Archive of Our Own

Tonight’s curse was easy.

Slimy, grotesque, the usual—something with too many teeth and not enough spine. You and Nanami moved in tandem like always. Your barriers bloomed like glass flowers around him when it lunged; he cut through it with that clean, brutal 7:3 ratio and the thing split open like rotten fruit.

You might have tehee’d. Just a little. Just a treat.

“Focus,” he’d murmured, low and annoyed.

“Sorry,” you’d said, not sorry at all.

Because he looked good. Sweat darkening his shirt (hot). Tie loosened (hothot). Blunt sword resting against his shoulder (boiling). The quiet violence of him (schorching).

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders. “Okay. Easy money. Let’s just make sure there’s no baby curse slithering around because I am NOT doing a surprise sequel.”

But.

You should have known.

Not known--known, but felt it in your bones the way you feel a migraine coming on, or the way you feel when Chairman Meow is about to knock a glass off the counter just to figure out how gravity works.

Something was wrong.

You wipe ichor off your cheek with the back of your hand, chest heaving, boots crunching on broken tile. The warehouse is split open like a carcass. Fluorescent lights flicker in a dying rhythm above you.

Across the room, Nanami stands straight-backed and immaculate despite the carnage, loosening his tie with that calm, surgical grace .

Which.

God.

He’s so—

“Stop staring,” he says flatly.

“I’m not staring,” you shoot back. “I’m assessing.”

You hear him huff. The faintest exhale. If you squint, it’s a laugh, the Nanmi equivalent of slapping his knee, rolling on the ground and cackling like a witch. You'll take the win.

You and Nanami have been dancing around each other for months. Everyone sees it.

Especially The One and Only (thank fuck): Satoru Gojo, who has six eyes and zero shame. Like actual negative shame somehow:

“Oh my GOOOD just kiss already,” Gojo had whined last week, upside-down on a couch like a possessed house cat. “You two are so painfully repressed it’s giving me hives.”

“You had a catastrophic situationship with Suguru,” you had replied sweetly while Gojo looked like you'd just brought up his ex (which... kinda yeah). “I don’t think you’re qualified to comment.”

Nanami had adjusted his glasses and muttered, “Please don’t drag me into this.”

But he’d stood a little closer to you that day.

Closer. Which is basically Nanami for marriage.

And then there was the Chairman Meow situation.

You still feel the humiliation in your bones. Calling Nanami in a panic because your indoor-only itty-bitty darling cat had Houdini’d himself somewhere in your apartment. You’d been teary, frantic, convinced he’d slipped out a window, ran away into Tokyo, maybe even gotten eaten by a coyote (you live in Tokyo, coyotes don't live here but-- semantics).

Nanami showed up in fifteen minutes.

Which is odd... because you know for a fact his apartment is around twenty-five minutes away by car.

He found the cat in ten fucking minutes.

Behind your washing machine.

“You didn’t check here,” he’d said calmly, holding your very indignant menace like a football. “He’s a cat. He lacks the intellectual capacity for interdimensional travel.”

You’d stared at him like he’d descended from heaven.

He’d stared back.

Something unspoken. Something warm.... and also so fucking terrifying.

*-*

And now—

You sweep your senses outward. Defensive technique flaring at your fingertips. Thin, invisible barriers thread through the warehouse like silk.

Still wrong.

Still—

“Nanami,” you murmur.

He hums.

“Doesn’t this feel… off?”

Silence.

You turn to say something witty, or dumb, or just... slightly flirty but not really so you won't have to deal with the consequences.

—and BARELY dodge the blur of black and white as his blunt sword whistles past your face, close enough you feel the pressure of it kiss your skin.

Your heart stops.

The blade slams into concrete where your head had been a half-second earlier. The impact BOOMS.

Instinct saves your life.

You twist, curse tearing out of your mouth as Nanami’s blade passes so close you feel it skim the air where your face was a second ago. You stumble back, boots scraping concrete, adrenaline detonates in your veins.

You spin, wild-eyed, already scanning the alley.

A lingering curse? A thingy? A second entity you missed? A Gojo??

But there’s nothing.

Just you.

You turn back stare at him.

He stares at you.

His expression is calm.

So fucking calm.

“…Nanami?”

He doesn't answer (fucking RUDE), he is already stepping forward again, pulling the blade free.

And swings again.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” You throw yourself backward, barrier snapping into place just in time —transparent, humming, infinity-adjacent but not nearly as broken as Gojo’s. The sword CRACKS against it, cursed energy shrieking on impact.

“Nanami, stop—!”

He doesn’t hesitate.

He swings again.

CLANG.

Your barrier fractures. A hairline crack.

You stare at him through it.

Your brain is scrambling for logic like it’s flipping through files at light speed.

Okay. Fun. Possession. Maybe.

Mind control curse.

Illusion.

Some weird 7:3 misfire where he’s calculating you as the weak point.

