#post shibuya

[zerosiesblog]

she’s coming back #trust

[jojowolist]

New art weewoo! It’s been 84 years…

This commission has been a lot of fun and i loved every minute of it. My comms are ALWAYS open btw! Just send me a DM 📩

Getonana friends enjoy your meal!!

I did this couple of arts a couple years ago, with Geto and Nanami, called “scars of the what if”. Ever since then, i’ve imagined a delusional split reality where both Geto and Nanami survive Shibuya. Geto would find a way to awake his conscience and take back the control on his body over Kenjaku and Nanami would be healed by Shoko, losing his eyesight but alive. Would they find comfort in each other after everything they’ve said and done? Never too close before, always aware and understanding of the other, they might finally have a chance of claiming the lives they deserve.

In other words, I enjoy being delusional, but if you like this ship, you’re welcome to be delusional with me too

[bakibakicumbasket]

yuji likes cracking his knuckles

he likes the popping feeling in his joints, the stretch and pull of his bones, almost just to remind himself that he’s human, almost just to rub it in sukuna’s metaphorical face. he likes breaking up his concentration, dividing the darkest thoughts in his mind with an audible crunch like gravel under his shoes, like his scull under sukuna’s hand, like his hopes and dreams once the last finger’s gone. he likes that its associated with blood and gore and violence, he likes that it’s what the hero always does before they throw the first punch, he wonders if maybe he can still be a hero despite the destruction he’s caused. when his mind is racing against the clock and his skin feels tight and his heart won’t stop hammering against his ribs; when his eyes keep jumping around and it always feels like there is someone standing over his shoulder, laughing in his ear; the pop pop popping of his bones bring his feet back to the ground. yuji doesn’t know why everyone is so bothered by him cracking his knuckles. maki kisses her teeth, telling him he’s going to have “old man hands by 18.” yuta grimaces, tells him he might effect his hand-to-hand combat abilities if he keeps that up. panda covers his fuzzy ears and tells him that the noise is offensive, loud, too abrupt, another example of ridiculous human antics. and inumaki. well he just stares straight through yuji like he can peel back his skin and read the contents of his soul. it’s inarguable, however, that yuji’s newest habit bothers megumi most. his eyebrows furrow, his eyes harden, his jaw clenches every time yuji bends his fingers. even before they crack, if megumi is in the room and yuji lifts his hand to crack his knuckles, there’s a 99% chance he looks up and sees megumi looking back at him, displeased. one rare day, yuji and megumi are sitting around just waiting for someone to tell them what they’re supposed to be doing in gojo’s absence. yuji’s fighting back against the sickly feeling in his stomach and tightness in his chest by bouncing his leg. up and down and up and down and up and down again until finally it starts to boil. his breathing is picking up and he feels twitchy and he hates when this happens, it never used to before. he exhales shakily and makes a fist with his hand, pressing the edge of his knuckles against the middle of his palm. he’s eager to hear the sound, to reset his body and thoughts, to refocus is mind. before he can force any weight onto his fingers, megumi grabs his wrist, looking at him carefully. yuji is confused, normally he would ask megumi what’s wrong but he can barely even see the boy in front of him past the rapidly welling tears. before he knows it, his cheeks are wet and his shoulders are shaking and he can hear himself making the most desperate, pathetic, broken noises while megumi sits there and watches. yuji tries to stop, telling himself he looks weaker than megumi already thinks he is, this isn’t the place to get all worked up, really, he has nothing to cry about and he’s just about to go pick up his fist again when theres a gentle tug from where their skin meet. megumi just shakes his head and pulls yuji in, wrapping his arms around his friend. shocked, yuji hangs limply, surrounded by pine trees and black and kindness. there’s that funny feeling he keeps getting recently, not the shakiness or the overstimulation or the tightness rendering his lungs useless, but the light, ticklish, youthful feeling that spreads out from his chest whenever he sees megumi. it’s time for a new habit. 

[anonimusunnoaniswriting]

This is the fic that got me back into writing.

🥺🌸Post Shibuya Nanami🌸🥺

🎀Age in bio or blocked🎀

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Reader

Genre: Smut, no hurt just comfort, fix it fic

Word Count: 3089

Warnings: PWP, mild ddlg, soft dom Nanami, plus size reader, female bodied reader, use of the word 'cunt', no protection, pussy eating, 69, pet names, very cutesey shit.

Summary: Days after the incident at Shibuya, your lover and you finally get a day of rest. But Nanami and you have missed each others company, and you take the opportunity to reacquaint yourself with each other.

A/N: I reject the canon. The canon does not get to have my man Nanami Kento. This is a purely self indulgent fic. It takes place after the incident at Shibuya but veers off after the burning. Nanami Kento LIVES. He is very much alive, in our arms, being loved and worshiped. Mahito? Idk them. This goes out to all the girlies that -- like me -- have lost their sanity a little bit over this man.

There’s a faint fragrance of tea when you open your eyes. The morning light scatters through the windows which have been opened to let the crisp autumn air in. Pink curtains flutter in the breeze – the ones you insisted on having when you saw them in the shop window. You reach out to the other side of the bed and feel the sheets, the warmth of its recent occupant fast fading. 

You swing your legs over the edge and find your fluffy slippers. Another impulse buy, but this time, not yours. His. He’d noticed how you always hated your toes being cold especially when you just got out from under the covers. So, when he saw them in a shop while out on a mission, he’d picked them up for you. After swiftly brushing your teeth in the adjoining bathroom, you head outside. The warmth of the kitchen beckons you, as well as the promise of finding him, so you make your way there, picking at the remnants of sleep from your eyes. 

Your lover, Nanami Kento, stands at the stove with his back to you. “Tea’s almost ready my love.” He says, without turning. Of course, he heard you coming! His senses are as sharp as a cats. You pad up to him and put your arms around his waist feeling the broad expanse of his back against your chest.

“You should’ve woken me” Your voice is soft and still laden with sleep. He loves hearing you like this. Smushing your face into his back you take a long, deep breath. His scent is comforting to you. Like home. Like love. Like tea and biscuits. 

“I was just about to.” He replies. You can feel him moving. He’s pouring out the tea. Black Darjeeling with a spoon of honey. The perfect drink for this weather you think to yourself. You kiss his broad back, as he picks up the mugs and slides one arm over your head, manoeuvring you to come and nestle against his side. Even though it’s not winter yet, there’s a chill in the air, but Nanami foregoes a tee, opting to stay barechested. You hope he doesn’t fall sick, but know that his body runs hot, so for him, it’s nothing really to be in just his sweatpants. The incident in Shibuya had left its scars. He called his left side ‘scary’. He’d been healed of course – physically, but sometimes, you thought, there was still some healing left to be done. He would cover himself as much as possible whenever he was outside, so truth be told, for him to even show you this… The first few days had been the toughest. The fear, the pain that wasn’t really there but still was, the covering up. It had taken a lot of kisses – a lot of love, to get to this. A place where he knew you appreciated him, regardless of the way his skin looked. But a reminder every now and then never hurt.  

The two of you don’t speak much, but you don’t need to really. Five years into a relationship, some things become as smooth as breathing. Morning routines on holidays are one of these very things. Sipping tea, watching the birds fly in the sky as it gets bluer. The kitchen windows are like a small portal to a different world at this time of the day. Outside, you can both hear the people waking up and starting to walk around, up and down the street in front of the apartment. But up here, the two of you are in a little bubble of your own. You turn your head and lay a kiss on Nanami’s chest. He hums a deep rumble that you feel, despite it being soft. A kiss on your head. Another on your forehead. Nanami’s mug set back down on the counter. He places a finger right under your chin and gently tilts your head up; just enough – that he can now lower his and kiss your lips. You melt into his touch. “Min-min…” Things had been getting harder, you know this. The curses were getting tougher, the hours longer, and the time for rest was practically nonexistent. The two of you had barely had any time for each other, so today was precious. Who even knew what the future would bring… 

Nanami backs you into the counter. His hand runs down your arm and takes the mug you’re still holding to place it safely away. His lips don’t leave yours for a moment. Gentle, drawn-out touches soon turn harder and more desperate. 

“I’ve missed you baby girl.” he breathes, crashing his lips into yours. You run your hands through his hair pulling him closer. 

“I know,” you gasp out half breathless, “I’ve missed you too. So much!” He pushes his thigh between your legs and rubs his knee against your clothed crotch. 

“We don’t have anything important to do today. Do we?”

“Whatever it is, it can wait. You’re more important anyway…” 

“More than even, breakfast?” 

“Fuck breakfast…” 

He chuckles. “Good. ‘Cause there’s only one thing I want to eat right now.” Your breath hitches in your throat as Nanami says this, then dips down. It’s a good thing he had you lean against something because your knees buckle and it's all you can do to grab the smooth marble behind you for some support. With one hand pushing up the oversized tee you were wearing in lieu of pyjamas, the other circled round to grab your ass. He began to lay soft kisses all along your inner thigh; palming at your breast, eliciting a wanton moan from you which served to spur him on further. How long had it been since he had touched you like this? Been rested enough to even think about playing with you. You can’t remember. One of his favourite things to do is to trail his tongue along the lightning bolt-like marks across the fat of your thighs. He loves to feel the way you shiver at the touch. He doesn’t do this for long though – or rather, he can’t. The gentle licks soon turn to bites. His fingers toy with your nipple. You feel his nose poke at your skin while he’s biting and nipping at the fat of your thighs. They’ll be littered with dark purple marks tomorrow.  He tugs down at the boyshorts you’re wearing and starts to lick at your folds. His left hand switches to the other breast and you raise your hand to place it on top of his. He laps at the wetness that’s formed through his ministrations; his tongue going a little deeper with each lick. 

“Minmin…” There it is again. Your special name for him. No one else would dare to call him that. Not even Gojo and Itadori, to whom he begrudgingly allowed a ‘Nanamin’. He focuses on you. Your shaky breaths, the faint quivering of your thighs, your fingers clenching the countertop. With every new lick, you clasp a little tighter. A single bead of your slick runs down your inner thigh and he smirks. 

“Having trouble staying upright, my love?” His deep voice comes from between your legs. Your whimper is all the answer he needs. He straightens up and leads you to the living room couch. “I want to do this properly. I’ve missed tasting you so much.” he tells you with a sigh. 

You nod, getting on your toes to kiss him. “I wanna taste you too Ken…” comes the whisper against his lips. “Fuck, lie down please,” you beg. 

He grabs your face squeezing your cheeks and plants a small peck on your lips. “You have a filthy mouth miss. I think we need to take care of that.” 

That makes you giggle and him smile. He knows you swear like a sailor and sometimes in the bedroom, you would be punished for it. However, that didn’t seem to be the case this time. No. This time he was allowing you to have what you wanted. How could he deny his sweet girl after all? He lies back on the couch, shifting a cushion to support his head, and pulls your ass toward him. You carefully straddle his chest taking care not to knee him in the process and start to palm at his crotch. He’s already half-hard. Probably has been since he started working on you; ridiculously turned on by your bare flesh. You pull the band of his sweatpants off while he continues licking you. The new position opens you up to him much better and he hums appreciatively. “You have such a pretty pussy baby girl.” His hands grab your asscheeks forcing you closer. There’s a shift in the dynamic. You can feel it. Hands, a little rougher. Voice, a little lower. 

“It’s all for you daddy...” You offer to your dom. It may have been a while since you had had a chance to play but these were responses, now ingrained in you. 

“Good girl.” 

You know you can’t play around now. No more soft touches and teasing. Your tongue out, you lick a strip up Nanami’s length. He groans into your pussy and pushes his tongue further. You keep, licking and sucking his cock, feeling it grow to full hardness. Nanami’s fingers gently prod at your hole. “Put it in daddy!” You whine to him, needing more. “Please!” And he obliges, slowly pushing in one thick finger. You keen and drool against his length. Nanami has the sexiest hands. And his fingers are long and thick. Perfect preparation for the fat shaft in front of you. 

“Take me in your mouth baby girl,” he tells you encouragingly. So you do. Taking his cock in your mouth you begin to pump it in and out, following the rhythm he creates with his fingers. In and out, working his way deeper and deeper into your cunt. His tongue reaches to your clit and touches the nub softly. It feels almost electric.  Your lips stretch around Nanami's wideness taking him in right to the base till you gag on him. You take care not to touch him with your teeth except to perhaps gently graze. His tongue laps at your folds and he rubs your clit with two fingers. You can feel a familiar sensation building. Something that you’ve only felt alone for a while now but that feels heightened with your partner here. Without realising it your hips roll, pushing into his mouth and making his nose bump against your nub. Its filthy, you’re dripping down his face but he can’t stop either. He jerks his hips up to bury his cock down your throat. Your whole body clenches, desperately trying to keep it in. Keep in buried. You lift a hand and fondle his balls, feeling him twitch slightly in your mouth. His pace doesn’t change though. Steady as ever, knowing just how to make you cum. A little faster exactly as you like. 

You cum first. With a sharp intake of breath and a strangled cry for your daddy. Your body twitches as you ride out your high on his face. Nanami’s cock lies in your hand engorged and throbbing for release. Without waiting for a word from you Nanami taps your ass signalling you to get off. He sits upright on the couch and removes his sweatpants folding them and putting them on the coffee table in front of you. Then, he pulls you onto his lap facing him. “Sit on it darling.” he orders. You follow. Your legs feel like jelly. You’re grateful for his supportive hand making sure you get onto the couch and are in position with your trembling cunt right above him.

