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sixeyesonathiel · 6 hours ago

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the curious case of satoru gojo

pairing — scientist satoru x housewife reader

synopsis : satoru gojo is a nobel-nominated genius with three phds, a devoted wife, and one tiny problem: he's accidentally turned himself into his nineteen-year-old self. now locked out of his own house and mistaken for a very persistent stalker by the love of his life (that’s you), he has one mission—fix the time machine, reclaim his face, and survive your increasingly violent attempts to defend your marriage from... him.

tags — oneshot, porn with plot, established relationship, domestic fluff, crack treated seriously, age regression/de-aging, identity shenanigans, miscommunication but it’s technically quantum, time travel(?) shenanigans, idiots in love, emotional whiplash, romantic comedy, jealous of himself, satoru gojo is so down bad, penis in vagina sex, kitchen sex, breeding kink, mating press, praise kink, overstimulation, sexual overstimulation, multiple orgasms, multiple sex positions, satoru gojo worships you like a religion, slight size kink, he’s been deprived okay, smut happens after he fixes everything

wc — 20.1k | gen. masterlist | read on ao3?

a/n: yes i wrote this in one day. yes i wrote this instead of focusing on finishing the part two of my apothecary diaries au fic. please don’t get your pitchforks out (⁠•⁠ ⁠▽⁠ ⁠•⁠;⁠) if u see i typo, no u don’t.

two weeks.

fourteen days of existing as a walking contradiction—a twenty-nine-year-old genius trapped in the lanky, smooth-faced prison of his nineteen-year-old body. satoru adjusts his reading glasses (the same prescription, thankfully, because his eyesight had been terrible since childhood) and stares at your front door like it’s the gates of heaven guarded by the world’s most beautiful, most stubborn angel.

his hair catches the afternoon light, those fine strands the color of fresh snow that had turned this ethereal shade when he was four and his first chemistry set had gone spectacularly wrong. it had originally been a soft, milk-tea brown, the color of dusty books and early autumn. he’d tried to invent a hair-growth serum for his dad. instead, the mixture combusted, coated his scalp, and bleached every strand into something unnaturally pale. his parents had panicked, thinking he’d poisoned himself. little satoru, meanwhile, had stared into the mirror and grinned with gap-toothed delight.

now, at nineteen-again, it falls across his forehead in soft waves, glowing almost silver in the sunlight. he looks like a walking, talking academic heartthrob from a university romance novel—which would be flattering if his own wife didn’t look at him like he was an unsightly bug on her kitchen floor.

the irony tastes bitter on his tongue, metallic like blood and regret. he’d spent six years perfecting a device to slow down time—not for scientific glory or recognition, but because twenty-four hours with you had never felt like enough. he’d wanted to stretch lazy sunday mornings into eternities, to make your sleepy smiles and the way you hummed while making coffee last forever.

instead, he’d accidentally turned himself into a time paradox of the most pathetic variety. a cautionary tale about hubris wrapped in the body of a college freshman.

his phone buzzes somewhere in the basement lab, probably sending another automated message to your device: still working on the temporal displacement project. eating the sandwiches you left. miss you. love you. —satoru

the ai assistant he’d programmed to keep you from worrying had become his greatest enemy. every perfectly crafted message, every detail programmed to sound exactly like him, was another nail in the coffin of his credibility. he’d been too thorough, too careful, too much of a perfectionist even in his contingency planning.

because here he stands, looking like a college freshman who’d wandered into the wrong neighborhood, while you believe your husband is safely tucked away in his lab, probably elbow-deep in equations and caffeine addiction.

the thing is—and this is where his pride starts gnawing at his intestines like a particularly vindictive parasite—he doesn’t want to sneak into his own house. he’s the dr. satoru gojo, for crying out loud. he has three phds, a nobel prize nomination, and enough patents to wallpaper the entire first floor. he shouldn’t have to skulk through basement windows like some sort of lovesick cat burglar just to access his own laboratory.

he’s a dignified man of science. he has principles. standards. a reputation to maintain, even if that reputation is currently being dragged through the mud by his own temporal incompetence.

no, he’s going to do this the right way. he’s going to convince you, properly and thoroughly, that he is exactly who he claims to be. he’s going to walk through the front door like a civilized human being, kiss his wife hello, and pretend the last two weeks never happened.

this is a matter of scientific integrity. of personal dignity. of—

he rings the doorbell.

the sound of your footsteps approaching makes his heart perform some sort of olympic gymnastics routine, complete with triple axels and a dismount that leaves his stomach somewhere in the vicinity of his ankles. even through the door, he can picture the way you move—that particular grace you’ve always had, like you’re dancing to music only you can hear. you’re probably wearing one of those sundresses he loves, the ones that make you look like you’ve stepped out of a 1950s magazine about perfect wives, except you’re real and warm and you smell like vanilla and clean laundry and home.

the door opens, and satoru’s brain promptly short-circuits.

you’re wearing the yellow dress. the one with tiny white flowers that he’d bought you for your second anniversary because you’d mentioned once, in passing, while distracted by a butterfly in the park, that it reminded you of the field where you’d had your first picnic. he’d remembered that throwaway comment for six months before finding the perfect dress, had it tailored to fit you exactly, had even added those hidden pockets because you always lost your keys.

your hair is pinned back with the butterfly clips he’d made for you—tiny mechanical marvels that flutter their wings when you laugh, solar-powered and calibrated to respond to the specific frequency of your joy. he’d spent three weeks perfecting the mechanism after you’d mentioned liking butterflies. three weeks of delicate gear work and programming, all for the chance to see you smile when the wings moved.

you look at him, and your expression shifts from hopeful to confused to absolutely murderous in the span of three seconds.

“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

his heart skips a beat. maybe five. this is the part where he says something clever. this is the part where he charms you back into loving him. this is the part where his superior intellect saves the day and—

before he can open his mouth to explain, to plead, to grovel at your perfect feet, you’ve already produced what looks like a small silver device from somewhere in your dress. the hidden pocket in the seam, specifically—the one he’d reinforced with extra stitching because you had a tendency to overstuff it with lip balm and emergency snacks.

the device hums ominously, a sound that sends ice water through his veins because he recognizes it immediately. it’s the personal protection gadget he’d built for you last christmas, after you’d mentioned feeling nervous walking home from your book club in the dark. he’d spent a month perfecting it—a sleek little thing that could stun, disorient, or mildly embarrass an attacker depending on the setting.

and right now, you’re turning the dial past ‘warning shot’ and heading straight for ‘regret your life choices.’

“listen here, you little creep,” you say, and your voice is deadly sweet, like honey laced with cyanide. the juxtaposition of your floral sundress and the murder in your eyes is somehow the most attractive thing he’s ever seen, which probably says something deeply concerning about his psychology. “i don’t know who you think you are, but i’m a married woman. deeply, completely, utterly in love with my husband.”

the way you say ‘my husband’ makes something in his chest crack open like a fault line. there’s so much pride in your voice, so much fierce devotion, and he wants to bask in it except you’re not talking about him. you’re talking about him, but not him-him. you’re talking about the version of him you actually want to see walking through this door.

“so whatever pathetic attempt at impersonation this is,” you continue, and the weapon in your hand starts glowing a rather alarming shade of blue, “you can take it and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.”

“wait, wait!” he holds up his hands, noting with growing horror how young they look, how smooth and unmarked by years of lab work. these hands haven’t built the music box that plays your wedding song. these fingers haven’t spent countless hours crafting the little inventions that make you smile. “i can explain! i know this looks bad, but i’m really—”

“satoru,” you finish, your eyes narrowing dangerously. “yes, i heard your little introduction yesterday. and the week before that. you know what? the name satoru only fits one person in this world, and he’s about a hundred times more attractive, intelligent, and charming than whatever discount walmart version you’re trying to pull off.”

the words hit him like a freight train loaded with emotional devastation and existential dread. discount walmart version. you—his wife, the love of his life, the woman who’s seen him drool on his pillow and still kisses him good morning—think he’s a cheap knockoff of himself.

“my husband,” you continue, and there’s that tone again, soft and dreamy and absolutely besotted, “is brilliant beyond measure. he’s kind and funny and makes me laugh every single day. he has these eyes that light up when he’s excited about something, and he gets this little crease between his eyebrows when he’s concentrating. he’s tall and gorgeous and perfect, and you...” you look him up and down with obvious disdain, “are none of those things.”

satoru feels something die inside his chest. possibly his will to live. definitely his ego.

because the thing is, you’re right. he doesn’t look like the man you married anymore. he looks like a college student, all gangly limbs and baby fat and skin that hasn’t been weathered by years of late nights in the lab. he looks like someone who might ask you for help with his homework, not someone who’s built you a smart house that anticipates your every need.

“but i know things!” he says desperately, his voice cracking in a way that makes him want to crawl into a hole and die. “i know about your scar from when you fell off your bike when you were seven! it’s shaped like a crescent moon and you hate it but i think it’s beautiful! i know you cry during dog food commercials but only the ones with golden retrievers! i know you keep our wedding photo in your recipe book, tucked between the pages for chocolate chip cookies and banana bread!”

your expression grows more dangerous with each word, and the weapon in your hand charges up another notch.

“you sick little stalker,” you hiss, and the venom in your voice could probably strip paint. “how dare you dig into our private life and try to use our precious memories against me! what kind of pathetic creep researches someone’s marriage just to play dress-up?”

“i’m not playing dress-up!” he protests, and he knows he sounds pathetic, knows he looks like exactly what you think he is—some obsessed fan who’s done way too much homework. “i know about the time you got food poisoning from that seafood place and i held your hair while you threw up! i know you have a freckle shaped like a heart on your left shoulder! i know you sing off-key in the shower but you think you sound like an angel!”

“stop it!” you snap, and your finger hovers over the trigger. “stop trying to soil our beautiful relationship with your creepy research!”

“i know about our first fight!” he rushes on, desperate now, sweat beading on his forehead. “it was about the thermostat because you like the house warm and i run hot! i know you forgave me by leaving little notes in my lab equipment! i know you doodle my name in the margins of your books when you’re daydreaming!”

each piece of intimate knowledge he reveals only seems to make you angrier, and satoru realizes with growing horror that he’s trapped in some sort of emotional paradox. the more he proves he knows you, the more you’re convinced he’s a stranger.

“and i know,” he adds, his voice dropping to something desperate and broken, “that you’re wearing the perfume i bought you for your birthday. the one that smells like vanilla and jasmine and makes me want to bury my face in your neck and never leave.”

you go very, very still.

“that’s enough,” you say quietly, and somehow that’s more terrifying than when you were shouting. “i don’t care how much you’ve stalked us, how many private details you’ve dug up, how perfectly you’ve copied his appearance. you are not my husband.”

“but—”

“my husband,” you continue, and your voice goes soft and dreamy again, like you’re talking about something holy, “is perfect. he’s brilliant and beautiful and kind, and he loves me exactly as much as i love him. he’s probably in his lab right now, working on something that’s going to change the world, missing me but dedicated to his research because that’s who he is. that’s the man i married.”

the weapon powers up another notch, and satoru is pretty sure it’s no longer set to ‘stun.’

“and you,” you say, looking him up and down with obvious disgust, “are just some sad little boy with a crush and too much time on your hands. so here’s what’s going to happen. you’re going to leave. now. and if i see you anywhere near our house again, i’m going to do something that will require a very good explanation to the police.”

satoru stares at you—really looks at you—and sees the fierce protectiveness in your eyes, the way you’re guarding not just your home but your marriage, your happiness, your love for a man you think is safely tucked away in his basement lab.

you’re magnificent. terrifying and beautiful and absolutely magnificent.

and you’re about to potentially murder him while defending his honor.

“i know about the night after our second anniversary,” he tries one more time, his voice breaking completely now. “when you wore that blue nightgown with the little ribbons, and we danced in the kitchen to that song you love, and then we—”

“that’s it.”

the blast catches him square in the chest, and suddenly satoru is airborne, flying backward off your porch and landing in the rose bushes he’d planted for your last birthday. the thorns are sharp, but not nearly as sharp as the look you’d given him right before pulling the trigger.

he lies there for a moment, stunned and possibly concussed, staring up at the sky and trying to process what just happened.

through the ringing in his ears, he hears you call out: “my husband is a genius with 845 patents and the most brilliant mind of our generation! you’re just some sad little boy who probably googled him! stay away from our house, or next time i’m setting this thing to something more permanent!”

the door slams with enough force to rattle the windows.

satoru continues lying in the roses, rose petals in his hair and thorns in his dignity, and tries to comprehend the fact that his own wife just threatened to potentially murder him while defending his honor with the very weapon he’d built to protect her.

somewhere in the distance, a bird chirps. a car drives by. the world continues spinning as if nothing momentous has just occurred.

he’s never been more in love in his entire life. which is probably a sign that he needs therapy. or a lobotomy. possibly both.

he lies there for a moment. processing. his ribs hurt. his pride hurts more. his entire soul aches in a way that is both deeply romantic and profoundly stupid.

“also!” you shout from the upstairs window, your voice carrying that indignant tone you get when you’re really worked up, “my husband has better hair! and better posture! and he’s taller! and he knows how to dress himself like an adult instead of a lost college freshman!”

each addition feels like salt in the wound. you’re systematically dismantling every aspect of his nineteen-year-old appearance while praising the twenty-nine-year-old version with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for describing paradise.

“and he smells better!” you continue, apparently not done with your character assassination. “like expensive cologne and coffee and home, not like... like drugstore body spray and desperation!”

satoru sniffs himself reflexively. he doesn’t smell like desperation. does he? the drugstore body spray comment is just mean, especially since he’d specifically chosen the brand you’d complimented on a stranger once.

“and his voice!” you’re really getting into it now, leaning out the window with the fervor of someone delivering a sermon. “his voice is deeper, and smoother, and when he says my name it sounds like music instead of like a squeaky toy!”

he touches his throat self-consciously. his voice had been deeper before the accident, richer, more confident. now he sounds like he’s going through puberty again, all cracks and uncertain intonation.

“and he would never be stupid enough to break into someone’s house like some kind of delinquent!” you conclude with devastating finality. “my husband is a gentleman and a scholar and the most wonderful man who ever lived, and you’re just some discount imposter who isn’t fit to shine his shoes!”

the window slams shut.

satoru groans. loud and dramatic and entirely justified.

he really should’ve just built a cloning machine. or left a video message in case of accidental de-aging. or tattooed a note to his own arm. but no, he had to get ambitious. he had to try and invent time-space atmospheric slowdown like a dumbass in love.

he drags himself up from the rosebush, brushing petals and leaves from his shirt. there’s one stuck in his hair, refusing to leave like it has a vendetta. his reflection in the front window shows a pathetic figure: clothes wrinkled, hair disheveled, a small cut on his cheek from the thorns, and an expression of profound defeat.

this is what rock bottom looks like, apparently. getting ejected from his own home by his own wife while she sings the praises of his other self.

the irony is suffocating. you love him so much that you’d attack anyone who even pretended to be him. your loyalty is absolute, your devotion unwavering, your protective instincts sharp enough to cut glass. it’s everything he’d ever wanted in a partner, everything he’d fallen in love with, turned against him in the cruelest possible way.

he presses his hand to his chest, where the stun device got him. it still tingles, a reminder of your precision, your preparedness, the way you’d defended your marriage without a moment’s hesitation. you’d been magnificent, absolutely magnificent, and he’d been the target.

satoru limps toward the sidewalk, his teenage body protesting every movement. his legs feel too long, his center of gravity all wrong. everything about this borrowed youth feels like wearing an ill-fitting costume to the most important performance of his life.

he looks back at the house—your house, his house, the home you’d built together—and feels the weight of his isolation settle around him like a heavy coat. inside, you’re probably making dinner, humming that song you always hum when you’re slightly stressed, maybe wondering why the strange boy keeps bothering you when your husband is working so hard in his lab.

the thought of you worrying, of you feeling unsafe in your own home because of his appearance, makes his chest tight with guilt. he’d never wanted to frighten you, never wanted to make you feel threatened or uncomfortable. he’d just wanted to come home.

but this isn’t working. two weeks of doorbell rejections, verbal demolitions, and physical removal have made it clear that the direct approach is a spectacular failure. you’re not going to believe him, not when he looks like this, not when every instinct you have is screaming that he’s an imposter.

he understands that you love your husband—him—so much that you’ll fight off anyone who threatens that love, even if it means breaking your own tender heart to do it. he understands that the depth of your devotion is exactly what makes this situation so impossible.

he also understands that his dignity, his principles, his stubborn refusal to sneak around his own house like a common criminal, has just officially been abandoned in your rose bushes along with his pride.

because two weeks without you is already too long, and the thought of spending even one more night in a hotel room that smells like industrial disinfectant instead of your vanilla perfume makes him want to invent a time machine just so he can go back and slap his past self for being such an arrogant idiot.

science is about adaptation. evolution. knowing when to abandon a failed hypothesis and try a new approach.

tonight, dr. satoru gojo, nobel prize winner and distinguished gentleman of science, is going to break into his own house like a lovesick teenager.

his dignity is already dead anyway. might as well bury it properly.

night falls like a heavy curtain draped by a particularly melodramatic theater director, and satoru crouches in the shadows of his own garden like some sort of discount romeo—if romeo had been a twenty-nine-year-old genius trapped in a nineteen-year-old’s body and juliet had been his own wife who’d recently threatened him with what appeared to be a weaponized jewelry box.

the irony tastes like burnt coffee and shattered dreams. he’s spent six years turning this place into fort knox’s prettier, more technologically advanced cousin, all in the name of protecting you from theoretical dangers that pale in comparison to the very real threat of his own stupidity. motion sensors that could detect a butterfly’s landing, cameras with night vision that would make the military weep with envy, locks that respond to seventeen different biometric markers—and here he is, plotting to break into his own fortress like the world’s most pathetic cat burglar.

the security system hums softly in the darkness, a technological lullaby he’d programmed himself. every blinking light, every nearly invisible laser grid, every pressure-sensitive tile in the walkway—his own paranoid genius, now turned against him like some sort of karmic boomerang wrapped in irony and spite.

he adjusts his reading glasses and studies the house like a general surveying a battlefield. except generals probably don’t usually have to factor in the devastating effects of seeing their beloved wearing pajamas into their strategic planning.

the kitchen window. salvation arrives in the form of his own procrastination—there’s a loose latch on the kitchen window that he’s been meaning to fix for approximately four months and seventeen days. not that he’s counting. you’d mentioned it in passing on a tuesday morning while making pancakes, your hair still mussed from sleep, wearing that ridiculous apron with the anthropomorphic strawberries that should have looked childish but instead made you look like some sort of domestic goddess descended from mount olympus to bless his unworthy kitchen with your presence.

he’d nodded and made appropriate husband noises about adding it to his mental to-do list, then promptly forgotten because you’d started humming that song—the one you always hum when you’re happy, the one that sounds like sunshine would if sunshine had a voice—and his brain had short-circuited somewhere between “fix window latch” and “marry this woman again immediately.”

procrastination, it turns out, has never felt so much like divine intervention.

satoru approaches the window with the careful precision of someone who knows exactly how much pressure the old frame can take before it creaks loud enough to wake the neighbors’ dog, which would start a chain reaction of barking that would inevitably lead to you investigating the commotion. his nineteen-year-old fingers work the latch with muscle memory that spans a decade—apparently some things transcend the space-time continuum, including his intimate knowledge of his own home’s structural weaknesses.

the window slides open with barely a whisper, and satoru feels a brief moment of triumph that’s immediately crushed under the weight of what he’s actually doing. breaking and entering. into his own house. to convince his own wife that he’s actually himself.

if there’s a support group for men who’ve been defeated by their own scientific brilliance, he’s definitely going to need the membership information.

he slips through the window with the fluid grace of his temporarily teenage body, and the contrast is jarring—he’d forgotten how easy movement used to be, before years of hunching over microscopes and circuit boards had given him the posture of a question mark and the flexibility of a particularly rigid breadstick. his nineteen-year-old joints don’t protest the maneuver, don’t crack ominously or require the careful choreography he’s grown accustomed to.

it’s like being a ghost haunting his own life, except ghosts probably don’t have to worry about whether their wives will recognize them.

the house settles around him in the darkness, familiar as his own heartbeat. every creak of the floorboards, every sigh of the old ventilation system, every subtle shift of air that speaks of home and safety and belonging. the scent of dinner lingers in the air—something with garlic and herbs that makes his stomach growl traitorously, reminding him that nineteen-year-old metabolisms apparently require more fuel than whatever laboratory subsistence he’s been surviving on.

guilt tastes like copper pennies and regret as he imagines you eating alone, probably glancing at the basement door every few minutes, wondering if your husband remembered to eat anything more substantial than the sandwiches you’d left for him. the automated messages from his ai assistant feel like lead weights in his chest—every perfectly crafted lie, every synthetic expression of love and longing, every digital deception that kept you from worrying while the real satoru stumbled around in a teenage body like some sort of scientific cautionary tale.

his feet hit the kitchen floor with barely a whisper of sound, and for a moment, he allows himself to breathe. step one: infiltration successful. step two: somehow make it to the basement without triggering any of the—

the lights explode to life like the sun deciding to have a particularly vindictive tantrum.

“gotcha, you little creep.”

and there you are.

standing in the doorway like an avenging angel who’d decided that white cotton nightgowns were the appropriate battle attire for dealing with home invaders. the nightdress—the one with the lace trim that he’d bought you for your birthday because you’d mentioned once that you felt pretty in white—catches the harsh kitchen light and transforms you into something ethereal and terrifying in equal measure.

your hair spills over your shoulders in loose waves, the same waves he’s buried his fingers in countless times, that he’s watched catch morning sunlight during lazy weekend mornings when the world consisted of nothing but you and him and the space between heartbeats. but there’s steel in your posture now, a predatory grace that speaks of skills he’d never suspected, secrets kept with the casual competence of someone who’s been protecting others while letting them think they were doing the protecting.

satoru opens his mouth to explain, to plead, to throw himself at your mercy and grovel with the desperation of a man who’s spent two weeks learning exactly how much his life means nothing without you in it—

your hand moves faster than his genius brain can process, faster than the calculations that usually come as naturally as breathing, faster than any of the combat scenarios he’s ever run through his head during his more paranoid moments.

the karate chop catches him right at the base of his neck with surgical precision, and satoru’s world doesn’t just explode into stars—it becomes a supernova of sensation and realization and the most inappropriate surge of attraction he’s ever experienced.

because even as his vision goes blurry around the edges, even as his knees buckle and his carefully planned explanations scatter like startled birds, even as consciousness starts its tactical retreat from the battlefield of his skull—you’re beautiful.

devastatingly, impossibly, catastrophically beautiful.

he’d known you were deadly, in the abstract way that husbands know their wives are capable of anything. but seeing it, experiencing the controlled violence of someone who’s spent years learning how to end threats efficiently and effectively, watching the way you move with the fluid confidence of someone who’s never doubted their ability to protect what matters—

it’s like falling in love all over again, except this time it’s happening while his nervous system stages a coup and his equilibrium files for immediate resignation.

the woman he’d married, the one who makes him sandwiches with the crusts cut off because you knows he eats more when food is convenient, the one who leaves little notes in his lab reminding him to drink water and take breaks, the one who hums while doing laundry and always smells like vanilla and clean cotton and home—you just incapacitated him with the casual efficiency of someone who’s been trained to handle much worse threats than lovesick scientists with poor life choices.

and he’s never been more attracted to another human being in his entire existence.

his vision swims, the edges of the world growing soft and fuzzy like someone’s smeared vaseline on the lens of reality. but even through the haze of imminent unconsciousness, he can see you clearly—the slight flush in your cheeks from adrenaline, the way your breathing has quickened just fractionally, the protective fire in your eyes that speaks of love fierce enough to level cities.