“Nanami, if this is a joke, it’s not funny,” you say, voice thinner than you mean it to be.

Silence.

He advances.

Your heart starts pounding so hard it feels like it’s bruising your ribs.

He has never looked at you like this.

Not once.

Not when you burned dinner and tried to play it off as “charcoal chic.” Not when you cried after that mission in Shibuya. Not when you dragged him into your apartment at 2 a.m. because you were afraid to be alone.

He has never looked at you like you are something to eliminate.

He moves again. Fast. Brutal.

You barely reinforce your barrier in time.

CRACK.

Okay.

Okay.

Think.

“Did I—” you laugh, breath shaky, “Did I piss you off or something? Because if this is about the overtime thing I SWEAR I won’t call you ‘corporate daddy’ again—”

Your voice wobbles, humor has gotten you out of many situations, but this time... well it seems that he does not care.

He circles you.

Measured steps. Calculating.

He’s planning.

You know that look.

You’ve seen it aimed at curses.... but you’ve never seen it aimed at you.

And something inside your chest starts to splinter.

Because the scariest part?

He doesn’t look angry, nor possessed.

He looks focused.

Like this is work. Like removing your head from your body is a task on his to-do list.

Your throat tightens.

Nanami would never do this.

He would never hurt you.

He—

Would he?

A sick, traitorous voice whispers: Maybe you misread everything.

Maybe the coffee meant nothing.

Maybe the way he lingered by your door meant nothing. Or maybe when his hand brushed yours and stayed there half a second too long, that was just you being delusional.

Maybe you were stupid.

Maybe you pushed too hard.

Maybe he realized you were too much. Too loud. Too soft. Too everything.

Maybe he got tired of orbiting.

Maybe he finally decided you were a liability.

The thought hits harder than his sword ever could.

He punches you-- well okay, not you, he punches the barrier.

A full-force, bone-shattering, seven-three ratio enhanced punch.

Your barrier fractures. Like actually fucking cracks (like your heart).

“HEY!” you bark, scrambling upright. “HELLO? EXCUSE ME? WE’RE ON THE SAME TEAM?!”

“I see,” he says mildly, stepping back to observe you. “You’re adapting.”

You blink.

“I’M ADAPTING TO YOU TRYING TO KILL ME, YOU PSYCHOPATH.”

He tilts his head slightly. Observing.

Like you’re a problem set.

You swallow hard.

Something’s wrong. Something is deeply, horrifically wrong.

You expand your defensive field, layering barriers over barriers. Semi-transparent planes shimmer into existence around you.

Nanami steps forward.

Calm.

Measured.

Terrifying.

“You used your domain earlier,” he notes.

Your stomach drops.

He knows.

He’s tracking your reserves. Rude -- so FUCKING rude, you're going to complain to Yaga, to the higher ups, to fucking TENGEN if needed, this ENTIRE situation is RUDE.

“You’re running at approximately forty percent cursed energy,” he continues. “Your barriers will degrade under sustained pressure.”

“WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?!” Your voice cracks. You hate that it cracks.

He doesn’t answer, but he does look at you... and God, does he look.

And there’s nothing there for you.

No warmth. No hesitation. Just assessment.

You feel something inside you cave in.

This is worse than a curse.

Because curses don’t make you question your worth. Curses don’t make you wonder if you imagined love.

You swallow hard.

“Okay,” you breathe, voice trembling. “Okay. So. Cool. Awesome. This is happening.”

He lunges.

Sword arcs downward—

You stack three barriers in a split second.

The first SHATTERS.

The second SPLINTERS.

The third HOLDS—barely.

The shockwave sends debris flying. Your ears ring, our mind races, you won't hold on forever.

Possession? Curse manipulation? Residual binding vow backlash? A hidden parasite?

You scan him.

There—

A thread.

Thin.

Coiled around his cursed energy like barbed wire.

“SHIT.”

He hacks at your defenses methodically. Precise. Relentless. He knows how your technique works. He knows the stress points.

He’s exploiting them.

And that— that feels like betrayal layered on betrayal.

Because he’s using the knowledge he gained fighting with you to fight against you.

“Stop,” you whisper, half to him, half to the universe.

He doesn’t.

Your barrier shatters.

You stagger back.

He closes the distance in an instant.

You throw up a smaller shield just as his fist connects. The impact sends you skidding across concrete.

Pain blooms.

Your vision swims.

You taste blood.

And the worst part is not the pain.

It’s the way your chest aches when you look up and see him walking toward you again.

Steady.

Unhurried.

Like he knows you, he knows exactly how long you’ll last.

Tears blur your vision, hot and humiliating.

“Nanami,” you choke out, almost laughing because if you don’t you’ll scream, “if this is your way of asking me out, I’m gonna need you to work on your communication skills—”

Your voice breaks.

He raises his sword.