“Do we need lube?” He asks you. You don’t think so, but with how large Nanami is its always better to be safe than sorry.

“I dont wanna stop and I’m pretty wet but it wouldnt be a bad idea.” you tell him. He kisses you. 

“Wait here.” he says. Nanami helps you sit on the couch and strides into your bedroom to fetch it from his night stand. If you could have, you'd have followed him but you don’t quite trust your legs to move your body right now. Your complaint doesn't last long though, because when Nanami returns, you’re blessed with a view of an adonis. Long legs, muscular torso, strong arms. Your breath hitches in your throat and tears prick at your eyes. 

You put your arms out and gasp out, “You’re so fucking beautiful Minmin.” Your voice brimming with pride and adoration. Your words strike close to Nanami’s heart. He is not a man easily swayed by praise. But from your lips, he would drink every word like a parched man. You knew how much it would mean to him especially after the incident at Shibuya too; he knew you were not one to lie. To you, he truly was beautiful – the world be damned that’s all that mattered. He stalks over to you on the couch, his hand encircling your throat. Its not dangerous, but comforting. A way of showing his claim over his lover. His lips crash into yours and you can tast yourself on his face. He kisses you with fervour. His tongue glides into your mouth in a delicate dance with yours, and you reciprocate intoxicated by the heat and heaviness of his hands on you. 

Nanami sits down pulling you onto him once again. He makes quick work of the oversized tee you still had on. Throwing it this time, onto some surface – you did not care to notice. His lips drop down to your neck, and you feel dizzy, your whole body seems to thrum with anticipation. With one hand he deftly flicks open the lube squirting out a well sized dollop onto his cock, the other wraps around you to hold you in place. Then, throwing the bottle aside he lifts your hips and helps you sit, slowly pushing his rock-like shaft into you, inch by inch. The lube is cold to the touch and contrasts against the heat of your worked out cunt, but you are grateful for it. The feeling of the stretch as he pushs further and further in is deliciously tight,  bordering on being painful. Your fingers card his blonde hair as you slowly adjust to his length and girth. Every inch of you feels stuffed. Nanami’s lips suck and nibble at the skin of your throat. His arms hold you close making sure you won’t fall over. You move your hips. A passionate raw fucking is what the both of you want now. No niceties, no politeness. You’re both overcome with need and affection – making for a dangerous blend. Nanamis mouth drops to your breast. His lips encircle a nipple and he sucks and bites, drawing out gasps from you. He can feel your cunt convulsing around his cock with every move you make. Up. Down. Up. Down. You know his orgasm is slowly building. He thrusts up into you, driving his cock deep. Slamming against your clit. The pleasure you feel is terrible and judging by the blissed out expression on his face he feels the same way. You swear there is nothing in the whole world left but just the two of you. In that moment it becomes too much for him. Nanami lifts you up in his strong arms. Your fat thighs, spilling over his them. He keeps licking and sucking at your breasts leaving marks wherever his teeth can reach, as he carries you into the bedroom almost slamming you onto the bed as he fucks into you, splitting you open on his cock. You see stars as he buries himself into the hilt, frantic, slamming in over and over. You grab his  hair and tug on it – a silent plea for him to come up – to kiss you. He growls feeling the pull. Nanami bucks into you and kneads at your breast as he captures your lips once again. You feel his hands coax your legs up and you’re forced to spread them wider apart to accommodate his broad body. Your tummy jiggles every time he slams into you and you start to feel yourself coming to a peak once more. Nanami holds the flesh of your thighs and fucks you with a steady pace. 

“My pretty girl. My good girl.” His voice is barely over a whisper but you hear the words over your whines and moans. “I’m gonna cum babygirl. Where do you want it?” he asks. 

“Inside. Please!” you beg. You need to be filled by him. You want the feeling of him emptying inside your cunt. Nanami’s cock spasms inside your hole. You feel his release spill inside you, coating your walls. 

He lies down beside you breathing heavily. His chest rising and falling, glistening with sweat. The blissed out expression on your faces along with the heady scent of sex in the room makes the two of you feel warm. It’s intoxicating. You crawl into his open arms and nuzzle against his side, and he captures you in an embrace. “I fucking love you old man…” you whisper to him. 

He laughs. “I love you too baby girl.” Your fingers trail against the pink skin of his scars. And you lay kiss after kiss on his body as your hand wanders. There’s a smile on Nanami's face. His heart is full. Full of you, and your love… 

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

When the two of you leave the bedroom the sun has risen higher in the sky. But that’s alright… You cuddled together, then had a quick warm shower. Nanami’s arms enveloping you helping you wash your hair, and of course, cleaning the mess he made. Your two cups of tea lie forgotten in the kitchen. As you enter you laugh. “Hey, we never even finished our tea!” 

Nanami smiles. “I’ll get us some more. Oh and I’ve –” he waves his phone at you, “– ordered some brunch. Sandwiches.” 

You curl up on the couch and he bring you both the freshly brewed tea cuddling into your lap. Whenever he did this you couldn’t help but feel like one of those people with a big dog who didn’t really know how big he is. Of course, you didn’t mind. He’s here. With you. Safe and protected. Nothing can hurt him here. 

He looks at you adoringly. “Baby, how about we take a trip to Kuantan? I hear they have lovely beaches.”

The End.

[pseudowho]

"Kento...can I...can I paint you?"

Kento glanced back over his shoulder, sleepy, to where you sat massaging knots out of his back. He didn't know why he'd bothered perusing his shelves beforehand; your hands had moulded and made him heavy, and he sunk, unbidden, his book forgotten and his eyelids made of lead, groaning in bliss.

Your eyes traced Kento's back...his arms...his hands. All ripped and reformed, broken and made stronger, the scars (both old and new), criss-crossing him, his life-story turned roadmap.

At some points, Kento's body seemed as though it would last centuries and end up in a museum somewhere, with futuristic admirers who did not know him as you did. At other points, he was just a porcelain man, full of cracks, to be handled with care lest he break.

Kento hummed; a cover-all rumble, unsure.

"...paint me?" He teased, a coy half-smile on the corner of his mouth. "Like one of your French girls?"

You laughed, kissing his shoulder blades, still stroking those seams of pink flesh with your fingertips. He shuddered, the hairs on the base of his undercut standing on end.

"Not quite...do you trust me?"

"Yes." No hesitation.

"Then just...close your eyes."

Kento huffed through his nose, leaning forwards on his elbows and clasped calloused hands. He heard you rattling around behind him, the tap running, the soft dompf of you resettling on the sofa. More rattling, and your quiet voice.

"Stay still..."

Kento jumped, shivering as the tip of a fine, wet brush licked at the skin on his shoulder blade. He hummed again, dubious.

"Oh...you meant paint me."

"Semantics."

"Bless you."

You laughed at his gentle idiocy. "Keep still."

In truth, as your brush traced idle patterns over his shoulder, his arm, and his hand, Kento didn't need to be told to keep his eyes closed even once. He meant it when he said he trusted you; and he meant it when your presence rocked him to sleep. Time lost meaning as he dozed, sat like The Thinker as you finally removed your brush from his hand.

"There. All done."

Kento opened his eyes...to art.

Patches of the back of his hand had been brushed matte with a soft jade green, fading out against peach flesh. Through the jade, where pink seams had once scored the skin, they now ran golden, liquid beauty joining the edges of his pain and history. And it was...lovely.

Kento swallowed thickly, laid bare beneath your eyes. He gently flexed his hand, seeing how the green and gold flexed with him, held together by your very own repairs. He tracked more and more patches up his forearm, his bicep, over his shoulder...

Kento was quiet, stoic, vulnerable. He whispered, as you took lamplit photos of your work. "I adore you."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Christmas had come and gone, and still, Kento did not allow you to touch him as he once did.

The air between you was as taut as the flesh of his left side. You washed the dishes, and he dried, kept company only by the hush of the taps and clink of the plates. Kento reached for a mug with his left hand, and, numb-fingered, dropped it with a spitting curse, to where it shattered beyond repair around your feet.

Barefoot, and pausing with an oh!, you lifted your foot as if to move, and Kento berated you, growling, snapping.

"Stay where you are."

"Kento, it's alright, I'll get it--"

"No. It's my mess. My fault. Sit down."

"Really, it's fine--" Your words cut off with a squeak, as one strong arm looped around your waist. Kento grunted as he lifted you out of the shards with ease, to his body, only to drop you to safety the moment your hands began to brush his bare chest.

"Sit down." Kento rumbled, dark and sullen, his one good eye glowering at you beside the patch. You prickled, rejected. You refused to sit. Watching Kento, as he finished vacuuming, your eyes drifted without thought between him, and your paint set in the chest beneath the kitchen cabinet.

On his way over to the sofa, Kento spotted you, and scoffed, hissing with pain as he dropped himself to sit. He sneered, nasty.

"Sorry, my love. Not enough gold in that box to repair me."

You gritted your teeth, your mouth twisted in disgust, tears in your eyes. You pushed your chair away in a tearful rage, and padded over to Kento, fast, determined.

The briefest flicker of alarm crossed his half-burned face as you straddled him, trapping him to the sofa with a hand on each cheek. You spat, forcing him to see you, gripping him down as he writhed to get away.

"Then I'll break into palaces. I'll rob museums. I'll be a thief in the night. Because they don't deserve it, not like you do."

Kento cursed at you, twisting like a rat in a trap, and you held on tighter, sick of being pushed away, and you forced the words out of you as tears spilled over to drop onto his chest.

"And if there's not enough gold there then I'll melt myself down, but you don't need gold because you're not broken--"

"--get off me-- let me go--"

"No." You cried, looping your arms around his neck, your core pressed to his. The air stilled, his rejection rejected.

You panted, your shoulders heaving, weeping into his neck. Kento and you sat this way in silence, the tap still running and forgotten, your sniffles muffled into his neck. You felt him soften, his hands coming to rest on your hips, stroking you.

Kento's voice was thick, agonised. "You...deserve someone whole."

"I don't want them. They're nothing to me. It's you, or no-one."

Kento's teeth bared, his face stinging as it crumpled, salty tears washing away the grief. He gripped onto you, the fracture not breaking under stress; the bond, golden.

And when you finally did paint him, how he shone.

[wyvernity]

quick personal update -- i've been in chinaaaa for the past few weeks! plus a few days of layover in tokyo, so i got to visit japan for the first time! good experiences good food all around \(^_^)/

now that i'm officially back, i can share some of the soulsilver i've been stockpiling since march..... and since i'm too lazy to make multiple posts, you guys get the full dump. warning! there are a few!

[mysteria157]

Unsteady Ground

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Black Fem Reader

CW: Light angst, just fluffy but scarred Post-Shibuya Nanami

WC: ~2.1k

Summary: 

Nanami gets more than what he bargained for with the kind receptionist who checks him in for his weekly appointments.

Notes: Hello! Been thinking about Nanami if he was still injured but survived the Shibuya Incident and this is just one of many little thoughts I've had. Hoping to write more soon!

Reblogs, likes, or comments are always appreciated! Happy reading!

Dividers: @cafekitsune @awenise

Masterlist | Ao3 | Twitter | Come Say Hi!

©mysteria157, all rights reserved. DO NOT copy, plagiarize, reupload, modify, or translate (without permission) my work to other accounts and platforms.

What was he thinking?

Nanami Kento prides himself on his self-awareness—a man who can map out his strengths and weaknesses like well-worn territories on a battle-scarred map. He’s the epitome of controlled courage, a figure who could march into dank, shadow-filled alleys and pungent sewage tunnels, his fear compressed into a hard knot beneath his ribs, as he methodically tracked and exorcised curses with cold efficiency. 

So this is new. It has to be.

What was he thinking?

He was thinking about you.

You, who he first saw through a haze of discomfort at the reception desk during his initial therapy appointment. His eye patch itched against his brow, a constant reminder of Dagon’s domain and the razor-sharp fish-like teeth that sunk into his flesh. The burns on his left side stretched tight beneath layers of Mederma a constant, throbbing presence. He felt raw, exposed, his mind a blender of pain and misery, haunted by the taunting echoes of a patchwork curse that still clawed at the edges of his dreams.

But then, there was you.

You, whose voice flowed like silk when you asked for his name and date of birth to check him in. Your words, a gentle current, seemed to wash away the stark clinical atmosphere. With each subtle movement, a hint of vanilla across your desk, wrapping him in its warmth, coaxing his tense shoulders away from his ears.

You, who lingered in his mind long after each encounter. Your daily ask about how he was doing, though met with the same stoic response, became a small ritual he found himself anticipating. Your presence had become a soothing balm to his frayed nerves, somehow making the hard recovery of his life a little more bearable.

You, whose eyes lit up many weeks later as you spoke of the Christmas market in town, your voice brimming with excitement about the newly opened rink.

In that moment, driven by an unfamiliar, overwhelming desire—no, need—to simply fan the flames of whatever was licking to life in his chest, he spoke without thinking. The words tumbled out, clumsy and hopeful. His face flushed, his usually composed demeanor cracking.

