My Copium Au Where They Get To Grow Up

all these threats on sukunas life is making me extremely scared to catch up on the manga....

⋆˚࿔ build a fic; forced proximity edition 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

➴ chose a space, an object and a line of dialogue (a number, letter, + creature), and write/request to your heart’s content!)

𓂃 ࣪˖ a space

꒰ 1 ꒱ a broken-down elevator

꒰ 2 ꒱ a gas station bathroom

꒰ 3 ꒱ a dusty attic

꒰ 4 ꒱ a dimly lit storage locker

꒰ 5 ꒱ a ship’s brig

꒰ 6 ꒱ a bank vault

꒰ 7 ꒱ a wine cellar

꒰ 8 ꒱ an armoury

꒰ 9 ꒱ a hayloft

꒰ 10 ꒱ a shipping container

꒰ 11 ꒱ a holding cell

꒰ 12 ꒱ a firewatch outpost

꒰ 13 ꒱ a secluded cottage

꒰ 14 ꒱ a security hut

꒰ 15 ꒱ the foot of a massive redwood

𓂃 ࣪˖ a body part

꒰ A ꒱ thigh

꒰ B ꒱ palm

꒰ C ꒱ knee

꒰ D ꒱ pinky finger

꒰ E ꒱ ankle

꒰ F ꒱ eyebrow

꒰ G ꒱ nape

꒰ H ꒱ ear

꒰ I ꒱ calf

꒰ J ꒱ stomach

꒰ K ꒱ lower back

꒰ L ꒱ chest

꒰ M ꒱ hip

꒰ N ꒱ scalp

꒰ O ꒱ knuckles

𓂃 ࣪˖ a line of dialogue

꒰ 𓆉 ꒱ “… would now a bad time to tell you that i’m claustrophobic?”

꒰ 𓅨 ꒱ “i- “ “sh, honey.”

꒰ 𓆣 ꒱ “you’re not okay, you’re shaking! what can i do? please, just- just let me help you.”

꒰ 𓃰 ꒱ “shit, someone’s coming- in here, quick!”

꒰ 𓃗 ꒱ “i’ve never been so glad that you run hot.”

꒰ 𓃱 ꒱ “i’m gonna take my hand away, but you have to promise to stay calm, okay?”

꒰ 𓃟 ꒱ “just never figured you for a little spoon.”

꒰ 𓆟 ꒱ “your eyes are really pretty up close.”

꒰ 𓆈 ꒱ “i know you don’t like to be touched, but there’s not a whole lot i can do about that right now.”

꒰ 𓅫 ꒱ “we’re gonna need to talk about some things after this, aren’t we?”

꒰ 𓅟 ꒱ “don’t bullshit me, i can hear your heart pounding.”

꒰ 𓃵 ꒱ “you’re a real good hugger, y’know that?”

꒰ 𓃓 ꒱ “i like your perfume/cologne.”

꒰ 𓆌 ꒱ “of all the fucking people to get stuck here with, of course it had to be yo- “

꒰ 𓆏 ꒱ “i can’t believe that this is what it took for you to let me hug you.”

WEIRDLY SPECIFIC BUT HELPFUL CHARACTER BUILDING QUESTIONS

What’s the lie your character says most often?

How loosely or strictly do they use the word ‘friend’?

How often do they show their genuine emotions to others versus just the audience knowing?

What’s a hobby they used to have that they miss?

Can they cry on command? If so, what do they think about to make it happen?

What’s their favorite [insert anything] that they’ve never recommended to anyone before?

What would you (mun) yell in the middle of a crowd to find them? What would their best friend and/or romantic partner yell?

How loose is their use of the phrase ‘I love you’?

Do they give tough love or gentle love most often? Which do they prefer to receive?

What fact do they excitedly tell everyone about at every opportunity?

If someone was impersonating them, what would friends / family ask or do to tell the difference?

What’s something that makes them laugh every single time? Be specific!

When do they fake a smile? How often?

How do they put out a candle?

What’s the most obvious difference between their behavior at home, at work, at school, with friends, and when they’re alone?

What kinds of people do they have arguments with in their head?

What do they notice first in the mirror versus what most people first notice looking at them?

Who do they love truly, 100% unconditionally (if anyone)?

What would they do if stuck in a room with the person they’ve been avoiding?

