only twenty or so steps. Your heart pounds faster and faster, not here, not like this. Not when Hanma isn’t your anything and Toji… 

Not that you’d ever owe him an explanation for anything, you’re an adult, he’s an adult. You simply live in the same complex and watch his kid from time to time. It doesn’t give him the right to be possessive, it doesn’t give you the right to want him to be either. Not when there’s Hanma, not when he’s been showing up everywhere to get a reaction, a smile, a slap, anything, something, whatever from you.  His phone rings, to save him or yourself from making a decision too soon. His smile cracks a bit, he turns away, that rumbly mumbly voice of his, that “Ya hoooo!” “Don’t miss me too much, pretty.  I’ll be home soon.”  His eyes flash to Toji before he turns, taking all that citrus danger with him. Toji doesn’t say a word. A white furred puppy nips at your fallen grocery, “Ah! Sit!”  The puppy sits as Megumi runs over, holding a similar black pup. “Ah!!!! Miss 221!”   He’s a sweet child, a little sulky and sullen compared to his peers, but here in the cover of starlight, his smile shines bright. “I taught tricks!” He puts down his other pup.   You look to Toji, remember him considering one for Megumi, something to help him out of his shell and loneliness.   You watch Megumi demonstrate sit, stand, roll over. You give him a cookie you brought for a sweet midnight snack.  He insists his Papa take you to your floor, that it’s late and there are weird people around. Silhouettes of punks struggling to walk now on the far horizon.

⋆｡°✩ Toji is…perhaps he will always be a conundrum.  Kindness that doesn’t match his exterior shell always extends towards you. Maybe he knows, you work with kids. Maybe he hopes you'll help him with Megumi. He can’t thank you enough for all the times his brat has had a fit and sat in the stairwell; only for you to walk him through his feelings. It’s not unselfish, this kindness of yours. You rather Megumi know he’s loved and wanted, he is a blessing afterall. Even if there’s pain around that. Toji does care for him, in ways that Megumi may not understand yet. Ways that are too rough, too big, too well intended but messaged poorly. Stop. You said you wouldn’t do this. He has so much to work on. You have plans, goals, forward momentum.  Your eyes flash yellow and you sigh. He’s bad news, Hanma Shuji. And maybe in ways there’s proof Toji isn’t as bad. But Toji feels permanent, grounding, devoted. Maybe, another life, another world. Right now, you let him be simply, a neighbor with a cute kid and two dogs.   “Thanks.” “Not a problem, you’d let me know if you’re in trouble right?” Toji knows men are all moths to a flame, and your heart is the brightest light in the night sky.  That pinstripe prick, he clicks his tongue, what’s he thinking bringing danger to you? “It’s all good Toji, thanks.”  When you draw the line, Toji doesn’t cross it. ⋆｡°✩ You settle into your bed, dinner, clean, shower. Skincare, hairwrapping, comfy sheets for soft lotioned skin. The weekend is near, a whole day of yours to relax. Maybe bake that pie you’ve been thinking up, you have oranges and anise spice–oranges? That can’t be right.  You hear his laugh in your mind.  Stupid bastard, said mostly not affectionately, but his hand was red. You anticipated him being there. Long lean limbs, crooked grin, waiting for you. Such a big gamble, and somehow you knew he’d still perch?? himself against the wall. A little guilt. For whatever pain he’s probably feeling right now, out there, breaking who knows what in the name of who knows why? He is dangerous. He is trouble. It’s okay though, isn’t it? For him to saunter around the walls of your mind? To let him cross that tightrope, balance your need to know him and your instincts that signal red flag, red pole, red everything. You know better, you know better. Maybe it’s that dilemma that has you jump to, when you hear that knock on your door. It’s late, later than late and this has happened when Megumi has nightmares once or twice before. It’s not out of the question but it is out of order for you to simply open the door. Without checking who waits on the other side; Hanma Shuji. “Honeyyy, I’m home.” Fuck. It all happens so fast, his smile, your hand pulling a hidden knife from a statue near the door. His hand to your hip, his leg kicks your door closed, he’s lost in your sleep attire, the fact you have a tiny knife pushed at his neck. “I didn’t invite you in.” “You looked like you wanted me… in.”  Did you? No, you were, you weren’t expecting him. His hand cups the one holding the knife to his neck. “I look good in red, would you like more confirmation?” Tugs your hand in, the blade piercing just slightly and you push away. His laugh echoes the square footage and reverberates in your chest.   Away, move away from his cedar, his cologne,  his looming limber body. “What do you want?” He holds his hand up, even more marred now, “My pretty girl to clean me up.” Kick him out, kick him out. Every cell in your body strung alive, held captive.  You drop the knife, crossing your arms, “There’s urgent care–” “I’m urgently in need of your care, honey.”  One step, two, three.  Both hands, both covered in red, on your hips. You click your tongue, he’s staining your comfiest set, “Clean me up, I’ll go.” Your eyes meet his.

Is it a lie? Do you want it to be a lie? “Promise?” Your voice is smaller than you’d like, the scent of iron hits your nose as he cups your cheek, lazy, easy smile, he says nothing. His earring dangles free, “If you want me to go, I’ll go.”

Shit. What do you want him to do?

[cmdrfupa]

Hiromi acting like if he doesn't see his fiancé at least 1 time per day he's gonna explode

Also WHERE WAS NANAMI WHEN THIS HAPPENED OMG 😔😔😔😭

PLEASE LMAO

he needs his eyes on the prize at all times, in all ways. Boys a crashout over his fiancé.

The way nanami is out on vacation while the woman of his dreams is… 🤫

[cmdrfupa]

V. Kejime (けじめ)

(n) distinction (e.g. between right and wrong, public and private, etc.)

4.1k words

All content warnings and chapters can be found here.

Thank you for reading!

The venue was beautiful in a way that made your stomach turn.

Ivory curtains framed the tall shōji windows, letting in filtered sunlight that bathed the tatami floor in gold. The lacquered altar at the far end gleamed like what you could only imagine heaven to gleam like. Rows of familiar, low floral arrangements lined the pathway between guest cushions. It was the perfect backdrop for a traditional Shinto wedding.

And it felt like a stage you were about to be sacrificed on.

