Work Text:
Utahime Iori hadn’t had a proper day off in over a year.
The last time was a few days before Shibuya, before everything went to hell, before the sealing, before Gojo Satoru decided to play hero against the King of Curses and got himself sliced in half like a sashimi.
Alright, maybe she couldn’t fully blame him for the sealing. But the fight with Sukuna? The death? That was all him. He said he had “prepared everything if he lost.” Cute. It still took an entire year to rearrange the Jujutsu world after his grand exit. Guess who had to carry most of that work?
Not him.
On the bright side tho, Tokyo had also needed a year to recover. Which, by sheer miracle, meant all the major baseball teams were out of commission. The league was cancelled. Which translate into she's not missing a single game, because there weren’t any. God had been merciful, if only in baseball scheduling.
Now at last, she had her reward. First day off in ages. No cursed spirits. No students. Just herself, a cold pack of beer, and the Seibu Lions on TV. Tank top, hair down, legs folded under her, she sat on the couch in bliss.
Bottom of the ninth. Tie game. She leaned forward, knuckles white around the can in her hand.
“Come on, just one clean hit. One clean hit.”
The crack of the bat made her spring upright, a shout tearing from her throat. “Yes! Go, go, go!” The ball cleared the outfield, the commentator’s voice exploding through the TV. Utahime whooped, beer sloshing, heart hammering like she was in the dugout herself.
Nobody got to see her like this. Not her colleagues, not her students. Not even Gojo, back when he was alive and insufferable enough to sniff out every embarrassing habit she had. This side of her was sacred, sealed behind closed curtains.
Which was why the voice from the window nearly caused her a heart attack.
“Iori Utahime.”
The beer can flew before she even thought about it, her arm snapping forward like she was gunning for the pitcher’s mound. A sharp crack split the air, her beer detonated mid-flight in a burst of fizz and aluminum shrapnel.
Utahime froze, her eyes narrowing through the haze of carbonation. A tall figure stepped in through the open window like he owned the place. His presence pressed on the room, crackling, storm-heavy. Lightning still hissed faintly in the air where her beer had exploded.
The strongest sorcerer alive. The man who jumped Sukuna the moment Gojo’s upper half fell to the ground with his technique, the mythical beast amber, to actually fullfil his dream defeating and killing The King of Curses. He was supposed to bite the dust from the technique, but Shoko manage to dragged him back from the brink, because apparently the universe didn’t think Utahime had enough idiots to deal with.
There he was, standing in her apartment like a thunder god in sandals.
“K-Kashimo Hajime?!” she stammered, stepping back.
Before she could put distance between them, he vaulted down from the window, seized her hand, and dropped to one knee.
“Go on a date with me.”
...Right. Definitely the alcohol. She just drank too much because it's her day off in ages. No way this was real. She should go to sleep before it's getting worse.
But then his lips brushed her hand. And it felt warm.
Utahime snapped back and slapped him hard enough to floor the so-called strongest.
“Ow! What was that for?!”
“What was that for? You broke into someone’s house and asked them on a date like a lunatic creep!”
“So what?! Samurais used to do that all the time when inviting someone to a duel!”
Of course. How could she forget he was a 400-year-old lunatic whose entire personality revolved around combat? Sukuna had been a psycho, Gojo was a brat, and Kashimo apparently was a special grade idiot. Why did being the strongest always come with brain damage as a side effect?
“Explain yourself right now.”
Kashimo hesitated, then spoke. “Kinji said now that I’m the strongest, I should act like it. He told me to do things Gojo Satoru did. That includes asking you on a date.”
Hakari. Of course. Utahime swore she could already hear him laughing across Tokyo.
“And why exactly would Hakari say that?” she demanded. “Gojo never asked me on a date. He just annoyed me to death.”
Kashimo blinked. “You didn’t know?”
“Didn’t know what?”
“Gojo Satoru had a crush on you. He just didn’t have the balls to ask you out.”
