sturduststrails

[sturduststrails]

summary: your criminal boyfriend sukuna who absolutely rocks your world in the best way possible. now you’re in ur prison gf arc?

wc: uuhhh, 7k? i think..i yapped

cw: angsty, fluff, smut, mentions of guns, prison, drugs, etc. comfort at the end, pinky promise :3

you met ryomen sukuna through some mutuals. back when you were still smart. still cautious. some house party with peeling paint, shitty music. way too many bodies and way too many red solo cups.

you went with one of your girls yuki tsukumo—well, got dragged along. she was pointing people out, talking fast, already tipsy. you were half listening, half not giving a fuck.

then she leaned in, whispered over the rim of her drink,

“and that’s ryomen. don’t. he’s like crazy. like—jail time type shit.”

your ears perked up like a dog.

“jail time?” you asked. and then you saw him.

sitting on a shitty couch, red eyes. black tattoos on his face, crawling down the back of his neck, his arms, clearly all over. all ink and muscle and attitude. dragging a hand through a soft pink buzzcut, smoking a blunt. shirt half unbuttoned (thank fuck). tatted hands in his pockets like he could kill you or kiss you and you’d say thank you for both.

and to your surprise, he looked in your direction as you mindlessly walked to up him like you’d been shot by cupid. he smirked, looking you up and down—like he already knew you’d walk over.

“you lost?” his voice was low. rough. amused.

you shook your head. “nope.” sitting on his lap anyways.

and you swore it was just you being dumb. wanted a quick fuck, nothing more. you weren’t actually gonna fall for him.

after the first time you met him, it started slow. drinks, texts, late nights that blurred into mornings. you never asked what he did—not really. he never volunteered it. but the cash came easy. so what the hell right?

“you scared of me yet?” he asks you one night, voice low, fingers brushing your thigh while you sat in his lap, his gun cold against your lower back while it was tucked in his waist band.

you shake your head. “dunno, should i be?”

he grins. all teeth. “nah. i’d never hurt you.” and he meant it.

you always looked the other way when he left in the middle of the night. didn’t feel the need ask why he always checked the blinds twice. why he had two phones. why he flinched when a black SUV passed too slow.

because sukuna…he was surprisingly gentle. always held the door for you. always touched you like he meant it. he made you laugh when you didn’t want to, made you feel like the only girl in the world. took you out and never let you pay. took you home and made you feel safe, somehow, even with a gun or two on the nightstand.

you know he’s not a good man. you’re not stupid.

but he just looks so goddamn fine when he leans against the hood of his car, blunt between his lips, black hoodie clinging to his frame. the kind of man people cross the street to avoid.

i mean come on, he’s a criminal. a real one. not some fake ass who shoplifts and smokes mids. sukuna moves product, handles money, kills when he has to—cold, smart, ruthless.

but with you? he’s just so soft. always puts his gun on the counter before dinner. keeps his voice low when you’re tired. kisses the inside of your wrist and tugs you into his lap when you’re mad at him. carries you to bed when you fall asleep on the couch. rubs your feet without asking.

he kisses you so sweetly. calls you baby in that low voice like it’s a threat. you argue like you want to kill each other and fuck like you’re trying to bring each other back to life.

so when he comes home at night, blood on his clothes and that dead-calm look in his eye, and mutters, “need you to say i was with you tonight,”

you don’t ask. you just say: “yeah. course you were.”

(fuck it, we ball)

and some months later, he’s still in your bed. still eating all of your snacks, washing your dishes sometimes, kissing your neck with a kind of possessiveness that should be a red flag—but feels so green.

the thing is? he never lies to you. doesn’t even try to.

“i’m not clean,” he says one night, tracing tattoos along your thigh while the tv plays something neither of you are watching. “i do bad shit. and i’m not gonna stop.”

you probably should’ve left then. but instead, you kissed him.

and by the end of year one, you’re living in his apartment—scratch that, your apartment, because his name’s not on the lease. “can’t leave a paper trail, princess.” the place is cozy and yours. you got loud neighbors and a pitbull named akuma—big, gray, dumb as hell, and completely obsessed with sukuna.

“he’s gonna be a little menace to society,” you said when he brought the puppy home.

sukuna just smirked, kneeling down, scratching behind the dog’s ears. “takes after his dad.”

the three of you are like some fucked-up little family. your neighbors always side-eye you. your mom knows but chooses not to say anything anymore. and now your friends have stopped trying to talk you out of it.

and you stopped pretending you wanted out a loooong ass time ago.

fast forward to two years in: the fridge is covered in dumb polaroids. you brushing your teeth. him flipping off the camera. akuma in the middle, tongue out, wearing the stupid, gucci harness you swore was too expensive until sukuna said, “yeah, and?” and bought it anyway.

and now sukuna’s even got your name inked into the thick muscle of his forearm. right above those bold lines on his wrist.

“seriously? this isn’t like sharpie or something?” you’d asked when he came home from the tattoo shop that day.

he just smirked. “dead serious.”

when akuma jumps into bed and crushes your legs and sukuna tells him to get off but doesn’t mean it, when he presses his inked hand to your thigh while you’re watching a movie and says “gonna put a ring on it, you know that?”

you believe every word.

one day, you see the red and blue lights flash by in a blur out the window when he comes running inside the apartment—breathless—you don’t question him. idiot move but it’s because he always comes home. always throws his wallet and his keys on the counter and kisses your cheek like nothing happened. cooks dinner shirtless, muscles flexing while he flips the steak and washes his hands off in the sink.

you clean his knuckles. you patch his ribs. you kiss the crown of his head while he falls asleep on the couch with his arms around you and that’s all that matters.

but you notice how he’s been on edge. more late nights. tighter grip on your waist when you’re out. more checking the windows. more guns on the table.

“you trust me?” he asks later that night, voice low in the dark.

you’re in bed, curled against his side, tracing the black ink on his chest. akuma at your feet. his heart’s beating too fast.

you nod. “always, kuna.”

he exhales, fingers brushing over your spine.

“then no matter what happens—no matter who says what, or what you hear—you remember that. alright?”

you look up at him. search his face. “baby, what’s going on?”

he doesn’t answer. just kisses your forehead, holds you tighter.

a week goes by after that conversation. everything is almost perfect and then it’s not. it all happens so fast. it’s 2:26 a.m. quiet, maybe a little too quiet. then it’s not.

one minute you’re on the couch, hoodie on, legs tucked under you, sukuna’s head in your lap while a movie plays low in the background. he’s half-asleep, arm curled around your thigh, breathing slow like—for once—he’s letting himself rest.

then a crash. your front door kicked in. boots pounding down the hall. shouting—sharp, cold, barked like war commands.

“CLEAR.”

“LEFT SIDE.”

“MOVE MOVE MOVE—”

“HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”

akuma is the first to react—your gray pittie, big and gentle and stupidly loyal—howling, barking like he’s ready to kill. but there are too many of them. someone yells to grab the dog. you scream his name, but they’ve already got him by the collar, dragging him back while he thrashes and whines. red and blue lights flash across the walls. guns drawn.

you’re frozen, shaking, the room is spinning.

you’re still processing—still trying to understand why there are rifles in your face. why they’re screaming your name. why they’re tearing through your drawers, your closet. why they’re grabbing sukuna’s burner phone, the rolled cash, the duffel bags, the box under the bed he told you never to touch.

sukuna’s already standing—calm. too calm. hands raised. jaw tight.

his gun’s on the coffee table. he doesn’t move. he just looks at you.

“listen to me. breathe. look at me. i told you—don’t forget, alright?”

you’re crying now. shaking. choking on air.

his eyes—sharp, red, unreadable—don’t move.

you lunge for him, but two officers grab you first and shove you against the wall. you’re screaming just trying to see him, but they’re in the way, shouting over you.

“wait—please, don’t hurt him!” you shake your head, blinking through tears, “he didn’t—he—what the fuck is going on?!”

“ryomen sukuna, you’re under arrest for organized crime, weapons trafficking, drug trafficking, assault with a deadly weapon—”

the words don’t sound real and it’s not like you didn’t know. you weren’t stupid. you just loved him too much to say it out loud.

as they read him his rights. he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t blink. he lets them cuff him—wrists behind his back, shoulders loose. they slam him into the wall and he still turns to find you.

and he’s smiling.

the cuffs are tight. your apartment’s destroyed. your dog is howling like he’s mourning a death.

but sukuna just smiles. like this is nothing. like he knew it was coming. which in hindsight, he tried to warn you something was coming.

his eyes stay on you, even through the flashlight beams, the chaos.

“it’s okay, baby,” he says, soft, just for you. “don’t cry.”

“sukuna—please, no—”

he keeps smiling. even as they start pulling him toward the door.

“i’ll be alright. i promise.”

and just before the hallway swallows him, just before the sirens drown it all out.

“baby,” he calls out again, louder this time. “look at me.”

you do, through the blur of tears, you do.

he’s got a split lip from how they man handled him, bleeding. his arms tensed behind his back. his face still calm.

“don’t worry, yeah?” voice steady. “they’re just doing their job. i’ll be fine.”

“b-but you promised—” your voice breaks. “you promised me—”

“i know.” he nods. and for the first time, the smile slips. just for a second. “i know, baby. i’m sorry.”

they drag him out towards the squad car. akuma’s losing it—thrashing against the grip on his collar, trying to follow him. you collapse to the floor, sobbing. akuma finally escapes from one of the officers and pushes his head into your side, whining like his heart’s breaking too.

as you look around, they’re bagging everything. phones. files. guns. bricks. a woman in a black blazer reads off inventory like she’s listing groceries. her voice is calm. efficient. it makes you want to scream.

while you’re left on the floor—sobbing, shaking, clutching your dog while your whole life gets zipped into evidence bags. and all you can hear is his voice, still yelling from outside:

“don’t fuckin’ touch my girl or my dog—you hear me?!”

you stare past the officer crouched in front of you, not even hearing him anymore—just watching sukuna get shoved into the back of a squad car.

and just before the door slams, he shouts, “i love you, y’know that? i’ll come back.”

the door closes.

all that was left was the mumbling of officers as they raided your apartment. after that, they take you down to the station. they question you for hours but they don’t have anything on you nor do they any info from you.

you were smart. loyal. quiet. just his girlfriend, just the love of his life. you didn’t know a damn thing. you were with him on this day. and that day. you gave them alibis for everything they tried to pin on him.

never flinched. never snitched. you held the line.

and when they finally let you go, hours later—bleary-eyed, fingers trembling, walking back into the wreckage of what used to be home—akuma’s waiting by the door. his tail thumping, eyes wide, like he doesn’t know how to stop looking for him.

and neither do you.

couple months down the line, it’s his court date. it’d been painfully long. phone calls, visits here and there but it was finally time for his sentencing.

you had gotten there early. standing in a corner, speaking with his defense attorney.

but as the time passed, the courtroom felt cold and quiet in that fake, choking way.

you’re sitting stiff in the second row, all black—tight dress, heavy coat, heels loud on the tile when you walked in. hands gripping the edge of the bench, white-knuckled as you waited.

your eyes lock on him the second he steps into the room.

sukuna walks in wearing shackles like they’re fucking jewelry. orange jumpsuit unzipped just enough to show the ink crawling up his chest. wrists cuffed, ankles too, chain connecting them down the middle.

he’s smirking like this is a joke. like he already knows how it ends. then his eyes land on you. his girl.

“hey, baby. you look good.”

“shut the fuck up,” one of the guards snaps, yanking the chain forward.

you don’t flinch. you don’t even speak. you just watch him walk to his seat like he owns the place.

he sits back like it’s a poker game. his leg bouncing, smiling. those red eyes scan the room once, like he’s bored.

then it begins. and soon enough, the judge starts reading the charges.

violent, serious shit. none of it exaggerated even a little bit.

organized crime. trafficking. assault. illegal weapons.

which again, you know what he did. you knew before the cops ever did. meanwhile everyone in the room looks at him like a monster but not you.

you don’t even blink when the jury says “guilty” after every charge and neither does he.

the judge ends the trial with his sentence, “twenty-five years. eligible for parole in seven.”

the courtroom breathes in like it just took a punch. and sukuna? sukuna just laughs. real fucking loud, ugly and real. he throws his head back like he’s in on some joke no one else gets.

the judge bangs the gavel. some man yells at him to shut up and stop laughing, the guards move fast.

he just grins through all of it then turns his head toward you, mouth split in that same damn smirk.

“still gonna write me, baby?” he calls, smug, voice booming off the walls.

you nod once—sharp. you could care less who sees.

the guards haul him up, start dragging him toward the side door. he doesn’t resist. just keeps smiling at you like he already knows you’ll be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. and he’s right.

the truth is, the charges could’ve been a hell of a lot worse. they had enough to bury him alive but you? you were a fucking godsend. every little lie was perfect. you lied through your goddamn teeth. all the fake alibis, timelines, pretending not to know what half the shit in your apartment was—had worked. even after they grilled you for hours. days. tried to shake you, to get you to break.

but you never gave them shit. you kept your voice steady, your story straight and your love for him ironclad.

and it worked. it could’ve been 40 years to life. it could’ve been no parole. it could’ve even been you, too. but here you are—still free. he’s not. but he’s still yours.

and seven years later? he’s still yours.

sure, he’s missed holidays. birthdays. every new year’s kiss. but every thursday at 3:00pm? you’re there.

you’re used to the routine now. first your ID, patdown, metal detector. pretty boring stuff.

at that point, you knew every guard by name.

you’ve done this a hundred times—plastic chairs, shitty vending machine coffee, body searches.

you don’t care because the second he walks into the visitation room everything else fades out.

he’s bigger now. broader. face leaner, eyes sharper—darker in a way that says time has passed, and prison doesn’t change people so much as refine them. orange jumpsuit rolled to the waist, white tank clinging to his chest, black ink crawling up the back of his neck like smoke.

and that grin—dangerous. crooked. just for you.

“fuck, baby,” he drawls, sliding into the seat across from you. “you get hotter every time i see you. is that a new lip gloss?”

you roll your eyes. “you gonna flirt or ask how i’ve been?”

he shrugs, smirking. “same thing.”

still cocky. still loud. still him but the edges are tighter now. more controlled like every second without you has been simmering under his skin.

there were times you’d talk. about nothing. about everything. he tells you about prison like it’s high school drama. you tell him about bills, work, new TV shows, keeping the bed warm for him. he listens like every word matters. like you’re the only real thing in his world.

“are you wearing that chain i sent you?” he asks.

you tug it out from under your hoodie—a little silver bar with his name engraved.

his grin widens. “of course you are, don’t know why i even asked.”

and sometimes, when the guards aren’t looking, he leans in close. voice low, filthy, just for you:

“you gonna let me fuck you in the conjugal trailer next month?”

“still think about that pretty little body when i fall asleep.”

“i’m gonna come home and ruin you. you know that, right?”

you squeeze your thighs together. he sees. smirks. and of course the smug bastard is proud of himself.

and sometimes it’s quiet. just the sound of your fingers tapping on the metal table. he stares at your hands like they mean something.

“seven years,” he mutters. “and you’re still here.”

you shrug. “you’d do it for me.”

he lifts a brow. “would i?”

you give him a look.

he laughs—low, warm and real. “yeah,” he says. “yeah, i fuckin’ would.”

there’s no kissing here. no touching past a handshake, a goodbye but the way he looks at you?

you feel it everywhere.

and one day, just as the guard calls time, just as he stands and stretches and leans in a little closer than he’s supposed to—

he murmurs, voice quiet, steady. “marry me when i get out.”

you blink. “what?”

but he’s already turning away, that same old grin tugging at his mouth, shouting something crass to another inmate, hands cuffed behind his back.

the door slams shut behind him.

and you’re left sitting there, heart pounding, chain warm between your fingers, replaying those words in your head.

the next time you see him, he walks in wearing that ugly-ass orange jumpsuit as usual, smile already stretching across his face the second he sees you.

“look at you,” he says, voice low and filthy despite the guards. “dressed all nice for your criminal boyfriend.”

you roll your eyes. “you asked me to.”

“yeah. and you listened. you always do” he leans in. “always such a good girl for me.”

the tension’s thick. his wrists are cuffed, but his eyes are on you like he’s already got his hands around your throat.

“heard the news?” he asks casually, voice like honey dipped in gasoline. “early release. next month.”

your breath catches. “wait, are you serious?”

“mmhm.” he leans back, tongue flicking over his teeth. “good behavior.” he grins. “just for you.”

he’s been cleaning up—no fights, no smuggling, no stabbings in the yard, even though he wants to. because he wants to see you again. wants his hands on you. his mouth. wants you under him, not across the table.

“been thinkin’ about what I’m gonna do to you first,” he says, voice lower now, eyes burning. “once i get out.”

you swallow and shift in your seat. “are you gonna behave?”

he laughs. full-bodied, dark. “fuck no. i’m gonna ruin you.”

he leans forward, chained wrists clinking on the table, eyes locked on yours.

“i’ve been locked up seven years, princess. do you know how much time i’ve spent thinking about that sweet little body under mine?”

you feel your cheeks heat, but you don’t look away.

“you better be ready,” he says, voice rough now. “’cause i’m gonna spend the first night out fucking you like i’m tryna get sent right back.”

so thankfully, he’s the kind of inmate that runs the damn yard but keeps his nose clean just enough to qualify for early release. he did beat someone’s ass in the showers last month for talking sideways about you—but still managed to earn “good behavior” by bribing the guards and running literacy programs like a deranged philanthropist.

next time you hear from him he calls you from the jail phone with that lazy, smug tone:

“two more weeks. then i’m home. you ready for that, princess?”