“We could go together this weekend if you would like?”

Stupid. Absolutely, unequivocally stupid. 

Nanami Kento, what were you thinking?

A soft smile played at the corners of your mouth, your head tilted ever so slightly, curls dancing in a nonexistent wind as you regarded him with warmth and a lifted brow that made his breath catch.

“Are you asking me on a date, Nanami Kento?” Playful and tinged with an essence of hope that made his heart race even faster.

“I—“ He was thinking of you. Only you. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

The cool air of the ice rink slaps Nanami’s face with every person that skates past him, his heart racing with a mix of dread and shame that pulses through his veins. A group of teenagers glides by effortlessly, their showboating twirls and spins threatening to pull his mouth into a sneer. They’re no doubt mocking him as he stands stock still against the glass wall, gloved hands pressed flat as if he could suction himself in place.

He’s endured years of Gojo's incessant, annoying taunts and needless provocations. He’s faced cursed spirits without flinching, coolly efficient even as his watch ticked down the final minutes before six. But now, the prospect of revealing his complete and utter lack of skating ability to you terrifies him more than any supernatural threat.

He had every opportunity to reveal his incompetence. He did nothing as you both laced up your skates. Smiled softly as he listened to you chat animatedly about your favorite winter activities. Kept his spine taut as you adjusted his eye patch, fingers trailing feather light along his jaw. Even as you pulled him by the hand towards the rink, his legs wobbling like a newly born doe on the thin blades, he could only clench his jaw and follow.

He encouraged you to go without him, to warm up while he adjusted to the weight of strangers’ gaze when they saw him for the first time. Even with so much practice, the discomfort, even after all this time, burns more fiercely than Jogo's searing touch ever did. 

But he knows he can’t delay the inevitable. Soon, you’ll return, expectant and eager, and he’ll be exposed. The memory of asking you on this date flashes through his mind—a moment of uncharacteristic impulsivity born from longing and evolutionary competition. He’d watched the parade of men filing in for their appointments, each one a potential rival. The brunette who shows up at 3 PM, with his easy smile and effortless charm, was particularly concerning. So Nanami can’t fail now.

Steeling himself, he takes a tentative step. The blades slide across the ice, taking him further than what he intended. His knees lock, his back sways unsteadily, and his arms flail as he tries to find balance.

Somehow, he can hear Haibara laughing from the grave. He can almost see his old friend, red-faced and doubled over, teasing him without shame for never accepting that impromptu hockey game invitation their first year.

“I can do this,” he whispers to himself, desperately praying to whoever will listen for sudden knowledge. He takes another step, a short glide up with his left foot and it’s no good. His legs wobble dangerously, arms windmilling as he grasps for the wall and throws every curse known to heaven and hell, fogging the glass with his acidic words.

The teenagers zoom by again, and he swears one of them snickers, skating backward with infuriating ease as they disappear from view.

“Kento?” Your voice, honeyed with concern, reaches him from behind. It’s too sweet, too kind to quell the embarrassment that runs in rivulets down his back. You appear in the peripheral of his right eye, your lips pinched behind your teeth as you stop in front to take him in. “You’ve never skated before, have you?”

For a fleeting moment, Nanami considers trying again, hoping to slip and knock himself unconscious to escape this mortifying situation.

He feels heat rise to his cheeks. “I may have overestimated my abilities,” he admits, his dry tone a thin cover over his embarrassment as he clings to the rink’s walls like a lifeline.

To his relief, your face softens with understanding rather than judgment. You skate backward with effortless grace, hands outstretched towards him. “Trust me?”

He hesitates, eyeing your hands. Part of him wants to refuse, to flail his way off the rink so he can take off these atrocious skates and maintain some semblance of dignity. But a larger part, the part that has been drawn to you from the start, longs to brush his hands against yours.

Your cream-colored gloves intertwine with his. “Just glide. Follow my feet,” you encourage, slowly skating backward and guiding him forward.

You flow like water on the ice, fluid and sure as if you’re a professional, without a hint of hesitation. He’s mildly green with envy because he’s a stark contrast. Legs stubbornly locked, feet shuffling rather than gliding. He tries to focus on the mechanics of skating, on keeping his balance, but he finds his attention irresistibly drawn to you. 

You’ve taken off your winter coat, and a soft navy sweater hugs your curves, accentuating your form. He’s seen it beneath crisp blouses and pencil skirts. Your leggings outline powerful thighs that bunch with your movements, yielding strength and practice. The overhead lights catch the small puffs of air that ghost from your mouth as you guide him patiently across the ice, no sound reaching his ears because he’s not paying attention.

Your hair, a glorious bundle of curls, cascades from beneath a navy beanie, framing your warm face and kissing your cheeks. Small gold hoops in your ears catch the light with each graceful motion, their gentle swaying hypnotizing Nanami, drawing him further into your orbit and away from reality.

He’s lost in admiring you—the kindness in your eyes, the way your presence makes him feel both vulnerable and safe even as his life has been so tragically altered.

It’s in this moment of distraction, his heart full and unguarded, that his skates and your teachings betray him. As you attempt a gentle turn, his feet slip, zipping awkwardly to the side.

“Kento!”

You grip his hands tightly, urging him to regain his footing, but he’s caught in a comical dance, legs churning in place as he fights to stay upright.

“Wait! Kento just—okay, just try to come to a stop. A stop, Kento, don’t—” He attempts to halt, overcompensating with force. 

“For fucks sake—!” He grunts, feet flying out from under him, launching up as if he’s a cartoon villain slipping on a banana peel, bucking him off the ice and taking you with him as you both come crashing down onto the unforgiving cold ground.

Somehow, he doesn’t hit his head, but his back and ass scream from the impact. At least you were able to use him to cushion your blow, and you lay across his chest, face buried in his wool coat.

Seconds stretch into eternity as you both lie there, panting. Nanami fixes his gaze on the ceiling, half-hoping the harsh glare of the overhead lights will burn the cornea of his remaining eye and blind him completely from this whole ordeal.

“Well,” you murmur, voice muffled against his coat, “should we get up?”

“No…no, I quite like it down here,” Nanami responds, deadpan delivery masking the absolute sincerity of his words.

You pull your head from his chest to look down at him. Nanami’s eyes meet yours, staring, unblinking, mortified, and wishing the ground could liquefy and then freeze over, trapping him underneath.

With impeccable timing and bone-dry delivery, you quip, “I guess for a first date, this was a good way to break the ice.”

Nanami blinks, processing your words. The absurdity of the situation—the terrible pun, your matter-of-fact delivery, the undignified sprawl of limbs—hits Nanami all at once. A laugh bubbles from deep in his chest, croaking through years of cobwebs as it grows into a full-bodied guffaw.

The sound of his laughter surprises him as much as it does you. Your eyes and his one widen in delight at this rare display of uninhibited joy and soon you’re both laughing, the sound echoing across the rink.

The scarred side of his mouth twinges uncomfortably, but he doesn’t care, he can’t. His laughter, rich and unbridled, hiccups from slightly chapped and upturned lips.

As your laughter subsides, Nanami realizes he can’t remember the last time he laughed like this—free, unguarded, genuinely happy. He takes in the sight of you: your beanie askew, a cascade of messy curls tumbling over one shoulder; ice shavings glistening as they melt on your cheek; your lip gloss slightly smeared, yet still inviting. 

Your eyes meet his, and for the millionth time in only a few short weeks of knowing you, his heart skips a beat. With a gentleness, you reach up to adjust his eye patch—a gesture so intimate, so accepting of all that he is, that Nanami hopes it becomes a habit. 

He watches, breath hitching, as you shift, sliding yourself up his chest with a soft grunt of effort. For a moment, you hover there, your faces inches apart. Nanami can feel the warmth of your breath, senses the unasked question of what you want to do. And whatever his face conveys, must be enough for a smile that outshines the gleam of the ice around you to blossom on your face as you close the distance.

The press of your glossy lips against his still catches Nanami by surprise. For a heartbeat, he’s frozen, overwhelmed by the sensation. But only a second later, he melts and softens into you. One hand finds the small of your back, the other sliding against your cheek, drawing you closer as he returns the kiss and opens something within him that he knows you’ve found the key to.

For a second, it washes away the pain of his past, the destruction that he took part in, the friends he’s lost along the way, and he feels okay. If only for a moment, and maybe being with you can help the wounds in his chest and along his left side heal over time.

The ice is cold beneath him, his dignity is probably bruised along with his back and ass, but in this moment, given a second chance at life, hopefully with you, he feels wonderfully, perfectly alive.

Thanks for reading!!

[rahuratna]

Synopsis: Post-Shibuya Nanami x Classical Dancer Desi Reader

In the aftermath of Shibuya, an injured Nanami struggles to balance his eroding self-worth with his desire to conduct his duty as a sorcerer. He finds healing in the fragrant garden of your dance.

Genres: Romance, angst, suspense.

Content warnings: depictions of low self-esteem, dealing with trauma, erotic and sexual content.

Thanks to @tsukimefuku for reading and editing this piece that is so precious to me. 🧡💜

Please refer to the glossary for the meaning of certain terms used. 🧡

(I)

Pushpanjali: an offering

"Tha ka dhi mi, tha ka dhi mi, tha ka ... "

It is a chant that spans centuries, leaping from the high-ceilinged, airy chambers of a land and time long past, to here, and now. It winds between the gently rippling silk scarves that adorn the walls, a drumbeat like the slow collapse of ancient kingdoms under the steady tramp of cavalry.

Time seems to pass at a stagnant pace in here, in this place where your domain has taken root and unfurled, a red, red bloom in the heart and hand of a painted god.

Feet slide and strike against the worn wooden floor, precise and weighted, as you perform the basic stance before your pupils, watching faces tight with the concentration of the inexperienced.

"Tha ka dhi mi, tha ka dhi mi ... "

Your voice guides them, as does your form, an arm straightening here and a pair of knees bending further as they watch you. The twist of your lower back, the stretch of your arms in a line to some point behind you, the rejoining of your fingers in katakamukha, the arch kept between chin and the line of your shoulder, all shifting in a single fluid movement that requires no thought.

Incense snakes through the air, close to the glass double doors, the heady scent of sandalwood gathering in tendrils there, where the gentle push of the breeze cannot dissipate it. It is through this fine mist that you see him, for the first time, standing just outside the doors in the narrow passageway.

Shoko had informed you of his arrival, of course. She had warned you about his physical condition, about the nature of his grievous injuries. It wouldn't be the first time she'd made use of your services to assist in the rehabilitation of wounded sorcerers.

Your eyes meet his, through the shifting coils of fragrant smoke from the brazier, and you see, in a single, fractured moment, why he is here. He has been sent here for a form of healing, but his gaze is not soft and receptive. It is shuttered, its passion muted and closeted away, defences piled so high they might as well be weapons. He scans the dance hall with the kind of predatory clarity that long, long years of being a sorcerer would bring.

You excuse yourself and step outside, the open door allowing the scent of the incense and the soft evening air to filter out into the hallway. Behind you, the silk scarves flutter gently in the draught.

He is a tall man, poised and elegant. He wears the jacket and comfortable, warm trousers in a way that speaks of someone more accustomed to formal wear. As soon as you enter the hall, he bows with deep formality, and the mellow resonance of his voice seeps into the narrow space like honey spilled across the floorboards.

"Nanami Kento. I was referred here by - "

"Shoko. Yes. I've been expecting you."

You return his bow and introduction, aware of his scrutiny travelling the length of your spine. You can sense that he is picking you apart in his mind, fitting together the components to try to build a coherent whole.

Close-up, the severity of his burns are evident. A layer of darkened scar tissue covers the left side of his face and scalp, running down his neck and further, where your eyes cannot follow. The left eye, according to Shoko, had been unrecoverable, now shielded with a soft, surgical patch. The damage to his arm had been even worse, as it seemed he'd used it to shield himself. A fuzzy growth of pale hair had started along the scorched skin of his scalp, a sign that even now, his body was knitting itself slowly back together.

Your eyes travel over his sharp-edged countenance, and he stares back, unphased. You make a rapid mental list, a trickle of first impressions that will later build to a torrent.

Stength, and plenty of it. A deathly, well-controlled calm that permeates his living flesh, skin over smooth stone. The martial bearing and powerful arms and shoulders, even scorched as they are, speak of the force he must have presented on the battlefield.

He assesses you in return, and you tilt your head as the dim sunlight filtering into the corridor catches his eye, turning the honeyed brown of their depths to a moss-flecked river bed, steady and cool.

Beautiful.

That is your first impression of him.

(II)

Alarippu: the flowering

Recovery.

Kento has heard a dozen variations of that word by now, couched in the language of choice. 

The road to recovery. 

Recovering your mobility. 

Getting your old self back. 

A return to routine.

He is aware, by now, that any such full repair of the damage that has been done to him is a castle in the air, one he cannot summon the lightness of spirit to ascend to. Positivity had never really been his hallmark. Now, even less so.

The world had shifted around him while he was asleep, you see. Comrades had fallen. The new generation had triumphed. The very fabric of Jujutsu society had been rewoven, the dawning of a new age embroidered for all to see across the hard-won horizon.

