itsaurriebaby

[itsaurriebaby]

Sex Education: The Talk

Luke and Kieran / Sylus x mc

Word count: 1.4k | Reading Time: 8 min | humor

Part 1: Is Miss Hunter pregnant?

A/N: A few of you have asked how “The Talk” with the twins would play out. So here is it.

With a long, suffering sigh, Sylus clasped his hands, exuding the razor-thin calm of someone hanging by a thread.

“Alright. Listen carefully. Babies happen when a man and a woman—”

Luke gasped. “Only a man and a woman? What if it’s two men? Or two women? Or like… someone and a cyborg?”

Sylus’s eye twitched. “That’s…”

Kieran raised his hand. “So it’s not kissing?”

“No.”

“Not holding hands really hard?” Like continued.

"No"

“What about cuddling together.”

Sylus exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “For the last time—NO.” Both twins blinked, baffled. “There’s a process. It involves… physical intimacy. Specific body parts.” Sylus’s eye twitched again. “In most cases, when a man and a woman decide to have a child, the man’s seed fertilizes the woman’s egg.”

“…Like gardening?” Kieran asked.

“No,” Sylus said flatly.

“Then why’s it called a seed?” Luke pressed.

“Because that’s the term,” Sylus snapped. “Be quiet and let me explain.”

Mephisto tilted his head, feathers puffing. “Caw?”

“Don’t you start either,” Sylus muttered darkly. “Now. When the egg is fertilized, it develops into an embryo, which grows in the womb for nine months before the baby is born.”

Luke’s eyes went wide. “Grows inside? Like… a parasite?”

“Technically—” Sylus started, then stopped himself. “It’s not a parasite, Luke.”

Kieran grimaced. “Sounds like chestbursters. From Alien.”

“Does it hurt?” Luke asked.

Sylus rubbed his temple. “The process of… doing it? No. Having the baby? Yes.”

Luke tilted his head. “Like… bullet wound? Or broken bones?”

“Worse,” Sylus deadpanned.

Luke frowned. “So when Boss and Miss Hunter disappear into the bedroom and put the music loud—”

“LUKE.” Sylus barked, slamming his hand on the desk, face darkening. “Do not finish that sentence.”

You doubled over laughing, clutching your stomach. “Why are you so ashamed, Sy?” you teased, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Okay, okay,” you added quickly, still giggling. “Let’s stop traumatizing everyone. Clearly, they need proper sex education, not… whatever this is.” Sylus gave you a look like he’d rather be executed.

You smiled sweetly. “We should do it safely, responsibly. Answer all their questions, make sure they actually understand how it works.”

Sylus groaned, leaning back in his chair, utterly defeated. Then he caught your hand on his shoulder, brought it up, and pressed a kiss against your knuckles. “Sweetie…” His voice was low, resigned. “…why do you want to do this to me?”

You grinned, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Because you look adorable when you act like a dad.”

---

An hour later, you gather all together for a little documentary time. The room was dark except for the cold glow of the screen. Zayne’s recommended “excellent educational resource” played in monotone narration for the last 20 minutes.

“The human reproductive system begins with the fusion of a haploid spermatozoon with a haploid ovum, producing a diploid zygote—”

Luke’s head lolled back, mouth open, soft snoring already audible. Kieran was face-first into the couch drooling. Mephisto was nested on a cushion, half asleep. And Sylus sat slouched next to you, arms crossed, eyes closed, pretending very badly that he was just “resting his eyes.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. The headache hit somewhere around “meiosis II ensures gametic diversity.”

You grabbed your phone, wanting to complain to Zayne but you glanced at the time. Late. Way too late. If he knew you were still awake, you’d get the scolding of your life.

So, you stood, clapping your hands sharply. “Alright. Enough of this science droning. Up. All of you.”

Luke jolted, nearly spilling the empty popcorn bowl. Kieran groaned, dragging his mask back up. Mephisto fell off with a startled caw. And Sylus straightened like nothing had happened, smoothing his shirt. “I wasn’t asleep,” he muttered.

You smirked. “Sure you weren’t.” He narrowed his eyes, but the faint pink in his ears gave him away.

The next day, you decided enough was enough. If no one else could teach them properly, you would.

You gathered the troops in the living room: Luke, Kieran, Mephisto perched proudly on the back of the couch… and Sylus, whom you made sit right beside them. Handing out notebooks and snacks, you declared, ‘This is going to be a full workshop. We’re doing this right.’

For three hours you went through it all: charts, diagrams, busting old myths (“No, you don't get pregnant in a jacuzzi", "Don't use oil as lubrication"), protection, risks, and yes… the fun part too. You explained patiently, ignoring Sylus’s long-suffering sighs and the twins’ increasingly wide-eyed stares.

During the “lesson,” you held up a banana and a foil packet.

“Alright, protection time,” you said, tearing it open. “This is a condom. You use it to prevent pregnancy and protect yourself from STDs. Watch." You rolled the condom down over the banana, showing how it should fit snugly. “See? Easy. Always check it isn’t expired, don’t double up, and—”

Luke immediately grabbed one from the box, eyes wide. “Wait, does it actually fit, like… on me?”

Kieran snorted. “Yeah, I wanna check too—”

Both of them started tugging at their belts, curious. “OW!” Both twins yelped at the exact same time as Sylus smacked them hard on the back of their heads.

“Keep your damn pants on.” Sylus barked, glaring down at them.

Luke rubbed his head, grumbling. “How are we supposed to know if it fits then?”

Kieran frowned seriously. “Yeah. What if I get the wrong size and it… y’know… explodes?”

Sylus groaned. “I swear, I’m going to kill you both before you reproduce.”

Mephisto fluttered his wings and promptly stole a condom packet in his beak, flying off with it. Just because it was shiny. Finally, to wrap it all up, you clicked open a video. The twins leaned forward.

Ten seconds in, Luke gasped. “Is this—?”

“Yes,” you said firmly, blushing but committed. “This is what it looks like.”

The room went dead silent. The screen lit up with a porn video, full-on moaning, sweat, bodies moving together, every detail clear. The twins froze. Kieran blinked once.

“Holy shit. They’re… they’re inside each other.”

For ten minutes you let it run, then you cleared your throat, trying to keep your composure.