And for one horrifying, crystalline second, you believe he’s going to kill you.

You think: I love you.

And immediately after: Is this my fault?

Did I push too hard? Did I look at you too openly or too gently? Did I make you uncomfortable? Did I ruin us before we even were an us?

Your barrier flares desperately as his blade comes down.

The force drives you to your knees.

Your arms tremble violently.

You can’t hold this much longer. He is, after all, a Grade One.

“Please,” you whisper, and you don’t even know what you’re asking for anymore.

For him to stop.

For him to explain.

For him to look at you the way he used to.

For this to be a nightmare.

He tilts his head slightly as he presses down.

Studying the crack spreading across your shield.

Of course the man you’re catastrophically in love with is also the worst possible opponent for your fighting style.

“You are remarkably durable,” he comments.

“STOP REVIEWING ME LIKE A PERFORMANCE REPORT!” You bark out. You manage, by some magical fucking miracle, to stack enough barriers like some pancake of anti-death, you now stand again, panting.

“You don’t want to hurt me,” you say, softer this time.

His jaw tightens.

“I am evaluating the optimal method to remove your head,” he replies evenly.

“... oh my fuck- that's so not romantically helpful, what the fuck.” you groan.

He steps in close.

Too close.

You smell clean soap and iron and something painfully familiar.

He grimaces.

And then he pushes harder.

Your barrier SCREAMS.

“Okay!” you gasp. “Plan B! Plan B!”

You can’t deploy another domain. It would gut you. You’d collapse before finishing the incantation.

You need—

He pivots, striking the lower quadrant of your defense. It explodes outward.

You stumble, barely avoid another sword hit. Your heart does something stupid and traitorous.

“You’re hesitating,” he says quietly.

“So are you,” you shoot back.

For one infinitesimal second—

He falters.

That thread around him pulses.

You see it clearly now.

A curse technique embedded in his shadow.

Sneaky.

Parasitic.

Probably latched on during the fight.

You shove a barrier between his hand and your throat, forcing space.

He slices through it instantly.

“DAMMIT.”

He’s breathing harder now.

“I will not miss again,” he says.

“God, you’re hot when you’re homicidal,” you blurt out.

Silence.

His eyebrow twitches.

“…What?”

You are seconds from either saving the man you love—or being bisected by him.

Nanami’s blade carves through your outer barrier like it personally insulted his quarterly earnings. The warehouse is a warzone of shattered concrete and fractured light. Your cursed energy is running thin. Sweat drips down your spine.

He moves like a metronome.

Precise. Relentless. Economical.

“ENOUGH! Stop being so, so.. so fucking competent!!” you shout as you throw up another shield.

“I do not have that option,” he replies coolly, and drives his sword down.

The barrier cracks.

You feel it in your teeth.

You cannot keep doing this. You cannot crush him. You cannot deploy another domain.

You cannot—

Your footing slips.

Your barrier flickers.

And then—

You drop it.

Intentionally.

Nanami lunges instantly.

Of course he does. He’s been waiting for the weakness.

He’s fast—so fucking fast—

But you’re desperate. And you’re angry.

And frankly? You’re done playing defense (yes this is funny).

You duck under the swing.

Pivot.

And with every ounce of Grade One spite in your body—

You punch him in the balls.

Hard.

Very, very hard.

The sound he makes is not dignified. It is not calm.

It is a strangled, guttural, deeply human—

“—hhhkggghhhh—!”

Nanami Kento folds.

Like a goddamn lawn chair. Or a very polite origami.

He drops to his knees.

His sword clatters across the floor.

For one glorious second, the parasite’s control falters because YEAH, EVEN POSSESSED MEN HAVE NERVES.

You stumble back, wheezing.

“Curse equality you bitch,” you gasp.

Nanami tips sideways.

Fully down.

Flat on his back.

You stare at him.

He stares at the ceiling.

You both breathe.

“…I am going to HR,” he croaks faintly.

“SHUT UP.”

You scramble, grabbing his weapon and skidding backward. With a sharp inhale, you slam your palms together and snap a reinforced barrier into existence:

A perfect cube.

Six planes of condensed cursed energy.

A fishbowl (sexy blond man fish).

Nanami is inside it.

On the floor.

Processing catastrophic genital trauma.

You sag against the outside of it.

“…I am SO sorry,” you whisper.

Inside the box, his fingers twitch.

Oh.

Oh no.

You yank out your phone.

Dial.

It rings once.

“Yeah?” Principal Yaga answers, like you’ve called to ask about homework.

“Hi,” you pant. “Nanami is possessed and I punched him in the dick.”

Silence.

“…You what.”

“He tried to kill me first.”

“That...why...who? Actually I don't want to know,” Yaga sighs. “Hold him. I’ll inform Gojo.”

“INFORM HIM FASTER—”

Click.

You stare at your phone.

“Wow. Love that support.”

