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thefemmefatalexo · 4 days ago

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Sukuna SMAU - A Study in Breaking

Chapter 3 - Circles

Summary: You dated him once. Six months before it ended in a single message. Sukuna changed after that—cold turned cruel, distant turned violent. Now, three years later, you share a campus. He fights. You keep quiet. You don’t speak, but you see each other. Then his brother disappears. And everything you’ve tried to keep buried begins to shift. Because you know things. And he’s willing to tear through anyone to get them. Even you.

cw: emotional and psychological abuse, abusive family dynamics, drug related content, violence and threats, kidnapping, stalking, depression, toxic relationships, underage drinking

an: I don’t have anything to say or announce for once soooo enjoy! SMOOCHES 💋💋💋

{chapter 2} ; {next}

taglist: @idontwannatalkrn1 @heartwoundd @linny-bloggs @tqd4455 @el-lise @loveyislost @kyo-kyo1 @wiserebelpartypie @prisvvner @love-me-satoru @food8me @j311yf1shk1tty @mxchiii @gojocumslut @maomimii @mirk0-maniac @shycreatorreview @scarletssecrettt @prized-jules @donotspeakunlessyouarenamjoon @urluvjaniii

You don’t hear from Sukuna again.

Not the next day. Not the one after that.

He said what he needed to say — violently, efficiently — and then he disappeared back into whatever bloodstained corner he came from.

You’re not surprised.

What surprises you is how much it still gets to you. How much your hands still ache from holding your phone too tight. How much you hated the way he spoke to you — and hated the fact that none of it felt new.

You’ve heard worse.

Just never from someone who used to touch you like you were something other than a quick distraction.

But that was three years ago. You’re not that girl anymore.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself when you’re stepping out into the wind at 9:00 p.m., hoodie up, bag strapped across your chest, and a location pinged to your burner.

It’s not a big job tonight. You’re just picking something up. A small hand-off in an alley behind a hardware store, halfway between student housing and a rundown 7/11. The guy waiting there doesn’t say your name. You don’t say his. You exchange a folded envelope for a slim black box. He doesn’t smile. Neither do you.

This is what your life looks like now — dangerous, quiet, fast.

You’ve learned not to linger. Not to talk too much. Not to look like you’re interested in anything other than getting out clean.

But tonight’s off. You feel it in your ribs before you see it.

A car rolls past. Slows. Keeps going.

Nothing new.

But then a girl stumbles out of the store behind you — drunk, loud, someone’s name falling off her lips like she forgot how to speak in coherent sentences — and for a split second, whoever’s watching gets a longer look at your face than they should’ve.

It’s small. But it’s enough.

You pull your hood lower, take a different route home. Your fingers are cold by the time you reach your building. Your door unlocks faster than usual.

You don’t get scared easily. Not anymore.

But you do get careful. And right now, something’s telling you to pay attention.

You check your burner. No new messages.

Not from Sukuna.

Not from Maruo.

Not from anyone.

The quiet should feel like peace.

Instead, it feels like a held breath waiting to snap.

You don’t go straight to your room.

You never do.

Your parents are still up — you can hear the hum of the TV from their bedroom, low and steady like it’s more for them than the screen. If you walk in now, they’ll notice the door, the creak of the floor, the scent of weed on your jacket. They’ll ask where you were. They always ask.

So you wait.

You go into the bathroom, run the sink just loud enough. Brush your teeth slowly. Let your reflection settle in.

You don’t look like someone who just handed off product behind a hardware store.

You look like a tired college girl with nothing to hide.

You count to sixty three, then you walk to your room. Quiet. Straight-backed. Careful not to let the door click when you close it.

Lights off. Shoes off. Burner phone in the shoebox under your bed, screen down.

You plug in your regular phone like nothing’s wrong.

This is the routine. This is what your life looks like now — small, practiced movements stitched together by silence.

You lie down. Your muscles don’t relax. They never do.

And then the burner buzzes.

You freeze.

One buzz. Then two. Then the screen lights up: Anonymous Caller.

You sit up slowly, heart ticking harder, and answer.

“Yeah?”

There’s a brief pause — not static, not silence. Just a presence.

Then:

“You’ve been quiet.”

Maruo’s voice is dry, clipped, too smooth to ever sound like a threat. But everything in it is calculated. Cold.

“You told me to be,” you say.

“That I did.”

“Still, I like to know where my people are.”

You don’t respond to that. He doesn’t expect you to.

“Got something bigger than usual,” he says.

“Not a pickup. A carry. Long-distance. You’d be moving weight.”

You feel your jaw tighten.

He waits.

“How much?”

“Enough to make the past few months look like tips.”

“And the risk?”

“Higher than usual. But you’re good at not getting noticed, aren’t you?”

You don’t answer that either. You already know this is a test — not just of loyalty, but of usefulness. Of control.

“I need an answer by tomorrow,” he says.

“And if I say no?”

“Then I start calling other names. And yours gets a little easier to forget.”

You let the silence stretch.

“Alright,” you say finally.

“I’ll think about it.”

“I expect better than that.”

He hangs up.

The screen goes dark.

You put the phone back in the box, then lie there in the dark, eyes open, pulse steady. Not afraid. Not exactly.

But you can feel it now — the walls shifting. The weight of being known by people who only speak when they need something.

And no one ever needs something small.

———

Sukuna hasn’t slept since the night Yuji disappeared.

Not really. He dozes in bursts — head tilted back in the driver’s seat, fingers curled around the steering wheel, one ear always open for footsteps that never come. He’s been to every alley you mentioned. Twice. The third time, someone pulled a knife. It didn’t go well for them.

Yuji’s name isn’t on any hospital logs.

No arrests. No calls. No body.

That’s the only reason Sukuna’s still functioning.

But there’s something about the silence that makes it worse. Like Yuji vanished too cleanly — like whoever took him doesn’t need to send a message, because they already know no one’s going to come close.

Sukuna’s not good with helpless. He never has been.

He breaks things. That’s always been his method.

Break enough bones, bruise enough faces, someone talks. Someone folds.

It’s worked before. It’s not working now.

He drives without knowing where he’s going. Headlights cutting through the wet black of downtown. One of Yuji’s Taido trophies is still in the trunk. Sukuna found it stuffed under his bed. The idea of it collecting dust pissed him off, so he took it.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do with it. He just needed it out of the house.

Home is a joke anyway.

The only time his father speaks is to bark orders or throw a plate at the wall — whichever lands faster. His mother’s barely there — a shadow at the table, hands too thin, eyes too glazed to notice anything’s wrong.

And it’s always been like that.

Sukuna learned early: the louder you are, the more space you take up, the harder it is to get stepped on. So he got louder. Sharper. Meaner.

By twelve, he had a broken nose and a locked jaw. By fourteen, he was already fighting in the back lots behind gyms no one checked IDs for. By sixteen, he knew how to pull someone’s shoulder out of place without blinking.

No one touched Yuji. That was the deal.

He didn’t let anyone touch Yuji.

But he wasn’t watching that night.

And now Yuji is gone.

He thinks of the girl — of you — and how calm you were. Like you knew how close the fire was getting and just stood still anyway. It should’ve impressed him.

Instead, it pissed him off.

You’ve always been like that. Quiet, careful, stupidly composed. Acting like you’re not afraid of anything, even when your world is crumbling at the edges. Like you’re already used to it. Like pain is just wallpaper.

He hates that he remembers what your voice sounds like when you’re scared. Hates that you didn’t talk back when he called you a bitch.

Hates that you might’ve been right — that maybe Yuji was five feet away and he just didn’t look up.

Sukuna digs his nails into the steering wheel until the leather creaks.

He doesn’t feel guilt. He doesn’t have space for guilt.

Only pressure. Only fire.

And someone out there is going to feel all of it.

The phone rings once.

He answers on the second, jaw already tight.

“What.”

Uraume’s voice is quiet, dry.

“Didn’t think you’d pick up.”

“Then don’t call unless you have something.”

“That’s the thing,” they say, lighting a cigarette on the other end. “I do.”

He’s in his car. Same alley. Same parking spot. Hands on the wheel, engine running for no reason other than to keep him from sitting still.

“Go on,” he mutters.

“Rin’s name came up.”

The silence after that is short — sharp — but it feels heavier than a scream.

“Where?” Sukuna asks.

“No one says shit outright when it’s him. But I’ve been listening. People are skittish. Jumpy. Like they know someone crossed a line.”

“That’s not confirmation.”

“No. But it’s the first thing that makes sense.”

Sukuna doesn’t respond. His teeth press against the inside of his cheek.

“You know what Rin does to people when he’s bored,” Uraume adds.

“I know.”

Another beat passes.

“Then you know your window’s closing.”

Sukuna taps his thumb against the steering wheel. The sound is barely audible, but it’s the closest he comes to restraint.

“And?”

“Y/N.”

He shuts his eyes for a second. Just one.

“What about her.”

“She saw Yuji leave. She’s the only one who paid attention.”

“I asked. She gave me nothing.”

“Ask again.”

“You think she’s hiding something?”

“No,” Uraume says. “I think she knows how to survive in this scene, and part of that means not running your mouth. Even if she saw something, she won’t bring it up unless someone makes her.”

Sukuna scoffs quietly.

“She’s not exactly hard to corner.”

“But she doesn’t react the way most people do around you. You know that.”

“Doesn’t mean she’s special,” he mutters. “She’s just good at pretending.”

“She’s better at this than you give her credit for.”

“She’s soft,” he snaps. “She plays tough, but the second she feels pressure she shuts down.”

“Then press the right way.”

“And do what? Scare her until she cries?”

“You won’t lay a hand on her. You never have. That’s not what this is.”

Sukuna doesn’t argue.

“You’re violent, Sukuna,” Uraume says flatly. “But not with her. Never with women. So use your head.”

“I’ve got better things to do than beg some burnout for scraps of info.”

“No, you don’t.”

Another pause. Longer this time. His jaw flexes.

“You have no leads. No faces. Just Y/N.”

“She doesn’t want to help me.”

“She doesn’t have to want to.”

Sukuna looks out through the windshield. The glass is fogged. The streetlights outside buzz like something’s about to snap.

“She’s not going to talk.”

“Then make her talk. You don’t have to scream at her or beat her up. You just have to ask the right way.”

“You’re overestimating her.”

“And you’re underestimating her,” Uraume shoots back. “She’s still alive, isn’t she? In these parts of the city? Doing what she does? That means she’s useful for something.”

Sukuna’s silence isn’t agreement. But it isn’t denial, either.

“If Rin’s people have Yuji,” Uraume continues, quieter now, “you’re going to need more than fists and broken noses. You’re going to need someone who can move where you can’t.”

“I don’t trust her.”

“You don’t have to. Just use her.”

“And if she says no?”

“Then figure out how to make her say yes.”

He closes his eyes again.

“Don’t break her,” Uraume adds, voice flat. “Not because she’s delicate. But because she might be the last person willing to say anything to you at all.”

There’s a click. The line dies.

Sukuna doesn’t move for a while.

He stares at the phone in his hand. Then he tosses it into the passenger seat and rubs the back of his neck hard, like that’ll take the pressure off.

Y/N.

Always so quiet. Always so hard to read. Always too close to the line.

He didn’t want to deal with you again.

But if you’re in the middle of this — even a little —

he’s not asking.

He’s taking.

#jjk #jjk fanfic #jjk smau #smau #idk how to tag this #college au #jjk x y/n #sukuna x y/n #itadori sukuna #sukuna itadori #ryomen sukuna

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thefemmefatalexo · 6 days ago

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Gojo SMAU - The Art of Falling Fake

Chapter 11 - The Art of Accidental Intimacy

Summary: The campus buzzes with life, but you feel like a shadow slipping through the cracks—unnoticed, unimportant. At home, it’s no better. Your parents dote on your step-sister, the star tennis player, while you’re the afterthought they barely acknowledge. She’s here too, her perfect reputation casting an even bigger shadow over your existence. College was supposed to be your escape, but living at home and walking the same halls as her makes it impossible. Then he shows up—Satoru Gojo, the rich, arrogant engineering major everyone seems to worship. His smug grin and effortless charm are the kind of things you can’t stand, but when a ridiculous twist of fate forces your lives together, you find yourself fake dating the most insufferable man you’ve ever met. It’s just a deal, temporary and harmless—or so you try to convince yourself.

an: Y’all was this too cliche?? LMAOOOO I tried to write it as natural as possible. SMOOCHES 💋 💋💋

{chapter 10 } ; {next}

taglist: @hanakotateyama @sleepykittyenergy @inthedarkshadows000 @byakuya61085 @minzxec @ivydoesit23 @naughteehee @not-aya @bochichi @emlient @gojoprincess @havingnonamesucks @n1vi @linny-bloggs @surethingmoto

You didn’t mean to keep him waiting.

But your winged eyeliner had betrayed you for the third time, and at this point, it was personal.

The doorbell rang just as you were wiping off the right side with the back of your hand, frustrated, cheeks already warm. You heard the low hum of your mom greeting him—not friendly, but not rude either, which was rare.

Then her voice floated up the stairs:

“He can wait in your room. Don’t keep him too long.”

You wanted to scream.

Gojo? In your room? While your hair was still wet and you had concealer under only one eye?

Great.

Meanwhile, Gojo followed your mother down the hallway with the kind of polite, charming smile he reserved for adults who couldn’t stand him. He didn’t miss the way she looked him up and down, arms crossed like she expected to find a reason to dislike him. She didn’t say much. Just opened your door, gestured inside, and gave him a tight-lipped warning:

“Don’t touch anything.”

He smiled at her like a saint. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Then the door clicked shut behind him.

Your room was… warm. Lived-in. Quiet in the way that spoke volumes.

Satoru stood there for a moment, taking it in.

The walls weren’t covered in anything flashy—just a few taped-up photos, notes, postcards. One faded Polaroid of you in the back corner of a class photo. You couldn’t have been more than seven. You had crooked bangs and a scraped-up knee, and you were smiling so hard it made him smile, too.

He stepped further inside, hands in his hoodie pockets, eyes drifting over the shelves.

A tiny, lopsided ceramic frog sat next to your books. Homemade. Painted badly.

He grinned.

There was a charm to it all. A kind of quiet personality you didn’t show out loud. Stickers on your mirror. A jar of mismatched earrings. A sketchpad tucked between a stack of textbooks. Your bed wasn’t even made properly—one corner of the blanket folded over itself like you’d run out of time.