“you,” his mouth tries to form words, but his tongue feels like it’s been replaced with cotton batting soaked in novocaine. “you’re...”

“insane?” you supply helpfully, though your voice carries that particular note of concern that always appears when you think he might be hurt. “scary? criminally strong?”

“perfect,” he manages, and even slurred beyond recognition, the word carries every ounce of wonder and adoration and bone-deep reverence he feels.

you blink, clearly not expecting that response from your supposed stalker, and in that moment of confusion, satoru sees something shift in your expression. a flicker of uncertainty, a crack in the armor of your righteous fury that lets just a hint of the woman he knows peek through.

then the world tilts sideways, his legs forget how to function, and consciousness waves goodbye with all the dignity of a deflating balloon.

satoru surfaces from the depths of unconsciousness like a man drowning in reverse, fighting his way back to a reality that feels suspiciously soft and comfortable for someone who’d just been neutralized by his own wife.

the mother of all headaches pounds against his skull with the rhythm of a particularly enthusiastic drummer, and somewhere in the distance, birds are chirping with the sort of aggressive cheerfulness that makes him want to invent a device for negotiating with wildlife.

satoru opens his eyes to find himself on the porch—his porch, their porch, the one with the swing he’d installed because you’d mentioned once that you’d always wanted one—with a pillow tucked carefully under his head and a glass of water sitting nearby like a peace offering from the goddess of justified violence.

even while knocking him unconscious for breaking into his own home, you’d made sure he was comfortable.

the pillow smells like you—vanilla and that lavender fabric softener you use and something indefinably warm that he’s never been able to identify but would recognize anywhere. it’s the same scent that clings to his shirts when you do laundry, the same one that fills their bedroom in the mornings, the same one that he associates with safety and belonging and the radical concept that someone might actually love him enough to put up with his particular brand of brilliant stupidity.

he sits up slowly, his head spinning like a carnival ride operated by someone with a grudge against inner ears, and catches sight of a note tucked under the water glass. the handwriting is yours—neat, precise, with the same careful attention to detail you bring to everything from grocery lists to the birthday cards you make by hand because you say store-bought ones don’t carry enough love.

for the headache. next time, try using the front door like a normal stalker. —the wife of the REAL satoru gojo

despite everything—the splitting headache, the existential crisis, the fact that he’s been reduced to breaking into his own home like some sort of romantic criminal—he smiles. even your passive-aggressive notes are perfect. even when you’re threatening him with bodily harm, you’re taking care of him. even when you think he’s some delusional teenager with stalker tendencies, you’re making sure he’s hydrated and comfortable.

he’s never been more in love, which would be romantic if it weren’t so completely pathetic.

the front door opens with the sort of casual grace that suggests you’ve been watching him from inside, probably trying to determine whether he’s going to keel over again or attempt another round of breaking and entering. you step out wearing a blue sundress that makes his chest ache with longing so profound it feels like a physical injury—the one with tiny white flowers that he’d bought you for your second anniversary because you’d mentioned once that it reminded you of the field where you’d had your first picnic.

you’re carrying a plate of what looks like his favorite cookies, the ones you only make when you’re worried or upset, the ones that involve three different types of chocolate and a recipe you guard more jealously than state secrets. the fact that you’ve made them now, for what you think is a complete stranger, speaks to a kindness so fundamental that it makes his throat close up with emotion.

“you’re awake,” you observe, settling into the porch chair you’d insisted on buying last spring, the one he’d grumbled about because it didn’t match the aesthetic he’d carefully planned, the one that’s now his favorite spot in the world because it’s where you sit in the mornings with your coffee and your terrible romance novels and your complete contentment with the life you’ve built together. “good. i was starting to think i’d hit you too hard.”

there’s genuine concern in your voice, the same tone you use when he’s working too late and you’re worried he’s going to collapse from exhaustion, and satoru feels his dignity—what little remains of it—crumble into dust. his wife is worried about the wellbeing of someone she thinks is essentially a teenage stalker, because that’s the kind of person you are. that’s the kind of heart you have.

he struggles to his feet, swaying slightly as his nineteen-year-old equilibrium files a formal complaint about the abuse it’s recently endured. “you... you know karate?”

the question comes out slightly accusatory, tinged with the bewilderment of a man discovering that his beloved is capable of violence on a level he’d never imagined. six years of marriage, six years of thinking he knew everything about you, six years of believing he was the protector in this relationship—

“among other things.” you bite into a cookie with the satisfied air of someone who’s just discovered an interesting new fact about the world, watching him with the expression of someone observing a particularly fascinating specimen under laboratory conditions. “my husband doesn’t know. i like letting him think he needs to protect me. he makes the most adorable gadgets when he’s worried about my safety.”

the casual way you mention keeping an entire martial arts background secret from him makes satoru’s head spin worse than the concussion. not because you’ve hidden something from him—everyone deserves their secrets, their private spaces, their own mysteries to unfold in their own time—but because you’ve hidden it for the most fundamentally sweet reason imaginable.

you’ve been letting him play protector while being perfectly capable of protecting yourself, because you think his overprotectiveness is cute.

he falls in love with you all over again, which seems physically impossible given that he’s been operating at maximum love capacity for the better part of a decade, but apparently the human heart has hidden reserves for discovering new depths of adoration even when you think you’ve already catalogued every possible reason to worship someone.

“why didn’t you tell him?” he asks, genuinely curious despite the circumstances and the growing certainty that he’s about to learn something that will fundamentally reshape his understanding of the woman he married.

your expression softens in the way that always makes his chest tight with emotion, that particular look of fond exasperation mixed with infinite patience that you reserve for discussions of your husband’s more endearing quirks.

“because my satoru gojo is the smartest man alive,” you say, and the pride in your voice makes something warm and golden spread through his chest like sunrise, “but he’s also a complete idiot when it comes to the people he loves. he’d spend all his time trying to make sure i never had to use those skills instead of appreciating that i can take care of myself. this way, he gets to feel protective, i get beautiful functional jewelry and self-defense gadgets, and everyone’s happy.”

the way you say his name—their name, his name, the name you chose to take and make your own—carries so much love it’s like being hit by lightning made of pure affection. there’s pride and exasperation and devotion all wrapped up together, the voice of someone who sees all his flaws and brilliant strengths and loves him not despite them but because of the ridiculous, wonderful, impossible whole they create.

“he’s lucky,” satoru says quietly, his voice rough with emotions he can’t begin to untangle, “to have someone who understands him so well.”

“he is,” you agree, and your smile could power entire cities, could fuel space programs, could probably solve half the world’s energy crisis if properly harnessed. “he’s brilliant and kind and funny, and he makes me laugh every single day. he’s also terrible at remembering to eat when he’s working and has a tendency to forget that normal people need more than three hours of sleep, but he’s perfect. he’s mine.”

satoru has never experienced jealousy of himself before, but it turns out to be a unique form of psychological torture—listening to the woman he loves describe him with such complete adoration while being unable to claim that love for himself. it’s like being handed a gift and told you can look but never touch, like being shown paradise through bulletproof glass.

the domesticity of it, the casual way you catalogue his flaws alongside his strengths, the matter-of-fact possessiveness in that final declaration—it’s everything he’s ever wanted and everything he currently can’t have, all wrapped up in a blue sundress and served with homemade cookies.

“what if,” he tries carefully, his voice pitched to sound like idle curiosity rather than the desperate plea it actually is, “hypothetically, something happened to him? what if he was... changed somehow?”

your expression shifts faster than a summer storm, going from warm affection to arctic fury in the space between heartbeats. the cookie in your hand crumbles slightly from the sudden tension in your grip, chocolate chips scattering like the remains of his dignity.

“nothing’s going to happen to my husband,” you say, and your voice carries the kind of quiet menace that speaks of consequences beyond imagination. “and if someone tried to hurt him, they’d have to go through me first.”

the protective fire in your eyes makes something primal and deeply satisfied purr in his chest, even as his rational mind catalogs this as yet another example of how thoroughly he’s miscalculated this entire situation. you’d go to war for him. you’d fight gods and demons and the fundamental forces of the universe itself if it meant keeping him safe.

and here he is, the very person you’re trying to protect, being threatened by that same fierce love.

“but hypothetically—”

“no hypotheticals.” you stand up with sharp, efficient movements, smoothing your dress with the same precision you bring to everything, from folding fitted sheets to organizing his lab equipment when he’s too scattered to think straight. “my husband is in his lab, working on something that’s going to change the world, because that’s what he does. and you’re going to stop harassing us, because that’s what you’re going to do if you want to keep all your limbs attached.”

the dismissal is absolute, final, delivered with the authority of someone who’s never doubted their ability to follow through on threats. you disappear back into the house like an avenging angel returning to heaven, leaving satoru alone with his thoughts and the growing certainty that dignity is a luxury he can no longer afford.

he sits on the porch steps—his own porch steps, in front of his own house, locked out by his own security system and his own wife—and contemplates the spectacular wreckage of his scientific career. somewhere in that basement, his life’s work hums quietly, the temporal displacement device that was supposed to give him more time with you having instead stolen the time he already had.

the irony would be poetic if it weren’t so completely devastating.

satoru gojo, holder of 845 patents, winner of seventeen international scientific awards, the man who’d revolutionized three separate fields before his thirtieth birthday—reduced to breaking into his own home like a common criminal, only to be defeated by his wife’s previously unknown martial arts skills and her absolutely justified protective instincts.

he’s given up his dignity, his professional reputation, and apparently his door privileges, all because he’d been too excited about surprising you with a scientific breakthrough to properly test the safety protocols.

note to self: next time he wants to revolutionize temporal mechanics, maybe start with laboratory mice instead of jumping straight to human trials.

assuming there is a next time. assuming he can figure out how to convince you that the teenager on your porch is actually your husband without sounding like the world’s most delusional stalker.

the basement feels very far away suddenly, farther than when he’d been planning his infiltration, farther than the actual physical distance between the porch and the lab where his salvation waits. because now he understands the true scope of his problem: it’s not just about fixing the temporal displacement device.

it’s about rebuilding trust with someone who thinks he’s been safely contained in his laboratory while a dangerous stranger makes increasingly desperate attempts to insert himself into their life.

satoru sighs deeply like a man who has discovered that rock bottom has a basement, and that basement has a sub-basement, and he’s currently spelunking through the geological layers of his own humiliation. the pillow you’d left under his head when you dragged his unconscious body out here mocks him with its floral pattern—little daisies that seem to whisper pathetic in tiny flower voices.

his dignity lies somewhere in your rose bushes, probably fertilizing the begonias.

he stares hopelessly at his own house—the house he designed, built, and has been systematically locked out of by his own security measures. the irony tastes like pennies and poor life choices. somewhere in that house, you’re probably stress-baking again, creating cookies that could end world hunger while muttering about stalkers and the general incompetence of teenage boys who think they can impersonate geniuses.

the truly tragic part is that you’re not wrong. he is a teenage boy trying to impersonate a genius. the fact that he actually is that genius feels like a technicality that the universe is refusing to acknowledge.

satoru stands up, brushing pillow lint off his jeans (when had he started wearing jeans? his twenty-nine-year-old self exclusively wore slacks, but apparently his teenage body had different sartorial opinions). if he’s going to reclaim his life, his wife, and his chronological age, he needs to get into that lab.

the front door is obviously out of the question. you’ve made it abundantly clear that any further doorbell-related activities will result in weaponized consequences that his nineteen-year-old body might not survive. the back door is visible from the kitchen window, where you’re probably standing guard like a beautiful, homicidal sentinel.

which leaves him with the architectural equivalent of a hail mary: the basement windows.

he circles the house like a cat burglar who’s read too many heist novels and not enough actual breaking-and-entering manuals. the basement windows are small, the kind of windows that had seemed like a good idea when he was designing a lab and wanted natural light but not easy access. past-satoru had been worried about corporate espionage, not future-satoru trying to infiltrate his own laboratory while trapped in a temporal paradox of the most embarrassing variety.

the window on the east side looks promising. it’s partially hidden by the hydrangea bushes you’d planted last spring, the ones that bloom in impossible shades of blue because you’d somehow convinced them that regular hydrangea colors were beneath their potential. the glass is dirty enough to provide cover, and the latch looks old enough to have the structural integrity of a wet paper bag.

satoru crouches in the dirt, feeling like the world’s most pathetic ninja. his knees protest against the unfamiliar position—nineteen-year-old joints might be more flexible, but they’re also apparently more dramatic about being asked to crouch in garden soil.

the window latch gives way with the kind of rusty shriek that could wake the dead, the neighbors, and possibly several small woodland creatures. satoru freezes, waiting for the sound of your footsteps, the opening of doors, the general commotion that would signal his discovery and subsequent re-unconsciousness.

nothing.

either you didn’t hear it, or you’re currently sharpening something in the kitchen while humming ominously.

he slides the window open with the careful precision of someone who knows exactly how much the old frame can take before it decides to give up on life entirely. the basement yawns below him like the mouth of some scientific purgatory, all shadows and the faint hum of machines he’d built to make the world a better place.

getting through the window requires a level of physical coordination that his nineteen-year-old body possesses but his twenty-nine-year-old dignity abhors. he ends up sliding through headfirst, performing what could generously be called a controlled fall and more accurately described as a graceless tumble that would make circus performers weep.

his feet hit the concrete floor with all the stealth of a bag of hammers being dropped from a significant height.

the basement lab stretches before him like a technological cathedral, all gleaming surfaces and blinking lights that pulse in rhythm with machines whose purposes range from “revolutionary” to “probably shouldn’t exist but here we are anyway.” this is his domain, his kingdom, his sanctuary of scientific achievement and questionable decision-making.

it also feels like coming home and visiting a crime scene simultaneously.

everything is exactly as he’d left it two weeks ago, frozen in the moment when he’d stepped into the temporal field with the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned that the universe has a twisted sense of humor. the half-finished temporal displacement device sits on the main workbench like an accusation, all smooth curves and innocent blinking lights that belie its capacity for chronological chaos.

coffee cups are scattered around like caffeinated archaeological artifacts, each one marking a different stage of his research. there’s the mug you’d given him for his birthday with “world’s okayest scientist” written in comic sans font—your little joke about his ego that he treasures more than his nobel prize nomination. there’s the plain white cup he uses when he’s really focused, the one with the chip on the handle from when he’d gotten excited about a breakthrough and gestured too enthusiastically. there’s even the fancy porcelain teacup his mother had given him, which he only uses when he’s feeling particularly pretentious about his discoveries.

each cup tells the story of late nights, early mornings, and the kind of obsessive focus that leads to temporal displacement incidents.

his phone sits on the desk, buzzing intermittently with notifications he can’t answer. the screen lights up every few minutes with incoming messages, calls from colleagues, reminders about appointments he’s apparently missing while trapped in his own temporal feedback loop. but it’s the outgoing messages that make his stomach twist into knots that could anchor ships.

the ai assistant is working with the efficiency of a swiss watch and the emotional intelligence of someone who actually knows him. every few hours, it crafts another perfect message to your phone, each one a masterpiece of his writing style mixed with the kind of scientific romanticism that had won your heart six years ago.

making progress on the quantum stabilization matrix. the equations are beautiful—almost as beautiful as you in that yellow dress this morning. did you eat lunch? —satoru

breakthrough with the temporal field generators! i think i can increase efficiency by 34%. also, i dreamed about that weekend in kyoto again. we should go back soon. —your devoted husband

minor setback with the power coupling, but nothing i can’t fix. missing your voice. send a voice message please? maybe hum that song you like while i work? it always helps me think. —satoru

each message is a perfect imitation of his writing style, his habits, his love for you wrapped in scientific progress reports. they capture the way he thinks, the way he speaks, the way he can’t seem to separate his work from his adoration of you because everything he creates is somehow inspired by your existence.

no wonder you believe he’s down here, buried in his work, missing you but dedicated to his research. the ai had done its job too well, creating a digital phantom that was more convincing than his actual de-aged presence.

reading them makes him want to punch his past self for being so thorough, so careful, so goddamn good at programming an assistant that could replicate his personality down to the way he signs his messages with scientific terminology and pet names in equal measure.

satoru rolls up his sleeves and approaches his workstation like a penitent approaching an altar.

the lab’s security system chirps softly as he moves through the space, sensors tracking his movement with the bored efficiency of technology that recognizes him but doesn’t particularly care about his current chronological displacement. red lights blink in sequence along the walls, a heartbeat of recognition that would normally make him feel secure and accomplished.

instead, it feels like the lab is mocking him. oh look, the blinking seems to say, it’s the genius who outsmarted himself into adolescence.

the temporal displacement device looks innocent enough sitting there on the main workbench—a sleek silver contraption about the size of a microwave, all smooth curves and the kind of blinking lights that movie audiences associate with either miracle cures or impending explosions. he’d been so proud of it when he’d finished the initial design, so excited to show you what he’d been working on for months.

the irony burns like acid in his chest: he’d built a machine to give himself more time with you, and instead, it had stolen the time he already had.

but now, looking at it with the clarity that comes from two weeks of enforced separation and multiple instances of being rendered unconscious by his own wife, he can see exactly what went wrong. the power coupling on the left side shows signs of overheating, the quantum stabilization matrix is operating at 73% efficiency instead of the required 89%, and the temporal field generators are displaying the kind of fluctuation patterns that suggest they’re one strong breeze away from turning him into quantum soup.

his nineteen-year-old hands remember the work even if they look different doing it—smoother, unlined, with calluses in different places that speak of a life not yet lived. muscle memory is a beautiful thing, and soon he’s lost in the familiar rhythm of calibration and adjustment, replacing the burnt-out components that had caused the initial malfunction.

the security system continues its soft surveillance, cameras tracking his movement as he works. somewhere in the house above, you’re probably going about your evening routine, maybe reading in the living room chair he’d bought specifically because it makes you look like a goddess of domestic tranquility, maybe taking a bath in the tub he’d designed with jets positioned exactly where you like them.

you think your husband is down here, safely contained in his laboratory, working on equations that could revolutionize temporal mechanics. you have no idea that your husband is actually down here, working on equations that could return him to the age where you might not instinctively try to karate chop him on sight.

hours pass in the peculiar way that time moves when you’re focused on something that requires every neuron in your brain to fire in perfect synchronization. his back aches from hunching over the workbench—some things never change, regardless of what decade your spine thinks it’s living in. his eyes water behind his reading glasses, the same prescription he’s had since childhood because apparently temporal displacement doesn’t fix astigmatism.

the basement air grows stale and recycled, nothing like the fresh scent of your perfume or the way the house smells when you’re baking. down here, everything smells like ozone and possibility, metal and dreams, the peculiar combination of scents that comes from trying to bend the universe to your will through applied science and stubborn determination.

component by component, equation by equation, he rebuilds what his hubris had broken. the quantum stabilization matrix purrs back to life, its efficiency climbing toward the magic number that means the difference between “successful temporal correction” and “decorating the lab walls with physicist.” the power coupling stops smoking, which he takes as a positive sign, though the bar for success has been dramatically lowered by recent events.

finally, blessedly, after what feels like several geological ages, the device hums to life with the soft blue glow that means everything is working properly. the sound it makes is almost musical, a harmony of frequencies that speaks to the part of his brain that understands how beautiful math can be when it’s applied to impossible problems.

satoru stares at it for a long moment, this machine that had caused so much chaos, so much pain, so much embarrassment. it looks the same as it had two weeks ago, before he’d stepped into it with the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned that the universe has a deeply personal vendetta against his happiness.

but now it’s fixed. now it can undo what it had done, return him to the chronological age where his wife doesn’t look at him like he’s a particularly offensive piece of gum stuck to her shoe.

he takes a deep breath, tasting the metallic tang of possibility and ozone, and steps into the temporal field.

the world bends.

reality stretches like taffy in the hands of a cosmic confectioner who’s had too much caffeine and not enough sleep. colors bleed into each other, the visible spectrum having what appears to be a nervous breakdown while time folds backward on itself with the sensation of falling upward through a kaleidoscope made of mathematics and regret.

his bones feel like they’re growing, stretching, settling back into familiar patterns that his muscles remember even if his consciousness is currently experiencing what could best be described as temporal vertigo. his face reshapes itself like clay in the hands of chronology, features aging forward to match the man you’d fallen in love with, married, and spent six years learning to live with.

the sensation is indescribable and entirely uncomfortable, like being turned inside out by time itself while someone plays a symphony written in mathematical equations. his cells remember being twenty-nine, and they rush toward that memory with the enthusiasm of teenagers remembering they have a curfew.

when the light fades and the world stops doing its impression of a funhouse mirror designed by someone with a degree in theoretical physics, satoru catches sight of himself in the polished surface of another machine.

he looks like himself again. twenty-nine years old, tall and lean, with the same pale hair that had turned white when he was four and stayed that way out of what he suspects is pure stubbornness. the same eyes behind the same reading glasses, the same hands that you’ve memorized, the same face that you’ve kissed goodnight for six years.

the face you’d married, the body you’d mapped with your hands on lazy sunday mornings, the version of himself that you actually wanted to see walking through the door instead of some temporal impostor with the emotional maturity of a teenager and the physical appearance to match.

he runs his hands over his face, feeling the familiar planes and angles, the slight roughness of stubble that his nineteen-year-old self had been too optimistic to grow properly. these are the hands that have held you, touched you, built you impossibly complex gifts that serve no purpose other than making you smile.

satoru straightens his sweater and climbs the basement stairs like a man ascending to heaven, or at least to the ground floor where his wife is probably stress-baking cookies and muttering about the general incompetence of teenagers who think they can impersonate geniuses.

time to go home.

time to reclaim his life, his wife, and his dignity—though he suspects the dignity might be a lost cause at this point.

the basement door opens onto the kitchen, and the smell of home washes over him like a blessing from the domestic gods: vanilla and cinnamon, the lavender detergent you use on the dish towels, the faint scent of the coffee you’d made this morning before you knew your day would include multiple instances of assault and battery against your own husband.

he’s home. finally, truly, chronologically home.

you’re in the kitchen when he emerges, standing at the stove in that pink dress with the tiny pearl buttons he’s memorized but hasn’t seen in two weeks. your hair is twisted into a messy bun secured with one of his prototype hairpins—the ones that glow soft blue when you’re stressed. they’re glowing now, just barely, a testament to how worried you’ve been about his prolonged absence from the world above ground.

the wooden spoon moves in lazy circles through whatever you’re cooking, and the scent hits him like a physical force—garlic and herbs and that particular blend of spices you use when you’re making his favorite pasta. his stomach clenches with actual hunger for the first time in two weeks, nineteen-year-old metabolism finally giving way to twenty-nine-year-old appreciation for real food.

but it’s the humming that undoes him completely. that soft, unconscious melody you make when you think no one’s listening, the same tune he’d programmed into his ai messages because he’d been missing it so desperately. hearing it live, unfiltered, coming from your actual throat instead of his memory—

satoru doesn’t think. doesn’t hesitate. doesn’t announce himself like a civilized human being.

he launches himself across the kitchen like a man possessed, arms wrapping around your waist from behind, his chest pressing flush against your back as he buries his face in the curve of your neck. you smell like vanilla body lotion and that expensive shampoo he pretends not to notice the cost of, and underneath it all, just you. warm skin and the faint sweetness that clings to your hair, the scent that’s been haunting him for fourteen endless days.