Your mother chattered to one of the coordinators about the potential flower substitutions you didn’t approve of, her tone sickeningly cheerful. “Peonies symbolize good fortune,” she gushed. “We want that energy, don’t we, sweetheart?”

You gave a nod so small it could’ve been a flinch.

Your father, meanwhile, stood a few feet behind you. He stood like a stoic, arms folded, expression unreadable. He had been lively earlier in the car, cracking small jokes and talking timelines. But now he was silent.

Because they were here.

Hiromi entered the space first, followed by his father Hideyoshi, all stone-gray presence and steeled eyes. Their steps were confident, quiet. Hiromi’s gaze found you immediately, and for a moment, something gentle passed through it.

You felt your stomach soothe itself.

“Sorry we’re late,” he said simply. “Traffic near the fifth ward.”

“No trouble,” your mother replied far too quickly with far too much enthusiasm. “We’re just going over the final touches.”

Your father didn’t greet them. Not immediately. Not verbally.

You could feel his body stiffen beside you.

Hiromi's father clocked it instantly. One subtle yet sharp glance in your father's direction and the message was exchanged clearly. As if he’d verbally accosted him. A warning. Or a memory. Or both.

The walk through moved forward like a dance you weren’t a part of. The priest stepped in to explain the ceremonial order, talking through the san-san-kudo, the ritual sake exchange. You nodded on cue. Spoke only acknowledged or when Hiromi lobbed a question your way.

Hiromi stayed near the entire time, but he didn’t force your attention towards him at any point.

As the practice neared its end, Hiromi’s phone rang and every eye drifted to him as he reached into his pocket.

He took a step away, phone in hand, brow furrowed, aggravation sitting in his eyes. “Excuse me a moment,” he said. “I need to take this.”

You watched him move toward the side doors with a twinge of dread in your gut that had no name yet.

He disappeared behind the panel. The moment the door slid shut, something shifted in the room.

“Sweetheart,” your mother called to you, her voice distant now. “Could you check with the tailor again? I think they left your garment bag in the back dressing room. We need to do a quick fitting. In case we need to let the dress out a bit.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Just go, darling. It's fine.”

The priest and both fathers were deep in conversation. Hideyoshi taking in every word while your father seemed to be elsewhere with his thoughts. The coordinator was distracted with writing, noting the way the sun seeped through the thin curtain that faced the west.

You moved, reluctant but compliant, weaving through the sliding screens toward the back wing of the venue.

There was a garment bag.

But there was also a man. Waiting patiently.

You barely had time to register the movement. A sharp grip on your arm. The cold pressure of something metallic at your side. His voice in your ear was low, not cruel, but businesslike.

“Don’t scream. We’re not here to hurt you.” his silken voice slithered through your mind and made you feel sick.

The room blurred as your body went still from shock, your instincts frozen between flight and disbelief.

“We just need a moment of your time. That’s all.” He brought your body closer to his, his firm grip keeping you from even thinking about wriggling.

Then: the room fell dark and you faded into a hazy state.

“We have her. The main estate. Meet us there.”

Silence.

------

The call had lasted all of three minutes.

Unimportant. A merchant dispute about one of the entertainment properties that ended up being a wrong number. He hadn’t needed to step away at all, but you could never be too discreet when it came to these things.

Hiromi returned through the narrow hallway, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, already scanning the room.

His father stood in the corner with the priest and your father, murmuring quietly to his own associate, was now a few paces away from your mother.

Your mother chatted animatedly with the venue coordinator. The only person missing—

“Where is she?” he asked.

Your mother turned toward him, her face lit with practiced delight. “Oh! She went to check on her dress. Back dressing room. She’ll be back in a moment.”

Hiromi's eyes flicked to the side corridor.

“She went alone?”

“Oh, it’s just around the corner,” she laughed. “No need to make it a production. Besides, she needed a moment.”

Something cold curled behind his ribs. He didn’t show it.

He moved towards the back room and through the hallway, sliding open the dressing room door with holding in a breath he didn’t know he needed to exhale.

Empty.

Not just empty. Untouched.

The silk garment bag was hung neatly on the rack. The mirror was pristine. No sign of movement. No rustle, no misplaced item, no anxious presence just moments ago.

He stepped in, looked behind the divider. Nothing.

No signs of distress. No signs of anything.

He returned.

“She’s not there.”

Your mother blinked. “Are you sure? Maybe she went to the restroom—”

“She’s not in the back hall at all.”

The coordinator hesitated. “She didn’t come past me.”

Hiromi turned to your father.

Still standing. Still silent. Still too collected for a man whose daughter was suddenly unaccounted for.

“What did you talk about while I was gone?”

Your father tilted his head. “Nothing of note.”

Hiromi took a step closer. “Then let me make it notable, sir. Your daughter is missing. She left the room during a private walk-through, and no one batted an eye. That doesn’t strike you as strange?”

Your father didn’t respond.

Not immediately.

Hiromi’s voice dropped. “Was this meant to happen?”

“Of course not.”

The answer came too quickly.

“I will call our detail and get to the bottom of this.”

His mind ran through the details like a litany: ‘Two parents. One complicit. One a calculated snake. A venue with more doors than eyes. A call that pulled him from your side at the exact moment you were moved.’

He turned on his heel.

“Clear the hall,” he said, voice sharp and sure. “No one leaves the building. No one touches their phones.”

“But Mr. Higuruma—” the coordinator began.

He didn’t look back. “Do it.”

His father was already moving, placing quiet calls in a cadence only the family would understand.

Hiromi’s jaw ticked as he reached for his own phone. The moment the screen lit, he switched to the security feed access that showed the outside of the temple.

The temple’s outer hallway. The side gardens. One flicker of movement then blurred cloth. A man too close. Then a cut.

Signal disruption.

His thumb hovered over the call log.

Then he looked up again at your mother, who had gone pale.

He’d seen this before. In courtrooms. In backrooms. In the moment someone realized they had overplayed their hand.

“We will find her,” he confidently admitted, voice flat. “And if anyone in this room is apart of this,” his eyes roamed over to your father then to your mother, “if you’ve used her for a game. I swear to you there will be consequences.”

She opened her mouth, but he was already gone.

Out the sliding doors. Into the sunlight.

His pace never broke. His fury didn’t show.

But his mind was already parsing through every connection his family still had, every enemy they’d ever made — and a few names had been surfacing more and more in the shadows lately.