“depends. are you gonna kill anyone again?”

“no, baby. i’m a changed man, pinky promise.”

a pause. “unless they touch you.”

but life as a prisoner’s girlfriend had been interesting to say the least. some your favorite memories though?

the video call visits. the video calls hit different.

you answer from the bed, in his hoodie that thankfully still smelled like him, all soft lighting and skin and love in your eyes.

the screen flickers—and there he is.

inmate #966666. your man. arms crossed, face lit by the shitty fluorescent light in the visiting block. buzzed short on the sides, salmon pink thick on top. face tattoos sharp even in pixelation. smirking. cocky. starved.

“there’s my girl,” he rumbles, leaning in like he’s trying to reach through the screen. “lookin’ all cozy in our bed.”

you smile, soft. “missed you today.”

he leans back, legs spread, grinning. “yeah? say it again.”

you roll your eyes, giggling. “missed you.”

“mm,” he hums. “missed you more, baby. how’s our place lookin’? bought anything new for me to come home to?”

and you have—so you flip the camera around, showing off the new record shelf, the little framed photo of you two from before, and the rug you’ve been saving for.

“can’t wait for you to see it for real,” you say quietly. “can’t wait till you come home.”

his face softens—just barely. eyes half-lidded.

“me neither, princess. every night i picture it. you. the apartment. our bed. my hands all over you again.”

you bring the camera back to yourself, and akuma sits up on the floor beside your bed, tail thumping.

sukuna lights up like a kid on christma.

the dog perks up at his voice, sniffs the screen, tail going harder.

“yo, come here, big man,” he coos. “you takin’ care of my girl, huh? keepin’ her warm at night? …better not be sleepin’ on my fuckin’ pillow.”

you both laugh. but you already know when sukuna gets out, he’s picking that big soft baby up in his arms like it’s nothing, and probably crying into his fur when no one’s looking.

and the letters? worth framing.

he sends them folded perfectly, sprayed with just a hint of your favorite cologne. immaculate. front-and-back, always. tight, clean handwriting. detailed as hell—how he’s doing, what he’s thinking about. sweet shit like “wish i could hold you right now. need it bad.” and spicy shit like: “wanna fuck you face-down ass-up the minute I’m out.” “was dreamin’ about you last night. woke up hard. you owe me.”

one of his first letters had said:

hey baby, how are you? miss you real bad. i woke up thinkin’ about your laugh. that one that comes out when you’re tryin’ not to snort. i miss it. miss you. drawn your face from memory like four times now. don’t tell nobody, they’ll say i’m gettin’ soft. been missing your smell. you smell like home. that sweet vanilla shit you always put on. i look at your pictures every night. even got one under my pillow. even when they toss my cell, i hide it like it’s fuckin’ contraband. you’re my peace. can’t lose you princess.

then they’d switch, just like that.

you know, i thought about that one night. you dancing in the kitchen, making soup, wearing those little shorts. you remember the ones? yeah. me too. that’s why i wrote this with one hand. also last night i laid in this goddamn bunk and imagined the sound you make when you take your bra off after a long day. hard as a rock. you’re such a fuckin’ problem. do you still wear that lacey one i like? the one that barely holds anything? bet your titties are sittin’ real pretty in it right now. fuck me.

i miss how you say my name when you’re tired. i miss how you say it when you’re on top. i miss your thighs around my neck. i miss your mouth. i miss being inside you so deep you forget your own fuckin’ name.

but more than that? i miss watching you eat dinner across from me. i miss you bitchin’ about your coworkers. i miss your fingers in my hair when i can’t sleep. i don’t give a fuck how long it takes, you’re it for me.

and he always had a sketch tucked inside. sometimes it’s little things—your side profile, your body. or sharp, shaded tattoos—ones he designed for you. (something he did on the side when he was still a law abiding citizen). his name in kanji. a snake coiled around a katana surrounded by lilies.

this one’s for your spine. wanna see it when i fuck you from behind.

then, right under that like he didn’t just make you cry and wet at the same time:

…also. take it easy at work. remember to eat. and kiss akuma for me. shit, also, can you put some extra on my books? tryna get you something for your birthday. don’t ask what. it’s not a weapon, swear.

and you do—put money on his books, no hesitation. commissary’s got nothing on you. he’s got honey buns, decent ramen, and the best soap on his block. your man is moisturized and fed. period.

and at the end of a long, loving, slightly filthy letter, he always signed in that perfect script: “ryo. always yours.”

you kept every letter in a shoebox under your bed, every sketch on your corkboard. you read them on bad days. and good ones.

you always wrote back, too— keeping him updated with everything. little doodles, lipstick kisses on the envelope, spritz of perfume here and here. snuck in polaroids of you and akuma. even some spicy ones for his eyes only. always signed with “your/name, always & forever <3.”

oh and those conjugal visits? they most deeeefinitely take the cake.

you had waited weeks for them, marked off in red hearts on the calendar.

one of the first visits:

you walk into that little cold-ass private trailer with a bag packed—cute pajamas, your favorite lotion, that perfume he likes. he’s already there when you arrive, looking like sin in his real clothes. not that orange jumpsuit he’s usually in. eyes glued to you the second you step in.

then he softens. just a little.

you stand. don’t even say anything. just walk straight into his arms. he buries his face in your neck, breath catching like it’s the first inhale he’s had since they locked the door behind him.

“fuck,” he mutters. “you smell good. gonna feel even better.”

his hands are everywhere. rough palms on your waist, your thighs, your ass. lips dragging over your skin like he’s starved—and he is.

he grabs your waist fast, pulls you in for a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth, rough like he’s been starving for you.

“got something to show you,” you whisper, breathless already.

you turn around, pull your dress up, and tug the side of your thong down just enough to show him—

small script. his name. right cheek. close to the curve of your hip.

he goes still. his hand on your ass, thumb dragging right over it. then he finally speaks.

“nah, what the fuck,” he laughs, eyes wide, voice shaking. “you got my name tatted on you?”

you look back over your shoulder, smiling.

“been had it. waited to show you in person.”

his hands are now rubbing all over you, gripping that ass with both hands like it’s his last meal. but then, he’s got you onto the bed so fast the mattress groans. pulls your dress over your head and yanks your panties down. he stares like he’s looking at something holy.

“missed this mouth,” he groans, spreading your legs, licking up your slick with a filthy moan. “missed how fuckin’ sweet you are when you’re beggin’.”

you gasp, already squirming.

he fully buries face between your thighs, hands gripping your waist like he’s starving and hasn’t had a real meal since he got locked up. moaning into your cunt, licking like it’s his last day alive.

“taste like fuckin’ heaven,” he groans. “missed this fuckin’ pussy so bad. missed how you sound when i’m inside you.”

after a two or three orgasms from his tongue and fingers, he finally fucks you. it’s deep, rough, desperate. your legs around his waist, your back arching off the mattress while he pounds into you like he’s making up for lost time. his tip hitting that sweet spot repeatedly in your pussy that makes your body take a fucking screenshot. teeth on your neck, fingers digging into your hips right below where his name is inked into your skin.

he just mutters filthy shit in your ear:

“you got my name on you, and now you’re gonna take all of me.”

“this ass? mine.”

“gonna fuck you so good you dream about it ‘til the next visit.”

then he flips you both, makes you ride him, sucking your tits while they bounce, eyes half-lidded.

“shiiiit, sweetheart—gonna fuck a baby into you in this nasty little room if you’re not careful,” he grits.

and you just moan louder, hands in his hair, riding the edge of pure bliss.

“missed you,” you whisper, staring up at him, cradling his face.

he kisses you. hard. filthy. then soft.

he pulls away breathless. jaw slack, panting like a dog in heat.

“fuck, baby—come on. gimme that shit. come all over my dick. show me how much you missed it.”

you do. messy. loud. milking him for all he’s got.

and he follows right after, hands gripping your ass so hard they’re sure to leave bruises as he cums deep and desperate.

and when he’s done, he kisses your neck, arms wrapped around you.

“gonna marry you when i get out,” he whispers. “i swear.”

you both lie on the tiny mattress after some much needed TLC. tangled up, his head between your tits, your fingers in his hair. he traces your tattoo with his fingers.

“gonna take care of you right, when i get out,” he murmurs, voice rough. “no more bullshit.”

you kiss his jaw. whisper back. “i know.”

and when you left that day, sore and glowing, your man watched you walk away as the guards put the cuffs back on him, mouth curled into a grin, voice low like a promise:

“keep my side of the bed warm, baby. i’m comin’ home. promise.”

and the day he gets out, you’re already there.

you’re standing by the gate before the sun’s even up. his hoodie on, necklace with his name around your neck. you’re trying to play it cool, but your hands won’t stop shaking.

and when that gate finally opened, when ryomen sukuna steps out, a free man, tattoos gleaming in the morning light, black tee hugging his chest, hair grown out just a little, grin already forming.

you don’t even get a word out before he grabs you, spins you around like a goddamn princess. his hands firm on your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing, face buried in your neck.

“fuck, baby,” he breathes. “missed you so fuckin’ bad.”

you’re laughing. crying a little. arms wrapped around his shoulders so tight it hurts.

he sets you down, but barely. just enough to kiss your cheeks, your jaw, your nose, and then he pulls back, still holding your face like it’s precious.

“you ready?”

you blink. “for what?”

he grins. big. so sure.

“courthouse. thirty minutes away. judge’s on lunch break. said he’ll squeeze us in.”

you blink again. “wait, the fuck? are you—you’re serious?”

“sweetheart,” he says, already dragging you toward the car, “i’ve been locked up seven fuckin’ years. i’m so serious.”

cut to an hour later: courthouse.

fluorescent lights. ugly tile. fake bouquet from the clerk’s desk in your hand. cheap rings in a little box you picked up from the nearest pawn shop on the way there. you didn’t even have time to change. he didn’t care. not even a little.

“you look perfect,” he mutters, adjusting your hoodie like it’s designer couture. “i’m gonna wife you up in my hoodie. that’s so hard.”

you roll your eyes. “you’re such a dumbass.”

“your dumbass now,” he grins emphasizing the your. “permanently.”

you say your vows that came straight from the heart in a cheap government office, between a sleepy officiant and a laminated “no food or drink” sign.

but he looks at you like you’re in a white dress on a mountaintop.

he kisses your hand when he slides the ring on.

says “’bout fuckin’ time,” loud enough that the clerk snorts.

and when they say “you may now kiss—”

he doesn’t wait. he pulls you in, kisses you like he’s trying to breathe through you. it’s deep and messy and a little bit desperate.

you giggle against his mouth.

he presses his forehead to yours, still grinning.

“mrs. ryomen fuckin’ sukuna,” he says proudly. “finally.”

you walk out as husband and wife.

he pulls you in by the hips and kisses you again in the parking lot, hands low, grin wide.

“made good on that promise, yeah?”

you decide not to do anything fancy. no champagne. no five-star dinner.

you celebrate the only way you know how—greasy as hell.

just burgers and fries at that little place you used to talk about in letters and phone calls—the one with the neon sign and checkered floors. sukuna orders double everything, and he’s across from you in sweats and an ankle monitor, eating like a man who forgot what real food tastes like.

he steals your fries when you’re not looking. you slap his hand.

he smirks. “married now, baby. my fries too.”

you share a milkshake. vanilla. extra whipped cream. two straws.

he stares at you across the table like he still doesn’t believe you’re real.

“you know i dreamed about this?” he says, voice rough from grease and emotion. “used to lay there and think about you, right across from me, doing this exact same shit.”

you smile. press your foot against his under the table.

“dream about the milkshake or me?”

he snorts. “both. obviously.”

he takes your hand and kisses your ring finger, red eyes locked on yours and filled with so much love.

and when you finally drive home—real home—his leg’s bouncing the whole way. you both get off the car and head up the steps and you unlock the front door.

“you sure he’s not gonna bite me?”

you snort. “you’re the one who taught him to go for the ankles.”

the apartment is quiet when you pull up. it’s familiar to him, but different. newer furniture. he’s seen it all in video calls but it’s different in person now. his shoes aren’t by the door anymore, but everything else—everything you—is still here. still home.

he hesitates at the threshold. just for a second. like he’s afraid it’ll vanish if he walks in. but then—

“AKUMA!” you call out, voice soft but firm.

and there’s the sound of scrambling paws, claws on the hardwood, and then akuma’s there—gray, stocky, a little older, but still full of love and joy.

the pitbull barrels into the room like he’s about to tear through the walls, skids to a stop, and freezes when he sees him.

sukuna kneels down, slow, whispering. “…yo.”

akuma just stares at first—like he’s short-circuiting. akuma sniffs the air. tail wags once. then again. and then he launches.

sukuna catches all 70 pounds of him like it’s nothing, falling back onto his ass with a grunt as akuma licks at his face like he’s trying to put seven years of love into one minute.

“fuck—okay, okay—goddamn—” sukuna’s laughing, arms tight around the dog’s back, fingers gripping his fur like he’s afraid he’ll disappear again.

akuma’s whining, tail a blur of chaos, body wriggling like he can’t get close enough.

and sukuna—your big, bad, tatted-up, ex-convict husband?

he fucking cries. silent at first. then not. (expected)

his shoulders were shaking, arms wrapped tight around the dog, forehead pressed to his fur.

you just watch from the doorway. hands over your mouth. heart splitting. he looks up at you, eyes wet.

“fuck, baby,” he says, voice cracking. “i didn’t think—i didn’t know if—”

you kneel beside him. touch his back. “he never stopped waiting,” you whisper. “neither did i.”

he pulls you both in—you and akuma—his whole world in his arms now. big, calloused hands around your waist. akuma draped across your laps like a living blanket.

you sit beside him. curl against his side.

“god, y/n, you—fuck—i…,” he whispers into akuma’s fur. “didn’t think i’d get to see you again.”

and for the first time in seven years, sukuna lets himself feel safe.

after you both settle in, it’s quiet now. real quiet. not prison quiet.

no locks clanking. no cell doors slamming. no count. no cold tile or shitty mattress. home quiet.

you’re both clean—fresh from a hot shower, towel-dried hair, his hands all over you the entire time like he couldn’t believe you were real. when he brushed his teeth, he kept making jokes about “first night as a free man, i’m getting minty for my wife.”

his wife.

he’s got everything he dreamed about for the last seven years. sheets that smell like you. a real bed. a dim lamp in the corner next to a photo of you, him & akuma.

and you—standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but one of his old shirts and a look that says finally.

the ring glints on your finger in the dark. he exhales like he’s never really breathed before. he sits on the edge of the bed for a while. just stares at the wall.

you don’t rush him. you know what’s going on in that handsome head of his. this is the place he got arrested in. the same room they tore apart. same windows, same shadows.

“seven years,” he murmurs. “first night back in my bed.”

you walk over. slow. crawl into his lap and wrap your arms around his neck.

“our bed,” you whisper.

he swallows. hard. hands settling on your hips.

eyes drinking you in like he can’t believe you’re real. like maybe he’s still dreaming in some concrete box.

“you’re my wife,” he says, voice thick. “fuckin’ wife.”

you smile against his lips. “so make me feel like it.”and that’s all it takes.

he kisses you hard—mouth desperate, like he’s catching up for all the years he couldn’t. he pulls your shirt over your head, kisses the top of your chest first, then lower. his hands are everywhere. reverent. hungry. he grabs your thighs, flips you onto your back, crawls down between your legs like he’s starving.

and he is.

he pulls your panties off with his teeth. kisses your inner thighs like he’s praying. then licks into you, slow and deep, groaning when your fingers tangle in his hair.

“sweetest fuckin’ thing,” he murmurs against your pussy. “missed this taste every night. used to jerk off thinkin’ about this right here.”

he eats like he’s got time to worship. not rough. not rushed. just…grateful. long licks, fingers curling inside, nose pressed to your clit until your thighs are shaking and your hips are grinding into his face.

“go ahead, baby. be a good girl and come on my face. it’s your first night as my wife. i got shit to prove.”

you come hard. breathless. crying out his name.

and he doesn’t stop. not until your thighs are twitching. not until he’s satisfied.

then he crawls back up, drags your mouth to his, lets you taste yourself on his lips.

“sit on it,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “wanna watch you ride me. wanna feel all of it.”

you straddle him, slow, sinking down onto his cock until you’re full—so fucking full it steals your breath.

he moans, head tipping back, gripping your hips, watching every inch disappear.

“my fuckin’ wife,” he breathes. “look at you.” you move slow at first, hands on his chest, grinding your hips like you’ve got nowhere else to be for the rest of your life.

and he loves it.

he’s got his hands all over you. one on your waist, the other cupping your breast, thumb brushing your nipple.

he fucks up into you, matching your pace, mouth dragging across your throat.

“seven fuckin’ years,” he pants. “you know how many times i dreamed of this?”

you’re shaking now. gasping.

“show me,” you whisper. “show me how bad you wanted it.”

he flips you fast—so fast—lays you down on his bed for the first time in seven years, and fucks you deep, slow, deliberate. the room filled with the most obscene sounds. bed creaking, the sweet, wet squelch of your pussy and his balls slapping against your ass.

he kisses your fingers. your mouth. your ring.

“mine,” he whispers into your neck. “forever. mine.”

you come again. this time with his name in your mouth and his hand locked with yours.

he follows right after—groaning low, buried deep inside you, face pressed to your chest. (definitely pregnant after that)

you collapse on top of him. he wraps you up. presses kisses to your hair. just lays there, breathing with you, forehead to yours, thumb brushing your cheek.

“thank you,” he whispers. “for waiting. for staying. for not giving up on me.”

no more grainy phone calls. no more visits. no more letters. just the two of you home with nothing between you but peace.

he rubs his hand over your back, voice soft.