The sacrifices he'd made were but a few of many. They'd hardly mattered, in the larger scheme of things. Many had given their lives. What had he offered up?

The ability to walk without aid, for one. Also, most of the skin on the left side of his body. Basic movements, things that had once been second nature to him, were now carefully calculated because of the pain.

The lunge of an arm through a coat sleeve when he was in a rush. The brisk pace he'd maintained to keep his body temperature up in cold weather. The sensation of a soft cashmere scarf against his cheek, or the brush of an aerated cotton shirt against his skin in summer. The cascade of hot water on tired muscles, after a long afternoon swinging diligently at cursed spirits. All muted, fuzzy, lost.

And what else?

Kento had never been soft with himself. People often thought that sentiment never clouded his cool judgment, allowing him to make objective and sensible decisions. While that was largely true, it flew wide of the mark in terms of what really pushed him, what gave him direction. It was ironic, as he'd speculated later, that his mortal enemy had been the one to identify what many of his comrades hadn't.

Mahito, in that light, youthful, jubilant voice, declaring how he'd seen Kento's soul quivering. And he was not wrong.

Kento was a man driven by a quiet, desolate desperation, a desire to fill an empty space that yawned endlessly within his soul, a black hole with an insatiable appetite. Emotion was as vital to his function as breathing. It drove him out of bed everyday, into the office, into the boardroom, into the bakery, back to jujutsu tech, into rain, snow, sun and wind, into the face of his darkest imaginings.

He watches traffic from the window of his room at the private clinic, pedestrians going about their lives, people chatting on precariously held phones, children dancing through a world of make-belief, people on lunch break. People with purpose, a certainty of their place in the world. What could he offer, in this world of colour, sound, movement and shadow, this world that threatened to leave him behind?

Kento had paid the price, and would do it again, and again, and again, in every known reality, if it meant maintaining the stability he saw outside his window.

(But if that was the case, why was the darkness inside him more ravenous than ever?)

********

Shoko comes to see him most frequently, even with her workload at the Tech. She can't really help it. Nanami is her last remaining bridge to the past, as selfish as that makes her seem. She doesn't care much, not anymore. She'll take what she can get.

A tenuous bridge, is Nanami.

Shoko is accustomed to seeing the damage that can be done to a body by the uncontrolled hatred of a curse, or the more conscious destruction of a cursed technique. She has seen it all, performed the most grotesque procedures on the corpses of those she loved. But something about seeing Nanami's injuries, seeing him like this, is more jarring than any of those horrors.

Her technique has allowed his skin to heal, the raw flesh, exposed tendon and muscle beneath now covered by the new epidermal growth she has stimulated.  The chances of oedema and infection are also minimal, considering her precautions. All that was left now was his slow physical conditioning and therapy.

(If only that were all.)

If Itadori, Kugisaki, Fushiguro and Ijichi had their way, Nanami would never know a moment of solitude. They wanted constant updates on his condition, to bring him his favourite foods, to talk, weep, mourn and rejoice with him. She allowed them to see him, every other day, but drew a firm line, citing his recovery as priority. She didn't have the heart to tell them that every gentle glance, every proud smile, every glimpse of the old Nanami they received came at a great cost.

Standing in the doorway of his room now, she could see it. Or rather, the lack of it. That vitality, that pain from which he drew his vigour, the firm lines of his back and shoulder that reminded her of an implacable bulwark against the raging of the cursed world, all absent. When he didn't think anyone was looking, that is.

Stepping into the room, she offers a slight nod as the door slides shut behind her. The change is immediate. He straightens, the corners of his eyes regaining their sharp edge, the set of his mouth firm and familiar.

"Shoko."

"Nanami. Ready to talk about physical therapy?"

She gets straight into it, knowing that he wouldn't want it any other way.

"I'd like that very much. When can I begin?"

His words are still slightly muffled, the burnt edge of his lips stiff with a new layer of scar tissue.

Nanami had never been a vain man. He had always been in possession of striking features, and had taken care of his appearance, but in a way that was more attuned to practicality; if he was neat, well-presented and unremarkable, Nanami considered this a success.

It was why he had been able to look in a mirror with such equanimity for the first time after his treatment. All she had seen was a slight tightening at the corners of his mouth, a slow nod, a brief look of exhaustion and resignation as to this new set of scars.

The loss of his left eye and the damage to the arm on the same side had been the worst of it. There, she'd done everything in her power to restore the lost tissue, but Nanami would never regain his eye, or the full range of motion with that limb. There was, however, the soft growth of new hair on his scalp, a promising sign that elsewhere, her rejuvenation of the underlying tissue layers had somewhat succeeded.

Shoko doesn't reply to his query just yet. She approaches the bed, and he sits up, unlacing the front of his hospital gown, accustomed to the routine by now. She place her palms a few inches from his skin, closing her eyes as she maps him out, bone, muscle, blood and water, the minute synapses where impulses leap in a frantic race, the steady beat of his heart.

Inhaling deeply, she steps away.

"The sooner you begin, the better. I know you've been walking a lot. That alone won't help in the long term."

There is a hint of reproach in her voice. Nanami, displaying his singularly stubborn streak, had been discovered out of bed on more than one occasion, standing by the windows, staring into space in a way that made her worried.

He gives a wry, crooked smile.

"What do you recommend?"

Shoko places the file she'd carried along carefully on his lap.

"There's a family with a specific cursed technique I've corresponded with before. Sent some of my patients to them. They specialize in therapeutics."

Nanami is watching her closely, taking note of the way she focuses on the view out the window.

"And you're sending me to them?"

"They aren't local. The main clan is located in India. Scattered at various locations in the Tamil Nadu province. One of their members moved here, some years back, to conduct research on the compatibility of their techniques with ours. It wasn't a success, for various reasons, but he stayed, with his family."

"So it's a hereditary technique?"

"In a way. It manifests with varying degrees of efficacy. I'd simply like ... for you to meet with their representative."

She returns his gaze, and when she speaks again, he understands why she has been so hesitant.

"It's not just physical therapy, Nanami. We can achieve that pretty well here. Their methods go ... deeper than that. I can mend physical wounds. They might be able to help you heal in other ways."

He doesn't agree to it immediately, looking through the list of exercises that came after the therapy recommendation letter. One eyebrow lifts slightly in a comfortingly familiar query.

"You want me to do yoga too?"

"Gojo's idea. He added it to the list before he - "

She stops abruptly, one hand finding purchase on Nanami's ankle, squeezing lightly on it where it rests beside her, under the blankets.

"Anyway. He said he wanted to make video edits of you with your ass in the air. Said it would be good to bring you down to earth a little."

Her chuckle doesn't sound hollow any longer. She can talk about her friend (yes, he was that too) without that tell-tale catch of agony in her chest. Nanami sighs before opening up the file, his good hand leafing through the printed pages.

"I suppose ... I could humour him. This once."

(III) 

Shabdam: The Word

In a month's time, with Shoko's regular treatment, Nanami is in good enough condition to leave the clinic. He still makes use of a walking stick, especially for longer distances and steeper flights of stairs. Ijichi makes sure he is permanently on call, for the occasions when Nanami simply needs to get out of the sterile halls of the clinic, the rapid intake of the world outside enough to sustain him.

Nanami has, for the most part, been following Shoko's regimen religiously, adding his own variations without her knowledge. In this way, his strength and endurance steadily build up to a point where he is ready to be discharged (with daily check-ins, of course).

Nanami keeps the file that Shoko had handed over, but every time he spies it out of the corner of his eye, he occupies himself with something else, procrastinating in a way that is wholly unlike him. Eventually, his own conscience prevents him from delaying further. He is entirely skeptical that anyone can truly help him. He has felt that way since Haibara died, but even he can admit that there's no harm in trying.

He finds the address given with little issue, and Ijichi is more than willing to take him there. The place is nondescript, no signage giving any indication of the activities that take place there. There is an wood-panelled foyer, a colonial style spiral staircase leading to the upper floors. The stairs themselves have been worn smooth by many generations of feet.

Nanami is half an hour early, anticipating some kind of registration process, or introductions, as there had been in martial arts dojos he had frequented. There is nothing of the kind. He finds himself in a corridor, flanked by two pairs of glass double doors. In one of the rooms, a wide open space with a wooden floor and a view over the city, he sees some kind of class in session.

Approaching slowly, he hears it. The rhythmic thump and shuffle of feet, the feminine voice that called out a pattern that he's never heard before, but seems familiar all the same. The glass doors give him a clear view of the room, of the five occupants (a small class, then) who were engaged in some kind of dance practice, and the instructor, up front.

He pauses, body coming to a complete and rare standstill. He watches as she moves through a repetitive step, in time with the beat she calls out, firm, musical, lilting. The grace of movement, the low centre of gravity, the rigidity of the lower body in contrast with the flow of the upper, arrests his vision.

The disciplined line of her throat turns, and she is facing the door, facing him, hands brought together in a signature pose. Long lashed eyes, observant, catching and holding his glance. For a moment, he feels the desire to back away from the door, to hurry out into the street, a return to his comfortable routine. He stands his ground, as always.

He watches as she approaches the door.

********

Once your introductions have been dispensed with, you gesture to Nanami to follow you into the smaller room you use for individual therapy. His gaze lingers on the class that continues, even in your absence.

The same silk scarves ripple gently along the walls of the room next door, orange, grey, red and green. The rug is old, but rich and plush. There are two chairs, comfortable and supportive, their orange upholstery lined with faded gold thread, and an urn on a stand nearby, on the boil in readiness to prepare chai.

You pour him a cup now, the fragrant liquid a rich, caramel brown in the small glass, eyeing his expression through the steam.

There. Immediate interest. A man with a varied palate, considering the way he accepts the tea with polite deference, but takes an appreciative sniff before sipping deeply.  The way his shoulders relax slightly afterwards has the corner of your mouth tipping up.

"So, Nanami. Shoko told me that you're here for our specific line of therapeutics."

He puts the cup down with a decisive motion.

"Yes. She told me a little about the effects of your technique."

"Did she explain what exactly it involves?"

He pauses, gaze traveling to the students in the dance hall next door who were now stretching and rounding up their practice.

"I assume it has ... something to do with that?"

You set your own cup down and clap your palms together.

"Well observed. It has everything to do with dance. Bharatanatyam, to be exact."

He raises an eyebrow, and you explain obligingly.

"Where I'm from, Bharatanatyam is one of many classic dance forms. The practice itself goes back centuries. My family's technique is rooted in the principles of the dance itself."

Nanami cleared his throat.

"I'm afraid ... I'm not a good dancer."

Your laughter comes easily.

"That's what they all say, in the beginning. But don't worry. You won't have to do anything strenuous, nor am I going to make you prance around in a dhoti."

"You have my thanks, I suppose."

"We will do plenty of physical conditioning, but you will also be my audience. My technique requires that you are ... receptive and open to answering the things that I ask."

Here, the easy flow of conversation stills a little, and the tea swirls gently through the motion of his dexterous fingers. He does reply, eventually, softer than before.

"I chose to come here. I think that speaks for itself. I will accept whatever your technique can do for me."

The non-committal nature of his reply does not escape you. You nod, understanding that this is the best you'll get from him, for now.

"Hmm. I think it's best that I demonstrate. That always works better than sitting here and explaining."

You stand and gesture for him to do the same, observing his movements carefully.

There. The burned side of his body has slower movements, as expected. He still displays agility and grace, despite the stiffness and pain he must feel. You approach and stand directly in front of him.

"Nanami, I'm going to lay my hand here, on your abdomen. Please tell me if this is fine."

He nods, but his body is now taut, anticipatory. This close, you can smell the surgical cleaning fluid that he must still use when changing dressings, the scent of the clinic still clinging to his clothes and hair. Beneath it, something warm, vital, pleasant. The scent of him. His hair falls over one brow, unhindered, and he impatiently pushes it back. Judging from the length, he must like it shorter than it currently is.

"Please try to relax."

Your hand presses against the firm planes of his stomach, centering around his navel. He is shockingly solid, vitality surging under your fingers. And something else. You frown, but keep your hand in place. After a few minutes, your fingers begin to move. You start to tap out a gentle rhythm against his skin, tentative, repetitive.

You keep this up for a while, eyes shut tightly, focused. When you eventually look up at him, he is watching you with close attention. You know what he sees, that he is following the currents of cursed energy that swarm around your body, fluttering and pulsing in accordance to the pattern you've been tapping out.

This part is crucial. The manner with which you approach this will determine his response, and you can feel his resistance to an invasion of this kind, how he could shut himself off from you, the giant ribcage of self-preservation sealing to the sternum, forever shielding his heart.

You step back and take your seat again, and he pauses before doing the same. He leans forward, elbows on knees, watchful. This man doesn't miss a thing.

"Your diagnosis?"

He had a lot of cheek too.

"There is no diagnosis. Not in the sense you're thinking."

"So, what was the purpose of ... that?"

"It allows me to plan my dance. For next time."

"Your dance?"

You reach for your glass, take a quick sip of the cooling liquid.

"In plain terms, my technique is called Arangetram. It's named after the dance recital performed by a bharatanatyam student after many years of perfection of their art. The recital takes place in stages, and each stage reveals more of their dedication, their skill and their unique talent."

Your palms, placed together, draw apart and Nanami's gaze falls between them.

