Thanks For Giving Megumi The Finest Gene

When you pull into the driveway, Kita is hanging the laundry. He takes his time, pulling sheets from a wicker basket and clothespinning them to the wire. In the other basket, swaddled tight, is your baby girl. She sleeps so well for a newborn- you're grateful for that.

"You're home early," Kita says as you get out of the car, voice soft so as to not wake his daughter. You hop out of the car and join him, letting your husband kiss your cheek.

"Well," You try to keep your tone level. "They told me I can't get an IUD today."

The corners of his mouth twitch up. "Oh, really?"

He kisses you again, this time on the lips, then does it again and again. You almost fall for his affections and forget that you're annoyed with him.

Almost.

"Yeah." You let out a sigh. "Turns out my womb is already occupied."

Kita erupts into a smile, all pink cheeks and straight teeth and laughter. His impatient hands urge you closer, pulling you by the hips into him, urging for another, deeper kiss- but you deny him with a hand to the chest.

"At least pretend you aren't happy, Shinsuke."

"How could I be anything but?" He doesn't take the joy from his voice. "The love of my life is giving me a second beautiful child. How far along?"

Kita hadn't been thrilled at the idea of you getting the implant. He had wanted your second child to be close in age to your first, while you had wanted a five year gap. An IUD seemed like the smartest choice for you, but it turns out your husband is faster than you thought.

"8 weeks." You playfully punch his arm, but he just laughs. "Our daughter's only 4 months! How am I eight weeks?"

"Well, farmers are good at planting seed on fertile field."

"Shinsuke!" You wrinkle your nose at that.

"I should have known." He squeezes your hips before moving his hands to your stomach. There's a dreamy, starry look in his eyes, one that makes your heart flutter a bit too hard. "You're glowing. You always glow when you're carrying my baby."

Ugh. There's the real reason you're pregnant again. Kita gives you that look and your legs just want to fall open.

"Babies," you correct. "Looks like twins."

"Auspicious."

gojo reminds me of 2010 justin bieber

they’re literally the same person HELP

Light it up like Dynamight 🧨💥💥💥

He’s so…. I need him 😔

“gojo-sensei.”

megumi calls him softly. a rare tenderness underneath his stoic nature. the annoyance gone towards the man who raised him for the last twenty years.

a smile quirk up on satoru's lips. amused at megumi's surprising behavior towards him. he didn't say anything. remaining silent as he continued to speak.

“things happened a lot and i thought, although you're going to be annoying about it.” megumi swallows like his throat had gone dry before continuing. “i'm a father now.”

you slowly gave your baby to your husband. megumi gentle cradled the newborn in his arms before showing it to his teacher. “you're going to be a pain in the ass if i told you but meet, satoru.”

gojo's eyes widened. a chuckle escaping his lips at he looks at megumi. it seems like yesterday megumi was so little and now mature. a father now.

the baby let out a gentle coo. his eyes that are yet to open fluttered. “ (y/n) and i decided to name our kid from you.” megumi looks behind you and you smiled. resting your jaw in his shoulder as you caress the head of your child with megumi. “it's all thanks to you. pestering me and (y/n) and we have a kid now. i know i wasn't a good kid but thank you for the years you've raised me and tsumiki. looking out for me and (y/n). please do continue looking out for us and to our child.”

“now, now — megumi. don't get too emotional on me but —” a tear pooled at the corner of gojo's eyes. threatening to fall at any moment now. touched at megumi's words. “after all these years, you've gotten kind at me!” he dramatically speak. faking to faint before returning to his relaxed expression. “don't worry about it, you can always count on me.” he smiles. ruffling megumi's hair.

the wind gently blew in the open air. the leaves swaying on the branches and megumi feels light, contented. staring at the tombstone where his sensei was laid to rest after the shibuya incident. it's been years and the first thing he did after weeks of you giving birth was to introduce his child to his sensei, who stepped up as his father.

megumi didn't forget him. where everyone moved on and continued with their lives, megumi didn't forget his sensei who was dear to him. he wouldn't admit it.

“thank you for everything, gojo-sensei.”

HOW DO THEY GRIEVE? — featuring sukuna, choso, gojo, geto, nanami, toji content warnings: no reader gender/anatomy implied. implied reader death, heavy angst no comfort. established relationship. reader is a mortal in sukuna's part. mentions of murder in toji's part. they/them pronouns used for reader in gojo's part.

the quiet haunted him most.

it wasn’t a noise, nor a cry, but the absence of it — a void left behind where your voice once existed, tugging at his mind like an insidious echo. sukuna sat still, his broad frame rigid against the edge of his throne, clawed fingers wrapped tightly around the curve of his jaw. he wasn’t one to cling, yet here he was, torn by shadows of something he couldn’t clutch tightly enough.