“we’re good now, yeah?”

you nod, half-asleep. “mhm.”

“told you i’d come back.” he whispers.

after that, it gets quiet again. except akuma’s snoring in the corner like a damn freight train. the door’s locked. the city’s asleep.

and you’re in bed, legs tangled with your husband’s, skin warm from hours of sex and laughter and most of all—relief.

sukuna’s on his back, one arm around your waist, the other tucked behind his head.

he’s watching the ceiling like it owes him something, blinking slow, chest still rising a little too fast. like he can’t quite believe any of this is real.

you lean over him, kiss the ink on his collarbone.

he smiles—lazy and smug—as usual.

“what?” you murmur, tracing a line down his stomach.

he glances at you, eyes half-lidded. “just thinking.”

“oof, that’s dangerous.” you tease.

he huffs a laugh. “yeah.”

you wait and then he says it—quiet, almost like a joke.

“remember the party?”

you blink. “the one where we met. over some shitty, warm beer that toji picked up at the corner store?”

“mmhm.” he smirks, but softer now. “the one where yuki told you not to talk to me.”

you laugh. full and real. “‘don’t. he’s crazy, jail-time type shit.’”

“and you came and sat on my lap anyway.”

“i meeean, you were hot.” you shrug.

“and you’re an idiot.”

you smile, curl into his side, cheek resting on his shoulder.

he presses a kiss to your forehead, knuckles brushing your bare spine.

“guess i should thank your dumbass friend,” he mutters, voice low, already fading into sleep. “she’s the reason i met my wife. my ride or die.”

you smile and don’t say anything. you just hold him tighter, like you’re afraid he’ll disappear all over again.

two years in, then seven apart.

crime. then courtrooms. then shitty vending machine coffee. hundreds of letters and visits.

and now he’s here, tucked against your side, finally. fully.

yours in a way no one ever thought he should be.

you whisper, barely a breath. “guess you’re not so crazy after all, huh?”

he stirs—doesn’t open his eyes—but he hears you and with a rough, half-asleep laugh, he mutters.

“still fuckin’ crazy.”

then he kisses your shoulder, presses closer, and falls back asleep with his hand curled around your wedding ring.

you’re just starting to drift off—his breathing slow against your skin, your fingers still tangled in his hair—when the mattress shifts with a heavy thud.

then a groan.

“no. absolutely the fuck not—” sukuna mumbles, voice hoarse.

akuma, in all his 70-pound glory, launched himself onto the bed. sprawling across both of you like he’s claiming his spot. head wedged on your stomach, paws kicking into sukuna’s ribs.

you laugh, half-asleep. “aw, kuuuna. baby, he missed you.”

sukuna sighs, glaring at the ceiling.

“seven years in prison, and i come home to my traitorous cockblockin’ dog.”

akuma lets out a loud sigh and promptly starts snoring. loud and obnoxious.

you kiss his little boxy head and then sukuna’s temple, still grinning.

sukuna grumbles something under his breath—but his arm curls tighter around both of you.

and you’re pretty sure you heard him mutter the words, “thanks…whoever’s out there.”

© j3llyc4kes

:3 please check out my other works! here’s the master list! <3

a/n: this was pretty long! been sitting on this for about a month now, hopefully you all enjoyed it! let me know if i should continue this or leave it as is! t

[sturduststrails]

˙⋆✮ Boxer!Sukuna is the type to… pt.2

- Keep his guard up around everyone except you. To the world, he’s untouchable, fierce, almost brutal. But with you, his walls crumble quietly. He trusts you enough to show glimpses of softness only you get to see.

- Be blunt and teasing, sometimes even a little cruel — but only because he knows you can handle it. His rough words are a twisted form of affection, a challenge mixed with undeniable care.

- Be intense in his love, sometimes overwhelming but always real. When he’s with you, the world narrows to just the two of you—whether in the ring, a late-night fight, or a quiet room.

-Demand honesty and loyalty, expecting the same fire he carries in his own heart. He’s not one for half-measures—if you’re in, you’re all in. And he’ll be right there, relentless, pushing and pulling you to your limits.

- Be fiercely jealous but never controlling. He doesn’t need to cage you, but anyone trying to take you away will quickly learn what fury looks like.

- Push you to be stronger, better, but never in a way that breaks you. His drive is contagious, and with him, you feel like you could face anything.

Taglist: @wiggly-yrath @humeysaga

[sturduststrails]

Poster boy

Pairing: Choso x reader

✦ Inspired by “Poster Boy” by 2hollis. Soft angst. One (very earned) kiss. Ends in love.

Word count: 3,025.

You don’t mean to knock.

You were just walking. Just breathing. Just trying not to fall apart somewhere obvious.

But your hand hits the door before your mind can stop it—like your body decided without you. Like some part of you always knew where you’d end up.

You expect silence.

You get him.

The door opens with a low creak. Choso stands there, hoodie half-zipped, hair tied back in that loose, familiar knot. Eyes dark and still. He looks like he hasn’t been sleeping again. You shouldn’t know that.

But you do.

He doesn’t say anything—just looks at you like he’s been waiting for this exact moment, but would never admit it.

Like this was always going to happen.

You almost say sorry.

You almost lie and say wrong door.

You almost turn around.

But you don’t.

Choso steps aside.

You step in.

The apartment is dim, like always.

Still smells like incense and something warm and human beneath it. The scent of someone who lives quietly, with care, even if he’d never say that out loud.

You notice the books stacked by the window are in a different order. That means he’s been re-reading again.

He hands you a towel. It’s soft, worn, still warm from the dryer.

You take it without speaking. You never really had to talk with him much—words feel too sharp around someone like Choso.

“I won’t be long,” you say instead, not quite meeting his eyes. “Just needed… somewhere.”

He nods once. No judgment, no hesitation.

“You can stay tonight,” he says, quiet but sure.

You want to say thank you. But it would break something. Something that’s been trembling between you since… since before either of you had the nerve to name it.

So you say nothing.

He disappears down the hall.

The apartment holds its breath in his absence.

You linger in the corner of the couch, the towel draped around your shoulders, dripping onto the floor. You shouldn’t be here.

You should’ve kept walking. Should’ve picked a different name to whisper at your breaking point.

But this is the second time you’ve ended up in Choso’s space when things went bad. The first time, he didn’t ask questions either. Just handed you a bandage and a glass of water like it was muscle memory.

He’s the kind of person who shows up when you don’t ask.

You’re the kind of person who disappears before anyone can.

Maybe that’s why this… works. In its own twisted way.

He returns a minute later with a chipped ceramic mug. Still steaming. He doesn’t hand it to you, just places it near your feet and walks back toward the hall like it doesn’t mean anything.

But he made it. For you. Without asking what you needed.

That’s the thing with Choso.

He doesn’t ask.

He just knows.

Time slips.

You end up curled on your side, towel still damp, blanket pulled from the back of the couch when you thought he wasn’t looking. You think maybe he left it there on purpose.

You sleep like the floor might fall out from under you.

You don’t hear him come back into the room. But when you wake in the quiet dark, the chipped mug is on the floor beside you again—refilled.

Still warm.

He doesn’t say he wants you to stay.

But he does leave you something to hold.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

You wake up before him.

Not on purpose, not really. Your body just knows how to survive in strange spaces. You’ve learned to rise early. Leave before you’re noticed. Make it easier for people to pretend you were never there.

But this morning—this space—you don’t want to move.

The couch creaks as you sit up, the blanket sliding off your shoulder in a lazy spill. The second mug he left you sits cold on the floor now, but you leave it there. It feels like a detail that matters.

You spot him in the kitchen.

Choso’s leaning over the sink in an old black t-shirt, hair loose around his face. He’s not doing anything in particular—just standing there, staring out the window, as if the morning hasn’t quite caught up to him yet.

You think maybe he didn’t sleep. Or maybe he did, but not well.

He looks like someone who’s lived through too many mornings that didn’t want him back.

You wonder if he knows what he looks like—quiet, heavy, beautiful in the way grief sometimes is.

You wonder if he’d hate you for thinking it.

He doesn’t acknowledge you right away. Just turns on the tap and lets it run like he’s testing the sound of something.

Then—without looking—he asks: “You want coffee?” Your throat tightens.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

“Yeah,” you say. “If it’s not a hassle.”

He doesn’t answer. Just moves slowly, precisely. He grinds the beans by hand, like he doesn’t trust machines. Like there’s something sacred in doing it himself.

You sit at the edge of the couch, watching him. You’re still wrapped in the towel, hair a mess, shirt rumpled from sleep.

You expect to feel exposed.

Instead, you feel… seen.

And not in the way you’re used to. Not like prey or a problem or something someone wishes they could fix.

Just… seen. Fully. And not asked to flinch.

He sets a mug in front of you. Black coffee. No questions. No sugar. Like he knows you well enough not to offer anything you’d have to decline.

You glance up at him. “You always this nice to strays?”

That earns the faintest twitch of a smile from him—barely there, but real.

“I don’t pick up strays,” he says simply. “You just… keep coming back.”

The silence after that is full, not awkward.

You drink the coffee. He leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyes soft and unreadable.

You should say something.

But instead you ask, “You got work today?”

Choso shakes his head. “Not till later.”

“Cool.” You look down into your mug. “I’ll be out of your way by then.”

Another silence. He doesn’t respond right away. Then, so quiet you almost miss it:

“You don’t have to go.”

That stalls something in your chest.

You look up. His eyes meet yours—and this time, he doesn’t look away.

“You said one night,” he says, voice rough with something he hasn’t named. “But you can stay. If you need.”

You try to joke—“Careful, you’re starting to sound like someone who gives a shit”—but your voice comes out too soft to land.

And Choso? He doesn’t laugh.

He just says, “Maybe I do.”

And that—

That ruins you a little.

You end up doing the dishes while he showers.

The window’s cracked open, letting in the sound of passing traffic and a breeze that smells like late summer and old rain. You find yourself rinsing the same cup twice, just for something to do with your hands.

There’s something intimate about this place. Not in a romanticized way. In a lived-in, I made room for you kind of way. There’s only one toothbrush in the bathroom, but there’s a spare towel hanging like it was waiting. A blanket already folded on the end of the couch, like he hoped you’d need it.

You’re used to temporary places.

You’re not used to people who prepare for your return.

When he steps back into the room, his hair’s damp and falling around his shoulders. He’s got a different hoodie on—navy, oversized, sleeves half-pulled down over his fingers. He looks younger like this. Softer.

“You want breakfast?” You blink. “You cook?” “Not well.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “I’ll take it.”

You eat in silence.

Toast, scrambled eggs, slightly burnt at the edges. You don’t complain. He doesn’t apologize.

It’s the kind of silence that could become a routine.

Could mean something, if you let it.

But you don’t. Not yet.

Instead, you push your plate forward, rest your arms on the table, and glance at him sideways.

“So,” you say. “What exactly are we doing here?”

Choso pauses mid-bite. Looks at you.

There’s a weight to the question.

It’s not about breakfast.

He chews slowly, sets his fork down. Thinks.

Finally, he says:

“I think… I’m letting you stay.”

And you’re pretending you don’t want to.

And that?

That feels exactly right.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

It starts with a drawer.

A stupid drawer you tried to open too fast—looking for a pen, maybe, or a piece of paper. Something to write on. Something normal.

But it sticks halfway, and when you tug harder, it yanks open all at once and spills its contents across the floor.

Bandages. Gauze. A bloodstained cloth.

A black-and-white photo, creased in the middle.

You freeze.

Choso is across the room. He hears the drawer slam and looks over, quiet but alert, and then he sees what’s scattered at your feet—and something in him just… stills.

Not anger. Not shame.

Just that heavy silence of someone who’s been caught remembering something they never wanted you to see.

You crouch down. You don’t pick up the photo. You don’t touch the bandages.

“You still keep this shit?” you ask, not unkind. Just surprised.

Choso shrugs one shoulder, slow and tired. “Sometimes you need to remember why you’re still here.”

You look at him.

There’s something bitter in his mouth he doesn’t spit out.

You say, “Does it work?”

He doesn’t answer.

The drawer stays open for a while.

You both pretend not to notice it.

But the air changes.

It makes the next few days different.

He gets quieter. You get sharper. You start folding your blanket too neatly, like you’re reminding him it’s temporary.

But then, one night, you come home late—after walking the city just to feel your feet again—and there’s a new toothbrush in the bathroom. Still in its packaging.

You stare at it for a long time before you finally shut the door.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

You break the tension two days later.

It’s late, the apartment dim again, and he’s sitting on the couch with a sketchbook in his lap—head down, hand moving slow. You didn’t know he drew.

“You ever get tired of being the quiet one?” you ask, leaning against the wall.

He looks up.

“Not really.”

“Must be nice. Being unreadable.”

Choso’s eyes don’t waver. “I don’t think I’m unreadable. I think people stop trying.”

That stings.

Not because it’s about you, but because it might be.

You sink onto the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up.

“You ever think about it?” you ask. “How people see you?”

He tilts his head. “Why?”

You shrug. “You’ve got that whole tragic energy. Like you’re someone’s backstory.”

He huffs a quiet sound—amusement, maybe. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

You smile, small and tired. “Touché.”

A beat.

Then, softly:

“You ever get tired of being the poster boy for everyone else’s pain?”

His pen stops.

Choso looks at you like you reached in and touched something raw.

You didn’t mean to—at least not out loud. But it’s too late now. It’s out there.

He sets the sketchbook aside, slow, deliberate. Not angry. Just… focused.

“I don’t think I chose that,” he says.

“No,” you murmur. “I think people chose it for you.”

You don’t say me, but the word sits heavy between you anyway.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

He leans forward, arms braced on his knees.

His voice is low.

“You think I’m just letting you stay here because I feel sorry for you?”

Your breath catches.

“No,” you say. “I think you’re doing it because you don’t know how to say you want me to stay.”

Silence.

The room feels different after that. Not bigger. Not smaller. Just clearer.

Choso doesn’t answer.

Instead, he gets up—walks past you, slow and careful, like if he moves too fast the moment might break.

But just before he disappears down the hallway, he pauses. Looks back at you over his shoulder.

And says, “Don’t ask questions you’re scared to hear the answer to.”

You’re left staring at the sketchbook on the table.

It’s still open.

The page shows a portrait of you—unfinished, maybe, or maybe he just wasn’t done looking.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

You try to leave at night.

Not out of anger. Not even out of fear.

You just wake up around 2AM with that old itch under your skin—the one that says don’t get comfortable, don’t get soft, don’t get left.

You’ve never been good at staying. And he’s never asked you to. Not directly.

So you fold the blanket.

You don’t take the toothbrush. You consider it—linger over it like a bruise you gave yourself—but you leave it on the counter.

You even clean your mug.

It’s so stupid. You’re trying to ghost someone gently.

You’re halfway to the door when his voice cuts through the dark.

“You leaving again?”

You flinch.

He’s sitting on the floor near the couch, back against the wall, knees pulled up. Eyes open. Hair loose.

You wonder how long he’s been awake.

You wonder if he ever really sleeps when you’re here.

“I wasn’t gonna wake you,” you offer, soft, like it makes it better.

He doesn’t move. Just stares at you in the half-light.

“You always do this?” he asks. “Leave before anyone notices you were ever there?”

You grip the strap of your bag a little tighter. “It’s easier.”

“For who?”

You don’t answer.

He stands, slow and quiet, like if he moves too fast, you’ll bolt.

You think maybe you will anyway.

He stops just in front of you. Arms at his sides. Barefoot on cold floor.

Then, softly:

“Don’t go.”

Your stomach twists.

“You don’t mean that,” you whisper. “You’re just used to having me around. That’s not the same as wanting me here.”

He shakes his head. “You think I don’t want you here?”

“I think you don’t know what it means to ask someone to stay.”

“I do,” he says, sharper now. “I just didn’t think you’d listen.”

You stare at him.

And for once, he doesn’t look away.

“I know you’re scared,” he adds. “I am too. But I don’t want this to end just because you think you’re doing me a favor by disappearing.”

You drop your bag.

It hits the floor with a soft, defeated thud.

You bury your face in your hands and breathe out slow, like if you don’t control it, it’ll come out a sob.

“I don’t know how to be loved like this,” you say, honest and shaking.

Choso steps forward, gently.

“I’m not asking you to know,” he murmurs. “I’m asking you to try.”

And when he reaches for you—just a hand at your shoulder, steady, grounding—you let yourself lean.

Not all the way.

But enough.

And it’s the first time in years that staying feels like a choice instead of a sentence.

You stay.

You don’t talk about it. He doesn’t bring it up again.

The bag by the door disappears at some point. You don’t ask where he put it.

You start leaving your shoes just inside the door, instead of by the wall. The toothbrush is out of the box now. A hoodie you thought you’d misplaced turns up in his laundry.

No declarations. Just facts. You stay.

He starts drawing again.

Not just you, though sometimes it is you—half-shaded, turned away, caught in motion. But there are other things now. Plants. Hands. City streets. Soft light through kitchen windows. A mug with a chip in it.

All the quiet things you both tried not to love.

You catch him sketching one night and ask, teasing, “Gonna put me in a gallery?”

He shrugs, not looking up. “You’re already framed.”

You choke a laugh. “That was so bad.”

But your ears burn. And you don’t look away.

You still sleep on the couch some nights, even though the bed is warm, and he’s offered it more than once. It’s not about space. It’s about pacing. About knowing you’re allowed to be slow.

But then one night—after a day you don’t want to talk about—he doesn’t say anything when you crawl into bed beside him. Doesn’t make it into a thing.