He could almost hear your voice in here. He could feel the version of you that existed before the world asked you to hide it.

But then there were… other details.

Your stepsister’s trophies lined the wall outside your door. Satoru had passed them on the way in—framed photos of Brielle in tennis skirts, standing next to someone else’s idea of perfection.

There wasn’t a single picture of you downstairs.

Not even in the hallway.

And now that he thought about it, your mother hadn’t asked him if he wanted water. She hadn’t smiled once. She hadn’t said anything kind about you—not “She’ll be down soon,” not “She’s excited.” Nothing.

Gojo moved to your desk. His eyes landed on something partially tucked under your lamp.

A list. Handwritten. Folded once, then opened again. Messy, not meant to be read.

He didn’t read it.

But he saw the title at the top.

“Things I Need to Be Better At.”

His chest tightened.

He looked away.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs made him straighten. He was already halfway back to the center of the room when the door creaked open and you peeked in, eyes wary.

“Sorry—” you started, stepping in fully. “My mom told me she let you in, I wasn’t even ready yet, I—”

You stopped.

He was smiling. Soft. The kind of smile that made you feel like your walls were glass.

“What?” you asked.

He shrugged, still looking around. “You have a nice room.”

You scoffed, tugging at the hem of your sweater. “You’re clearly lying.”

“I’m not,” he said. “It’s… very you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What does that mean?”

He leaned a shoulder against your wall, grin returning. “It means I like it here.”

You swallowed hard.

Because somehow, it didn’t feel like he was talking about your room anymore.

You’d just finished the last swipe of lipstick when you heard the knock. Before you could answer, the door swung open without an invitation.

Brielle leaned against the frame like she was posing for a sportswear ad, hair in its perfect tennis-ponytail, smirk already in place.

“Oh,” she said, dragging her eyes over your outfit. “That’s… bold.”

You kept your tone even. “Thanks.”

“I mean,” she continued, tilting her head, “you could wear something more flattering for your body type, but I guess that’s your choice.”

You felt your jaw tense, a hundred comebacks bubbling up — but you didn’t get the chance to use any of them.

Because from behind you, leaning casually against the wall, Satoru said:

“Oh, I think it’s flattering.”

Brielle’s eyes flicked to him.

And he smiled — lazy, almost too sweet, like he was about to say something polite. Except he didn’t.

“In fact,” he went on, gaze dropping briefly to your legs and then back up to your face, “if she wears that at my place tonight, we’re not getting any cooking done.”

You froze.

Brielle’s smirk faltered for the first time all evening. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah,” he said easily, like he was talking about the weather. “See, I had this whole pasta-making thing planned. But then she walks out like this, and suddenly I’m thinking… maybe we skip straight to dessert.”

Your cheeks burned so hot you were sure you could fry an egg on them. “Satoru—”

“What?” He blinked at you innocently, but there was nothing innocent in the grin tugging at his mouth. “You do look edible, sweetheart. I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.”

Brielle’s face was somewhere between disgust and disbelief. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, clearly not prepared to spar with that.

Satoru tilted his head toward the door. “We should get going, babe. Don’t wanna waste the outfit.”

You grabbed your bag, muttering something under your breath as he held the door for you.

As you passed Brielle, you caught the quick flash of irritation in her eyes — the way she watched him lean down to murmur something low in your ear, loud enough for her to hear the final word: “delicious.”

You didn’t look back.

⸻

You weren’t even fully in the car before Gojo was already talking.

Not about anything important—just a running commentary on the weather, your street, and how he’d “heroically” dodged three cyclists to get to your house on time.

“Truly the most dangerous mission I’ve ever undertaken,” he said, pulling out of your driveway like it was a getaway.

You snorted. “You’ve probably been in more dangerous situations than biking commuters.”

“Yeah, but those don’t mess up my paint job,” he shot back. “Priorities.”

The conversation naturally slid toward school. Midterms were looming like a dark cloud.

“You finish that Neuropsychology assignment yet?” he asked, eyes still on the road but his tone too casual to be innocent.

You groaned, tilting your head back against the seat. “Don’t remind me. I’ve been staring at the same sentence for three days. I think it’s starting to stare back.”

He smirked. “I would’ve knocked that thing out in one night.”

You side-eyed him. “Yeah, but you’re… you.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, flashing a grin. “Want my help with studying?”

“…Yes.”

The ride passed in comfortable spurts of talk and quiet. He’d point out a ridiculous bumper sticker; you’d make fun of a guy jaywalking like he was in an action movie. It was easy—dangerously easy.

By the time he pulled into the underground garage of his building, you’d almost forgotten that this was supposed to be part of the act.

His apartment was… well. It was very him. Sleek, modern, and expensive without screaming it—floor-to-ceiling windows letting in the city skyline, soft lighting, and furniture that looked like it had been picked out by someone with taste and too much money.

“Shoes off, princess,” he called over his shoulder, toeing his own sneakers off by the door. “This is a no-outside-dirt zone.”

You kicked yours off and followed him into the living room.

The couch was enormous, the kind you could sink into for hours. A low coffee table with an untouched candle, a stack of magazines, and a controller tossed on top told you he did live here—just not the kind of living that left messes.

The tour continued, with Gojo playing the role of overly dramatic realtor.

“Dining table I’ve used exactly once for a dinner party. That’s my office, which is really just where I go to pretend I’m studying when I’m actually watching cat videos. My bedroom is—” he paused to give you a look “—off limits unless you’re ready for a very different kind of night.”

You rolled your eyes and kept walking.

The hallway walls caught your attention immediately. Framed photos lined the space—some clearly recent, others older.

You slowed without meaning to.

There were shots of him with friends: Shoko grinning with a drink in her hand, him holding a ridiculous inflatable prize from a festival, a group selfie with people you didn’t recognize but could tell he cared about.

Then there were the older ones. Satoru as a kid, sandwiched between his parents. His father’s arm around his mother’s shoulders, his mother’s hand resting gently on his head. They looked… happy. The kind of happy that felt far away now.

You smiled faintly before moving to the next frame—

And froze.

Satoru looked younger here, maybe only a few years ago. His hair was a little shorter, his sunglasses hanging from the collar of his shirt. He was mid-laugh, caught in that unguarded way people rarely are in photos.

The man beside him had long, jet-black hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck. He was looking at Satoru like whatever had just been said was the best thing he’d ever heard.

You didn’t know why, but the photo tugged at something in your chest.

You didn’t notice Satoru had stopped until his voice broke the silence. “Kitchen’s this way.”

When you didn’t move, he followed your gaze. His expression shifted—just a flicker, but you caught it.

And then he stepped in, breaking your line of sight and gently steering you toward the kitchen.

It was just as spotless as the rest of the place: white marble counters, stainless steel appliances, a massive island in the middle. It was the kind of kitchen that could be in a magazine—if there was any sign it had ever been used.

“So,” he said suddenly, hopping onto a stool like it was nothing, “you up for being TikTok famous?”

You blinked. “…What?”

“Couple content, babe. We cook, we look disgustingly cute, people eat it up. It’s good for the image.”

He was already pulling his phone from his pocket before you could answer.

Somehow, you agreed.

He propped the phone against a jar of utensils, hit record, and the performance began.

Satoru narrated the process like a cooking show host on too much caffeine. “Step one—look good while chopping vegetables. Step two—steal your girlfriend’s attention so she messes up.”

You flicked water at him. “Step three—don’t bleed on the cutting board.”

The conversation was light, silly. Pineapple on pizza (no, absolutely not), which of you would get kicked out of a cooking competition first (him, obviously), what you’d bring to a desert island (he insisted on sunglasses before food).

But beneath it all, there was a pull.

The way his hand brushed yours when you passed the olive oil. The way his gaze lingered a beat too long when you laughed.

Eventually, you reached over and paused the video.

He cocked a brow. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitated, then said it: “The picture in the hallway. The one with you and the guy with black hair. Who is he?”

The smirk faded.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just looked down at the counter, thumb tapping lightly against the wood.

Finally, he exhaled. “That’s… Suguru. He’s my-… He was my best friend.”

Your voice was soft. “Was?”

“Yeah.” His tone had lost all of its earlier playfulness. “We had this huge falling out. Then he just… left. No one’s heard from him since. No calls. No texts. No one even knows where he is.”

You stayed quiet, giving him space to continue.

“It’s been years,” he said after a pause. His eyes weren’t on you anymore—they were far away. “Guess some people just… disappear.”

⸻

The thunder rolled again, longer this time, vibrating faintly through the floor beneath your feet.

Gojo leaned one hip against the counter, looking far too smug for someone who’d just declared you were essentially stranded. “You know,” he said, “most people would be thrilled to be trapped here with me.”

You raised a brow. “Thrilled is… not the word I’d use.”

“Mm. What word would you use?” His tone had that teasing edge, but there was something softer underneath it—something you hadn’t heard often.

You opened your mouth to answer, but another bright flash of lightning lit up the apartment, followed by a crack of thunder that rattled the windows. The rain was relentless now, pounding against the glass in a way that made the city feel a world away.

“I should check the weather,” you murmured, mostly to distract yourself from the way he was watching you.

“You mean check for confirmation that you’re stuck here?” He grinned. “I’ll save you the trouble—it’s bad. And if you think I’m letting you go out in that, you clearly don’t value my company enough.”

You tried to roll your eyes, but it was hard to ignore the way his words curled warm in your chest. “And what exactly do you propose I do? Sleep on your fancy couch?”

He tilted his head, pretending to think. “Tempting offer, but no. You’ll take my bed.”

That startled you enough to turn fully toward him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am. I’ll take the couch.” Then, with a lazy smile: “Unless, of course, you’d rather we share.”

You gave him your flattest stare. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you,” he said, like you’d just handed him a trophy.

Another crack of thunder made you flinch before you could stop yourself.

His smirk faded just slightly, enough for him to lean closer. “Hey,” he said, voice low, “you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, but your hand had curled unconsciously around the edge of the counter.

Without asking, he reached for your wrist, tugging gently until you were standing right in front of him. “Don’t look at me like that,” he teased, but it was quieter now—more intimate. “I’m just making sure my girlfriend isn’t about to bolt from a little weather.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed, though it came out softer than you intended. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he said, his gaze dipping just for a second to your mouth again before returning to your eyes, “but I’m also warm, and I have blankets. And hot chocolate. And—”

“You’re trying to bribe me into staying.”

“Am I succeeding?”

You hated that you couldn’t answer right away.

The storm outside felt louder now, as if it was pushing the two of you closer together. You could smell the faint mix of his cologne and whatever detergent he used, and your pulse had started to match the steady drum of the rain against the windows.

He was still holding your wrist, his thumb brushing idly against your skin like it was second nature.

And then—so slow you almost didn’t notice—his other hand came up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His knuckles brushed your cheek, lingering just a fraction too long.

“See?” he said softly. “You’re already warmer.”

For a moment, it was just that—the rain, the hum of the city muted by the storm, and his face inches from yours. The suggestion was there, unspoken but heavy in the space between you.

You didn’t know if you were leaning in, or if he was. Maybe both.

But just as your breath caught—

A sharp crack of thunder snapped you both back. You stepped back instinctively, his hand slipping away from your wrist.

He cleared his throat, the smirk returning like armor. “Guess that settles it. You’re staying here tonight.”

⸻

You were still close—too close—for your thoughts to stay calm. His voice had gone lower, warmer, and with the rain hammering against the windows, the rest of the world felt far away.

He tilted his head slightly, that almost-smirk hovering on his mouth, but it didn’t have the bite it usually did. It was softer, like he wasn’t trying to win a game for once. “Guess that means you’re stuck here.”

You tried for lighthearted. “Guess so.”

But his eyes didn’t let you keep it light. He was watching you like he could see every flicker of thought across your face. And then his hand—careless, deliberate—came up to brush a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

The warmth of his fingertips lingered. “You look good when you’re worried,” he said, voice low enough to feel like it was only meant for you.

“Worried about the storm?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

“About anything,” he murmured. “About me.”

Your pulse kicked hard in your chest. You opened your mouth to deflect, to tease back, but it didn’t come out. Because he was leaning in a fraction, his eyes flicking briefly to your lips.

Your breath caught—

And then the next clap of thunder roared overhead, rattling the glass behind you. You startled just enough for him to stop, and he smiled faintly, like he knew you’d been about to let it happen.

“C’mon,” he said, stepping back but not far. “If we’re stuck inside, might as well make a night of it.”

⸻

Fifteen minutes later, you were curled up on his couch, a blanket tossed over your legs. The lights were low, the rain was still coming down in heavy sheets, and the opening credits of a horror movie flickered across his massive TV.

“This is a terrible idea,” you muttered, tucking your hands around the mug of hot chocolate he’d made you.

“It’s an amazing idea,” he corrected, sprawling at the other end of the couch, one arm stretched along the back. “Nothing says cozy night in like getting scared out of your mind while drinking something sweet.”

You gave him a look. “And you’re not even drinking any.”

“Because I’m going to need my hands free to comfort you when you inevitably—”

“Shut up.”

He grinned, leaning his head against the back of the couch. “See? Already scared.”

You weren’t. Not yet. But twenty minutes in, the first real jump scare hit, and you jerked so hard the hot chocolate sloshed dangerously.

“Careful—” he started.

Another scream from the TV.

You startled again, and the mug tipped just enough for the contents to spill in a warm, messy arc across the cushions between you.

“Oh no—” you gasped, scrambling to set the mug down and grab a handful of napkins from the coffee table.

Gojo just stared at the spreading stain for a second, then back at you. “Well… guess I can’t sleep out here anymore.”

You froze, halfway through blotting at the mess. “What?”

“The couch is soaked. Smells like cocoa. Totally unusable.” His grin came slow and lazy. “Which means…”

Your eyes narrowed. “You are not sleeping in your bed with me.”

“I mean,” he drawled, “we could try the kitchen floor, but I’m thinking the bed’s warmer.”

You groaned, tossing a soggy napkin at him. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you keep finding yourself in situations where you have to put up with me,” he said, leaning back with infuriating ease. Then, quieter, “Don’t worry. I’ll behave… unless you don’t want me to.”

Your cheeks warmed at the implication. “Satoru—”

“Yeah?”

You shook your head, pretending to focus on the cushion cleanup. But you could still feel his eyes on you, sharp and knowing, as the thunder rolled outside and the storm kept you exactly where he wanted you.