And then Luke broke it. “So you do all of this with Boss-man?”

You opened your mouth to give the most adult, responsible answer possible only for Sylus to leap up, cover your mouth with his hand, and growl, “Kitten. They don’t need to know everything.”

Your cheeks burned hot.

Kieran blinked, then shook his head. “Wow. You two are freaky.”

Luke groaned, covering his face. “We get it. I’m gonna have nightmares…”

Kieran nudged him, muttering, “Told you we should move to another floor.”

Luke nodded, already grabbing his controller. “Yeah. I’ll set up Silent Hill later. Way less scary than this.”

Mephisto flapped his wings, letting out a horrified caaawww.

And just like that, the twins shuffled off, mumbling about horror games and popcorn, leaving you standing there, still half-blushing.

Sylus eyes pinned you instantly. “Sweetie,” he drawled, that tone sounded like you in trouble, “what the hell were you thinking?”

You blinked innocently. “What do you mean?”

“Showing them porn?” He hissed the word. “They’re traumatized enough just hearing us through the walls.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “I was just being honest. They deserved the full picture.”

His hand came down to your hips. “Too honest. You don’t need to prove everything.”

You leaned up, brushed a kiss against his jaw, and whispered against his skin, “Mmh… maybe you’re right.” Another kiss at his throat. “But, I still have a student here and I have prepared a practical demonstration...” Your lips curved in a smile as you pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “…just for you.”

Sylus’s scolding expression cracked, a slow smirk tugging at his mouth. “Kitten…”

You giggled, tugging him closer. “Do you want to test if your teacher knows what she’s talking about?”

----

Luke and Kieran sat slumped on the sofa, the horror game still paused on the TV screen. From down the corridor came the unmistakable sound of muffled moans, faint but definitely there. Mephisto flow down onto the couch between them, dropping the stolen condom packet he’d carried off earlier.

Kieran slowly lowered his controller, eyes wide. “...Yeah. I’m going to pack my stuff.”

Luke panicked, grabbing his arm. “Wait, don’t leave me here!”

Go to MASTERLIST

[itsaurriebaby]

Shoving your hands down Caleb’s pants.

Your goal had been payback for all the times his wandering hands found their way down the front of your underwear. For all the times you had been half asleep and his hands sought warmth between your plush thighs.

A taste of his own medicine. Not that you didn’t enjoy the feeling of Caleb’s hands pressed snuggly to your center. You just felt that you were owed the same right.

So, you planned meticulously, the end goal now hovered just inches away from your prying fingers.

It wasn’t often Caleb let you be the big spoon, and while you were certain you’d be able to pull this off in any position, being the big spoon was ideal for easy access.

He had nodded off a few minutes ago, his breathing deep and even as he melted into the safety of your small arms. One that you had kept draped over his waist, hand splayed across his stomach as you rubbed warm, soothing circles.

Your other arm had snuck up his body, slotting between his pillow and his neck. Letting him fall asleep on it the same way he always let you fall asleep on his.

Snuggling your face further into his back, nuzzling the spot between his shoulders where his spine resided, you slowly move your hand down his abdomen. Inch by inch, until you’re running over the smooth skin he constantly shaves.

Inching lower until the tips of your fingers slip under the waistband of his sleep pant, under the elastic waist of his briefs. Dancing dangerously close to the patch of dark hair that covered his groin. Warmth radiated from him, hotter than the rest of his body, it made you smile.

You sat there for a moment, monitoring his breathing before you dared to trek lower. Caleb, however, was still sound asleep. So? You ventured lower, fingers gliding through the hair to wrap around his base.

He was soft, not showing any signs of recognition as your delicate fingers held him. You felt victorious, and ever so slightly annoyed that you enjoyed this. Now, you couldn’t tease your lover for his odd little habit of needing to hold your most sensitive parts… the warmth was nice.

Any intentions you had of being bratty slowly slipped out the window. Your eyelids heavy, sleep’s embrace enveloping you within the warmth of the blankets and Caleb’s body heat. Maybe you’d truly succeed next time.

Caleb wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep before his bleary eyes were met with the dark bedroom. It was still quite late…early? Either way, no where near sunrise.

He had attempted to roll over in his sleep, legs shifting so his hips could do most of the work.

That was when he felt it. Something warm, small, and oddly familiar just below his pants. His hand moved erratically, landing on the blankets just above his groin.

Slowly, while his brain was still thick with sleep and not quite processing everything at once, he realized it was your hand wrapped around the base of his dick. A half-delirious laugh rattled his chest, the smirk on his face dopey.

It seems you had learned from the best… he couldn’t exactly be mad at you for that now could he?

Listen… I have no explanation for this one. Don’t judge me 🫵🫩

[itsaurriebaby]

I WANT YOU 2! (=͟͟͞♡)

synopsis: reader is down bad, megumi is no longer in denial. (it’s better to read this after part 1!)

(a/n): pt 2’s make me anxious… TT i can’t tell if this is the worst thing i’ve ever made or if it’s cute. it’s 3AM and i’m a bit sleepy, but i hope you guys enjoy this nonetheless!

taglist: @xotittyloverxo @restrictionsapply

[itsaurriebaby]

| Send Please? |

smau ;; You ask jjk men for boob pics

contains ;; modern AU, fem!reader, crack, suggestive, stupid jokes, mentions of mpreg

ft ;; gojo, geto, sukuna, choso, toji

A/N ;; second smau cus I got bored again, also I saw this idea on another blog but I forgot who

[itsaurriebaby]

[itsaurriebaby]

I’m on top of him btw.

https://weibo.com/u/5494898136

[itsaurriebaby]

which thigh is it resting on?

with: zayne, caleb, sylus, rafayel, xavier

content: crack, suggestive

[itsaurriebaby]

LaDs: Great, now I’m wet

Part 1: Sylus, Zayne, Caleb

~ again, this is only my second time doing an SMAU so I apologize if the boys are OOC at all! But this is the SMAU smut/crack idea I was talking about yesterday so hehe I hope it’s enjoyable!