He just shifts slightly, so there’s room for your knees to brush.

You don’t sleep touching. Not yet.

But he’s there.

And in the morning, so are you.

There’s a moment, a few days later, that sticks with you.

You’re making tea. He’s reading on the couch. The radio is on low, murmuring something forgettable.

You turn to ask if he wants honey and freeze.

Because he’s looking at you.

Not in the way he used to—not like he’s waiting for you to fall apart.

No.

This time, he’s looking at you like you’ve already come back together.

And maybe you have.

Not perfectly. Not all the way.

But enough.

You turn to ask if he wants honey and freeze.

“Hey,” you say, suddenly unsure.

He raises an eyebrow.

“What?” you ask, guarded but half-smiling. “Do I have something on my face?”

Choso sets his book down slowly. His voice is quiet. Steady.

“No,” he says. “You just look like you’re home.” Your chest goes still. You don’t know what to do with that. How soft it is. How terrifying.

So you sit beside him.

And this time, you don’t make a joke.

You don’t run, or fold, or let the moment pass.

Instead, you look at him—really look—and ask, barely above a whisper: “Can I kiss you?”

Choso’s breath catches.

His eyes soften. His voice—when it comes—is almost reverent.

“You don’t have to ask.”

You lean in slowly, and he meets you there—somewhere in the middle.

The kiss is gentle. Familiar. Like something you’ve both been carrying for months in your palms, careful not to break it.

His hand finds your jaw. Yours curls against his chest. There’s no rush. No heat behind it. Just warmth. Gravity. Home.

You don’t pull away. Not right away. Not even when the kiss ends.

You just rest your forehead against his and breathe, and for once, it doesn’t feel like a beginning or an ending.

It just feels right.

It’s not a confession. It doesn’t have to be.

It’s a promise.

And this time, you believe it.

taglist: @wiggly-yrath @humeysaga

[sturduststrails]

Poster boy

Pairing: Choso x reader

✦ Inspired by “Poster Boy” by 2hollis. Soft angst. One (very earned) kiss. Ends in love.

Word count: 3,025.

You don’t mean to knock.

You were just walking. Just breathing. Just trying not to fall apart somewhere obvious.

But your hand hits the door before your mind can stop it—like your body decided without you. Like some part of you always knew where you’d end up.

You expect silence.

You get him.

The door opens with a low creak. Choso stands there, hoodie half-zipped, hair tied back in that loose, familiar knot. Eyes dark and still. He looks like he hasn’t been sleeping again. You shouldn’t know that.

But you do.

He doesn’t say anything—just looks at you like he’s been waiting for this exact moment, but would never admit it.

Like this was always going to happen.

You almost say sorry.

You almost lie and say wrong door.

You almost turn around.

But you don’t.

Choso steps aside.

You step in.

The apartment is dim, like always.

Still smells like incense and something warm and human beneath it. The scent of someone who lives quietly, with care, even if he’d never say that out loud.

You notice the books stacked by the window are in a different order. That means he’s been re-reading again.

He hands you a towel. It’s soft, worn, still warm from the dryer.

You take it without speaking. You never really had to talk with him much—words feel too sharp around someone like Choso.

“I won’t be long,” you say instead, not quite meeting his eyes. “Just needed… somewhere.”

He nods once. No judgment, no hesitation.

“You can stay tonight,” he says, quiet but sure.

You want to say thank you. But it would break something. Something that’s been trembling between you since… since before either of you had the nerve to name it.

So you say nothing.

He disappears down the hall.

The apartment holds its breath in his absence.

You linger in the corner of the couch, the towel draped around your shoulders, dripping onto the floor. You shouldn’t be here.

You should’ve kept walking. Should’ve picked a different name to whisper at your breaking point.

But this is the second time you’ve ended up in Choso’s space when things went bad. The first time, he didn’t ask questions either. Just handed you a bandage and a glass of water like it was muscle memory.

He’s the kind of person who shows up when you don’t ask.

You’re the kind of person who disappears before anyone can.

Maybe that’s why this… works. In its own twisted way.

He returns a minute later with a chipped ceramic mug. Still steaming. He doesn’t hand it to you, just places it near your feet and walks back toward the hall like it doesn’t mean anything.

But he made it. For you. Without asking what you needed.

That’s the thing with Choso.

He doesn’t ask.

He just knows.

Time slips.

You end up curled on your side, towel still damp, blanket pulled from the back of the couch when you thought he wasn’t looking. You think maybe he left it there on purpose.

You sleep like the floor might fall out from under you.

You don’t hear him come back into the room. But when you wake in the quiet dark, the chipped mug is on the floor beside you again—refilled.

Still warm.

He doesn’t say he wants you to stay.

But he does leave you something to hold.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

You wake up before him.

Not on purpose, not really. Your body just knows how to survive in strange spaces. You’ve learned to rise early. Leave before you’re noticed. Make it easier for people to pretend you were never there.

But this morning—this space—you don’t want to move.

The couch creaks as you sit up, the blanket sliding off your shoulder in a lazy spill. The second mug he left you sits cold on the floor now, but you leave it there. It feels like a detail that matters.

You spot him in the kitchen.

Choso’s leaning over the sink in an old black t-shirt, hair loose around his face. He’s not doing anything in particular—just standing there, staring out the window, as if the morning hasn’t quite caught up to him yet.

You think maybe he didn’t sleep. Or maybe he did, but not well.

He looks like someone who’s lived through too many mornings that didn’t want him back.

You wonder if he knows what he looks like—quiet, heavy, beautiful in the way grief sometimes is.

You wonder if he’d hate you for thinking it.

He doesn’t acknowledge you right away. Just turns on the tap and lets it run like he’s testing the sound of something.

Then—without looking—he asks: “You want coffee?” Your throat tightens.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

“Yeah,” you say. “If it’s not a hassle.”

He doesn’t answer. Just moves slowly, precisely. He grinds the beans by hand, like he doesn’t trust machines. Like there’s something sacred in doing it himself.

You sit at the edge of the couch, watching him. You’re still wrapped in the towel, hair a mess, shirt rumpled from sleep.

You expect to feel exposed.

Instead, you feel… seen.

And not in the way you’re used to. Not like prey or a problem or something someone wishes they could fix.

Just… seen. Fully. And not asked to flinch.

He sets a mug in front of you. Black coffee. No questions. No sugar. Like he knows you well enough not to offer anything you’d have to decline.

You glance up at him. “You always this nice to strays?”

That earns the faintest twitch of a smile from him—barely there, but real.

“I don’t pick up strays,” he says simply. “You just… keep coming back.”

The silence after that is full, not awkward.

You drink the coffee. He leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyes soft and unreadable.

You should say something.

But instead you ask, “You got work today?”

Choso shakes his head. “Not till later.”

“Cool.” You look down into your mug. “I’ll be out of your way by then.”

Another silence. He doesn’t respond right away. Then, so quiet you almost miss it:

“You don’t have to go.”

That stalls something in your chest.

You look up. His eyes meet yours—and this time, he doesn’t look away.

“You said one night,” he says, voice rough with something he hasn’t named. “But you can stay. If you need.”

You try to joke—“Careful, you’re starting to sound like someone who gives a shit”—but your voice comes out too soft to land.

And Choso? He doesn’t laugh.

He just says, “Maybe I do.”

And that—

That ruins you a little.

You end up doing the dishes while he showers.

The window’s cracked open, letting in the sound of passing traffic and a breeze that smells like late summer and old rain. You find yourself rinsing the same cup twice, just for something to do with your hands.

There’s something intimate about this place. Not in a romanticized way. In a lived-in, I made room for you kind of way. There’s only one toothbrush in the bathroom, but there’s a spare towel hanging like it was waiting. A blanket already folded on the end of the couch, like he hoped you’d need it.

You’re used to temporary places.

You’re not used to people who prepare for your return.

When he steps back into the room, his hair’s damp and falling around his shoulders. He’s got a different hoodie on—navy, oversized, sleeves half-pulled down over his fingers. He looks younger like this. Softer.

“You want breakfast?” You blink. “You cook?” “Not well.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “I’ll take it.”

You eat in silence.

Toast, scrambled eggs, slightly burnt at the edges. You don’t complain. He doesn’t apologize.

It’s the kind of silence that could become a routine.

Could mean something, if you let it.

But you don’t. Not yet.

Instead, you push your plate forward, rest your arms on the table, and glance at him sideways.

“So,” you say. “What exactly are we doing here?”

Choso pauses mid-bite. Looks at you.

There’s a weight to the question.

It’s not about breakfast.

He chews slowly, sets his fork down. Thinks.

Finally, he says:

“I think… I’m letting you stay.”

And you’re pretending you don’t want to.

And that?

That feels exactly right.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

It starts with a drawer.

A stupid drawer you tried to open too fast—looking for a pen, maybe, or a piece of paper. Something to write on. Something normal.

But it sticks halfway, and when you tug harder, it yanks open all at once and spills its contents across the floor.

Bandages. Gauze. A bloodstained cloth.

A black-and-white photo, creased in the middle.

You freeze.

Choso is across the room. He hears the drawer slam and looks over, quiet but alert, and then he sees what’s scattered at your feet—and something in him just… stills.

Not anger. Not shame.

Just that heavy silence of someone who’s been caught remembering something they never wanted you to see.

You crouch down. You don’t pick up the photo. You don’t touch the bandages.

“You still keep this shit?” you ask, not unkind. Just surprised.

Choso shrugs one shoulder, slow and tired. “Sometimes you need to remember why you’re still here.”

You look at him.

There’s something bitter in his mouth he doesn’t spit out.

You say, “Does it work?”

He doesn’t answer.

The drawer stays open for a while.

You both pretend not to notice it.

But the air changes.

It makes the next few days different.

He gets quieter. You get sharper. You start folding your blanket too neatly, like you’re reminding him it’s temporary.

But then, one night, you come home late—after walking the city just to feel your feet again—and there’s a new toothbrush in the bathroom. Still in its packaging.

You stare at it for a long time before you finally shut the door.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

You break the tension two days later.

It’s late, the apartment dim again, and he’s sitting on the couch with a sketchbook in his lap—head down, hand moving slow. You didn’t know he drew.

“You ever get tired of being the quiet one?” you ask, leaning against the wall.

He looks up.

“Not really.”

“Must be nice. Being unreadable.”

Choso’s eyes don’t waver. “I don’t think I’m unreadable. I think people stop trying.”

That stings.

Not because it’s about you, but because it might be.

You sink onto the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up.

“You ever think about it?” you ask. “How people see you?”

He tilts his head. “Why?”

You shrug. “You’ve got that whole tragic energy. Like you’re someone’s backstory.”

He huffs a quiet sound—amusement, maybe. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

You smile, small and tired. “Touché.”

A beat.

Then, softly:

“You ever get tired of being the poster boy for everyone else’s pain?”

His pen stops.

Choso looks at you like you reached in and touched something raw.

You didn’t mean to—at least not out loud. But it’s too late now. It’s out there.

He sets the sketchbook aside, slow, deliberate. Not angry. Just… focused.

“I don’t think I chose that,” he says.

“No,” you murmur. “I think people chose it for you.”

You don’t say me, but the word sits heavy between you anyway.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

He leans forward, arms braced on his knees.

His voice is low.

“You think I’m just letting you stay here because I feel sorry for you?”

Your breath catches.

“No,” you say. “I think you’re doing it because you don’t know how to say you want me to stay.”

Silence.

The room feels different after that. Not bigger. Not smaller. Just clearer.

Choso doesn’t answer.

Instead, he gets up—walks past you, slow and careful, like if he moves too fast the moment might break.

But just before he disappears down the hallway, he pauses. Looks back at you over his shoulder.

And says, “Don’t ask questions you’re scared to hear the answer to.”

You’re left staring at the sketchbook on the table.

It’s still open.

The page shows a portrait of you—unfinished, maybe, or maybe he just wasn’t done looking.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

You try to leave at night.

Not out of anger. Not even out of fear.

You just wake up around 2AM with that old itch under your skin—the one that says don’t get comfortable, don’t get soft, don’t get left.

You’ve never been good at staying. And he’s never asked you to. Not directly.

So you fold the blanket.

You don’t take the toothbrush. You consider it—linger over it like a bruise you gave yourself—but you leave it on the counter.

You even clean your mug.

It’s so stupid. You’re trying to ghost someone gently.

You’re halfway to the door when his voice cuts through the dark.

“You leaving again?”

You flinch.

He’s sitting on the floor near the couch, back against the wall, knees pulled up. Eyes open. Hair loose.

You wonder how long he’s been awake.

You wonder if he ever really sleeps when you’re here.

“I wasn’t gonna wake you,” you offer, soft, like it makes it better.

He doesn’t move. Just stares at you in the half-light.

“You always do this?” he asks. “Leave before anyone notices you were ever there?”

You grip the strap of your bag a little tighter. “It’s easier.”

“For who?”

You don’t answer.

He stands, slow and quiet, like if he moves too fast, you’ll bolt.

You think maybe you will anyway.

He stops just in front of you. Arms at his sides. Barefoot on cold floor.

Then, softly:

“Don’t go.”

Your stomach twists.

“You don’t mean that,” you whisper. “You’re just used to having me around. That’s not the same as wanting me here.”

He shakes his head. “You think I don’t want you here?”

“I think you don’t know what it means to ask someone to stay.”

“I do,” he says, sharper now. “I just didn’t think you’d listen.”

You stare at him.

And for once, he doesn’t look away.

“I know you’re scared,” he adds. “I am too. But I don’t want this to end just because you think you’re doing me a favor by disappearing.”

You drop your bag.

It hits the floor with a soft, defeated thud.

You bury your face in your hands and breathe out slow, like if you don’t control it, it’ll come out a sob.

“I don’t know how to be loved like this,” you say, honest and shaking.

Choso steps forward, gently.

“I’m not asking you to know,” he murmurs. “I’m asking you to try.”

And when he reaches for you—just a hand at your shoulder, steady, grounding—you let yourself lean.

Not all the way.

But enough.

And it’s the first time in years that staying feels like a choice instead of a sentence.

You stay.

You don’t talk about it. He doesn’t bring it up again.

The bag by the door disappears at some point. You don’t ask where he put it.

You start leaving your shoes just inside the door, instead of by the wall. The toothbrush is out of the box now. A hoodie you thought you’d misplaced turns up in his laundry.

No declarations. Just facts. You stay.

He starts drawing again.

Not just you, though sometimes it is you—half-shaded, turned away, caught in motion. But there are other things now. Plants. Hands. City streets. Soft light through kitchen windows. A mug with a chip in it.

All the quiet things you both tried not to love.

You catch him sketching one night and ask, teasing, “Gonna put me in a gallery?”

He shrugs, not looking up. “You’re already framed.”

You choke a laugh. “That was so bad.”

But your ears burn. And you don’t look away.

You still sleep on the couch some nights, even though the bed is warm, and he’s offered it more than once. It’s not about space. It’s about pacing. About knowing you’re allowed to be slow.

But then one night—after a day you don’t want to talk about—he doesn’t say anything when you crawl into bed beside him. Doesn’t make it into a thing.

He just shifts slightly, so there’s room for your knees to brush.

You don’t sleep touching. Not yet.

But he’s there.

And in the morning, so are you.

There’s a moment, a few days later, that sticks with you.

You’re making tea. He’s reading on the couch. The radio is on low, murmuring something forgettable.

You turn to ask if he wants honey and freeze.

Because he’s looking at you.

Not in the way he used to—not like he’s waiting for you to fall apart.

No.

This time, he’s looking at you like you’ve already come back together.

And maybe you have.

Not perfectly. Not all the way.

But enough.

You turn to ask if he wants honey and freeze.

“Hey,” you say, suddenly unsure.

He raises an eyebrow.

“What?” you ask, guarded but half-smiling. “Do I have something on my face?”

Choso sets his book down slowly. His voice is quiet. Steady.

“No,” he says. “You just look like you’re home.” Your chest goes still. You don’t know what to do with that. How soft it is. How terrifying.

So you sit beside him.

And this time, you don’t make a joke.

You don’t run, or fold, or let the moment pass.

Instead, you look at him—really look—and ask, barely above a whisper: “Can I kiss you?”

Choso’s breath catches.

His eyes soften. His voice—when it comes—is almost reverent.

“You don’t have to ask.”

You lean in slowly, and he meets you there—somewhere in the middle.

The kiss is gentle. Familiar. Like something you’ve both been carrying for months in your palms, careful not to break it.

His hand finds your jaw. Yours curls against his chest. There’s no rush. No heat behind it. Just warmth. Gravity. Home.

You don’t pull away. Not right away. Not even when the kiss ends.

You just rest your forehead against his and breathe, and for once, it doesn’t feel like a beginning or an ending.

It just feels right.

It’s not a confession. It doesn’t have to be.

It’s a promise.

And this time, you believe it.

taglist: @wiggly-yrath @humeysaga

[sturduststrails]

Nothing more than the truth

Pairing: Uni teacher!Nanami x student!reader

✦ Summary: She was just a student—bright, curious, with a rare reverence for the words he taught. He on the contrary— was a man already spoken for, his life compartmentalized between lectures, literature, and a marriage that had dulled into civility. A quiet story about unspoken longing, fractured morality, and a love that arrived too late.

Word count: ~ approximately 3,500 ..(kinda.)

CW: forbidden relationship, age gap (20s,40s), cheating, angst, moral ambiguity.

Thought i would never write about nanami, but here i am🫧

☙─────༺༻─────❧

It all began with one of his many lectures.