“satoru!” you yelp, startled enough that the wooden spoon goes flying, clattering across the counter and leaving a trail of red sauce in its wake. “you absolute menace, you scared me half to death!”

he makes a sound that’s half laugh, half sob, tightening his arms around you like you might evaporate if he loosens his grip even slightly. his reading glasses bump against your shoulder as he nuzzles deeper into your neck, and he can feel the butterfly clips in your hair tickling against his temple.

“missed you,” he mumbles against your skin, the words muffled and desperate. “missed you so much.”

“missed me?” your voice pitches higher, indignant and fond in equal measure. “satoru, you’ve been ten feet underground for two weeks! i’ve been cooking for you every single day, leaving plates outside your lab door, and what do i find when i check? cold food. stone cold. untouched.”

your hands come up to cover his where they’re locked around your middle, and even through your scolding, your fingers are gentle as they trace over his knuckles. “what have you even been eating? because i know it wasn’t my cooking, and if you tell me you’ve been surviving on coffee and those horrible protein bars, i’m going to—”

“also,” you continue without pausing for breath, your voice shifting into that particular tone you get when you’re gearing up for a proper lecture, ”you will not believe the past two weeks i’ve had. there’s someone who’s been lurking around our house and he who looks like some bizarre teenage version of you?”

satoru’s stomach drops. his grip on you tightens involuntarily, and he feels you notice the tension, your body shifting slightly in his arms.

“he’s been so persistent. yesterday he actually had the audacity to break into our house through the kitchen window—our kitchen window, satoru, the one with the broken latch you keep forgetting to fix.” your free hand gestures wildly, even though he can’t see it from his position behind you. “thankfully, all those self-defense gadgets you made me actually work. that little stun gun you built into my bracelet? absolutely perfect. sent him flying right off our porch.”

the embarrassment hits him like a physical weight. his face burns against your neck, and he has to resist the urge to groan out loud. you’re giving full credit to his inventions, protecting his ego even while describing how you’d defended yourself against him, and the sweetness of it makes his chest ache.

“and the motion sensors you installed last month caught him skulking around the garden at three in the morning,” you continue, oblivious to his mortification. ”honestly, the dedication is almost impressive. stalking behavior aside, you have to admire his commitment to the whole ‘young gojo’ aesthetic. though i have no idea why anyone would want to look like you did in college. you were such a baby-faced disaster back then.”

“i know you know karate,” he blurts out, the words tumbling from his mouth before he can stop them.

you go very still in his arms. the humming stops abruptly.

“what?” your voice is carefully neutral, but he can feel the way your shoulders tense, the slight shift in your breathing that means you’re calculating your next move.

“i know you know karate,” he repeats, his face burning hotter against your neck. ”you’ve been taking classes since you were twelve. you never told me because you like it when i worry about you enough to make you protection gadgets.”

the silence stretches long enough that he starts to panic. then you let out a long, shaky breath.

“how could you possibly know that?” your voice is small now, embarrassed in a way that makes him want to wrap you up and apologize for everything. “i never... i was so careful not to...”

your hands try to pull away from his, but he holds on, threading your fingers together. “because i’m the boy,” he says quietly. “the one who’s been trying to talk to you for two weeks. the one you stunned off the porch and knocked unconscious in our kitchen.”

he feels the exact moment understanding hits you. your entire body goes rigid, and then you’re spinning in his arms so fast he has to step back to avoid a collision with your elbow.

your eyes are wide, your mouth falling open in a perfect ’o’ of shock. the blush that spreads across your cheeks is magnificent and mortifying, and he watches you process the implications with the expression of someone who’s just realized they’ve been caught in the world’s most embarrassing misunderstanding.

“oh my god,” you whisper, your hands flying up to cover your face. “oh my god, satoru, i am so sorry. i thought—when he knew things about us, about our private moments, i assumed he was some kind of corporate spy, or maybe a rival scientist who’d done research on us, or—”

”a stalker,” he supplies gently, reaching up to pull your hands away from your face. “which was a completely reasonable assumption, given the circumstances.”

“i called you a discount version of yourself!” your voice cracks with horror. “i told you that you weren’t as attractive as my husband! to your face! while you were actually my husband!”

despite everything, satoru can’t help but smile at the outrage in your voice. “technically, you were defending my honor. it was actually incredibly sweet.”

“sweet?” you squeak, aghast, your palms flattening against his chest like you’re considering shoving him away. but you don’t. you stay pressed against him, trembling, overwhelmed.

“i knocked you unconscious with a karate chop!”

“you have excellent form,” he says solemnly, unable to suppress the tilt of his lips. the memory of you, so fierce, so protective, haunts him in the sweetest way—a blurred flash of your nightgown fluttering as you moved with such lethal grace. he remembers the precision, the practiced certainty in your strikes, remembers thinking you’d never looked more beautiful than in that moment where you saw him as a threat and chose violence to protect his memory.

it makes his pulse thrum in his throat. it makes him want to sink to his knees and kiss the hand that struck him.

and yet, here you are, groaning, humiliated, burying your face against his chest to escape him—as if he’s not already completely ensnared. his hands settle on your waist, loose but present, fingertips teasing over the soft fabric of your dress, as though reacquainting himself with the privilege of touching you.

he tilts his head, blue eyes gleaming behind his glasses, drinking you in with a reverence that borders on obsession. he catalogues the way you fidget, the way your lashes kiss your cheeks as you refuse to meet his gaze, the heat blooming under your skin.

there’s a little crease between your eyebrows now—he’s put it there, just as you’ve placed a permanent one on his.

his thumb brushes the edge of your jaw, coaxing you to look at him. “you kept it from me,” he murmurs, savoring the tremor that passes through you, ”because you wanted me to keep making you gadgets.”

it’s not a question. he already knows. you told him, so sweetly, so earnestly, when you believed he was a stranger, and he will hold that secret like a pressed flower tucked into the pages of his heart.

“you think my overprotectiveness is cute?” his voice softens into something breathless, incredulous, dripping with adoration. “you think it’s cute that i lose sleep making things to keep you safe? that i forget to eat because i’m too busy worrying about you?”

your blush deepens, scorching, and you tug at his shirt like you want to disappear into him. “you make me the most amazing things when you’re worried about me. and you get this little crease between your eyebrows when you’re focused, and you forget to eat or sleep, but you always remember exactly how i like my coffee, and—” he watches you falter, your words disintegrating into a strangled sound of mortification. “this is not making me sound less ridiculous. is it?”

“it’s making you sound perfect.” his forehead drops to yours, and he cradles your face like you’re breakable, like you’re the finest piece of machinery he’s ever built.“ it’s making you sound like the woman i fell in love with—the woman who’s been taking care of me, worrying about me, defending my honor against discount versions of myself.”

his grin sharpens, unable to resist, “and you defended me so well, baby. ‘not my husband.’ ‘my husband is a genius.’ ‘my husband smells better.’ ‘my husband has better posture.’”

he leans in, nipping at your bottom lip, playful, intoxicating. “my sweet wife. i’ve never felt so protected.”

your laugh bursts out of you, watery and full-bodied, your hands rising to cup his cheeks, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones in trembling circles. “i can’t believe i spent two weeks beating up my own husband.”

“i can’t believe i spent two weeks watching my wife talk about how amazing her husband is while she was actively rejecting me.” his lashes flutter as he leans into your touch, like a cat, like something basking in warmth it had been starved of. “do you have any idea how confusing that was? i was jealous of myself. i was genuinely, pathetically jealous of the man you married while being the man you married.”

it’s a confession scraped raw from his chest, but you’re laughing properly now, bright and breathless, like you’ve been untethered from something heavy. you pepper kisses over his face in rapid, dizzying succession, your lips skating over his brow, his temples, the tip of his nose.

“you’re such a dork,” you murmur, still cupping his face, like you can’t bear to let go of him.

“i’m your dork.”

his voice is rough with want, his pulse tripping over itself as he lets the weight of everything crash into him all at once. his mouth brushes over yours again, lingering, reverent. “and i missed you so much. missed being able to touch you. missed you looking at me like you’re looking at me right now instead of like i’m some creepy teenager with questionable motives.”

“you are a creepy teenager with questionable motives,” you shoot back, but your words crumble under the softness that creeps into your voice. ”you invented a time machine just so you could spend more time with me.”

“and then immediately wasted two weeks because i’m apparently the only genius in history stupid enough to de-age himself by accident.”

his thumb slides over your bottom lip, unable to resist, unable to stop touching you now that he’s allowed to. his whole body hums with the need to consume you, to drag you inside his bones, to make up for every second he’d lost.

“not wasted,” you whisper, fierce and tender all at once. “never wasted. not if it brought you back to me.”

those words detonate inside him, and suddenly the kitchen feels too small, the air too thin. he’s been existing on stolen glances and careful distance for two weeks, watching you from afar, aching with the need to touch you, to kiss you, to prove to himself that you’re real and his and finally within reach again.

“we’ve been trying for a baby,” he says hoarsely, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “for months, and i just—i wasted two weeks, and i can’t—i need—”

you silence him with a kiss, soft and desperate and tasting like the tears you’ve both been crying. your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responds by lifting you, setting you on the counter so you’re at eye level, his hands spanning your waist, thumbs tracing circles over the soft fabric of your dress.

“i love you,” you breathe against his mouth. “i love you so much, and i’m so sorry i hurt you, and i missed you, and—”

he kisses you again, deeper this time, pouring two weeks of longing and frustration and desperate love into the contact. you taste like home, like forgiveness, like everything he’s been craving. your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he can feel the exact moment you stop thinking and start just feeling, your body melting against his.

his glasses fog up. he doesn’t care.

your hair comes loose from its bun, the mechanical clips clattering to the counter, and he tangles his fingers in the silky strands, angling your head to deepen the kiss. you make a soft sound that goes straight through him, and he’s just starting to contemplate the structural integrity of the kitchen counter when—

ding.

the oven timer cuts through the moment like a bucket of cold water.

you break apart, both breathing hard, your lips swollen and his hair thoroughly mussed. the pink dress is wrinkled where his hands have been gripping your waist, and there’s a dazed look in your eyes that makes him want to forget dinner entirely.

“the pasta,” you say faintly.

“forget the pasta,” he growls, leaning down to press kisses along your neck, finding that spot just below your ear that makes you shiver.

ding. ding. ding.

“it’ll burn,” you protest, but your head tilts to give him better access, and your hands are still fisted in his shirt.

he doesn’t let you go. not when you say his name, not when you push at his shoulders, not when the oven timer chimes over and over like some petty background character begging for attention in a scene it no longer belongs to.

”don’t mind it,” he breathes against your throat, and it sounds less like a request, more like an instinct, as though there is nothing in this world more irrelevant than a meal when you’re in his arms again.

his lips move along the curve of your neck with reverence, brushing over your pulse, slow at first—a sweet drag of his mouth, the soft, wet pull of his tongue where your skin is most sensitive. he feels the flutter of your pulse beneath his lips, feels the way your body leans into his as though your bones have decided they’d rather trust him to hold you upright.

his breathing is uneven, shaky, like he’s on the edge of something he’s been chasing since the day he woke up in that younger body and couldn’t touch you the way he needed to. the memory claws at him now, vivid and bitter, that helpless ache of looking like himself and yet being nothing you would want to take in your arms.

you murmur something about the oven again, the protest barely formed, already dissolving into a sigh as he scrapes his teeth lightly along your skin. your hands remain curled in his shirt, not pushing anymore, just clutching—desperate, familiar, your fingers twisting into the fabric like you’re scared he might slip away again. his shirt bunches beneath your grip, your nails pressing half-moon shapes into his chest, but he craves the sting of it, the grounding pain of knowing you’re clinging to him, needing him just as much.

”it won’t burn,” he murmurs against your skin, his tongue following the line of your collarbone, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. ”it’s a timed self-shut. i programmed it myself. knew this might happen. knew i wouldn’t be able to let you go.”

he pushes his glasses up with a quick, practiced nudge of his wrist, never pulling his mouth too far from your skin. he needs to see you. needs to see every part of you. his hands are too busy, too greedy, sliding up the sides of your dress, pushing the soft fabric higher and higher until his fingertips brush the bare skin of your thighs. the dress pools around his wrists as though the fabric is surrendering to him, letting him through.

he feels you shudder when his thumbs trace slow, possessive circles just beneath the hem. he slides his hands further, the cotton dragging over your skin as if the dress itself is a barrier he’s grown to despise. ”been thinking about this for two weeks. touching you. feeling you. not some memory—you. this body.”

the tremble in your breath is sharp, palpable, sinking into his bones. your voice hitches when he catches your earlobe between his teeth, when he sucks lightly, as if tasting something he already knows belongs to him. his hands splay wide over your thighs, his touch more sure, more demanding now as though every second he isn’t inside you is unbearable. his fingertips trail along the curve of your legs, memorizing the heat and texture of your skin with the same focus he gives his research—meticulous, thorough, consumed by the need to understand everything.

he pushes his glasses up again, quick and automatic, the weight of them a familiar anchor as his vision sharpens, as though seeing you this clearly makes the need inside him all the more unbearable. he tilts his head just enough to see your lashes flutter, to watch your lips part around his name, and the sight burns into him with perfect clarity.

when his hands find your waist again, he isn’t gentle. his grip is firm, grounding, as though if he doesn’t hold you tight enough, you might vanish all over again. he tugs you back against him, hips flush to yours, and he can’t suppress the groan that punches out of him when he feels how warm you are, even through his jeans.

the heat of you burns into him, through the thin fabric, the kind of contact that makes his head spin. his cock twitches against the rough denim, aching, pulsing, a frustration that’s been building since the second he lost the chance to touch you properly.

“you’re not gonna let me feed you first?” you manage, but the breathless curl in your voice betrays you.

”you’re feeding me now,” he says, dragging his hands to your hips and grinding against you, slow and deliberate, a filthy drag of friction that has you gasping into his shoulder. he’s gone two weeks without this—without your heat, without your weight against him, without the sweetness of your mouth pressed to his.

his mouth captures yours again, the kiss messy and open-mouthed, his tongue chasing yours as though he might starve if he stops. he can’t get enough of you, can’t bear the distance, can’t stand the thought of pulling away, not even to breathe.

“but dinner—”

“it’s fine,” he murmurs, almost a laugh. “it’ll shut off on its own. you can’t burn anything while i’m loving you. made sure of it.”

his mouth moves lower, down the line of your throat, tasting the salt on your skin, the way you shiver when he noses along the curve of your shoulder. he kisses the delicate dip where your neck meets your shoulder, over and over, as though he could mark you with nothing but his mouth.

his hand slides beneath your dress again, impatient now, pushing your panties aside without ceremony. his fingertips graze your folds, and he sucks in a breath through his teeth—wet, already, and his chest tightens with something ugly and possessive because you’ve missed him just as much. the feel of you, the heat, the slick glide of his fingers dragging through your arousal—it short-circuits something in him. his jaw clenches, his breath stutters, and he presses his forehead to your shoulder to anchor himself.

“fuck, baby,” he whispers, his voice breaking apart, “look at you. missed me that much? couldn’t wait?”

his touch lingers there, gentle for a moment, tracing, teasing, his middle finger dipping to circle where you’re already aching for him. his other arm curls around your waist, holding you firm against him when your knees nearly give out. he rubs slow circles until you’re grinding into his hand, chasing the friction like you can’t stand the distance anymore. you’re warm and soft and trembling under his touch, your hips rolling helplessly, your breath hitching every time he circles just a little harder.

“satoru,” you whimper, half a plea, half a warning, but you’re already folding into him, already falling apart.

“’m here now,” he murmurs, guiding you to turn around, pressing your hands to the countertop, his body crowding you from behind. “i’m right here. gonna take care of you. gonna fuck you just like you need.”

he kisses your shoulder, slow and lingering, as though tasting your skin could imprint you deeper into him. the curve of your spine rises beneath his mouth, the faint tremble under his lips pulling something raw and animal out of him. he presses into you, his chest solid to your back, his hands smoothing over the fabric of your dress as if his touch alone could brand you as his, as if holding you like this might anchor him to this moment forever.

his jeans rasp against the softness of your thighs, each rock of his hips a little rougher, a little more desperate as he grinds against you. the friction is maddening. it makes him hiss through his teeth, makes his fingers dig into your waist like he needs to memorize the shape of you beneath his palms. when he reaches for his belt, it’s with the shaky impatience of a man on the edge of breaking. the buckle fights him, the leather dragging through the loops in a way that feels insufferably slow, and his breathing stutters, uneven, desperate.

“hurry,” you pant, your voice wrecked and pleading, your hips grinding back against him in small, frantic circles. “please, satoru, please… i need you now.”

he lets out a low curse when he finally frees himself, the tip of his cock dragging through your slick folds with a helpless groan as though even that brief touch is too much, too good, too long overdue. “fuck, baby, you’re soaked,” he breathes, half-crazed, his chest pressed tight to your back. “missed me this much, huh?”

“missed everything,” you gasp, your hands fisting around the edge of the counter, nails digging into the wood. “missed you. your voice, your hands… your cock. please, please don’t tease.”

he doesn’t wait. he can’t. he pushes into you in one, long, slow thrust, inch by aching inch, feeling you stretch and give around him, until he’s seated as deep as you can take him. the tight, wet squeeze of you makes his breath falter, a shudder wracking his frame, his body folding over you as his hands scramble for your waist, clutching like you’re the only tether left holding him to the earth.

“fuck… so full,” you whimper, your voice breaking on a gasp. “god, satoru… so good… i needed this… i needed you.”

he adjusts his glasses with a quick, shaky push, his vision sharpening just in time to burn the sight of you into memory—the delicate arch of your spine, the way your fingers clench around the countertop, the way your hips fit perfectly in his hands like you were carved just for him. the view sears itself into him, and the weight of it nearly drives him to the edge.

“shit… you feel like home,” he rasps, his voice fraying at the edges, his hands tightening until his knuckles ache. he pulls out slow, savoring the sweet, unbearable friction that drags along every nerve in his cock, only to slam back in with a force that steals his breath. again. and again. a steady, greedy pace that grows frantic under the pressure of his need.

the wet slap of skin against skin fills the kitchen, tangled with his ragged breathing and the soft, gasping sounds you make beneath him, each one sinking into him, winding tighter and tighter inside his ribs.

“oh, fuck, satoru…” you cry out, each thrust knocking the air from your lungs, your body meeting his with a desperate rhythm. “don’t stop… please, don’t stop… you feel so good, so deep… i can’t think… i can’t think when you’re fucking me like this.”

he leans over you, his chest pressed to your back, his breath hot and ragged against your ear as he drives into you with desperate force. his lips brush over the shell of your ear, trailing kisses down your neck as though his mouth can’t bear to leave your skin for more than a second. he mutters your name between each kiss, like a mantra, like it might steady him.

“you’re mine,” he pants, his words shivering with the strain of holding himself together. he kisses along your shoulder, his pace only faltering when his hips grind deep, seeking more, always more. “i’m not wasting another second, baby. i’m gonna… fuck, i’m gonna… i’m gonna make you feel me for days.”

“i already do,” you sob, your head tipping back against his shoulder, tears blurring your vision as you clutch his hand where it grips your waist. “you’re everywhere… you’re all i can feel… all i want… please, satoru, please don’t stop…”

his hand snakes between your thighs, his fingers circling your clit with practiced pressure, coaxing you to squeeze around him, to shatter for him. “come on, baby… let me feel you… let me feel you fall apart for me.”

“satoru… satoru, please, i’m so close… fuck… fuck… don’t stop, i need… i need…”

he groans low in his throat when your walls pulse around him, his body bucking forward like the sensation has stolen the air from his lungs. his other hand glides over your stomach, over the dip of your waist, greedy for the heat of your skin beneath the thin barrier of your dress. he wants to memorize every inch of you, wants to claim you in ways his body can’t quite articulate.

he buries his face in the curve of your neck, his lips brushing against the frantic pulse at your throat, his nose pressed against your skin as he breathes you in like oxygen. “talk to me,” he breathes, desperate, hoarse, the words scraping out like they cost him. “tell me you missed me. tell me i’m the only one who gets to touch you like this. tell me you’re mine.”

“yours,” you cry out, wrecked and breathless. “i’ve always been yours… satoru, fuck… you’re the only one… i missed you… i missed you so much… i can’t… i can’t do this without you… please, don’t let me go.”

“fuck, you’re so good for me,” he groans, the sound ragged and raw, and he ruts into you harder, the snap of his hips relentless as he chases you both toward the inevitable edge. “you’re perfect… fuck, baby, you’re perfect.”