The couch cushions were hopeless. Even after blotting and flipping them over, there was no way anyone could sit—let alone sleep—there without smelling like a candy shop for weeks.

Gojo leaned against the kitchen doorway, watching you fuss with the mess like it would somehow fix itself. “Y’know, you’re making this harder than it needs to be.”

You looked up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged. “You keep acting like sharing a bed with me is going to be some kind of problem.”

“It is going to be a problem,” you said flatly.

He smirked, pushing off the doorway and walking toward his bedroom. “Then I guess we’ll just have to see how big of one.”

You muttered something under your breath about regretting this whole fake-dating deal, but when you finally followed him in, you had to admit—his room was… nice. Dark walls, soft lighting, a huge bed you could probably swim in.

He tossed you an oversized hoodie from his closet. “In case you get cold. Or just want to smell like me.”

You rolled your eyes but pulled it over your head anyway. The fabric was warm, faintly smelling of his cologne—clean, expensive, and something a little sharper underneath.

You climbed into the far side of the bed while he disappeared into the bathroom. When he came back, hair a little damp and T-shirt clinging in places it shouldn’t, he didn’t waste time turning off the light and sliding in next to you.

For a while, you just… talked.

About nothing and everything—the worst professors you’d had, how his kitchen looked like it had never been cooked in, what you thought your younger selves would say if they saw you now.

Somewhere between laughing at one of his stories and teasing him about his complete lack of measuring cups, your eyelids started to feel heavy. You didn’t even remember your responses getting slower, your voice softer.

You were asleep before you realized it.

Satoru glanced over when the room went quiet and found you curled toward him, face relaxed in sleep. A loose strand of hair had fallen across your cheek, and without thinking, he reached up and brushed it back.

For some reason, the smallest smile tugged at his lips.

He let his head sink into the pillow and closed his eyes, the sound of the rain still steady against the windows.

⸻

When he woke the next morning, the first thing he registered was warmth.

The second was weight—light, but there.

He opened his eyes to find you still asleep, your head tucked under his chin, your arm looped loosely around his middle. At some point in the night, he’d pulled you in without realizing it.

And then he noticed the third thing.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, shutting his eyes again like that would make it go away.

It didn’t help that you shifted in your sleep right then, scooting closer, your ass brushing against his raging boner. He stiffened, muscles going taut.

This was fine. Totally fine.

Except you moved again, sighing softly, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut and focus on literally anything else—math equations, his grocery list, Nanami twerking while wearing a neon pink thong—before he did something that would completely ruin the fake-dating facade.

His arm tightened slightly around you anyway.

Yeah. This was definitely going to be a problem.

#jjk #jjk fanfic #jjk smau #smau #idk how to tag this #college au #jjk x y/n #gojo satoru #jjk gojo

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thefemmefatalexo · 7 days ago

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Nanami SMAU - A Verdict of Us

Chapter 20 - Between You, Me and Everyone Else

Summary: Kento Nanami was perfect—disciplined, untouchable, and entirely focused on his future. Emotions didn’t fit into his plans. You were everything he avoided—bold, warm, and impossible to ignore. You told yourself he didn’t matter, but you couldn’t stop watching him.

He never looked your way. Not until the day his perfectly controlled world unraveled, and you were at the center of it.

an: hey… hehe… This story‘s kind of dying down lol. I don’t know if I‘ll just pause it and focus on my other projects. SMOOCHES 💋💋💋

{chapter 19} ; {next}

taglist: @giasssslife @getovibesonly @inthedarkshadows000 @burpzz @sleepykittyenergy @fuzzycollectiondeersblog @hana-patata @sosole @watasinekoru @linny-bloggs @mysteriaqueen

#jjk #jjk fanfic #jjk smau #smau #idk how to tag this #college au #jjk x y/n #nanami smau #nanami fluff #kento nanami

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thefemmefatalexo · 11 days ago

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Toji SMAU - When love was always there

Chapter 25 - I Miss You, Still

Summary: You see him again on your first day of college. Fuck. Toji Zenin has been the bane of your existence since your first day of kindergarten. Over the 15 years you’ve had the “pleasure” of knowing him, he’s made it his personal mission to make your life a living hell. From chopping off your hair in kindergarten to pushing you into a pond on your first day of high school, Toji has done it all. You’d always thought he would choose a college far away from you, but as it has always been, fate came to kick your ass. Hard.

warnings: cursing, sexual language, mentions of bullying

an: hey guys!! First of all I’d like to thank you all for your patience! I’m very sorry about my irregular posts but I haven’t managed to workout a schedule which works for me yet. I kind of lost track of the taglist so I’d appreciate it if you guys could let me know under this post if you’d like to be added/ removed!! Thank you again!! So some of you may have noticed but all of the Y/N‘s in this Universe are sort of connected to each other and play a role in each of their stories! I was thinking of posting a mind-map showcasing their personalities, their partner and their connection(s) to the other characters!! I saw other creators doing this as well and @reignpage version was the one that inspired me the most! Please check out their work it’s amazing and it’s what got me into writing! Enjoy this chapter!! SMOOCHES 💋💋💋

{chapter 24} ; {next}

taglist: @jinxiewritings @actuallyvalerie @clp-84 @reneinii @magalimachete @mysteriaqueen @linny-bloggs @loveislost @amybarnes12 @1ennj4 @shycreatorreview @ruokolainenanni @shroom-cudii1 @el-lise @scarletssecrettt

࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

You tried. More than you’re willing to admit out loud.

The first message was typed out with trembling fingers. You rewrote it six times. Deleted it twice. Sent it anyway.

No response.

So you tried again. And again. A voice note you never dared to play back. A blurry photo of something you thought might make him laugh. A “hope you’re okay” you knew sounded desperate, but sent anyway. All of it met with the same thing: nothing.

Eventually, you weren’t just talking to yourself: you were talking to no one. He blocked you. Quietly. Coldly. Without so much as a “fuck off and leave me alone.”

You don’t blame him.

You don’t even try to. Because somewhere deep in your chest, right under the weight of everything you didn’t say when you should’ve you know: this is your fault.

You pulled away. You shut him out. You brushed off his touches, flinched when he got too close in public, changed the subject when it started getting too serious. You told yourself you were protecting something fragile.

But you were just scared.

And he knew it.

You remember his face when you avoided his hand in the hallway. When you dropped his fingers like they burned you. That flash of something bitter in his eyes. And then nothing.

Now, the days blur.

You wake up, go to class, fake conversations. You laugh when you’re supposed to. Nod when people ask you how you’ve been. You scroll past pictures of him without pausing except you do. You always do. You always stop. You always look.

He looks fine.

Smiling at parties. Surrounded by people. There was even a girl in the last one someone pretty, with long legs and a red cup in hand. Her body angled toward him. His head tilted, listening.

You zoomed in on the picture. Twice.

You’ve memorized the comments:

“Toji back on the market??”

“Player’s back fr 😂”

“wonder what happened to that one girl he was always with…”

You.

They’re talking about you.

But you don’t argue. Not out loud. Because they’re right. You had something. And you threw it away. Like you didn’t know you were doing it until it was already done.

He didn’t owe you a second chance.

He doesn’t owe you anything now.

But it still hurts… this silence. This emptiness where his voice used to sit. The memory of his hands resting easy on your thigh when no one was looking. The way he’d lean in, mouth near your ear, like he was about to say something dirty and didn’t care who saw.

And now it’s all gone.

You keep thinking maybe this is temporary. That maybe he just needs time. That maybe he’ll show up at your door like before, annoyed but present. Maybe he’ll say something awful and mean and kind, all in one sentence, like he always does.

But he hasn’t.

And if he does?

You don’t know if you’ll be brave enough to open the door.

Not after what you did.

Not after how easily you let him slip away.

It’s been a week of the same. Silence from him. Noise everywhere else. And none of it matters.

Until the knock at your door.

It’s soft at first. Then sharper. Like whoever’s out there knows you’re ignoring it on purpose.

You drag yourself out of bed in the hoodie you haven’t changed out of in two days and open the door with no energy to fake a smile. Shoko stands there, arms crossed, chewing on gum like she’s got better places to be and that she’s annoyed she had to come here.

“Your mom let me in,” she says casually, brushing past you. “Said you’ve been ‘in a mood.’ Which is code for: you haven’t left your room since the “Toji thing”

You don’t answer. You just follow her to your room and sit at the edge of your bed while she kicks her feet up on your desk like it’s hers.

“You look like shit,” she adds after a beat. “Worse than that time you cried over that guy with the SoundCloud.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks.”

Shoko just shrugs. “I’m not here to baby you.”

You sit in silence for a while. She’s the only one who could do this — sit in your space, surrounded by the heaviness you can’t seem to shake, and not try to fix it. Just be there.

Still, she doesn’t let you wallow.

“You blocked everyone out,” she says eventually. “Even me.”

“I wasn’t in the mood for a pep talk,” you mutter.

“Good,” she replies, “because I didn’t come with one.”

You glance at her.

She sighs. “Look. I’m not gonna pretend like Toji was perfect. He’s an asshole. But he gave a shit. Which is more than I can say for most guys.”

Your throat tightens. “I know.”

“You pushed him away.”

“I know, Shoko.”

She leans forward, voice flat. “Do you?”

You stare at the floor.

“You ghosted him. In front of people. After sleeping with him. After talking it out. And now you’re sitting here, shocked Pikachu face that he doesn’t want to look at you.”

Ouch.

She lets the silence hang, then softens just barely. “I get it. You got scared. You didn’t know what to do with something real. And he’s a lot. But you gotta stop pretending this is just happening to you.”

You press your palms against your eyes, trying not to cry. Again.

“Anyway,” she says, standing. “There’s a party next weekend. Gojo’s throwing it with that weird girl he calls his girlfriend. Me, Nanami’sReader, and Gojo’sReader are going. You should come.”

You look up. “I don’t know if—”

“Don’t care. You’re going.”

You blink. “You just said I pushed him away and ruined everything.”

“You did.” Shoko shrugs. “But sulking in bed like a sad Victorian wife isn’t going to un-ruin it.”

You manage a weak laugh.

“Get up. Put makeup on. Wear something hot. Look like a bad bitch even if you don’t feel like one. That’s the bare minimum.”

You sigh. “I’ll think about it.”

She points at you, grabbing her bag. “You’ve got two days. Make up your mind before I drag you out by the ankle.”

She’s already halfway down the hall before you can respond. You hear her call out to your mom something about forcing you into society again and then the front door shuts behind her.

And you sit there, quiet.

Thinking.

A week later, you find yourself standing in front of your closet, staring at clothes you haven’t worn in weeks. You don’t feel like going. You don’t feel like seeing him.

But maybe you need to.

You pull out a dress you haven’t worn since before everything went to hell and whisper to yourself:

“Just for one night.”

The music hits first. It always does.

Bass you can feel in your ribs before you even get out of the car. Neon lights bleeding onto the sidewalk. A line of people waiting to get in, but Shoko just pulls you past them like she owns the place. Maybe she does — in her own quiet, cynical way.

Inside, the party is already alive.

People are laughing too loud, leaning in too close. The smell of cheap beer and expensive perfume lingers in the air, mixed with something unidentifiable and artificial. A playlist you’ve heard a hundred times before loops from the living room speakers, but tonight, it all feels… sharp. Edged with something unfamiliar.

You stick close to your group.

Shoko disappears for a drink and returns with two. One for you, one for her. She doesn’t ask if you want it. She just hands it to you with a knowing look.

Nanami’sReader is talking a mile a minute, glowing about how he took her out for dinner after his study group and bought her a book “just because he saw her eyeing it.” You smile, genuinely because it’s sweet, and because she looks happy, and because for a second it feels good to hear about love that isn’t yours.

Gojo’sReader shows up a few minutes later, slipping between conversations and cracking jokes at Gojo’s expense. “He’s flirting with the mirror again,” she says flatly, sipping her drink. “I really need at least ten drinks after dealing with him all day.”

Everyone laughs. Even you.

Gojo walks by not long after, dressed in something outrageous and 100% on brand. “You all look stunning,” he announces. “But not as stunning as me of course.”

More laughter. More drinks. Shoko rolls her eyes and leans into your shoulder. “Still think you should’ve come dressed in that sexy mini skirt you got a while ago,” she murmurs. “Would’ve been perfect.”

You snort and bump her hip with yours.

And for a moment, just a moment, you almost forget what’s been sitting on your chest all week.

Almost.

Because even when you’re laughing, even when you’re nodding along to someone’s story or posing for a group picture, your eyes are wandering. Searching. You don’t even realize you’re doing it at first.

But you’re waiting for him.

And when he doesn’t show, you tell yourself that’s good. That you don’t need to see him. That this night can still be yours.

Except then you do.

It’s late, past midnight, when the music is a little louder and people are starting to spill out into the yard. You head outside, needing air. Needing something quiet.

And that’s when you see him.

Toji.

Leaning against the fence at the side of the house, half in shadow. His head tilted. One hand on a girl’s waist, her face hidden behind his. But you recognize the curve of her body. The hair. The way she’s clinging to him.

His ex.

You freeze.

You want to look away. You should look away.

But your body won’t move.

He pulls back slightly. Just enough to glance in your direction. His eyes meet yours, steady, unreadable.

And then he does it.

His hand slides lower on her back. He grips her like she belongs to him. And without breaking eye contact, he pulls her back in and kisses her harder.

It’s not passion. It’s not love.

It’s punishment.

You feel it in your stomach. Your chest. Your throat.

Like something unraveling all at once.

The air is thick and too warm. The sounds around you distort, voices echoing too loud, too far. You can’t feel your hands. You can’t breathe right. You don’t even realize your drink is slipping out of your grip until you hear it shatter on the pavement beside you.

He doesn’t flinch.

He just goes back to kissing her.

Like you were never there.

Like none of it, none of you, ever happened.

You don’t remember walking back inside. You don’t remember Shoko finding you or pulling you out of the crowd. You don’t remember how you got back to the car.

But you remember that.

You remember his eyes. Cold. Intentional.

And you remember how it felt, for your heart to break in real time.

At first, it starts with just one skipped lecture.

You tell yourself it’s fine. Just one day. Just a break. You’re tired. You didn’t sleep. You’ll catch up.

But then one day becomes two. Then four. Then a week.

You stop checking the group chats. Stop opening your school email. The unopened messages pile up like snow. And you can’t bring yourself to dig through it, not when the mere thought of reading a subject line makes your stomach knot.