Your device buzzes almost immediately.

Go-hoe-jo:

You close your eyes.

“Why are you like this,” you whisper to the universe.

Behind you—

BOOM.

The cube shudders.

Nanami is on his feet.

Oh goodie.

He’s over it.

Fantastic.

Yippie as the young people would say.

He drives his fist into the barrier wall. Not sloppy. Not enraged.

Measured.

Testing.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Each hit sends a shockwave that you can feel through the floor.

“Please,” you mutter. “Please stay down. Just take five. ICE IT. TIME OUT."

He tilts his head.

His glasses are cracked.

Blood trails from your shoulder onto the concrete.

His expression is distant.

Wrong.

“You are expending unnecessary energy,” he says calmly.

“YOU ARE IN A BOX.”

He punches again.

Hairline fractures spider across the barrier.

You reinforce it, sweat dripping into your eyes.

“I cannot believe I’m babysitting my own crush,” you groan. “This is humiliating.”

He strikes lower.

The cube warps.

You hiss, shoving more cursed energy into the construct.

You could crush the box inward.

You could compress it until bones snap.

You won’t.

You can't.

“Hang in there,” you whisper. “I’ve got you. Even if you’re being a homicidal asshole.”

The air shifts.

And then—

Gojo just appears.

No footsteps. No warning.

One second you’re alone.

The next—

POOF. He’s there. He, lacking better words, spawns in. Hands in his pockets.

Taking in the scene.

He glances at the cube.

At Nanami hammering inside it.

At you, bleeding and furious.

“…Wow,” he says lightly. “Foreplay’s gotten real aggressive. Didn't know this was the type of shit you were into.”

You stare at him.

Deadly.

“Take. It. Off.”

He pauses. Lifts a brow, grin blooming like a child handed an entire jar of sweets.

“…Oh wow, so you want him to watch-"

“I SWEAR TO EVERYTHING HOLY, YOU KNOW WHAT I MEANT.” you bark out.

“Urgh fine, can't even joke anymore."

Slowly, he lifts the blindfold.

Six Eyes ignite.

The air changes. Pressure warps. Fucking Gojo being a magical girl.

Gojo’s expression loses its teasing edge.

He steps closer to the barrier, peering in.

Nanami lunges at him through the wall.

The cube rattles violently.

Gojo hums.

“…Huh.”

“Huh?” you repeat hysterically. “HUH?”

He leans in.

“Yeah, so. He’s basically being worn.”

“WORN.”

“Like a meat suit.”

Your stomach drops. You suddenly feel cold all over, terror seizes your heart.

“Is he—” Your voice cracks. “Is he dead?”

Gojo blinks at you.

“Whoa. Calm your tits, pookie. He’s alive.”

You nearly sob from relief.

“There’s a curse latched into his nervous system,” Gojo continues casually, like he’s explaining a mildly inconvenient rash. “Deep. Nasty. Very clingy. Zero stars. Fucking cringe.”

Nanami slams his shoulder into the barrier again.

Cracks spread.

You reinforce it on instinct.

“If you kill it,” you whisper, eyes locked on Nanami, “won’t it kill him?”

Gojo tilts his head.

Actually thinking (actually insane, you did NOT know Gojo was capable of doing without blowing up a small city).

“…Not if I’m careful.”

You look at him sharply.

“Define careful.”

He smiles.

“Vibes-based precision.”

“GOJO.”

“Okay, okay. Here’s the plan.” He gestures vaguely. “I’ll dilute Infinity. Instead of creating infinite distance, I’ll use the repulsion aspect to push just the foreign cursed mass outward. Very controlled. Very gentle.”

“Gentle,” you echo faintly.

“You,” he points at you, “support pookie Nanami’s body with your barrier technique. Internal reinforcement. Like a cursed energy cast. If the parasite tears anything on its way out, you compensate.”

You stare at him.

“Have you done this before?”

He beams.

“NOPE.”

You consider punching him next. Behind you, the cube fractures louder.

Time is up.

“…Okay,” you breathe. “Okay. Fine. Let’s do it.”

You drop the outer box.

Nanami launches forward instantly—

And freezes mid-stride.

Gojo’s hand is raised.

Infinity hums, but thinner. Sharper. Like a scalpel instead of a wall.

Nanami convulses.

You’re already moving, hands glowing as you slam a containment barrier around his torso. Not external—internal. You weave cursed energy along muscle and bone, bracing him from the inside.

“Hold him steady!” Gojo calls.

“I AM HOLDING HIM STEADY!”

Nanami screams.

It’s raw.

It’s wrong.

Black, viscous energy bubbles beneath his skin.

Your stomach flips.

“Gojo!” you shout. “Now!”

His fingers flex.

The space around Nanami distorts—

And something RIPS outward.

It’s not elegant nor is it clean. It’s a wet, horrific separation.