“i’m… i’m coming… satoru, please… i’m—”

he doesn’t stop. he can’t. not until he feels you clench around him, feels you fall apart, your body trembling as you come, your voice cracking on his name like it’s a prayer you’ve been holding in for days. the sensation of you pulsing around him, pulling him deeper, drags a broken groan from his chest, and only then does he finally let go.

he thrusts deep, emptying himself inside you with a raw, gasping sound, his entire body shivering with the force of it. his release comes in thick waves, like his body refuses to let you go, like it’s been waiting for this, for you, to finally come home to him.

“don’t… don’t pull out,” you whimper, your voice small and trembling, your hands covering his where he grips your hips. “please, i want… i want to feel you… please, satoru… please stay…”

he doesn’t pull out. not yet. he stays there, his chest heaving against your back, his hips pressing tight to yours, as though his body could fuse to yours if he just holds on long enough. his hand slides over your stomach, his thumb brushing the fabric of your dress, his heart thundering against your spine. he wants to stay connected, to keep his body wrapped around you until the heat subsides, until the trembling quiets.

he kisses you there, the soft curve of your shoulder, his lips dragging lazy, reverent paths over your skin, savoring the tremble still coursing through you. “gonna keep you like this,” he murmurs, his voice low, thick with something that sounds almost reverent. “gonna keep you full, baby. not wasting anything.”

his hands rub slow, soothing circles into your hips, but his cock still twitches inside you, the heat of you pulling him under all over again. he presses his mouth to your spine, trailing soft, possessive kisses up to the back of your neck, his body vibrating with the hum of restless energy that refuses to ebb. it’s not enough. it’ll never be enough. he wants to keep going until the lines between you blur completely, until you forget where he ends and you begin.

he leans in, his voice breathless but steady now, a vow he lays against your skin. “this…” he pants, rolling his hips slowly, deliberately, still buried deep inside you, “this is just the start. not letting you go. not for the rest of the night.”

“don’t let go,” you whisper, arching back into him, your fingers sliding over his as though you might trap him there. ”don’t stop… please, satoru… don’t stop…”

his grip tightens, grounding you to him like he’s afraid you might dissolve between his fingers. “baby, you don’t even know how much i’ve missed you yet.”

he rolls his hips again, savoring the drag, savoring the stretch, savoring the way you arch back into him like you’re already craving more. it’s a promise—a warning—that he isn’t stopping any time soon. his hands smooth over your sides, up to your ribs, coaxing more sounds from you, coaxing more of you to open for him. his lips hover just behind your ear, his breath brushing warm against your skin as he begins to move again, slowly building the next wave, chasing the next collapse.

he hums against you, pleased, almost smug, as you tremble beneath him. ”let me make up for lost time, baby. i’m not done. not even close.”

“please…” it’s the only thing you can form now—broken, breathless. your hands tremble as you try to hold onto him, your fingers sliding helplessly against his shirt like you might fall apart without the anchor of his touch.

he tilts his head just enough to kiss the hinge of your jaw, his pace unhurried but determined. “i’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice soft even as his body hums with something feral. “all night, baby. all night to love you, to fill you, to put our baby right where it belongs.”

he pulls out with a sharp, deliberate drag, leaving you clenching around nothing, and without giving you a moment to protest, he hauls you up, one arm locking under your thighs, the other cradling your back. you cling to him instinctively, barely able to breathe as he carries you to the bedroom, his grip rough, his breathing uneven, his jaw clenched tight with restraint he’s barely holding onto.

he drops you onto the bed, his hands instantly on you, yanking your dress up over your head in one swift, tearing motion, discarding it somewhere behind him. his glasses slip lower on his nose, his blue eyes molten and sharp behind the lenses, devouring the sight of you—messy, flushed, gasping. you reach for him, your lips parted, your throat working around the desperate sound that tumbles out—a soft, helpless “please…”

his hands slam your wrists to the mattress, his body caging you in, his cock thick and heavy as he grinds against your soaked entrance. “shh, baby,” he whispers, his voice trembling as he tries to gentle himself. “i’ve got you. you’re not going anywhere. i’m gonna take care of you.”

he refuses to take off his glasses. he wants to see everything—every tear that slips from your lashes, every tremble in your lips, every mindless sound that breaks from your throat. his gaze stays locked on you, even as his cock pushes inside you in one deep, devastating thrust.

“you’re mine,” he breathes, voice ragged, the words shivering apart as he bottoms out inside you. he can feel your walls flutter around him, clenching as though your body is desperate to hold him in, to keep him there. your body jolts beneath him, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, dragging him deeper. your moan punches out, breathless, pleading, the only thing you seem capable of now. your hands cling to him, fingers clawing at his shirt like you’re trying to root yourself to him, as if the only thing anchoring you to the world is the brutal drag of his cock inside you.

his glasses slip slightly down his nose, fogging at the edges, but he refuses to push them up. he needs to see you, needs to burn every detail into his memory—the way your eyes glaze over, the tremble in your lips, the tear that slips from the corner of your eye. he wants to remember this: the raw, unguarded way you fall apart for him, the mindless way you beg him, the frantic rise and fall of your chest as you gasp for breath.

he drives into you again, harder, faster, each brutal thrust forcing the breath from your lungs, forcing more of those broken, needy noises out of you. the sound of skin slapping against skin echoes in the room, tangled with the ragged rhythm of his breathing and the choked cries that tumble from your lips. your hands scramble at his arms, your nails clawing into his sleeves, but you can’t find the words anymore. all that’s left is “please…” and the sobs that fall apart between the sharp snaps of his hips.

“i know, baby,” he pants, his breath hot and frantic against your skin, his voice frayed with restraint that’s slipping fast. ”i know what you need. you need me to fuck my baby into you, right? need me to keep you so full you can’t think of anything else? need me to fill you until it’s all you can feel?”

“please…” it spills from your throat again, almost a cry, your body tightening around him as though your own muscles are begging him to stay.

“i’ll give it to you,” he promises, soft, reverent, though the brutal rhythm of his hips betrays him. “i’ll make you a mama, baby. gonna make sure you can’t hold anything but me. gonna make sure you’re mine forever.”

he shifts, pulling your knees up to your chest, folding you underneath him, locking you into a perfect mating press. the angle punches another sob from you, your back arching, your legs trembling around his ribs. he presses his chest to yours, his mouth dragging over your ear, your jaw, his voice trembling with sweetness that contrasts the feral rhythm of his body.

“you’re doing so good, baby,” he breathes, kissing your temple, tasting the salt of your tears. “taking me so well. you want it, don’t you? want me to fill you? wanna be round with my baby? wanna feel me every time you move?”

your answer is a mindless moan, another tear slipping from the corner of your eye, your lips barely able to shape the one word that’s left in you: “toru...”

he hums against your skin, his cock grinding impossibly deeper. “that’s it, sweet girl. i’ll fill you up… keep you so full you won’t even remember what it feels like to be empty. i’ll make sure you’re carrying me by the time i’m done. i’ll fuck you so deep that my baby won’t have anywhere else to go.”

his hips slam into you harder, faster, sharp and bruising. you sob beneath him, clutching him, helpless against the rhythm that’s shaking you apart. his voice stays painfully soft, cradling you through it. “not wasting a single drop. i’m gonna fuck you until you’re mine. until you’re pregnant. until there’s nothing left but me inside you.”

“want it…”

his mouth crashes over yours, swallowing your cries, his kiss frantic, messy, desperate. you’re shaking under him, the overstimulation shredding your mind, your body trembling violently, your sobs trapped against his tongue as you beg him wordlessly to keep going, to never stop.

“that’s it,” he whispers, his voice breaking as he chases his release. “that’s it, baby. take it. take it all. take everything i give you.”

he folds you even tighter, pressing so deep you can feel him in places you didn’t know could ache. your orgasm crashes over you again, sharp and blinding, your body convulsing around him, your voice lost to the desperate gasp that splits from your lips. and he breaks with you, thrusting deep as he spills inside you, his cock pulsing hard with every grind, his breath faltering, his voice catching as he pants, “gonna make you mine… gonna make you a mama… gonna keep you full… keep you right here… where you belong.”

but he doesn’t stop.

he keeps grinding, his cock still thick, twitching inside you, his hands trembling where they hold your legs open, determined to keep every drop right where it belongs.

“not done,” he breathes, kissing your cheek, your temple, his voice sweet and low, shaking with the weight of how much he still wants you. “not done with you yet, baby. not until i know. not until i’m sure. not until you’re really mine.”

he rolls his hips again, deliberately, drawing out the stretch, dragging out the feeling, coaxing more choked gasps from you. your body arches weakly into him, clinging, helpless to do anything but take him.

“shh, sweet girl, i’ve got you. i’ll give you everything. i’ll fill you over and over until you can’t hold anything but me. i’ll give you so much you’ll feel me dripping down your thighs when i finally let you go.”

he drags his cock out slowly, savoring the sensation, just to slam back in, forcing another sharp cry from you, your legs trembling where they bracket his ribs.

“you feel so good like this,” he murmurs, his words melting against your skin. “so good and warm and perfect. i’m gonna keep going, baby. you can take it, right? you’ll let me, won’t you? you’ll let me make you mine, over and over, until there’s no space left for anything else?”

a needy whine is all you can give him now, but it’s all he needs.

he smiles against your cheek, soft and breathless, his glasses slipping lower as he kisses you again, his lips trembling against yours. “i know, baby. i know. i’ll take care of everything. i’ll make sure our baby takes. i’ll make sure you’re mine… i’ll make sure you’re full. i’ll keep going until you can’t think about anything but me…”

his pace builds again, steady, deep, his hands stroking your sides, his voice staying low, unbearably tender as he destroys you beneath him.

“i’ll give you all of me, sweet girl,” he promises, his voice cracking even as he drives for more. “all of me. again and again. until you’re carrying me… until you’re round with our baby. until you can’t breathe without thinking about me inside you.”

he shifts his weight, dragging his cock out just enough to thrust deep again, coaxing more desperate cries from you, his breathing rough as his chest brushes yours, his glasses fogged and slipping. his hands tremble where they hold you open, where they keep you pinned beneath him, where they swear to never let you go, as if letting go would unravel him entirely.

“i’ll fill you until you can’t take anymore,” he whispers, his voice raw, his lips dragging along your jaw, his breath hot and uneven. “i’ll give you so much you’ll feel me for days, baby. you’ll feel me dripping out of you every time you stand, every time you move. you’ll feel me inside you every second, every breath, every heartbeat. there won’t be a moment you’re not full of me.”

he slows down just enough to let you breathe, just enough to kiss you, just enough to hear the soft, breathy whimpers that melt into his skin. his glasses are crooked, fogged, his hair clinging to his forehead in damp strands. his lips brush yours, tasting of desperation, tasting of love, tasting of the ache he’s carried through endless nights, his body pressed flush against yours as if he could sink into you, as if he could live inside you if he tried hard enough.

“baby,” he pants, voice trembling, his hand brushing your cheek, lingering there, “roll over for me, yeah? wanna see you all pretty on your hands and knees, wanna see your ass all messy for me, wanna watch you fall apart just for me.”

his words make you shudder beneath him, make your thighs twitch, but you listen, your limbs shaky as you roll over, his hands never leaving you, his palms gliding down your waist, over your hips, steady, grounding, helping you position yourself just right. he murmurs soft praises as he lines you up, kisses pressed to the nape of your neck, to the soft curve of your shoulder, to the swell of your back as you settle on all fours, your face buried in the pillows, your breath already ragged.

“that’s it, pretty girl,” he croons, his voice thick with awe, his eyes roving over your trembling form like he can’t believe you’re his. “look at you, taking me so well. made for me, baby, yeah? your body was made for me, just to take me, just to fall apart on my cock.”

his hand slips between your thighs, his long fingers gathering your slick, coating them generously before pressing two inside you alongside his cock, working you open, stretching you around him until the burn makes you sob into the sheets, makes your hips jerk helplessly, makes you whine from the fullness, from how stuffed you are, the overwhelming stretch making tears prick at your lashes.

your knuckles turn white where you grip the sheets, trembling under the weight of him, under the delicious ache of him, your breath hitching with every slow curl of his fingers inside you. your thighs twitch, thighs spread obediently despite the tremble overtaking them, your skin fever-hot where his palms ground you in place.

his other hand steadies your hips, thumb tracing slow, grounding circles against your skin, his palm firm, his grip sinking into the plush of your waist like he’s afraid you’ll float away if he loosens it even for a second. his hair clings to his forehead in damp, clumpy strands, his cheeks flushed a lovely pink, his glasses slipping lower on his nose, fogged to uselessness but still perched stubbornly there, framing the feverish glint in his eyes.

his lips brush kisses to the curve of your spine, down to the small of your back, each press soft and lingering, like he’s tethering you to him with every touch, like he needs to brand himself into you, to make you feel him everywhere, in every breath, in every heartbeat.

“shh, you’re doing so good,” he breathes, his voice trembling with restraint, placing a tender kiss to the dip of your waist. “so good for me, baby. you’re perfect, y’know that? so perfect when you’re stuffed full of me. i love watching you stretch around me, love feeling you clench when i’m this deep inside you. it’s like your body was made to hold me. you were made to be mine.”

he slides his fingers out slowly, savoring the slick sound, savoring the way your walls flutter around him like you’re begging him to fill you again. your thighs tremble, your hips rocking back in search of him, your breath shuddering as you whine, pitiful and overwhelmed, lips parted, drooling onto the pillow.

the needy arch of your spine makes his chest squeeze, makes his cock throb painfully, makes him press flush against you as he grinds back in, deep and unhurried, pushing as far as he can go, his pace slow but devastating, each thrust a deliberate drag against every sensitive spot that makes you gasp, makes you sob into the pillows.

“that’s it, baby,” he groans, his head falling forward, his damp fringe sticking to his temple, his glasses slipping to the very tip of his nose before he finally pushes them off and tosses them blindly aside. “every time i fuck you like this, you just take me so good, like you’re meant to. you were made to take me, weren’t you? made to fall apart on my cock, yeah?”

his kisses grow more feverish, his lips dragging across your shoulders, the plane of your back, his tongue flicking along the salt of your skin as he grinds deeper, sinking lower with each thrust, each snap of his hips making you whine, making your hands claw weakly at the sheets. he listens to every gasp, every cry, every broken plea you bury into the pillows, savoring the tremble of your thighs, the collapse of your arms, the desperate way you push back into him, chasing the delicious pressure.

then he leans over, his chest pressing against your back until his lips find yours, capturing you in a desperate, clumsy kiss. it’s messy, wet, more panting and whining than kissing, but he drinks every sound from your lips like he’s starving, like he can’t bear to be separated from any part of you. his tongue traces yours, coaxing you into the kiss even as his hips grind into you harder, even as your knees threaten to buckle beneath him, your soft whimpers muffled against his mouth.

“don’t hide from me, pretty girl,” he murmurs between kisses, his breath hot against your lips, his voice honey-sweet and reverent even as he rocks into you deeper. “wanna hear you, wanna feel you, wanna kiss you while you fall apart on me. every sound you make is mine. every little sob, every little plea, mine.”

he chases your orgasm with grinding thrusts, with soft praises that melt into your skin, with kisses that sear into you, that drag along the curve of your spine, that brand you as his. his hands roam across your waist, your sides, your belly, squeezing and caressing as if memorizing the softness of you. and when you come, when your body clamps down around him like a vice, when you tremble and sob against his mouth, he doesn’t stop. he swallows every desperate sound, his pace never faltering, his grip on your hips tightening as he drives through the aftershocks, pulling even more cries from your swollen lips.

“you can take it,” he pants, fucking you through the tremors, his voice shaking with the force of his own unraveling. “you’re doing so good, baby, you’re perfect, you’re perfect, fuck, you’re made for me. made to take me, yeah? you can give me another, can’t you? just one more, pretty girl. just one more.”

his hips snap forward harder, more erratic, his sleeper build fully activated as his fingers dig bruises into your waist, as he holds you steady even as your arms give out, even as you collapse onto the bed, your cheek mashed against the pillow, your body trembling with every rough, desperate thrust. your breath hiccups, your body limp, overstimulated, but he keeps going, keeps coaxing more from you with each deep grind, dragging out your high until your thighs shake uncontrollably.

but he doesn’t stop. his grip doesn’t falter. his praises don’t cease.

he kisses the sweat-slick skin of your back, he whispers against your shoulder, he keeps telling you how good you are, how you were made for him, how he’ll fill you until you’re overflowing, until you’re leaking with him, until you can’t hold it all, until you feel him dripping down your thighs, until it’s all you can feel.

“so good, baby, you’re so good,” he breathes, his voice cracking on the edges, as if your name is the only thing keeping him tethered to this moment. “my sweet girl, my pretty baby, taking me so well. fuck, you’re made for me, you’re perfect.”

he chases his own end with frantic, desperate thrusts, with the wet, obscene slap of skin against skin, with the ragged breath of a man who has no intention of stopping until he’s poured every last drop of himself into you. his fingers flex against your waist, his lips never leaving you, his rhythm a frantic, beautiful mess, his voice breaking with every curse, every sweet nothing he pours into your skin.

and when he finally shatters, when his body tenses and he spills inside you, he groans your name like a prayer, like a curse, like a plea, his hands trembling where they clutch you, his kisses never stopping, his words still tumbling in a broken, reverent stream.

“so good, baby, you’re so good, you’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine. gonna keep you like this, gonna keep you full, just like this, just like you’re meant to be. wanna see it drip down those pretty thighs.”

his body finally stills, but his hands never leave you, his lips never stop pressing soft, lingering kisses to your back, to your shoulders, to your waist, holding you close as if you might slip away if he lets go.

he stays inside you, buried to the hilt, his breathing shaky, his heart hammering wildly against your spine, his hair clinging to his damp forehead, his cheeks flushed and glowing, his arms curling around your middle to hold you tight, to anchor himself to you, to prolong this feeling of being so deeply connected.

he whispers to you softly now, praises spilling between kisses, his touch gentle but insistent, a man desperate to stay connected, to stay tethered to you in every way he can. his fingertips trace slow, lazy circles against your belly, memorizing the feel of your skin, of your warmth, the little trembles that still ripple through you.

“i’ll fill you up again,” he promises, his voice hoarse and full of love. “i’ll give you more, baby. you can take it. you always take me so well. i’ll keep you like this all night if you let me. just wanna keep you close, keep you mine.”

slowly, he shifts, carefully pulling out, his breath catching at the sight of his spend slipping out of you, leaving a glistening trail along your thighs. he groans softly, pressing a kiss to your lower back, savoring the tremble that runs through you. his thumb brushes over the mark he left there, tracing lazy circles as if to soothe the ache, as if to seal his touch into your skin.

he gently turns you over, cradling your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing, his strong arms wrapping around you as if you’re something precious. he sits himself at the edge of the bed with you settled in his lap, your shaky thighs straddling him, your chest pressed to his, your breath still hitching as you try to find your footing in the aftermath, your arms barely strong enough to wrap around his shoulders.

his cock, still heavy, still hard, nudges against your entrance, and he shudders at the heat, at the way your body clings to him instinctively, like you never want to let him go. his hands slide over your hips, steadying you, his thumbs brushing slow circles into your skin, his touch reverent, patient, as if savoring the weight of you in his lap.

“come on, pretty girl,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your lips, his voice thick with sweetness and filth, his cerulean eyes glazed with adoration and hunger. “sit on me, yeah? just like this. let me keep you full a little longer. let me feel you, just a little more.”

he guides you down onto him, slow and patient, his large hands warm and steady on your waist as he lowers you inch by inch, savoring the sweet stretch, savoring the tremble that overtakes you as he fills you again, deeper this time, more deliberate, until his hips meet yours with a satisfying press.

your breath hitches, a sharp whimper escaping you, your head falling heavily to his shoulder as you struggle to accommodate him, your body straining around the overwhelming stretch, your fingers digging desperately into the firm muscles of his shoulders, clinging to him like you’ll drown without him.

his breath stutters at the heat of you, at how impossibly tight you are despite how many times he’s already filled you tonight. his pale hair clings damp to his temple, the ends curling from sweat, his cheeks flushed a tender pink, his lips parted and trembling as he exhales shaky, desperate breaths against your ear. his lashes flutter, his throat bobs with every ragged swallow, his entire frame taut, his biceps trembling where they hold you steady, straining to keep his composure, to keep his pace slow, to savor every second inside you.

his hands never leave you, one sliding to cradle your waist, the other splaying wide across your trembling back, as if to press you closer, to anchor you to him, to mold you to his body, to ensure that not even a breath of space separates you. he peppers kisses along your temple, the shell of your ear, your hairline, your jaw, his lips soft but insistent, his voice a low, reverent murmur that vibrates against your skin, as though he’s reciting a prayer only you can hear.

“look at you, baby,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to cradle your cheek in his palm, his thumb brushing away the stray tear that slips down your flushed skin. his ocean eyes are hazy, glassy with tenderness, with something so raw it tightens his throat and makes his breath stutter. “fuck, you’re so pretty when you’re falling apart for me. gonna let me keep you here all night, right? yeah? just like this, full of me. can’t let you go. don’t want to.”

his other hand curls into the nape of your neck, fingers threading through the damp strands of your hair, guiding your forehead to his, breath mingling, lips brushing as he steals soft, lingering kisses between his words, as if he can’t stop, as if he’s starving for you, as if kissing you is the only way he can breathe.

you can only whimper in response, the weight of him, the stretch of him, too much and not enough, your body trembling with the need to give him more, to feel him deeper, to be good for him, to make him proud, to belong to him.

his hands slide back to your waist, his grip steady but gentle as he begins to guide you, controlling your pace, moving you over him in slow, agonizing rolls. his thumbs draw slow, grounding circles into your heated skin, coaxing you to move, to ride him, to fall apart for him again. each time you rock your hips, you shudder, your breath catching on a sob, but he holds you steady, keeps you grounded, murmuring sweet words against your skin.

“shh, i’ve got you, baby. you’re doing so good,” he praises, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath shaky, his lips brushing yours between soft, trembling kisses. his silver lashes flutter with every slight tremble of his hips beneath you, his whole body trembling with restraint, with devotion, with the overwhelming need to stay inside you, to keep you close, to never let you go.