You ignore the calls. You watch them buzz across your screen and let them go unanswered. Even when it’s Shoko. Even when it’s Nanami’sReader. Even when it’s your professors. Even when it’s your mom knocking softly on your door saying, “Sweetheart, are you okay?”

You aren’t.

But how do you explain that?

How do you explain that some part of you is still stuck on a porch, staring at someone you used to know kissing someone he used to love, while looking straight at you?

How do you explain the way that moment split you open?

You don’t. You just stay in bed.

Your room becomes a blur of dim light and tangled sheets. Your phone lives somewhere under your pillow. The world outside continues like it doesn’t notice you’re missing. And maybe it doesn’t.

You stop brushing your hair.

You forget to eat lunch. Sometimes dinner.

You scroll through his socials, even though he’s blocked you everywhere. Sometimes you look through fake accounts. Sometimes you just search his name and stare at the results like they’ll give you a different answer if you look hard enough.

They don’t.

You see pictures from the party. He looks happy. Relaxed. That same girl draped on his arm in more than one photo. Her lips glossy. Her smile wide. Your stomach twists every time, but you can’t stop looking.

And the worst part?

You still miss him.

Even after everything. Even after he saw you and still made the choice to hurt you. A part of you still reaches out in your dreams. Still remembers the way he used to talk to you when it was just the two of you, lazy drawl, sharp wit, and something almost soft, just under the surface.

You lie to yourself, too.

You tell yourself this will pass. That next week you’ll go back. That you’ll reply to that one professor. That you’ll wash your hair.

But your alarm goes off at 7 a.m., and you don’t even flinch anymore.

You just roll over.

It’s late morning when you hear the knock.

Soft. Hesitant.

Then a pause. Then the door creaks open anyway.

Your mom doesn’t say anything right away. She stands in the doorway for a second, like she’s weighing whether to come closer or let you be.

“Hi,” she says gently.

You pretend to be asleep.

She doesn’t buy it.

“I brought you some tea,” she adds, placing the mug on your desk. “It’s the kind you like. Peppermint.”

You open your eyes slowly, only because you know she won’t leave if you don’t.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

She nods and walks over to your bed, sitting carefully on the edge like she’s afraid you’ll shatter if she shifts the mattress too hard.

“You haven’t been to class all week.”

You shrug.

“You’re not really eating. Not talking to your friends. I keep hearing you up at night.”

Another shrug.

She sighs, not frustrated — just tired in the kind of way that comes from watching someone you love disappear into themselves.

“I’m not going to force you to tell me what’s wrong,” she says quietly, glancing at the mess in your room, at the clothes on the floor and the untouched notebooks and the empty water bottles gathering on your nightstand. “But I’m not stupid.”

You don’t say anything. Just look at a spot on your blanket like it might swallow you whole.

“Boy trouble?” she asks, not unkindly.

Your throat tightens. You hate that two words are enough to make you want to cry.

You nod. Just barely.

She doesn’t press. She doesn’t ask for names. She doesn’t dig deeper.

Instead, she smiles softly and says, “You know, I once cried for three weeks over a boy who didn’t even know how to tie his own shoelaces.”

That pulls the faintest breath of a laugh out of you. She catches it and gives your knee a gentle squeeze.

“I know it feels like the end of the world right now,” she continues. “And maybe, in your heart, it is. But the beautiful thing about hearts is that they keep beating. Even when they’re broken.”

You blink hard, but the tears are already starting to burn behind your eyes.

She reaches out, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear.

“You don’t have to talk about it. Not yet. Not until you’re ready.”

You nod again, barely holding it together.

“But let me do something for you.”

You look up.

“Can I brush your hair?”

The words are so soft, so simple, it makes your chest ache.

You hesitate not because you don’t want her to, but because you don’t remember the last time someone cared for you like that without asking anything in return.

You finally nod.

She gets up and moves behind you on the bed. You hear her rummaging in your drawers for a brush. When she finds one, she begins slowly, carefully, untangling each knot like it’s something sacred. Like she’s putting pieces of you back together.

You sit there, eyes closed, tears slipping quietly down your cheeks while she works.

She doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t need to.

Her fingers are gentle. Her presence is enough.

When she finishes, she presses a kiss to the crown of your head, stands, and walks to the door.

“I’ll be downstairs,” she says softly. “Come when you’re ready.”

And then you’re alone again — but not quite as empty.

Not quite as lost.

Just… starting.

The first day, you take a shower.

It doesn’t feel good. It doesn’t fix anything. But you do it. And afterward, your skin feels a little less heavy.

The second day, you open your laptop. No assignments get done, but you look at them. You write down due dates. You check a few emails and send two replies.

By the end of the week, you eat dinner with your parents. You talk a little. Ask about your Mom’s day. You even laugh when she tells you how your neighbor locked herself out again.

Your room is still dim most days. But now your blanket is folded. Your floor is clear. There’s a cup of tea next to your bed every morning, even if you forget to drink it.

You haven’t seen him.

You don’t even know if you want to.

But his name is still in your search bar. And sometimes, when the nights stretch too long, you look. You scroll. Just to check. Just to see.

Your mom doesn’t ask about him. But you can tell she knows when the silence you carry feels heavier than usual.

She lets you heal quietly.

⸻

The grocery store is quiet. Mid-morning, slow. A few parents, a couple students. The kind of people who know where everything is and don’t linger longer than they need to.

Your mom’s halfway through her list when she turns a corner and nearly bumps into someone at the end of the cereal aisle.

Toji.

He’s holding a box of off-brand granola and wearing a hoodie that looks like it’s been through one too many practices. His hair’s messy. His eyes a little bloodshot. Not tired exactly, but… worn.

They both freeze for a second.

“Oh,” your mom says politely. “Toji.”

He straightens a bit. Clears his throat. “Uh. Hey.”

She notices his hands — how tightly he’s gripping the box, like it’s anchoring him. Notices how he doesn’t quite meet her eyes.

They haven’t spoken since the last time he was in your house.

Since he sat in your room.

Since you disappeared into yourself.

Your mom offers him a small smile. “Running errands?”

He shrugs, glancing away. “Yeah. Coach said if I keep eatin’ crap, I’m benched.”

She laughs lightly, trying to ease the tension. “That sounds about right.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Toji fidgets, fingers tapping against the cardboard, jaw tight.

Then, too casual: “How’s, uh… how’s everything?”

Your mom tilts her head. “Everything?”

He doesn’t correct himself. Doesn’t clarify.

Just swallows and keeps his eyes on a shelf of oatmeal.

She watches him closely. Sees the shift in his stance, the way he keeps his shoulders stiff but his gaze flickers toward her, like he’s waiting for something, anything.

“She’s doing better,” your mom says softly.

His head turns slightly. Not all the way. Not enough to look her in the eye.

But he heard it.

“She’s getting there,” she adds. “Takes time.”

Toji nods once. Barely. Like if he lets himself move more than that, he’ll give something away.

Your mom doesn’t push.

She just gives him the same gentle smile she gave you when she brushed your hair, and says, “It was nice running into you.”

He mumbles something that might be “You too,” and walks past her, quick.

Doesn’t look back.

But when she glances over her shoulder, she sees him standing at the self-checkout with the box of granola still clutched in one hand and the other balled tightly in his pocket.

Like he’s holding onto something he doesn’t know how to let go of.

#jjk #jjk fanfic #jjk smau #smau #idk how to tag this #college au #jjk x y/n #toji fushiguro

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thefemmefatalexo · 24 days ago

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Sukuna SMAU - A Study in Breaking

Chapter 2 - Read st 2:43 AM

cw: emotional and psychological abuse, abusive family dynamics, drug related content, violence and threats, kidnapping, stalking, depression, toxic relationships, underage drinking

an: sorry for taking so long lol

{chapter 1} ; {next}

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thefemmefatalexo · 1 month ago

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Gojo SMAU - The Art of Falling Fake

Chapter 10 - The Art of Casual Posession

an: Hey guys! Make sure you turn on the notifications so you don’t miss any updates!

{chapter 9} ; {next}

#jjk #jjk fanfic #jjk smau #smau #idk how to tag this #college au #jjk x y/n #gojo satoru #jjk gojo

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thefemmefatalexo · 1 month ago

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I really love your smaus! Will you continue them??

Thank you sm!!! Yes I will! I just posted a new chapter of A Verdict of Us and will post a chapter to The Art of Falling Fake and A Study in Breaking later today!!

#askvixen #ask blog #ask me anything #nanami smau #A Verdict of Us

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thefemmefatalexo · 1 month ago

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Nanami SMAU - A Verdict of Us

Chapter 19 - Terms of Endearment

Summary: Kento Nanami was perfect— discliplined, untouchable, and entire focused on his future. Emotions didn’t fit into his plans. You were everything he avoided— bold, warm, and impossible to ignore. You told yourself he didn’t matter, but you couldn’t stop watching him.

He never looked your way. Not until the day his perfectly controlled world unraveled, and you were at the center of it.

an: Y’all I’ve been sick for a whole month and now I’m on my period. I’m SORRY. I’m gonna start updating you guys again tho. Gojo and Sukuna will be posted today but idk if I’ll manage to do Toji as well. If I don’t, I’ll post Toji tomorrow. SMOOCHES 💋💋💋

{chapter 18} ; {next}

taglist: @giasssslife @getovibesonly @inthedarkshadows000 @burpzz @sleepykittyenergy @fuzzycollectiondeersblog @hana-patata @sosole @watasinekoru @linny-bloggs

࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

You didn’t realize how nervous you were until you dropped your eyeliner for the second time. It rolled beneath the vanity with a soft clink, but you didn’t reach for it right away. You just sat there, hands still, staring at your reflection like it might blink first.

A date with Nanami.

It wasn’t your first date. Not technically. You’d shared dinners, conversations, almost-kisses. You’d traded banter and lingering stares for weeks. But tonight felt different. Tonight felt like a line was about to be crossed—not just physically, but emotionally. Real commitment, real vulnerability. And the weight of that made your chest feel tight.

You leaned forward slightly, studying your face in the mirror. Clean skin, subtle blush, just enough shimmer at the corner of your eyes to catch the light. You wanted to look effortless. Not like you’d tried too hard. Even though you absolutely had.

Your closet had never looked more chaotic. Half your wardrobe was draped across your bed—dresses that were too formal, tops that were too casual, and that one skirt you liked but decided against because it reminded you too much of the night you texted him something wildly inappropriate about his forearms.

You settled on something soft. Feminine. A satin camisole tucked into high-waisted trousers, layered with a light cardigan you could lose if the evening turned warmer. Your jewelry was minimal. Just a pair of delicate earrings and the thin gold bracelet you always wore when you needed confidence.

You were fixing your hair when there was a knock at your bedroom door.

“Come in,” you called.

It creaked open, and your mother stepped in with her usual grace and a slight arch of one brow. “Your room looks like a fashion tornado hit it.”

You gave her a look in the mirror. “Very helpful, thank you.”

She smiled faintly and walked over, adjusting the strap of your camisole like she used to when you were a teenager. “You’re getting dressed up for someone.”

It wasn’t a question.

You hesitated. “Yeah.”

She looked at you in the mirror again. “That someone wouldn’t happen to be Kento Nanami, would it?”

You paused. “…It might be.”

Her expression softened into something unreadable. “You haven’t mentioned him in a while.”

“I know.”

She sat on the edge of your bed, crossing one leg over the other. “The last time I asked about him, you changed the subject.”

“I know,” you repeated, quieter this time.

“Do you want to talk about it now?”

You turned away from the mirror and looked at her. Her tone wasn’t accusatory. Just… patient. Warm. The way only a mother could be when she sensed something big was hanging in the air and didn’t want to break it.

“We were… complicated,” you said finally. “He pulled away. A lot. And it hurt. More than I expected it to.”

“And now?”

You took a deep breath. “Now he’s trying. He’s being honest. I think he’s scared, but so am I.”

She studied you for a moment before standing again. “You’ve always had a strong sense of people. If you believe he’s worth it, then he probably is.”

You didn’t expect that. “You don’t think I’m making a mistake?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But even mistakes can teach you something.” She leaned in and kissed your forehead. “Just don’t shrink yourself to make him feel bigger.”

“I won’t,” you promised.

She gave you one last look, the kind that seemed to say everything she didn’t—I trust you. I’m proud of you. Be careful with your heart—and then left you alone.

You stood in the silence that followed, taking one last look in the mirror. You looked like yourself, but slightly more defined—eyes lined, hair curled softly at the ends, lips tinted a shade that made you feel just a little dangerous.

Your phone buzzed on the vanity.

Kento:

Outside when you’re ready.

You smiled. Picked up your bag. Slipped on your shoes.

And walked out the door with a heart that was racing—but steady.

The air was crisp when you stepped outside, the kind that hinted at winter without fully surrendering to it. The scent of pine and distant fireplaces lingered faintly, and the night was quiet—still.

But the second you saw him, everything else faded.

Nanami was leaning against the passenger side of his car, one hand in his coat pocket, the other holding his phone loosely at his side. He wasn’t looking at the screen though. His gaze was already on you.

There was no dramatic once-over, no smirk or wide smile—just a quiet intensity in his eyes that made your pulse jump. He stood up straighter when you approached, like the sight of you made him instinctively correct his posture.

“You look…” he started, then paused. Cleared his throat. “Really good.”

You smiled, just a little. “So do you. Very brooding tonight. Were you practicing in the mirror?”

That earned the ghost of a smile. “No. But I do have a natural talent for it.”

You reached him, and for a second, there was that familiar awkward space between you—the moment where something could happen but neither of you made a move.

Then he leaned in slightly, arm brushing yours, and you wrapped your arms around his waist, quick but warm. He hesitated for half a beat before resting one hand gently at the small of your back.

It lasted only a few seconds. But it was something.

He pulled back first and opened the car door for you like it was second nature. You slid into the seat, your hand grazing his as you settled in. The inside of the car smelled faintly like cedar and something clean—like him.

He rounded the car and got in beside you, buckling his seatbelt and glancing your way.

“Still okay with the restaurant?” he asked as he started the engine.

“Yep. I looked at the menu already like a lunatic. I’m prepared.”

He raised a brow. “You’re the only person I know who would treat picking a dinner order like preparing for a mock trial.”

You grinned. “I like to know my options.”

The hum of the car on the road was calming, and for a while, neither of you said anything. The radio played quietly in the background—instrumental jazz, something smooth and unintrusive. It was comfortable. The silence between you didn’t feel like absence anymore. It felt like space held intentionally.

