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Finally, after a long day of working and cleaning and cooking, Fushiguro took a seat beside you. Your hands found his, swaddling them in your warmth, and you brought them to your cheeks to rub their backs against your skin. He flushed when you began peppering them with kisses so soft it almost made him question if you were even making contact. You turned them around, rubbing his calluses with your thumb as you admired them. Your lips drew a trail in kisses as they made their way up his hands from the base of his palms to the tips of his fingers. You looked up at your boyfriend, whose gaze flew to the other side of the room when it met yours and whose cheeks burned with embarrassment. It was endearing, just like everything else about him. His hands were your favorite thing. They were warm and rough and beautiful and strong. They easily enveloped yours when you walked home together. They were your solace, your sanity, the only thing that could pull you out of whatever hole the world had

Gojo could feel the pressure building inside of him. His muscles are tense, his eyebrows furrowed until they ached, his neck carried the weight of a long week. Even if he was the strongest jujutsu user, it meant nothing if he couldn’t protect himself from the perils of administrative work and trivial office chitchat. He sighs the whole walk home, and when he opens the door to your shared apartment, his blueberry gaze lands on you, perched on the living room couch. The lack of blindfold exposes his cobalt eyes, overtaxed and fatigued, and his lips form a small pout. It was rare for him to be so quiet; he’d made a habit of yelling “Honey I’m home!” whenever he returned like in the tv shows he watched as a child. You pat the seat next to you, brows raised in an expression that beckons him to your side. He accepts your invitation and flies into your arms without a single trace of his Infinity left; his full weight leans into you as his muscles slack and he plants a kiss on your lips

Itadori stands at the entrance of his apartment, ready to collapse into his bed as he turns the doorknob. His plans change, though, when he sees you standing in the kitchen fixing yourself a snack. Before either of you knew it, he had pulled you into a hug much more abrupt and tighter than usual. Your nose presses against his shoulder and you can smell the day he’s had: the lingering soapy fragrance from his morning shower, the slight tinge of musk from fighting all day, the faint yet savory punch from the ramen he ate for lunch. Your arms mimic his, sneaking around his larger frame while your hands grasp the fabric between his shoulder blades. It’s comforting, you think, but you can’t ignore the shouts from your body. “Yuuji, baby, I kinda can’t breathe.” Normally, he’d let go of you quick, profusely apologizing for almost crushing you with his superhuman strength. This time, it doesn’t happen. He replies, “Sorry,” but pulls you further into him. He holds you tight, like a child

Fushiguro walks back home, accompanied by his fellow classmates and the twinkling stars above. Eyes of emeralds draw lines in the ground as he moves until they rise at the sound of his name, narrowing soon after when his teammates annoy him. He appreciates their sentiments in trying to lighten the mood, but he’s too focused on the pain in his body. His ribs jab with every step—he knows he’ll have a large bruise there tomorrow—and his hands, shoved deep into his pockets, tremble from overuse. He sulks into himself, tuning out the chatter of his friends until he stands in the dark hallway before his bedroom. His calloused hands, rough and tired and aching from fighting and spell casting, takes a hold of his doorknob and gives it a turn. Jade hues struggle to adjust to the blearing light he was sure he had turned off, until he finds you in his bed, arms covered in the fabric of his sweater reaching out at the sight of him. For the first time today, Fushiguro’s permanent scowl fades from