“you can do it, pretty girl,” he whispers, his voice low and rough, savoring every inch, every trembling grind of your hips. “just like that. take your time. i’ve got you. you’re mine. my sweet girl. let me take care of you. let me feel you just a little more.”

your thighs quiver, your movements sluggish and shaky, your whole body threatening to collapse from how sensitive you are, but he holds you, supports you, his hands never faltering as he coaxes you through it, guiding you with soft murmurs, with kisses pressed between your brows, against your fluttering eyelids, against the damp corner of your mouth. his hands roam your back, your ribs, your hips, memorizing the tremble of your skin, the heat of your body, the way you melt so completely into his lap, pliant and sweet.

he watches you, breathless, overwhelmed by how perfect you are, by how much he wants to keep you like this, forever tethered to him, wrapped around him, so utterly his. he savors the little gasps you give him, the soft hiccups in your breath, the desperate way you cling to him even when your body begs for rest, even when you sob softly into his shoulder, overwhelmed but unable to stop, unwilling to pull away.

when you finally falter, too sensitive, too overwhelmed to keep going, your movements slowing to weak, trembling shifts of your hips, he wraps his arms tightly around your waist and takes over, holding you close, keeping you flush against his chest as he grinds up into you in slow, deliberate rolls of his hips, savoring the sweet friction, savoring the little broken sounds you spill against his skin.

his pace is gentle but insistent, dragging sweet friction between your bodies, pulling broken moans from your lips, savoring the way you clutch at him, your fingers knotting in his damp hair, your head buried in his neck like he’s the only thing keeping you whole, the only place you feel safe, the only place you want to be. he feels your nails dig into his skin, your body trembling in his hold, but you don’t pull away. you press closer.

“that’s it, baby, i’ve got you,” he breathes, his voice cracking, trembling with the force of his own need, his own love. “just let me take care of you. just hold on to me. we’ll come together, okay? just like this. i’ve got you. i’ve always got you.”

his forehead presses to yours again, his lips parting to steal soft, desperate kisses, his hands trembling where they clutch you, his chest heaving as he rolls his hips deeper, slower, grinding against every sensitive spot inside you, savoring the desperate whines you spill against his mouth, savoring how you melt completely in his arms.

his voice is little more than a whisper now, ragged and broken, his praises melting into your skin as he rocks into you, chasing the edge with you pressed so sweetly against him, his breathing erratic, his kisses clumsy and endless.

“come with me, baby,” he pleads, his voice thick with love, with need, with desperation, his lips brushing yours as his hands tighten around your waist. “please. just like this. i need to feel you. i need you. just like this. don’t let go.”

you fall apart in his arms, your sobs trembling against his lips, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair as you cling to him, as you come so sweetly, so completely, your body shuddering in his hold, your thighs twitching, your hips stuttering as you grind against him, desperate to draw out the bliss.

he follows soon after, groaning your name like it’s a prayer, like it’s the only word he knows, his hips stuttering as he pours into you, as he holds you impossibly closer, as if he could fuse you to him, as if he could keep you here forever.

when you finally go limp in his arms, when your soft, exhausted breath fans against his neck, he holds you there, cradling you against his chest, his fingers stroking soothing lines along your spine. his hands slide to your thighs, rubbing slow circles, grounding you, savoring the weight of you in his lap, the softness of you, the way you fit so perfectly in his hold, the way you feel like home.

he presses soft kisses to your temple, to your hairline, to your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, his lips tender and slow, as if he could never kiss you enough, as if he could never hold you long enough.

“so good, baby,” he whispers, his voice thick with tenderness. “my pretty girl. my sweet girl. we can stay like this, yeah? just like this. just you and me. i don’t need anything else.”

he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing finally beginning to steady, his arms curling tighter around you, his whole body relaxing, melting into you as though he could sink into your skin and stay there forever.

you nod weakly, nuzzling into his neck, your lashes damp, your body pliant and warm against him. your arms loop lazily around his shoulders, fingers brushing the nape of his neck, and he presses one last kiss to your temple, one last kiss to your hairline, and he smiles against your skin, utterly content, utterly in love.

neither of you move. neither of you speak. you’re both too tired, too soft, too wrapped in each other to care about anything else, not even the cold dinner waiting in the kitchen.

“we’ll eat later,” he hums, his lips curling against your skin, his voice warm, tender, content. “just wanna stay here a little longer. just wanna keep you close. that’s all i need.”

his arms tighten around you as he buries his face in your shoulder, breathing you in, his body melting into yours, savoring the weight, the warmth, the softness of having you so completely, so entirely his.

#gojo satoru #gojo smut #gojo fluff #gojo x reader #gojo x reader smut #gojo x reader fluff #gojo x female feader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x y/n #satoru gojo x reader #gojo oneshot #jjk fluff #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk oneshot

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yuu-kantokusei · 2 days ago

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What kind of “relationship trophy” they’d be with you

Twst wonderland character x you

Characters: NRC (-Ortho)

Heartslabyul

Riddle Rosehearts – Rules Lover

“The one who learns to bend the rules—for you.”

Ace Trappola – Enemies to Lovers

“He annoys you for fun, but would burn down a world for you.”

Deuce Spade – Golden Retriever with a Criminal Past

“Bad boy turned good—for you and only you.”

Cater Diamond – Social Media Boyfriend

“Public about you online. Private about how deep he’s fallen.”

Trey Clover – Domestic Husband

“He bakes, he babysits, and he’s terrifying when you’re in danger.”

Savanaclaw

Leona Kingscholar – Sleeping Lion

“Lethal laziness until you’re threatened—then he's up and growling.”

Jack Howl – Loyal Wolf Boyfriend

“He blushes just holding your hand. Would die for you respectfully.”

Ruggie Bucchi – Scrappy Ride-or-Die

“He steals snacks, hearts, and gets you both out of trouble.”

Octavinelle

Azul Ashengrotto – Reformed Villain Romance

“Love is the one contract he doesn’t want to end.”

Jade Leech – Mysterious Tea Date

“He watches you like a predator. Serves tea like a gentleman.”

Floyd Leech – Unhinged Boyfriend

“Clingy. Chaotic. Obsessed. You’re his favorite shrimpy.”

Scarabia

Kalim Al-Asim – Sunshine Prince

“You’re his favorite person. The palace can wait.”

Jamil Viper – The Secret Softie

“He never meant to fall for you. Now he cooks dinner every night."

Pomefiore

Vil Schoenheit – Final Boss Boyfriend

“Only the best wins his heart. You did.”

Epel Felmier – Pretty Boy Rage

“He looks soft. He fights for you like a beast.”

Rook Hunt – Poetic Obsession

“He calls you ‘mon trésor’ and means it with his whole soul.”

Ignihyde

Idia Shroud – Gamer Shut-In Boyfriend

“Hates people. Loves you like you're his favorite save file.”

Diasomnia

Malleus Draconia – Immortal Gothic Romance

“He speaks in riddles and vows to protect you for eternity.”

Lilia Vanrouge – Ancient Fae in Love

“He’s older than history—and giggling when you blush.”

Silver Vanrouge – Sleeping Beauty Boyfriend

“Soft, dreamy, and loyal. Falls asleep on your lap often.”

Sebek Zigvolt – Loud Tsundere

“Denies his feelings. Screams your name in battle.”

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catcze · 21 hours ago

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Reblogs are greatly appreciated !! — Sylus. Sylus being a yearning MESS. Sylus wants to marry you so bad. Lowkey set at a time before you two were officially dating, but were deffo... something. Sylus imagines reader wearing a dress but no prns + descriptions used. ₊˚⊹♡ ᓚ₍ ^. .^₎

It’s just a fleeting glance of white at first. Something small in the corner of his eye that —on any other occasion— he wouldn't look twice at. But today it's as if something draws his gaze to the shop's display window. And when his eyes finally find what has caught his intrigue, the sight has Sylus stopping in his tracks, feet pausing on the Linkon sidewalk and something in his heart suddenly aching.

White lace. A full skirt. Cloud-like tulle. Pearls that shimmer prettily in the Linkon sunshine, and a gorgeous white veil to tie the whole ensemble together.

Like he's been entranced, Sylus can't bear to tear his eyes away form the garment that sits pretty on the mannequin, perfect and pristine like the most valuable of treasures.

His breath catches in his throat, something in him melting. Sylus isn't one to admire random dresses he sees in windows— especially not wedding dresses, of all things— but with this one, it’s different. His heart aches something fierce in his chest because he just knows, deep in the pit of his heart that aches to be yours for eternity, that seeing you wearing this would have him falling in love with you all over again.

It’s funny. Sylus steps closer to that display window with his eyes never tearing from the delicate lace and the beautiful pearls. The most feared man in the N109 zone, one of the most wanted criminals in the whole damn universe, and he's standing helpless in front of a mere white dress, breath stolen and his mind racing a million miles an hour. How laughable.

The fiercest of desires curls in his chest, a want that aches so terribly for that future— you, clad in white, wearing his ring and embracing him as your husband. Your body cradled securely in his hold, arms wrapped around his neck as he carries you effortlessly into your new home. Your laughter immediately lighting it up, filling the house with a warmth that he could never hope to replicate.

His hand rests upon the cool glass, reaching out as if he could feel the fabric under his fingertips if he thinks hard enough. There is something unreadable in his eyes, a deep-seated longing for a happy ending that he can only hope isn't too far out of his reach.

With reluctance, Sylus withdraws himself from that window, from that fantasy, pocketing his hands in hopes that doing so will lessen the way they tremble slightly. He breathes soft sigh, still seeing your face, still hearing your laugh even as he forces himself to turn away from the window, his legs feeling like lead as they lead him away from the dress that will likely follow him into his dreams.

One step. Two steps. Over and over, as much as it takes until the thought becomes less of an ache in his chest and more like a buzz in the back of his head.

Three steps, then four, the distance between him and that fantasy growing larger with each moment.

Sylus sighs, heavier this time, feeling a bit more like he can breathe without the sheer want and desire crushing his chest. In his pocket, his phone vibrates, and he recognizes the pattern of it immediately.

Without even glancing at the screen of it, he hits accept, bringing the device to his ear. Immediately, though your voice in his ear just reminds him of that deep-seated desire, he feels... better. Lighter. Such is the effect you have on him, he supposes.

He might not see you in that dress tomorrow. Might not see you in it next week, next month, or next year. Hell, for all he knows the sight might just remain a fantasy, never realized. But today you are waiting for him in your apartment, in your comfy pajamas and your fuzzy slippers, curled up on your sofa as you wait for his arrival, likely ready to give him hell for taking his sweet time.

Sylus' voice is a warm, fond murmur when he speaks. No one else has ever heard him sound so soft— no one else but you. His voice curls lovingly over each word, and a smile is already tugging at the corner of his lips.

"I'm on my way, sweetie. Just be patient— I'll get there soon."

#𝙈𝙞𝙨𝙨 𝘾𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚'𝙨 𝙒𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 .ᐟ.ᐟ⠀₍^. .^₎⟆ ♡#Sylus x reader #lads Sylus x reader #love and deepspace x reader #Sylus #lads Sylus #love and deepspace

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cinnamon7girl7 · 3 days ago

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"WE DON'T BELIEVE YOU, GOJO!!!"

At this point, saying Satoru Gojo was famous on the internet was an understatement. With thirteen million followers on Twitch, a YouTube channel full of viral clips, and a legion of fans who followed him everywhere, he was basically a digital celebrity. No one would’ve imagined that the guy with the “just woke up” face and loud laugh would make it this far—least of all, him.

Gojo had started streaming a couple of years ago, at first as a joke. He uploaded short clips playing with his friends, no cam, just a voice that sounded way too confident for someone constantly losing in Valorant. But everything changed the moment he decided to turn on his camera and show his face—then the internet fell at his feet. There was something about him… that mix of shameless charm, zero embarrassment, and a cocky smile that seemed custom-made to break hearts through the screen.

Now, he streamed four times a week, usually at night, starting around 8 p.m. and sometimes staying on past midnight. Mondays were for “chatting with chat,” as he liked to say—sometimes he didn’t even play, just commented on random stuff, reacted to videos, and laughed at the dumbest comments. Wednesdays were shooter days: Valorant, Overwatch 2, sometimes a little Call of Duty. Fridays were for story-driven games like Detroit: Become Human or Until Dawn, where he screamed like it was the end of the world every time a character died. Sundays were pure chaos: games with followers, silly challenges, and an outrageous amount of bits flying across the screen.

His room was part of the charm. The camera always showed the same angle: Gojo in his white gamer chair, wearing black headphones that contrasted with his messy white hair. Behind him, a wall decorated with blue LED lights, shelves packed with Funkos and little figurines, and a giant plushie of a cat with a suspicious face that always made an appearance at some point during the stream. Sometimes he wore sunglasses, just “for the drama.” Other times he showed up with wet hair, like he’d just gotten out of the shower and couldn’t care less. Always in oversized T-shirts or hoodies, most of them printed with memes or ridiculous quotes like “you won because I let you.”

That Monday night, he was in his usual talking stream. Almost 580,000 people were tuned in.

—Hey, hey, wait, wait —Gojo spoke with a lazy smile, leaning back in his chair—. Why are you saying that if I let my hair grow longer I look like a chaotic elf? Respect!

The chat was going a thousand miles an hour, emojis, conspiracy theories about whether he slept more than three hours a day. Affectionate insults, threats of eternal love, greetings from countries he didn’t even remember visiting. All the usual stuff.

Gojo slowly spun his chair from side to side while finishing adjusting his headset. He wore a gray hoodie with a stretched neck, like he had put it on without looking. His hair, messier than ever, fell disorderly over his forehead, and the dark glasses rested on the tip of his nose, letting his eyes peek over with a mischievous smile.

—Okay, let’s see, what do we have today?

@ILoveYouSoWhat: DO YOU SLEEP OR JUST EXIST?

@LoveRamen: I dreamed about you last night and woke up sad

@GojoEndMe: why are you so handsome today? Stop making me suffer

@SayHiOrIExplode: SAY SOMETHING, SENSEI, SAY SOMETHINGGG

—But I haven’t said anything and you’re all already upset! —he laughed, resting his elbows on the desk while reading the chaos on screen—. Weren’t I unbearable? Weren’t you all over it already?

@ShinyHair: yes, but your existence drags us

@MyPaleKing: you’re too close to the camera. My knees are shaking

@GojoFanClub: speaking for everyone when I say I hate you lovingly

—Wow. Strong statements for a Monday —he replied, raising an eyebrow—. I wake up, turn on the stream, gift you this beauty in 4K and all I get are threats and confused love declarations.

@StopThisMan: I can’t take this man anymore

@VirtualKiss: your existence is emotional violence

Gojo burst out laughing and leaned back, letting his chair squeak dramatically.

—See why I don’t stream every day? I need time to emotionally recover from the bullying you all do to me. Where’s the sincere affection? Where’s the pure love?

@BlindLove: I do love you, even if you’re unbearable

@ProfGojo: sincere affection? You only understand chaos

@BiteMeGojo: you give me love and trauma at the same time

—Love and trauma? What a strong phrase to put on a t-shirt! Wait... I’m going to write that down!

He made the dramatic gesture of writing with an invisible pen, as if he really had a notebook at hand.

—“Love and trauma since 199... well, since a few years ago. With love, Satoru.”

@IWantThatShirt: I’ll buy it RIGHT NOW

@AdorableMenace: stop monetizing our mental health

—But you all come to me! I didn’t even go looking for you. I was calm, playing calmly, and suddenly I wake up with thousands of you yelling “hit me or kiss me,” what am I supposed to do with that?!

@LetUsLoveYou: just kiss us all already

@GimmeStreamGimmeLife: we chose you as our favorite trauma

Gojo snapped his fingers, pointing at the screen as if he could really see them.

—Now I understand why my psychologist always seems so exhausted when I see him. He looks at me like “I don’t get paid enough to listen to what you tell me.”

@SatoruSpillIt: that’s because you didn’t tell him you’re a streamer

@SpicyTeaTime: does your psychologist know you’re a streamer?

—Of course. It was his idea, actually. He told me: “Maybe you should channel that need for attention in a healthier way.” And look at me now! Surrounded by thousands of strangers yelling things at me... total emotional healing.

@SawYouFirst: so it was the psychologist’s idea... we love him

@TherapistOfThePeople: thanks for everything, doc

He stayed silent for a moment, watching the number of viewers keep rising. It was already over 670,000 live. He noticed, but didn’t comment on it. He just smiled.

—Hey… can I ask something?

The chat paused for just a second. Just enough for someone to write:

@AskSensei: obviously, whatever you want

—Do you all watch all my streams? Like, every single one? Or is there someone here who just arrived, like, casually?

@CameFromTikTok: you showed up in an edit and now I can’t escape

@FromApexWithLove: I’ve been here since they were killing you in the lobby

@NoviceInLove: I came for a clip and stayed for your face

@NoEscape: I arrived yesterday and already sold my soul

—Ha! I love you guys. Well, not literally. Imagine if I could say that without legal consequences… “Streamer marries 13 million people.” Can you imagine? My big digital wedding. The first kiss would be delayed.

@IWannaBeTheBrideNumberOne: I want to be bride number one!

@LetThemKiss: can you kiss through the stream?

@ToxicMoon: no, but I can kiss the screen anyway

Gojo brought his hand to his chest with a hurt expression.

—You’re killing me. This is no longer bullying: it’s emotional homicide. And you know what’s worst? I like it. I’m an accomplice.

@ToxicButLoyal: we’re your favorite crime

@LaughButConfess: you laugh a lot but don’t say if you have a girlfriend

The comment went by fast. Almost unnoticed. But he read it.

And he didn’t answer immediately.

He just stared at the screen a little longer than usual, with a half frozen, half amused smile. The silence didn’t last even three seconds, but on the internet that’s eternal.

@I_SAW_IT: he saw it… he read it… and stayed silent

@WE_DONT_BELIEVE_YOU: there it is, the silence gave him away

@MAKE_HIM_CONFESS: don’t run away, bald guy with powers

Gojo squinted. Tilted his head. Then chuckled softly.

—See how you are? One thing is to call me handsome, and another to corner me like this is a live trial. What’s next? Bringing a lawyer to the stream?

@ChatAccuses: Satoru Gojo, accused of hiding love information

@WE_DEMAND_PROOF: Do you have a girlfriend or not?

@NOBODY_BELIEVES_YOU: this man is way too happy to be single

Gojo clicked his tongue, spun in his chair, covered his face with one hand, and murmured:

—And so, ladies and ladies… the war has begun.

The silence barely lasted a second. Maybe two. Then, as if someone had pressed a giant red button, the chat exploded into absolute chaos.

@SugarCookie: Don’t tell me you have a girlfriend.

@DonutKarma: What war? What did you do, Satoru?

@TenderRamen: YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND?! WHAT WAR?

@GojoTheories: The one who stays silent… has a girlfriend.

@SadEyes: Is what I’m reading real or am I projecting?

Satoru raised both eyebrows as he read the messages flying across the screen. The monitor’s glow reflected in his eyes, now sparkling with pure amusement. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head with a dangerous smile on his lips.

—But what does one thing have to do with the other? —he said in a relaxed tone, though not hiding the laugh escaping from the corner of his mouth—. I was talking about the emotional war unleashed in this stream… who mentioned girlfriends?

@EmoPanda: WHAT WAR? THE EMOTIONAL ONE YOU’RE CAUSING ME?!

@LoggingOff: Gojo, DO YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND?

@SpiritualSandal: CONFIRM OR DENY, NOW.

@FuriousPikachu: don’t evade the question, master

He let out a full laugh, with that laugh of his that seemed contagious even if you had no idea what was going on. He turned his chair a bit, moving closer to the microphone, as if he really had something important to confess.

—What if I do? —he asked boldly, raising an eyebrow—. What if I do have one?

@InnocentMe: CRY WITH ME

@DestroyedFan: I don’t know how to deal with this

@RealSandal: Don’t make me throw the sandal, Gojo

@ShockedRabbit: Are you telling me I was THE OTHER without knowing?

He rubbed the back of his neck with a half guilty, half delighted smile. Like he was enjoying every second of this collective reaction.

—Come on, it’s not that big a deal. —He shrugged with a dramatic sigh—. I just said “what if I do?” I haven’t confirmed anything, technically.

@Conspiracy3000: That’s what someone WHO HAS a girlfriend would say

@DramaQueen: the one who doubts, HAS

@DisappointedCake: I’m listening to Taylor Swift while reading this

@NotNormal: You said it. You sold yourself out, Gojo

Satoru rested his elbows on the table, intertwined his fingers, and rested his chin on his hands. He looked at the screen as if the whole world was judging him in an interrogation room. His lips formed a sly, almost tender smile, but in his gaze there was a spark of mischief no one was going to put out.

—Since when is having a partner a federal crime? —he murmured, in a mock victim tone—. I literally just said “what if I do,” and now they want to exile me.

@NoPeaceSinceToday: I just wanted to watch you play. Now I’m in therapy.

@BackgroundNetflix: This is better than any series

@NotAJoke: Say it. Just say it. Do you have a girlfriend or not?

And that’s when he decided.

He closed his eyes for a second, took a breath, and then leaned even closer to the mic, as if about to tell the biggest secret of his life. He spoke with a soft, sincere voice… but without losing the humor.

—Yes.

He dropped it with such dangerous calm it seemed scripted. Then shrugged, as if he hadn’t just destroyed thousands of hearts with a single word.

—Yes, I have a girlfriend. For six years.

The chat froze for a fraction of a second before going into spontaneous combustion.

@AreYouKiddingMe: error 404

@IAlreadyLeft: Nope. It can’t be. It’s not real.

@BrokenFantasy: SIX? SIX YEARS? SIX YEARS.

@MomI’mCrying: don’t talk to me, I’m mourning

@MySoulHurts: I felt like running in the rain

— I know, I know — he said, raising his hands in a pacifying gesture that didn’t help at all —. It all happened very fast… six years ago. I met her, I fell in love, and since then, here we are. And it’s not like I wanted to hide her, okay? It’s just that… you all are intense. Look at you right now.

He laughed alone seeing how fast the chat was moving. The chaos. The suffering. And yet, there was affection behind it all. That was the price of being loved by so many people: even good news hurt.

— She lives with me, puts up with me, makes me laugh… and she cooks better than anyone. I adore her. A lot. And no, I didn’t make her up. This is not a marketing plan or a strategy for a movie. It’s real.

@CollectivePanic: I’m dizzy.

@CollectivePanic: I’m sweating.

@CollectivePanic: I fell off the couch.

@ShockedCat: What do you mean SHE LIVES WITH YOU?

@BrokenHeart: I lost the light in my eyes

@I’mLeaving: This is my last stream, it was an honor

— What did you expect? That I would live alone and eat instant ramen my whole life?

He put a hand on his chest as if he really felt hurt.

— You don’t believe me! Do you really not believe me? After everything we’ve shared?

@DoubleStandard: I can’t be happy for you if I’m not the one

@IDon’tBelieveYouGojo: LIAR. I DON’T BELIEVE YOU.

@That’sFake: Gojo, you don’t know what true love is

@HaterButLoyal: This is a phase. Tomorrow he’ll deny it.

He laughed, the kind of laugh he only let out when everything seemed like an eternal joke.