Who do they like as a person but hate their work? Vice versa, whose work do they like but don’t like the person?

What common etiquette do they disagree with? Do they still follow it?

What simple activity that most people do / can do scares your character?

What do they feel guilty for that the other person(s) doesn’t / don’t even remember?

Did they take a cookie from the cookie jar? What kind of cookie was it?

What subject / topic do they know a lot about that’s completely useless to the direct plot?

How would they respond to being fired by a good boss?

What’s the worst gift they ever received? How did they respond?

What do they tell people they want? What do they actually want?

How do they respond when someone doesn’t believe them?

When they make a mistake and feel bad, does the guilt differ when it’s personal versus when it’s professional?

When do they feel the most guilt? How do they respond to it?

If they committed one petty crime / misdemeanor, what would it be? Why?

How do they greet someone they dislike / hate?

How do they greet someone they like / love?

What is the smallest, morally questionable choice they’ve made?

Who do they keep in their life for professional gain? Is it for malicious intent?

What’s a secret they haven’t told serious romantic partners and don’t plan to tell?

What hobby are they good at in private, but bad at in front of others? Why?

Would they rather be invited to an event to feel included or be excluded from an event if they were not genuinely wanted there?

How do they respond to a loose handshake? What goes through their head?

What phrases, pronunciations, or mannerisms did they pick up from someone / somewhere else?

If invited to a TED Talk, what topic would they present on? What would the title of their presentation be?

What do they commonly misinterpret because of their own upbringing / environment / biases? How do they respond when realizing the misunderstanding?

What language would be easiest for them to learn? Why?

What’s something unimportant / frivolous that they hate passionately?

Are they a listener or a talker? If they’re a listener, what makes them talk? If they’re a talker, what makes them listen?

Who have they forgotten about that remembers them very well?

Who would they say ‘yes’ to if invited to do something they abhorred / strongly didn’t want to do?

Would they eat something they find gross to be polite?

What belief / moral / personality trait do they stand by that you (mun) personally don’t agree with?

What’s a phrase they say a lot?

Do they act on their immediate emotions, or do they wait for the facts before acting?

Who would / do they believe without question?

What’s their instinct in a fight / flight / freeze / fawn situation?

What’s something they’re expected to enjoy based on their hobbies / profession that they actually dislike / hate?

If they’re scared, who do they want comfort from? Does this answer change depending on the type of fear?

What’s a simple daily activity / motion that they mess up often?

How many hobbies have they attempted to have over their lifetime? Is there a common theme?

going out of your way to search up [insert character] ANGST and all you get is smut

am i not supposed to boop every post i interact with how does this work

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Black!Fem Reader

Rating/CW: Just a fluffy drabble of Nanami Kento loving you.

Summary: Early morning musings.

a/n: I've really been suffering from writer's block these past few months. The words come and go at a pace that's maddening, but thankfully, they stayed long enough for me to write this little piece.

JJK Masterlist | Divider: @saradika-graphics

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

"How did I get so lucky?"

It's the question that surfaces in Nanami's mind as he watches you sleep beside him, early morning light casting gentle shadows across your features. Your breathing is steady, peaceful, a barely there rumble with every inhale that he’s memorized over countless mornings like this one. Just as he’s done many times before, he traces the outline of your form, fingertips ghosting over your skin without disturbing you.

In those first few mornings of your relationship, your eyes would flutter open just from the proximity of his touch, catching him in his admiration. He wouldn’t bother to hide the blush, you would throw him a sleepy smile, then succumb to sleep again. Now, many mornings later, you’ve grown accustomed to his gentle exploration, allowing him to follow the curve of your shoulder, reconnecting the constellations that pepper your brown skin without stirring from your dreams.

In this position, while you sleep on your stomach, he can admire the subtle roll of skin on your neck where it meets your shoulder—a gentle landscape formed by the angle of your head against the silk pillow. It may be his own imaginings, but he can already smell the Shea butter from your neck, warming from the rising sun and wafting to tickle his nose in a half-remembered dream that lingers many hours into his work day.

Your diamond earrings glint in the morning light—beautiful studs you refuse to remove despite his concerns. He’s learned to love this small token of rebellion, unafraid to admit that the way the jewelry complements your skin makes you look particularly ethereal in the waking hours. The sunlight hits these diamonds at the right angle, splintering light in a mix of purple and green that plays across the curve of your cheek, as if nature is adorning you herself.