Sukuna.

Kenjaku .

Gojo .

If any of them had you, this wasn’t just a warning.

It was war.

The first thing you noticed was the cold.

The kind of chill that clings to concrete walls and stale air. The kind that tells you you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be.

You blinked slowly, your vision still adjusting to the lack of absolute lighting, lashes heavy with whatever haze they had used on you. It hadn’t been a violent interaction. A quick check over showed bruises, no restraints. But something had been pressed to your face. A cloth? A sleeve?

Your breath shuddered in your throat.

The room was dim, lit only by a crack of fluorescent light bleeding in from a half-open doorway across from where you sat against the wall. No windows. A singular visible camera that sat high up in a corner. A single chair. A concrete floor. The faint scent of incense buried under something more chemical.

And silence.

No humming machines. No muffled voices. Just the thick, eerie stillness of waiting.

You stood slowly, hands brushing the wall behind you. Painted cinderblock. You turned your attention back to the door. Cracked open just enough to tempt you, just enough to threaten.

You didn't move toward it yet.

Instead, you let your thoughts move backward, sifting through what you could remember.

The temple. The walkthrough. Your parents. Hiromi.

You’d stepped away, or thought you had. You couldn’t remember why. Had someone called you? Told you there was an issue with the tailor? You vaguely recalled your mother’s voice. A nudge of urgency. A gentle insistence.

“Just go, darling.”

It echoed in your mind.

You'd trusted her.

And now… you were here.

Something that sat deeper than fear began to rise in your chest. A slow burning sense of betrayal bubbled like a cauldron that was going to overflow.

And that’s when you heard it.

Footsteps.

Crisp. Slow.

Then a low, aged voice spoke from the other side of the door as it slowly opened.

“You favor your mother more than I expected. Same sharp little eyes.”

You didn’t flinch.

The door opened wider.

A man stood there, cane in one hand, robes pressed and pristine. Much too formal for a thug, too old to be just muscle. His voice, though quiet, carried the weighted cadence of someone used to being listened to. Feared.

“Naobito Zenin,” you murmured. You didn’t need confirmation. You knew that face from old newspaper clippings and whispered warnings behind boardroom doors.

He smiled faintly. “Good. So your father didn’t raise an idiot.”

You didn’t respond.

Naobito stepped into the room and gestured to the chait. “Sit, girl.”

“I’ll stand.”

He chuckled. “Stubborn. You’ll need to be.”

A pause, then:

“Do you know why you’re here?”

You lifted your chin, heartbeat steady but loud in your ears. “I think I can safely assume this is some type of half assed attempt at stopping my nuptials and my own blood has something to do with it.”

Naobito’s eyes glinted with amusement. “Clever.”

“I don’t think Hiromi will come quietly,” you added, carefully speaking.

Naobito’s smile flattened. “He doesn’t need to. And we don’t want him to. Your father already has.”

The words landed like a stone in your chest.

You clenched your jaw. “You’re lying.”

“Ask him when you see him again, you brat.” Naobito said, walking a slow circle around you. “If you see him again.”

Silence.

“Oh don’t go quiet on me, girl. You’ll see that snake again, don’t worry.”

Naobito looked at you, studying the rings that sat on your ring finger and the state of your hair, almost disappointed in how disheveled you looked.

“You’re not a Zenin, girl. But you’ve been placed in our path. That means something. If your father wants to pretend he still holds cards, we’ll play a round until we get tired of you. But don’t make the mistake of thinking anyone here is playing fair.”

You met his gaze. “You kidnapped me. Don’t talk to me about fairness.”

His laughter was short, sharp. “You’re spirited. That’ll make things more entertaining.”

He turned toward the door, pausing only to glance back.

“We’ll be seeing each other again soon. And please don’t see this as your permanent place of captivity. You’ll have better quarters in the next half hour.”

With that, he left.

The door shut behind him, completely this time, with a metallic clunk. Locked.

And this time, you heard voices.

Not silence.

Low and muffled. Talking. Arguing.

One of them sounded... familiar.

Young. Arrogant.

Your pulse ticked faster.

The trap was no longer a fog.

It had a shape now. A name. A dozen implications crawling beneath the surface.

The Zenin family had you.

And if you were here, everything was shifting faster than anyone could control.

Your marriage. Your family. Hiromi.

Except maybe him.

The compound was loud in the way a predator's lair might be: music playing like a warning, and the echo of clashing metal from some back room where knives were being tested on meat that might not have come from livestock.

Hiromi had smoked a full pack trying to not slit the throat of every single person who had told him to calm down or think before he acted in the last four hours.

But to him, the longer it took to find you, the less likely the chance of you being alive was in his eyes.

Less likely of a chance to find you in one piece.

He shook his head, gripping the car door handle as it slowed in front of a familiar warehouse.

Hiromi adjusted the lapel of his dark sports coat as he stepped out the car and moved through the gated entrance. Two men tried to stop him.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t look. He moved, and both men were on the floor, groaning, not dead, but embarrassed.

As he stepped inside, the scent of stale beer and tobacco hung heavy. Neon lights blinked above men with jagged smiles and sleazy looks of lust as they gawked at the few gogo dancers who wriggled in slow motion.

None of them tried to stop Hiromi.

The room fell to a hush as he approached the back of the compound, where Sukuna waited like a king on a throne of rot.

He was seated on a cracked leather bench, shirt unbuttoned, tattoos licking up his chest like smoke, a gold ring between his fingers and the glint of a grin behind his teeth.

A tall, rubenesque woman who was laid across his lap slowly got up and walked past Hiromi giving him a low head bow before she left the room.

“Look who the hell decided to crawl in.” Sukuna’s voice was rough and gleaming. “Didn’t think you were allowed to come to the fun side of town anymore, Higuruma.”

Hiromi didn’t sit.

“Where is she?”

Sukuna let out a whistle, long and theatrical, leaning back.

“Always with the manners. You ever get tired of acting like a clean man in a dirty world? No fun in that.”

Hiromi didn’t blink. “I won’t ask again.”

A pause.

Then, Sukuna’s grin curled wider.

“You think I took your girl?” he asked, motioning lazily for someone to bring him a drink. “I’ve done a lot of crazy shit, Higuruma. But dragging a bride out of her own wedding rehearsal...at a temple no less? That sounds more like your family’s flavor. Or maybe hers.”