You sat in one of the many desks—silent, tucked away in the second row—savoring every word he said, every thought he unraveled like fine thread between his fingers. His voice had no need to rise. It moved evenly, like water over stone, and you listened the way one listens to rain against a library window: slow, still, absorbing.

You understood his lectures—not just intellectually, but emotionally. You felt the weight of his pauses, the care in his phrasing, the way he spoke of truth as something that could bruise. There was something old in his eyes, something too tired for his age, and yet he spoke of ideals like someone who hadn’t entirely given up.

One day, with a thousand questions burning in your mind and none of them purely academic, you found yourself at his office door. You didn’t knock—not yet. The door was slightly ajar. And through that narrow crack, you saw him.

He didn’t see you. He was leaning over his desk, one hand tangled in his hair, the other holding a cigarette—smoke curling around his wrist like a restless thought. Papers were spread across the table, pages marked in tight, careful handwriting. There were books everywhere. Lined against the wall, piled on the floor, stacked beneath the window like uneven altars. You couldn’t name all of them, but somehow, you trusted he had read them all. And that he remembered every word.

He exhaled slowly, the tip of his cigarette glowing for a moment in the quiet. The air smelled faintly of ink, smoke, and something older—maybe dust, maybe resignation.

You should’ve walked away. You should’ve knocked.

But you stayed. Just a second longer. Long enough to know this man was far lonelier than he let on.

You stayed longer than you meant to. Maybe the sound of your breath shifted something in the air—because suddenly, without looking up, he spoke.

“…Yes?”

You startled a little, then straightened your posture as if you belonged there.

“I was about to leave,” you said, your voice softer than expected. “But I saw you. I needed some advice.”

He finally turned. The glasses caught the light. His eyes scanned you—briefly, but not unkindly.

You told him your name, half-expecting it to vanish in the quiet that followed.

“I attend your lectures,” you added, suddenly self-conscious. “I sit near the front—”

“Yes, I’ve noticed you,” he said, cutting in gently. His tone wasn’t surprised—just matter-of-fact. Then, with a furrow of his brow: “But you’re not in my class roster.”

You smiled, half-laughing, suddenly aware of how ridiculous you might seem.

“I’m glad you noticed me,” you said, rubbing your hands together nervously. “But that’s not the point.”

His expression didn’t shift, but something about the way he sat back, cigarette forgotten in the ashtray now, told you he was listening.

You pressed on, unsure if you were still talking to him or just speaking aloud into the air between you.

“I’ve been going to your lectures even though I’m not enrolled. I listen. Every time. The way you talk about literature—it’s not just theory, not just analysis. You—” you hesitated, words catching on something in your chest, “you put your heart into it. Like you’re trying to make sense of something real.”

His gaze shifted slightly, but he said nothing.

You continued.

“You speak about men losing themselves. About guilt. About silence and compromise. And sometimes I think… maybe that’s why I come. Because I don’t agree with a lot of things. Or I don’t believe them anymore. Not the way I’m supposed to.”

Your voice faltered there—but only for a moment.

“I don’t believe life always rewards honesty. I don’t believe people change. And I don’t think good people always stay that way.”

Nanami’s brow moved, just slightly. His fingers tapped ash into the tray, then stilled.

A long breath passed.

Then, unexpectedly, he asked:

“And what do you believe in, miss?”

The question felt like a stone dropped into water—quiet, but impossibly deep.

You looked at him—really looked—and answered honestly: “I believe in the way you speak about truth. Even if it doesn’t save anyone.”

Nanami held your gaze for a moment after your answer. You weren’t sure if he was surprised—or simply unused to being answered so plainly.

Then, after a pause, he said quietly,

“That’s why you’re in university. To find what you’re morally connected to.”

You tilted your head a little, thoughtfully. “Has it worked? For you?”

He exhaled—like the question was too large for the room. Then, almost to himself:

“I hope so.”

A small smile touched his lips. Tired, but real.

“Yeah… I think yes.”

There was a gentle quiet as he turned from the desk, running his hand over a few loose pages. He reached for his satchel, brushing off a hardback before sliding it inside. Then, with a faint motion of his hand, he gestured around the office—lined with spines, paper edges, worn covers and notes tucked into margins.

“This is what I believe in.”

Books.

Ink.

Paper.

Order.

Other people’s words.

You looked around, letting your eyes rest on the volumes that seemed to live in the room more than he did.

“Books…” you echoed softly, like you were tasting the word.

He chuckled, low and wry.

“This makes me sound really old—but sometimes I wonder if books ever actually connect to real life. Or if we just… pretend they do, because we need them to.”

That made something tighten quietly in your chest.

“I think they do,” you said, almost without thinking. “I think they have to.”

They left the building together, though neither of you said aloud that you were walking in the same direction.

The sun was already fading behind the horizon, brushing the pavement in gold that turned quickly to gray. You walked just slightly behind him at first, but fell into step soon enough. There was something oddly comfortable about the silence between you. Not awkward. Just concentrated, like a conversation was still happening beneath it.

You glanced up at him.

“So… are you writing something new?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His eyes flicked ahead—toward the gates, or maybe just toward a thought he didn’t want to say out loud.

“Maybe,” he said finally. “I’ve started something. A few scattered chapters. Nothing coherent.”

You hummed. “What kind of book?”

His jaw shifted, as if weighing how honest he could afford to be.

“…Cruel,” he said at last. “Maybe too cruel.”

You blinked, eyebrows rising slightly. “How cruel?”

A small smile tugged at the edge of his mouth, but he didn’t look at you.

“A man. That maybe will kill his own wife, not because he hates her, because he loves her too much.. so he will find himself lonely, with his wife corpse in his arms-…”

You let that word settle, then spoke softly, a touch more breath in your voice than you intended.

“I mean… that sounds poetic. The way you said it. A book that’s cruel, but—”

You looked down, thinking carefully. “—cruel in the way something true can be. Uncomfortable, but… honest.”

He slowed just a little, glancing over at you—not to dismiss the thought, but to examine it.

You were already looking at him.

That pause hung in the space between you like breath held too long.

For a few seconds, neither of you said anything.

There was no one else on the path. Just a breeze brushing the trees.

Your eyes met—quiet, unblinking—and the moment lingered just a heartbeat too long.

He looked away first.

Cleared his throat softly.

“I suppose I’ll have to keep writing, then,” he said. “If only to see if it stays poetic… or just turns bitter.”

☙─────༺༻─────❧

A Week Later

The city buzzed with late evening noise. Distant sirens, the click of traffic lights, and the hum of too many conversations overlapping in the background. Nanami walked beside Gojo, hands in his coat pockets, expression flat as usual. The streetlights made long shadows of their legs on the sidewalk.

Gojo sipped from a canned drink, already halfway through it. He looked like someone who hadn’t grown up properly, but enjoyed it.

“You ever gonna tell me why you’ve been so weird lately?” Gojo asked, slouching his shoulder toward Nanami in a lazy nudge. “You keep zoning out. You’ve never zoned out. You’re like—aggressively grounded.”

Nanami sighed, not answering at first.

Gojo grinned. “Come on. I’m a good listener. And a better liar.”

“I’ve imagined things,” Nanami said.

That shut Gojo up for half a second. He tilted his head.

“With one of my students.”

Gojo blinked. “Okay. Wow. Straight to confession mode, huh?”

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s not like that.”

“You sure? Because that sounded like exactly like that.”

He stopped walking for a second, turning to face Gojo with quiet irritation.

“No, Gojo. It’s literally wrong. I’m a university professor. She’s a student. One of my students.”

Gojo didn’t argue—just gave him that unreadable look, the one he rarely used but saved for when things actually mattered.

“Is she your student forever?” he asked. “Because if she’s graduating soon, that line gets blurrier by the day.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

They resumed walking. Nanami’s hands were still deep in his coat, clenched tight.

Gojo took another sip. “You do anything?”

“No.” Nanami’s voice was sharp, final.

“We didn’t.”

“Okay,” Gojo said, dragging out the word. “Then what’s the problem?”

Nanami didn’t respond.

Gojo raised an eyebrow. “You’re not afraid of what would happen. You’re afraid of what you already feel.”

A pause. Nanami looked ahead, jaw set.

“You’re in love with her.”

Nanami didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. Just kept walking.

Which was, in itself, the answer…

☙─────༺༻─────❧

The kitchen smelled like soy and garlic. His son was laughing—genuinely laughing—as Nanami helped him slice soft tofu with clumsy, over-guided hands. A small, tender moment.

“Too slow, Papa,” the boy teased.

“Precision matters,” Nanami muttered, smiling faintly.

From the next room, his wife’s voice drifted in. “Be careful with the knife, Kento. He’s still too young.”

“He’s fine,” Nanami said. “I’m watching.”

Dinner passed quietly. His wife sat across from him, reading something on her phone between bites. The conversation stayed light. They talked about the school’s fundraiser, the groceries, the upcoming parent-teacher meeting. Everything was fine. It was always fine.

After their son was asleep, she joined him in the living room. The TV flickered silently.

“You’ve been tired lately,” she said, not accusingly. Just flatly.

“I have work,” he said.

“You’ve always had work.”

He nodded.

There was no argument. No bitterness. Just a quiet void between them—years of polite routines that had dulled into background noise.

She stood and kissed the top of his head before going to bed.

He didn’t follow.

The rain had been falling since evening—long, steady, insistent. Nanami hadn’t moved from his place in the living room. His wife and son had gone to bed hours ago. The house was dim, lit only by the soft gold of a floor lamp. Outside, everything was gray-blue and flickering under the storm.

Then: a knock.

Soft. Hesitant.

He froze.

Not many people knew where he lived. Fewer would ever dare come this late. He stood slowly, almost reluctantly, and opened the door.

You stood there—drenched.

Hair clinging to your face, breath unsteady. Your coat was soaked through, your hands curled into fists like you had tried not to knock for ten minutes straight and lost.

He stared at you, stunned. Not by your presence—but by the fact that you actually came.

“I’m very sorry,” you said quickly, before he could speak. “I shouldn’t have come here. I know that.”

He didn’t respond.

“But—” your voice cracked, “there were questions. I couldn’t sleep. And I thought… maybe I’d forget them tomorrow, or lie to myself about what they meant. But right now, they’re just—loud.”

He looked at you—truly looked. The way your shoulders trembled. The way your eyes weren’t asking for anything other than to be heard.

Without a word, he stepped aside.

You walked in.

The house was asleep. The rain had softened to a hush.

You were in his guest room now—wrapped in a dry blanket, your wet coat draped over the back of a chair. He’d made tea without asking. You didn’t drink it.

The room had long gone still.

Nanami was still writing, though the ink was beginning to smudge—his hand lingering on the page too long. He wasn’t writing anymore. Just staying there. Trying to stay upright. Trying not to move.

From the bed, your voice came—low, careful.

“Are you okay?”

It was a gentle question. Innocent on the surface. But the way you asked it… it wasn’t about the night, or the tea, or the conversation.

It was about him.

He turned, slowly, his eyes meeting yours across the dim space. You looked impossibly soft in the low light. Not seductive. Not reckless. Just honest. Just present.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice stripped down to something raw.

He stood—not approaching fast, not closing the distance with purpose. Just… walking, as if something inside him stopped fighting the current.

You sat up, instinctively. Your knees drawn under the sheets, your arms wrapped around yourself—not in defense, but in waiting.

He stopped beside the bed.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he said.

You nodded.

“I know.”

“I should tell you to leave.”

You looked up at him, chest rising slowly.

“But you won’t.”

That silenced him.

He looked at you like he was memorizing the moment—like if he blinked, it would vanish, and he couldn’t bear that.

And then, without a word, without a warning—he leaned down.

The kiss wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t deep.

It just happened.

His hand barely brushed your cheek. His mouth met yours like a quiet apology. Not for kissing you—but for how long he had wanted to. For how much he already had.

You didn’t move.

You didn’t pull him closer. You didn’t push him away.

It was a kiss that knew it shouldn’t exist.

And yet—it did.

When he pulled back, his eyes stayed closed for a beat too long. Like the world came rushing back all at once.

He straightened.

You watched him. He didn’t speak.

He returned to the desk.

And wrote nothing for the rest of the night.

☙─────༺༻─────❧

Few days later at Gojo’s Office

“Just tell me you didn’t sleep with her.”

Nanami didn’t answer.

Gojo’s eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses. “Kento.”

“No,” Nanami finally said. “We didn’t. It was just—”

“A kiss,” Gojo guessed. “Of course it was.”

Nanami exhaled slowly. “It wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Gojo said, leaning back in his chair with a long, theatrical sigh. “You’ve been walking around like a man who got stabbed with his own moral compass.”

Nanami looked away, jaw tense.

Gojo tilted his head. “Do you regret it?”

A pause. Then, quietly: “No.”

That silence lasted longer than Gojo expected.

Nanami went on. “I regret letting it mean something. I regret… that it didn’t feel wrong.”

Gojo didn’t mock him this time. “And your wife?”

“She doesn’t know. But I think… she’s starting to understand there’s something I’m not telling her.”

Gojo’s voice softened, just slightly.

“So what are you going to do?”

Nanami didn’t answer.

☙─────༺༻─────❧

The room was still, save for the gentle ticking of the wall clock. He finds himself at your apartment..

Light filtered in through the gauzy curtains, soft and indifferent. On the bed behind him, you slept—one arm folded beneath the pillow, your breathing steady, your skin barely visible beneath the sheets.

Nanami sat at your desk.

Hair slightly tousled. Shirt rebuttoned, but not tucked. His pen scratched softly over the page of your notebook—your pen, your paper—borrowed without asking. It was the only thing his hands knew how to do now: write. Keep moving. Even when everything else had stopped.

He wasn’t running from what had happened. Not now.

He had come to you knowing exactly what he was about to do. He didn’t pretend otherwise. And yet, there was still a trembling in his chest—not from shame, but from the unbearable quiet of having finally done it.

The desk was cluttered with your things: dog-eared books, a coffee cup from two days ago, an annotated printout of his lecture. His fingers brushed over the margin where you had scribbled a note beside his name.

“His words always sound like they’re trying to save someone.”

He swallowed hard.

You shifted in bed, the sheets rustling.

He didn’t turn to look.

Instead, he paused his writing.

And under the date, he wrote only one sentence:

“It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.”

Then he capped the pen and folded his hands.

And waited for you to wake up.

☙─────༺༻─────❧

It didn’t happen with shouting.

No slammed doors. No begging.

His wife sat at the kitchen table, one hand wrapped around a mug she hadn’t touched. Her eyes weren’t red. She hadn’t cried—not in front of him. But her voice was distant, thinned out like something left in the rain too long.

“So… it’s her,” she said. Not a question.

Nanami didn’t look away. “Yes.”

A pause.

She nodded once, like she was processing data—not grief.

“You said you weren’t that man,” she murmured. “The kind who cheats. The kind who—”

“I wasn’t,” he said softly. “Not until I was.”

She finally looked at him.

And then, after a long silence: “It’s hard to believe you fell in love with another.”

He didn’t defend himself. Didn’t try to reframe it. The most he gave her was the truth.

“I didn’t plan it.”

“I know.” Her voice cracked, just faintly. “That’s why it hurts.”

Another silence.

She pushed her chair back quietly. “I’ll take our son for the first few weeks. He’s too young to understand what this is. Later… you can explain it in your own way.”

Nanami stood but didn’t follow her. His voice barely rose above the sound of the clock.

“I’m sorry.”

She didn’t answer.

Just stood in the doorway for a moment—looking at him like she was trying to memorize the man she thought he was.

Then, quietly:

“Be better with her than you were with me.”

And she left.

Weeks later

You weren’t expecting him to show up with a suitcase. Not yet. Not like this.

He stepped inside your apartment like someone who had finally stopped holding his breath.

He didn’t kiss you. He didn’t say much.

Just set the suitcase down near the door. Looked around. Took in the space as if it was new, even though he’d already been here.

You didn’t ask him what had happened.

You knew.

Instead, you touched the sleeve of his coat gently. Not pulling. Not coaxing. Just… reminding him he wasn’t alone.

And finally, he breathed.

Really breathed…

☙─────༺༻─────❧

The ceremony was long. Predictable. You shook hands, posed for pictures, smiled through the aching stiffness in your cheeks. But the real weight of the moment didn’t hit until it was over—when you stepped out into the evening air, diploma in hand, and saw him waiting for you.

Nanami stood off to the side, out of the way of the crowd, in a simple navy suit. Nothing flashy. Nothing attention-seeking. But the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing that mattered in the world—it made your heart stumble.

You approached him slowly, still in your cap and gown. He said nothing at first. Just took you in.

“You look proud,” you teased softly.

“I am,” he said.

A beat passed, full of meaning you couldn’t name.

Then, casually—too casually—he said:

“Gojo’s waiting nearby.”

You blinked. “Gojo?”

Nanami gave the faintest nod. “I thought… maybe it’s time.”

You paused. “Are you sure?”

His eyes were steady. “I wouldn’t have brought it up if I wasn’t.”

At the café nearby

Gojo was already there, sprawled in a patio seat like he owned the place. Sunglasses on, even though the sun was low. A drink half-gone in front of him. He looked up as you approached and grinned, wolfish and unreadable.

“Well, well. The mysterious girl finally graduates,” he said, rising from his chair with a dramatic flourish. “Kento, you didn’t make her up after all.”

Nanami exhaled slowly. “Gojo.”

“Relax, I’m being charming.”

He turned to you, hand extended. “I’m Gojo Satoru. Old friend, occasional pain in the ass, and the man who’s been waiting years for this moment.”

You shook his hand, a little overwhelmed—but his energy made it easier to breathe.