— Want an official announcement? A blood-signed document? A romantic stream by candlelight?

@YourExInSilence: YES

@GiveItToMeNOW: Let her come. Let her confirm it. NOW!

@DeluxeBetrayal: Proof, Satoru. We want proof.

He leaned back, settling into that expression like he had everything under control. Like he’d been waiting all night for this moment.

— No, not yet — he said, winking —. You haven’t begged me enough.

@FuriousAndUnited: WE BEG ON OUR KNEES, DADDY

@FuryKiss: LET US MEET THE QUEEN

@ShockedHeart: I don’t know whether to cry or applaud

— That’s why I never tell you anything — he murmured, shaking his head with a charming smile —. They literally put me on trial the moment I open my mouth. This is an emotional court with no neutral jury.

@YouAskedForIt: Guilty. No way out.

@InnocenceIsOver: This is my last stream

— Well, now you know. I have a girlfriend. Six years. It’s real. She’s beautiful. She’s mine. And I’m not going to show her. Not yet. — He leaned toward the camera, winking cheekily —. And the best part is… this is just the beginning.

The chat kept roaring like an endless storm. Hearts were broken, fingers typed as if trying to pierce through the screen, and Satoru… he simply enjoyed it. You could tell. That playful sparkle in his eyes was like a mischievous child nobody could stop.

@DetectiveFan: OK. LET’S START THE INVESTIGATION

@BestFriendWhoDoesn’tSuspect: IS SHE BLONDE?

@BetrayedButLoyal: GOJO, IS SHE PRETTY?

@EyesLikeTheSky: tell me if she has light eyes or I’ll die

Satoru let out a mischievous giggle and tilted his head, resting his cheek against the back of his hand while watching the messages flood the screen.

—Hmm… —he made a thoughtful sound, as if truly evaluating something important—. Want to know about her?

@Everyone: YES!!

@NowRightNow: TELL US EVERYTHING

@ConfessNow: GOJO, I BEG YOU

He clicked his tongue and crossed his arms, pretending to be indecisive.

—Okay. But let’s play. If you guess her hair color… I’ll say something about her. Only one thing per correct guess, okay?

@PinkHair: PINK!

@BlackLikeMySoul: BLACK

@SilverLikeYou: SILVER LIKE YOURS

@RedheadPlease: REDHEAD!

@SurelyBlonde: She’s blonde, my soul tells me

@FantasticRainbow: She’s bald

Satoru watched each message pass with a raised eyebrow, as if silently judging. He smiled with clenched teeth and shook his head.

—No, no, no. Everyone is pretty far off… Although that one from “@FantasticRainbow” made me laugh —he shrugged—. Anything else? Anyone else want to try?

@IneverFail: DARK REDHEAD

@MyIdealMotherInLaw: BLACK WITH BLUE HIGHLIGHTS

@DetectiveChestnut: BROWN

And there, he said it. He heard it. Well, he read it. He paused. His eyes opened a little wider, that subtle way he has only when caught. A laugh escaped him before he could control it, soft and playful.

—Aha… —he whispered to the microphone—. We have a winner.

@NOOOO: WHAT? WHO? WHICH ONE WAS IT?

@REPEATIT: I DIDN’T SEE! I DIDN’T SEE!

@STOPEVERYTHING: SOMEONE GOT IT RIGHT!

Satoru let out a louder laugh, dropped his head back for a second, then looked directly at the camera again.

—Yes. Brown. Bingo.

@IMDEAD: I’M SAYING GOODBYE TO THE WORLD

@IWANTTHATINFO: TELL THE TRUTH, YOU PROMISED

@GOSSIPWITHPRIZE: GOJO, SPILL IT

Satoru rested his elbows on the desk, laced his fingers, and looked at the camera with a smile that melts hearts.

—Okay. One truth about her… Every time I get sick, doesn’t matter if it’s a silly cold, or I just sneeze three times a day… she makes me soup. A special one. It has ginger, onion, carrot, sometimes rice. And she knows exactly how long to boil it to heal me. It never fails. Never.

@SOULHEALER: I want to die of love

@IWANTTHATSOUPE: Do you have the recipe?

@SHE’SMYIDOLNOW: MAKE HER A SAINT!

—Another round, want it? —he said in a lower, playful voice, as if he knew the chat had no escape—. What if now you guess… her eye color?

@BlueLikeMyHeart: BLUE!

@SorceressGreen: GREEN!

@BlackLikeMyShadow: BLACK

@RedLikeMyEnvy: I DON’T KNOW BUT I WANT THEM TO BE RED

@Violet: VIOLET, obviously

@SweetCoffee: Brown

Another pause. A slow smile formed on Satoru’s lips, who barely bit his lower lip.

—Look at that! Again… someone got it right.

@WHOWASIT: SAY IT!

@IDIDNTSEE: WHO SAID IT?

—Brown. —The word came out soft, with sincere affection—. A brown that changes with the light. Sometimes it looks like honey, sometimes like wet earth. They’re… pretty —he admitted quietly, lowering his gaze only a second before regaining composure—. Another truth, then.

He stretched in his chair, as if thinking a bit.

—She doesn’t let me leave without breakfast. Never. And when I try, she crosses her arms at the door and won’t let me pass. She says, “You won’t last five minutes like that.” And she’s right. Always right.

@I'MCHILLING: HOW DO I BECOME HER?

@IWANTTOBEBREAKFAST: I DON'T EVEN CARE THAT MUCH ABOUT MYSELF

@MARRIAGEIN4MONTHS: I MARRY THEM

And suddenly, BOOM! The screen exploded with violet lights and digital fireworks.

@IDONTBELIEVEYOU just dropped the bomb: 💥 20,000 bits 💥 The message came with pure venom: @IDONTBELIEVEYOU: I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU SAY. I. DO. NOT. BELIEVE. YOU. I won't believe it until she comes and says it with her VOICE. WE WANT TO HEAR HER! CALL HER NOW, GOJO!

The chat collapsed as if someone had kicked a beehive.

@OHMYGOD: AAAAAAAA

@THISISASECT: THIS GOT SERIOUS

@BIGDONATION: YOU DON'T PLAY WITH 20K BITS

@MYSOULSCREAMED: THE VOICE! THE VOICE!

Satoru opened his eyes as if he'd been challenged to the world gossip finals. He leaned back in his chair, making a face like "Are you seriously doing this to me?"... then he smiled.

— Well, well... — he said, looking at the camera like he was talking to an accomplice.

Someone wants audio proof.

The chat went on fire.

@CALLCALLNOW: I'M NERVOUS AND I'M NOT EVEN HER

@WEARECRAZY: WHAT IF HE ANSWERS SWEETLY?

@IWILLDIEHAPPY: WHAT IF HE SAYS "LOVE"?

Satoru was already pulling out his phone. With one hand he unlocked it, swiped to your contacts, and there was your name, with a bow emoji and a pink heart.

He typed. He called. Speakerphone.

— If you don't answer... they're going to burn me alive — he murmured, amused.

A couple of rings, and then:

— Hi? — your voice, unprepared, so natural, so you.

Satoru straightened up a bit, a smile already fixed and a mischievous look.

— Love, where are you?

— At Zara — you said, unaware you were being listened to by thousands of lost souls.

I'm between two dresses, one makes my legs look beautiful, the other is very short. What are you doing?

Silence. TOTAL silence.

Satoru looked straight at the camera. He didn’t explain anything. He just said with a calm smile:

— Nothing. I just wanted to hear you — he replied, with that low, honeyed voice reserved only for you.

And that’s when hell broke loose.

@NOOOOOOOOOOO: HE SAID LOVE LIVE ON AIR!

@IGOTOUTOFTHISWORLD: THAT VOICE. THAT VOICE. THAT VOICE.

@INEEDAIR: SHE'S AT ZARA AND HE CALLS HER. WHY IS THIS SO REAL?

@ICRYFORTHEM: SHE SAID “WHAT ARE YOU DOING” AND HE ANSWERED “NOTHING.” THEY’RE DESTROYING ME

@20KBITSWELLSPENT: IT WAS WORTH EVERY BIT. EVERY SINGLE ONE.

@SHOPPINGQUEEN: SHE’S SHOPPING AND HE CALLS TO HEAR HER VOICE? SHUT UP, I’M CRYING IN PUBLIC!

@IMBREAKING: WHO SAYS “I JUST WANTED TO HEAR YOU”? WHO DOES THAT AND SURVIVES?

@HAPPYLIVES: THAT’S IT. THIS IS A DRAMA. THIS IS NOT REAL.

@LOVEONLOUDSPEAKER: I NEED TO BE LOVED LIKE THIS. HOW DO YOU DO IT?

@THISISNOTADRILL: GOJO, STOP. YOU’RE GOING TO KILL HALF THE FANDOM

@OFFICIALLYDECLARE: HER VOICE IS SOFT. HE LISTENS LIKE IT’S A PRIVILEGE

— Are you busy? — you asked, not knowing your voice had just been archived by thousands of people in their brains and hearts forever.

— For you, never — he said with a little smile, resting his elbow on the table like this was an intimate video call... and not a stream watched by over a hundred thousand people.

@IMDEAD: HE SAID “FOR YOU, NEVER.” FOR YOU, NEVER!!!!!

@BREATHEFORGOD: LIVE FLIRTING. PUBLIC FLIRTING. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.

@HEROESOFMYHEART: I THOUGHT I WAS IN GOJO’S STREAM, NOT IN A LOVE STORY

— I’m just... at Zara. I saw something I thought you’d like — you kept saying, while the world melted in real time.

— What?

— A white shirt, one of those you like.

@SHEKNOWSWHATSHELIKES: SHE KNOWS WHAT SHIRTS HE LIKES!!!

@STOPEVERYTHING: WHO AUTHORIZED HER TO BE THIS PERFECT?

@GOJOSWIFECONFIRMED: NO DOUBT LEFT. THIS WOMAN EXISTS AND HAS HIM IN LOVE

— Send me a photo — he said, completely shameless, ignoring that the entire world was listening to every word with teary eyes.

— Okay, but don’t ignore me, okay? — you whispered sweetly.

— Never — and the monitor in front of him reflected for a second that silly, in-love smile.

@IMSOFEDUP: ENOUGH!!!! I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE

@LOVEEXISTS: IF THEY EXIST, LOVE DOES TOO

@BREATHETOGETHER: SERIOUSLY, STOP. I’M CRYING IN THE WORK BATHROOM

— Did you buy anything yet or are you still doubting as always? — he joked, leaning further back in the chair.

— I’m looking... there’s a pretty dress too, but I don’t know which of the three to pick — you answered with a little laugh.

— Everything you wear looks spectacular. Literally. Everything — he replied without thinking twice.

@IMSCREAMING: HOW CAN I GET SOMETHING LIKE THAT?

@BREATHEWITHME: I’M. H-Y-P-E-R-V-E-N-T-I-L-A-T-I-N-G.

@EVERYTHINGCONFIRMED: THEY CALL, THEY FLIRT, THEY KNOW EACH OTHER’S CLOTHES… THEY’RE MARRIED, END

— How dramatic — you replied, though he could already imagine your smile, and that was enough for him.

— Dramatic, but sincere.

@StopThis: THE TONE. THE TONE. HOW DO YOU TALK TO SOMEONE LIKE THAT AND STILL BE ALIVE?

@NowEverythingMakesSense: THAT’S WHY THEY CURE WITH YOUR SOUP. BECAUSE YOU TALK LIKE THAT

— Do you want me to buy you something? — you asked, switching to sweet mode like nothing happened.

— Yes. But only if you send me a photo of you trying it on.

@ImBurningUp: OH PLEASE! HOW EMBARRASSING, GOJO!

@I’mShaking: THIS IS PRIVATE NOW. WE’RE IN HIS LIVING ROOM WITHOUT PERMISSION

@GojoNoFilter: HE’S ON STREAM, HE FORGOT!

— Satoru… — your voice sounded between amused and exasperated — Now that I remember, weren’t you doing something?

There was a brief silence.

Then he burst out laughing.

— Ah, right — he said between laughs — I was on stream.

@NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO: THEY TOLD HIM!!! SHE DIDN’T KNOW!!!!

@DeadlyGojo: SATORU!!! YOU CALLED HER LIVE AND SHE DIDN’T KNOW???

@That’sWhyIt’sReal: IT’S SO REAL SHE DIDN’T EVEN REMEMBER SHE HAD AN AUDIENCE

@100KWitnesses: WE WERE HERE. WITNESSES TO THIS ROMANTIC MOVIE

— WHAT? YOU’RE ON STREAM!? — you asked, stopping dead.

— Yup — he answered, totally shameless — Six hundred eighty thousand people just fell in love with you, just so you know.

@Confirmed: OFFICIAL. WE ALL FELL IN LOVE

@SheOwnsEverything: THE VOICE. THE WAY HE TALKS TO HER. THE SWEETNESS. IT SWEPT ME AWAY

@NowWeGetHer: AND WE WERE CRITICIZING. YOU DESERVE GOJO, QUEEN

— Oh, Satoru… how embarrassing. — Your voice was soft, nervous, but sweet.

— Embarrassed? Everyone’s dead in love with you. They just asked me to propose to you live.

@IAlreadySaidIt: CONFIRMED, HE PROPOSES ON THE NEXT STREAM

@SatoruAndHer: I’M NOT INTERESTED IN ANY OTHER COUPLE NOW

— Hang up already, dummy — you whispered laughing, and he nodded with a soft smile.

— See you at home, love. I love you.

— Me too.

And he hung up.

For a moment, he said nothing. He just stared at the screen with a silly smile on his lips, while the chat kept exploding.

@ThatWasTooMuch: I’M GOING TO LAY DOWN ON THE FLOOR

@StreamOfTheDecade: THIS STREAM SHOULD WIN AN AWARD

@GonnaMuteMyself: I NEED TO PROCESS ALL THIS

— Well… — Satoru finally broke the silence with a mischievous tone — I think that was enough emotional trauma for today, right?

@INeedMore: NO, DON’T CLOSE. MORE, MORE, MORE

@NoHealingYet: WE NEED GROUP THERAPY RIGHT NOW

— See you on the next stream, chat. I don’t know if we’ll get over this… but we’ll try.

And with one last smile, he ended the broadcast.

Black screen. Chat crashing. Hearts exploding.

And somewhere in the world, you smiled unaware you had left half the planet in love with you.

202 notes · View notes

sieglinde-freud · 2 days ago

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just remembered fates’ legendary clown hat + sunglasses combo. this game is awesome

#ann plays fates #i love that these three all have three different expressions pasted on their model #and they were best friends/lovers/family/whatfuckingever they got going #odin’s eternal happy face means a lot to me #i dont use the accessory shop as often as i should. it makes me giggle

75 notes · View notes

sixeyesonathiel · 3 days ago

Text

your goddess loves you this much

pairing — yandere hero!satoru x goddess!reader

synopsis : you are a benevolent goddess, the eternal comfort in the chaos, welcoming a lost hero into your divine realm after a harrowing journey between worlds. with soft words and steady hands, you guide him through uncertainty, offering warmth, purpose, and a weapon to wield against the darkness threatening your land. loop after loop, you are his constant—his salvation, his truth. after all, isn't that what a good goddess does?

wc — 4.4k tags — oneshot, yandere, psychological horror, time loop, unreliable narrator, slow burn insanity, obsession, manipulation, role reversal, emotional control, gaslighting, looping timeline, moral erosion, poetic justice, deconstruction of heroism, implied multiple deaths

gen masterlist

the weight of his head against your thighs has become as familiar as breathing—more familiar, perhaps, since breathing is something you’ve never needed to think about until now. until him.

you feel the tremors first, always the tremors. the way his body shakes like a leaf caught in a winter storm, muscles twitching with phantom pain from wounds that no longer exist but live on in the meat memory of mortal flesh. his white hair spreads across the silk of your dress like spilled moonlight, each strand catching the ethereal light of your divine realm. it’s damp with cold sweat that shouldn’t exist here, in this place beyond temperature and discomfort, but it does because you will it to. because you find something intoxicating about the way mortality clings to him even in your perfect sanctuary.

loop 847.

the number sits in your mind like a precious jewel, polished smooth by repetition. you’ve been counting since the very beginning, though the significance has evolved from mere record-keeping to something approaching obsession. what started as clinical curiosity—how many times can a soul break before it stops reforming?—has become something else entirely. something you refuse to examine too closely, even in the privacy of your own divine consciousness.

what matters now is the delicious anticipation building in your chest as his eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones. those ridiculously long lashes that would make mortals weep with envy, dark against skin that’s too pale from shock and trauma. you count the seconds—three, two, one—before those brilliant blue eyes snap open, wide and unfocused, pupils blown with terror that makes your divine essence sing with dark satisfaction.

there it is. that moment of pure, distilled anguish that you’ve become addicted to witnessing. the way his gaze darts around frantically before finding your face and latching onto it like a lifeline. the relief that floods his features is almost as beautiful as the terror that preceded it.

“shh,” you whisper, the same script, the same gentle tone that’s become your favorite performance piece. your fingers card through his hair with practiced tenderness—so soft, so perfectly maintained despite the violence he’s just endured. the last death had been particularly inspired, even by your standards. the demon lord’s claws had taken their time, peeling him apart layer by layer while you watched from your scrying pool with the focused attention of a scholar studying ancient texts. you’d rested your chin on your palm, legs crossed elegantly, occasionally taking sips of divine nectar as his screams echoed across dimensions.

“you’re safe now,” you continue, letting each word drip with honey-sweet compassion. “you’re with me.”

his breathing comes in sharp, shallow gasps that make his ribs flutter like bird wings beneath his torn shirt. you can feel his heart hammering against his chest where his side presses against your lap—such a frantic, desperate rhythm. mortal hearts are so wonderfully expressive, unlike the steady, emotionless pulse of divine essence. his heart tells stories: of fear conquered and reborn, of trust given and shattered and painstakingly rebuilt, of a soul slowly learning to depend on you for everything that matters.

“i—” his voice cracks like ice under pressure, and oh, how you savor that sound. you’ve heard it 846 times before, but it never loses its appeal. “i was... there was pain, so much—”

“a nightmare,” you murmur, letting your thumb trace the sharp line of his jaw. such perfect bone structure, even when it’s slack with shock. his skin is always so warm when he first awakens, as if his body remembers the fire that consumed him three loops ago, or the ice that froze his blood solid in loop 739, or the poison that ate through his organs while he writhed on the ground in loop 623. each death leaves its signature in ways only you can perceive. “just a terrible nightmare from your human world. you’re here now, with me.”

the lie flows as smoothly as silk, perfectly crafted after centuries of refinement. you’ve become an artist of deception, painting reality in whatever colors best serve your purposes. and your purpose, though you’d never admit it even in the deepest recesses of your mind, is to keep him exactly like this: broken, dependent, desperate for the comfort only you can provide.

satoru’s eyes search your face with that desperate intensity you’ve grown to crave. like a drowning man looking for driftwood, like a lost child seeking its mother, like a worshipper gazing upon their god. the trust there is so complete, so absolute, that it makes something warm and possessive unfurl in your chest. he has no idea. no idea at all that the goddess cradling him so tenderly is the architect of every scream, every moment of agony, every carefully orchestrated betrayal that led to his destruction.

you are merciful in his eyes. you are kind. you are his salvation made manifest.

the lies taste sweeter than ambrosia on your tongue.

“goddess...” he breathes, and his hand—scarred now in ways he doesn’t remember earning, marked by battles that exist only in the spaces between consciousness—reaches up to touch your cheek with trembling fingers. the reverence in that simple gesture makes your divine essence purr with satisfaction. “you’re real. you’re actually real.”

“of course i’m real.” you lean into his touch, letting your expression soften into something that could almost pass for love if observed from the right angle. it’s not difficult anymore; you’ve had centuries to perfect this particular mask, to understand exactly which micro-expressions most effectively convey maternal affection mixed with divine benevolence. “i’ve been waiting for you, hero.”

hero. the title sits in the air between you like a blade waiting to fall, because you both know what heroes are made for. they’re not made for happy endings or peaceful retirements. they’re made to suffer beautifully, dramatically, in ways that make for compelling stories. they’re made to sacrifice everything, to lose everyone they care about, to stand alone against impossible odds until the very weight of their nobility crushes them.

they’re made to break, over and over, until breaking becomes their most defining characteristic.

and satoru breaks so very prettily for you.

you help him sit up slowly, your hands steady on his shoulders as he sways like a tree in high wind. his body remembers trauma it can’t consciously place, muscles locked tight with anticipation of pain that isn’t coming. not yet. the reprieve is temporary, always temporary, but he doesn’t know that. he thinks this moment of peace might last, and that hope is almost as delicious as the despair that will follow.

“i don’t... understand,” he says, pressing the heel of his palm against his temple hard enough to leave red marks on his pale skin. “everything feels wrong. like i’m forgetting something important. something crucial.”

everything, you think with dark satisfaction, watching the way his brow furrows with concentration. you’re forgetting everything that matters, and i’m the only constant in your dissolving world. i’m the only truth you’re allowed to keep.

“memory can be hazy when crossing between realms,” you offer with gentle wisdom, guiding him to his feet with hands that seem to care only for his wellbeing. he moves like he’s testing each step, uncertain of his own body’s capabilities. which makes sense—how many times has this body failed him? how many times have these hands been unable to grip a weapon when he needed it most, these legs unable to carry him to safety? “the transition between worlds can be... disorienting. it will clear in time.”

another lie, of course. his memories will never clear because you’ve specifically designed the magic to prevent it. instead, they’ll remain trapped in that liminal space between dream and reality, close enough to create unease but never quite accessible enough to provide clarity. it’s one of your more elegant touches, that spell. it ensures he’ll always feel slightly off-balance, always in need of your grounding presence.

the chamber around you gleams with ethereal light that seems to emanate from the very air itself. marble and gold and impossible architecture that defies mortal comprehension stretch in all directions, creating a space that’s both infinite and intimate. crystalline pillars support a ceiling that shows glimpses of distant stars, while fountains of liquid light provide a soothing soundtrack to your interactions. it’s designed to inspire awe and comfort in equal measure, to make mortals feel both humbled and protected.

but satoru’s eyes don’t linger on the divine beauty surrounding him. they stay fixed on you with an intensity that’s become familiar over the centuries, hungry and searching, like you’re the only real thing in existence.

you are, in a way. everything else—the weapons, the quests, the monsters that will tear him apart in increasingly creative ways—are props in your private theater. but you? you’re the constant. the comfort. the reward he gets for playing his part so very, very well.

