#file reader

[sixeyesonathiel]

shy girls suck the best!

fratjo x nerd!reader, fluff & smut, m receiving, overstimulation, whimpering toru. 3.5k wc, 18+ only, MDNI.

satoru gojo is experienced.

he’s cocky for a reason. he’s made girls scream his name more times than he can count, and he knows exactly how to make someone fold in under five minutes—ten if he’s playing nice. he’s all confidence, charm, and unearned a’s from professors who don’t want to deal with his antics. his reputation precedes him in every room, and he walks like the world’s already bent over backwards just to please him.

everything about him screams untouchable, and he’s used to people treating him that way. he wears his varsity jacket like armor, a walking billboard of fratboy glory, all swagger and smirks and lazy confidence that makes people gravitate toward him like he’s got his own gravity field.

but then there’s you.

the shy girl in glasses, always scribbling in your notebook with an absurdly cute pen, whispering apologies when you bump into people, hiding in the back row of class like you owe the world an explanation just for existing. you don’t talk unless spoken to, don’t make eye contact, and definitely don’t give satoru the attention he’s used to. it’s not that you’re cold—it’s that you seem like you live in your own quiet little world, and satoru’s never wanted to be invited somewhere so badly.

and maybe what undoes him first is that he sees you before you see him. you’re already there, present in the corners of his attention before he understands why he’s looking. he notices you one day during lecture, tucking your hair behind your ear as you underline a sentence three times with an intense little frown. it doesn’t seem like much. but something in him clicks.

at first it’s curiosity. then amusement. then it festers into irritation—because why the fuck aren’t you reacting to him like everyone else?—and then fascination. and then something deeper that coils in his chest and makes his throat tight every time he sees you. he tries not to care. he wants not to care. but you’re already rooting yourself in places inside him he didn’t know were hollow.

satoru notices you because you don’t notice him. not the way everyone else does. you don’t flutter your lashes when he smirks. you don’t laugh at his jokes like they’re scripture. you don’t even flinch when he calls you “baby” out of nowhere—just blink at him like he’s an equation you don’t understand. it bruises his ego. and for some unholy reason, he loves it.

the problem is, you’re not immune to him at all. you’re just hiding it better than anyone ever has.

because what he doesn’t know is—you’ve always had a crush on him. from the very first time he walked into class, sleepy-eyed and bright-smiled, wearing that damn jacket like it belonged on a movie screen. you just figured he’d never notice someone like you. so you admired from afar. watched him flirt with others, watched the way he filled a room with laughter, memorized the cadence of his voice like it was part of your playlist.

your crush was harmless. private. something you never expected to act on. you played it safe. after all, guys like satoru gojo don’t fall for quiet girls with awkward posture and color-coded notes.

but maybe that’s what draws him in—the absence of performance. the quiet genuine way you exist. no theatrics. no games. just you, completely unaware that you’ve started haunting his every thought.

it starts small.

he catches himself watching the way your hands move. the way your nose scrunches when you’re deep in thought. the way you roll your pen between your fingers when you're anxious. it becomes a loop, a soft little addiction. he remembers details he shouldn’t. what color post-its you use. your preferred snack during study sessions. your favorite seat in the library. you don’t change. he just tunes in.

and then, one day, he realizes he’s rearranging his life around yours.

he starts showing up everywhere you are. loiters in the library, conveniently always around during your shifts at the campus café, makes excuses to sit next to you in class. offers to carry your books, asks you about calculus even though he already passed it. satoru gojo, golden boy of his frat, reducing himself to extra tutoring just to see you smile. it’s humiliating in theory, but it feels like worship in practice.

and it’s not just your smile. it’s the way you get passionate when you talk about obscure theories. the way you light up when you don’t think anyone’s watching. the way you stammer when he gets too close, but don’t pull away.

you don’t feed his ego. you feed something softer. quieter. something he didn’t think he had in him. he tells himself it’s because you’re innocent. because you’re shy and sweet and you deserve to be treated right.

he wants to be good for you. slow, patient, gentle. he holds doors open. he listens. he lets you rant about your thesis for forty-five uninterrupted minutes and actually understands it. he even looks up the books you reference, reads them just to impress you. he takes an annotated copy of your favorite book. he starts writing your name in the corners of his notebook like some love-struck high schooler. you haunt him in the best way.

and then—you kiss him.

it’s after a late-night study session. the campus is quiet. the lights in the library flicker like they’re caught between timelines. your voice shakes when you say “thank you for walking me back.” you pause, fidget with the strap of your bag. and then, like you’ve been gearing up for battle, you rise onto your toes and kiss him.

it’s chaste. hesitant. warm. like you're afraid he'll vanish if you lean in too much.

you pull back like you’ve done something wrong, but satoru’s frozen, staring at you like he’s just been baptized. you’re blushing so hard he can feel the heat radiating off your skin.