“He talks about you,” Gojo said, glancing at Nanami.

Nanami didn’t deny it.

Gojo’s grin softened, just a little. “You kept him from imploding, huh?”You smiled, something quiet in your chest loosening.

“I don’t think he needed saving,” you said. “Just… someone to see him.”

Gojo’s expression changed for half a second—surprise, then something closer to respect.

“Well,” he said, sitting back down with a sigh, “now I really want to get to know you.”

Nanami stood beside you, one hand gently brushing your back.

And for the first time in years, he looked like a man no longer trying to live between versions of himself.

☙─────༺༻─────❧

Years later…

The hall was warm with quiet chatter—faint clinking of glasses, rustle of fabric, the low hum of scholarly ego drifting over wine. A conference. Nothing flashy. Just paper presentations, panelists, a dozen old professors clinging to relevance. You stood near the back, fingers brushing the stem of your glass, eyes skimming the crowd.

Then:

“Professor Nanami,” someone said—warm, respectful.

He turned. A younger colleague. Some rising star with a fellowship and too much enthusiasm.

“And this is…?”

Nanami glanced at you. There was no hesitation.

“My wife.”

The word landed gently. Unshaken. Certain. You felt it anchor in your chest.

You smiled—soft, quiet, not for anyone else.

The young professor stammered a compliment, and Nanami nodded with practiced politeness. But his hand found yours—fingers curling gently around your palm. Not a performance. Just presence.

From across the room, Gojo caught your eye.

He raised a brow. Smirked. Tilted his glass in mock-toast like “Told you so.”

Nanami didn’t look his way.

But you laughed under your breath.

And for the first time in years, the place that once felt haunted—by rules, memory, and silence—felt small and distant. Powerless.

Because you were beside him. Not hidden. Not quiet.

You belonged.

Taglist: @wiggly-yrath @humeysaga

[sturduststrails]

Nothing more than the truth

Pairing: Uni teacher!Nanami x student!reader

✦ Summary: She was just a student—bright, curious, with a rare reverence for the words he taught. He on the contrary— was a man already spoken for, his life compartmentalized between lectures, literature, and a marriage that had dulled into civility. A quiet story about unspoken longing, fractured morality, and a love that arrived too late.

Word count: ~ approximately 3,500 ..(kinda.)

CW: forbidden relationship, age gap (20s,40s), cheating, angst, moral ambiguity.

Thought i would never write about nanami, but here i am🫧

☙─────༺༻─────❧

It all began with one of his many lectures.

You sat in one of the many desks—silent, tucked away in the second row—savoring every word he said, every thought he unraveled like fine thread between his fingers. His voice had no need to rise. It moved evenly, like water over stone, and you listened the way one listens to rain against a library window: slow, still, absorbing.

You understood his lectures—not just intellectually, but emotionally. You felt the weight of his pauses, the care in his phrasing, the way he spoke of truth as something that could bruise. There was something old in his eyes, something too tired for his age, and yet he spoke of ideals like someone who hadn’t entirely given up.

One day, with a thousand questions burning in your mind and none of them purely academic, you found yourself at his office door. You didn’t knock—not yet. The door was slightly ajar. And through that narrow crack, you saw him.

He didn’t see you. He was leaning over his desk, one hand tangled in his hair, the other holding a cigarette—smoke curling around his wrist like a restless thought. Papers were spread across the table, pages marked in tight, careful handwriting. There were books everywhere. Lined against the wall, piled on the floor, stacked beneath the window like uneven altars. You couldn’t name all of them, but somehow, you trusted he had read them all. And that he remembered every word.

He exhaled slowly, the tip of his cigarette glowing for a moment in the quiet. The air smelled faintly of ink, smoke, and something older—maybe dust, maybe resignation.

You should’ve walked away. You should’ve knocked.

But you stayed. Just a second longer. Long enough to know this man was far lonelier than he let on.

You stayed longer than you meant to. Maybe the sound of your breath shifted something in the air—because suddenly, without looking up, he spoke.

“…Yes?”

You startled a little, then straightened your posture as if you belonged there.

“I was about to leave,” you said, your voice softer than expected. “But I saw you. I needed some advice.”

He finally turned. The glasses caught the light. His eyes scanned you—briefly, but not unkindly.

You told him your name, half-expecting it to vanish in the quiet that followed.

“I attend your lectures,” you added, suddenly self-conscious. “I sit near the front—”

“Yes, I’ve noticed you,” he said, cutting in gently. His tone wasn’t surprised—just matter-of-fact. Then, with a furrow of his brow: “But you’re not in my class roster.”

You smiled, half-laughing, suddenly aware of how ridiculous you might seem.

“I’m glad you noticed me,” you said, rubbing your hands together nervously. “But that’s not the point.”

His expression didn’t shift, but something about the way he sat back, cigarette forgotten in the ashtray now, told you he was listening.

You pressed on, unsure if you were still talking to him or just speaking aloud into the air between you.

“I’ve been going to your lectures even though I’m not enrolled. I listen. Every time. The way you talk about literature—it’s not just theory, not just analysis. You—” you hesitated, words catching on something in your chest, “you put your heart into it. Like you’re trying to make sense of something real.”

His gaze shifted slightly, but he said nothing.

You continued.

“You speak about men losing themselves. About guilt. About silence and compromise. And sometimes I think… maybe that’s why I come. Because I don’t agree with a lot of things. Or I don’t believe them anymore. Not the way I’m supposed to.”

Your voice faltered there—but only for a moment.

“I don’t believe life always rewards honesty. I don’t believe people change. And I don’t think good people always stay that way.”

Nanami’s brow moved, just slightly. His fingers tapped ash into the tray, then stilled.

A long breath passed.

Then, unexpectedly, he asked:

“And what do you believe in, miss?”

The question felt like a stone dropped into water—quiet, but impossibly deep.

You looked at him—really looked—and answered honestly: “I believe in the way you speak about truth. Even if it doesn’t save anyone.”

Nanami held your gaze for a moment after your answer. You weren’t sure if he was surprised—or simply unused to being answered so plainly.

Then, after a pause, he said quietly,

“That’s why you’re in university. To find what you’re morally connected to.”

You tilted your head a little, thoughtfully. “Has it worked? For you?”

He exhaled—like the question was too large for the room. Then, almost to himself:

“I hope so.”

A small smile touched his lips. Tired, but real.

“Yeah… I think yes.”

There was a gentle quiet as he turned from the desk, running his hand over a few loose pages. He reached for his satchel, brushing off a hardback before sliding it inside. Then, with a faint motion of his hand, he gestured around the office—lined with spines, paper edges, worn covers and notes tucked into margins.

“This is what I believe in.”

Books.

Ink.

Paper.

Order.

Other people’s words.

You looked around, letting your eyes rest on the volumes that seemed to live in the room more than he did.

“Books…” you echoed softly, like you were tasting the word.

He chuckled, low and wry.

“This makes me sound really old—but sometimes I wonder if books ever actually connect to real life. Or if we just… pretend they do, because we need them to.”

That made something tighten quietly in your chest.

“I think they do,” you said, almost without thinking. “I think they have to.”

They left the building together, though neither of you said aloud that you were walking in the same direction.

The sun was already fading behind the horizon, brushing the pavement in gold that turned quickly to gray. You walked just slightly behind him at first, but fell into step soon enough. There was something oddly comfortable about the silence between you. Not awkward. Just concentrated, like a conversation was still happening beneath it.

You glanced up at him.

“So… are you writing something new?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His eyes flicked ahead—toward the gates, or maybe just toward a thought he didn’t want to say out loud.

“Maybe,” he said finally. “I’ve started something. A few scattered chapters. Nothing coherent.”

You hummed. “What kind of book?”

His jaw shifted, as if weighing how honest he could afford to be.

“…Cruel,” he said at last. “Maybe too cruel.”

You blinked, eyebrows rising slightly. “How cruel?”

A small smile tugged at the edge of his mouth, but he didn’t look at you.

“A man. That maybe will kill his own wife, not because he hates her, because he loves her too much.. so he will find himself lonely, with his wife corpse in his arms-…”

You let that word settle, then spoke softly, a touch more breath in your voice than you intended.

“I mean… that sounds poetic. The way you said it. A book that’s cruel, but—”

You looked down, thinking carefully. “—cruel in the way something true can be. Uncomfortable, but… honest.”

He slowed just a little, glancing over at you—not to dismiss the thought, but to examine it.

You were already looking at him.

That pause hung in the space between you like breath held too long.

For a few seconds, neither of you said anything.

There was no one else on the path. Just a breeze brushing the trees.

Your eyes met—quiet, unblinking—and the moment lingered just a heartbeat too long.

He looked away first.

Cleared his throat softly.

“I suppose I’ll have to keep writing, then,” he said. “If only to see if it stays poetic… or just turns bitter.”

☙─────༺༻─────❧

A Week Later

The city buzzed with late evening noise. Distant sirens, the click of traffic lights, and the hum of too many conversations overlapping in the background. Nanami walked beside Gojo, hands in his coat pockets, expression flat as usual. The streetlights made long shadows of their legs on the sidewalk.

Gojo sipped from a canned drink, already halfway through it. He looked like someone who hadn’t grown up properly, but enjoyed it.

“You ever gonna tell me why you’ve been so weird lately?” Gojo asked, slouching his shoulder toward Nanami in a lazy nudge. “You keep zoning out. You’ve never zoned out. You’re like—aggressively grounded.”

Nanami sighed, not answering at first.

Gojo grinned. “Come on. I’m a good listener. And a better liar.”

“I’ve imagined things,” Nanami said.

That shut Gojo up for half a second. He tilted his head.

“With one of my students.”

Gojo blinked. “Okay. Wow. Straight to confession mode, huh?”

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s not like that.”

“You sure? Because that sounded like exactly like that.”

He stopped walking for a second, turning to face Gojo with quiet irritation.

“No, Gojo. It’s literally wrong. I’m a university professor. She’s a student. One of my students.”

Gojo didn’t argue—just gave him that unreadable look, the one he rarely used but saved for when things actually mattered.

“Is she your student forever?” he asked. “Because if she’s graduating soon, that line gets blurrier by the day.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

They resumed walking. Nanami’s hands were still deep in his coat, clenched tight.

Gojo took another sip. “You do anything?”

“No.” Nanami’s voice was sharp, final.

“We didn’t.”

“Okay,” Gojo said, dragging out the word. “Then what’s the problem?”

Nanami didn’t respond.

Gojo raised an eyebrow. “You’re not afraid of what would happen. You’re afraid of what you already feel.”

A pause. Nanami looked ahead, jaw set.

“You’re in love with her.”

Nanami didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. Just kept walking.

Which was, in itself, the answer…

☙─────༺༻─────❧

The kitchen smelled like soy and garlic. His son was laughing—genuinely laughing—as Nanami helped him slice soft tofu with clumsy, over-guided hands. A small, tender moment.

“Too slow, Papa,” the boy teased.

“Precision matters,” Nanami muttered, smiling faintly.

From the next room, his wife’s voice drifted in. “Be careful with the knife, Kento. He’s still too young.”

“He’s fine,” Nanami said. “I’m watching.”

Dinner passed quietly. His wife sat across from him, reading something on her phone between bites. The conversation stayed light. They talked about the school’s fundraiser, the groceries, the upcoming parent-teacher meeting. Everything was fine. It was always fine.

After their son was asleep, she joined him in the living room. The TV flickered silently.

“You’ve been tired lately,” she said, not accusingly. Just flatly.

“I have work,” he said.

“You’ve always had work.”

He nodded.

There was no argument. No bitterness. Just a quiet void between them—years of polite routines that had dulled into background noise.

She stood and kissed the top of his head before going to bed.

He didn’t follow.

The rain had been falling since evening—long, steady, insistent. Nanami hadn’t moved from his place in the living room. His wife and son had gone to bed hours ago. The house was dim, lit only by the soft gold of a floor lamp. Outside, everything was gray-blue and flickering under the storm.

Then: a knock.

Soft. Hesitant.

He froze.

Not many people knew where he lived. Fewer would ever dare come this late. He stood slowly, almost reluctantly, and opened the door.

You stood there—drenched.

Hair clinging to your face, breath unsteady. Your coat was soaked through, your hands curled into fists like you had tried not to knock for ten minutes straight and lost.

He stared at you, stunned. Not by your presence—but by the fact that you actually came.

“I’m very sorry,” you said quickly, before he could speak. “I shouldn’t have come here. I know that.”

He didn’t respond.

“But—” your voice cracked, “there were questions. I couldn’t sleep. And I thought… maybe I’d forget them tomorrow, or lie to myself about what they meant. But right now, they’re just—loud.”

He looked at you—truly looked. The way your shoulders trembled. The way your eyes weren’t asking for anything other than to be heard.

Without a word, he stepped aside.

You walked in.

The house was asleep. The rain had softened to a hush.

You were in his guest room now—wrapped in a dry blanket, your wet coat draped over the back of a chair. He’d made tea without asking. You didn’t drink it.

The room had long gone still.

Nanami was still writing, though the ink was beginning to smudge—his hand lingering on the page too long. He wasn’t writing anymore. Just staying there. Trying to stay upright. Trying not to move.

From the bed, your voice came—low, careful.

“Are you okay?”

It was a gentle question. Innocent on the surface. But the way you asked it… it wasn’t about the night, or the tea, or the conversation.

It was about him.

He turned, slowly, his eyes meeting yours across the dim space. You looked impossibly soft in the low light. Not seductive. Not reckless. Just honest. Just present.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice stripped down to something raw.

He stood—not approaching fast, not closing the distance with purpose. Just… walking, as if something inside him stopped fighting the current.

You sat up, instinctively. Your knees drawn under the sheets, your arms wrapped around yourself—not in defense, but in waiting.

He stopped beside the bed.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he said.

You nodded.

“I know.”

“I should tell you to leave.”

You looked up at him, chest rising slowly.

“But you won’t.”

That silenced him.

He looked at you like he was memorizing the moment—like if he blinked, it would vanish, and he couldn’t bear that.

And then, without a word, without a warning—he leaned down.

The kiss wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t deep.

It just happened.

His hand barely brushed your cheek. His mouth met yours like a quiet apology. Not for kissing you—but for how long he had wanted to. For how much he already had.

You didn’t move.

You didn’t pull him closer. You didn’t push him away.

It was a kiss that knew it shouldn’t exist.

And yet—it did.

When he pulled back, his eyes stayed closed for a beat too long. Like the world came rushing back all at once.

He straightened.

You watched him. He didn’t speak.

He returned to the desk.

And wrote nothing for the rest of the night.

☙─────༺༻─────❧

Few days later at Gojo’s Office

“Just tell me you didn’t sleep with her.”

Nanami didn’t answer.

Gojo’s eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses. “Kento.”

“No,” Nanami finally said. “We didn’t. It was just—”

“A kiss,” Gojo guessed. “Of course it was.”

Nanami exhaled slowly. “It wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Gojo said, leaning back in his chair with a long, theatrical sigh. “You’ve been walking around like a man who got stabbed with his own moral compass.”

Nanami looked away, jaw tense.

Gojo tilted his head. “Do you regret it?”

A pause. Then, quietly: “No.”

That silence lasted longer than Gojo expected.

Nanami went on. “I regret letting it mean something. I regret… that it didn’t feel wrong.”

Gojo didn’t mock him this time. “And your wife?”

“She doesn’t know. But I think… she’s starting to understand there’s something I’m not telling her.”

Gojo’s voice softened, just slightly.

“So what are you going to do?”

Nanami didn’t answer.

☙─────༺༻─────❧

The room was still, save for the gentle ticking of the wall clock. He finds himself at your apartment..

Light filtered in through the gauzy curtains, soft and indifferent. On the bed behind him, you slept—one arm folded beneath the pillow, your breathing steady, your skin barely visible beneath the sheets.

Nanami sat at your desk.

Hair slightly tousled. Shirt rebuttoned, but not tucked. His pen scratched softly over the page of your notebook—your pen, your paper—borrowed without asking. It was the only thing his hands knew how to do now: write. Keep moving. Even when everything else had stopped.

He wasn’t running from what had happened. Not now.

He had come to you knowing exactly what he was about to do. He didn’t pretend otherwise. And yet, there was still a trembling in his chest—not from shame, but from the unbearable quiet of having finally done it.

The desk was cluttered with your things: dog-eared books, a coffee cup from two days ago, an annotated printout of his lecture. His fingers brushed over the margin where you had scribbled a note beside his name.

“His words always sound like they’re trying to save someone.”

He swallowed hard.

You shifted in bed, the sheets rustling.

He didn’t turn to look.

Instead, he paused his writing.

And under the date, he wrote only one sentence:

“It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.”

Then he capped the pen and folded his hands.

And waited for you to wake up.

☙─────༺༻─────❧

It didn’t happen with shouting.

No slammed doors. No begging.

His wife sat at the kitchen table, one hand wrapped around a mug she hadn’t touched. Her eyes weren’t red. She hadn’t cried—not in front of him. But her voice was distant, thinned out like something left in the rain too long.

“So… it’s her,” she said. Not a question.

Nanami didn’t look away. “Yes.”

A pause.

She nodded once, like she was processing data—not grief.

“You said you weren’t that man,” she murmured. “The kind who cheats. The kind who—”

“I wasn’t,” he said softly. “Not until I was.”

She finally looked at him.

And then, after a long silence: “It’s hard to believe you fell in love with another.”

He didn’t defend himself. Didn’t try to reframe it. The most he gave her was the truth.

“I didn’t plan it.”

“I know.” Her voice cracked, just faintly. “That’s why it hurts.”

Another silence.