“pathetic,” he muttered to himself, the words bitter against his tongue. his voice cut through the silence, but it wasn’t yours. it would never be yours again.

there were moments, fleeting and infuriating, when he could almost remember you. a flash of a laugh — was it sharp? or soft? — your expression — smiling? or frowning? — your warmth, tangible yet distant, slipping through his memory like grains of sand. sukuna slammed his fist into the wooden armrest of his throne, splinters flying.

"damn you," he growled lowly, though he wasn’t sure if it was directed at himself or at you.

he knew this would happen. of course, it would. you were mortal. fleeting. time was never kind to mortals, and neither was he. what place did someone like you have in his world? he had convinced himself you’d be nothing more than a passing indulgence. but then you had dared to linger in ways no one else had, and sukuna, fool that he was, had allowed it.

he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. "what was it you used to call me?" his voice cracked — just slightly, a whisper against the still air. not king. not lord. no, you’d stripped him of those titles in private.

ryo.

the way you used to say his name — it hadn’t been reverent. not like others. you said it like it was yours, like he was yours.

but the sound was fading now, no matter how tightly he clung to it. sukuna’s fingers twitched against his temples, nails digging into his scalp. his crimson eyes burned, not with fury, but with a hollow ache.

“you dare slip away from me now?” his voice cracked in the empty room.

he stood abruptly, the motion nearly knocking the throne back. pacing, prowling, his footsteps thudded against the cold stone. his hands clenched and unclenched as though grasping for an answer.

“what was it —” he hissed, his tone a dangerous edge of desperation, “ — that made me let you in?” he paused mid-step, shoulders sagging under the weight of what he knew.

everything. everything about you.

he clenched his jaw, exhaling a breath that rattled with suppressed rage and sorrow. sukuna’s hand reached to his chest, curling around the fabric of his robe where his heart still stubbornly beat.

“if i ever hear your voice again…” he muttered, the words half-prayer, half-promise, “you won’t escape me a second time.”

choso sat in the quiet of his apartment, the hum of the fridge filling the silence. his fingers ghosted over the countertop, tracing invisible patterns that led nowhere. on the table sat a piece of toast, untouched and cold, its edges curling from neglect.

he stared at it, a lump forming in his throat. the memory hit him like a wave, vivid and all-consuming.

"it's just toast, cho!" you had laughed, your voice bright and teasing. he could still see the crinkle of your eyes, the way you covered your mouth to stifle your giggles when he flinched at the toaster's pop.

his chest tightened. "just toast," he echoed to the empty room, his voice hollow.

but it wasn’t just toast. nothing was ever just anything with you. every moment, every mundane thing, had been infused with the light of your presence, leaving pieces of you scattered throughout his life like breadcrumbs.

the laundry machine buzzed faintly in the background, and he shut his eyes. another memory clawed its way forward, unbidden.

“choso! what are you doing?!” you’d yelled, pulling his arm away just as he reached into the spinning drum. “you’ll lose a hand doing that!”

“but it wasn’t —” he had started, confused, only to be cut off by your exasperated sigh.

“don’t. just… don’t.”

and yet, after scolding him, you’d taught him how to sort clothes, how to fold shirts, how to care for the things that mattered.

“you’ve got to take care of things, cho. take care of people, too,” you’d said, softer that time, as you’d brushed lint off his shoulder. “it’s what makes us human.”

human.

his hands balled into fists on the countertop. you had taught him what it meant to be human — how to live, how to feel, how to care. you taught him to look beyond himself, to see others as more than just moving parts in the chaos of life.

“be kind,” you’d told him once, standing at a crosswalk as you watched him glare at a group of kids. “help the ones who need it. give up your seat. hold the door. even when it’s hard, choose kindness.”

he had rolled his eyes back then, muttering something about how the world didn’t deserve it. but you had smiled, patient and unyielding.

“do it anyway.”

the toast sat there, forgotten, as choso stared into the distance. how could he forget you? when you were everywhere? in the hiss of the washing machine, the smell of burnt toast, the sharp pang of guilt when he didn’t offer his seat to someone in need.

you were a part of him now, woven into his bones, etched into his heart.

“how could i forget you?” he whispered, voice trembling as he sat down, head in his hands.

he couldn’t. even if he wanted to. you had made him human. and now, with you gone, he didn’t know how to be anything else.

gojo satoru was a man of stories. he carried your memory in his words, carefully polished and tenderly spun, until they became legends that danced on the tongues of everyone he met.