The air between them stiffened.

Hiromi tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable.

“I remember the last time you underestimated me.”

Sukuna laughed. A genuine laugh that made him sit up.

“Yeah,” he said, the grin slipping for just a moment into something that resembled respect. “You cracked three of my ribs and nearly slit my throat in front of thirty of my men. Good times.”

Hiromi didn’t smile.

“I’m not here to relive memories.”

Sukuna waved a hand dismissively. “Relax. If I’d taken her, you’d have found pieces of her left behind for your engagement scrapbook. I don’t play games, Higuruma. You know that.”

Hiromi’s silence lingered long enough to draw tension from the room. The men watching now weren’t laughing.

“You’d know if it was me,” Sukuna added, eyes sharp. “And I’d want you to know.”

Hiromi studied him.

Finally, he spoke up,

“If I find out you’re lying—”

Sukuna stood up slowly, all wolfish charm peeled away.

“Then come back and kill me,” he said. “I’ll make sure the door’s open so you don’t take down the gate watchers this time.”

The two men stood face-to-face. Rivals who had bled near each other, but never bled together. Their energy crackled. Power always recognized power.

Hiromi turned on his heel and left.

“I’ll see you at your reception, Higuruma. And I won’t be empty handed, don’t worry.”

No threats. No dramatics. Just the low burn of fury gathering beneath Hiromi’s skin.

The world was loud outside. But not here.

-------------

Hiromi's private office was soundproofed by design. It wasn’t to block out the city, but to keep the silence in.

Dim lighting washed over stacks of ledgers and old legal binders, old case files from his days of covering up his families wrong doings, and red-sealed dossiers that any judge would almost kill to see. The air smelled faintly of menthols and cold steel. A bottle of aged scotch sat untouched on the desk beside a polished fountain pen and a map of intersecting clans, names redacted by his own hand.

He sat in his chair, jacket still on, fingers steepled against his lips. The room wasn’t empty. A man stood in the corner, his trusted, pink haired shadow. But Hiromi hadn’t spoken since returning.

Only after several minutes did he move. A hand reached for the edge of the desk. He pulled forward a plain black folder.

Sukuna’s name was now crossed out. Too flashy. Too prideful. Not subtle enough to stage something like this.

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

“He would’ve left a nail,” Hiromi murmured. “And a message carved into the floor.”

The silence answered him like a nod.

He set Sukuna aside and opened the next folder.

Gojo. Old money. Older grudges.

Hiromi narrowed his eyes at the name.

'He hates my father. But he'd never make the first move... Not without provocation. And not through a woman. He’s too traditional for that.'

He flipped it closed.

And paused.

Another folder remained.

Its edges were more worn. Labeled but handwritten, unlike the others. Kenjaku.

Hiromi didn’t open it right away.

Just stared.

Kenjaku was the kind of name that sat in the air long after it was spoken. A ghost of a man in tailored suits. A man whose power was felt through his absence in spaces. You never saw the knife when he went for the kill. You just felt the blood run down your ribs.

Hiromi leaned back in his chair, gaze dark.

“He cost us five men and a seat at the council table  all those years back. He plays long games. He’d see a wedding as a political vulnerability. A fault line.”

He remembered something his father once said:

“Kenjaku isn’t a rival. He’s erosion.”

Hiromi opened the folder.

Photos. Surveillance. A list of aliases. A note from two years ago: “Declined invitation to truce negotiations. Cited irreconcilable philosophy. Watch closely.”

“It might be him,” Hiromi muttered, standing slowly.

He looked to Yuuji in the corner.

“Call the driver. We’re visiting the mausoleum.”

The young mans brow twitched. “Sir?”

“That’s what he calls his estate now, isn’t it?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Hiromi grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the desk drawer and slid them into his breast pocket, smoothly walking around the desk and tucking his gun in his waist band.

“Let’s see if the dead man can explain where my fiancée is.”

You didn’t know how long you'd been in that room. Time seemed to have stopped and you seemingly would’ve been okay with that if you weren’t in this predicament.

No clock. No daylight. Just the hum of something electric and footsteps always going in the opposite direction of your room.

But something shifted.

You heard footsteps. Two pairs of steps now. Quieter. Not steps of someone patrolling but steps of someone who was moving with intention.

Then the door opened.

Two men, neither of whom you recognized stepped in with an air of confidence. One had a scar beneath his chin and a cigarette tucked behind his ear. The other had calloused hands and avoided eye contact.

They didn’t speak to you. Just assessed you then the room for a moment and motioned for you to stand.

“You’re being moved,” one of them grunted. “Don’t try anything stupid.”

But of course you tried.

The taller ones grip on your shoulder loosened as he closed the door behind him and the moment they opened the second door with their eyes shifted to the corridor, you ran. Barefoot, heartbeat thudding in your ears, you sprinted left, not knowing where it led, just knowing it wasn’t here.

A few feet of freedom. You heard the sound of a truck idly waiting somewhere. You were on the ground floor. A corner turned. Splashes of color from paintings. Signs of life. A sliver of—

A hand fisted in your hair.

You screamed as your momentum snapped back, scalp burning, breath stolen from your lungs.

“Tch. And here I thought you had some sense in that pretty head of yours.”

The blonde tips were only in your line of vision for a split second before you were yanked, being dragged backwards. You tried digging your heels into the cold floor but nothing was stopping you from being handled like a rag.

He pulled you back by your hair with just enough force to wound you into submission, not enough to break anything — at least not yet. You clawed at his wrist but he only smirked, dragging you down the hallway like a misbehaving pet.

“You know…” he beamed conversationally, “if you’re going to make trouble, at least wait until you’re not being upgraded. We put effort into this next room. You could at least pretend to be grateful.”

The new door was carved with the Zenin crest. It swung open without him even touching it. The gruff man with the scar on his chin stood keeping the door open.

The heavy hand shoved you forward and the door closed almost immediately behind him.

You stumbled into a far nicer room than you expected. Freshly polished wood floors, warm lighting, a bed with soft-looking sheets. There were windows. Actual windows. One of them opened to a view of a quiet koi pond framed by manicured stones. The moonlight gently reflected off the surface.

Almost peaceful.

If he weren’t standing behind you.

Naoya.