She pushed her chair back quietly. “I’ll take our son for the first few weeks. He’s too young to understand what this is. Later… you can explain it in your own way.”

Nanami stood but didn’t follow her. His voice barely rose above the sound of the clock.

“I’m sorry.”

She didn’t answer.

Just stood in the doorway for a moment—looking at him like she was trying to memorize the man she thought he was.

Then, quietly:

“Be better with her than you were with me.”

And she left.

Weeks later

You weren’t expecting him to show up with a suitcase. Not yet. Not like this.

He stepped inside your apartment like someone who had finally stopped holding his breath.

He didn’t kiss you. He didn’t say much.

Just set the suitcase down near the door. Looked around. Took in the space as if it was new, even though he’d already been here.

You didn’t ask him what had happened.

You knew.

Instead, you touched the sleeve of his coat gently. Not pulling. Not coaxing. Just… reminding him he wasn’t alone.

And finally, he breathed.

Really breathed…

☙─────༺༻─────❧

The ceremony was long. Predictable. You shook hands, posed for pictures, smiled through the aching stiffness in your cheeks. But the real weight of the moment didn’t hit until it was over—when you stepped out into the evening air, diploma in hand, and saw him waiting for you.

Nanami stood off to the side, out of the way of the crowd, in a simple navy suit. Nothing flashy. Nothing attention-seeking. But the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing that mattered in the world—it made your heart stumble.

You approached him slowly, still in your cap and gown. He said nothing at first. Just took you in.

“You look proud,” you teased softly.

“I am,” he said.

A beat passed, full of meaning you couldn’t name.

Then, casually—too casually—he said:

“Gojo’s waiting nearby.”

You blinked. “Gojo?”

Nanami gave the faintest nod. “I thought… maybe it’s time.”

You paused. “Are you sure?”

His eyes were steady. “I wouldn’t have brought it up if I wasn’t.”

At the café nearby

Gojo was already there, sprawled in a patio seat like he owned the place. Sunglasses on, even though the sun was low. A drink half-gone in front of him. He looked up as you approached and grinned, wolfish and unreadable.

“Well, well. The mysterious girl finally graduates,” he said, rising from his chair with a dramatic flourish. “Kento, you didn’t make her up after all.”

Nanami exhaled slowly. “Gojo.”

“Relax, I’m being charming.”

He turned to you, hand extended. “I’m Gojo Satoru. Old friend, occasional pain in the ass, and the man who’s been waiting years for this moment.”

You shook his hand, a little overwhelmed—but his energy made it easier to breathe.

“He talks about you,” Gojo said, glancing at Nanami.

Nanami didn’t deny it.

Gojo’s grin softened, just a little. “You kept him from imploding, huh?”You smiled, something quiet in your chest loosening.

“I don’t think he needed saving,” you said. “Just… someone to see him.”

Gojo’s expression changed for half a second—surprise, then something closer to respect.

“Well,” he said, sitting back down with a sigh, “now I really want to get to know you.”

Nanami stood beside you, one hand gently brushing your back.

And for the first time in years, he looked like a man no longer trying to live between versions of himself.

☙─────༺༻─────❧

Years later…

The hall was warm with quiet chatter—faint clinking of glasses, rustle of fabric, the low hum of scholarly ego drifting over wine. A conference. Nothing flashy. Just paper presentations, panelists, a dozen old professors clinging to relevance. You stood near the back, fingers brushing the stem of your glass, eyes skimming the crowd.

Then:

“Professor Nanami,” someone said—warm, respectful.

He turned. A younger colleague. Some rising star with a fellowship and too much enthusiasm.

“And this is…?”

Nanami glanced at you. There was no hesitation.

“My wife.”

The word landed gently. Unshaken. Certain. You felt it anchor in your chest.

You smiled—soft, quiet, not for anyone else.

The young professor stammered a compliment, and Nanami nodded with practiced politeness. But his hand found yours—fingers curling gently around your palm. Not a performance. Just presence.

From across the room, Gojo caught your eye.

He raised a brow. Smirked. Tilted his glass in mock-toast like “Told you so.”

Nanami didn’t look his way.

But you laughed under your breath.

And for the first time in years, the place that once felt haunted—by rules, memory, and silence—felt small and distant. Powerless.

Because you were beside him. Not hidden. Not quiet.

You belonged.

Taglist: @wiggly-yrath @humeysaga

[sturduststrails]

Boxer!Sukuna is the type to…

stand over you in the kitchen while you cook just to steal pieces of food with his fingers and kiss your cheek like he didn’t just burn his mouth.

Boxer!Sukuna is the type to…

stare down the camera after a match, blood still dripping down his jaw, and mutter “this one was for her” without explaining a single thing.

Boxer!Sukuna is the type to…

keep your photo in the notes app under a fake name so no one knows what he’s looking at between fights.

Boxer!Sukuna is the type to…

say “don’t watch this one” before a brutal match, even though he knows you’ll have it pulled up on your phone, hands shaking the whole time.

Boxer!Sukuna is the type to…

brush off press questions about his “personal life” with a cold smirk, but then walk off and whisper in your ear, “they’re not owed a single thing from us.”

Boxer!Sukuna is the type to…

slip one of his hoodies over your head in the middle of an argument because your shoulders were cold. (Still arguing. But warmer now.)

Boxer!Sukuna is the type to…

fight like he has nothing to lose, then come home and collapse into you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

Boxer!Sukuna is the type to…

kiss the top of your head when he thinks you’re asleep, whisper “you’re the only thing I don’t regret.”

Boxer!Sukuna is the type to…

send a single-word text after a fight: “home.” No emojis. No punctuation. But you know what it means: he’s on his way, and all he wants is you.

Boxer!Sukuna is the type to…

tell you “don’t come to this one,” but look for you in the crowd anyway. And the second he sees you—he smiles. For half a second. Only for you.

[sturduststrails]

- Boxer!Sukuna who only smiles at you at the end of a round. Blood on his jaw, sweat on his brow, crowd screaming his name—but his eyes find yours, and just before the bell rings, he gives you that grin. Sharp, private, like a secret carved into bone.

- Boxer!Sukuna who doesn’t let anyone touch his wraps but you. He’ll let a trainer bandage him up, sure. But the hand wraps before a fight? That’s your job. He says it’s superstition. You know it’s not.

- Boxer!Sukuna who picks fights in the ring just to let the rage out before coming home to you soft. You ask him once why he always fights so angry. He shrugs. “So I don’t bring it home.”

- Boxer!Sukuna who kisses you with split lips and bruised knuckles. There’s blood on his teeth when he says, “Still wanna touch me?” And you do. God, you do.

- Boxer!Sukuna who calls you his good luck charm but threatens anyone who brings you to the arena. He doesn’t want the cameras catching you. You belong to him, not the public.

- Boxer!Sukuna who gets suspended for a post-fight brawl because someone made a comment about you. He doesn’t apologize. Not to the commission, not to his coach. Just tosses his gloves in a locker and mutters, “Should’ve broken his other wrist too.”

- Boxer!Sukuna who lets you sit in his lap during late-night tape reviews. Shirtless, bruised, growling at the screen—but when you crawl into his lap, his hand rests on your thigh like it’s second nature.

- Boxer!Sukuna who says “You’re the only one who makes me soft. Don’t let it go to your head.” But when you kiss the scar near his brow, he leans into it like a man starving.

- Boxer!Sukuna who stares too long when you wear his walkout hoodie. He doesn’t say anything, just watches you move in it like you belong to him—and yeah, maybe he pushes you against the nearest wall five minutes later.

- Boxer!Sukuna who tells you not to come to the underground matches. But when you show up anyway, he fights harder—faster—like he wants to show off just for you.

Taglist: @wiggly-yrath @humeysaga

[sturduststrails]

the sue me series is written so well🫠❤️

Thank you so much❤️ I appreciate a lot!! I hope you enjoyed it ❤️

[sturduststrails]

“Sue me” Ex!sukuna x reader

Exes to lovers..

Masterlist

Pt.10

You didn’t contact him. He neither.

Silence filled the present.

Reader POV

It’s raining. Of course it’s raining.

You’re halfway through your walk home, hood pulled up, no umbrella, just your phone in your pocket buzzing from some group chat you’ll ignore.

You should’ve turned back twenty minutes ago.

But it’s been one of those days—the ones where your chest feels tight and your thoughts feel loud and everything just aches a little louder than usual.

So you walk. Through puddles. Past memories. Into corners of the city that still remember him.

And then, as you cross that street—the one near the bench where you once sat with him eating takeout, laughing so hard your drink went up your nose—

You see him.

Not in your mind.

Not on a poster.

Him.

Standing there. Hood up. Jacket half-zipped like he rushed out. Like maybe he was walking, too. Thinking. Breaking. Needing air.

He sees you, too.

Freezes.

Neither of you speaks.

The rain doesn’t stop.

You don’t move.

He doesn’t either.

And then, slowly, he takes a step forward.

Another.

Until he’s right in front of you.

And says, voice quieter than the rain.

“I was going to your apartment.”

You blink. Your mouth is dry.

“Why?”

“Because I read your message again. All of them.”

You look away. But he’s still speaking.

“I thought if I stayed quiet, I could let you forget me. Like maybe that would be the kindest thing I’d ever do for you.”

A beat.

You don’t interrupt.

“But you never got to forget me, did you?”

You shake your head. Slow.

“No. I didn’t.”

He swallows. Rain dripping off the edge of his jaw.

“You were right. I rewrote everything so I wouldn’t have to sit in what I did. I made it look like I was hurt, not like I hurt you.”

You don’t nod. You don’t soften.

You wait. Because he has more.

“I tried to fix it in writing because I was too much of a coward to say it out loud. Because if I really said it—what I did, how I failed you—it would mean I couldn’t hide behind pretty words anymore.”

He steps closer. Not too close.

Just enough that his voice drops a little.

“But I’m not hiding now. Not from what I did. Not from what I lost.”

You want to say something, but your throat’s closing up.

So he says it for you.

“I lost you. And I deserved to. But I’m still here because I need you to know—”

He stops.

Not for drama.

Because this costs something.

“I never stopped loving you. I just didn’t know how to love you without breaking things.”

And finally—

You break.

Not into pieces.

Just open.

A slow, shaking breath escapes you, and your voice comes like it’s been hiding behind your ribs: “I waited so long for you to say that.”

“I know.”

“And it’s not enough.”

He flinches. But then—nods.

“I know.”

Another pause. You wipe your face—not that it matters in the rain.

Then—“But it’s something.”

And you step forward.

This time, you’re the one who closes the space.

You reach for his hand. Theyre cold. Yours too. But the way his fingers tighten around yours—It feels like a yes.

“I’m not going back to the way things were,” you whisper.

“Good,” he says. “I don’t want the old version of us.”

“Then what do you want?”

He looks at you.

Eyes clear. Honest. Unflinching.

“I want the version where we don’t lie. Where we talk, even when it’s ugly. Where I don’t run, and you don’t disappear, and we try. Really try.”

And God help you— You want that too.

You lean in, just enough to rest your forehead against his.

A new kind of breath between you.

And for the first time in what feels like lifetimes— You feel held.

Not rewritten. Not pitied. Not polished into something readable. Just seen.

And. This time hits.

He leans for a kiss, soft and gentle, you dont pull back. He missed you. As you did.

💌 Sue Me — closed (for now…)

Hi guys❤️ this fict is complete, i loved writing this, I hope you enjoyed too❤️ thanks for reading it.

Taglist: @humeysaga @wiggly-yrath

[sturduststrails]

“Sue me” Ex!sukuna x reader

Exes to??

Masterlist

Pt.9

Sukuna POV:

He doesn’t go home.

Not right away.

He walks.

Doesn’t matter where. Doesn’t check his phone. Just lets the city swallow him a little.

It’s not raining.

He almost wants it to be.

Would make more sense if the sky cracked open while he’s falling apart.

He keeps thinking about how quiet she was.

How she didn’t yell. Didn’t cry.

Didn’t do any of the things he used to accuse her of doing “too much.”

She just… stood there. Steady. Like she had nothing left to prove.

And fuck, that was worse.

Because she’d always fought for them, even when he didn’t.

And now she’s finally stopped.

And he knows—he knows—there’s no going back from that.

He left her the note.

The real one.

The one he didn’t let the editor see. The one he’d folded up and carried around like a secret bruise.

He meant to burn it.

But when he saw her—when she opened the door and looked at him like someone she used to know—he knew:

That page was never for him.

It was hers.

She deserved to know the version of the story that didn’t get published.

The one that didn’t try to make him sound better than he was.

And now it’s out there.

She has it.

And he’s terrified.

Because what happens when you finally tell the truth—and they still don’t forgive you?

He sits on a bench across from a closed bookstore.

Same one they used to browse in on slow Sundays.

She always went straight to poetry. Picked up a thin, sad-looking paperback and started reading with her whole face—eyebrows furrowed like every line was a wound she had to feel to understand.

He watches the light in the window flicker off.

Closes his eyes.

And for the first time in years, he doesn’t picture her from memory.

He sees her now.

How she didn’t flinch. How she said especially now when he asked if he was still in her writing.

How she didn’t try to hurt him.

She could have.

But she didn’t.

And that’s what gets him.

Not the silence.

Not the finality.

But the kindness in it.

She let him say the truth—and she didn’t spit it back in his face.

And now he’s the one who can’t breathe.

He pulls out his phone.

Thumb hovers over her name.

The urge is there—to text, to say something, anything.

But he doesn’t.

Because for the first time, Sukuna understands something he’s been running from for years:

She didn’t need a better ending.

She needed a better partner.

And he wasn’t one.

Not then.

Maybe not now.

He locks the phone.

And whispers—quiet, like an apology too late: “I should’ve been someone you could write with, not about.”

Reader POV:

You don’t sleep.

You try.

Lie on your side. Then your back. Then your side again. You flip the pillow, kick off the blanket. Nothing works.

His note is still on the counter.

You haven’t touched it since you read it the first time.

But the words are burned into your skull. You could recite them in your sleep.

If sleep would just… come.

“You weren’t a metaphor. You were my reminder that love doesn’t have to be soft to be real.”

God.

You squeeze your eyes shut like it’ll stop the echo.

But it doesn’t.

Because it’s not just his words that haunt you.

It’s the version of him who finally said them.

Too late. Too honest.

Too real.

You don’t want to feel it.

Not the weight of it. Not the part of you that wants to believe him.

The part that still wants to be seen by him, even now.

It makes you sick, how much of you is still tied to someone who taught you how to disappear slowly.

You sit up. Swing your legs over the edge of the bed. The floor is cold.

You go to the kitchen.

And you read the letter again.

Line by line. Slowly this time. Like it’s a language you’re relearning.

When you reach the end, you don’t cry.

You just sit at the table, hands folded like you’re waiting for something else to arrive.

And maybe you are.

Not him.

Not a reply.

But the version of yourself that survived him.

The version that could read that letter and still say: “I know who I am without you now.”

And maybe that version is still forming.

Maybe she’s not loud yet.

But she’s there.

You can feel her.

Somewhere beneath the ache, beneath the echo, beneath the part of you that still flinches when his name lights up your phone in your mind even though it hasn’t in days.

You pick up a pen.

Not to write back.

Not this time…

You just start scribbling in the margins of his letter.

Not corrections.

Not commentary.

Just… truths.

Your, truth.

This part hurt.

This part felt real.

Here’s what you forgot.

Here’s what I’ll never forget.

And maybe that’s how healing starts.

Not with closure.

But with margin notes.

-1!!!😩😩

taglist: @wiggly-yrath @humeysaga

[sturduststrails]

"Sue me" Ex!sukuna x reader

Exes to??

Masterlist

Pt.8

You wake up on the couch.

Blanket half off. Neck sore. The light through the curtains too sharp.

For a second, your brain forgets—

Then you hear it.

The sound of the sink running. A cupboard opening. A spoon clinking against a mug.

He’s still here.

You sit up slowly. Not startled. Not panicked.

Just… unsure what to do with the fact that he didn’t vanish again.

You find him in the kitchen.

Same hoodie. Hair messy. Mug in hand.

He sees you and freezes. Like maybe he thought you’d kick him out this morning.

Like maybe he’d deserve it.

“Didn’t want to leave without saying something,” he says quietly. “Thought that’d be worse than staying.”

You nod once.

Cross your arms over your chest.

“You didn’t sleep?”

“Didn’t want to.”

Another pause.

You glance at the mug in his hands.

“That mine?”

“Yeah. It’s the one you used to always say made the coffee taste better.”

You blink.

You didn’t even remember that.

Of course he did.

He leans against the counter. Doesn’t look at you this time.

“There’s something I left out of the book.”

Your heart tugs.

“Only one thing?”

That earns the smallest, smallest smile from him. But he sobers quickly.

“There’s a scene—chapter eleven. When she leaves the apartment in the rain. I wrote that she slammed the door. That she didn’t look back.”

You nod. You remember it.

You remember reading it and feeling like your chest cracked open sideways.

“It wasn’t like that,” he says.

“You stood in the hallway for five whole minutes. Dripping wet. Crying. You kept asking me to say anything.”

You don’t move. You just breathe through the sting crawling up your throat.

“I couldn’t write that part,” he says. “Because it made me look too much like the villain. And I needed people to feel sorry for me.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes. You don’t know what to do with the honesty. With the self-awareness that came so late.

So you do what you’ve always done.

You write. Later, after he steps outside for a smoke you open your laptop.

And without overthinking, you type:

“He said he didn’t write the hallway scene because it made him look bad. But the truth is, the worst part wasn’t what he did. It’s what he didn’t do. He didn’t reach for me.”