“Do you usually stay here for the holidays?” he asked eventually, glancing sideways at you.

“Yeah. My family does a whole big thing. Christmas dinner, gift exchange, way too many matching pajamas.” You made a face. “They get… enthusiastic.”

“Sounds chaotic.”

“It is. But also kind of great. What about you?”

“I usually travel with my parents. Business-related nonsense masked as family vacation.” He paused. “This year might be different, though.”

You turned toward him slightly. “Because of everything with Ayaka?”

He nodded. “They’re still annoyed. Disappointed, mostly. But I’m starting to care a little less about that.”

There was something weighted in the way he said it, but not heavy. Just honest.

“What would you do if it were entirely your call?” you asked softly.

He kept his eyes on the road. “I don’t know. Maybe stay here. Rest. Spend time with people I actually enjoy being around.”

You tried not to smile too hard at that. “Subtle.”

“I’m not subtle,” he said. “I’m just quiet. There’s a difference.”

You looked out the window, hiding the way your cheeks warmed. “So… if you were staying, maybe you’d stop by for hot cocoa and matching pajamas?”

He let out a short laugh—quiet but genuine. “I’d probably deserve jail time if I wore those.”

You turned back to him. “I’d bail you out. Probably.”

Nanami glanced over again, and this time, his smile reached his eyes. “Only probably?”

“Well,” you said, teasing, “depends on whether or not you keep opening doors for me.”

“I think I can manage that.”

The car turned onto a quieter street, lights reflecting off the windshield as you both fell quiet again—but the kind of quiet that felt settled. Like maybe the holidays wouldn’t be so complicated after all.

The second you stepped out into the cool night, the sound of the city softened. Streetlights spilled warm pools of gold over the sidewalk, and parked under one of them was Nanami’s car—sleek, simple, and undeniably him.

He wasn’t in the car, though.

He was leaning against the passenger-side door, one hand tucked into his coat pocket, the other loosely holding his phone. He wasn’t looking at it. He was looking at you.

He straightened as you approached, his gaze holding yours in that steady, unflinching way that made your stomach tighten. The expression on his face didn’t change much—just the barest flicker of something softer around his eyes.

“You clean up well,” you said, breaking the silence first.

“So do you,” he replied, voice low. “You always do.”

You smiled, trying not to let the compliment get to your head—but failing just a little. “Is that your way of saying you stared at me for a full ten seconds without speaking?”

“I was being polite. Admiring quietly.”

“Right. That’s totally what that was.”

You stopped in front of him, close enough to touch, and for a beat neither of you moved. Then he reached out and lightly, carefully, placed a hand on your waist—not quite a full hug, more like a tether. But you leaned into him, your arms sliding briefly around his torso. It was short, restrained, but warm. Familiar.

When you pulled back, he stepped around you and opened the passenger door.

“Still a gentleman,” you said, sliding into the seat.

“Against my better judgment.”

He shut the door gently and circled back to the driver’s side. Moments later, you were cruising through the city, jazz humming from the stereo, and for the first time in a long time, things felt easy.

“So,” you said, glancing at him. “What’s the verdict? Are you doing anything for the holidays?”

Nanami shifted his hand slightly on the wheel. “Not really. My parents usually attend a few formal things, but it’s more business than celebration. They call it family time, but it’s always about appearances.”

“No tree? No fireplace? No cheesy movies?”

He gave a quiet huff of amusement. “I don’t think we’ve had a tree since I was in elementary school. It’s not really our thing.”

You rested your elbow against the window and looked at him, your tone light. “That’s tragic. You clearly need to be rescued.”

“Oh?” he glanced at you. “By who?”

You turned back to the windshield. “Hypothetically… I could offer a solution.”

“I’m listening.”

“Well,” you said, playing with the edge of your sleeve to hide the way your pulse jumped, “my family has this cabin in Gstaad. Switzerland. We go every year for Christmas and New Year’s. Snow, fires, badly sung carols, the works.”

“Sounds elaborate.”

“It is,” you grinned. “But it’s beautiful. And quiet. And honestly? You could probably use some quiet that isn’t tied to law school or social obligations.”

He glanced at you, eyebrow raised. “Are you inviting me to Switzerland?”

“I mean, technically yes,” you said, a little too fast. Then added quickly, “You don’t have to say yes. I just—thought you might like the idea of escaping. Even just for a few days. Fresh air. Mountains. Me in ten layers of knitwear.”

He let out a real laugh at that, soft and surprised. “Tempting offer.”

You turned your head to look at him, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. “Is it the knitwear or the company?”

“I plead the fifth.”

You laughed. “Coward.”

He didn’t respond immediately, but you could feel the energy between you shift—subtle, but there. Comfortable. Charged. Real.

“I’ll think about it,” he said after a moment. “But thank you. For asking.”

“Of course. You can be the brooding guy in the corner while the rest of us decorate cookies.”

“I’m excellent at brooding,” he said dryly.

You grinned. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

As the city lights rolled past the windows, your conversation dipped and rose again easily. You talked about nothing and everything—your worst holiday gifts, his unfortunate middle school haircut, the best desserts at your family gatherings, the quiet way he confessed that New Year’s had always felt like a reset button he wasn’t allowed to press.

“I don’t usually set resolutions,” he said.

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “I’m already expected to be ten steps ahead. No one ever asks me what I want to change. Just what I’m expected to accomplish.”

You looked at him, heart softening. “Then maybe this year, do it for yourself. Just one thing.”

He glanced at you as he pulled into the restaurant’s lot. “You already asked me to spend the holidays with you. That’s a pretty big one.”

You smiled. “Well, I’m generous like that.”

He parked and turned the engine off, but neither of you moved right away. The air inside the car was quiet again—filled not with silence, but something better. Something unspoken.

“Ready?” he asked finally, his voice lower than before.

You nodded. “I’ve been ready.”

And with that, he got out, walked around the car, and opened your door again—just like always.

But this time, when you stepped out, your fingers brushed his and stayed there just a moment too long.

And neither of you pulled away.

The restaurant was warm, dimly lit, and elegant without being ostentatious. Candles flickered low in glass votives, casting soft halos of light across the tables. The buzz of quiet conversation and the gentle clink of cutlery made for a comfortable backdrop.

Nanami followed the hostess to your table with his hand lightly at your back. It wasn’t possessive—just steady. Reassuring. The simple touch sent a rush of warmth down your spine.

When you were seated and your menus were handed over, you smiled across the table at him. “Points for ambiance.”

“I figured you’d approve.” He opened his menu and scanned it with practiced ease. “Also, the reviews were promising. And they have soufflé.”

You raised a brow. “Are you trying to seduce me with dessert?”

“Is it working?”

A small, pleased smile tugged at your lips. “Possibly.”

You ordered, and after the server disappeared, a silence settled—but not awkward. Comfortable, again. He looked at you like he was still adjusting to the fact that you were here, across from him, looking at him like that. With something real behind it.

You stirred your water glass absentmindedly. “Can I ask you something kind of… heavy?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

You studied him for a moment before asking, “Do you ever feel like your life isn’t really yours?”

The question sat between you for a second too long—but not because he didn’t understand it. If anything, it was the opposite.

“All the time,” he said finally.

“Yeah?”

He nodded slowly. “It’s like I’ve been following a map that someone else drew for me before I even knew I could hold a pen.”

You leaned your elbow on the table, resting your chin in your hand. “Law. The firm. The expectations. It’s all… them?”

“At first, it was what I wanted too,” he said. “Structure, purpose, stability. I still believe in the law. In justice. But lately, I’ve been wondering how much of that belief is mine and how much of it is just what I’ve been taught to cling to.”

You were quiet, letting his words settle.

He continued, voice lower now. “I used to think freedom was selfish. That choosing what I want over what’s expected was weak. But then I met you, and I realized maybe it’s not weakness—it’s just… living.”

You felt your chest tighten. “So what do you want? If it’s just you. No pressure. No legacy. Just Nanami.”

He let out a slow breath and leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know. That’s the hardest part. I’ve never really asked myself that before.”

You nodded slowly. “Same.”

He looked at you with something quiet and steady in his gaze. “What would you do, if none of it mattered? If you didn’t have to live up to your name or be the version of yourself everyone else wants you to be?”

You smiled, a little surprised by your own answer. “I’d travel more. Volunteer without needing it to be ‘valuable’ on paper. Sleep in. Learn how to cook something complicated just because. I’d stop performing.”

He tilted his head. “You feel like you perform?”

“All the time.” You shrugged. “Everyone expects me to be light, bubbly, entertaining. And I like that part of me, I do. But sometimes I wonder who I’d be if no one was watching.”

He was quiet, but not unreadable. You could tell he was holding your words carefully, letting them sink in.

“Then let me see that version,” he said softly.

Your throat tightened. “What version?”

“The one no one else sees. The one who wants things just because she wants them. Not because she has to prove she deserves them.”

You blinked, not expecting that.

He didn’t flinch. “You don’t need to earn softness. Or care. Or peace.”

You looked down at your folded hands for a second, then met his gaze again. “That’s a hard thing to believe.”

“I know,” he said. “But I’m willing to remind you. As many times as it takes.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. And maybe you didn’t have to.

Your food arrived, and for a while, you both fell into the rhythm of eating and sharing bites and quiet glances. But the weight of that conversation lingered in the air—unspoken, but understood.

Toward the end of dinner, you nudged his ankle with your foot under the table. “So, is this the part where you tell me you’ve been living a secret double life and you’re actually a novelist who writes under a pseudonym?”

Nanami smirked. “You caught me. I write brooding, morally gray love interests.”

You leaned in. “Stealing from real life, I see.”

He gave you a flat look, but his eyes were warm. “Don’t tempt me.”

The rest of dinner passed in easy waves—shared food, playful teasing, quiet laughter that made everything feel softer. He didn’t try to fill every silence, and neither did you. You just… existed together. No expectations. No performances.

After dessert, you sat back in your seat with a content sigh, fork resting on an empty plate. “Okay, you were right. The soufflé was criminally good.”

Nanami tilted his head, looking mildly smug. “I’m always right.”

You gave him a look. “Bold of you to say after that time you tried to argue that oral arguments are more stressful than final exams.”

“They are,” he replied flatly.

“They are not.”

“They absolutely are.”

“You’re wrong and stubborn.”

“You like that I’m stubborn,” he said without missing a beat.

You blinked at him, caught off guard—but only for a second. “Maybe I do.”

He smiled, eyes soft, and your stomach fluttered.

The check came and went—he paid before you could even pretend to reach for your wallet—and then you were back in his car, cruising through the quiet streets of the city. Jazz hummed again through the speakers, low and steady, like the background score to something that didn’t want to end just yet.

“You always drive like this?” you asked, watching the way his hands moved on the steering wheel.

“Like what?”

“Calm. Like the road’s yours.”

“I don’t rush what I enjoy,” he said simply.

You pretended to look out the window to hide your smile. “Smooth.”

“I try.”

You chatted about nothing for a while—how weird law school professors are, how people who put raisins in dessert should be banned from society, how oddly peaceful the city feels when it’s late and quiet like this. It felt less like a date and more like an extension of something you’d already been building without realizing it.

When he pulled up in front of your place, he turned the engine off and immediately got out without a word. You smiled to yourself as you watched him walk around the car and open your door.

“Thank you,” you said, stepping out.

He didn’t let go of the door immediately. “You’re welcome.”

You both lingered again.

He walked you to your front steps, hands in his pockets now, a bit more reserved than he’d been earlier—but not distant. Just… hesitant. Like he didn’t want to ruin something by overstepping.

“I had a good time,” he said, voice quiet.

“Me too,” you replied.

He nodded once, then took a small step back. “I’ll text you when I get home. Goodni—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You leaned forward, closed the distance, and kissed him.

It was soft—gentle but certain. No hesitations. No apologies. Just your mouth on his, your hand lightly resting on the side of his neck as if to anchor him there. His breath caught in his throat, and he didn’t kiss you back right away—but then his lips moved against yours, slow and intentional, and you felt that same quiet intensity you always did with him—just a little more raw.

You pulled back first, your lips still tingling.

“Goodnight, Nanami,” you whispered. “Drive safe.”

And then you turned and walked inside, leaving him there on your front step—still staring after you, hand slightly raised like he wasn’t entirely sure if he’d imagined it.

He stood there for a full minute, heart pounding.

Then, slowly, a small smile crept onto his face.

He whispered to himself, “Right. Text her when I get home.”

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel torn.

He just felt lucky.

#jjk #jjk fanfic #jjk smau #smau #idk how to tag this #college au #jjk x y/n #nanami x y/n #nanami x reader #nanami kento

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thefemmefatalexo · 3 months ago

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Toji SMAU - When love was always there

Chapter 24 - Left on Seen, Cut off Clean

warnings: cursing, sexual language, mentions of bullying

an: Should I put this story on hiatus? I feel like the engagement’s gone down because no one really enjoys it anymore (?). CAN Y’ALL PLEASE LET ME KNOW. Thanks. SMOOCHES 💋💋💋

{chapter 23} ; {next}

taglist: @jinxiewritings @actuallyvalerie @clp-84 @reneinii @magalimachete @mysteriaqueen @linny-bloggs @loveislost @amybarnes21 @1ennj4 @shycreatorreview

࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

#jjk #jjk fanfic #jjk smau #smau #idk how to tag this #college au #jjk x y/n #toji fushiguro

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thefemmefatalexo · 3 months ago

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Sukuna SMAU - A Study in Breaking

Chapter 1 - Cornered

cw: emotional and psychological abuse, abusive family dynamics, drug-related content, violence and threats, kidnapping, stalking, depression, toxic relationships, underage drinking

an: I won’t say much. Please tell me your opinions in the comments and if you’re feeling generous reblog my work to support me! Thank you and enjoy reading this chapter! SMOOCHES 💋 💋💋

{introduction} ; {next}

You don’t remember when the fear started.

You just remember that by ten, you knew how to tell which version of your mother was walking through the door — by the sound her keys made against the counter.

Heavy meant tired. Light meant angry.

The crash of glass? That was for you.

She never needed a reason.

You could breathe wrong, and she’d call you disgusting.

You could speak too softly and get slapped for mumbling — speak too clearly and get told you were being a smartass.

Her love came in quick flashes, guilty hugs after bruises, hot food dropped in your lap with a bitter “there, are you happy now?”