Even while unconscious, you are beautiful.

He traces up, fingertips brushing your lobe before smoothing through edges that have smeared on your skin like delicate wisps of morning fog. They’re perfect, tiny coils and curls that defy rule and frizz along your hairline, peeking from the cream satin bonnet. That bonnet, somehow still attached to you despite how wildly you sleep, showcases to him all the care you take with yourself, all the traditions passed sacred to you that he’s been allowed to learn, to witness, to cherish.

And god, how he cherishes the uninhibited abandon in which you sleep—the complete trust spoken in the way you sprawl across a mattress that was once solely his. Your cheek is creased from your pillowcase and hands, the corners of your lashes crystallized with evidence of your dreams, and your lips—slightly parted, pillowed with relaxation—glisten at one corner with moisture you have long stopped being embarrassed about in his presence.

It’s you in your purest form—unguarded, unfiltered, displaying a beauty more profound than anything the waking world gets to see. It’s you without makeup, you without measured words, underneath social performances, practiced smiles, and expectations—the raw truth of you, morning breath and all.

Just his. It’s a privilege so deep that it makes his chest ache, the gratitude overwhelming.

"How did I get so lucky?"

Nanami remembers the strict parameters he once set around relationships—the necessary boundaries, the premeditated time commitments, the emotional distance he maintained without thinking. Work—for as firm as he is about clocking out on time—came first, then necessities, then, if time allowed and he had the mental stamina, connection. For him, it was efficient. But terribly lonely.

Naturally, you shifted it all without trying.

The memory of seeing you for the first time still replays in his mind—fresh as the day it happened, enhanced by his own untempered affection that grows over time. He’s carried an unspoken envy for his parents’ love-at-first-sight story his entire life, a curmudgeon of his own making that could also speak of self-sabotage in relationships that never lasted. Surely they were exaggerating? Love at first sight? As if the cosmos aligned at the right moment to bring Mr. and Mrs. Nanami together? Nanami refused to believe it.

And yet he’ll tell anyone who will listen that every grievance he held about the concept evaporated the moment he saw you. Surrounded by greenery and the stifling heat of a plant nursery, perfect textured hair framing your face that pursed with contemplation, neck curved over a large Monstera Deliciosa. A sage sundress that fluttered over your form like gossamer wings catching the sunlight, the shimmer of your sunscreen across the expanse of your shoulders like dewdrops, a cock in your hip as you studied the plant only made you stand out as sublime elegance amongst the foliage.

Admittedly, he remembers feeling only embarrassment when he reached for the plant before his mind could truly register your presence—his original quest into the nursery solely to find a gift for his secretary, who was becoming a new mother.

He remembers the embarrassment flaring liquid hot in his chest when your eyes flashed with surprise and indignation that he would take something you had mentally staked claim to. He remembers how disorienting it all was—the sudden awareness of you as if the rest of the nursery had faded to shadows. Your brow had lifted in disbelief as you rolled your eyes and brushed past him, the subtle scent of what he now knows as Shea butter lingering in the humid air. Nanami found himself frozen, the Monstera forgotten in his hands, his perfectly ordered thoughts scattering like leaves in a sudden breeze.

He remembers how that white hot embarrassment quickly morphed into something unfamiliar, fleeting in previous relationships but never as prominent as in that moment—a flutter in his stomach, a tightness in his chest, and a desperation that he’s thankful to have embraced.

“I’m buying a gift for a new mother, but maybe I can find something that would not require so much care,” he’d said, the words tumbling from his mouth like a wobbling newborn calf as he watched you stop, turn to face him, guarded eyes taking him in. “Do you have any suggestions?”

He remembers how his heart hammered against his ribcage as he waited for your response, how the simple act of breathing seemed almost impossible. How utterly mortifying it was to realize that in thirty seconds, you had changed everything for him. How unbelievably confused he felt when the cosmos he mocked aligned for him when he ran into you at a bookstore days later, giving him the courage to ask you for coffee, for your number, for a date, and the many that followed to create the perfect cacophony of love.

"How did I get so lucky?"

It’s almost ridiculous how fortunate he is. How he gets to hear you laugh—genuine and unrestrained, choked around a snort when he’s said something particularly dry. How he gets to hear your musings in the comfort of your home—the melodic cadence of your humming when you bake, the unprecedented sailor mouth that would make his mother faint, the conversations you have with your dog as he follows you to the backyard. Every day, despite being subject to it many times, it feels like the very first time.