Utahime froze. Then pinched her nose hard enough to leave another mark on her face. Great. Wonderful. Just how many ridiculous revelations could one woman endure in a single night?
“Unlike Gojo Satoru,” Kashimo said proudly, “I do have the balls. My balls are unbreakable.”
“Please stop talking about that part of your body.”
He sat on her floor, staring up at her like some... crocodile hatchling waiting for its mother. Not cute enough to be a puppy. Just stubborn enough to be dangerous. She knew that look, unyielding, single-minded, the same persistence that had once carried him straight into Kenjaku’s schemes just for the chance to challenge Sukuna. He wasn’t going to stop. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.
Utahime exhaled slowly, a sigh carrying fifteen years worth of stress and regret. When the universe handed you two terrible options, you chose the one that didn’t guarantee a lifetime of migraines. “Fine.”
His head snapped up. “Really?!”
“For one. Date. Only.”
Kashimo grinned, grabbing her hand again. “Yes! Just like that and Gojo Satoru can't do this? No wonder he died! My balls are-”
“Say that again and I will.”
“Noted!” He beamed. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow when the sun rises.”
She narrowed her eyes. “And when is that? 11 AM? 9 AM?”
He froze. “Yeah, sure. Eleven... Whatever that is.”
Utahime was certain of two things. One: Hakari Kinji deserved to be exorcised. Two: she was going to regret this.
Utahime was beginning to regret her life choices. Again.
“This better not be one of Hakari’s ideas." she muttered as they stand.
Kashimo, striding beside her with all the confidence of someone who had never once considered the law of trespassing, shook his head. “Oh no, Kinji only laughed when I returned yesterday. He was rolling on the floor. I think he broke something. Anyway, I asked Hoshi instead. She said the best first date food is called ‘Italian.’ So I searched all night for this ‘Italian’ thing.” He gestured proudly ahead of them.
Utahime followed his finger and froze.
A JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure collaboration café.
Harajuku. Neon signs. Cardboard cutouts of Italian gangsters in fabulous poses. A giant mural of Giorno Giovanna posing majestically in front of the building.
She rubbed her temples. “Well it is Italian...”
The shock factor had long since left her system. After all, he’d broken into her apartment again, this time at six in the morning, because apparently “When the sun rises” meant “Whenever Kashimo Hajime felt like it.” She’d had to sit him down and explain the modern concept of time, which had been about as effective as explaining taxes to a cat. When he came back at eleven sharp, he’d immediately scooped her up bridal-style and blitzed through Tokyo like a living thunderbolt.
At this point, nothing could surprise her. Not even this.
“Well!” Kashimo clapped his hands, then grabbed hers without asking. “Let’s not waste any time!”
The warmth of his grip startled her more than the ridiculous café. His hand was calloused, the kind of hand that belonged to someone who lived for battle, yet his hold was careful. Not crushing, not demanding. Just steady. She shook the thought away quickly, slipping into her usual irritation.
The café was nearly empty. Probably because they’d outrun the entire population of Tokyo to get there. The only company was a few staff members and a life-sized cutout of Bruno Bucciarati staring at her with unsettling intensity.
Utahime recalled Momo once saying she waited an hour in line for an anime café. Mai and Miwa too. Utahime, on the other hand, was apparently dating the human equivalent of express shipping.
They were seated quickly, menus placed in front of them. Kashimo scanned his like he was deciphering ancient scriptures. His eyes lit up.
The waiter placed the menus down with a polite bow. Kashimo didn’t even glance twice, he jabbed a finger immediately.
“Oh. Look. Black porridge.”
Utahime blinked, then peered down at his side of the page. “That’s risotto.”
“Close enough.” he said flatly, like the difference didn’t matter in the slightest. His eyes narrowed at another glossy photo, one stacked with dramatic cuts of meat and garnished with a sprig of parsley that looked more ceremonial than edible. “And this pile of flesh.”
Utahime had to stop herself from laughing. “That’s Abbacchio.”
“Yes. That. I’ll have that too.” Kashimo snapped the menu shut with the finality of a man declaring war.