Sylus

Zayne

Caleb

[itsaurriebaby]

🥺

[itsaurriebaby]

Peek-a-boo !

smau;; jjk men accidentally send you a dick pic

contains;; accidental nudes, crack, gn!reader (I think...), sexual jokes, mentions of ass eating, established relationship

ft;; gojo, geto, yuji, megumi, choso, toji

A/N;; let's all ignore the typos 😓

[itsaurriebaby]

Gunpoint 🙊

Why don't they just share her? I'm sure she wouldn't mind (ik I wouldn't 🫠).

Credit: (wqndyd)

[itsaurriebaby]

artist: Cassie

[itsaurriebaby]

Jumping into a pair of jeans in front of the LADS Men: [suggestive/ fluff] 👖

❄️Zayne:

He’d taken notice to your changing figure, lately. Thighs fuller, hips plush and your posterior—filling out everything a bit more snug. Zayne isn’t one to be distracted, but when you asked for his opinion on a new pair of jeans, he sat attentively at the edge of the bed and waited. You strolled out of the bathroom casually in plain panties and a tee shirt, he swallowed at the subtle jiggle of your thighs. “Okay, don’t hold back, I want to know if I need to return these,” you said, stepping into both legs. Zayne’s eyes travelled from your feet to your face, nodding politely, “I’m sure they’ll look fine, love.” You hum and begin to tug the jeans up. At first they slide with ease over your calves, but once you reach your hips, you began to wiggle.

He cleared his throat, adjusting his posture, sitting stiff as a soldier. Then you started jumping, grunting with annoyance when the pants were caught under the shelf of your ass. Zayne’s heart rate spiked, a cool sweat started to bloom on the back of his neck. Finally you ripped the zipper up and clasped the button, sighing with relief. You spun around, meeting a very flustered, blushing Zayne. “Are you okay?,” you giggled closing the distance, standing between his knees. He trailed his hands slowly over your curves, lingering around your hips and bum. For a moment, his hold rested on your waist before he could manage to speak, “yes—I just think we should leave before I lose anymore composure.”

🐦‍⬛Sylus:

You were both getting ready for a date at a wildlife park, so casual dress made the most sense. Sylus went with a matching linen set with a tank underneath the button down shirt and sunglasses to protect his sensitive eyes. Rummaging through a few options, you finally decided on jeans and a crop top. Standing in front of the floor length mirror, you slid the shirt over your head, “what do you think, Sy?” He looked up from where he sat in the corner of the walk-in closet, “cute, simple. I like it.” His words were short, but not cold, the silver haired man was simply trying to stay focused. Sylus always admired your body, and it was evident the new training protocols from the Hunter’s Association made some changes to your physique. You were growing in some areas, had a few new stretch marks too—but he only wanted to sink his teeth in or trace his tongue over every inch of flesh.

His stare became more intense when you attempted to pull the jeans up your thighs. There were parts of your body jiggling and bouncing that weren’t just a few weeks ago. “Ugh, this training has made me so—,” “you look stunning, Sweetie,” he interrupted, suddenly behind you. His lips grazed your ear and fingers curled into the waistline, giving the jeans a final tug over your ass. “If I hear you complain about this beautiful body again,” he popped your butt with a sharp spank, “there will be consequences.”

🍎Caleb:

Caleb had a rare weekend off from the Fleet, so you decided on a visit to the model plane museum. You also wanted to coordinate outfits. He wore wide cut jeans and a cut off tank, showcasing his perfect biceps. Your clothes were laid out on the bed, as you knelt over to grab them–only wearing a bra and panties, Caleb walked in. “Oh–! S-sorry,” he stuttered, cheeks already a deep pink. A mixture of a scoff and laugh broke from your lips, “Caleb, it’s fine. You’re my boyfriend y’know.” His throat bobbed with a dry swallow, “right.”The two of you started working out together recently, focusing on weight training. After a few months, he took notice of not only your muscles, but the fullness of your thighs and ass.

“How many leg days are you hitting, Pips?,” he asked, eyes dipping to low, lip caught in his teeth. You began pulling an old pair of jeans over your calves, “only 3 days, like you told me. Why?” Caleb fisted the sheets so hard his knuckles whitened. You could just barely stretch the fabric over your curves, one wrong move and he swore the seams would tear. You paid him no mind, bouncing and wiggling them into place. “Okay, I’m good to go—Caleb?!,” you let out a startled gasp, running to the bedside where he sat. A thin trickle of blood ran from under his nose. He hadn’t even noticed, but your frantic voice brought him out of his trance. “What? What’s wrong?,” “your nose! It’s bleeding!” He let out a breathy chuckle, “oh that—must be allergies.” Then his hands settled on your waist, “or maybe it’s this figure of yours, drivin’ me insane.” Your cheeks flushed, standing immediately to change. Caleb caught your wrist, “Honey, this isn’t the first time you’ve given me a nosebleed, trust me I’d tell you.” You weren’t sure how to respond, he snickered again and ruffled your hair. “Let’s get going before I rip these off, though.”

🐚Rafayel:

Today, you were assisting Rafayel at the studio, organizing several paintings for his next art exhibition. Since you would be moving a lot of large pieces, you wanted to wear something you wouldn’t mind getting a bit dingy. It was also getting close to your cycle, meaning your body was a little puffier than usual. After one of Rafayel’s lengthy baths, he walked into the bedroom, waist loosely wrapped with a towel. “Thomas is already blowing up my phone,” he whined, tossing his cell on the bed. You pulled a light camisole over your shoulders, then reached for a pair of jeans off the dresser. Rafayel watched the simple ritual of you getting dressed like it was his own private show. His sunset eyes traced over every curve, dimple and crease of your body.

A quiet huff blew from your lips as you prepared to muscle the pants up. They squeezed around your thighs, barely sliding over the swell of your ass. A few small jumps and wiggles and they finally sat in place. Just as you reached for the zipper, a pair of hands overlapped your own. “Cutie…allow me,” Rafayel purred, pulling you flush against his waist. His slender fingers fastened the zipper and button with ease, but he kept his hands on your hips, digging into the plush beneath denim. Your breath hitched, meeting his hungry gaze over your shoulder, “we should really get going…” “Pft, Thomas can wait, I want to stare at this work of art a little longer.”