“Better, right?” he murmured, voice oozing false gentleness. “You look like someone who appreciates the finer things. Just a shame about those manners. We’ll work on that, pretty.”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t give him a flinch. Didn’t give him your fear.

That made him chuckle.

“Still pretending you’re not scared? Is this that icy little front you put up around Higuruma?” His eyes gleamed. “Cute. Really. But you’re not dealing with a man who thinks rules are something sacred.”

He stepped closer, fingers brushing a lock of your hair back into place. The same hair he’d almost yanked from your scalp seconds earlier.

“Your father,” he whispered, “thinks that poor marriage is a chessboard. Thinks he can sacrifice a queen to get back in the game. But he’s not half the player he imagines.”

You didn’t look at him.

Your jaw tightened. Your hands stayed clenched.

Naoya smiled, just a little. His lips lightly grazed your temple.

“I’d do more than pull your hair… but I don’t like to play with my food before I eat it.” The cold metal from his tongue ring felt like molten lava as he flicked your ear.

He turned before you could speak.

“Sleep tight. I’ll be here to have you up bright and early.”

The door shut behind him. It locked.

A soft, final click.

And the koi outside the window kept swimming, unaware.

[cmdrfupa]

Would you all like the next chapter 🤓

IV. Anego (姐御)

An “older sister”, a term of honor towards either women yakuza members or women associates (such as the wives of members). Girlbosses.

3.8k words

all content warnings and chapters can be found here.

thank you for reading!

Hiromi adjusted the cuff of his shirt with casual proficient precision, the faint clink of metal against porcelain echoed as he pressed his palms to the cold bathroom counter.

‘Keep yourself in check, Hiromi. Ball is in your court even if you gave it to her.’

The smaller Higuruma estate was deceptively calm as he made his way to the car, as if the world outside didn’t know that in three days, he’d be getting married to a woman who co looked at him unless provoked.

He exhaled slowly, coasting in autopilot as he drove himself across town. Numb to the early breezes that he would usually take time to appreciate on a stress free Saturday: when he would opt for a driver rather than tow himself around town.

His first meeting of the day wasn’t on the formal schedule. He perfectly prearranged his meet with Mei Mei once she reached out to tell him you’d be inviting her out for the final walk-throughs. “I’ve been waiting on your call, Tokyo. Yet I had to do the legwork. Did she leave you yet?”

It was something far more delicate than the average roundtables he’s use to leading. And that made it hold far more weight than he was happy to acknowledge.

The bistro garden was quiet when he arrived. The small tables lined the cobble-stoned walkway.

He was early enough to avoid the usual foot traffic, a win in his book. The staff had cleared a table in the corner per his request: out of earshot, but in full view of the morning light. He took his seat, posture straight, one hand resting loosely over his wristwatch as his fingers tapped along to the all familiar Sinatra tune that played from the small speaker mounted nearby.

Just as he sat back, letting his back curve into a poor show of posture, a flash of black heels and silk came into view. His guest arrived.

Her heels clacked against the cobblestone walkway until she reached the table. She didn’t sit right away.

“You look exhausted,” Mei Mei stated coolly, eyes scanning Higuruma. “Or guilty. But maybe that’s just your face.”

Even surprising himself, Hiromi smiled. “I appreciate you coming.”

Rounding the table, he quickly pulled the chair out.

“I was curious how far you'd go to get a sense of control on this particular narrative,” Mei Mei grinned, finally sitting down, crossing her legs with the grace of a blade being sheathed. “And how stupid you’d be to think I’d play along.”

Hiromi kept his tone even as he returned to his seat. “I’m not asking you to play along. I’m asking for information.”

“Oh? And what makes you think I’ll tell you anything about that handsome devil Kento?”

There was a glint of interest in her voice now, though she was already reaching for her tea. “Is the big bad consigliere that insecure about a friend from your beloveds childhood?”

“She trusts him,” Hiromi said simply. “She listens to him. That makes him…relevant.”

Mei Mei let out a short laugh. “And you thought coming to me would help? I don’t help men. And definitely not men like you. Not unless it benefits her. Besides. Whatever you found on him is the same information I have.”

“I’m not asking for sabotage,” he quickly jumped to his own defense, losing his nonchalance, voice low. “Just context. I’d rather not be blindsided by someone I only have very little and basic information on. I want to know how to protect her and keep her from any loose ends.”

She studied him.

“You want context?” began Mei Mei finally. “Nanami Kento comes from a working class family. Doesn’t lie. Doesn’t cheat. Doesn’t fold under pressure. He kills with no remorse. He is the kind of man who knows what he wants and doesn't need to control the room to get it.”

A pause.

“And he loves her,” she added, with no intention of being subtle. “More purely than anyone can or is capable of understanding.”

Hiromi’s jaw tightened, barely.

Mei Mei leaned back. “He’s also got ties in the states that would make both you and the Gojo Clan look like toddlers. He is an enforcer. A trusted neutral party whose run by the highest bidder. And your soon to be father in law gets his services for free. Still want me to keep digging?”

He didn’t answer.

Mei Mei smiled tossed her hair behind her shoulder, feeling far better than the way Hiromi did in that very moment.

Like a cue from a stage play, Mei Mei's eyes lifted right past Hiromi, toward the intersecting path leading into the garden.

You were walking toward them, sunlight threading through your hair, your steps quiet but steady.

“Speak of the bride,” Mei Mei said, her entire body language shifting. She stood gracefully, her voice getting just half an octave brighter and airy. “You’re glowing, darling. Look at you!”

Hiromi stood as well, craning his neck just as smoothly, his lips curved into a warm welcome, voice sliding into that soft civility you’ve come to expect from him in public. “You’re early. We were just talking about the morning weather.”

Mei Mei grinned as she greeted you with a kiss on the cheek, linking her arm through yours. “It’s going to be a beautiful day. Perfect for flowers. And secrets.”

You glanced between them briefly, something indecipherable passing behind your eyes.

Hiromi offered you a small nod, his smile polite. Too polite.

The stage was set.

The car ride was short, made even shorter by Mei Mei’s ability to command attention with ease. She chattered about floral symbolism and palette trends, her arm looped around yours in the back seat like it belonged there in place of the seat belt — a subtle wall between you and Hiromi. The man in question sat in the drivers seat, unbothered, looking at his GPS while catching subtle glimpses of you from the rear view.