A tar-black, semi-solid mass tears free from Nanami’s back like it’s being born wrong.

It hits the floor with a SPLAT.

Screeching. Writhing.

You nearly gag.

Gojo’s expression shifts.

Cold.

He steps forward and—

Curbstomps it. Hard. Like literally.

The warehouse shakes.

The curse shrieks once—

And disintegrates under overwhelming force.

Silence crashes down, and Nanami does as well, literally collapsing on the floor like a puppet with no strings.

You’re already there.

Catching him before he hits the ground.

His weight is heavy. Solid. You press your fingers to his throat.

Pulse. Strong.

Breathing. Unconscious.

BUT.

Alive.

So this is a win. You let out a shaky laugh that turns into something dangerously close to a sob.

“Idiot,” you whisper, brushing hair off his forehead. “You absolute idiot.”

Gojo stands nearby, rolling his shoulders.

“See? Easy peasy.”

You glare up at him, eyes blazing.

“You said ‘meat suit.’”

He shrugs.

“It was accurate.”

You look back down at Nanami.

Your Nanami.

Bruised. Sweaty. Alive.

Your hands tremble as you maintain the internal barrier just a little longer.

Just in case.

“Hey,” Gojo says softer, for once not joking.

“He’s fine,” you murmur. “He has to be.”

Nanami shifts faintly in your arms.

You press your forehead to his.

“Next time,” you whisper, voice fierce and fragile all at once, “if you want to get me on my knees, you could just ask.”

Gojo snorts.

You don’t even care.

You’re too busy holding onto the man who almost killed you... and almost got taken from you.

The warehouse lights flicker one last time.

*-*

Hospitals in the jujutsu world smell like antiseptic and old curses.

It’s a weird combination.

You’ve been pacing for two hours.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

You’re pretty sure you’ve worn a path into the polished floor of the healing ward.

Behind you, Shoko leans against the wall, cigarette in hand, watching you like you are a mildly interesting documentary.

“He’s fine,” she says for the fifteenth time.

“You don’t know that.”

“I literally reconstructed his nervous system.”

“And I love that for you, queen, but he got possessed like a haunted doll. Fucking Annabelle but blond version.”

Shoko exhales smoke slowly. “You’re loud when you’re stressed.”

“I’m ALWAYS loud.”

There’s a soft shift from the bed.

You freeze.

Nanami inhales sharply.

His eyes open.

Slowly.

Confused.

He blinks at the ceiling like he’s waking up from a nap in an airport lounge.

“…Why am I here?”

You are at his bedside in half a second.

“You woke up.”

“Yes,” he says evenly. “That tends to happen.”

His voice is rough, glasses are on the side table. His hands are wrapped heavily in white bandages.

You stare at them.

Your throat tightens.

“What happened?” he asks calmly.

And then you—

You absolutely explode.

“OKAY SO— we were in the warehouse, right? And the curse was gross but manageable, very mid-tier honestly, and then you tried to decapitate me, which, rude, by the way— and I thought maybe there was another curse but NO it was YOU, except not-you, because apparently some disgusting goo parasite latched onto your cursed energy like a freeloading roommate from hell— and you were breaking my barriers with your FISTS, Nanami, do you understand how horrifying that is?? I literally had to build a fishbowl around you—”

He blinks once.

Twice. Absorbing.

You continue.

“—AND THEN I HAD TO CALL YAGA- fucking YAGA--who was zero help by the way, and Gojo showed up being insufferable as usual, and then we had to toothpaste-squeeze the curse OUT of you which was DISGUSTING and if you ever want to thank me you absolutely can—”

“Why,” Nanami interrupts quietly, “does my penis hurt.”

You stop.

Shoko makes a choking noise in the background.

You turn slowly. Very slowly.

Heat floods your entire body.

You are neon. Radioactive even.

You clear your throat.

“Well.”

Nanami watches you patiently.

“During the… altercation…”

“Yes.”

“You lunged.”

“I see.”

“And I ducked.”

“Mm.”

“And then I may have applied… tactical force.”

He stares at you.

“…You injured me.”

“It was self-defense!”

“You struck me.”

“Specifically,” Shoko says lazily from the wall, “she decked you in the balls.”

Nanami closes his eyes.

Long inhale.

“…I see.”

You are sweating.

“I thought you were going to kill me,” you rush out. “You were very motivated.”

He presses his lips into a thin line.

“I see I did not succeed?”

“No.”

“…Good.”

There’s a beat.

“…Though I would prefer not to be castrated in future interactions.”

You bury your face in your hands.

“OH MY GOD.”

Shoko laughs outright.

“You’re both idiots,” she says, flicking her cigarette into a tray. “He’s fine. Mild bruising. Hands are worse. Dislocated two fingers trying to break your barriers.”

Nanami lifts his bandaged hands, flexes carefully.

“…Impressive,” he murmurs.

You look up sharply.