"It's an unfolding. A gradual one. My technique enables me to read deeper into the patterns of your own energy, gently peeling apart each layer in stages, until we reach the crux of the issue. The wound to your Atman. Your true, and eternal self. With my guidance, and your cooperation, we can possibly help heal that."

As you speak, Nanami's gaze falls to his glass, the bitter dregs collecting at the base. He stands abruptly, and turns away from you, facing the window. You remain still, waiting.

When he speaks, there is something in his voice that makes you wince slightly. So much heaviness. So much despair. The weight of it must be crushing.

"That sounds ... familiar. Before I was saved by another young sorcerer, someone I helped mentor, I ran into a curse that could have ended my life for good. I'd met him before, you see, but he escaped me at that time. His technique ... wounds the soul. Our perception of ourselves."

You take in a sharp breath. What Nanami was describing was a form of cursed technique in direct opposition to your own. Nanami continues, eyes fixed on the steady stream of cars that pass by below.

"Are you telling me that you can heal that kind of damage completely?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because damage to the soul requires accurate perception, but a callous disregard for any and all forms of life. Destruction is part of universal balance, but to actively go about it, without any consideration for what you will create, is ... inhuman."

You stand, wanting to meet his eyes when he turns to face you again.

"Healing the soul is nothing like this. Nor can it be done in the same way for every person. But Nanami, here's the question I want to ask most right now. Why, even now, are you thinking about all the victims of this curse? Why, since you've heard the nature of my technique, have you never once thought about how it could actually help you?"

This demand is what it takes for him to finally tear his gaze away from that window, mouth opening in protest, but your silencing finger is up. You're not touching his lips, not quite, but close. His warm breath ghosts over your finger.

"Dont answer that question now. Answer it tomorrow, after you watch me dance."

(IV) 

Jathiswaram: Purity of dance

He is early the next day, and you can sense that this will be a pattern. A seasoned sorcerer, through and through, gaining intel on the lie of the land. He is dressed with casual elegance once again, this time in a soft sweater and old jeans.

You guide him through a series of stretches and stances, eyes following his movements. As hard as Nanami is to read, you can tell, from the softening of the lines at the corners of his eyes that these exercises give him relief.

He is also unlike any other pupil you've ever encountered. There is something about having that keen gaze trace every line your body forms with such close attentiveness, the lithe mimicking of each pose, the easing of the stiff line of his mouth when he gets something right, and is aware of it.

It is like practicing yoga alongside a panther, one that won't harm you, but with every stray connection of the eyes, you are aware of just what it is physically capable of. It is both thrilling and strange; new.

When the first short session is over, and he seems slightly more at ease, you serve him tea once again.

"Take a few minutes. Relax. You'll wait in here until I call you into the hall next door."

"What would you have me do?"

"There will be a cushion on the floor. You're going to sit cross legged, as comfortable as you can get. Arms relaxed, hands resting on your knees. Then, you watch."

"A performance of some kind?"

"Yes. To be more specific, you're going to be inside my domain."

This was the one detail he seemed most hesitant about. You wait, in silence, giving him a chance to defer, to push back, to delay the inevitable. He doesn't do any such thing. You're beginning to understand just what kind of courage this man possesses. It takes a different kind of bravery, you're well aware, to face your own demons rather than the gnashing beasts of the cursed world.

*****

Kento does his best to let the soothing spiced heat of the tea perform its dutiful relaxation of his limbs. He sits, legs spread slightly, staring at the wall. The door to the small side room effectively cuts off any sound from the dance floor beyond. He does not know what to expect and he doesn't like it.

Finally, a soft chime sounds. His signal. Setting the glass of tea aside, he stands and makes his way into the corridor, then into the room beyond. He pauses, taking in the transformation.

The view of the city outside has been completely blocked by rich, embroidered curtains, a screen propped up all along one end of the room. Behind it, he hears soft voices speak in another language, rapid and lyrical. The experimental pat of drums and the musical clink of small cymbals indicates that a band of some kind has set up back there, in readiness with their instruments.

Following the instructions he'd received earlier, Kento pads quietly to the centre of the room, where the large, solitary cushion sits, and lowers himself onto it. It is surprisingly comfortable. When everything seems to be in position, a hush falls over the room.

The first hint of her approach is the chime of the anklets she wears, many layered, the bronze shimmer of the individual bells catching the buttery light. She wears a sari, but something about it seems tailored differently from those he'd seen before. The waist has been cinched in with a belt, the pleats of the skirt fanning out around the knees. Beneath, she wears a pair of loose-fitting pants, the shimmering material caught in at the ankles by the bells he heard earlier.

Her hair has been fixed back in a long braid, flowers framing the outline of her head. Dark kohl lines her eyes, and her hands and feet are decorated with a red stain that stands out against the ocean-coloured silk of the sari.

She approaches and crouches nimbly before him, that long-lashed gaze travelling over his form, attentive. Her voice is low pitched, as always, but now there is a new undercurrent to it. He can feel the latent energy within her, as if she has been calling to it, like some long- submerged civilization breaching the surface of the sea.

"Nanami. I'm about to start. In order for me to do so, I need you to picture something in your mind's eye for me."

He nods, slowly.

"I'm going to touch your navel the same way I did yesterday. When I do, don't fight the image your mind throws up. It is natural. It may be a good memory, or an upsetting one. Either way, just let it be. Do you understand?"

"I do."

The pressure of her hand is barely tangible through the material of his sweater, but her cursed energy slides against him with a force he can push back against. He doesn't. Even as it goes against every preservatory instinct he has, he lets her in, watches the slow dawn of soft surprise in her eyes. She has kind eyes, he is only just realising.

And then an image flashes across his mind, just as she warned. Another era of lost kindness, a boy who looked at him with eternal patience, good humour and warmth. In the instant that he sees that face, laughing, animated, lips peeled back from wide, white teeth in that trademark grin, the world shifts. The face is no longer filled with life and humour. It is cold. Pale. Lips purplish and creased, dried blood flaking from the corners.

He wants to pull away, to stop, but he cannot. This is important. This has to be done.

Her hand comes down on his abdomen, harder. Then again. She is finding a rhythm in his own cursed energy, hand mapping out the pulse, scenting his weakness, his pain, following it. Again. And again. And again. The steady pattern builds. So does her cursed energy. It fills the room, filtering into every space, until Kento feels like he is the inhabitant of a fish tank.

Blue silk fluttering, she steps back suddenly. The scent of the incense is heady, intense. Behind the screen, the unseen musicians have somehow struck up the same tempo she has been playing on his abdomen. Her expression changes, and he straightens, slowly.

The kohl-lined eyes open wide, the whites stark gains the smoky backdrop of her lids. She drops to the same stance he'd seen her adopt in the class she'd taught yesterday, knees slightly bent, thighs holding a rigid line, arms outstretched, hands slightly bent at the ends. Her entire upper torso forms an elegant line, see-sawing gently, before the arms snap back and forth, as if tugged by an elastic band.

Red-painted, flickering like four flames, her hands and feet move with rapid precision, taking her through a fluid series of steps that are timed exactly to the beat of the drums, the beat of his own cursed energy, humming and writhing. Her dark, dark eyes meet his, and he understands, now, that every movement she makes entwines their energy, tangles it further, a cat with a ball of yarn, edging the threads closer to a woven pattern.

Her hands stretch toward him, shaped in what seems to be something symbolic of a flower. They spread, and he follows the reddened unfurling of her fingers, the crash of the cymbals louder, a portent of her ability.

He sees the incorporeal lotus, the shadow of it on the screen behind her, petals rifling past each other like the pages of an endless book, and her hands are dragging something out and away from him, emptying like fragrance into the room.

This is her domain, and he shudders in sudden understanding, as memories he'd long buried, bruised and raw, come fluttering like a cloud of butterflies to the surface of his mind.

The first time he'd met Haibara, the way the bright-eyed boy had handed him a shared ice cream, that hot, hot summer's day. The way he'd followed Kento, ignoring his grumpy demeanour, pressing snacks and home-made creations (less successful) into his hands. The long days of training, the sudden and pleased widening of his eyes when Kento had let slip that he'd been improving. The muted tones of his exuberant voice when he'd spoken of his sister, of the path he'd make sure she'd never choose.

And that, right there, was that focal point of pain, the sore spot that had festered, untreated, deep in the knowledge of his soul. Haibara had known, all along, the dangers of their job. He'd known, full well, how easily his life was spent by those who did not understand the full value of such currency. He knew that his youth was a fool's game, one that may never be completed. And for all of these years, since his death, Kento had chosen to -

The loud clash of cymbals dissipates those thoughts instantly, the energy permeating the room, surrounding them both, snapping back to her still form, controlled and under her command. She is watching him closely, the tight grip he now has on his knees, the sweat beading on his brow.

She takes three steps forward, legs lifting high in the stylized movement of her dance form, and her palms come together as she bows to him. Instantly, the performer is gone, and she is back with him, no longer in command. She pads quickly over to him, kneeling and touching his leg.

"Hold on to those images for a moment. Tell me, who was that boy?"

Kento pauses, swallows thickly.

"Haibara Yu. A boy who studied at the Tech with me. We trained together."

She does not need to ask what has happened to Haibara. She has seen it, through the binding of her dance. She has seen his death. Her next question catches him off guard.

"Why is his spirit so strong inside you? You carry him with you like a briefcase to work everyday. Why is his reflection on every surface you pass? Why does he force you forward, and yet, drag you backwards too?"

Kento is still, the sweat cooling on his temples. His muscles are rigid, cording. Pain flares along his jaw, where he has been clenching it. She raises a hand, palm up.

"Don't answer me now. Take the next few days off, and think about the questions I've asked."

*******

He does consider it, as she asked him to. In fact, it's all he can dwell on. As much as it robs him of sleep, leaving him tossing and turning, blankets rumpled and damp with perspiration, he thinks that this is better than staring into formless space. This torment is preferable to the endless battle played out against the pale, sterile walls of the clinic.

How long has it been since his pain has been cut out of his chest, a fully formed, hard-edged diamond, the corners so sharp they slice through him at every touch? How long has it been since he's turned over that crystalline fragment in his hands, allowed himself to remember, to cherish, to grieve?

He understands why he could not, before this. There were missions to undertake. Work to be done. Curses to be dispatched. An endless cycle of activity to tear his mind away from such things.

And then, there had been the students. He goes over each of their names in his mind like a mantra. Yuuji. Megumi. Nobara. Maki. Panda. Inunaki. Ino. The faces of children, the minds of warriors, the scars of those who had known their worst fears and overcome them. It was his duty to protect and serve, to keep them safe, and yet ...

If he had convinced himself, so many times over, that Haibara had needed an adult like the one he had shaped himself to be, then why wasn't he needed any longer?

(V) 

Varnam: The Centerpiece

When you see him again, you can't help the smile that breaks across your face. Nanami is a tricky customer. In spite of his natural strength and charisma, you can tell that he is unaccustomed to relying on others for his emotional well-being.

And yet, here he is, standing in the hallway, expression controlled and muted as always. There is a certain tension and guarded quality to his demeanour that is lacking this time around, however. He has seen the extent of your technique. It cannot harm him any more than he harms himself. This, you are also aware of.

"Nanami. It's good to see you."

He nods, that keen eye of his taking in your expression.

"You were not expecting me to return."

It is not a question. You laugh and gesture to him to follow you into the smaller room beside the dance hall.

"I can't say what I expected. But rest assured ... I'm glad to see you here."

He dips his head in acknowledgement as he follows you through the door. You note that he's had a haircut since the last time you've seen him, the flowing blonde hair slicked back on the right side. His surgical patch has been replaced by a soft black one. His walk seems a little steadier, even if he still has to use the sturdy cane to navigate the stairs.

You pour him tea in silence, waiting for him to initiate the topic that you've asked him to consider. He takes a sip, a soft grunt of satisfaction escaping him, before he sets the glass down with that decisive motion you've come to recognise.

"Last time I was here ... you asked me about Haibara."

"I saw him. In your memories. He must have been important to you."

"I said that we studied together. We were in the same year. There was ... a mission. It was assigned wrongfully, by the higher ups. The difficulty level was ... too great for two fledgling sorcerers. We'd held our own against curses before, but this was different."

"And Haibara ... "

"He was killed. I escaped."

There it was. The words seem to exit him easily enough, because he's probably said them many times before. There is a raw quality to them, though, that cannot be disguised. He has never forgiven himself for Haibara's death. You give him a minute before resuming your questioning.

"My technique showed me that Haibara had a sister. He did not want her to become a sorcerer like you two?"

Here, Nanami's hesitance is tangible.

"No, he didn't. He knew the dangers of our work."

"And yet, in your memories, you clearly see him as someone to be protected."

"He was."

The words emerge sharper than Nanami likes, because he tries to lessen the bite of his tone as he continues.

"I believe that the younger generation of sorcerers should be protected at all costs, whenever necessary. It doesn't matter how much they've seen, how much they've experienced. What matters is that they are not robbed of responsible adult figures in their lives, who can help them cope with what comes later."

"Did anyone help you with coping? With dealing with what happened to Haibara?"