Your father was worse in the way that made it hard to explain.

He never touched you. Never raised his voice.

But you’ve never felt smaller than when he looked at you like you weren’t worth the calories it took to keep you alive.

Like your existence was something he regretted but wouldn’t say out loud.

He never asked about the bruises.

Never stopped your mother from dragging you by the hair when she thought you were lying — about homework, about boys, about your tone.

He just watched the TV louder.

By high school, you’d mastered the art of silence.

You smiled when they needed you to. Kept your room clean. Got perfect grades.

You sat at dinner and counted how many times you could chew without being told to stop grinding your teeth.

And even then, it wasn’t enough.

Because nothing was ever enough.

Because when someone needs to feel in control, you become the easiest thing to break.

Then came Sukuna.

Not kind. Not safe.

But he never lied. Never pretended to love you one day and hate you the next.

His cruelty was clean. Predictable. Honest.

He was the first person who looked at you like you weren’t fragile — like you were already ruined, and he didn’t mind.

And for a while, that felt like freedom.

You gave him six months.

He gave you a text.

And that should’ve been the end of it.

But somehow, he still lives in the part of you that flinches — not because you miss him, but because you remember how it felt to not be invisible.

So now you run drugs.

Not because it makes you feel alive.

Not because you want to spiral.

But because it’s easy, and it pays in cash. Because it keeps your parents out of your bank account. Because no one asks questions if you don’t give answers.

You don’t care what’s in the bag.

You don’t care who you’re delivering it to.

You just care about saving enough to get out — out of the house, out of the city, out of everything that’s tried to keep you small.

You don’t tell anyone. You don’t brag. You don’t slip up.

There’s no thrill in it. No rush. Just a job.

And that’s all you need.

Because feeling something?

You gave up on that a long time ago.

You see him sometimes.

Not often enough to call it routine, but just enough to remind you he’s still here — that he didn’t disappear when he left you behind.

Campus is big, but not that big. Frat parties are even smaller, especially when Gojo throws them — which he does too often and too loud, like he thinks he’s doing the world a favor. You don’t go because you want to. You go because you need your friends to keep thinking you’re still a person.

They drink. They dance. They flirt. You stand in the corner nursing warm beer and trying not to look like you’re counting the exits.

That’s usually when you see him.

Sukuna.

He doesn’t look at you. Never does. Not really. But you know he sees you.

You feel it in the way his eyes slow when he scans the room, in the way his jaw flexes when someone leans too close to you, even though he keeps his back turned.

He makes it look effortless — the indifference, the distance.

But you know him. You knew him. Long enough to recognize when he’s pretending not to notice.

And maybe it’s pathetic, the way your stomach tightens anyway.

The way some part of you still waits for him to look at you and say something — anything.

But he never does.

He just leans into some new girl’s neck, hands on her waist, grin like a weapon.

They always look the same. Loud laughs, short skirts, arms thrown around his shoulders like they’ve won something.

Maybe they have. Maybe you’re the idiot for ever thinking he could be anything else.

Most people either want him or stay the hell out of his way.

He’s known on campus for the fights, the reputation, the rumors no one can ever confirm.

Even his silence feels dangerous.

You don’t talk about him. Not to your friends. Not to yourself.

But when you leave those parties, you always walk home alone.

And you never look back.

Flashback — April 2021

You had noticed him earlier, but you didn’t think he’d noticed you.

That changed when Uraume leaned close and said, almost offhand:

“He’s been staring. Might as well let him talk to you.”

“Who?” you asked, already knowing.

“Sukuna. Don’t act clueless. Come on.”

They didn’t wait for your answer.

You followed them through the crowd, careful not to spill the drink in your hand, careful not to look too eager. Your heart beat a little faster, but your face stayed even. You were good at that — keeping things where no one could see them.

Sukuna was leaning against the wall at the far end of the hallway, lit only by the dim glow spilling from the kitchen. He didn’t look like he was waiting for anyone — but his eyes tracked you as you stepped closer, like he was already figuring you out.

“This is her,” Uraume said, then turned and disappeared into the party.

You looked at him, met his eyes without flinching, and gave him a simple, calm smile.

“Hi.”

He stared for a second like he was deciding whether or not to answer.

“You look different up close.”

“That’s either a compliment or an insult.”

He smirked slightly.

“Haven’t decided yet.”

You took a small sip of your drink and glanced past him, down the hallway.

“I thought you’d be louder.”

“Louder?”

“Yeah. You have a reputation. The kind of guy who starts fights, skips class, doesn’t shut up.”

“I haven’t hit anyone tonight.”

“Congratulations,” you said softly. “Growth.”

That earned a quiet laugh from him, short and real.

He looked you over again, not in a gross way, but like he was trying to figure out what exactly he was seeing. You didn’t give him much. You didn’t need to.

“You always come to parties like this?” he asked.

“Not really.”

“But here you are.”

“Uraume insisted.”

“And you listen to them?”

“They’re… interesting company.”

“So are you.”

You raised your brows just slightly.

“You don’t know me.”

“Not yet.”

There was something easy about the way he said it, even with the edge in his voice. He wasn’t pushing, just observing. And he seemed surprised you weren’t fawning over him — not trying to impress, not giving him anything but honest, even-toned conversation.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said after a moment.

“What were you expecting?”

“Someone louder. Or someone who’d already be asking for my number.”

“Not my style,” you said.

“You don’t want it?”

“Didn’t say that.”

He grinned at that — not cocky, just quietly entertained.

The silence between you settled in, not awkward, just steady. You could still hear the music from the other room, voices spilling from the kitchen, but it felt distant. He looked at you like he wanted to say something else — but didn’t.

“I should get back,” you said, tipping your head slightly toward the noise.

“To what? Standing in the corner?”

You smiled.

“Exactly.”

He didn’t ask you to stay. But as you turned, he said your name like he wanted to remember it.

You glanced back once before disappearing into the crowd. And even after the hallway faded behind you, you could still feel the weight of his stare.

The night thinned out like it always did — bodies pressed too close, drinks half-spilled on floors, basslines making people forget where they were.

You stayed. Not because you liked it, but because watching people unravel gave you something to focus on.

Everyone was either drunk, high, or both — laughing too loudly, dancing like they’d already forgotten who they came with. You recognized most of the faces, even if none of them ever really saw you.

That’s when you noticed Yuji.

You didn’t know him well — just that he was Sukuna’s younger brother. A freshman, a little loud, too nice for this kind of crowd. He trained in Taido, always smiling, the kind of person who made everyone else relax without trying.

You’d seen him floating around earlier — talking to people, trying not to look like he was keeping an eye on his brother.

But now he was headed toward the back door, walking too fast behind someone you did recognize.

A dealer. One of the ones who worked off-campus. The type that stuck around too long at parties and offered things that came in ziplocks with no label. You’d done enough runs to know the type.

Your stomach turned.

You watched Yuji follow him out into the dark. No hesitation. No one else noticed.

You looked toward Sukuna.

He was on the couch with some girl half in his lap, nursing a drink he probably didn’t even like. His head was tilted back, laughing at something Toji said — sharp, mean laughter that didn’t reach his eyes. The two of them were bickering like always, throwing insults that could’ve been jokes or threats. Hard to tell with them.

He didn’t notice Yuji was gone.

Of course he didn’t.

Your eyes lingered for a moment too long.

That’s when Uraume stepped beside him.

They didn’t say anything. Just stood close enough that it was clear — this was territory. Their gaze met yours across the room.

Blank. Cold.

You weren’t supposed to be watching.

So you set your cup down, quietly, and turned away.

You didn’t tell anyone. Not about Yuji. Not about the dealer.

It wasn’t your place.

But you left that party knowing something most people there didn’t.

Not all the damage comes from the people screaming. Some of it comes from the ones who look away.

#jjk #jjk fanfic #jjk smau #smau #idk how to tag this #college au #jjk x y/n #sukuna x y/n #itadori sukuna #exes to lovers #toxic relationship #morally grey characters #tw drugs #tw kidnapping #dark romance

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thefemmefatalexo · 3 months ago

Text

Gojo SMAU - The Art of Falling Fake

Chapter 9 - The Art of Wanting More

an: Love is in the air 🥹 SMOOCHES 💋💋💋

{chapter 8} ; {next}

࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

Satoru adjusted the cuffs of his shirt for the third time.

It didn’t need adjusting.

He’d already done his hair—slightly messy but still styled, that effortless chaos girls loved. He wore a plain black t-shirt under a crisp jacket, jeans that looked expensive because they were, and his silver watch, not for the time but for the subtle flash when he gestured.

Perfect. Easy. Like he hadn’t thought about this date for two days straight.

He stepped back from the mirror, smirked at his reflection, and then immediately cursed under his breath and tugged his jacket off. Too stiff. Too try-hard. You liked him relaxed. You rolled your eyes when he wore anything that screamed rich kid. That annoyed glint in your gaze? He liked that way too much.

He tossed the jacket onto his bed and reached for a hoodie instead.

“Better,” he muttered.

He didn’t want tonight to feel like a show. He wanted you to laugh. He wanted to see that guarded smile that only came out when you weren’t thinking too hard. And yeah, maybe he wanted you to stare a little. Just a little. Maybe notice that he wore cologne this time. That he’d checked your texts ten times just to make sure he wasn’t late.

His phone buzzed on the dresser.

He glanced at the screen. Father – Incoming Video Call.

Shit.

Satoru hesitated, then answered it with a forced grin. “Wow, so you guys do remember you have a child. That’s crazy.”

His mother’s polished face appeared first, seated in what looked like an airport lounge. Perfect hair, pearl earrings, and that tight smile she wore when she was trying to look maternal for the camera.

His father’s face joined a second later, already frowning. “Is that sarcasm?”

Satoru dropped onto the edge of his bed. “Consider it an emotional check-in.”

“We saw the photos, Satoru,” his mother cut in. “On that student gossip page. And your account. And her account. Care to explain?”

Satoru leaned his head back and sighed. “You’ll need to be more specific. I post a lot of pretty things.”

His father’s voice was sharp. “Don’t be clever. You know what we’re talking about. The girl.”

“Ah.” He grinned, lazy and smug. “Y/N.”

“The one you were kissing in front of her house.”

“Yeah. That’s her.”

There was a pause. His mother’s eyes narrowed. “She’s… not from any of the families we know.”

“She’s not from a family,” his father corrected. “At least not one connected. Not that we’ve seen.”

Satoru sat up straighter, jaw tightening. “She’s a person. Not a LinkedIn resume.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” his mother snapped. “We’re just trying to understand who she is.”

“She’s my girlfriend. That’s who she is.”

His father adjusted his tie like the video call was an interview. “We’d like to meet her. Soon. We’re flying back next weekend. Book something formal.”

“No,” Satoru said flatly.

His mother blinked. “Excuse me?”

“No,” he repeated. “You don’t get to make this one a project. Not this time.”

His father’s voice dropped. “Satoru—”

“I’m not introducing her to you two just so you can scare her off before I even figure out what this is,” he snapped. “You always do this. You turn everything I like into something that has to meet your standards.”

“Because we have expectations,” his mother said coldly.

“Exactly.” His smile was humorless. “And I’m sick of trying to meet them.”

They stared at him through the screen. For a second, the perfect image of his parents didn’t speak.

Then his mother said, “You’re being irrational.”

“I’m being twenty-one,” Satoru said. “Which means I get to date someone without needing your approval stamped in triplicate.”

His father exhaled sharply, like he was trying to stay calm. “What are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding anything,” he said. “I’m protecting something.”

They didn’t like that.

Good.

He ended the call before they could say anything else.

The room fell quiet. His reflection was still there in the mirror—hoodie now half unzipped, hair slightly messier from the stress. He looked… less together. More real.

Satoru stared at himself for a long second.

Then he grabbed his keys, checked the time, and texted you.

Satoru:

on my way.

hope u like my outfit, princess.

He left the room still annoyed—but a little lighter. You had a way of doing that. Making things feel real and ridiculous all at once.

Tonight was supposed to be casual.

He was already in over his head.

You’d changed your outfit three times already.

The first was too casual. The second felt like trying too hard. The third—your current choice—was a compromise: a soft sweater tucked into a skirt, paired with boots that gave you just enough height to look confident, not uncomfortable. Your makeup was light, just enough to even things out, with your lips tinted the softest shade of pink.

You told yourself it wasn’t for him.

Not really.

It was for the performance. The part you had to play. The version of yourself your family didn’t believe existed. The girl they refused to see as someone who could be liked, let alone loved. The girl they were dying to expose as a liar.

You were halfway through brushing your hair when your bedroom door creaked open.

Brielle didn’t knock. She never did.

“Wow,” she said, leaning against the frame like she owned the place. “You actually look… decent.”

You kept brushing. “Thanks.”

She walked in, slow, like a predator circling prey. Her perfume was too strong, her tennis skirt too white, like she had just come back from practice and had stopped by to ruin your mood out of habit.

“He’s taking you out again?” she asked. “What is this, two fake dates in a row? Really trying to sell it, huh?”

You stiffened. “It’s not fake.”

“Right.” She rolled her eyes. “Because Satoru Gojo—campus golden boy, likes-every-post-in-under-a-minute Gojo—is dying to date you.”

You set the brush down, gripping the edge of your vanity. “Why are you even here?”

“Because I’m curious.” She tilted her head. “I mean, you’ve never had a boyfriend. You’ve never even kissed anyone before, right?”

You froze.

She grinned. “Oh my god. You haven’t. You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

Your throat tightened. “That’s none of your business.”

“No, it’s not,” she agreed, examining her nails. “But it makes so much sense now. You’re doing all this, parading some guy around, trying to prove something you’re not. You’re scared of being seen for what you actually are.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Because she had said it with such calm, effortless cruelty. And it was working.

You’d never had a boyfriend. You’d never been kissed before Gojo. Everything about this “relationship” was new—touch, attention, someone looking at you like you mattered. You hadn’t built up the walls yet. Hadn’t learned to deflect like he had.

You were still soft. Still you.

And Brielle knew exactly where to poke.

She stepped closer. “He’s not going to stick around, Y/N. Guys like him don’t date girls like you. Not for real. You’re just a placeholder until someone better comes along.”

You swallowed hard, blinking fast. “He’s picking me up in ten minutes.”

“Of course he is,” she said sweetly. “Gotta keep the lie going.”

Then she turned on her heel and walked out, not bothering to close the door behind her.