Your fingers hover over the keyboard.

You keep going.

“We romanticize closure like it’s a clean break. Like it’s something that comes in the form of a conversation or an apology. But sometimes, closure is just surviving the silence. Living through the part where they don’t come after you.”

You sit back. Let it sit.

You don’t cry this time.

You just feel something shift.

And when you hear him come back in—you don’t close the laptop.

You don’t hide it.

He sees it over your shoulder.

Reads in silence.

And when his voice comes, it’s quieter than it’s ever been.

“That’s the real story, innit?”

You nod.

“It always was.”

He doesn’t speak right away.

Still standing behind you, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to come closer.

You don’t turn around.

You just let the quiet do what it does—stretch everything thin and trembling.

And then—

“Am I still in it?” he asks.

You look up. Not at him—just at the screen. At the words he just read.

“The writing?”

He nods.

You take a breath. Long. Heavy.

“You never left.”

That hits him. Harder than anything you’ve said.

“Even now?” he asks, quieter.

“Especially now.”

You close the laptop gently.

Not to shut him out. Just to feel the weight of the conversation in the room without distraction.

“I tried writing about other things,” you say. “Tried moving on. Tried turning you into a lesson or a metaphor or a distant memory.”

You look at him now. Eyes tired. Brow furrowed. Like he’s bracing for impact.

“But every time I sat down, there you were,” you continue. “Not the book version. Not the tragic genius. Just… you. Saying things in my head that I wish you’d said out loud.”

He leans back against the counter. Like standing is suddenly too hard.

“What did you want me to say?”

You swallow. And then—you let it break.

“I wanted you to say you were scared. I wanted you to say you didn’t know how to be loved like that. That it overwhelmed you. That it made you feel small and unworthy and that’s why you pushed.”

His breath catches. You keep going.

“I wanted you to admit that I wasn’t too much. That I wasn’t difficult. That I was trying. That I wasn’t wrong for needing reassurance. For needing to feel like I wasn’t begging for crumbs.”

“You weren’t,” he says.

So fast. So firm it almost stings.

“You were never wrong,” he says again.

“You were just with someone who couldn’t meet you where you stood.”

You stare at him.

And god—it almost hurts more hearing it now. When it’s too late to fix.

“Why now?” you whisper. “Why say it now?”

His voice cracks when he answers: “Because I didn’t want to be remembered for what I pretended to feel. I wanted to be remembered for what I didn’t know how to say.”

The tears burn, but you hold them back. Barely.

“You’re not a villain,” you say softly.

“But you’re not a hero, either.”

“I know.”

“You’re just… a man who didn’t know how to stay.” He nods. “And you’re the person who stayed anyway.”

You both just sit with that.

It’s not forgiveness.

It’s not closure, either.

But it’s honest.

And finally—finally—you both let it be.

He leaves before you do.

Not in a dramatic way. No slamming doors. No heavy goodbye.

Just a quiet walk to the door. A glance back. That almost-smile he used to give when he didn’t know what to say.

“I’m not going to pretend this fixes anything,” he says, hand on the knob.

“But I’m glad we said it.”

You nod. “Me too.”

And that’s it. He’s gone. Again.

You expect the silence to cave in on you again. But it doesn’t. Not this time.

Instead, it just… sits. Like something that’s been waiting to settle.

You don’t move for a while.

Just stand in the stillness. Let it hold you. Let it feel earned.

When you finally turn back toward the kitchen, there’s something on the counter.

Folded notebook paper. Familiar handwriting.

Your name on the front.

You hesitate.

Then unfold it.

His voice is there, between the lines.

Not the author voice.

Just his.

“This didn’t make the book.

I told myself it was because it didn’t fit the tone.

But the truth is, I was scared of what it said about me.

That I knew what I had. That I knew what I was doing.

And I broke it anyway.”

You feel it. That sting right behind your eyes.

“You once told me:

‘Just don’t write me like I was some lesson you had to learn.’

And I didn’t listen.

I made you a turning point. A plot twist. A poetic loss.

Because it was easier to lose a metaphor than a person.”

You grip the paper tighter.

“But you weren’t a metaphor.

You were my reminder that love doesn’t have to be soft to be real.

It can be sharp. Loud. Demanding. Honest.

And I couldn’t meet it.

I wasn’t ready to be seen that clearly.”

And then:

“If I ever write again,

I hope it’s braver than the last one.

I hope it tells the truth the first time.

I hope it doesn’t need someone else’s pain to sound profound.”

One more line. Scrawled smaller.

Almost like a secret.

“You were never a sad character.

I was just a coward with a pen.”

You don’t know what to do with it.

So you don’t do anything.

Not yet.

You just hold the paper to your chest.

And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like you’re clinging to a story that hurt you.

It feels like you’re holding evidence—of the truth, of the impact, of your side finally being seen.

And that?

That’s the kind of closure he could never write into fiction.

Hi guys! 🥹 -2 chapters <3

Taglist: @humeysaga @wiggly-yrath

[sturduststrails]

“Sue me” Ex!sukuna x reader

Exes to??

Masterlist

Pt.1. Pt.2. Pt.3. Pt.4. Pt.5. Pt.6. Pt.7

You’re both still on the couch.

Neither of you has moved.

But everything’s shifted.

The quiet isn’t calm anymore. It’s charged.

Like something’s about to crack open.

He looks at you, and this time—really looks.

Like he’s trying to memorize you.

Like he’s realizing this might be the last time he gets to.

“You know what else I remember?” he says, low.

You tilt your head slightly, wary.

“That night in the kitchen. After we fought.”

“You were wearing that oversized sweater. The one with the ripped sleeve.”

“You were crying but trying to make pasta like it didn’t matter.”

Your chest goes still.

“I walked in,” he says. “And you didn’t even look at me.”

“You just said, ‘It’s fine. I know you’re still mad. I’ll be quiet.’”

You look away.

“And I let you say that,” he says, voice cracking.

“I let you cook dinner for the person who made you cry, just because I didn’t want to feel guilty yet.”

You close your eyes.

God. That night.

“I’ve been thinking about that lately,” he adds.

“Not the fight. Not the words. Just… you, stirring pasta with shaking hands.”

You don’t want him to see your face right now.

But you don’t move.

And then—quietly, like the words are made of glass: “I used to think you stayed because you didn’t know better,” he says.

“But now I know you stayed because you loved me harder than I deserved to be loved.”

You inhale sharply. “And now?” you ask.

His eyes lock with yours. Unflinching. Finally.

“Now I’d burn that whole book if it meant I could hear you hum next to me again.”

Your stomach flips. Your throat goes tight.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“I do.”

“No, Sukuna. Really mean it. Not because it hurts now. Not because I said something you can’t ignore. Mean it like you would’ve meant it back then, when I was right in front of you and all you had to do was choose me.”

And for a moment—just a moment—you see it. All of it.

The regret. The ache. The way his fingers curl into his palm like he’s holding himself back from reaching for you.

“I didn’t know how,” he admits. “Back then. I didn’t know how to choose anything that made me feel that seen.”

“And now?” His voice is hoarse. Quiet.

“Now I see you even when I close my eyes.”

You hate how much that line hits.

You hate how much of you still wants to believe him.

And for the first time, your voice breaks when you ask: “So what do we do with that?” Silence. Heat. History.

And then he says it. Finally.

“We don’t lie about it anymore.”

Four days.

That’s how long it’s been.

No new messages. No late-night typing bubble.

Just silence.

Again…

It shouldn’t surprise you. You should’ve expected this.

But it does. Because for a second there—for one blinding second—he felt close again.

Closer than he had any right to be.

You keep telling yourself it’s fine.

That what you said was for you, not for him.

But still… you keep checking.

Quietly. Shamefully.

Like a habit you can’t break.

And on the fifth night, it happens.

You’re not even holding your phone. You’re brushing your teeth.

And it rings.

You freeze.

Look down.

His name.

Lighting up your screen.

You stare at it.

You let it ring once. Twice.

Then you answer.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

There’s only breath at first.

Tight. Uneven. Like he had to talk himself into calling you.

Then finally: “I’m outside.”

Your heart slams.

“I shouldn’t be,” he adds, before you can say a word.

“But I’ve been sitting in my car for an hour and—fuck, I don’t even know what I came here to say.”

You don’t move.

“I just… I didn’t want it to end like that. I didn’t want to be the guy who disappears again.”

You pause. Then quietly: “Then why didn’t you answer?”

A beat.

“Because everything I wanted to say felt too late.”

That’s when you move.

You walk to the door. Slowly. Barefoot. No coat.

You open it.

And there he is.

Leaning against the hallway wall. Hoodie, hood down. Eyes red, like usual and maybe he hasn’t slept since your last message.

He doesn’t smile.

He doesn’t come closer.

“I don’t know what you want from me anymore,” you say, voice low. I don’t want anything,” he says. “Not if you don’t want me back.”

You just stare at him.

And then, because the air is too still, too charged: “Why now, Ryo? Why come here like this?”

He rubs a hand over his face. Exhales like it hurts.

“Because I read that last message you sent… the one about the truth. About how I got to control the ending. And I realized I didn’t just write you wrong. I lived you wrong.”

You feel it then.

The weight of it. The sincerity.

The ache of something finally cracking open. But you don’t let him in. Not yet.

“You want me to believe you’re different now?”

“No,” he says, stepping forward, voice frayed. “I want to show you. Even if it takes everything. Even if I never earn it back.”

Silence.

And for the first time in a long time—

You don’t feel small.

You feel seen.

Not rewritten. Not rearranged. Real.

You step back. Just a little.

“Then come in,” you say. “But I swear to god—if you lie to me again, I’ll burn every word you ever wrote.”

He nods once.

And when he steps inside, it’s not with arrogance or ease.

It’s with care.

Like he knows this might be his last chance to get it right.

You’ve let him in. Not because you’ve forgiven him.

But because you need to hear it—out loud. From him.

No metaphors. No edits. No book to hide behind.

Just him. And you.

Finally face to face with everything that never got said.

He steps inside like he’s entering a place that doesn’t belong to him anymore.

And maybe it doesn’t.

You don’t offer him water. You don’t ask him to sit.

You just walk to the window, cross your arms, and wait.

The air between you is thick. Familiar. Awkward in a way that makes your chest tight. Like muscle memory trying to reattach after being torn.

He stays by the door for a second, then finally breaks the silence.

“It still smells like you.”

You glance at him : “It is me.”

His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Just a flicker of something—maybe guilt. Maybe regret. Maybe both.

He walks in slow. Takes in the apartment. The bookshelf. The throw blanket still tossed over the armrest.

“I thought you’d move.”

“I thought you’d never call.”

You both go quiet again.

And then he says it.

The line. The one that splits something in you:

“You used to say… after arguments… ‘Just tell me I’m still safe.’”

Your throat tightens. That ache from the past pulling at the present like a ripcord.

“You always asked me that when things got bad,” he goes on.

“And I never answered you properly. I’d walk out. Or shut down. Or turn it into a joke.”

You don’t respond. Just watch him.

“But I get it now,” he says, voice cracking.

“It wasn’t about being right. It was about not being afraid of the person who said they loved you.”

And that? That’s what does it.

You sit down, suddenly exhausted. Wrung out.

“Do you even know what that did to me?” you ask.

“Having to ask for safety from the person who promised it?”

He sinks into the chair across from you. Elbows on knees. Head in his hands.

“I didn’t deserve you,” he says. “I think I knew that the whole time. And I punished you for it.”

The silence between you isn’t empty now. It’s crowded. Full of the weight of years, of versions of yourselves you both pretended were fine.

“You wrote a book,” you say. “You got to process it. You got to be understood.”

“And you got to be misunderstood,” he whispers.

That lands. Heavy.

And for once, he doesn’t try to soften it.

You lean back. Breathe deep.

The anger’s still there. But it’s different now—less fire, more ember. More ache than rage.

“I didn’t need you to make me the villain,” you say. “I needed you to remember me.”

His eyes meet yours. Bloodshot. Raw.

“I remember everything,” he says.

“The way you hummed when you couldn’t sleep. The way you’d whisper, ‘we’re okay, right?’ after fights. The way you’d stare at the door like you were bracing for me to leave.”

You blink.

“Then why did you?”

His voice breaks.

“Because I thought I was protecting you from me.”

You laugh. Sharp. Bitter.

“No. You were protecting yourself from seeing what you were doing to me.”

And he doesn’t deny it.

Doesn’t flinch.

Just nods. Like he’s finally ready to carry it.

You both sit there, in that quiet. The real kind. The kind where there’s nothing left to hide.

And then you say it. Low. Almost too soft:

“I don’t know what this is.”

“Me neither.”

“But I know what it wasn’t.”

“Safe,” he says. “It wasn’t safe.”

You nod once.

And that’s where you leave it.

Not with a kiss. Not with a promise.

Just two people—staring at the pieces.

Maybe ready to pick some of them up.

Maybe not.

But finally, finally seeing them for what they really are.

Hi guys, this is one of the longest chapter i write, is one of my fav one too!! Get ready because the story is ending soon💕

taglist: @humeysaga

[sturduststrails]

Hear me out on engineer geto suguru in f1 🫣.

[sturduststrails]

how many more parts will ‘sue me’ have?

Hi, thanks for asking! Sue me will have 10 chapters, with an happy ending, and im already working on, i have already next parts in the drafts💕😌

[sturduststrails]

"Sue me" Ex!sukuna x reader

Exes to??

Masterlist

Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5 Pt.6

You sit at the edge of the couch.

He stays standing, like he’s afraid that sitting will feel too much like staying.

You don’t ask him to.

But he does it anyway.

The silence between you doesn’t feel heavy this time.

Just… full. Like a pause that hasn’t decided what it is yet.

You watch him.

Not the way you used to—waiting for warmth, or softness, or some version of him you could hold onto.

You watch him like someone watching a stranger try to find their way back to a home they burned down.

Eventually, you ask:

“When did it change for you?”

He looks up, startled by the question.

“When what changed?”

“When did you stop seeing me as… a person, and start seeing me as a lesson?”

He flinches like you slapped him.

Which is funny. Because you’re not even angry anymore.

Just tired. And done pretending like he didn’t take something.

“Was it when I cried too much?” you continue.

“When I stopped being easy to love?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

And for once, you don’t fill the silence.

“No,” he says finally.

“It was before that. I just… didn’t know it then.”

You nod once.

Because of course.

Of course he didn’t.

“You said you didn’t come here to fix anything.”

“I didn’t.”

“So why now?”

He hesitates. Then:

“Because when I read what you wrote… it didn’t sound like someone who wanted revenge.”

“It sounded like someone who needed to be remembered right.”

You go still.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes on the floor.

“And the truth is… I don’t know if I ever saw you clearly enough to do that.”

He says it so quietly, it barely makes it out of his throat.

But it does. And it lands like something sacred. Or maybe unforgivable.

You’re not crying.

You thought maybe you would, when this moment came.

But all you feel is… steady.

“You don’t get to decide how I’m remembered,” you say softly.

He nods.

“I know. I just… I needed you to know I’m starting to understand the version of me you had to survive.”

You let that sit.

And for the first time in forever, he doesn’t rush to soften what he said.

He doesn’t follow it with a joke or a metaphor or a quote from some book he used to love more than listening to you.

He just lets it hang.

And you do, too.

Because this time—finally—it’s not about whether he loves you.

It’s about whether he can really see you.

And maybe that’s a better beginning than pretending you’re not still bleeding from the last ending.

You lean back against the couch, arms crossed. Not defensive. Just… bracing.

He hasn’t looked at you in a full minute.

So you ask—softly, but not gently:

“Is that why you wrote me like that?”

His head lifts a little.

“Like what?”

“Like I never said anything.”

“Like I just stood there and let you walk away.”

He swallows hard. Doesn’t answer. But you keep going.

“You made me sound so quiet.”

“Like I only ever spoke in metaphors and soft exits.”

“But I screamed at you, Ryo”

“I begged you to meet me halfway.”

There’s heat in your voice now. Not rage—just the sharpness of remembering who you were before it broke.

“I told you I was scared, and you said I was being dramatic.”

“I told you I couldn’t feel you anymore, and you said I was making things up.”

“You turned it into something palatable. But it wasn’t. It was ugly. And I stayed. Even when it was ugly.”

He looks up, finally. And when he does—really does—his eyes look wrecked.

“You used to say something after we fought,” he says, voice raw.

You go quiet.

“It always made me feel like shit, but I never admitted it. I never even reacted.”

Your breath catches.

“You used to say…”

He swallows. Rubs the back of his neck.

“You’d say: ‘Just tell me if I’m hard to love, so I can stop trying to make it easy.’”

You close your eyes.

God.

You forgot you ever said that out loud.

But it hits. Because of course he remembers that line.

The one that cracked him, even if he never let you see it.

“I almost put it in the book,” he says.

“But it sounded too real. Too close. I didn’t want people to know I let you say that and didn’t answer.”

You’re quiet.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the ground like it’ll forgive him before you do.

“I should’ve answered.”

You don’t speak for a while.

And then:

“You didn’t have to answer. You just had to stay in the room.”

His head tilts up—slow, cautious—like maybe he’s finally hearing you without trying to translate it into something that absolves him.

You sit with that silence together. Not awkward. Just honest.

And then, because you’re tired of pretending anything less than the truth will help either of you now, you say:

“You made me think my needs were noise. And I started believing it. That’s the part I still haven’t forgiven myself for.”

He doesn’t interrupt.

He doesn’t try to make it better.

He just nods, and says—

“You weren’t noise. You were the only real thing in the room.”

And for the first time since this whole thing began

You believe he means it.