For the first time, Nanami does not meet your gaze. There is a softness to this man, that shows in the gentle, considered way he touches objects, the way his dark lashes shadow his cheeks, the way he is always thinking of someone, anyone other than himself.

"No."

His voice is charged, but quiet.

"And so, you think to play this role for the future generations?"

"I hope to. Yes."

You already know what must be done, as painful as it may be.

"Nanami, is it possible for me to meet with your students?"

******

"Nanamiiiinnnn!"

The boy with soft-hued pink hair is enthusiastic in his greeting, none of it contrived. You can see from the way his eyes light up, the way his whole body gravitates to the sorcerer standing beside you, that Nanami means the world to him. The girl with the eyepatch beside him gives a more staid greeting. There is a certain tough rakishness to her bearing that you've come to recognise as well-earned bravado.

It's Nanami you are more focused on. He introduces you to the students who greet you politely, each giving a small bow.

"How's the progress, Nanamin? You look great!"

The young sorcerer, Yuuji, truly means it. He is taking in Nanami with an air of triumph.

"It's slow, in some ways, but I'm getting there, Itadori."

You note how he still refers to them by their family names, even after everything they've been through together.

"Why don't we have lunch together?" you suggest.

Nobara immediately points at Nanami.

"Ask him. He's knows all the good places, in just about every part of the city."

And so, you find yourselves seated at a small soba place, one you haven't come across before. The food is excellent, and Yuuji and Nobara chat animatedly across the table with their senior as they plough through a selection of dishes.

It is now that you notice all of the things that Nanami doesn't.

The way Yuuji constantly keeps an eye on how much his mentor eats. The way Nobara adjusted the table when they sat down, such that Nanami could be more comfortable. The way they both scoped you out with clear protective instinct, forming their opinions of you.

Yuuji keeps up an encouraging stream of comments, complimenting Nanami on his receptiveness to treatment, on his hair, on the fact that he's been getting out more. He asks Nanami's advice on missions he'll be undertaking solo, and with others.

"So, Ino got his grade one promotion!"

"He told me."

Nanami cannot help the small smile that appears on his face. Yuuji shakes his head.

"Ha. I bet he told you before he told his mom."

Nobara snorts in agreement.

"Did you know he's picked up wearing a suit on missions now?"

"He does?"

Nanami seems surprised by this.

"Sure does. Keeps his hair shorter too. Thought I was teaming up with a Yakuza the last time we went on a mission together."

"Surely not."

"Oh, absolutely! He tried acting all cool, until I told him I'd video him and send it to you, and then he stopped with the persona real fast."

Nanami chuckles. It is a rich, warm, hearty sound, one that flickers over the table like the heat of a fireplace. You see the aching softness in Yuuji's eyes, the way Nobara grins triumphantly at having wrung that sound out of him.

And you understand, fully, like you knew you would.

These are no fledgling sorcerers. Nanami can never again offer them the kind of protection he once had. It is obvious that they value him no less for that. He is a glowing lantern of comfort, of hope to them. If he'd ever desired to play the role of responsible adult to these youngsters, then he'd exceeded every expectation and made himself indispensable, and loved.

If only he could see that.

You catch yourself watching Nanami's smile throughout the meal. It is, at times, contagious, at times shy, at other times a sarcastic tilt. He likes sandwiches, as you learn, and Nobara makes fun of the time one of Yaga's cursed dolls knocked a fresh salmon bagel out of Nanami's hand and he'd snapped and almost destroyed the garden it had escaped into.

It's only when the meal is over, and you are gathering up your purse, that you spy Nobara's eyes on you. The curve of her lips is discreet, and knowing.

*******

During the next few weeks, Nanami's physical condition slowly, but gradually improves. He does not ask when you will ensconce him in your domain again, and you do not offer. You feel that there is some fundamental hurdle he needs to overcome before this.

He still comes regularly, though. For someone who lived a regimental lifestyle like he did, you suppose it has something to do with maintaining a routine. Every other day, he is present, and sometimes, you note, he arrives almost half an hour early, watching the dance practice through the glass doors from the room across the hall.

You now leave the chai where he can help himself to it, and the cushioned mats rolled out so that he can take himself through the preliminary stretches while he waits.

The muscle atrophy, that is sometimes expected in cases of severe burns, does not present in any such way with Nanami. You can see, in the firmness of his stride, in the way he is able to balance his weight, in the slow loss of infirmity, that he has been working hard to maintain his strength and regain his physical abilities.

This is not what worries you. It's what comes after.

One month after treatment began, you see him ascend the staircase without assistance from a cane. He looks across the small distance, that bewitching hazel eye so firm, so proud, so accomplished, turning to you for acknowledgement that you cannot help the small sound of delight that escapes you. You also feel your stomach clench in anticipation.

Once in the room, you notice the small hint of amusement on his face, as you serve him from a plate of samoosas. You lift a curious brow.

"What is it?"

"You don't have to look so concerned. I won't be trying to take on any missions."

"I'm not concerned about- "

You cut yourself off, busying your hands with the tea. When you look up again, your breath catches slightly in your throat. He is watching you with what looks like tenderness, one hand still holding the plate you've absently passed to him. He speaks again, leaning back in his chair.

"There is something I haven't told you yet."

"And what's that?"

"About a dream of mine. One I've had for a very long time."

"And I presume it's a good dream?"

"In every sense. When I worked as a salaryman, I planned to save up enough money to retire. Live somewhere affordable, near the sea. Somewhere like Kuantan. I'd finally get to read all the books I'd bought and never finished. I'd live peacefully. Travel now and then."

You hum slightly, considering this dream.

"That sounds wonderful. Do you still think that this dream ... belongs to you? That it can be your reality, someday?"

"I always have. But ... I also know that such dreams come at a heavy price."

"Nanami ... I'd say that you've paid a thousand times over for such a dream."

Your heart twists at the pained knowledge in his glance. You've underestimated his astute nature.

He knows.

"I did tell you that one of the younger sorcerers saved my life, before. It was Yuuji. He found me when I was half conscious, burned, hallucinating about ... but that's beside the point. When I walked through that subway, I kept thinking the same thought, over and over again. 'Haven't I done enough?'"

The silence that descends upon the room is stifling. You clasp your hands over your knees.

"And have you?"

"I don't know, truthfully. Every time I think I have, there is something else. There will always be those who need the help of sorcerers. As long as I am able, how can I deny them that help?"

He is testing the waters, you can tell. Something about the last time he entered your domain must have triggered a curiosity in him, a desire to know just how much you could help him. You're not sure what it is, but you feel a rush of hope, a sense of a dawning breakthrough.

He spoke of a dream, and you know that Nanami never speaks idly. You pour him another glass of tea.

"I have a suggestion. Would you like to enter my domain again?"

(VI) 

Padam: Simplicity

This time, there is no pre-amble. Nanami seats himself on the cushion at the centre of the room with preternatural calm, but you sense the roil of emotions beneath. It gives you a sense of purpose, as you prepare, focusing your technique as you braid your hair and apply the red alta dye to your hands and feet and leave it to dry.

When you enter the room, you see his gaze immediately follow the movement of your hands. You crouch beside him, and something feels different.

Prior to this, Nanami was yet another patient of Shoko's, referred to your family for the kind of healing that physiologically-based cursed techniques couldn't touch. It was the reason that the study of their connection had fizzled out. Practitioners like Shoko were fully aware of the effects, but could not recommend them without a sense of hesitation.

And what was Nanami to you now?

You'd been avoiding that question. You know, full well, that helping him has become a desire birthed inside you as vital as breathing. You want to see him well, you want to see him happy, you want his laugh to echo through the corridors of Jujutsu Tech and his feet to find their way to warm sands and the gentle caress of waves. It is that simple.

(You wish it was.)

Your touch on his abdomen is charged with the weight of this knowledge, the heat that floods your veins intoxicating as he opens himself to you. You feel for the thread that hangs in the still interior of the self, the quivering vibration that changes and slides from his soul to yours.

There. It is different this time.

There is a tug of greater urgency, a rhythm that swells into a powerful current that threatens to snatch away your control.

No. You won't let it.

The reigns twist in your hand, but you pull them further into yourself, taking them, pioneering your way across the ocean of his desolation and uncertainty. You begin the steady rhythm, synchronized with the music of his soul. The drums behind you take it up. The song holds power, heady and fractious.

There will be theater in your performance tonight.

You spring away from Nanami, the connection between you thrumming with latent energy. The visions of his mind's eye flash upon yours, a series of broken images. You need more coherency. And so, you dance.

You allow your expression to mould to a frightening form, eyes wide, shadows gathering beneath them. Your palm raised, the other thumb above it, quivering.

Illumination. Let the soul reveal itself.

And it does. Nanami's form, dragging his feet, fresh, horrific burns across his torso, swimming into your vision. As you take measured steps across the floor, knees poised high, anklets chiming, his footsteps echo yours.

You turn, palms facing floorward and ceilingward, the red seeping between your fingers in the dim light reminiscent of the blood that creeps sluggishly from the raw ends of his scorched flesh. You take his pain into yourself, whirling across the floor.

And then, something startling. Yuuji appears, but not as the heroic saviour. There is a gaping hole in his chest, those bright eyes, fervent with life, now empty and soulless. He collapses with a solid thud and your steps falter.

This is not -

And then, Nobara. Your hands draw back, foot placed on the flesh of the enemy, but Nobara's face explodes in a bloom of scarlet, painting the walls with a hibiscus flare of bone, flesh and matter.

Why is he -

Nanami's face and neck are drenched in sweat, his eyes shut tightly. There are crescents forming in the fabric of his trousers, over the knees, where his fingernails dig into the flesh. The cymbals are now clashing to a faster pace, and you are drawn along, the river of his despair breaking its banks.

You see them, one by one, in-between the rush of your spinning braid, arms and the red flash of your fingers. All of them. All of the students Nanami holds so dear, lifeless, bodies broken beyond repair. A thin, bespectacled man in a dark suit, motionless on the ground, blood seeping from beneath him. Shoko, with her lackadaisical smile and lazy warmth, neck slit, dropping to her knees. Haibara Yu, his youthful face ghastly and pale, one finger raised, pointing.

There is a dreadful sound emerging from Nanami's throat, pain and loss and suffering ground between his teeth to spill into his lap, along with the dampness that rushes from beneath his single, uncovered eyelid. You fight against the overwhelming current, back towards him, the muscles of your legs screaming as his cursed energy pushes up from all around him, a defensive wall.

You're on your knees beside him now, reaching past the battering of his energy, grasping hard at his shoulders.

Come back. Come back to me.

He is twisting in your grasp, his strength all but overwhelming, even in his weakened state. You position your hands on either side of his face, gently, the tendons in your neck standing out with the effort of keeping them in place.

Come back to me.

You are vaguely aware that words are spilling from between his clenched lips, the muffled sounds slowly gaining clarity as you fix your gaze on his mouth.

"Why not me, why not me, why not me, why - "

You feel an answering dampness on your own cheeks as you draw him closer, feeling his cursed energy envelope you, binding you even closer in mind and body.

"Not you, Nanami. Not you. Because your life is not going to be spent like this. Not like this."

Through the atomic engagement of your cursed energy, you feel for the familiarity of him, and you flood his awareness with images that push away the darkness that lingers. Of Yuuji and his kind eyes and watchful care, of Nobara with her brash humour and protective glance. You force him to confront the reality of the others he's buried in his memory, of the bespectacled man scurrying around his office, of Shoko puffing out a dense, white cloud as her head tilts back against a pillar, of the other students, traipsing back in, exhausted after a mission, of a young man pulling a ski mask over a cheeky, lop-sided grin.

"They need you, Nanami Kento. They need you to be alive and well. That's all they've ever wanted."

Your voice has lowered to a whisper as your domain is finally able to manifest, unfolding in the absence of his resistance. The many-petaled flower blooms in shadow, until the shining heart of it breaches like a whale's head above the turbulent waves.

And Nanami is enfolded in your arms, head pillowed against your shoulder, as your voice draws his drowning mind inwards, a solitary lifeline.

*****

Nanami does not return for his scheduled appointment the day after, or the time after that. Two weeks go by with no sign of him. You debate calling Shoko to enquire after him, your concern growing like a viper, hatched in the pit of your stomach.

Something holds you back, however. The same idea that forces you to confront what Nanami Kento has become to you. Your technique alone is based on facing the uncomfortable truths buried deep in your soul, and your feelings for him are no exception.

You cannot, in good conscience, call Shoko when the man you have come to care for so deeply wants nothing more to do with you, or your domain. The best thing for both of you would be to remain as silent ships, passing each other on the vast ocean, as Nanami gradually finds his way to the uncertain shore of recovery.

You cannot help but wonder, though, if you did truly have some impact on him. Had it worked? Would he now make more positive changes in his life that you would simply remain unaware of, or would he ignore all the progress you had made since the first time he'd stepped through those doors? You had to make peace with the idea that you'd probably never know.

(It still leaves you breathless with hurt, remembering the tender scent of him that remains on your clothes.)

******

Nanami does return, just not in the manner you'd expected.

It is a cool spring day, a full month after the incident in the dance hall. You've just come down from your apartment on the third level, wrapping a scarf around your neck and steeling yourself to brave the chill. You hear footsteps on the stairs, and you will your heart to a regular beat as their steady pace and weight sounds familiar. You've long given up the chance of seeing him again.