⭐️Xavier:

Tara had been hounding you and Xavier for an overdue hang out at her place. When your busy schedules finally aligned, you set a date, looking forward to an evening with them both. The weekend rolled around and you were glad the theme was comfy and casual. You opted for one of his hoodies and a pair of jeans. He was reclined in one of his beanbag chairs, watching you pace through the bedroom, hoodie just touching the tops of your knees. Since dating Xavier, you gained a bit of “happy” or “boyfriend” weight. You didn’t mind, though; if anything, your new curves made you more confident. Xavier was just as pleased, the king of naps always looked forward to lying on your thighs, tummy or bum.

When you began bunny hopping around the room to get your pants on, however, he was wide awake. The oversized hoodie did no justice, every jump and wiggle made the fabric ride up, exposing your soft curves. No matter how much you shimmied, the jeans remained stuck—leaving you spilling over the waistline. Still determined, you weren’t about to give up, you just needed a little more strength. “Ugh, Xavie—help,” you whined. The man was no use, brain short circuiting, pupils blown wide. “Xavier?,” he blinked rapidly, finally standing to assist you. His greyish blue eyes, lingered for a while, entranced with the way the denim fabric stretched across your hips. Curling his fingers into the belt loops, he gave them a firm tug. “Are you sure it’s just going to be us there?,” he asked, lips brushing your neck, hands lowering to your ass. “Yes, Xavie, I swear.” He hummed quietly, leaving a chaste kiss behind your ear, “good, because after that I really want to keep you to myself.”

*~*~*~*

Writer’s note: hope you enjoyed reading! Please reblog if you liked it. More LADS Fics on my profile. :)

[itsaurriebaby]

bewitched body and soul — gojo satoru

synopsis. in which emperor gojo spirals after coming to the conclusion that his childhood best friend has a suitor.

contents. gojo’s pov, hurt/comfort (mainly for gojo), obsessive behavior, emperor!gojo, jealousy, period piece, LOVESICK gojo and oblivious reader but who is surprised. inspired by the apothecary diaries

notes. i hate this but it’s been rotting in my drafts for far too long. not proofread, enjoy!! :P

It is late when you return to the palace from your weekly trip to visit the town that sits outside of the palace walls. The late-summer cicadas drone in their endless chorus as your sandals glide over the polished hinoki floors of the lacquered corridor.

In your hands is a single, pale flower. It is no more than a roadside bloom, something hardly worth a second glance, yet you cradle it as though it were the most precious jewel in the Imperial treasury.

You smile down at it, and without realizing it, the smile travels up and out until it spills across your face. It is different from the polite, measured smile reserved for courtiers and strangers.

This smile is the one Gojo knows—treasures—because it’s the smile you give him. It is the one that sparked his never ending infatuation for you.

But now it is not reserved just for him.

You don’t notice the slight stiffening of the air, the way his tall figure hides away at the far end of the corridor like a bad omen. You certainly don’t hear the sharp inhale he takes, or the quiet way his jaw tightens to the point a tooth cracks. The feeling that creeps up inside of him, all thorny and winding tight in his ribs is not much anger, but rather a twisted form of jealousy. It is something that Gojo thought he would never feel, considering he had everything he could ever want in life.

When you pause to smooth your indigo sleeves, he’s already there.

“Where,” Gojo’s voice is low and deceptively calm, “did you get that flower?”

You bow your head in greeting, eyes darting from the bloom to him. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Your Majesty.”

Under normal circumstances, Gojo would entertain your smart mouth—a privilege only reserved for you, his one and only beloved. But today, he thinks you are going to drive him insane, and not in the usual way that gets him all excited.

Before he can speak again, you slip beyond the sliding screens with a chuckle, leaving him with nothing but the sound of your retreating steps.

For the rest of the evening, the palace feels wrong. Every corridor a little too long, and every servant a little too watchful as they steer clear of the emperor’s path. Gojo moves through the palace like a storm cloud dressed in ceremonial robes, cerulean eyes scanning faces as if one might crack under his gaze and confess the truth. He has to figure out where you had gotten that flower from.

Much to his vexation, no one does.

When subtle inquiry fails, he turns to less subtle methods—summoning half the staff under the pretense of “routine questioning.” Through interrogative means, Gojo tries to force any information the servants may have about your whereabouts earlier that day. While he wishes you would just tell him, Satoru worries about driving you away before he can make you his.

Tomorrow, he decides, he will go there himself. He will find the culprit, and they will have to suffer like he has all day long. He hasn’t yet decided what the punishment will be—banishment, perhaps. Or public execution, depending on how charming this mysterious rival is.

He’s halfway into imagining said execution when his daydream is rudely interrupted.

“What are you smiling about?”

Your voice cuts through his murderous fantasy.

Gojo looks up from the low table, where the two of you sit hunched over a game of Go. His grin is all teeth. “Nothing!”

You narrow your eyes. “Suspicious...” You know better than to trust an overly happy Satoru.

He doesn’t deny it.

“Anyway,” you say, placing your black stone on the board with deliberate finality. “Your move.”

Gojo leans back, studying the game. His smile curves suggestively. “If I win, will you give me a kiss?”

“No.”

“You didn’t even—”

“No.”

“You didn’t think about it—”

“I don’t need to.” You scrunch your nose at him in mock disgust.

He pouts, but only for a second before leaning forward again. He plays a move so unnecessarily aggressive that you’re forced to sigh.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s already picturing the scene in the town square tomorrow: the mysterious stranger—was he taller than Gojo? Somehow even more handsome? Whoever they are, they will rue the day they offered you a pathetic roadside bloom.

The morning air in the city is already heavy with heat, and the sun glints off the tiled roofs as Gojo steps through the main gate. He wears no ceremonial robes—just a plain indigo haori. It’s the kind of disguise meant to blend him into the crowd. It’s a poor excuse of a disguise, however, as there is no hiding the way he carries himself. He moves with the unhurried grace of someone used to ruling the space he occupies.

Gojo tries to scan the town square without appearing to. It is nothing he has not seen before. Stalls bursting with color, glossy lacquerware, folded silks, baskets of plums and melons. The market is filled with haggling voices and the sizzle of food over open braziers.

It would almost be pleasant, if he weren’t here with the singular purpose of finding the one who dared give you that flower.