The sun seemed to be in only your favor in Hiromi’s mind. Your eyes like stars gleaming ever so gently as you tried to keep up with Mei Mei’s unending conversation.

“Red camellias,” Mei Mei said suddenly. “A bold choice! They symbolize deep desire. Very appropriate for a wedding built on none of that. I like it.”

You gave her a look, one that made her smile wider. Hiromi didn’t respond. He pulled into the parking lot and came to open the door.

When you arrived at the boutique florist, the staff practically rolled out a carpet. Everything had already been arranged from your previous meeting. A private viewing of the final arrangements, and three pre-selected based on family tradition and public image.

Hiromi walked beside you, his eyes scanning every bouquet. “White chrysanthemums,” he noted, gesturing towards the long stems. “Symbolize truth and loyalty. My mother has always preferred them.”

Mei Mei raised a brow. “Cute. But it also symbolizes death. So is that your subtle way of telling her she’s stuck with honesty now?”

Hiromi looked at you then, not Mei Mei. “It’s my way of saying we can choose something else. If you'd rather.”

You turned toward the arrangements, still unsure of how to talk to Hiromi after the options he brazenly gave you the night before, brushing your fingers over the petals. “I think they’re beautiful. We can sit them on the head of the families tables. Maybe add some other blooms to it.”

His gaze lingered, but he nodded. “Alstroemeria and a few sprigs of Limonium.”

“Perfect.”

His eyes trailed your fingers gingerly flouncing from petal to petal.

“Indeed. Perfect.”

-----

You moved on to the final menu tasting after the floral visit. The restaurant was closed to the public for the afternoon, the long table sitting in the center of the rotunda set for three. Dishes came one by one in time with your last bite taken. Elegant cuts of sashimi beautifully arranged on a crystal platter, grilled wagyu, delicate yuzu tarts.

Hiromi rarely spoke unless prompted. When he did, he always directed it to you.

“You liked the miso cod,” he claimed once, when you’d gone quiet.

You glanced up, caught in the act. “I did.”

He smiled. “Then we’ll keep that one.”

Mei Mei cut in, her tone light. “A husband already taking notes? Color me shocked.”

She was watching him closely. As if she were waiting for the right time to strike if Hiromi needed to be reminded of who had power also.

Mei Mei sipped her wine, nodding at Hiromi as if approving his next steps.

The afternoon passed in a blur of curated indulgence, yet the weightiness of your upcoming vows hung in the dull spaces between dishes. Hiromi never pressed. He simply remained present in choosing your favorite wine, remembering you liked your soup hotter than served.

As the final course was cleared, he leaned slightly in. “Thank you for coming.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Then “I didn’t really have a choice, did I?”

Hiromi gave a short breath of laughter — not amused, but certainly not angry either. “You did. Two of them actually. But still, I’m glad you’re here.”

It was something closer to understanding than it was a warm flirtation. That didn’t make it any easier.

Mei Mei, of course, sensed the shift and rescued the moment. “Now, who wants to sneak in one last pre-wedding drink?”

She looked at you with gleaming eyes, but her free hand rested on the table acting as a blockade between you and Hiromi, protective even in play.

Hiromi sat back in his chair, placing the cloth napkin atop his place, not finding any sense in arguing.

“I think I’ll leave both you ladies to it,” he said, pushing back his chair. “I have a meeting to prepare for.”

You watched him stand and straighten his cuffs, the quiet elegance he always dawned was slightly suffocating under the watchful eye of Mei Mei.

“If you need me at all, please don’t hesitate to call me straight away.” he added. “We have the venue walkthrough tomorrow, I will see you then.”

Then, to Mei Mei, with a dry hint of humor, “Try not to poison her against me too much.”

Mei Mei grinned. “Too late.”

----

The ambiance in Mei Mei’s apartment was consistently a sensual one. It smelled faintly of orange blossom and incense. A tinge of softness, unquestionably expensive, forever safe.

You curled your knees onto her velvet settee, a sea kelp and french green clay mask setting on your face and freshly changed into one of the oversized silk robes that she insisted you borrow after your shared outing and impromptu spa day. Mei Mei sat opposite you in a matching one, sipping a chilled glass of something dry and expensive, her usually straight hair pinned back and out of the way as she swiped through her Instagram feed.

It was quiet between you for a few minutes. The late sun painted the room gold.

“You’ve been quiet since we got back,” she said, her voice low but not prying, still looking down at her phone.

You glanced at discreetly. “I’m just thinking.”

“You hate when you think too long.”

You paused. “Hiromi said something on the drive home.”

That got her full attention.

Mei Mei locked her phone, turning to face you.

You hesitated before continuing, words thick with conflicting importance. “He said… if I ever wanted a separate home, or a partner outside of him he’d allow it. Well, less allow and more so be okay with it. That he wouldn’t stand in the way as long as he failed to meet what I need from a husband.”

Mei Mei blinked. “That’s… bold.”

“I think he meant it kindly,” you admitted. “But it felt like a response to something Kento said to him. Without my permission.”

Her gaze sharpened slightly. “Kento probably did speak to him.”

“I know,” you muttered. “But that’s what bothers me. I didn’t ask him to. He’s not my voice.”

“He’s your shield,” she corrected softly. “And in his eyes, Hiromi’s still a loaded gun.”

You leaned your head back against couch, the soft velvet fabric grounding you. “It’s not that I don’t understand where Kento’s coming from. But I don’t know what I feel about all this anymore. Guilt, maybe. Confusion. I keep thinking I should be angry, but then Hiromi says something that makes me pause, and I—I don’t know.”

Mei Mei didn’t respond right away.

Then, slowly, she stood and crossed to sit beside, her arm curling around your shoulder. “You’re not crazy for calling him. You’re not weak for feeling guilty. You’re trying to survive a situation no one else would handle half as well.”

You swallowed hard.

“If you choose to love him,” she continued, “I’ll fight the urge to strangle him daily. Despite being an actual waste of space, I will attempt to respect him if you choose to endure him, I’ll make sure he never lays a hand or a word too rough on you. And if you choose to leave someday… I will walk you to the door myself and handle the fallout.”

Her tone was clear, unwavering. “You are never going to be hurt. Not by him. Not by this marriage. Not while I’m breathing.”