And then the distinctive wing of blonde hair makes an appearance past the rickety balustrade, followed shortly by the rest of him, and something in your chest constricts, because all of your discipline and mindfulness is about to fly out the window, and -

He mounts the final stair, pausing as he takes you in, in your outdoor clothes. You are trying, failing, trying so hard not to read too much into his expression, but there ... you see it. His eye kindles; the warmth of it floods the narrow space between you two, seeping into you down to your bones. No scarf can replicate this.

He steps forward, uncertainly, face twisting slightly in pained apology.

"Am I ... I hope you're well."

"I am. You look ... "

He is finally clad in the form most natural to him, a tan business suit, dark blue shirt beneath, a speckled tie cast to one side by the wind. His hair has grown drastically in the time he's been absent, one half of his scalp covered by a short growth of luxuriant white. He wears a dark glove over his left hand, presumably protecting the sensitive burnt skin there.

He is walking, completely without aid, only a slight stiffness betraying the original severity of his injury. All the elegance, strength and beauty you saw in him at first glance, now magnified beyond your comprehension, because something else is different.

His soul, the Atman that had struggled like a wounded tiger, frantic and torn, beating against its constraints, is not whole. Not just yet. It is, however, expanding beyond the borders of his body, exuding that confidence and grace you knew were such a vital part of his being. This is Nanami, the shackles of his mind trailing with uncertainty behind him as his gaze seeks yours.

You take a breath, but he holds up a hand.

"Please, let me speak first."

Seeing your slow nod, he seems slightly relieved.

"I apologise sincerely for not coming sooner. I felt that ... I needed to make progress on my own, to come to terms with what you'd shown me, before I came here once again. Above all I was ... "

Those rich, mellow tones of his drop to the range of the barely audible.

"Above all, I was ashamed. Of how obtuse I'd been. Of all the things I'd missed. I had to make that right somehow, to work harder to show the people who care about me that I can learn. That I can change. That I can ... think of myself and prioritize my well-being."

You are vaguely aware that you've drawn closer, a hapless moth, fluttering closer to a consuming flame.

"And are you at such a point now? You can really think of yourself?"

He huffs a soft laugh, eye traveling slowly, softly over your hair, your face, your lips.

"Yes. Yes, I think I can. If you choose to forgive me, maybe I can accompany you on your walk now?"

******

It is not the only time he walks with you. Nanami starts to visit again, regularly, but not just for yoga and exercises. Many of his visits are social, calling on you with a small gift of some edible treat or other that he'd discovered.

He tells you that he has started working at the Tech again, but in a purely advisory capacity, holding special seminars for younger sorcerers on the dynamics of co-operative missions, prioritizing the safety of oneself and teammates, strategy and appropriate preparation before missions.

He watches each young face that peers earnestly at him from the audience and feels a sense of peace, that he is doing all that he can to help them survive the harsh world that awaits. He is also liaising with various counseling services, trying to build a solid foundation for sorcerers who require emotional and psychological support.

You listen to each of his endeavours with delight, especially when he asks if you are willing to be part of this new co-ordinated team, bringing your area of specialty to the table.

Other times, you sit on the balcony with him, watching the ebb and flow of humanity in the city below, your bubble of tranquility untouched. These times are the most precious to you, because that is when Nanami's shoulders ease, when the lines at the corners his eyes deepen with merriment, when he tells you stories of places he's visited, people he's come across, anecdotes from his days as a salaryman and the latest exploits of the students.

There are times when he leans in close, when your breath halts at the verdant, warm, masculine scent of him. There are times when you pass him a steaming glass and your fingers brush the ends of his, and you notice that he always takes off his glove when he sits with you. Sometimes you stand, side by side on the balcony, your upper arm pressed slightly against his, revelling in the sweet, solid proximity of him.

It is one one of those occasions that you turn to him, to point out a new store that has opened not far away, and you see that he is watching you. There is no shame in his glance, only a gentle wonder that weaves a golden bridge between the both of you. Your voice is soft, reverent.

"What is it?"

"I'm remembering the first time I saw you dance."

"Oh?"

"You were teaching a class, as I recall. I remember standing by the door, watching, and some time later, your eyes were on me. And I realized that I couldn't remember anything that had happened in between."

He reaches for you, the glove absent, and you lean into his touch without hesitation. His fingers are light, so light, as they trace across your temple, your cheek, the corner of your lips.

"And ... during our second session, when you held me, I knew that I couldn't continue like this. That you were using the strength of your soul to heal mine, and that if I didn't do my best to understand what you had shown me, then all your effort would have been for nothing. I couldn't accept that."

Your forehead finds purchase against his, a natural movement that echoes the press of your palm against the substantiality of his chest.

"And now?"

"Now ... I can walk beside you in the sun."

The taste of his mouth is a nectar you've never known you've craved. It is heady, a fiery joining of soft and rough, the edges of the scar tissue tracing along your lips like the light drag of a fingernail.

You open your arms to him once more, and this time, he stays.

(VII)

Thillana: Revivification

After learning the soul, learning the body is as natural as breathing. You were hesitant about touching him, wondering how much he'd allow after his injuries. You needn't have worried much on that account. As much as he makes your heart flutter and sing with his praises, with his eager, gentle touches, with the growing harshness of his lips against yours, all that he seems concerned with is how to use his body best to bring pleasure to yours.

You have seen the barest desolation of his soul, and its healing, and the damage to his body means as little to both of you as the muted rush of traffic outside your small apartment.

His urgency is sweetened by the clumsy tug and pull on zips and fastenings, on the shedding of clothes, the soft exhales, painting skin with warm moisture in between the frantic pace of your lips and his.

His hands are so large, spanning your ribcage as you lead him to your bed, circling and finding purchase on the dip of your waist. His body is a moving furnace that warms you as you stumble and clutch at each other, the ripple of muscle like an unseen beast beneath the waves as your palms explore his shoulders, arms, torso, hips.

Kento's skin is a map of hidden treasures, the smooth, tawny, gold- flecked expanse of chest meeting the ridges of scar tissue halfway across. The new growth of white hair on his scalp is downy soft between your fingers, in contrast to the silky texture on the right. His powerful thighs slide between yours, the forward thrust of his hips spreading you open to receive his weight.

He is not forceful, and yet, takes the reigns of your intimate dance almost as if by instinct. He pauses above you, propped on his hands, chest heaving slightly as he takes you in, his amber-shot gaze misty with adoration and lust. You reach up,  tracing the firm line of his nose, the sharpness of his jaw, the sinew of his neck. Every new angle you spy reveals more, that elusive, predatory beauty that never fails to enchant you.

His head dips, the blonde strands falling forward softly against your skin as he kisses a line of fire down your torso, quickening your breathing as his tongue flickers against your flesh. He holds you down, pressing you firmly into the mattress as he worships each breast, lapping, suckling, savouring.

He moves further down, and your sharp breathing devolves into whispered pleas and whimpers as he nudges your inner thigh softly with his nose. So deliriously slow, so decisive, as in every action he takes, he devours his way to the apex of your thighs, sliding his hands underneath you as you lift your hips and present yourself further to him.

The feast he has been waiting for lies open beneath his gently probing fingers, their honey smearing over his lips as he tastes you, eye snapping up as a breathy moan escapes your lips. He laps at you with heady abandon, that smoky, devoted gaze never leaving the contortions of your face as he brings you to each hard-won peak, drifting you back down to a mellow lake of blinding pleasure.

Your fingers slide and catch on his shoulders, anchoring yourself as blood thunders in your ears, and a rising storm, electric and charged with fresh potency, builds at every ultra-sensitive point of contact. He is your passionate guide, leading you to a shining horizon, familiar and yet fraught with the overwhelming knowledge that he is the one who pulls you over the edge of the thundering waterfall.

You are submerged, the shake of your limbs and the hoarse cry of your voice reaching up from beneath the surface your senses have yet to emerge from. When they do, you glance down at him, past your heaving chest, at the blaze that roars within him as he beholds you splayed out, breathless; an offering.

He takes it.

The slow crawl of his skin, sliding against your damp flesh, the brief touch of his mouth at the hollow of your throat, the brush of his nose against yours. He takes your lips in a soft request for entry, groans into your mouth as you trace the ridges of his spine. 

Kento is almost too much for you, the burning vitality that steals your breath, the fullness of your arms as they embrace all of him. The air rushes out of your lungs as the hardened press of his length breaches you, fills you to overflowing.

He holds you close, so close, as if he could meld your bodies as you had once done with your cursed energy, ragged puffs of air escaping his lips to collect like clouds in the evening sky of your hair. His movements are slow, dragging tears from the corners of your eyes, drunk and blissful moans cocooned within the slowly rotating vessel of your lovemaking.

You are at sea with him, around him, washing over his starving self and nourishing his spirit with every slick press of your bodies together, every arch of your back, every trace of his scarred skin, every gentle touch of your lips to his brow, cheek, mouth. He is now taking as well as giving, rolling his hips hard into the widening harbour of your thighs, soft grunt and pants deepening in their urgency.

The unfolding within you is different, completely out of your control. A wild, reckless dance, the rhythm ever-changing, golden threads running like molten metal between the undulations of your bodies. The flower of your combined desire unfurls, petal by petal, each dropping to the floor as new layers of delight and abandon are reached.

The bed creaks beneath the weighted push of his thrusts, his hands flying to your cheeks as your cries grow louder, louder, raspy and choked. This is the true face of passion, the complete submission to the will of your lover, the way you take all that he gifts you with and reciprocate with the finest nectar that slides from the deepest parts of you, soaking the sheets beneath you.

It is here, it is here in the glazed film of his eye beneath dusky lashes, the sweat between his body and yours, the heat that stretches on and on to an infinity within your knowing and snaps-

Washing over his ears in your sharp scream of release, in the wanton covering of his mouth with yours, the ecstasy of a thousand fluttering birds within the cage of your ribs. This time, the gentle ripple of your tide pulls him forward over the edge, his deep groan of guttural satisfaction reverberating through your whole body as his hips stutter and still their frantic pace.

You lie with him, afterwards, limbs entangled, aware only of the shift of his nose against your collarbone, the tightening of his arms around you, the way you wrap yourself around his form, as if to shield him, just for a moment, from the world he has been born into.

Kento. 

Brightness, shadow, mellow and hard-edged, the loveliness of everything in-between. 

Yours.

How can you ever call it anything other than love?

(VII) 

Mangalam: Gratitude

To be in Kento's presence is to discover a thousand tiny precious shards, hidden in the silken folds of your changing life, piecing them together to form a diamond of unparalleled value.

He is quiet, stubborn, brave, resilient, mischievous and agile of mind. He challenges your thoughts on the jujutsu world, brings summer to your heart and draws you into the sunshine of his embrace. The fractured nature of his soul is not one that can be undone, but weeds (hardy and weathered) have grown through the cracks and your own flowerbed finds a home there, gently blossoming.

You are reminded of every richness he has brought into your life on one summer night, in the aftermath of a taxing mission for some of the students, when he meets them for supper and a discussion of what had occurred.

This time, Megumi is also present, and he reminds you a little of Kento as he watches Yuuji's animated re-enactment of the battle, rolling his eyes at obvious embellishments, adding a solemn word now and then. Kento leans forward on his elbows, listening attentively, as always.

When Yuuji is finished, Kento sits back, contemplatively sipping his coffee.

"What you've described is certainly concerning. I'd take this information up with the research committee as soon as you've filed your report. They may want to know details like that."

Yuuji nodded fervently.

"Already on it. I've been looking it up and there was a similar surge in cursed energy in Okinawa a few years ago. Pretty much leveled a small village. I'm not taking any chances with this one. I've texted Ijichi about sealing technique specialists and requested a team to map out energy signatures in the surrounding area. Anything I may have missed?"

You take note of the small smile that graces Kento's face, the pride that spills out along its sharply defined edges.

"No. You've done well, Yuuji. It's exactly what I would have done under those circumstances."

"Oh?"

Yuuji's surprised expression quickly morphs to something else, a deepening realization that silences him and brings a tight, tender quality to the set of his mouth.

Kento has called him by his first name.

********

On the slow stroll back to your home, you link your arm with his. The night sky is flecked with faint stars, unusual to see in the normally smog-laden sky over the city. You speak into the comfortable silence.

"Yuuji handled that well."

"He's a born leader. I've always thought so. He has the confidence and drive to be the strongest, not just in technique. Not to mention the magnitude of what he's already accomplished."

He pauses, one finger idly tracing over his eyepatch.

"I noticed it on our first mission together. He was not just a young sorcerer, going through the motions, trying to survive. He genuinely felt for the victims of the curse. It ... reminded me of Haibara, a little."

He gives your hand a small reassuring pat.

"Not that I've ever confused the two. They're fundamentally different. But Yuuji ... Yuuji had a light inside of him. He made me take note. He made me see him, and his spirit."

Your fingers entwine with his, tugging his hand up to your lips.

"Your spirit is quite marvellous too, you know."

He eyes you sideways, slyly.

"It is?"

"Of course."

"Would you like to elaborate?"

"Fishing for compliments, are we?"

"From your lovely tongue, always."