Gojo doesn’t even know what he’s looking for. A courtier who slipped from the palace? A poet who lingers near the gates, waiting for your return? Whoever they are, they had placed something in your hands that made you smile in a way that has lived uninvited in his mind all night.

He begins to spiral once more before something catches his eye.

A small patch of pale blooms growing stubbornly between the cracks in the cobblestones near the fountain.

And someone kneeling there.

Gojo slows his pace, every step deliberate, the noise of the square dimming in his ears. The figure is slight, hunched over, fingers moving with care as they pluck a bloom from the earth.

His pulse ticks higher. He steps closer.

The figure turns.

It’s—a child.

No more than six, with dark hair sticking up in uneven tufts and cheeks smudged with dirt. The boy blinks at him, a bit of dried fruit halfway to his mouth, then—without hesitation—holds the flower out.

Gojo just stares.

“You’re very tall,” the boy announces, and pushes the flower closer until Gojo, almost by reflex, takes it.

“You gave one of these to someone yesterday,” Gojo says, his voice quieter than he expects.

The boy nods, already distracted by the sound of laughter across the square. “The pretty lady who tied my sandal when it came loose.” He shrugs, as though that explains everything.

“Ah.” The realization hits Gojo.

The boy eyes the indigo haori draped over his shoulders, then tilts his head thoughtfully.

“Are you… her husband?”

Gojo feels his chest swell, a warm pride blooming in his chest. “Yes,” he says without hesitation. “What gave it away?”

“Your haori… it’s the same color as hers.”

The boy’s observation stuns him. Smart kid. In seconds, he had noticed what had eluded you for years: that Gojo had imported matching dye, subtle but deliberate, reserved just for the two of you. It was a quiet statement he had crafted it just for you… and now, somehow, a child had seen it first.

And then he’s gone, darting toward a group of other children chasing a runaway chicken.

Gojo stands there, flower in hand, feeling the slow unwinding of all the tension he had been carrying since last night. But it doesn’t bring him relief.

Because the image that stays with him isn’t the child’s dirt-streaked grin—it’s the thought of you, bending down to tie the boy’s sandal, sunlight catching in your hair, that unguarded smile curving your lips. A treasure he had tried to monopolize all of his life.

He tucks the bloom into his sleeve and turns back toward the palace.

Gojo returns from the city earlier than expected. His stride is unhurried, but there’s a stiffness in his shoulders that gives him away. You’re already seated on the veranda, steam curling from your cup of green tea when he steps into view.

“I didn’t see you at the council meeting this morning,” you remark, not looking at him right away. The light from the setting sun paints the polished wood amber.

“I was in the city.”

You hum, the sound neither curious nor dismissive. “I hope this impromptu trip had nothing to do with all of the servants scurrying around in fear since last night.”

“Something like that.”

He lowers himself onto the cushion opposite you. His hands are empty, but his eyes keep flicking to the space between yours and the low table, as though checking for something that isn’t there.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” you ask, finally meeting his gaze.

“Yes,” he says, but there’s a hesitation in the way the word lands. “It was… nothing.”

“Nothing.” You repeat it slowly, letting it hang between you.

Gojo leans back, gaze sliding away toward the garden. “A misunderstanding.”

You watch him for a beat longer before setting down your cup. “Tell me.”

His jaw shifts, an almost imperceptible movement, yet it betrays a hesitation he rarely allows himself.

“I thought… you’d been wooed by someone,” he admits, his voice quiet. “I wanted to see if he was worthy of your hand.”

You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head in amusement. “And what gave you that foolish idea?”

“The flower,” he says, and the words taste bitter as he lets them slip. “From the child in the square.”

You snort softly, the sound brushing past him with effortless grace. “You have an entire country at your command,” you say, voice light, teasing, “and yet… you worry that I may marry? I don’t understand you, Satoru.”

Gojo swallows, fighting the pull of wanting to tell you—wanting to admit that every glance, every accidental brush of your hand, leaves him raw. That seeing you smile at a child, or at anyone else, twists his chest in ways he can’t bear.

If only you knew.

If only you could see the way his heart clenches at the thought of losing you, the way every joke he masks his longing behind is just a poor shield against how utterly undone he is by you.

“You’ve been brooding over a roadside bloom,” you say it as if it were that simple.

His gaze snaps back to you, sharp. “Not just the flower, but the way you looked at it.”

Something shifts subtly. You sit straighter. “And how did I look at it?”

“Like it mattered.” His tone is even, but there’s an edge there. It is one you’ve only heard a handful of times. “And I…” He breaks off, as if catching himself in a rare moment of honesty. “…I’m not fond of sharing.”

For a long moment, you say nothing. The weight of his words hangs there, mingling with the evening breeze and the scent of camellias from the garden.

When you finally speak, your voice is soft but unflinching. “And if it had been from someone else?”

His pale eyes fix on you, unblinking. “Then I would have dealt with them.”

It’s not a threat, but a promise.

You hold his gaze until the space between you feels taut, like a drawn bowstring. Then, with deliberate calm, you reach for your tea again.

“Fortunately for your would-be victim,” you say, “it was just a child.”

He exhales, but it’s not quite relief.

The cicadas drone on, and somewhere in the palace, a bell marks the hour. Neither of you moves to end the conversation.

The silence between you stretches. Gojo breaks that silence.

“Don’t give that smile to anyone else.”

You set down your brush. “And if I do?”

His answer is slow, but deliberate. “Then I’ll have to remind you who it belongs to.”

extra!

-it’s not uncommon for gojo to try to make bets with you during games.

-BUT he purposely loses every one just to see you smile.

-you make of satoru’s obsessive behavior a product of his upbringing rather than a result of his undying devotion to wooing you.

[itsaurriebaby]

DADDY’S HOME lads men

𝓢UM : lads men as dads ! featuring — xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus & caleb ( seperate )

» 𝓒W : fluff, parenthood, domestic life, a bit of crack and chaos

» 𝓐/N : this is my personal interpretation of the men being dads and how I imagine them with their kids

XAVIER !

Your little son is the perfect mix of both of you, with Xavier’s soft blue eyes and your smile. He’s about five now, absolutely obsessed with his dad, following him around the house while Xavier’s on his day off.

“Papa… papa… can we play hunter and wanderer again?”