You sat there in silence.

Your reflection stared back at you—eyes rimmed with emotion, lips trembling. For a second, you thought about canceling. Saying you were sick. Making up some excuse to stay home and avoid the weight of trying to prove yourself again.

But then your phone buzzed.

Gojo (dni):

on my way.

hope u like my outfit, princess.

You stared at the message for a long moment.

Then you picked up your lipstick, reapplied carefully, and stood. You might’ve been faking it—but if you were going to lie, you were going to lie beautifully.

Let them watch.

Let them wonder.

And let them believe it—because tonight, for a little while, you’d be the kind of girl Satoru Gojo kissed like it meant something.

Even if it didn’t.

You heard the engine before you saw the headlights.

He didn’t honk. Gojo never honked.

Instead, you caught the soft vibration of your phone on your vanity and picked it up to see a simple text.

Gojo (dni):

outside. looking extremely hot btw.

You rolled your eyes, grabbed your jacket, and made your way downstairs—trying not to think about Brielle’s words echoing in your head. About being a placeholder. About not being good enough.

When you opened the door, he was already leaning against the passenger side of his car, arms crossed, face lit faintly by the interior lights. His hoodie was loose, his silver hair messy in the way that looked accidental but definitely wasn’t. He looked effortlessly good.

And when he saw you, he grinned like nothing was wrong. Like nothing ever could be wrong.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he said, holding the door open for you.

You stepped into the car, grateful for the warmth. “Hey.”

He didn’t ask if you were okay.

You didn’t ask if something was bothering him.

It was a silent agreement—you’d both carry your own weight tonight. No questions. No cracks.

The drive was quiet, the kind of quiet that wasn’t exactly awkward but still thick enough to notice. You watched the streetlights blur past through the window. Satoru tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, humming low under his breath to whatever was playing on the radio. You couldn’t bring yourself to speak, and he didn’t push.

Until he pulled into a small, tucked-away restaurant near the edge of campus—a place with dim lighting, old wooden beams across the ceiling, and a wide front window you’d always thought looked like it belonged in a bookshop.

When he parked, he finally turned to you.

“You hungry or just here for my devastating company?”

You snorted before you could stop yourself. “That depends. Are you going to behave?”

“I literally never have,” he said, hopping out and jogging around the car to open your door. “But for you? I’ll pretend.”

Inside, the restaurant was warm and half-full, buzzing softly with conversations and clinking glasses. The hostess led you to a table near the back, right next to a small fireplace and a row of potted plants you were 90% sure were fake.

The moment you sat down, a man at the table beside you stood up to adjust his coat—and as he did, his toupee slid clean off his head and flopped onto the floor like a pancake.

You slapped a hand over your mouth.

Gojo made a strangled sound, eyes wide. “No. No. I’m going to lose it. Don’t laugh. Don’t you dare laugh.”

You were already laughing—softly at first, then harder when the man bent down, picked it up without shame, and patted it back into place like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You doubled over in your chair, covering your mouth with your sleeve. Gojo was biting his knuckle, wheezing.

“Oh my god,” you whispered. “He did it like he’s done that every day for twenty years.”

“He probably has,” Gojo whispered back. “That thing had momentum.”

You looked at each other through watery eyes and burst into fresh laughter.

And just like that, the tension cracked.

He leaned back in his chair, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “God, I needed that.”

“Me too,” you admitted, cheeks still aching.

The waiter arrived and took your orders, and by the time he left, the air between you felt lighter—warmer. Like the silence from earlier had never happened.

Gojo leaned forward, grinning. “Okay, real talk. Most embarrassing moment in your life. Go.”

“Oh no,” you said immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“You’re literally obligated to answer. We laughed at a toupee together. That’s a legally binding friendship contract.”

You rolled your eyes, thinking. “Fine. I once fell face-first into my school’s choir display. Knocked over three music stands. One of them hit the vice principal.”

Gojo blinked. “Okay that’s kind of iconic.”

“It was on video. My mom sent it to like four aunts.”

“I need that footage.”

“Absolutely not.”

He was smiling again—relaxed, eyes bright.

“What about you?” you asked.

“Me?” He paused dramatically. “Okay. So when I was twelve, I tried to impress this girl at a family dinner by doing a backflip off the pool ladder.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” he said. “I ended up kicking my uncle in the face mid-flip and landed in the pool. The girl laughed so hard she fell off the lounge chair. And I cried. Not because I was hurt. But because I thought I’d ruined my shot.”

You burst out laughing again. “That’s so tragic.”

“It was cinematic,” he said proudly.

The food came, and you kept talking—about embarrassing stories, favorite shows, weird habits. You discovered you both loved the same chaotic detective drama. That you both hated sparkling water. That you both slept with one leg out of the blanket.

The conversation flowed so easily, so naturally, that somewhere between the second round of drinks and stealing fries off his plate, you forgot about the performance.

It didn’t feel like acting anymore.

It just felt like… you and Satoru.

When the bill came, he waved the waiter off before you could even reach for your wallet.

“Put it on my tab,” he said. “She’s too pretty to pay for anything tonight.”

You gave him a flat look as you both stood. “That line has never worked for anyone.”

“It’s working right now,” he said with a wink.

You didn’t argue.

You couldn’t—not when the corners of your mouth kept lifting without permission.

Outside, the air was colder, but you didn’t mind it. You walked beside him down the street, the sounds of the restaurant fading behind you. He didn’t try to hold your hand, and you didn’t lean into his side. But your shoulders bumped every few steps. And neither of you moved away.

He looked over at you under the glow of a streetlamp, silver hair tousled by the wind.

“You’re not so bad when you’re not threatening to kill me,” he said lightly.

You looked up at him. “You’re not so bad when you’re not trying to seduce everyone in a 30-foot radius.”

His grin returned, smug and warm. “So we’re admitting you’re into me now?”

You opened your mouth to respond.

But you didn’t say anything.

You just laughed.

And he laughed with you.

After dinner, you thought he’d take you straight home.

He didn’t.

Instead, he turned left instead of right at the light near campus, and you gave him a suspicious side-eye.

“Where are we going?”

He just smirked, eyes on the road. “You’ll see.”

“That’s never comforting.”

“And yet you’re still in the car with me. Interesting.”

You didn’t push it. You leaned back in your seat, arms crossed, eyes narrowing with pretend suspicion as he drove further away from the familiar streets, toward the quieter edge of town.

Ten minutes later, he pulled into a small lot that bordered a local fairground.

Your eyebrows lifted. “A carnival?”

It wasn’t a big production—just a pop-up weekend fair with a few flickering rides, game booths, and food trucks. But it lit up the chilly evening with a warm glow, laughter rising into the air from kids and teenagers running past with sticky cotton candy and half-deflated balloons.

Gojo parked and looked at you. “You said you’d never been to one.”

You blinked. “I did?”

“Yeah. Like, three days ago. You were complaining about never getting to do cheesy date stuff.”

You stared at him, thrown off. “You… remembered that?”

He shrugged like it was nothing, but the grin he was trying to suppress betrayed him. “You say stuff. I listen.”

He got out of the car and jogged around to open your door before you could answer. You stepped out slowly, still surprised, your voice softer now.

“This is actually… kind of nice.”

He offered you his arm. “Come on, Officer. Let’s go win you a goldfish or something.”

You took it.

The next hour passed in a blur of color and noise and Gojo’s ridiculous energy. He was loud, dramatic, competitive—and impossible not to have fun with.

At the ring toss booth, he dramatically missed all three attempts, claimed the rings were “rigged by capitalism,” and then bought you the cheapest stuffed animal they had anyway. It was a crooked, one-eyed frog you named Gerald.

At the food truck, he insisted you both try deep-fried Oreos even though you were skeptical, then dropped powdered sugar all over his hoodie and tried to blame it on you.

“Honestly, this is your fault,” he said, brushing white powder off his sleeves. “You distracted me with your devastating beauty.”

You snorted. “You tripped over your own ego.”

He pointed a powdered finger at you. “You’re the meanest fake girlfriend I’ve ever had.”

You rolled your eyes and stuffed another Oreo in your mouth to avoid answering.

And then he pulled you toward the Ferris wheel.

It wasn’t huge—maybe twenty feet up at its highest—but it was lit with twinkling bulbs and groaned slightly when you climbed into the rickety little metal seat.

You didn’t say much at first. Just watched the fair from above as the wheel slowly turned, the cold air brushing your face, making you tuck your chin into your scarf.

Gojo shifted beside you, one arm draped casually over the back of the seat behind you.

You should’ve leaned away.

You didn’t.

“See anything cool?” he asked, glancing down at the crowd below.

You shrugged. “It’s different up here. Everything feels… quiet.”

He was quiet too, for a second. Then:

“You looked happy tonight.”

You turned to him, startled. “What?”

“Earlier. At dinner. When we were laughing.” He shrugged. “It was a good look on you.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

So you said nothing. Just smiled a little and turned your head to look back at the glowing lights beneath you.

Then he moved.

Gently—without forcing anything—he shifted closer, and his hand brushed yours where it rested on the metal bar between you.

His fingers didn’t grab.

They just stayed there, close enough to feel.

You looked at him, eyes meeting under the soft flicker of the overhead bulbs.

“What?” you whispered.

His grin returned, softer now. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

He leaned in, lowering his voice like it was a secret.

“How lucky I am that your parents are watching us and I have to keep up the boyfriend act.”

You gave a short laugh. “You think they installed spy cams at the carnival?”

“Honestly wouldn’t put it past your sister.”

You paused.

Then slowly, you turned your hand over beneath his.

Let his fingers slip between yours.

He blinked—just once—then smiled wider and gave your hand a light squeeze.

The wheel turned.

The lights below blurred softly.

And for the first time that night, you let yourself stop wondering where the act ended.

The Ferris wheel ride ended too soon.

You weren’t ready to go. And neither was he.

But Satoru didn’t complain. He only gave your hand another gentle squeeze as the cart came to a stop and helped you down like you were made of glass.

The walk back to the car was quiet. No teasing, no quick-witted back and forth. Just the steady rhythm of your footsteps on the gravel, the fading carnival noise behind you, and the strange, unfamiliar calm that had settled between you.

He opened the passenger door for you again.

You slid in without a word.

The drive home felt… different this time. Not like the last one. Not like silence holding back tension. This one was warm. Full. Like something had been spoken even though no words had left your mouth.

He glanced at you a few times when he thought you weren’t looking.

You noticed anyway.

It made your stomach twist in a way that felt nothing like nerves.

He parked a few houses down from yours, in the spot he always did. He didn’t turn off the engine, but he left the radio off. The heater hummed quietly between you.

You looked out the window at the soft glow of your porch light.

Then you said, softly, “Thanks for tonight.”

Satoru turned his body toward you. “For the date or the illegal amount of powdered sugar I ingested?”

You gave him a look.

He grinned. “Yeah, okay. You’re welcome.”

You glanced down at your lap, fingers toying with the edge of your sleeve. “It was… really fun. I didn’t think I’d laugh that much.”

“That was the point.”

You looked up at him again, eyes meeting. He wasn’t smiling now. His gaze was softer. Steadier.

“I wanted to remind you,” he said, “that you’re allowed to laugh.”

The words knocked the breath out of your chest more than they should’ve.

You swallowed. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Be… like this. All sweet and thoughtful. We’re just—” You stopped. Couldn’t finish that sentence. Not with the way he was looking at you.

“Y/N,” he said, voice low. “I’m like this when I want to be.”

You didn’t know what to say.

You didn’t need to.

Because the moment was broken by the sound of your front door creaking open.

Satoru’s eyes flicked past you, over your shoulder—and instantly, the softness in his face vanished.

You turned and saw him.

Your stepdad.

Standing in the doorway, arms crossed, mouth drawn tight, his expression cold. He didn’t say anything—just cleared his throat, sharp and pointed, like a warning shot.

Satoru tensed beside you.

Your hand moved to unbuckle your seatbelt, ready to get out.

But before you could, his fingers gently curled around your jaw, turning your face toward him.

Your heart stuttered.

“Satoru—”

He kissed you.

Not soft. Not sweet.

This one was deep—slow and deliberate and very public. His hand cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek. His lips moved with purpose, like he wanted to make a statement.

Like he knew your stepfather was watching.

And he didn’t care.

You felt the heat rush from your spine straight to your knees.

By the time he pulled back, your head was spinning.

He kept his voice low. “Let him choke on that one.”

You were still breathless as you opened the door and stepped out, your legs feeling unsteady beneath you.

You didn’t look back as you climbed the steps. But you felt the heat of your stepdad’s glare as you passed him. Felt the tension in his posture. The judgment. The disbelief.

He didn’t speak. He just stared you down.

But before he could turn and go back inside, something made him pause.

You heard Satoru’s car door open.

Then footsteps.

Then silence.

You glanced over your shoulder.

Satoru stood at the bottom of the steps now, hands in his pockets, eyes locked on your stepfather.

There were no words exchanged.

Just a standoff.

Two men sizing each other up.

Your stepfather’s jaw flexed.

Satoru tilted his head slightly, smiling—but it wasn’t the warm, playful one you knew. It was cold. Sharp. Calculated.

He didn’t blink.

Your stepfather looked away first.

Without another word, he turned and walked into the house, letting the door shut behind him.

You watched as Satoru’s expression shifted again—back to something softer, something only for you.

“Night, sweetheart,” he said.

You nodded, voice gone, heart hammering. “Goodnight.”

He waited until you were fully inside.

Then he got in his car.

And drove away.

#jjk #jjk fanfic #jjk smau #smau #idk how to tag this #college au #jjk x y/n #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #satoru gojo x reader #fake dating au #fake dating #gojo fluff #gojo smut

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thefemmefatalexo · 3 months ago

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Nanami SMAU - A Verdict of Us

Chapter 18 - Contempt of Courtship

He never looked your way. Not until the day his perfectly controlled world unraveled, and you were at the center of it.

an: Y/N is such a rizzler y’all. I wish I had her skills. SMOOCHES 💋💋💋

{chapter 17} ; {next}

taglist: @giasssslife @getovibesonly @inthedarkshadows000 @burpzz @sleepykittyenergy @fuzzycollectiondeersblog @hana-patata @sosole @watasinekoru @linny-bloggs

࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

#jjk #jjk fanfic #jjk smau #smau #idk how to tag this #college au #jjk x y/n #nanami kento #kento nanami #nanami smau #nanami x y/n #lawyer romance #nanami fluff

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thefemmefatalexo · 3 months ago

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Toji SMAU - When love was always there

Chapter 23 - Don’t Make This Weird

warnings: cursing, sexual language, mentions of bullying

an: didn’t feel like giving y’all sum to smile about 😒 I’d appreciate some sort of feedback on my chapters cause I really want to know if you guys like this story! Feel free to comment any wishes or speculations for the story! I love you guys. SMOOCHES 💋💋💋

{chapter 22} ; {next}

taglist: @jinxiewritings @actuallyvalerie @clp-84 @reneinii @magalimachete @mysteriaqueen @linny-bloggs @loveislost @amybarnes21 @1ennj4 @shycreatorreview

࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

Toji wasn’t used to being ignored.