“you… sure?” he whispers, voice ragged, leaning in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

you nod, barely audible: “i’ve read… a lot. i think… i wanna try. with you.”

and he short circuits.

he thought he’d lead. thought he’d ease you into it, kiss your forehead, hold your hand like a gentleman. but then your hands are on his chest, pushing up under his shirt—the varsity jacket creaking as it shifts on his shoulders, the cotton brushing your fingertips. your eyes are searching his like you’re looking for confirmation that he’s real. you study every reaction like a research project. when he shivers, you smile, barely-there, and go back to tracing the line of his abs with trembling fingertips.

it’s not even mischief.

it’s curiosity. slow-burning, chest-aching, and barely held together by your own hesitation. the sort of yearning that tastes like nervous giggles and the edge of something terrifyingly new. you pause between touches like you're checking your hypothesis, calculating the way his muscles tense under your fingers. each brush of your skin feels like a question he's too dazed to answer properly.

“does that… feel good?” you whisper, lips barely moving, as though you’re scared to break the spell.

“f-fuck—yes, baby, yeah,” he gasps, throwing his head back, one hand clutching the edge of the couch like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

your lips trail down his throat, each kiss a trembling prayer, following a path only you can see. his skin is fever-hot, tasting of mint and salt, boyish charm unraveling under your mouth. when you press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his collarbone, his pulse jumps, a twitch rippling beneath your lips. his breath catches, a sharp stutter that makes his chest lurch, and his hands hover, fingers flexing like he’s afraid touching you will break the spell.

satoru gojo—fratboy, golden boy, untouchable—is quiet. too quiet. his eyes are hazy, pupils wide and unfocused, lips parted like words have abandoned him. his varsity jacket is bunched at his elbows, leather creaking, shirt rucked up to his ribs, abs clenching under your trembling fingers. he could take charge, flip this with a smirk—he’s done it countless times, effortless and expert. but now? he just watches, reverent, like you’re a deity he’s too awestruck to approach.

he’s known mouths. polished ones with perfect rhythm, greedy ones that took without giving, bold ones that knew every angle. but yours? it’s hesitant, new, like you’re crossing a threshold you’re not sure you’re worthy of. the way you look at him—eyes flickering behind slipping glasses, wide with awe—shouldn’t hit this hard. shouldn’t feel this fucking intense. but your fingers, shaking as they tug at his waistband, send a jolt through him that makes his vision spark.

satoru’s hand grazes your cheek, a trembling brush of knuckles. “baby… keep going. please.”

you nod, glasses sliding, your breath hitching as your fingers slip under his jeans, easing them down. your eyes flick up, catching his—flushed, jaw tight, his whole body fighting to stay still. it hits you like a blade: he’s done this a thousand times, fucked girls who knew every trick, but you’ve got him like this. trembling. aching. satoru gojo, invincible, unraveling because of you.

guilt stabs your chest, sharp and fleeting. you shouldn’t have him like this, shouldn’t be the reason his hands clutch the couch like it’s his only anchor. he’s always cocky, untouchable, the center of every orbit. now he’s breaking, and it’s your fault—your lips, your touch, your fault. but the guilt only fans the heat in your core, makes your thighs press together as you lean closer, your breath ghosting over his skin.

satoru is used to being wanted. but not like this. not with this aching, earnest hunger that makes his chest tighten.

you press shaky, open-mouthed kisses to his hip, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of his skin. spit gathers at the corner of your mouth, a slick trail left behind as you suck softly at the sensitive skin just above his cock. he jolts, hips jerking before he catches himself, a low curse slipping free, his hands clenching until his knuckles bleach. the sound he makes—fuck, it’s a choked gasp, raw and ragged, like you’ve torn it from his core.

you shift lower, hands sliding up his thighs, fingers digging into the taut muscle. your kisses grow bolder, sloppier, your tongue dragging along the crease where his thigh meets his groin, leaving a glistening streak of drool that catches the dim light.

he tastes like heat and need, and the way his skin trembles under your mouth makes your own pulse hammer. you pause, lips hovering over his cock, spit pooling on your tongue, and glance up—his head is thrown back, throat bobbing as he swallows, a groan clawing its way out of him.