Xavier, exhausted but devoted, nods and lets his son climb onto his back, pretending to be a fierce wanderer while your boy smacks him lightly with a foam sword, giggling uncontrollably. Thirty minutes in, silence fills the room. You finish folding the laundry and walk into the living room to check on them.

Your eyes soften instantly.

Xavier’s sprawled out on the carpet, his head resting on a cushion, mouth slightly parted in peaceful sleep. Curled up against his chest is your little son, tiny fingers clutching his dad’s shirt, equally knocked out.

You stand there, heart swelling, as you watch them breathe in sync, your husband’s strong arm protectively around your son even in sleep. Your hands automatically go to your swollen belly, rubbing gently.

“Looks like your brother tired papa out again, huh little one?” you whisper to your baby bump with a fond smile.

ZAYNE !

The house is filled with childish giggles as your twin toddlers play around their father. Your son, a ball of endless energy with your eyes and Zayne’s gentle features, clings to him like a koala, refusing to let go.

“Papa! Up! UP!”

Zayne chuckles softly, lifting him with one arm effortlessly as your daughter sits quietly on his lap, watching her brother’s chaos with amused eyes. She has Zayne’s hair and your lips, the sweetest little princess. She’s holding her father’s big hand in her tiny ones, tracing his long fingers with her own chubby ones.

Zayne looks down at her with a smile so pure and radiant it makes your eyes sting with tears.

“My sweet girl… does papa’s hand look big?”

She nods silently, still tracing, and Zayne leans down to press a soft kiss on her hair. Your son is now hanging onto his father’s shoulders upside down, giggling hysterically as Zayne secures him gently with his other arm, balancing them both effortlessly.

“Careful, sweet boy… papa doesn’t want you to fall…”

You watch from the kitchen doorway, overwhelmed with how peaceful and warm the sight is – your healer husband surrounded by his children, glowing with happiness in the late afternoon sun.

RAFAYEL !

Your son is the literal carbon copy of his father. Same pink eyes, same purple hair, same pouty lips. You’re sitting on the couch scrolling your phone when Rafayel walks in, dressed in his casual loose black tee and sweats, sketchbook in hand.

“Come to papa, my little muse~” he coos dramatically, arms spread wide to his son sitting beside you.

Your son glares at him with narrowed pink eyes, puffing his chubby cheeks out angrily as he clings to your arm.

“Mama!!” he whines, turning away from his father’s outstretched hands.

Rafayel sighs, offended, flipping his hair back (or at least trying to with his short hair). He sits beside you, resting his chin on your shoulder to look at his glaring son.

“You wound me, darling boy. Why do you hate papa so much today?”

Your son kicks his little feet towards Rafayel’s face with a furious squeak, smacking his pudgy hands onto your chest as if claiming you as his territory.

“Mama only!! Go ‘way!!”

You stifle your laughter as Rafayel sighs dramatically again, placing a kiss on your temple before poking your son’s cheek lightly.

“You are truly your father’s son… but remember, I made you.”

Your son’s cheeks puff even bigger as he growls at his father, making you giggle uncontrollably.

SYLUS !

Sylus sits in his office chair, typing away on his laptop as a petite little girl perches elegantly in his lap, nibbling on tiny fruit pieces he’s feeding her absentmindedly. Her hair is sleek and brushed, tied with an expensive black velvet bow, and she wears a designer baby dress tailored by the best underground seamstress.

“Daddy…” she says softly, staring up at him with your big eyes.

“Hm?”

“Can you braid my hair like the princess today?”

He hums thoughtfully, placing his laptop aside despite the glowing red urgent messages popping up. He picks up a silver comb from his desk drawer (yes, he keeps one for her) and begins braiding her hair with precise, practiced fingers. At the end, he clips a rare sapphire butterfly clip into her braid.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, brushing her cheek softly.

She beams up at him proudly, already knowing she’s a princess. Sylus then picks up his laptop again with one hand while his other arm wraps protectively around her.

A subordinate bursts into the room, panting.

“Boss! We have an urgent—”

Sylus silences him with a single glare before feeding his daughter another grape.

“Leave. Can’t you see I’m busy with my little queen?”

The subordinate bows shakily and flees as your daughter giggles softly, leaning back into her father’s chest. She already knows her place as heir to his underground empire, glowing with the same commanding aura as her daddy.

CALEB !

Your living room is chaos. There’s toys everywhere, pillows on the floor, and your three sons are wrestling with each other, squealing and laughing while Caleb sits on the floor with his massive arms folded, supervising like a giant guard dog.

“Boys! Gentle!” he rumbles softly, but they ignore him, tackling each other with giggles.

Your daughter sits in his lap, her tiny hands playing with the string of his sweatpants, completely unbothered by her brothers’ chaos. She looks exactly like you, with your soft smile and pretty eyes, wearing a fluffy pink onesie with “DADDY’S PRINCESS” written on the back.

Caleb looks down at her, his entire face softening as he strokes her little cheek with his thumb.

“Finally… my mini pipsqueak,” he whispers, tearing up dramatically as he kisses the top of her head.

Flashback to when she was born: Caleb fell to his knees next to your hospital bed, clutching your hand as he sobbed into it.

“Thank you… THANK YOU!! No more mini me, pipsqueak!!! I finally have a mini you!!!”

Your daughter’s brothers adore her, always protecting and playing with her gently. Caleb ruffles their hair roughly but with so much love, chuckling deeply.

“Listen up, boys. You protect your sister with your life, alright? No punk’s ever getting close to her without facing you three and your old man.”

They nod seriously before going back to wrestling. Your daughter coos softly, pulling his hoodie strings to her mouth. Caleb melts into a puddle instantly.

“She can do anything she wants,” he whispers under his breath, smitten beyond repair.

[itsaurriebaby]

marriage is sharing a life, a bed, and 90+ decibels of snoring. ˃̵ᴗ˂̵

you know two things about your husband with absolute certainty.

one: satoru will always, always come back to you—cocky grin first, a victory strut second, and the dumbest, most expensive sunglasses third.

two: the universe has a messed-up sense of humor because it put industrial-grade snoring inside the body of the prettiest man alive.

tonight, you get both versions.

the door whines at three in the morning, and something large and glittering collapses into the entryway like a fallen star in sweats. you’re half-asleep on the couch, cocooned in a throw blanket, cheek pressed to a paperback that’s been trying to romance you for the last forty pages. it’s losing. real life wins, because real life is wearing exhaustion and trying to toe off his sneakers without bending.