“Impressive? You were terrifying.…Are you in pain?”

“Yes.”

“…Scale of one to ten?”

“Seven.”

You grimace.

“That’s symbolic.”

He stares at you.

“I don't want to unpack that.”

He studies you now.

Really studies you.

“…Did I hurt you?”

The softness in his voice nearly undoes you.

“Just a scratch,” you lie.

He notices the stiffness in your shoulder immediately.

His jaw tightens.

"I apologize.”

“You were possessed.”

“That does not absolve me.”

You swallow.

Shoko pushes off the wall.

“He’s cleared. Don’t do anything strenuous.”

You choke.

She smirks.

“I mean fighting.”

You do not believe her.

*-*

An hour later, you hand Nanami his blunt sword.

He takes it carefully.

“…You kept it safe.”

“Of course I did,” you say. “You think I’d let Gojo touch it? He’d bedazzle it.”

Nanami exhales faintly.

Then you shift.

You hesitate.

“…Would you mind coming to my place?” you ask, forcing casual. “Just in case there’s any residual curse backlash. Monitoring purposes.”

He tilts his head slightly.

“…Monitoring.”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“Very well.”

You try not to look victorious.

*-*

Your apartment door swings open.

Chairman Meow is waiting. Like a demon. The cat menace locks eyes with Nanami.

And screams.

A long, offended yowl.

Nanami blinks.

“…We’ve met.”

Chairman Meow hisses like Nanami owes him rent.

“He remembers you found him behind the washing machine,” you say solemnly. “He’s never forgiven you.”

Nanami removes his shoes neatly at the door.

“Understandable.”

*-*

Dinner is simple.

Takeout.

You sit across from him at your small table.

He takes ibuprofen with a glass of water.

You bite the inside of your cheek when he mutters, “My groin is throbbing.”

Do NOT laugh.

Do NOT laugh.

You laugh.

He gives you a look.

You wheeze.

“I hate you.”

“I find that unlikely.”

You quiet.

Because that tone... It’s soft.

*-*

The clock ticks.

It’s almost midnight.

The apartment feels smaller.

Quieter.

Chairman Meow is snoring faintly on the couch. Nanami sits across from you, sleeves rolled up, bandages stark against his skin.

“…I remember fragments,” he says finally.

You look up.

“Like a dream,” he continues. “Distorted. Heightened. My strength felt… excessive.”

“You were breaking my barriers with your fists,” you say quietly. “Kento, I’ve seen you fight curses for years. That was different.”

He nods slowly.

“The curse amplified my output.”

You study him.

“You scared me.”

There it is. Honest.

His eyes soften.

"I'm sorry.”

You shake your head.

“That’s not— I know it wasn’t you. But I kept thinking— if Gojo had been wrong— if pushing it out had—”

Your voice wavers.

He stands.

Moves around the table.

Stops in front of you.

“I am glad you were not badly hurt,” he says quietly. “I could not imagine harming someone I care so much about.”

You freeze.

Silence somehow detonates.

The air thickens. You stare at him.

He stares at you.

Chairman Meow snores.

Your heart is in your throat.

“…Care,” you repeat.

Nanami doesn’t look away.

“…Yes.”

The courage in your bloodstream tonight is reckless.

Unhinged.

You stand abruptly.

Grab his collar.

And kiss him.

Not soft.

Not tentative.

It’s messy.

Hungry.

Teeth clacking slightly.

Too much tongue. Like WAY too much tongue.

Hands fisting into his shirt like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something solid and real.

He makes a low sound in his throat that is absolutely not corporate-approved.

His hands slide to your waist.

Pull you closer.

Your back hits the wall.

You kiss him like you survived something. Like you almost lost him, like you refuse to ever let that happen again.

His mouth is warm and demanding. Controlled even now.

He tilts his head, deepens it, and holy shit—

You drag your hands over his chest.

Broad.

Solid.

Bandages and muscle and heat.

He exhales sharply against your mouth.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

“Make me,” you breathe.

His grip tightens.

“I am,” he says evenly, though his ears are slightly pink, breath hot on your lips “deeply invested in your continued existence.”

You stare at him.

“…That is the most emotionally constipated confession I’ve ever heard.”

He exhales.

You shift your thigh between his legs—

And he flinches violently.

Actually recoils.

You freeze.

“Oh my GOD.”

He inhales through his teeth.

“…Apologies.”

“NO, I’M SORRY,” you gasp, horrified. “I forgot about the—”

“The bruising,” he says dryly.

You burst into hysterical laughter.

He leans his forehead against yours, also laughing softly.

“This is the least dignified I have ever felt,” he mutters.

“You tried to murder me today.”

“Yes.”

“And I punched you in the balls.”

“Yes.”

“And now we’re making out in my apartment.”

“Yes.”

A beat.

“…Life is so fucking strange.”

You grin up at him.

“Stay.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“…Alright.”