“tell me about the world,” he says quietly, and there’s something in his voice that makes you pause. a thread of steel you haven’t heard before, barely perceptible but definitely present. like the first hairline crack in perfect glass. “tell me about my purpose here.”

you gesture toward the vast armory that stretches beyond the main chamber, a space that could house armies worth of weapons. each piece gleams with deceptive promise—swords that will shatter at crucial moments, armor that will fail when he needs it most, shields that will crumble to dust, magic artifacts that will betray him in creative ways you’ve spent decades perfecting. some of them are beautiful enough to make mortals weep, others radiate power that makes the air itself sing. all of them are tools of his eventual destruction, crafted with the same loving attention to detail that a mother might put into her child’s favorite meal.

“you are chosen,” you begin, the familiar words flowing like water over worn stones. you’ve recited this speech so many times it’s become a prayer, a litany, a song that shapes reality itself. “a hero summoned from your world to save ours from—”

“from what?” the interruption is sharp, unexpected, cutting through your carefully crafted monologue like a blade through silk. satoru’s blue eyes have focused with laser intensity on your face, and there’s something different about his gaze. something that makes the base of your spine prickle with unease. “what exactly am i saving the world from?”

in all 847 loops, he’s never asked that question with such pointed curiosity. usually he’s too traumatized, too desperate for comfort and guidance to think beyond the immediate moment of safety in your presence. usually he accepts your explanations with the blind faith of a drowning man accepting a rope, never questioning its source or strength.

but you adapt. you always adapt. that’s what’s made you so successful at this game.

“darkness,” you say simply, letting a shadow of ancient sorrow cross your features. you’ve practiced this expression in divine mirrors, perfecting the exact degree of pain that suggests personal loss without overwhelming your audience. “an ancient evil that threatens to consume everything good and pure in this realm. only a hero from another world, untainted by our corruption, can hope to stand against it.”

it’s not technically a lie, which makes it easier to sell. there is darkness in this world—you’ve created most of it yourself, shaped it into increasingly elaborate death traps and moral quandaries, each one designed to push him further toward the breaking point you find so psychologically fascinating. you’ve crafted villains with compelling motivations, tragic backstories that make their evil feel almost justified. you’ve built societies that force impossible choices, where saving one group means dooming another.

you are the darkness he’s meant to fight, but he doesn’t need to know that. not yet.

satoru stares at you for a long moment, and something shifts behind his eyes. a recognition that makes your divine blood run cold in ways you didn’t know were possible. it’s like watching someone solve a puzzle you thought was perfectly obscured, seeing the moment when scattered pieces suddenly form a coherent picture.

“show me the weapons,” he says finally, but his voice carries undertones you can’t quite parse.

relief floods through you like warm honey. familiar territory at last. you lead him through the armory, past blades that sing with false promises and shields that radiate protective energy they’ll never actually provide. the space is vast enough to echo, filled with the soft chiming of metal and crystal, the whisper of displaced air around objects of power.

he examines each piece carefully, too carefully, running his fingers along edges and testing the weight of handles with a thoroughness that seems excessive. you watch him move through the displays, cataloguing his reactions for future reference. does he linger longer at certain types of weapons? does he seem drawn to particular magical signatures?

“this one broke,” he murmurs suddenly, fingers hovering over a silver sword without quite touching its gleaming surface. the blade is perfect, unmarked, radiating holy power that makes the air shimmer around it. there’s no possible way he could know about its hidden flaw—the microscopic fracture in its core that will cause it to shatter at the worst possible moment. “didn’t it?”

your mask doesn’t slip. it can’t slip, not after all this time, not when you’re so close to sending him off on another perfectly orchestrated tragedy. “i’m sorry?”

“nothing.” but his smile is wrong, too sharp around the edges, too knowing. it reminds you uncomfortably of your own expression when you’re particularly pleased with a clever manipulation. “just... déjà vu, i suppose.”

he moves deeper into the armory, and you follow, unease growing with each step like storm clouds gathering on a clear horizon. something is different this time, something has changed in the delicate balance of your game, and you can’t quite identify what. it’s like trying to pin down the source of a sound that exists just at the edge of hearing—present but elusive, important but incomprehensible.

satoru stops in front of a section displaying particularly vicious-looking weapons—axes that will grow too heavy to lift at crucial moments, spears that will snap under pressure, maces that will turn on their wielders when activated. each one is a masterpiece of deceptive craftsmanship, beautiful and deadly and ultimately useless when it matters most.

he studies them all with that same unsettling intensity, head tilted like he’s listening to something you can’t hear.

then he turns to you, and the smile on his face makes your divine essence recoil instinctively.

“i’ve been thinking,” he says conversationally, hands clasped behind his back in a pose that seems casual but somehow radiates contained energy, “about patterns.”

the word hits you like a physical blow, resonating through your divine consciousness in ways that mortal language shouldn’t be able to achieve. you keep your expression serene, but your supernatural senses are suddenly hyperaware of every detail—the way he’s positioned himself between you and the nearest exit, the careful distance he’s maintained, the way his gaze never quite leaves your face even when he seems to be looking at weapons.

“patterns?” you echo, your voice steady despite the growing void in your chest where certainty used to live.

“mmm.” he takes a step closer, and every instinct you possess—instincts honed by millennia of existing as a predator among predators—screams at you to step back. but you don’t, can’t, because that would acknowledge the shift in dynamic you’re desperately pretending isn’t happening. “like how some things feel familiar even when they shouldn’t. how some fears feel earned instead of inherited from nightmares.”

another step. your heart—do you have a heart? you’ve never been certain, but something in your chest is definitely racing now—begins to beat with mortal urgency.

“how some people feel too good to be true,” he continues, voice dropping to something almost intimate. “how some kindnesses feel like they come with invisible price tags.”

the silence stretches between you like a wire pulled taut, humming with tension that threatens to snap at any moment. satoru’s blue eyes search your face with surgical precision, and for the first time in centuries, you feel truly seen. not the carefully crafted mask you wear, but the thing underneath. the thing that finds such exquisite pleasure in his pain, that orchestrates his suffering with the dedication of a master artist.

the thing that loves him in the most twisted way possible—not as a person, but as a beautiful object to be broken and mended and broken again.

“choose your weapon,” you say, and your voice doesn’t shake. it doesn’t, because goddesses don’t shake, don’t falter, don’t lose control of situations they’ve spent centuries perfecting. “the world needs its hero.”

satoru laughs, and the sound is nothing like the broken sobs or desperate gasps you’re used to hearing from him. it’s rich and dark and full of terrible understanding, like the laughter of someone who’s just gotten the punchline to a very long, very cruel joke.

“oh, i’ve already chosen,” he says, and his hand shoots out faster than your divine reflexes can track.

his fingers close around your wrist like a shackle forged from mortal determination, and the contact burns in ways that have nothing to do with temperature. for the first time in your existence, you feel small. vulnerable. caught.

“i choose you.”

instinct takes over before conscious thought can intervene. you reach for your divine power, the endless well of cosmic energy that’s been your birthright since the moment of your creation. it should be as easy as breathing, as natural as existing—power flowing through you like golden fire, reshaping reality according to your will.

instead, you feel... nothing.

not the absence of power, which would at least be something, but a hollow emptiness where your divine nature used to reside. like reaching for a sword and finding only air, like trying to breathe underwater and getting nothing but liquid suffocation.

you try again, panic beginning to claw at the edges of your perfect composure. surely this is just shock, just surprise disrupting your concentration. you’ve had your power for millennia—it can’t just disappear, can’t just abandon you when you need it most.

but the air remains stubbornly still around you. no wind rises at your call, no light bends to your will, no reality shifts to accommodate your desires. you are as powerless as any mortal, as vulnerable as the humans you’ve spent so long manipulating.

the realization hits you like ice water: he’s not just grabbing you.

he’s dragging you down.

the world dissolves around you, divine architecture collapsing into streams of light and shadow. your perfect sanctuary, your place of absolute power, crumbles like sand castles before the tide. you feel yourself being torn from your celestial throne, stripped of the comfortable distance between observer and observed, between puppet master and puppet.

the sensation is violating in a way you’ve never experienced—like being turned inside out, every carefully hidden thought and motivation exposed to harsh light. you’ve never been vulnerable before, never been at the mercy of another’s will, and the terror that floods through you is more overwhelming than anything you’ve ever imposed on him.

when reality reassembles itself, you’re on your knees in mortal grass, mortal dirt staining the pristine white of your divine robes. the earth beneath you is real in ways your realm never was—rough, imperfect, stubbornly resistant to your will. the air tastes different here, heavier, full of mortality and consequence and the complete absence of your absolute control.

you look up to find satoru standing over you, and his expression is nothing like the desperate devotion you’re used to seeing. his blue eyes are calm, calculating, almost gentle in their cruelty. there’s no trace of the shattered hero you’ve been so carefully maintaining. instead, there’s something that looks almost like...

relief.

“surprised?” he asks, crouching down to your level with fluid grace. his hand cups your chin with mock tenderness, fingers warm against skin that suddenly feels too fragile, forcing you to meet his gaze. “you shouldn’t be. you taught me so well, after all.”

“satoru—” you begin, but he presses his thumb against your lips, silencing you with the same casual dominance you’ve used on him countless times.

“eight hundred and forty-seven times,” he says conversationally, like he’s discussing the weather or commenting on the quality of mortal wine. “that’s how many times you’ve killed me. how many times you’ve held me while i shook apart, whispering lies about salvation and purpose and the greater good.”

your divine mind reels, struggling to process the impossibility of what he’s saying. he couldn’t remember. you’d been so careful, so precise in your manipulations. the memory spells were perfect, tested across centuries of use. he shouldn’t be able to retain anything between loops, let alone count them.

“oh, but i do remember,” he continues, as if reading your thoughts with the same ease you once read his. “every death. every betrayal. every weapon that failed at the crucial moment. every ally who turned out to be an enemy in disguise. every moment of false comfort in your lap while you planned my next exquisite destruction.”

his grip on your chin tightens, just shy of painful, and you could break free—should be able to break free—but something is fundamentally wrong with your body here. dulled, muted, constrained by mortal flesh and mortal limitations in ways that make your divine consciousness scream with claustrophobic panic.

“the first few hundred times, i believed you completely,” satoru admits, thumb stroking along your jawline with possessive familiarity. “trusted you with everything i had. you were so convincing, so perfectly compassionate. the way you held me, the way you looked at me like i mattered... i thought it was real.”

something in his voice makes you want to protest, to insist that it was real, that your care for him wasn’t entirely fabricated. but the words die in your throat because you know they’d be lies, and somehow you suspect he’d know too.

“but patterns, goddess...” he continues, voice dropping to something almost fond. “patterns are hard to ignore when you’re paying attention. and after the first few hundred deaths, i started paying very close attention indeed.”

he releases your chin only to thread his fingers through your hair, the gesture a perfect mockery of all the times you’ve done the same to him. when he tugs, just lightly, you can’t suppress the small sound that escapes your throat—part surprise, part something you refuse to name.

his smile widens at the sound, blue eyes lighting up with the same dark satisfaction you’ve seen in your own reflection when a plan comes together perfectly.

“the way you always knew exactly what to say to comfort me,” he muses, fingers still tangled in your hair. “the way you never seemed surprised by the specific ways i’d been hurt. the way you’d touch the wounds that were no longer there, like you were checking your work.”

each observation hits like a physical blow, stripping away layers of deception until you feel raw and exposed. you want to deny it, to maintain the fiction that has sustained you for so long, but what’s the point? he sees you now, really sees you, and there’s no mask perfect enough to hide behind.

“and then there were the weapons themselves,” satoru continues, almost conversational now. “each one perfectly suited to my preferences, each one guaranteed to fail in exactly the way that would cause maximum suffering. it was almost artistic, really. i found myself admiring the craftsmanship even as they killed me.”

he leans closer, close enough that you can feel his breath against your ear, close enough that the warmth of him surrounds you like an embrace.

“you have such beautiful taste in tragedies,” he whispers, and the words make you shiver in ways that have nothing to do with cold.

“and now here we are,” he murmurs, voice dropping to something almost intimate as he pulls back to meet your eyes again. “no divine realm to retreat to. no reset button to press when things get uncomfortable. just you and me and all the time in the world to explore some new patterns.”

the realization hits you like a physical blow: he’s not going to play hero anymore. he’s not going to quest or fight or die gloriously for your entertainment. the game you’ve spent centuries perfecting, the delicate balance of hope and despair that’s sustained you for so long—it’s over.

he’s going to keep you instead.

“the world—” you start desperately, grasping for any argument that might restore the familiar dynamic between you.

“can burn,” he finishes simply, with the casual dismissal of someone discussing an unwanted dinner invitation. “i’m done saving things. done being your perfect little tragedy. this time, i think i’ll try being the one in control.”

your hands shake where they’re pressed against the earth, divine composure finally cracking under the weight of complete role reversal. for the first time in millennia, you don’t know what comes next. don’t know the script or the ending or how to manipulate the variables in your favor. the future stretches ahead of you, vast and unknowable and entirely outside your control.

you are no longer the author of this story.

you are no longer anything but a character in his.

satoru seems to sense your realization, because his expression softens into something almost pitying. he helps you to your feet with gentle hands, steadying you when your legs threaten to give out under the weight of mortality and consequence. his touch is warm, familiar, almost loving—and that makes it so much worse.

“don’t look so lost,” he says kindly, and the tone is so familiar it makes you dizzy with déjà vu. how many times have you used that exact inflection to comfort him? how many times have you steadied him just like this, with patient hands and false compassion? “i’ll take good care of you. after all...”

his lips brush against your ear, voice dropping to a whisper that makes your divine blood sing with terror and something else you refuse to acknowledge.

“you taught me exactly how it’s done.” he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and his smile is soft and loving and absolutely terrifying.

your mouth opens—maybe to beg, maybe to explain—but no sound comes out before he leans in.

“shh,” he whispers, and his thumb smears a tear across your cheek you didn’t realize had fallen, dragging it down like a mark. “don’t be afraid. you’re safe now.”

a/n: i might write this into a long fic someday 🌝

#gojo satoru #yandere gojo #yandere gojo x reader #gojo oneshot #gojo x reader #gojo x female reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x y/n #yandere jjk #yandere jjk x reader #jjk x reader

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hellequinist · 3 days ago

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ty for the tag!! doing my user + not repeating artists :)

H - hartebeest, yaelokre

E - enjoy the silence, depeche mode

L - life eternal, ghost

L - lagtrain, inabakumori

E - euclid, sleep token

Q - queen, kanaria

U - unknown (till the end…), akugetsu

I - is it really you, loathe

N - no longer you, epic the musical cast

I - it almost worked, tv girl

S - should’ve been me, mitski

T - the death of peace of mind, bad omens

i love having random music taste

hi hi (no pressure ^_^) @mythrite @autumnstar06 @imaginatorofthings @yet-another-music-enjoyer @material-ghoul86 @maxxiesutton + anyone else/open tags

bored so i thought id do a tag game :)

rules are you have to pick a song for each we letter of you name and/or username if you don’t wanna use ur real name :)

T: Two Pills by TX2

Y: You’re gonna go far by Noah Kahn

L: Loving You by Thomas Headon

E: Enchanted by Taylor Swift

R: Rise and Grind by Noahfinnce

tagging: @riceandcurry3 @newsies-lodging-house @st0rmyseas @nosuchthingasdeadlanguages @misha-misha @bigmack2go @paralleluniversesfan @apairofnewshoeswithmatchinglaces

no pressure :)

#tag game #hellequinistic mutuals :3

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godthatfeltgood · 3 days ago

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Bec Hel really never stopped thinking about her until the only option left was ‘eliminate her’ and even that did not work

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guitar-goose · 2 days ago

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I'm going to be blunt and maybe controversial here.

Jinu is not a good person, even at the end of the move.

But that's why he's such a good character.

Throughout the movie jinu lies and manipulates, makes bad decisions, and is overall a selfish person, and this doesn't change at the ending when he sacrifices himself.

He still goes through with lying and destroying rumi's life despite deeply caring about her, and still continues on his plan to steal the souls of all of his fans.

All he does is give his soul to rumi, not because he had a change of heart but because he cared deaply for rumi, something that develops over the movie but doesn't change in this scene.

But what makes him such a loved character is that he is human. (I know he's a demon, but just go with it for now)

When he was a human, he was in poverty and, when given a chance to leave it in exchange, had to leave his struggling family. He took it. He chose to be greedy and, because of this, suffered for 400 in shame.

Because of this, he became a monster and a murderer to escape this eternal suffering, even going as far as destroying the only real relationship he had in centuries to be free of it.

This only time he reconsiders his actions is talking with rumi, someone who understands his own pain but chooses to escape her suffering by protecting others.

And even then, he begrudgingly understands he will never deserve the freedom from shame she hopes to get because he believes he is unredeemable, leading him to continue his lies and manipulation forcing him in a cycle

This isn't a good hero or redeemable character but a morally broken one, one that is well created and feels authentic and real and deeply human.

Because humans aren't perfect, not with perfect morals or perfect actions (just have a look at the world rn)

The moral of the movie is to be authentic with who you really are despite the shame you may feel from it, and jinu perfectly encompasses this message.

jinu is a broken person forcing into reliving the mistakes he made for years, he knows he is a bad person and does nothing to change, but when this is striped away with rumi you can see the real jinu.

This jinu, without the shame and broken pieces, who can care and does without restraint until he is forced back into his self hate later on.

Although when he sees this person that allowed him to feel free again of him in danger, it is by no surprise he sacrifices everything he never had before in hopes that maybe she can be free like he never was.

Making up for sacrificing his family for his own gain, sacrificing himself instead of gaining from it because now he understands what it is to be free and to be trapped, and how he would much rather rumi be free with him be that sacrifice than anything else.

Because he knows what it feels like to sacrifice other all too well

#rujinu #kpop demon hunters #kpdh #rumi #rumi x jinu #jinu kpdh #jinu #rumi kpdh

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natsaffection · 22 hours ago

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Crush and conquer. | N.R

Warnings: 18+! MINORS DNI! Age gap, vibrator use, oral, restraints, multiple orgasm

Word count: 4,5k

A/n: I love my brain at the night.

The safe house is one of those bland, government-issued safe spots S.H.I.E.L.D. always has on standby, outdated furniture, mismatched mugs, a flickering lamp in the corner. But it’s warm, it’s safe, and for tonight, it’s theirs.

Outside, rain drums gently against the windows. Inside, the four of you, Natasha, Wanda, Steve, and you, are sprawled around a battered coffee table littered with empty snack wrappers, half-drunk mugs of tea, and a bottle of cheap whiskey someone found in the pantry.

It’s late. You’re all exhausted from the mission that landed you here, bruised but triumphant, adrenaline fading into that restless, giddy energy that always comes after danger.

At some point, Steve, the eternal Boy Scout, tries to suggest cards, but Wanda just laughs and says, “Why don’t we play something more interesting?” Which is how you end up here: legs folded on the couch, knees bumping Wanda’s, Natasha sprawled on the armrest beside you, Steve cross-legged on the floor like a schoolboy, all of you tipsy enough to agree to Truth or Dare like you’re teenagers at a sleepover.

You’re trying to focus on the game, really, you are..but it’s impossible when Natasha is so close. She’s barefoot, wearing a faded gray T-shirt and sweatpants that hang loose on her hips, hair pulled into a messy braid that keeps slipping over her shoulder. Every time she shifts, her thigh brushes yours.

It doesn’t help that she keeps looking at you, sideways glances that make your stomach flip, your pulse hammer at your throat. You’ve hidden this crush for years. Years. You know it’s ridiculous, she’s older, intimidating, untouchable. She flirts with everyone. It probably means nothing.

You chew your lip and pick at a loose thread on your sweatpants, pretending you don’t notice how she keeps playing with the end of her braid while she watches you. Wanda rolls her eyes dramatically when Steve picks ‘Truth’ for the third time in a row.

“You’re so boring.” she says, flicking a piece of popcorn at him.

“It’s strategic.” Steve deadpans. “Unlike you two.”

Natasha snorts. “What’s the fun in playing safe?” Her eyes cut to you, just for a second and your breath catches.

A few rounds pass. You admit embarrassing stories, Wanda has to prank call Tony (he doesn’t pick up, unsurprisingly), Steve has to do ten push-ups with Wanda sitting on his back, which he does without breaking a sweat, the show-off.

You think you’re safe. The warmth, the laughter, Natasha’s leg pressed against yours, it’s dizzying. You’re halfway through your second glass when Wanda’s grin turns wicked.

“Natasha.” she says sweetly. “Truth or dare?”

Natasha lifts an eyebrow. “Dare, obviously.”

“Good.” Wanda leans forward, conspiratorial. “I dare you to kiss someone in this room. But not just a peck..really kiss them.”

Your stomach drops. You’re about to take a sip but your hand freezes halfway. Natasha doesn’t even hesitate. She tilts her head like she’s thinking, but her eyes are already on you.

“Alright.”

She slides off the armrest and shifts closer. You’re about to say something, maybe crack a joke, but then she swings one leg over yours, straddling your lap with the easy grace of someone who could break your neck or kiss you breathless, depending on her mood.

Your brain short-circuits. Her thighs bracket your hips. Her hands rest lightly on your shoulders, warm and solid through the thin fabric of your T-shirt.

“Comfortable?” she murmurs, close enough you can feel her breath on your lips.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. A laugh bubbles in Wanda’s throat. Steve awkwardly clears his throat and looks very interested in the ceiling.

And then Natasha kisses you. It’s not soft, it’s possessive. Her mouth moves over yours like she’s been waiting for an excuse, tongue sliding in before you can react, stealing the breath from your lungs. One hand slips up to cup the back of your neck, holding you in place. Your hands fly to her waist, unsure whether to pull her closer or push her away, not that you could push her away.

When she finally pulls back, you’re gasping. Her lips are pink, parted, she leans in and presses one last soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, almost sweet, like an afterthought.

You don’t even realize your hands are still gripping her hips until she shifts, sliding off your lap, leaving you warm and buzzing and trying desperately to act normal.

Natasha settles back beside you, closer this time, her thigh pressed firmly against yours. She drapes her arm along the back of the couch behind you, fingers brushing your hair, like she owns you now.

Wanda’s grinning like the cat that got the cream. Steve tries to hide a smile behind his hand. You force out a laugh, cheeks burning. “That’s…one way to play the game.”

“Oh, come on.” Wanda teases. “Look at you! She’s red all over.”

You bury your face in your hands, groaning. Natasha just hums in amusement, thumb brushing the back of your neck, an innocent touch, but you feel it everywhere.

The game goes on. Wanda has to read Steve’s last text out loud (it’s boring, Steve’s always boring). Steve gets revenge by daring Wanda to prank call Clint (which works, Clint threatens to come crash the safe house and everyone groans).