“hey,” satoru says, voice shredded from screaming at first years or maybe just existing. he sounds wrecked. he looks worse. his white hair is damp and crushed flat, his blindfold is around his neck like a wilted scarf, and his eyes—god, those eyes that make your legs go numb—are dull the way diamonds go dull under ash.

you’re off the couch before your brain fully boots. “shoes,” you scold, because if you don’t start with normal, you’ll go to pieces, and normal is easier than i was terrified you wouldn’t come home.

he fumbles obediently. “mmph. ‘m good,” he lies, like a man who has a skyscraper balanced on his shoulder and insists it’s just a cardigan.

your hands find his face. he’s cold. when you tip his chin, the flash of six eyes comes and goes, a flicker of neon under heavy lids. “you smell like… ash and… is that ocean?”

his mouth drifts into a half-smile. “hi, baby.”

“hi, disaster.” you kiss him, tasting salt and smoke and something metallic that makes your chest tighten. “shower.”

“mm.” he leans his forehead to yours. “if i say i’m clean because infinity filtered the water and the air and the—”

“shower, satoru.”

he laughs like you’ve handed him a life raft. “bossy.”

he goes. you trail him just long enough to see him step under the spray and stand there, motionless, while steam crowds the glass. he doesn’t shiver. he just… decompresses, like a pressure suit after orbit. you leave a fresh towel on the counter. you set his phone and your phone on the nightstand. you change the sheets even though you’ve washed them already this week. you do anything with your hands that keeps your brain from playing back worst-case scenarios on a loop.

when he emerges, joints popping, hair dripping, the towel is slung wrong and crooked over a hip. he’s all soft edges where there should be razor. it scares you—this much exhaustion in a man who makes gravity look optional.

“bed,” he says, as if it’s a new discovery. he squints at you like you’re moonlight. “you, too.”

“i wasn’t going to leave, dummy.” you whisper, handing him his pajama pants.

he grins. it’s weak and slightly feral but still him. he climbs into bed like a man climbing into a shelter, and when you slide in beside him, the first thing he does is pin you. not on purpose. it’s reflex. satoru, post-mission, is clingy like ivy. he’s a human octopus. he gathers you with an arm under your neck, a leg over your thigh, an arm over your waist, then decides maybe your shoulder is a pillow and your hair is an oxygen tube. you’re locked in before you can breathe.

“comfort,” he mumbles into your hair. “don’t move. you’re my favorite thing.”

favorite thing. the words puff warm into your scalp. for one sweet minute, the world stops making noise.

then the world remembers.

it starts faint. a distant lawn mower in late spring. a cat purring into a microphone. you’re lulled by the after-mission rhythm of his breath, content to count the seconds, to map the steady rise-fall of his chest under your palm.

and then—it happens.

the chainsaw wakes.

it revs once, an internal combustion cough, and then goes full throttle right beside your ear.

“...” you blink, because words fail you like the power grid during a thunderstorm.

satoru snores.

it’s not soft cute little snores. it’s your skull as a bass drum. it’s a lumberjack convention under your pillow. it’s—this is crucial—not new.

you slap at the nightstand, fishing blind for your salvation: the neon-pink earplugs you bought in a fit of optimism last month. they have glitter. you believed in them. you wanted a romance between your tympanic membranes and silence. it was doomed.

your fingers brush the case. you feel hope. then satoru tightens his grip, drags you closer, and the case skitters off the table and hits the floor with the sound of your heart getting rejected from heaven.

“baby,” you hiss, wriggling. “babe, i can’t feel my arm.”

“mmmph.” he nuzzles deeper, nose in your neck, sleepy heat radiating like a small sun. “shh. sneaky curses.”

“there are no sneaky—” you slam your mouth shut because the chainsaw primes again and roars. your eyes water. birds three blocks over consider migrating.

you try to crane an elbow out. no good. then you try to slide your head up the pillow to feel less like you’re sleeping at the end of a runway. his hand takes your jaw, thumb hooked under your chin like you might float off, and docks you again, sealed to him like your spine has a magnetic strip.

“love you,” he says into your throat, unconscious and absolute.

“love you too,” you whisper, because even your sarcasm has limits, and tenderness is a muscle that flexes on instinct when he’s like this.

he snores.

you consider your options.

option a: accept your fate. give in to the embrace of the world’s loudest white noise machine and pray your brain short-circuits.

option b: death.

option c: improvise.

you enact option c.

“okay,” you mutter. “okay.” you take stock: one (1) octopus husband; one (1) trapped left arm; one (1) free-ish right hand; one (1) throw pillow within nudging distance. you nudge it with your knee until it catches on satoru’s ankle. you engage toes. you are a woman with a mission. through sheer stubbornness and calf strength, you haul the pillow up, tuck it under your neck, and introduce a slight incline to your face.

the chainsaw doesn’t care.

“unbelievable,” you tell the ceiling.

the ceiling is not helpful.

satoru shifts—and for a miracle minute—his mouth parts differently and the sound changes keys. from roaring engine to… heavy purr. manageable. you feel your pulse drop. your jaw unclenches. sleep tiptoes to the edge of your bed and considers giving you a pity hug.

you close your eyes.

satoru inhales.

RRRRRRRNNNNGGHH.

“jesus—” you clamp your teeth together on the sacrilege. “satoru.”

“don’ wanna,” he yawns against your shoulder, and makes it sound like you’ve suggested moving to mars without him. he drags his hand to your hip, fingers splaying, grounding, like if he doesn’t touch you every square inch the planet will tilt.

you stop. you breathe. you let the annoyance settle. under the noise, he’s trembling. not much. not obvious. but your body knows his body the way people know a favorite song. and right now your favorite song is humming with aftershock.

your anger folds itself into a paper airplane and sails off.

“satoru,” you whisper, smoothing your palm across the knuckles he’s got braced at your waist. “you can let go. you’re home.”

“m’not holding,” he lies, tightening his hold like a python with manners.

you press a kiss to his hand. you feel the quiver again. the chainsaw hiccups, staggers, steadies.