Chairman Meow snores louder.

Midnight hums outside your window.

*-*

It’s 1:17 a.m.

And you have NO idea how you got here.

Nanami is sitting at in your tiny bedroom like a war veteran of Corporate Hell and Also Recently Bruised Genitals™.

Tie gone. Shirt sleeves rolled. Bandaged fingers flexing experimentally.

“Please allow me,” he murmurs, lips hot against the softness of your stomach.

You gasp dramatically. “Definitely won't stop you.”

He gives you that look.

The one that says behave.

You do not behave.

When he touches you—

You melt.

His palm is warm. Broad. Heavy in the best way. He presses into your thighs, inching towards your needy heat and you gasp like you’ve already seen god.

“Behold.” You gasp out when he manages to get your sweatpants off of you, allowing him to see your glorious panties. Panties, that say "Meow-astic", which are pink and sparkly with little cats.

He eyes it.

“…That is excessive.”

“Yeah well you're geriatric so womp womp.”

He takes them off carefully, mostly because one of his hands is heavily wrapped, so he has to be mindful of the bandages. And boom, you're naked. Wonderful. Tits out. And god the way he looks at you... you feel like you're the only thing that truly matters.

Then—

Well then, he gets to it.

You have to admit, in the beginning it's uh.. awkward—angles wrong, grip off.

Then—

He hums, as if he suddenly understood. Spreads your thighs far apart, and truly dives into it. And he hums again.

Low.

In his throat.

You freeze.

“Oh my god.”

He eats you out slowly. Deliberate. Hungry. As if this was a succulent meal. The corner of his mouth shines with your wetness. His jaw flexes as his bandaged hand straights against the soft meat of your thigh.

He continues. Lower. Slower. His non injured hand hand slides from your thigh to your pussy, thumb pressing circles into aching tension.

You arch slightly.

“Careful,” he murmurs, leaning down. His lips leave delicate kisses along your thigh. Soft. Sweet. Unfair.

“…This is very good,” he murmurs.

Your walls flutter around his fingers, and Nanami smirks against your skin.

He goes back in. Less careful.

A soft, involuntary sound slips out of him. A groan, almost.

You stare.

“Kento.”

He pauses, looks up through his lashes like the pretty man he is. “Yes.”

“You cannot make that noise over just eating me out.”

He licks his lips. Calm. Composed. SMUG.

“I am appreciating you, this is not 'just' eating you out.”

“APPRECIATE QUIETER. I have neighbours. I have a Chairman.”

He smirks—barely. Goes back in. Slower this time, watching you.

He builds your orgasm like it’s sacred architecture.

Your fingers twist nervously in the blankets under youç$$$. Heat crawling up your neck.

He kisses along your stomach. Gentle. Measured. Each press of his mouth warm against your skin while his fingers slowly press in and out of you, thick fingers splitting you open deliciously.

It’s not rushed nor frantic.

Just—

Intent.

His injured hand drifts back upward, fingers spreading wide over the fat of your hips, creating a sort of indent.

“…You're so tense,” he notes.

“You tried to kill me.”

“Fair.”

Your laugh is almost immediately interrupted by him suddenly lightly sucking your clit. You make the must undignified moan, like a whore in a church. He presses his fingers a little harder in you, curling them upwards and you swear you see stars.

“Oh MY—”

“You're being loud,” he murmurs against your pussy, kissing just below your clit and going right back at it.

You shiver, your fingers tangle themselves in his hair, because this feels good, so soft and warm and.. perfect.

His hand slows as your walls tighten, he knows you're about to cum. Softens. Keeps curling his finger so that the thick digits keep brushing your g-spot, tongue on your clit. And fuck. It's almost poetic, to come undone by the very same hands that almost killed you this very morning. You're panting, tears in your eyes, not even because it feels that good (it does), but because it's so... overwhelming.

 He’s panting now, you saw him wince when he tried to grind his (probably aching) cock, still bruised even when hard. You are about two seconds away from combusting, or cuming, or crying. Or all three at the same time, hard to tell.

“Kento- FUCK- ah, I'm.. I'm gonna cum”you gasp out, your fingers scrapping his head even more.

“Then let go.” he murmurs gently, you barely even hear him, mostly because of the blood rushing in your ears.

And well.. you did.

Your back arches, you moan his name so loudly the entire building knows him.

The hot coils that had tightened in your lower belly seem to just.. listen to him, because they simply evaporate, warmth and bliss spreading all throughout your body like a detonation of love itself.

For a second your hearing actually blurs.

So much so that Nanami suddenly appeared in your line of sight, his hands slides up your side in a way that feels like a promise instead of a question.

"....?"

"Huh?" You blurt out, in an amazingly eloquent way.

“…Better?” he asks quietly.

You blink and a blissful smile spreads accross your face: "Mhm... you? Not too bruised?"