You try to focus, but Natasha keeps her hand resting at the nape of your neck, sometimes her fingers drift, toying with your hair, scratching lightly at your scalp. Every now and then she leans in, whispering a comment that makes your breath hitch. Your heart hasn’t slowed down since she kissed you.

At some point, Steve excuses himself to check in with the exfil team (bless him) and it’s just you, Natasha, and Wanda, sprawled out on the floor now, lying on your stomach beside Wanda while Natasha sits cross-legged by the couch.

You think the worst is over? The kiss was the peak, right? Ha, you are so, so wrong..

Natasha pushes herself up with a little stretch, shirt riding up to flash a strip of pale skin. She pads over to a battered dresser in the corner, you don’t think much of it at first. Maybe she’s grabbing her phone, or more snacks.

She pulls open a drawer, rummages around and when she turns back, she’s holding something small and unmistakably not a snack. A sleek, black vibrator dangles from her fingers.

“Who wants to make this more interesting?” she says, her voice light, but there’s an edge of challenge in it.

Wanda lets out a bark of laughter. “Nat! Where the hell did you even stash that?”

Natasha shrugs, lips curling into a smirk. “Always be prepared.”

Your mouth goes dry. Fuck.

She swings it lazily by her side, eyes fixed on you, like she’s enjoying every flicker of panic that crosses your face. “What do you say, detka?” she purrs. “Wanna play?”

“Nope.” you squeak immediately, burying your face in the blanket you’d dragged off the couch. “No, no, no, no. I’m good. I’m fine.”

Natasha laughs, low, delighted, cruel in the best way. She tosses the vibrator to Wanda, who catches it and cackles like she’s just been handed front-row seats to the best show in town. You peek at Wanda through your fingers. “Wanda. Help me..”

Wanda just wiggles her eyebrows. “Oh, I’m definitely not helping you.”

You groan, trying to sink deeper under the blanket, but Natasha is already moving, crawling across the floor like a cat stalking her prey. She plucks the blanket away, ignoring your pathetic attempt to cling to it, and tosses it to the side.

You’re flustered, cornered, and she’s loving every second of it. You’re still on your back, half on the rug, half pressed against the foot of the couch, heart drumming so loud you swear Wanda must hear it. Natasha is above you on her knees, loose braid falling over one shoulder, eyes glittering like she’s a cat with a mouse pinned under her paw.

Wanda’s still perched by your side, idly twirling the vibrator in her fingers like she’s weighing how much chaos she wants to encourage. The worst part is..you can feel how warm your face is. Your neck, your ears, your chest, everything flushed, your skin prickling like static where Natasha’s thigh brushes yours.

You try to sound playful, like you still have any control left. “You’re not serious…” you half-laugh, but your voice cracks right in the middle.

Natasha tips her head. Her grin is slow and deliberate, a silent oh, I’m deadly serious.

Wanda hums. “She’s serious, dorogaya.” She nudges your side with her knee, teasing. “Come on. It’ll be fun. Live a little, hm?”

You bury your face in your hands again, it’s childish, but it’s all you’ve got, only for Natasha to gently pull them away, fingers curling around your wrists, peeling your shield away so she can see every inch of your wrecked expression.

“Look at her.” Wanda coos, voice warm with mischief. “She’s gonna melt before you even touch her, Nat.”

“I know.” Natasha’s eyes flick down to your mouth, then lower, tracing the line of your throat, the rise and fall of your chest, the hem of your borrowed T-shirt riding up where you squirm. “That’s half the fun.”

Your breath catches, because it’s true. You are melting. It’s humiliating how easy she makes it look.

Natasha’s hands drift down your arms, warm and solid. You feel her fingers brush the waistband of your sweats, casual, like she owns this. And then, with a soft click, you hear metal.

Your eyes snap open. Natasha’s holding the cuffs she unclipped from her tactical belt, standard SHIELD issue, sturdy and cold and so very real in this dim light.

“Nat…” you whisper. It’s meant to be a protest, but it comes out sounding like a plea.

Natasha’s smile softens, just for a heartbeat, then sharpens again into something dark and hungry. “If you’re gonna keep fighting, kotyonok, I’ll just have to make sure you stay put, won’t I?”

Wanda laughs, a bright, delighted sound that echoes off the bare walls. She flicks the vibrator on for a heartbeat, just to hear it buzz, then switches it off and tosses it onto the couch like she’s leaving a loaded gun on the table.

“Oh, this I have to see.” Wanda leans over, brushes your hair off your forehead, her touch strangely gentle. “You okay, honey?”

You manage a strangled nod, but your eyes dart to her, desperate. “Wanda. Please. Help me.”

Wanda’s grin turns wicked. “Oh no. I’m definitely not helping you. She’d kill me.”

You think you see an opening, a window to slip away before this goes too far. You twist under Natasha’s hands, trying to wiggle out from beneath her, breathless with a nervous laugh.

“Nope, no! I’m done. I’m gonna go check the perimeter, or-“

You don’t get far. Natasha’s faster. In one smooth move she shifts forward, thighs bracketing your hips, palms planted on either side of your head as she presses you back down, her weight pinning you to the floor. Her braid swings forward, brushing your collarbone. You can feel the warmth radiating off her thighs where they squeeze your hips.

“Going somewhere?” Her voice is low, velvet over steel.

You’re trembling. You can’t help it. You try to twist your wrists but she catches them easily, pressing them into the rug above your head, the cold bite of metal brushing your skin as she fastens one cuff, then the other, clicking shut with a finality that makes your pulse spike so high you swear you could blackout on the spot.

“Natasha-” You’re begging now, but you don’t even know what for. For her to stop? For her to not stop?

She leans closer, nose brushing your cheek, lips ghosting your ear. Her breath is warm, her voice velvet-wrapped danger.

“Do you really want me to stop?” she murmurs. “Tell me, detka. Right now. Do you really want me to stop?”

Your mouth opens but the words stick in your throat. Because no..of course you don’t. You want this more than you’ve ever wanted anything. You can feel it, slick and hot between your legs, shame blooming under your ribs because you know Natasha knows too.

Her hips shift, pressing down just enough for you to feel how easily she could grind you into the floor, helpless and pinned.

Wanda makes a soft, knowing noise, pushing herself to her feet like she’s seen all she needs to see. “I’m gonna give you two some privacy.” she teases, but there’s warmth under the mockery. “Try not to break the safe house furniture, please.”

You catch her sleeve with your eyes, a last, useless plea. “W-Wanda-!”

But Wanda just winks, stepping over your tangled legs and slipping through the doorway with a mischievous hum. The door clicks shut behind her.

Natasha doesn’t move. She hovers over you, her knees pressing into the rug on either side of your hips, one hand braced beside your head, the other draped casually over your bound wrists.

Her eyes flick between yours, so close you can count every fleck of green, every dark ring around her pupils. Her thumb brushes your pulse, slow and deliberate, feeling how your heart slams against her touch.

Your wrists strain against the cuffs, a useless reflex, but the steel holds tight, digging gently into your skin, a sharp reminder that you’re not going anywhere. Natasha notices, of course she does. She notices everything.

She’s still hovering above you, her eyes half-lidded, mouth so close you can feel the ghost of her breath on your lips. For a second you think she might kiss you again, but instead she drifts lower, dragging her lips down the corner of your jaw, brushing the soft line beneath your ear.

Your breath catches, a quiet, broken sound you fail to swallow down. Natasha hums like she’s pleased with herself, her nose nudging your hair aside as her mouth finds the soft, sensitive spot at the hinge of your jaw.

“G-God-” you gasp, and she doesn’t stop. Her lips part, teeth grazing your pulse point before she soothes the sting with her tongue, sucking gently until you know she’s leaving a mark- hers, right where you can’t hide it later.

You squirm, reflex again, instinct, your hips shift under hers, but she follows the movement easily, pressing her thighs tighter around you, pinning your hips to the rug so you can’t do anything but feel.

You test the cuffs again, half-hoping they’ll give, half-terrified they might. The metal bites your wrists, a cold contrast to the heat that’s gathering low in your belly.

Natasha pulls back just enough to look at you. One hand drifts up, fingers brushing your throat, tilting your chin higher so your neck’s bare to her.

“Trying to run again?” she murmurs, amusement curling under every word.

You open your mouth to answer, to beg, to protest, to do something, but then her lips are back on your skin, lower this time. She kisses the hollow of your throat, drags her tongue along your collarbone, teeth grazing sensitive skin just to feel you tense under her mouth.

“Please-” you gasp. It’s not even clear what you’re asking for anymore, her to stop, her to keep going, her to ruin you so thoroughly you’ll never get free of her again.

She hears every contradiction in that one word. Of course she does. Natasha’s free hand drifts lower- her palm slides under your borrowed T-shirt, her knuckles brushing the curve of your ribs, making your stomach jump.

“Say it, malyshka..” she murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “Say you don’t want it.”

You try, you really try. “I- I don’t-”

But your hips betray you, shifting up into hers, seeking friction that makes your face flame. The cuffs rattle as you twist again, desperate to anchor yourself to something, but there’s nothing. Just her. Just her weight, her warmth, her mouth dragging fire across your skin.

Natasha laughs, soft, dark, pleased. She kisses your jaw again, then pushes herself up just enough to reach over you. For one insane heartbeat you think maybe she’s done, maybe she’ll be merciful.

But then you hear the familiar buzz.

Your eyes flick sideways, wide, startled, throat dry. She’s got the vibrator Wanda left behind, her fingers curled around it like she owns it, like she’s been planning this all night.

“Natash-” you whisper, a last, futile plea. She hushes you with a finger pressed to your lips, her eyes dark, hungry, merciless.

“If you really want me to stop, tell me now.” She drags the buzzing toy down the center of your chest, slow enough to make your breath hitch. “Last chance, sweetheart.”

Your mouth works, but the words don’t come. Your wrists flex in the cuffs again, another useless fight you’ve already lost. Natasha smirks, that wicked curve of her mouth that makes your heart flip and your thighs clench.

“That’s what I thought.”

She shifts lower, bracing her weight on one arm while her free hand guides the toy lower, lower, dragging it over the soft plane of your stomach, the waistband of your sweats.

You suck in a sharp breath, eyes wide, trembling under her as the reality of it hits, the buzzing warmth so close, Natasha’s weight above you, the cuffs biting into your wrists every time you tug.

She watches your face as she drags the toy lower, the soft buzz filling the heavy hush of the safe house. Somewhere down the hall, a pipe groans, the storm outside rumbles, but in this small pocket of warmth, there’s only her. Only the way her eyes drink you in like she’s reading every secret you’ve ever tried to hide.

“Look at you.” she murmurs, voice soft but edged with steel. Her fingers skim the waistband of your sweats, tugging it down inch by inch, just enough to bare the swell of your hip, the soft curve of your stomach. “So shy a minute ago. Now you’re so quiet. Where’d all that protesting go, hmm?”

Your breath stutters. You try to twist your hips away, not really trying to escape, just an instinctive, helpless squirm. Natasha’s palm presses flat against your lower belly, holding you still like she’s pinning a butterfly to glass.

“Stay still.” she warns, voice lower now, a rumble that slides right down your spine.

You whimper, the sound half-caught in your throat, but you obey, your hips frozen under her hand, your wrists flexing uselessly in the cuffs as you feel her shift the toy closer, the faint buzz so loud it drowns out your heartbeat.

She watches your face, waiting for the exact second your eyes flutter wide. Then she lowers it, just enough for the tip to brush between your thighs through the thin fabric of your panties. The contact is feather-light, maddening, a spark that makes your legs jerk.

You choke back a sound, biting your lip hard enough to hurt. Natasha smiles. “Good girl.” she purrs, the praise slipping from her lips like honey. She circles the toy, dragging it side to side, gentle at first, making you squirm, your legs twitching under her.

Your hips buck once, an involuntary plea for more pressure, more friction, and Natasha laughs under her breath, the sound warm and wicked at once.

“What’s that?” she teases, tilting her head. Her braid slips over her shoulder, brushing your collarbone like a promise. “Thought you didn’t want this…”

You can’t speak, your mouth opens but nothing comes out, just a soft, strangled gasp that makes her grin widen. The vibration sinks through the thin fabric, hitting that sweet, sensitive spot that’s been throbbing ever since she kissed you. Your whole body arches, your breath catching in your chest like you’ve been punched. A quiet, desperate moan slips free before you can bite it back, high, soft, humiliating.

Natasha’s eyes spark. Her hand tightens on your hip, her thumb rubbing slow circles into your skin like she’s comforting you while she ruins you.

“There it is.” she murmurs, voice so low it makes your toes curl. “Don’t hold back, malyshka. Let me hear you.”

You shake your head, some small shred of pride making you try to swallow the next sound, your teeth catching your lower lip so hard it stings, but Natasha shifts, drapes herself lower over you, her mouth ghosting your ear as the toy hums harder against you.

“Don’t you dare hide from me now.” she whispers, every syllable brushing hot over your skin. Her free hand drags the waistband of your panties just enough to press the toy directly where you’re throbbing, the sudden bare contact making your whole body jolt.

Your moan breaks free, helpless, cracked, too loud in the quiet safe house. Natasha’s answering grin is pure sin.

“There’s my good girl..” she purrs, her teeth grazing your earlobe. The toy circles slow and deliberate, the rhythm steady and merciless, her palm keeping your hips pinned when you try to twist away from the overwhelming pleasure.

Your wrists strain against the cuffs again, metal biting your skin as you fight the impossible urge to grab her, to pull her closer, to do something. But there’s nothing you can do, she has you caged, your thighs trembling, your breath spilling in broken, high sounds you can’t swallow anymore.

“You want to come so bad, don’t you?” she whispers, lips brushing your ear, her breath hot and dangerous. “You wanna come on this pretty toy while you’re cuffed up and helpless for me?”

You can’t form words, just a strangled moan, your back arching so hard the cuffs clink against the floor. She hums in satisfaction, her hips rocking into yours just enough to pin you fully when you try to squirm away from the pleasure that’s already too much.

“No running, detka.” she murmurs, her tongue flicking the shell of your ear. “You take what I give you. Every second of it. Understood?”

“Please-!” you gasp. It’s not even clear what you’re begging for, more, less, mercy, ruin, all of it tangled into one desperate, broken sound.

You bite back a sob, a soft, helpless noise as the toy circles faster, the pressure building until you’re trembling under her, thighs twitching, your body begging for release.

Natasha drags her mouth to yours, kisses you slow and deep while her hand works the toy harder, just enough to push you right to the edge. Her lips curve into a smirk against yours when you break, when your moan rips free like you can’t hold it anymore.

“That’s it.” she growls, her tongue slipping into your mouth like she wants to taste every sound. “So fucking pretty when you break for me. Come on, sweetheart, come for me. Come now.”

And with her mouth devouring your cries, the toy pressed hard and perfect where you’re already so close, you shatter, your body straining against the cuffs, a helpless wreck beneath her as you moan her name like a prayer you’ll never stop whispering.

Your climax crashes over you so fast it nearly knocks the air from your lungs, heat coiling tight in your belly before it snaps, wave after wave wracking your trembling thighs. You’re gasping, whining, the cuffs clinking above your head with every shudder that runs through you.

Natasha hears it all, the wet, desperate sound of you falling apart, the high cry you fail to swallow, and she chuckles, low and warm, the sound vibrating against your throat where her lips brush your racing pulse.

“So easy for me..” she murmurs, voice dripping dark praise that makes your core clench even harder. She drags the toy away, but before your breath can steady, her hand slips lower, her palm warm, fingers slick from your arousal as she strokes you through the last waves.

You flinch, too sensitive, hips jerking away, but Natasha just laughs again, soft and predatory, pressing her weight down to keep you pinned.

“Sensitive already?” she teases, her nose brushing your jaw, her lips ghosting the shell of your ear. “Too bad.”

Then she slides lower, so fluid and lethal it makes your breath catch, trailing kisses down your neck, your chest, your stomach. Her fingers hook your panties, tugging them down your legs with a rough impatience that makes your thighs quake.

“N-Nat- wait-” you gasp, your voice cracking around the plea.

She ignores you. Of course she does. She kneels between your spread legs, palms braced on your hips as she nudges your knees wider with her shoulders. She dips her head, warm breath ghosting over your slick heat, so close you feel the whisper of her exhale where you’re soaked and throbbing.

Your whole body arches when she licks you, one slow, claiming drag of her tongue that makes your hips jerk off the rug. You try to twist away but her hands slam you back down, strong fingers digging into your hips so hard you know she’ll leave bruises.

“Stay still.” she growls, voice muffled against your dripping core, words vibrating right through your skin. “I’m not done with you yet.”

And then she devours you. There’s nothing careful about it, no slow teasing now, no mercy. She licks you like she’s starving, tongue flattening to lap up every bit of slick you’re spilling for her. The wet, obscene sounds of it fill the small room, louder than the rain hammering the windows.

A strangled moan rips from your throat, too loud, too raw, and you slap one hand over your mouth on instinct, wrist twisting in the cuff so you can half-smother the sounds she’s tearing out of you.

Natasha notices. She hums, the low vibration sparking right through you, her eyes flicking up, glinting dark and wild under her lashes. She pulls back just enough to bite your inner thigh, sharp, possessive then licks the sting away before dragging her tongue back up to circle your clit again, harder now, more ruthless.

“Move your hand.” she orders, voice rough, her breath hot against your slick heat.

You shake your head, whining into your palm, your hips bucking under her mouth like you’re trying to run from the pleasure burning you alive.

Natasha growls, an actual growl, low and feral, and hooks her arms under your thighs, hauling you impossibly closer. Her shoulder digs into your hips, pinning you down as her mouth seals over you again, tongue flicking relentless circles that have you seeing stars.

Her hand slides up, two fingers sliding into you in one slick, smooth push that makes your vision shatter white at the edges. You cry out, the sound cracking under your palm as her fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes your back arch clean off the rug.

She pulls back just enough to speak, her voice hoarse, wet, hungry. “Let me hear you, sweetheart. I want every fucking sound. Don’t you dare hide from me.”

And then her mouth is back, tongue pressing hard against your clit while her fingers pump into you, slow at first, then faster, each thrust timed perfectly with the swirl of her tongue until your hips are stuttering under her hold.

Your thighs quake, your free hand clamped over your mouth, head tossing side to side as you try and fail to stay quiet. But it’s useless, Natasha works you open like it’s her mission, each flick of her tongue and curl of her fingers pushing you higher, faster, until your muffled moans break free anyway, wrecked, begging, shameless.

Natasha moans into you, low and filthy, the sound sending another shockwave straight through your core. She pulls back just long enough to hiss against your inner thigh: “Come for me again. Messy this time. Let me taste all of it.”

Your body obeys before your mind can catch up, heat coiling sharp and tight, then snapping like a live wire as you shatter around her fingers, your moan raw and loud, echoing through the safe house while Natasha devours every drop, every twitch, like she’ll never get enough.

And when you finally go limp, trembling and ruined under her, she doesn’t stop, her mouth still wet on your skin, her fingers lazy inside you, coaxing every last shudder while you gasp her name like a prayer you’ll never stop whispering.

Your hips twitch when Natasha’s tongue flicks one last lazy circle over your oversensitive clit, and she hums a soft, amused sound at the way your whole body shudders under her hold. She kisses the inside of your thigh, her lips warm and gentle now, each soft press chasing away the edge she carved into your bones moments ago.

Slowly, she pulls back, her fingers slipping free with a slick, obscene sound that makes your cheeks burn all over again. Your legs want to close, but they’re trembling too badly to obey.

Natasha wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, but she doesn’t look away, her eyes drag over you, heavy, hungry still, but softer now too. She traces one thumb over the bruises blooming on your hips from where she pinned you down.

“Easy, detka..” she murmurs. Her voice is rough, warm in a way that makes something in your chest ache. “Look at you. So fucking pretty like this.”

Your wrists are still cuffed above your head, a dull ache that you’d almost forgotten under the ruin she made of you. You flex them weakly, the metal biting into your skin, and she sees it immediately.

Natasha shifts up your body, graceful even now, a cat stretching over its favorite spot. She straddles your waist, her knees bracketing your sides. Her fingers find the cuffs and for a heartbeat she just holds them, thumb brushing your pulse point where it flutters wild and soft under her touch.

“Did I hurt you?” she asks, and her voice isn’t teasing now, isn’t mocking. It’s careful, threaded with something raw that settles in your chest.

You shake your head, a tiny, exhausted movement. Your throat feels raw, your mouth wrecked from the way you bit back moans that tore free anyway. “N-no. I’m, I’m okay.”

She clicks the cuffs open one at a time, the cold metal slipping free, her touch instantly there to rub small soothing circles into your wrists. She lifts them to her mouth, kissing the red marks left behind, her lips soft, reverent where her hands had pinned you down moments ago.

“Good girl..” she murmurs, her mouth brushing your skin between words. “So good for me.”

Your eyes flutter shut, warmth pooling in your chest that has nothing to do with the heat between your legs. When you open them again, she’s looking at you, really looking. Her eyes softer than they’ve been all night, a half-smirk playing at the corner of her mouth that can’t quite hide the fondness in her gaze.

She leans down, pressing her forehead to yours, your noses brushing, her breath warm on your cheek. She tastes you on your own lips when she kisses you, slow this time, no edge, just her mouth moving over yours like she’s sealing you up, gathering all your broken pieces and fitting them back together in her hands.

“You did so well for me.” she whispers against your mouth, her thumb stroking your cheek, brushing away the damp warmth you didn’t realize was there. “So sweet. So fucking perfect.”

Your fingers- free now drift up to tangle in her braid, weak but needing her closer anyway. She lets you tug her down, lets you hide your burning face in her neck while her hand drifts over your side, your hip, gentle now where she was ruthless before.

“Easy, moya lyubov.” she murmurs into your hair, lips pressing to your temple, your jaw, your throat like she’s tasting you all over again, softer this time. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You try to speak , to tell her something, anything, but all that comes out is a shaky little laugh that breaks into a sigh when she tucks you tighter under her body. She shifts, rolling you both to your sides so she can spoon you against her chest, one leg hooked protectively over yours, her hand splayed warm on your stomach where you’re still trembling under her touch.

She kisses your shoulder, a slow, soft thing that settles the last wild flutter in your chest. “I’ve got you.” she says again, a promise this time, soft and dark and sure. “Mine now, mm? No more hiding.”

Natasha holds you steady while your breath evens out, her mouth brushing your hair while her fingers trace lazy circles on your bare skin, a warm, quiet worship that says you’re hers now, and she’ll never let you forget it.

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