You finally leaned into her side, tension bleeding out of your shoulders as her hand smoothed over your back in rhythmic strokes.

“I’ll talk to Nanami in the morning and get things smoothed out.” Mei Mei moved a strand of hair from your face before going back to rubbing your back.

“Mei. He built a solarium for me.”

“I could build you two and you wouldn’t even have to touch me.”

You both laughed, smiling despite the tight pull in your chest.

"Thanks," you whispered.

"For what?" she asked.

"For being the only thing that feels certain right now. "

Mei Mei smiled against your temple. “Since grade school and always.”

The pulsing red neon sign outside the club window buzzed like a second heartbeat.

The low thrum of bass carried from the stage, but his eyes weren’t on the dancers on the other side of the glass. They were on the man across from him.

“Tell me again,” Hiromi prompted him coolly, “why you thought it was appropriate to skim from our last cash pull.”

The man stammered. “I—I didn’t skim, sir, I swear—”

Hiromi held up a hand.

“Every day I’m lied to,” he said, almost bored. “But lies are only useful when they’re creative. Yours lack imagination. And loyalty.”

Hiromi leaned against the edge of the desk, the sleeves of his black dress shirt rolled up to his forearms, veins flexing with each measured breath. His tie was loose, his jacket draped across the back of a leather chair. He held a short glass of mineral water, untouched.

Across from him, the younger man — no older than twenty-six, sat with his leg bouncing, clearly uncomfortable. Sweat beaded at his temple despite the office’s cool air.

“I’m going to ask again,” Hiromi said calmly, voice barely above a murmur. “Why were the house accounts short three nights in a row?”

“I..I-I don’t know,” the man stammered, trying to sit up straighter. “Maybe miscounts at the bar, or the dancers taking their cuts early, or—”

Hiromi tilted his head, just slightly. The man stopped speaking.

“Don't insult me.” His tone was light. Nonthreatening, even. But it landed like a quiet blade. “You’ve worked here long enough to know I don’t ask questions I don’t already know the answer to.”

The man froze.

“Your cousin,” Hiromi continued, setting his glass down gently. “Owes a debt to the Hamada-kai. You’re funneling tips and skimming overhead to cover his monthly payment. That’s not your job. And it's certainly not going to be done with my family’s money.”

The man opened his mouth, but Hiromi raised a hand — not in warning, but dismissal.

“I’m not without compassion. But I’m not your savior.” He pushed off the desk and straightened his sleeves with deliberate ease. “You're going to return every yen, double it. Quietly. By the end of the quarter. Then you’re going to disappear from the books.”

“Yes yes. I understand. I—thank you—”

“I didn’t offer you a favor,” Hiromi cut in sharply. “I gave you a timeline.”

The silence that followed was loud.

Hiromi dismissed him with a glance, and the man scrambled to his feet with a bow before hurrying out.

Alone again, Hiromi returned to his glass, rolling his sleeves down and looked out the tinted, one-sided window where a few dancers laughed in the hallway, unaware of the storm that had just passed by feet from them.

His reflection stared back at him: composed, cold, and calm. But something had been gnawing at the edge of his mind.

‘You called me. To ask if I’d eaten.’

It had been a full 2 days since and yet that call was the only thing that echoed in his mind like a 16th century cathedral during mass. Your voice replayed like static between his ears. He hadn’t expected that call. Not from you. Not so soon. But he’d played it cool. Softened his voice in them midst of a brewing storm, kept it brief. Yet the moment lingered.

You were pulling at the steel doors of his discipline without even realizing it.

His eyes flicked to the wall clock: 2:43 AM.

He should go home. Sleep a little. Be presentable for the walk-through tomorrow.

But his mind kept drifting. To the conversation in the car. To the sound of your voice when you’d called him, gentle and unguarded in a way that caught him off balance. The way you allowed him to speak with you looking at flowers: the only thing that could ever challenge your beauty.

You were still deciding on his fate in his eyes. Still keeping him at a distance. But you'd called. That counted for something.

Hiromi sat at the edge of his seat and leaned back in the worn leather chair, gaze drawn to the strip of moonlight across the floor. His phone buzzed once with a text from Hajime. A location update, nothing urgent. Still, he tapped out a brief reply.

Then, without looking, he opened the drawer and pulled out a small, bound folder with a name boldly on the front: Nanami Kento.

He stared at the photo clipped to the file’s corner. The man looked composed. Steady.

Too composed.

Hiromi opened the file yet didn’t read anything. Just removed the photo and slid it in his pocket.

“Three more days,” he murmured to himself.

He rose, jacket slung over his shoulder, and stepped back into the hallway. The crimson lights made his eyes focus on the short walk outside. The shadows behind him dancing as the club prepared to close.

Hiromi paused by the front door, sliding his jacket on with little effort. And smiled.

He would be ready.

Private, gilded, and discreet.

The room at the ryōtei was quiet, the occasional sound of a low wind brushing against the paper screens being the only company in the room. The scent of cedar and charcoal filled the air, heavy and earthy. It was the kind of place where silence meant everything when men like Naobito Zenin conducted business over tea he never drank.

Your father bowed low as Naobito took his seat with a grunt, his olive green yukata folding around him like the shadow of a shogun. One of his men slid the door shut behind them. The two were alone now, save for the silence that grew thicker with each second.

Trying to keep a face of confidence, your father sipped from a small glass of aged whiskey, his expression fixed with feigned calculation.

“You asked for this meeting,” Naobito spoke up eventually, voice dry and disinterested. “I assumed it would be a waste of time. Prove me wrong.”

Your father smiled the age old politician’s smile that he’d perfected decades ago, carefully curated and smug beneath the veneer of humility.

“I come bearing opportunity,” he said. “The Higurumas are making a power play. Aligning with me through marriage. But as you know, these things are rarely what they appear to be.”

Naobito raised a brow, unimpressed. “So your daughter is the bride. And?”

The man’s eyes gleamed.

“They think I’ve bent the knee. But I’ve only extended the leg.”

There was silence, then a faint exhale from Naobito as if he was almost amused at the show being put on.

“And what is it you want?”

“The Higurumas are consolidating faster than expected. Land. Trade. Even certain political protections that were once only yours or mine. This union could cement them as the next dominant syndicate in the region as everyone expects. But only if it remains unchallenged.”