He huffs out a slight laugh, presses a kiss to your cheek. He looks calm and composed, but his eyes are warm.

“Yeah,” He mumbles, “Very much so.”

He leans down and kisses you properly this time.

Slow.

Deep.

Hands still steady on your body, you can taste yourself on his lips.

When he pulls back, you sigh.

“So...we should so do this again. But like... when your dick isn't purple.”

“I would not object,”

And his hand never really leaves you.

“…You’re messy,” you mutter.

“My fingers were impaired.”

“Tragic.”

Your skin is warm and oversensitive and humming like a live wire. Which is nice.

Nanami stands at the edge of the mattress, sleeves still rolled, expression soft in that dangerously subtle way he gets when he thinks you’re not looking.

“…Water,” he says.

You groan. “Don’t make me hydrate.”

He presses a glass into your hands anyway, how did the glass get there? No one knows. Sits beside you. One steady palm smoothing down your arm, grounding.

“Slow breaths,” he murmurs.

You melt further.

He brushes hair from your forehead. Checks your pulse discretely like he didn’t just ruin you (emotionally).

“…You overexerted yourself earlier,” he adds quietly.

“You overexerted your fists on my barriers,” you mumble (no, you're never letting that go).

He huffs.

There’s something achingly gentle in the way he tucks the blanket over you. Kisses your temple. Your cheek. Your shoulder.

It’s infuriatingly tender.

“…You’re nice,” you whisper.

“I'm aware.”

You squint at him.

“Okay but now strip.”

He pauses.

One brow lifts.

“Oh?”

You immediately point at your dresser. “I have spare clothes. Sweats. Shirts. You can’t sleep in slacks like a alpha sigma delta finance bro.”

He crosses his arms slowly.

“…Spare clothes.”

“Yes.”

“For men.”

“…Yes.”

His other brow joins the first.

“Do you maintain a roster?” he asks mildly. “Should I be concerned? Am I to assume there is a rotation schedule? Am I the Tuesday appointment? Or do I receive Sunday privileges?”

Your soul leaves your body.

“I— WHAT? NO. There is no roster. There is no Tuesday man. Or Sunday man. Or ANY man. I just— I like oversized clothes. They’re comfortable. It’s a feminist choice.”

He watches you unravel with infuriating calm.

You keep talking.

“And like, I thought— I mean— since we, um, lowkey slept together and did the whole… thing… I just assumed we were, you know—”

You make a vague hand gesture.

“…A thing?”

Your voice is suddenly very small.

He studies you for a long moment.

You are braced for impact.

For rejection.

For “this was temporary.”

For “we should focus on work.”

Nanami says nothing.

Just looks at you.

You are spiraling. And you are cursed with a mouth and an ability to communicate:

“And I really, really don’t have a roster! I don’t even have a— I mean— I thought— since we— and the kissing— and the near death— are we not— I mean I assumed— but if we’re not I can recalibrate—”

You physically clamp your mouth shut.

Mortified.

This is how you die. Not by curse, but by self-inflicted embarrassment.

Nanami steps closer.

Gently takes your chin between his fingers.

“You,” he says evenly, “are catastrophizing.”

“…Am I?”

“Yes.”

He sighs softly.

“I am not competing for a weekday slot.”

Your lungs restart.

“I would prefer,” he continues, voice lower now, “to be the only man whose clothing occupies your drawers.”

You blink.

“…Oh.”

He leans down slightly.

“We are,” he says quietly, “a thing. I will not be part of a roster. And you are not part of one either.”

You nearly combust.

“OH.”

He releases you, begins unbuttoning his shirt.

Right there.

In front of you.

No ceremony. No shame.

You freeze.

Broad shoulders. Defined chest. The slow reveal of very unfair muscle under soft lamplight. Narrow waist. Golden hair slightly messy.

You are staring.

Blatantly.

“…You’re drooling,” he remarks.

“I am APPRECIATING.”

You swallow.

He glances at you again mid-unbutton.

“…You told me to strip.”

“I did not mean— I mean I DID mean— I just—wow.”

His shirt hits the floor.

You make a noise that should not exist in nature. He steps out of his slacks next. Calm. Efficient.

You stare like a cat seeing a small plastic objects that will probably get stuck in its intestines.

“Heh,” you breathe faintly. “Hot buff blond man. That’s so sexy.”

He pauses while pulling on your oversized sleep shirt.

“…Is that a formal review?”

“Yes. Five stars. Would recommend.”

He slides into your spare sweats.

Looks infuriatingly good in them (they're way too short, you can see way too much ankles).

Then he climbs into bed beside you.

Warm.

Solid.

Real.

He pulls you against him like it’s instinct.

Like it’s obvious.

You press your face into his chest and sigh.

“…Sunday privileges,” you mumble.

He hums.

“I intend to occupy the entire week.”

And at 2:17 a.m., wrapped around him, you finally fall asleep.