"oh, y/n?" he'd grin, eyes glimmering like sunlight on fresh snow. "you should’ve seen the way they handled me. not many can keep up with this." he'd tap his temple, his grin softening.

he told them about how you made the best coffee in the mornings, even though you always claimed to hate the way he drowned it in sugar. how you made him laugh so hard that his infinity couldn’t protect him from doubling over. how your voice could cut through the chaos in his mind, grounding him in ways nothing else could.

you became a part of his stories, not just as someone he loved, but as someone who made him better. greater.

people listened with rapt attention, smiling at the way he spoke of you, as if you were still right there beside him. but when the crowds thinned, when the world grew quiet, and satoru was left with nothing but the weight of his own company, the facade cracked.

the apartment felt unbearably still, as if your absence was a tangible thing that pressed against him. he sat on the couch, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed. the usual sparkle in his eyes dulled to a glassy sheen.

his shoulders trembled first, a barely-there quiver that grew into a shudder as the first sob escaped his throat.

“damn it,” he choked out, his voice cracking as he pressed the heel of his palms into his eyes. “damn it, why’d you leave me with this?”

you were the strongest in ways he could never be. while he could manipulate the very fabric of space, you had wielded something far greater: love, compassion, humanity. things that made the unbearable weight of existence lighter, if only for a while.

"who’s gonna remember you when i’m gone?" he whispered into the empty room, voice breaking.

the thought gutted him. satoru lived for you now — not for his students, not for his title, not for his power. it was your memory that anchored him, the fear of losing even the smallest piece of you driving him to hold on tighter than ever.

“i can’t let that happen,” he muttered, fists clenching as fresh tears spilled down his cheeks. his breath came in sharp, uneven gasps. “i can’t let you disappear. not ever.”

so he stayed. fought. lived. not because he feared death — death had always been a fleeting thought to someone like him — but because without him, there would be no one left to carry your memory.

and if there was one thing gojo satoru would never let the universe take from him, it was you.

suguru cursed the gods, cursed fate, and cursed you.

it was easier that way. easier to let the anger scorch him from the inside out than to face the gnawing emptiness that came with your absence. he sat in the ruins of what had once been a temple, the scent of charred wood and blood still lingering in the air. his knuckles ached from where he’d slammed his fists into the wall, and his throat burned from the string of expletives he’d spat at no one in particular.

“why couldn’t you just listen?” his voice was a harsh rasp, cracking as he spoke to the void. “why did you have to be so damn… stubborn?”

you were supposed to understand. supposed to see the world the way he did, to join him in tearing it apart so it could be rebuilt into something better. but you hadn’t.

you stood your ground, unwavering in your righteousness, and it had infuriated him. because for all his power, all his conviction, he couldn’t convince you.

“it’s your fault,” he muttered bitterly, running a hand through his tangled hair. “you and your… your goddamn ideals.”

but the words rang hollow, even to him.

because you were the only one who’d ever made him question himself. you were the only one who’d ever dared to stand in his way, not with malice, but with love.

“you think you’re better than this,” you had told him once, your voice calm but firm. “but you’re not. and i can’t follow you down this path, suguru.”

he hated you for that — for being right. for loving him enough to try and stop him. and for leaving him when he wouldn’t stop.

his fingers tightened into fists, nails biting into his palms. “damn you,” he whispered, though the words lacked the venom they once had.

he wondered, sometimes, if you thought about him as much as he thought about you. if you still believed in the version of him you’d once loved, or if that image had crumbled under the weight of his choices.

maybe, in another life, things were different. a life where there were no sides to choose, no lines to cross, no ideals to clash over. just the two of you.

he closed his eyes, leaning back against the cold stone wall. the anger was gone now, leaving behind only exhaustion and a hollow ache in his chest.

“what am i waiting for?” he asked aloud, his voice barely above a whisper.

there was no answer, just the crackling of dying embers and the distant howl of the wind. but still, he waited.

for you to come back. for the pain to stop. for something — anything — that would make it all make sense again.

and until then, he would curse. and grieve. and wait.

toji didn’t know how to grieve.

his life had never made room for something as soft as sorrow. emotions, in his world, were a luxury — a liability he couldn’t afford. but now, in the absence of you, there was something gnawing at him, raw and unrelenting, that he couldn’t name.

he sat in the dim light of a dingy bar, nursing a half-empty glass of whiskey. the burn was familiar, but it didn’t distract him like it used to. his mind kept circling back to you, dragging him down into memories he couldn’t shake.

the way you used to fuss over his injuries, muttering curses at him for being reckless while your hands worked with tender precision. the way your laughter echoed, rich and warm, cutting through the cold veneer of his life. the way you’d touch his cheek, grounding him, reminding him he was more than the blade he carried.

and now? now there was nothing but silence.