“i’m gonna—” you pick up his heavy arm and awkwardly wedge yourself sideways, rolling enough that you can face him. you catch his expression even in the dark: shards of light, lashes damp, mouth slack with a child’s exhaustion. there’s a tiny cut on his lower lip, the kind he always gets when he bites himself during a fight. he’d never admit that, of course. he’d say it was from a kiss where you went too feral on him. he’s obnoxious like that.

“I'm here,” you whisper, like you haven’t been here all along. you run your fingers through his hair, and he leans into it, the way a cat leans into a hand.

you switch tactics. if you can’t escape, you can change the landscape. you slide your leg between his, curl it behind his knee, and angle his head just slightly with your knuckles under his jaw. a tilt. a nudge. a miracle.

the snore drops to a rumble.

“oh,” you hold your breath. “positional therapy. look at me being a genius.”

“m’genius,” he mumbles, possessive of the concept by default.

“shut up,” you murmur, quiet enough not to wake the chainsaw back to life.

he laughs. asleep. it’s not fair, how charming he is even unconscious.

you stay like that, petting his hair, tracing little notes down the line of his neck until the rumble smooths. your own heartbeat slows. you can feel the moment when your body starts to float, gravity loosening its jealous hands.

and then—your phone lights up.

it’s face-down but you’ve spent enough nights like this to know the glow even from under a blanket. it buzzes once. then—twice. a third.

you do not move. the last time you reached, satoru woke and gathered you like furniture during an earthquake drill. he’s clingy after missions the way some people’s dogs freak out during fireworks. you are his earthquake-prep plan and he will strap you to the foundation.

the glow dies. silence.

the chainsaw… pauses.

you blink at the ceiling, on high alert, on the edge of a laugh you’re trying to swallow. his breath rasps, catches, releases. his brow furrows. a nightmare edges in, then shrugs and keeps walking. he finds you with his face again. he breathes your name without sound.

your chest cracks open like a pomegranate.

you realize suddenly you’re not going to fall asleep; not yet. your brain is too full. so you tiptoe into the kind of witchcraft you’ve learned only from loving someone like satoru: you talk silly science to a sleeping god.

“fun fact. did you know woodpeckers wrap their tongues around their brains to cushion impact? that’s what it feels like i need to do right now.”

he exhales a laugh that’s barely more than a breath.

you smile into his hair. “also, did you know your snoring could power a small village if we attached a turbine to your face?”

he nuzzles. “green energy,” he slurs.

“there we go. the strongest goes green. i support this.”

you keep going, until the lines around his mouth soften. you stay awake and catalog his face. when he sleeps, truly sleeps, there’s a softness that the world doesn’t get to see. no edges. no bite. just the boy he might’ve been, if he hadn’t been born a cornerstone.

your phone buzzes again. you make a risky grab, fingers sneaking behind you like a kid stealing french fries. you snag the device, bring it under the blanket, and open the voice recorder. you hit record. not for malice. for future comedy. for the next time he says, “i don’t snore,” with righteous confidence. for the day he claims you exaggerate. you will present the RRRRRRRNNNNGGHH.

you smother a giggle.

satoru’s fingers twitch at your hip, then go still. the snore steadies into a lower, more domestic growl. it’s almost soothing. almost. the kind of almost that would fool a less-experienced person. you know better. you keep your jaw loose and your tongue away from your molars so at least you don’t grind them into pearls.

your eyes close.

the chainsaw revs.

morning is a rumor that comes on lemon light. you exist somewhere halfway between sleep and a motorboat. you think you dreamt a forest. you were a tree. the lumberjack was beautiful and irresponsible about ear protection.

when you surface, your face is glued to a t-shirt soaked with drool that is not entirely yours. your neck is cricked. your left arm is asleep and resentful. 

you wake to the gentle sensation of someone breathing right in your face. warm, rhythmic. suspicious.

“baby,” a voice singsongs in the worst whisper ever invented.

you groan and shove your head under the pillow. “no. go away.”

there’s a pause, then the mattress dips dangerously close to you. “sweetheart,” he tries again, even softer, leaning down until you can feel his grin against your ear, “i wanna spend time with my wifeee.”

“i wanna sleep without the sound of a bear fighting in my skull,” you mumble.

“wow.” he flops onto his side, shamelessly spooning you like you’re a koala tree. “is this about last night? because i remember a very quiet, peaceful night. no strange noises at all.”

your eye twitches.

“don’t make that face,” he says in mock offense. “i can feel you judging me, and honestly, i don’t deserve it. i’m far too handsome and sweet and hot to—”

“snore?” you deadpan.

“—to ever snore,” he finishes without shame.

you roll over slowly, eyes narrowed like you’re about to banish a demon. “satoru gojo.”

“yes, mrs. gojo?” he bats his lashes.

you reach for your phone without breaking eye contact. a few taps later, the room fills with the audio proof — the unholy RRRRRRRNNNNGGHH you recorded at four in the morning.

satoru’s smile freezes.

“that’s…” he blinks. “that’s not me.”

“really?”

“obviously i was possessed.” he puts a hand to his chest like a tragic actor. “some vengeful curse spirit clearly targeted me, stole my vocal cords, and made them produce… that. i’m innocent. i’m beautiful. i’m—”

“a chainsaw with legs,” you interrupt.

he gasps. “rude! i’ll have you know—”

“satoru.” you sit up, hair a mess, eyes bloodshot, the picture of a wife about to commit a crime. “you have exactly five seconds to get out of bed before i snap your head in half.”

his survival instincts finally kick in.

“right! breakfast!” he shoots upright like a soldier hearing the bugle. “I'm on it. you just… stay here and look cute, and sleep. don’t kill anyone. especially me.”

he’s halfway to the kitchen before popping his head back in to grin at you. “do you want pancakes or waffles, my pretty victim?”

you throw the pillow at him.

he dodges, laughing, and disappears, leaving the faint sound of eggs cracking and cupboards opening — and blessed, glorious silence.

[itsaurriebaby]

"i want to be on top tonight."

→ in which you said you wanna try being on top for the first time to jjk men nsfw. suggestive. fluff too, i think.

ft. nanami, gojo, geto, sukuna, higuruma, toji