Your laughter echoes in the silent street, stretching out along the sidewalk, shimmering in the puddles that had formed after the rain.

"You are beautiful, Nanami Kento, and you're- "

You never finish that sentence, as his hands draw you closer, his lips finding yours in the glow of the street lamp. In that moment, you can think of nothing else apart from the man who strides with quiet confidence beside you, on every conceivable path to an unknown future.

He is a red-painted center, kindling in the palm of your hand, the tiger that inhabits the secret garden of your heart, the flame in a gilded brazier that never goes out. 

************

[hashtagloveloses]

i still can’t get over how yuta’s fake reason for going after yuji is that sukuna cut off toge’s arm. not “he killed all those people” no the “believable reason” he gives the higher-ups for being down to kill yuji is that he supposedly harmed TOGE.

[rennebright]

渋谷凛生誕祭2024 by ヒアル [Twitter/X] ※Illustration shared with permission from the artist. If you like this artwork please support the artist by visiting the source.

[actuallysaiyan]

Then You'll Make Him Happy(Scarred!Nanami Kento x Fem!Reader)

warnings: dark themes, yandere, breast play/nipple play, biting, marking, jealousy, paranoia, JJK spoilers, Yandere!Nanami, unprotected sex, creampie, rough oral sex(male!receiving), seriously dark content!!! word count: 2.2k pairings: Scarred!Nanami Kento x Fem!Reader summary: you arrive home late one night after Ijichi drives you home, and Kento has been spiralling. don't worry, he gives you the chance to prove to him how loyal and devoted you are! a/n: Scarred Nanami part 2! Sort of a sequel to this! Also a request for the wonderful scarred Nanami anon! art credits for the banner here

Dividers by @adornedwithlight

Taglist: @beneathstarryskies, @an-ever-angry-bi, @seireiteihellbutterfly @adharadotcom,

@heyitsd1yaa, @darkstarlight82, @melisuh123, @galactict3a,

@erebus-et-eigengrau, @aomi04, @isabelzoldyck, @cinnamon-girl-writes,

@felixmr, @typicalemo, @entirelysein-e,

@urfavmars24, @animediplomat, @menag-etroix,

@shycoconutt, @_thecoochirgirls,

@emmaiscool22, @ambiguouslady42, @mx-saph

After the Shibuya Incident, Kento wasn’t the same man. Through many sessions of physical and mental therapy, he became a bit more of the man you knew and loved over time. But there were still parts of him that would just never be the same.

The left side of his body didn’t function quite the same. His left eye didn’t have vision back, so it was a blur of shadows and lights and colors. His left leg would limp on particularly bad days, and most days he walked with a cane if he wasn’t completely bedridden. And the thing that affected him the most was the fact that he could finally be with you the way he wanted to.

Except you worried him. You always worried him. You had stayed to work at Jujutsu Tech to become a manager and a part time teacher. You often worked very late shifts. Kento disliked the fact that you thought you had to work this much.

Tonight was a night like the others. But for some reason, he had it in his mind that you weren’t coming back. He always seemed to spiral like this lately. He had been taking his medication, but the thoughts always came back. 

The thought of you leaving him for someone younger…more capable…less disabled. It hurt him to think these thoughts, but he just can’t seem to dispel them tonight. Despite your pleas for him to stop drinking, he decides it’s a good night to have a glass of whiskey.

It burns in his throat as he tries his best to push away all those thoughts of you leaving him. Tears sting his eyes when he thinks about you out with some other man. Someone younger and more capable, someone who could dance with you and fuck you better. Someone in the peak of their life. Not someone broken and discarded like him.

As the car pulls up to your apartment building, you thank Ijichi a million times over. Despite his close call in Shibuya, it was thanks to your husband that he actually ended up making it out alive. So for Ijichi, driving you home on the nights that he wanted to allow Nanami to rest more, it was nothing. This was just another way for Ijichi to thank his friend who saved him.

The minute you get inside, Nanami stands up so fast from his seat, you swear you haven’t seen him this stable on his two feet since before the incident. You try to help him back to sit, but he’s quick to push you up against the wall. You smell the whiskey on his breath.

“Who is it this time, huh? I bet he’s pretty cute. Does he fuck you just as good as me?”

Tears sting your eyes and you shake your head. You try to caress Nanami’s face, but he’s so quick to push you against the wall even more. He’s not wearing his eyepatch, which makes him look even more menacing.

“Are you going to answer my question, darling?”

You moan, “N-no! It’s ridiculous! How can I show you my devotion?”

Nanami snarls and he pushes himself off of you. He wants to believe you. But he saw you coming out of a car with a man in the driver’s seat. In his fit of rage, he didn’t quite make out that it was his good friend Ijichi.

“Who drove you home? Are you fucking him?!” Nanami asks.

“It was Ijichi-san! He wanted you to rest. This is why he drove me home.”

Nanami looks at you, trying to decide if you’re telling him the truth or not. Then he comes over to you, his hands gripping your blouse.

“If you’re devoted to me, then you’ll have to show it. Prove it to me. Prove to me that you haven’t lost interest in me,” His words are so dark and powerful.

You squeal the minute he rips your blouse open. Your cheeks burn as you realize the underwear you’re wearing under it. It’s a lacy, silky little thing. With you working so much lately, you haven’t been able to get on top of the laundry. So you found yourself with the decision to either go commando at work or wear the cute lingerie set you bought to surprise Kento so many months ago.

“What the fuck is this?! Why are you fucking wearing this?!”

You whine, “I-I didn’t have anything else to wear! I haven’t been able to do the laundry.”

He pushes you up against the wall, his lips pressing down on yours hungrily and in a possessive way. Kento desperately wants to believe you because he doesn’t want to believe the opposite. The thought of you wearing this cute and sexy lingerie set for someone else makes his blood boil. When he pulls away, you’re almost out of breath.

“Get into the bedroom. Strip your clothes.”

You do as you’re told. You make a beeline for the bedroom, opening the door and removing your ruined blouse. Nanami follows you, limping slightly. He watches as you strip for him. You were going to prove just how devoted you are.

“On your fucking knees. Keep those stockings on.”

The command makes you shudder from head to toe. With your blouse off and skirt resting at your feet, you’re left in only your stockings and garter belt. Nanami begins to palm at his erection as you get on your knees. The way you look up at him like he hung the stars in the sky for you, it’s making him throb in his pants.

“Are you my good girl?” He asks, grabbing your hair.

“Yes. yes I am. I’m your good girl.”

He loves the way you’re reacting to this. It’s exactly how he wanted it to go. But damn, those thoughts had very clearly clouded his logic. With his free hand, he unzips his pants and releases his heavy cock from the confines of his pants. He pumps his cock a few times, making it dribble precum.

“Suck.”

Just one word and it has need pooling deep inside of you. You open your mouth; saliva is already drooling out. Nanami loves seeing you so needy for cock like this. He thrusts into your mouth, making you gasp. You nearly choke on his length. His hips begin pumping and he holds you by your hair.

“Be a good girl. Suck daddy’s cock.”

He looks down at you. His eyes are dark. Especially the injured one. It’s always dark, but this time it’s even darker. You try to keep eye contact with him. It’s just too tough to do so. You’re trying to breathe and trying not to choke. The way you tremble under his gaze makes Nanami throb in your mouth.

His hips begin to snap as he fucks himself down your throat. You sputter and cough as you do everything you can to adjust to this rough sex. Your eyes are almost pleading for him to slow down, but you know you want to make your husband feel so loved.

Finally he pulls out and he uses the tip to tap your lips. He smears saliva and precum all over your face. Kento smirks at the mess of your mouth and face. He then releases you.

“I can see you’re still devoted to me.”

He helps you onto the bed, spreading your legs. His hands linger on your thighs, feeling the soft nylon of your thigh-highs. He leans in to kiss you hungrily, reveling in the way you taste of his cock and his precum. It’s so intoxicating to taste himself on your lips. He’s the only man you’ll ever treasure forever.

“You can be a good girl, huh?”

You nod your head eagerly. “Y-yes daddy.”

He smirks when he hears that word coming from you now. Kento leans in to kiss you hungrily again. He shoves his tongue into your mouth, penetrating your lips. You two make out for a few minutes. He loves the way your hips buck up to meet his.

Then his lips trail down your chin, down your jaw and to your neck. You cry out when he nips at your neck. He sucks on the skin for a few seconds, leaving a dark red mark. He then licks the mark, making you shiver.

“You’re mine,” he says as he slams his lips against yours. “Mine.”

Your fingers tangle in his hair as he kisses a trail down from your neck to your breasts. He licks softly at one of your nipples. Then he kisses the other. You sigh happily as he’s becoming a bit more soft with you. Then he bites down on your breast, making you gasp and whine.

“K-Ken…”

He looks up at you with sheer possessiveness in his eyes. He bites down a little harder, almost drawing blood. Then he begins to lavish your breasts in kisses, praising you for being so good to him.

“My angel…oh my angel.”

Then he spreads your thighs. Kento gets on his stomach and begins to lap at you like you are the only thing he ever wants to taste for the rest of his life. The moans and whimpers that are ripped from your mouth as he suckles and licks your clit are downright pathetic. You’re shuddering and thighs are clenching as he works you fast to the most earth shattering orgasm.

“Cumming! Cumming!”

He doesn’t need to hear more. You could easily suffocate him between your thighs and he’d die a happy man. Kento loves being able to make you cum so hard you nearly pass out. He looks up at you, loving the way your eyes are so rolled back he can only see the whites of your eyes.

Your release is intense. You desperately try to breathe, but all the air feels like it’s being knocked out of your lungs. Kento’s name is on your lips as your thighs clench and your cunt pulses around nothing. Nanami plunges his tongue into your hole; he’s eager to taste your nectar.

With you trembling and whimpering, he knows you’re ready for the next part. He grasps his cock, slapping your clit with it.

“Tell me,” Kento’s voice is deep. “Tell me who you fucking belong to. Who does this pussy belong to?”

You whine as you feel the tip of his cock slapping against your swollen clit. “I belong to you!”

He grips both your breasts, making you whine as his fingers dig into the previous bite mark. He loves hearing you whine just for him. It’s one of the sexiest sounds he’s ever heard. Kento dips down to suckle on your nipples, going from one to the other.

“I think I need to fuck a baby into you. Then you’ll stay for sure.”

The words make your stomach do flips. You know he’s been talking about this a lot since the two of you have rekindled your intimacy since the incident. Kento growls as he continues to suck on your nipples.

“Imagine how full your tits will be. You’ll let daddy suck on them, yeah? Save a little milk just for me?”

You look down at him and you notice how his expression has changed. His eyes are softer as he suckles on your nipples. You caress his face, making him whimper softly.

“Wanna get you knocked up.”

This is when he changes his expression once more. It’s dark and needy once more. Demanding and possessive. He spreads your legs, spitting on your already soaked cunt and shoves his cock into you. You gasp and try to reach for him, but Kento decides to intertwine your fingers together as he snaps his hips.

“I love you,” he growls in your ear. “I’m gonna knock you up. Make you a mommy,”

Your legs wrap around him, pulling him even deeper. With every thrust, he’s pushed even closer to the edge. He has to rest himself on your chest to try and ground himself. The fluttering and pulsing of your walls is proving to be almost too overwhelming. Every breath is shaky as he tries to desperately stabilize himself.

“G-gonna fucking cum inside you. Let daddy cum inside you.”

Another moan is ripped from you as Kento releases your hands and he grabs onto your hips. He slams himself into you harder, deeper and faster. Sweat slicks your skin, leaving a sheen on his marblesque body. You’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as him, even with his scars. 

“Cum inside me,”

Your words surprise him, but they please him. He brings one of his hands to your face, his thumb sliding into your mouth. You suck on it eagerly, making him throb and twitch inside you. Then he slides his hand back down to between your thighs, rubbing your clit.

“Cum with me. Please, cum with me!”

It takes so little effort for him to send you careening over the edge. A loud moan erupts from your lips, and the pulsing of your silky walls pushes Kento into his own release. He whines loudly with every sticky thrust that sends his cum even deeper inside of you.

And then everything comes down slowly. Kento slumps against you, and you’re quick to begin playing with his hair and gently rubbing his back. He sighs happily and then he looks up at you.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Shhh…don’t think about it just right now. We can deal with this together in the morning, okay?”

Kento smiles, “I’m going to make an appointment with my therapist tomorrow,”

You kiss his forehead, proud of him for overcoming something like that. Though you wonder…you really did enjoy him being possessive with you like that.

[gojuo]

[neo--queen--serenity]

AGAIN I AM SAYING how much I fucking notice Gojou’s influence on Megumi

Megumi scarcely ever mentions that this hooligan raised him, then he subconsciously emulates him over and over when Gojou’s no longer there to take the lead.

[epickiya722]

And if I just cried forever?

OH, SO WE STARTING OFF THE EPISODE LIKE THIS, HUH?!

[basicwildgal]

I WAS born in the wrong generation bc my ass should've been in the clubs in shibuya during the gyaru boom dancing to ayu, kumi koda, namie amuro, double and every other queen that was releasing bangers back then

[fan-of-chaos]

They are so sick for this...

Geto reflected in Gojo's eyes.

Something something, Gojo always and forever having his eyes fixed on Geto, something something.