Naobito finally leaned forward, interest piqued. “And you want me to disrupt it?”

“I want to introduce an alternative.” He folded his hands, deliberate. “My daughter is young. Beautiful. Loyal, even if reluctantly. With the right pressure and positioning, she could be placed at your table. Or your heir’s. As a whisper. As a seed. Something that grows in your favor, not theirs.”

Naobito let the silence settle again.

“You would offer your daughter twice,” he iterated at last. “Once as a bride. Once as bait.”

“I offer her as insurance,” your father replied smoothly. “You know how these things work. She plays her role. She buys time. Distracts. Misdirects. And when the Higurumas lower their guard, you and I are already inside the gates.”

A beat passed.

Naobito gave a slow, pleased nod, though his eyes remained completely uninterested.

“You’re a snake in a borrowed garden. That’s either clever… or suicidal.”

He stood, robes rustling like dry leaves.

“We’ll see what becomes of her. I’ll be in touch.”

He stood. “Very well.”

The door shut behind him with a quiet click.

Alone now, your father reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a folded wedding program draft. Your name was printed across it, right below Hiromi’s. He walked out out of the room, sliding his shoes back on before quickly exiting the house.

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

“You’ll forgive me for this one day,” he murmured. “When you’re standing beside someone who actually knows how to use you.”

Outside, almost six feet away, a different man leaned against the wall.

Not a Zenin.

Not Higuruma.

Not Kento.

Someone watching and someone who hadn’t blinked the entire time.

Someone who now turned and made a quiet call as he walked away.

“Yeah. He’s moving,” the voice said. “Tell Hiromi it’s started.”

The marriage would go on. The dress would be worn. The photos taken. The vows exchanged.

But behind the veil, a war was brewing.

And the bride, unknowingly, was standing dead center on the battlefield.

[cmdrfupa]

[cmdrfupa]

You were his partner once. His equal in battle. The person who knew Nanami Kento before the cracks spread too far. And while you remained with Jujutsu High, you’ve never stopped watching the smoke on the horizon, knowing he’s there. Somewhere between grief and conviction. Somewhere between justice and vengeance.

As Nanami’s quiet war against the old world escalates, you’re caught in the growing storm: torn between loyalty and empathy while duty and love tear through you. He doesn’t ask you to follow him.

But he doesn’t need to.

Because every time he looks at you, you feel the weight of the same question he’s already answered:

What do you owe a system that never protected you?

Content warnings (will be updated as the story progresses):

Canon-typical violence, Psychological themes, Moral ambiguity / Ethical conflict, Ideological manipulation, Character death (past & referenced), Emotional manipulation (subtle), Mentions of trauma and grief, Betrayal, Bittersweet romance, Slow descent into villainy

prologue

i. ii. iii. iv. v.

vi. vii. viii. ix. x.

[cmdrfupa]

GORGEOUS KING. genuinely one of my fashion goals/inspirations hes so good at it

edit: an additional note i like how all the directing photos are him talking with his hands. (partially decision of photographer as well) i respect him massively in the directing field as well because Damn hes good at it

[cmdrfupa]

Prologue

All chapters and CW can be found here.

villain!nanami x reader

09/19/02

She watches me differently now.

Not with fear. They’ve never feared me. But there’s a quiet computation behind her eyes. A reluctance. It’s like watching someone stand at the mouth of a tunnel, trying to determine whether the wind inside is a warning or a whisper.

But she’s begun to notice.

I leave behind just enough to make her wonder. Unfiled reports. Reassigned missions. A missing hour here, a misdirection there. She hasn’t accused me of anything. Yet. And either way, that’s not her way of handling things. She’s too sharp for that. Too patient.

She’s waiting for me to tell the truth. To admit to something.

But I won’t.

Because the truth isn’t a confession, it’s a chasm. And if she crosses it, there’s no coming back.

It didn’t happen all at once. It never does. The system doesn’t break you in a single day. It wears you down in minutes, in missions, in morgues. Until one morning, you wake up and realize you’ve been hollow for years. You just hadn’t noticed the echo.

I noticed the echo the day Haibara died.

And it got louder when we failed the Star Plasma Vessel. When Geto walked away and everyone whispered madness, but no one asked why . When the elders kept feeding children to the dark, and called it tradition.

When Geto resurfaced and made his goals known.

They told me to endure.

I did.

But endurance is not the same as acceptance.

Now, I endure something else: the weight of what must be undone.

She would understand, if she let herself. She’s still playing both sides—sorcerer, loyalist, idealist. Still believes in saving what remains. That the house can be rebuilt, even while the foundation rots beneath her.

She doesn’t see it yet.

But she will.

And when she finally asks me what changed, I’ll tell her: Nothing changed.

I simply stopped lying to myself.

I’m eighteen years old and I’m tired of lying to myself. This isn’t the life for me and I won’t allow it to become me.

I am far more powerful than that.

_______

13/17/08

  I used to believe she was the exception.

A person untouched by the rot, navigating the same corridors I did but somehow remaining intact. There was a steadiness to her. Admirable devotion without naïveté, empathy without illusion. She believed in the mission, not the mythology. It made her admirable. It made her dangerous.

And now she’s drifting too close to the fire I lit.

I came back with the intention of not trying to persuade her. I can’t taint the mind of someone who has to figure it out on their own. But can feel it in her silences. In the way she asks questions she already knows the answers to. In the quiet weight of her gaze when we pass each other in the hallways of Jujutsu High. Has she boiled our interactions down to her simply taking inventory of who I used to be? It appears to be that way.

Part of me wants to stop her. Part of me hopes she keeps going.

There is nothing left in this world I want to protect.

Except perhaps the version of her that still thinks I can be redeemed. But that version won’t last. Not after what comes next. Not once the breach becomes visible, and the Elders realize it’s me turning their precious scaffolding into dust.

There is a price to pay afterall.

She will stand at a crossroads soon. The same one I faced and walked away from.

And when the time comes, I wonder if she’ll see me as the man who betrayed her… or the only one who finally told the truth.

Only time will tell. And it has never been on either of our sides.

[cmdrfupa]

Where are the Garrus Gals, Gays, and Theys…

Im.. thinking of something.

A date with Garrus that he’s put together for the only human to stir something up within him.

Just for the date to go all kinds of wrong😌