“holy shit—baby, you—fuck,” satoru gasps, eyes snapping open, blown wide as his hand grips the couch, fabric groaning under his fist.

you take him in your mouth, lips wrapping around the tip, soft and slick with spit that drips down his length. your tongue swirls, slow and deliberate, tracing the ridge as drool spills from the corners of your mouth, coating him in a wet sheen.

he’s hot, heavy against your tongue, and you hum—a low, vibrating sound that pulls a whimper from his throat. your fingers curl around the base, stroking in time with the bob of your head, slick with the spit that pools at his base, making your grip slippery. you suck, gentle at first, then harder, lips stretching around him as spit slicks your chin, a glistening trail dripping onto his thighs.

he’s panting, desperate, each breath a ragged plea. his abs flex, thighs trembling under your palms, and he’s biting back whimpers, trying not to overwhelm you. that restraint—fuck, it’s gorgeous, the way his jaw clenches, the way his eyes flutter shut like he’s fighting to stay grounded. he doesn’t push, doesn’t guide, just moans your name like it’s a prayer, raw and broken. “that’s it, baby—fuck—just like that—your mouth’s so fucking perfect—”

the satoru gojo is unraveling, and it’s because of you. the way you glance up, glasses fogging, eyes glassy with effort, lips shiny and stretched around him, spit dripping down your chin in messy strings. the way your tongue flicks, catching the sensitive spot under the head, makes his hips buck, a choked sob escaping.

your hand slides lower, fingers brushing his balls, tentative but deliberate, slick with the drool that’s pooled at his base. you cup them, rolling gently, and his whole body seizes, a string of curses spilling out as his hand fists the couch tighter, the fabric creaking under the strain.

he’s had every fantasy, every trick, but this—your mouth, slow and reverent, full of wonder, messy with spit that coats him like a second skin—hits like a fucking freight train. it’s too much, too good. he wants to last, to let you explore, but you’re too fucking intent.

you hollow your cheeks, sucking harder, tongue swirling in tight, wet circles, spit bubbling at the corners of your mouth as you take him deeper, throat tightening around him. he chokes, hips jerking as his control frays. “gonna—baby, gonna cum, wait, fuck—”

you don’t stop. your lips slide further, tongue flattening, taking him as deep as you can. it’s filthy—spit drips down your chin in thick strings, pooling on his thighs, your glasses fogging as breaths puff through your nose. you’re focused, watching his every twitch, adjusting when he gasps, slowing when he whimpers, like you’re mapping him.

his hand grips the couch, knuckles white, and he breaks with a sound that’s barely human—a shattered cry as he spills, hot and pulsing against your tongue.

you try to swallow it all, but it’s overwhelming—cum mixes with the spit already coating your lips, spilling past them in a slick, messy rush, dripping down your chin, onto his thighs, and pooling on the couch. you pull back, gasping, wiping your mouth with trembling fingers, but the slickness clings, smearing across your skin as your eyes stay wide behind crooked glasses. he’s trembling, chest heaving, shirt clinging to sweat-slick skin, pupils blown like he’s seen the divine.

you should stop.

you fucking should.

he’s wrecked, twitching, fucked out beyond reason. but the ache in your chest—the sharp, flickering guilt of breaking him—only makes you hungrier. you lick your lips, tasting the salty mix of him, and your thighs press together, a soft whimper escaping as you lean in again, spit still clinging to your chin.