He could handle fights. He could handle yelling. He could even handle someone pretending not to care — but you? You were different. You weren’t cold. You weren’t angry. You were just… slipping away.

At first, it was subtle.

You still replied to his texts.

You still laughed at his dumb jokes.

You still kissed him — once, behind the gym when no one was around.

But then came the silence.

The distance.

The avoidance.

The first time he reached for your hand in the hallway, you pulled away.

Not roughly. Not like you were disgusted.

You just… stepped out of reach. Said something about needing to get to class. Didn’t look him in the eye.

The second time, he draped his arm over your shoulders after gym, sweaty and smug. You smiled, barely, but ducked out from under it the second you saw a group of girls staring.

The third time, he brushed your hair behind your ear at lunch — a small, stupid thing he liked doing just to see you flinch and roll your eyes — but you tensed. Pulled back. Pretended to check your phone.

And all the while, you still texted him at night. Still let him drive you home sometimes. Still kissed him when no one could see.

It was driving him insane.

You noticed it too.

How quiet he’d gotten during the day. How he stopped teasing you in the hallways. How he stopped waiting for you after class.

But you didn’t ask. Because deep down, you were scared of the answer.

Shoko gave you a look as you slid into the seat beside her in the library. “Are you avoiding your situationship again or are we pretending it doesn’t exist today?”

You sighed. “I’m not avoiding him.”

She stared.

“I’m just… trying not to make it a thing.”

“It is a thing.”

“It was supposed to be nothing.”

“Yeah, well.” Shoko sipped her iced coffee. “It sure looks like something.”

Toji noticed how you smiled at other people now — easier than you smiled at him.

He noticed how you talked to your guy friends like nothing was off, like you weren’t sleeping in his hoodie and laying in his bed and letting him kiss you like you belonged to him.

And maybe you weren’t his.

But you were also not not his.

So when he dropped you off at home after school one afternoon and you barely mumbled a “thanks,” he finally snapped.

You didn’t hear him follow you.

You were too busy trying to breathe, to pretend the ride home hadn’t been drenched in silence so thick it was nearly unbearable. You didn’t glance back when you got out of the car, didn’t wave, didn’t say goodbye. You just walked into your house and shut the door behind you like that might shut him out too.

But it didn’t.

You dropped your bag by the front door, headed for the kitchen, and turned to see him — standing there, in your hallway like a shadow you couldn’t outrun.

Your breath caught. “What are you—”

“Door was unlocked,” Toji said, stepping inside. “Not like you were gonna answer it if I knocked.”

You froze. “You can’t just walk in.”

He ignored that. “I’m not here to play games with you anymore.”

“I don’t want to fight.”

“That’s funny,” he said, crossing the room. “You’ve been fighting me every day for weeks. Just quiet about it.”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. “That’s not fair.”

“No?” He laughed, cold and sharp. “You won’t talk to me at school. You won’t let me near you when people are around. You act like you’re embarrassed to be seen with me—”

“I’m not embarrassed of you.”

“You flinched when I touched your hand. You moved away like I burned you.”

You looked down. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You never mean to,” he snapped. “But you keep doing it. You keep pulling away and I keep letting you.”

“Toji, please—”

He ran a hand over his face, his frustration boiling over. “What are we even doing, huh? Because I’m out here walking around like I’m yours, defending you, dropping every other girl, thinking we’re building something. But you? You’re acting like I’m a mistake you regret.”

You felt that hit like a gut punch. “You’re not—”

“Then what the fuck am I to you?”

You blinked, stunned.

“I can’t be one thing behind closed doors and another in public,” he said, voice cracking slightly under the weight of his words. “I’m not built for that shit.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” you whispered.

“But you did.”

Silence stretched between you.

“I’m scared,” you admitted.

Toji stared at you, disbelief flickering in his eyes. “You think that’s an excuse?”

“It’s not an excuse, it’s the truth!” You stepped forward. “You weren’t supposed to mean this much. We weren’t even friends six months ago, and now you’re in my head all the time. I don’t know what to do with that.”

Toji’s hands balled into fists at his sides. “So you just… pretended I wasn’t there? Made me look like a fucking idiot in front of everyone?”

“I didn’t—”

“You did.” His voice cracked now, and that shook you more than anything else. “Every time you smiled at someone else and looked through me like I was nothing — you did.”

“I was trying to protect it,” you said, desperate now. “I thought if I kept it quiet, if I didn’t label it, it wouldn’t get messed up.”

“You already messed it up.”

Your breath hitched. “Toji…”

He looked at you like he didn’t recognize you. Like you were someone entirely different than the girl he kissed in the dark, who curled against his chest in silence and fell asleep with his hoodie wrapped around her like armor.

“Why didn’t you just say something?” you asked, voice barely audible.

“Because I wanted to believe you’d come around,” he said, deadpan. “I thought maybe you just needed time. I was willing to give you that.”

He stepped back toward the door, jaw clenched. “But I’m not giving you the chance to make me feel small again.”

“I never wanted to make you feel like that.”

“But you did,” he said, fire burning under every word. “You don’t get to tell me what you meant anymore. All I have is what you did.”

You stood there, feeling yourself unravel.

He turned to leave, his back to you.

And you did the only thing your heart would allow.

You said, brokenly, “I care about you.”

He paused. Slowly turned.

“Then why the fuck does it feel like I’m the only one who does?”

You blinked, stunned. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” he asked. “I cared. I showed up. I didn’t hide. I didn’t run when it got messy.”

“You think I didn’t care just because I was scared?!”

He looked at you for a long moment — and for the first time, he didn’t look angry. He looked tired.

“You want me to wait around until you’re ready to admit this is real?” he asked. “I’m not doing that. I’m not your backup plan. I’m not your secret.”

You tried to hold his gaze. Tried not to cry. “So that’s it?”

His voice was quiet now. “That’s it.”

He walked out without another word.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

You stood frozen in place until the front door shut, the sound final like a slammed casket.

And then you sank down to the floor, hands over your mouth, and cried like your heart had cracked in half.

You didn’t move from the floor for a long time.

Every second after that door closed felt like a landslide — pieces of yourself tumbling out of control. All the things you hadn’t said echoed louder than anything that actually left your mouth.

The quiet was unbearable.

You didn’t even notice when your phone buzzed. Twice. Then a third time.

You reached for it eventually, hoping—stupidly, hopelessly—that it was him.

It wasn’t.

Shoko:

Where’d you go after school? You okay?

Shoko:

Toji looked like he was about to put his fist through someone’s locker.

Shoko:

Y/n?

You couldn’t respond. You just stared at the screen, willing it to light up with his name.

It didn’t.

You locked your phone and curled up tighter.

That night, your brain wouldn’t shut off.

You kept replaying it. Every word. Every look. Every time you saw something break behind his eyes and did nothing.

You’d pushed him away, and now that he was actually gone, the fear you were trying to avoid—losing him—was staring you in the face. Real. Final.

You stared at the ceiling in the dark, whispering things you should’ve said out loud.

I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.

I care about you more than I know how to handle.

Please don’t hate me.

But Toji couldn’t hear any of it now.

Meanwhile, across town, Toji sat alone in his room, scrolling aimlessly through his phone.

He had a message typed out. A short one. Just your name.

He deleted it.

He opened your last text. The one you sent two days ago about picking up your hoodie from his place. You’d put a heart at the end. A pink one.

He stared at it for a while.

Then tossed his phone across the room.

He could still see the look on your face. That flicker of guilt. The way your voice cracked when you said you cared — like it hurt you to admit it.

And the worst part?

He believed you.

But it wasn’t enough anymore.

He laid back on his bed and stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. You’d hollowed out a space in his life, and now all that was left was the silence.

The next day at school, you avoided the halls he was in. Your eyes searched for him anyway.

When you did see him — just once, from across the quad — he didn’t look at you. Didn’t even glance your way.

He had his headphones in. Hood up. Eyes on the ground. The same expressionless mask he used to wear back when you hated each other.

It felt worse now. Because this time, you knew what was underneath.

And now you weren’t allowed to touch any of it.

You expected it to hurt — but not like this.

Not in the way it crept into everything. Not in how your mornings started heavier, like gravity pulled a little harder now that Toji wasn’t in them. The minute you woke up, you checked your phone without thinking. And every time, the screen was blank. No new messages. No late-night texts. No “u up?” followed by something flirty or inappropriate or stupidly him.

You’d lie in bed a little too long each morning, hoping some part of the day might feel normal again.

It never did.

School was worse.

You felt like a ghost in your own body — laughing when your friends laughed, raising your hand in class, answering questions, going through the motions. But your head wasn’t there. Not really. It was stuck in a memory loop you couldn’t escape.

Toji brushing against you in the hallway.

Toji walking with you after school.

Toji pulling your hoodie strings and saying, “come here” like it was the easiest thing in the world to want you.

Now, he walked past you like a stranger.

And somehow that was worse than him being cruel. Because you knew how deliberate it was. He didn’t look through you — he looked around you.

At lunch, you sat with people who didn’t ask questions. Shoko was the only one who looked at you like she knew better. But she didn’t press. Not yet.

Still, you knew the others noticed. The way you used to look toward the football tables. The way you suddenly didn’t.

You started skipping the halls where he’d linger. Changed your locker route. Walked the long way to class. You told yourself it was easier this way — that if you didn’t see him, you wouldn’t think about him.

It didn’t work.

He was everywhere. In every hoodie you wore. Every playlist you avoided. Every part of your skin that still remembered the way he touched it.

And he was nowhere.

Not in your texts. Not in your orbit. Not in your life.

Toji went quiet.

Not just externally — not just in how he stopped making snide comments in class or flirting with the girl who sat behind him — but internally too. He’d always had a lot going on in his head, but now it was white noise.

Everything blurred. Everything burned.

He didn’t talk much at practice, even when Shiu tried to get something out of him.

“You alright?”

“Fine.”

“You sure?”

“Drop it.”

He trained harder than usual. Lifted more. Ran until his legs went numb. It helped — the ache in his muscles was something he could handle. Something he could control. Unlike the ache in his chest every time he saw you walking with someone else, talking like your world hadn’t just collapsed at his feet.

You didn’t even look at him. Not once.

And that’s when it hit him: this was your choice.

You hadn’t been scared. Not really.

You’d just chosen the version of life that didn’t include him.

He told himself that. Repeated it every night like gospel.

Still, he didn’t delete the photo of you on his phone — the one where you were laughing at something he’d said, hand over your mouth, cheeks flushed.

Still, he slept in the hoodie you left at his place.

Still, he caught himself looking at your empty seat in class.

And every time he did, something inside him cracked a little more.

It was Sunday.

You hadn’t replied to a text in two days. Hadn’t posted anything. You didn’t even want to talk to Shoko — which she took personally, because it was Shoko.

You sat on your bed in yesterday’s clothes, hair unwashed, eyes red from crying again even though you promised yourself this morning you wouldn’t.

When the doorbell rang, you didn’t move.

You assumed it was a delivery or your mom’s friend. But then you heard the quiet thud of boots on the stairs — familiar, heavy. A knock on your bedroom door.

You stood slowly. Cracked it open.

Shoko stood there, arms crossed, sunglasses perched in her hair, her face unreadable.

And beside her, leaning gently against the doorframe, was Nanami’s Reader — calm, soft, holding a bag of snacks and tea, offering you the kind of understanding look that made your eyes sting instantly.

“We’re here,” Nanami’s Reader said.

“For what?” your voice cracked.

“An emotional rescue mission,” Shoko said dryly. “You’re welcome.”

You let them in without another word.

The three of you ended up in your room — you sitting on your bed, knees drawn to your chest, Shoko sprawled across the end like she owned the place, and Nanami’s Reader unpacking the snacks she brought like she was settling in for a storm.

No one spoke for a moment.

Then Shoko said, “You look like hell.”

You snorted weakly. “Thanks.”

“Not a compliment. You smell like despair and fruit loops.”

“I haven’t really… done much.”

“Clearly.”

Nanami’s Reader sat down next to you. “Do you want to tell us what happened?”

You stared at your blanket for a long moment.

And then you did.

You told them everything. The texts. The hiding. The kissing. The sex. The night he left. The silence after. Your fears. His anger. Your regrets.

By the time you finished, your voice was hoarse, and the room felt too full.

Nanami’s Reader placed a hand on yours. “Thank you for sharing that. Really.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “I think I ruined it.”

“You didn’t ruin it,” she said softly. “You hurt him. And you’re hurting. But that’s not the same thing as destroying it.”

Shoko sat up straighter. “You didn’t ruin it. But you did stomp on it, spit on it, and light it on fire.”

You winced.

“But,” she added, “that doesn’t mean it can’t be salvaged. You’re just gonna have to stop hiding behind the whole ‘I’m scared’ defense.”

“I am scared.”

“Yeah,” Shoko said, “and? So’s he. Difference is, he still showed up for you. Even when you didn’t ask him to.”

Your throat tightened.

Nanami’s Reader spoke up gently. “It’s okay to be scared. But if you care about him — and you clearly do — you have to show him now. Even if it’s messy.”

“What if it’s too late?”

Shoko gave you a look. “Then he’ll tell you. But right now, he probably thinks you gave up.”

You looked down at your hands. “I didn’t want to lose him.”

“Then don’t,” Nanami’s Reader said. “But you can’t just want him in secret. You have to want him out loud.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Then Shoko tossed a granola bar at your face. “Eat. Then shower. Then text him. Or don’t. But if you mope another day, I’m slapping you.”

You laughed. Barely. But it was something.

#jjk #jjk fanfic #jjk smau #smau #idk how to tag this #college au #jjk x y/n #toji fushiguro #toji x you #toji angst #enemies to friends to lovers

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