“this one’s for you,” he muttered under his breath, finishing the glass in one harsh gulp before tossing a wad of bills on the counter.

it was always for you. every job, every gamble, every risk — your ghost lingered in every choice he made. toji didn’t bother questioning it; he couldn’t. the thought of you was the only thing keeping him moving, even if it came with a weight that threatened to crush him.

the alley was dark as he cornered his target, the blade in his hand gleaming faintly under the flickering streetlamp. the man whimpered, begging for mercy, but toji didn’t flinch. his movements were fluid, precise, and ruthless.

“don’t beg,” he growled, his voice low and cold. “this ain’t about you.”

and it wasn’t. not really. the man’s life had no meaning to him — just another pawn in the endless cycle of blood and violence. but the rage that fueled him? that was yours.

the blade struck, and with it came a flash of you — your smile, your voice, the warmth he could no longer reach. the man crumpled to the ground, lifeless, and toji stood over him, his chest heaving.

“still not enough,” he muttered, wiping the blade clean with a practiced motion.

it was never enough. no amount of blood could fill the void you left behind. but he kept going, each kill a hollow attempt to feel something other than this aching, unfamiliar emptiness.

toji leaned against the cold brick wall, the night air biting against his skin. he stared at his hands — steady, calloused, and stained.

“why’d you leave me with this, huh?” he muttered to the open air, his voice gruff but cracking at the edges. “you were the only thing that ever made sense.”

his hands clenched into fists, the blade trembling slightly in his grip. this is for you, he reminded himself, even if he didn’t know why. even if it didn’t bring you back.

he ached, and it hurt, but he didn’t know what to do with that pain. so he killed. and he killed. and every time, it was for you.

nanami was a man of routines.

quiet, deliberate, purposeful routines.

he didn’t waver in them, not even after you were gone. if anything, they became his lifeline, a fragile thread tethering him to the semblance of normalcy he desperately clung to.

he set out two plates every night, one for him, one for you. it wasn’t a conscious decision at first; his hands simply moved on autopilot, muscle memory guiding him. but when he sat down to eat, staring at the empty plate across from him, the quiet would settle in — a heavy, suffocating kind of quiet that only existed in the absence of you.

your pillow remained fluffed on the bed, as if you’d be home any moment to claim your spot. sometimes he’d catch himself reaching out to brush a stray hair off it, only to remember it wasn’t yours — it never could be again.

and then there were the chips. that oily, utterly ridiculous brand you adored.

nanami didn’t even like snacks, much less those chips, but he found himself restocking them on every grocery run. he would walk past the aisle, hesitate, and then grab a bag, telling himself it was just habit.

but one day, curiosity — or maybe desperation — got the better of him. he opened the bag, the crinkle of plastic unnervingly loud in the stillness of the house. the scent hit him first, greasy and artificial, and he almost put the bag down.

“what on earth did you see in these?” he muttered under his breath before popping one in his mouth.

it was awful. salty, greasy, overwhelmingly artificial.

and he cried.

the chip barely registered as he sat down heavily, shoulders trembling as tears rolled down his face. it wasn’t the taste — it was everything else. the bag in his hands, the faint smell of your favorite flowers still lingering from the vase on the kitchen counter, the stupid chipped mug you refused to throw away because it was yours.

everything screamed you. your presence was embedded in every corner of the house, in every routine, every object, every space you had once occupied.

and nanami realized, in that moment, how deeply ingrained you were in his life. how even in your absence, you filled it in ways he couldn’t escape.

his fingers tightened around the bag as he let the tears come, quiet and unrelenting.

maybe it was okay to grieve.

maybe it was okay to hold onto the pieces of you that lingered, to let them anchor him in a world that felt so much colder now.

and as he wiped his face with the back of his hand, setting the bag aside, he thought — maybe, just maybe, it was okay to keep buying those ridiculous chips, even if they tasted like crap. because they were yours. and so, in some small, bittersweet way, they were his, too.

produced by creamflix on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not copy, steal, modify, repost. banners by cafekitsune — support your writers by liking and reblogging. ♡

oh my hod. oh my fucking god. you. you’re kidding. YOU HAVE TO BE KIDDING RN.

Father and Son

symbols and kaomojis

ʢ-̫͡-ʔ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ꨄ︎͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏✩͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏Ꮼ͏͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏✻͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ˟̑.₊̣̇.*̑♬

ஃ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏༚*ᘡ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ஐຸ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏(′⅄‵)͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏~̑˟̑ෆ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ꩵ

꒭꒱꒹꒟✩⃛͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏(*ꀛꀦꀛ*)͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏︶꒷꒦͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏꧁꧂

casual