The waiter gave a polite cough, pen poised. Utahime, meanwhile, still had her menu open, her eyes darting between the choices. She wasn’t about to just point blindly like him, this was a collab café, the kind where the food was designed for photos first and taste second. The safest bet was to pick something that at least looked worth the pain of eating overpriced novelty pasta.
Her gaze stopped at the Panacotta dessert, layers of cream and syrup, served in a glass with a little decorative Joestar birthmark on top. Cute. And then her eyes wandered to the icy pale-blue “Ghiaccio White,” some sort of fizzy yogurt soda with whipped cream piled dangerously high. Cute and ridiculous. She smiled in spite of herself.
“I’ll take the Panacotta,” she said after a beat, then, because she could already feel Kashimo’s sharp eyes on her, as though silently demanding she choose properly, she added: “and the White Ghiaccio.”
When the food finally arrived, Kashimo sat back as if he’d just been presented with the results of a war council. The waiter set down his plates, first, the risotto, arranged in a perfect little dome, crowned with a drizzle of gold-colored oil; then the abbacchio, thin slices of roasted lamb fanned out like flower petals around an artistic smear of sauce.
Kashimo’s expression was unreadable at first. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and studied them like they might leap up and attack him.
“What is this?” he finally asked, voice low and suspicious.
“...Your risotto and lamb?" Utahime said, already sensing the storm brewing.
“No. What is this?” He waved his hand in a dramatic arc over the plates. “It looks like someone painted food and forgot to serve the actual meal. Why is it arranged like a funeral offering?”
Utahime didn't realize she was chuckling. The dishes were undeniably beautiful, delicate, elegant, almost too perfect to touch. Which, of course, was the point. But Kashimo stared at them like they were mocking him personally.
“It’s called presentation,” she said.
“Presentation,” he repeated slowly, like it was a foreign curse word. “Food is meant to be eaten, not framed in a shrine.”
Still, he picked up his spoon with all the solemnity of a priest performing a rite. He hesitated. For a second, Utahime thought, is he actually too intimidated to touch it?
Then he scooped the risotto dead-center, a massive bite, and shoved it into his mouth.
Utahime nearly dropped her own fork. “You’re supposed to-”
Too late. He’d already moved on to the lamb, tearing through the neat floral arrangement like a wolf through paper decorations. Within moments, the elegant plating had been reduced to battlefield carnage. Streaks of sauce smeared across porcelain, crumbs scattered like ashes, and Kashimo chewing contentedly with the air of a man who had just bested a worthy opponent.
The waiter, passing by, visibly winced at the destruction. Utahime pretended not to notice, focusing very hard on her Panacotta instead.
Kashimo swallowed, sat back, and gave a single approving nod. “Not bad. Better than it looked. Though I feel like I should apologize to the guy making it. I destroyed his work.”
Utahime didn’t answer. She was too busy holding back embarrassment at this ancient warrior, this battle-hardened legend, ravaging novelty café food like it was a field ration.
She tried to busy herself with her Panacotta, which really was adorable, cream layered with syrup, a tiny Joestar symbol cookie perched on top. Kashimo glanced at it with mild suspicion. “That’s too pretty to eat, too.”
“That’s the point,” she said, scooping up a delicate spoonful.
“So you’re supposed to just... stare at it till you starve to death?”
She nearly choked.
And then, just as she was recovering, he suddenly froze mid-bite, eyes locked across the café. Slowly, he lowered his fork. His shoulders tensed.
Utahime followed his gaze, and saw it. The life-sized cardboard cutout of "The boss" himself, the main villain, looming beside the counter, one hand extended ominously, face half-shadowed, eyes seemingly boring into whoever dared look too long.
Kashimo stood. Chair scraping. “That man is challenging me.”
Utahime blinked. “...What?”
“He’s been staring at me since we sat down.” His voice was deadly serious now, the same tone she’d heard when he spoke of cursed kings and divine battles. “You see it, don’t you? His eyes. He wants a fight.”