The novelty of it will never fade, because Nanami still calculates how to make you laugh so hard your lashes bubble with tears. He still asks what song you’re humming, knowing you’ll always reply “I made it up”. He still pretends to be shocked that the way a curse word flies from your mouth doesn’t make him unnaturally turned on. He still raises both brows when he hears you conversing with the dog, even though he has embraced the same habit.

"How did I get so lucky?"

The variation of thought comes naturally as his fingers fall back to his side, careful not to disturb you. There was a time when luck meant nothing to him—when grief was the only emotion he allowed himself to fully embrace, a painful reminder of his humanity when everything else felt hollow.

There was only one person who had truly seen him—experienced and witnessed the raw parts of the awkward growth through puberty, commiserated over failed crushes, shared late nights playing video games, and made him laugh until his stomach hurt. When that person was ripped away before their life could truly begin, it left Nanami in denial for so long that isolation became his sanctuary.

Each subsequent attempt at connection through romantic means only reinforced what experience had taught him—that opening a sliver of himself inevitably led to another goodbye, another confirmation that vulnerability was simply an invitation for devastation.

So it’s odd how that worry sprouted in the youth of your relationship with him but was never strong enough to take root. He was healthier, stronger even, and intelligent enough to know that you would not settle for someone who only loved in half-truths. For the first time, the fear of losing someone by not trying, outweighed the fear of the pain that might come with trying and failing.

When Nanami had the choice between protecting himself and never knowing you completely, or risking that devastation for the chance to build something real, he found himself making a choice that his deceased friend would have encouraged with a smile that could make the sun rise.

His efforts have paid off.

As the world wakes up and the noise of cars increases from the cracked window, Nanami counts his lucky stars that he tried. As he watches you sleep, he feels something swell in his chest—a fullness that once scared him but now feels like coming home after a long day.

Soon, he’ll slip out of bed like he does every morning, each day a ritual of thankfulness for the life he almost denied himself. Soon he’ll walk into the kitchen and measure coffee grounds with the same precision he applies to everything, his eyes drifting to the mug you always use—chipped on the handle, crafted from an impromptu class you dragged him to as a second date. He’d been so focused on not embarrassing himself with clumsy hands that he’d missed the exact moment you decided he was worth keeping.

Soon he will slide a fresh cup to you across the counter, taking in your ruffled form—bonnet still secure, eyes heavy with sleep, a blanket wrapped around you because you’re always cold, even in summer. The sight will catch in his throat like it always does, you trusting and vulnerable, showing a version of yourself that transforms his once sterile apartment into a home where love blooms in every corner.

But for now, he watches as you grumble and smack your lips, rolling over until your head is resting on his chest. He blooms with heat, an iridescent sensation that radiates outward from that exact spot, like your memory lives beneath his skin and thrums to life when you’re close. You wrap an arm around him, whether it’s to test the firmness of a pillow or to make sure it’s still him, he’s not quite sure. But it means nothing when you fall back into slumber, snoring softly against him, your breath a metronome that’s synched with his over time.

The rush of it all settles into his bones like it does every morning as he relaxes, his hand tracing the column of your spine absentmindedly.

You chose him. From the moment you rolled your eyes in that nursery, some invisible thread connected you both, and despite it all, that thread held tight. Out of all possibilities, out of all potential paths, you chose this one—with him. Not out of necessity or convenience, but with deliberate, purposeful love that continues to choose him, minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day.

"How did I get so lucky?"

“Kento,” you slur against his chest, voice gravelly with sleep, “stop thinking so loud so I can sleep. It’s too early.”

It’s almost eleven in the morning. But Nanami can do nothing but chuckle softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead, marveling as your curls tickle his nose before his fingers return to their pilgrimage across your body. Each brush of him against you comes with an unspoken promise—that he will never take this for granted, that he will chose you every morning just as purposefully as you chose him.

"How did I get so lucky?"

Who knows. But Nanami will spend every day making sure he deserves it.

Thanks for reading!

🌊🐙🕶

being a black woman is so often like "so will you pledge your loyalty to the people who hate you because you're a woman or the people who hate you because you're black?"

I AM YOU