“Kashimo, don't-” she hissed, mortified as other diners turned to look.
He raised his voice, pointing dramatically. “OI. FUNNY-HAIRED MAN. YOU THINK YOU CAN OUTSTARE ME? COME HERE AND TRY!”
Utahime nearly knocked over her drink as she reached up, grabbing his sleeve to drag him back down. “Shhh! He’s a cutout! Don't make a scene!”
Kashimo looked down at her, baffled. “A what?”
“A piece of cardboard! He’s not real!”
Kashimo narrowed his eyes at the unmoving cardboard, then back at her. “I don’t believe you. He’s too smug.”
Utahime pinched the bridge of her nose. She could feel the secondhand embarrassment crawling down her spine, but at the same time, God help her there was something about the sheer absurdity of it that almost made her laugh.
Finally, exasperated, she muttered under her breath, “Even if you did fight him, you’d lose.”
Kashimo turned sharply, genuinely affronted. “Lose? To that?”
“Yes.” She sipped her drink deliberately. “He’s strong.”
“How strong?” he repeated, suspicious. “Do you know him?”
Utahime hesitated. She hadn’t meant to say it out loud. But his expression, caught somewhere between betrayal and genuine curiosity, forced the confession out of her.
“I used to read JoJo when I was a teenager,” she admitted, voice low, cheeks warming in a way she absolutely hated.
Kashimo stared. “What’s a JoJo?”
She sighed, staring down into her soda as if it could swallow her whole. “Never mind.”
But he kept watching her, waiting, and she could feel the heat crawling up her neck. She hated how flustered she was getting over something so stupid, hated that he’d look at her like that. Curious, amused, almost pleased.
And worst of all, she hated that part of her wanted to laugh at the whole mess.
Kashimo took one glance at the number, hummed approvingly, and pulled out a wad of cash thick enough to choke an elephant. He slapped it down on the tray.
The waiter blinked. Utahime blinked harder. “Where did you get all that money?”
“From one of those strange machines,” Kashimo said proudly. “I struck it with lightning until it surrendered. It coughed out paper for me.”
Utahime nearly choked. “You- what?!”
“Yeah! There's this steel box on the street. Glowed when I hit it. Spat money at me. Very convenient.”
Her face drained of color. “That’s not- you’re describing an ATM! You robbed an ATM!”
He tilted his head. “Is that what it’s called? I didn’t know it had a name. It was very polite.”
She grab his hand first. “We’re leaving. Now.”
And so, the strongest sorcerer in the world and a woman who desperately wanted to evaporate walked very quickly out of a JoJo café before the cops inevitably arrived.
They ended up wandering Tokyo, the air between them oddly light. Kashimo seemed entirely unaffected by the concept of committing federal crimes. He just walked with the same unshakable confidence as ever, as if the world bent to his whims. Which, annoyingly, it sometimes did.
“Where exactly are you taking me?” She eventually asks.
“Something you’d like, Hoshi said girls like a mysterious man so can't tell ya.”
Eventually, they stopped in front of a stadium.
Utahime’s stomach dropped. “Don’t tell me...”
“You like this ball throwing game, right?” Kashimo turned, pleased with himself. “Then we play here.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose for like the 87th time this day. "There’s no game today.”
“Then we play it ourselves.”
Her eyelid twitched. “Do you have any idea how fast we’d get kicked out? No. Absolutely not.”
“Then where?”
His tone was calm, not pushy, but she could feel the weight behind it, the same determination that had carried him through Sukuna’s thunderstorm of attacks. He was serious. He wanted this.
Utahime exhaled, long and weary. “Fine. Not here. Somewhere else.”
Kashimo’s face lit up. The strongest sorcerer in the world, grinning like a child promised candy.
And damn it all, her chest tightened at the sight. She told herself it was just secondhand embarrassment. Just irritation. Nothing more.
But when Kashimo reached out and took her hand again, warm and firm, she realized with horror that she wasn’t pulling away this time.