“just once more?” you whisper, voice barely audible, like you’re afraid the words will burn you.

his eyes flutter open, unfocused, dazed. he groans, raw and low. “baby… you’re gonna fucking kill me.”

but he doesn’t stop you. doesn’t even try.

you start again, slower, your mouth softer but hungrier, lips wrapping around him with a reverence that makes him twitch instantly. he’s sensitive, still pulsing, and the second your tongue grazes him, he whines—a high, broken sound that makes your stomach twist. you suck lightly, lips gliding along his length, spit pooling at the base and dripping onto his thighs in slow, glistening trails. 

satoru buries his face in a cushion, muffling a sob. “s-sensitive—fuck, it’s too much—”

his thighs tremble under your hands, hips jerking as you kiss the tip, tongue darting out to lap at the bead of cum still leaking from him, your spit mixing with it in a slick, glossy sheen. you linger, savoring the taste, the way it coats your tongue in a sticky film, and he whimpers again, louder, his hand flying to his mouth to bite his knuckles.

your fingers slide to his balls again, rolling them gently, slick with the drool and cum that’s dripped down, making your touch slippery and warm. he arches, a desperate, “please—fuck—please—” spilling from his lips like he’s begging for mercy but craving more.

you don’t rush. your tongue traces every inch, slow and deliberate, swirling around the head before dipping lower, dragging along the vein with a wet, sloppy kiss that leaves a trail of spit in its wake. your breath is hot, teasing, each exhale making him twitch, and you pause to suck at the base, lips lingering as your tongue flicks out, tasting the musk of him through the sticky mess. his hand finds your hair, fingers threading loosely, not pushing, just holding—like he needs to feel you’re real.

you grow bolder, hungrier, your lips tightening as you take him deeper, throat fluttering around him, spit bubbling up and spilling over, coating his cock in a thick, glossy layer. you hum, low and vibrating, and he chokes, a wet, pathetic whimper breaking free.

your hand strokes the base, slick with spit and cum, fingers sliding in the mess, and you slide a finger lower, brushing the sensitive skin behind his balls, now slippery with the drool that’s dripped down. he jolts, a high, keening sound tearing from his throat, his hips bucking as his whole body trembles.

“baby—god—please—fuck, i can’t—” satoru’s voice cracks, raw and whining, as you suck harder, tongue swirling in relentless, wet circles, spit and cum mixing in a frothy mess that drips onto the couch. every noise is desperate—gasps, whimpers, sobs that he tries to muffle but can’t. his body arches, twitching like he’s unraveling at the seams, and you feel it: the moment he breaks again.

he cums with a wail, sudden and violent, hips jerking as he spills into your mouth. it’s messier, hotter, a flood of cum and spit that overwhelms you, spilling out in thick, sticky ropes that coat your lips, your chin, your glasses, dripping onto his thighs and pooling in the creases of his skin.

you swallow what you can, lips still wrapped around him, tongue lapping at the oversensitive tip through the slick mess until he’s twitching, a broken, “n-no more—please—” escaping as he clutches the cushion.

time slips. minutes? hours? you’re tugging his shirt, pulling him closer like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded. ten minutes later, he’s gripping the sheets, praying, fucked senseless by every move you make. you flinch when he whines too loud, hands flying to your mouth, eyes wide with guilt—but then you lean in again, bolder, hungrier, chasing every twitch, every broken gasp of your name.

he’s never felt so cherished and so destroyed at the same time.

every touch is careful, but determined. you’re hesitant but thorough, like you’ve read the same passage in a smutty fanfiction a hundred times and are finally getting the chance to test it out. and the worst part? you’re good at it. really good.

your mouth, your hands, the way you watch his face for every twitch of pleasure—it’s enough to make him lose all sense of pride. the way you keep glancing at his reactions, as if adjusting your technique in real time, is insane. terrifying. he’s never been studied so hard. he likes it. he needs it. he’s suffering in the best way.

he’s never had to hold back like this. never had to breathe through it. never felt this fucking sensitive. he’s gripping the cushions like a man possessed. he’s whispering your name like a prayer. he’s not even sure he’s still speaking coherent sentences. you’ve wrecked him. utterly and entirely.

you pull back, panting, your hands shaking as you adjust your glasses, eyes glassy and wide. your lips are swollen, chin wet with a glistening mix of spit and cum, and you lick them, tasting him again, a soft moan slipping free as your thighs press together.

satoru is ruined—sprawled on the couch, shirt clinging to his chest, chest heaving like he’s fought a war. his hand is still in your hair, loose, trembling, and he’s staring at you like you’re a fucking goddess.

“thought you were the innocent one,” he chokes out, breathless, watching you nibble your lip and adjust your glasses with shaking fingers.

“i still am,” you murmur, face tucked into his shoulder. “kind of.”

he huffs out a laugh, dazed and wrecked. he can feel your heartbeat against his ribs. he doesn’t want to move. his hands are still trembling from how hard he tried to keep it together for you—and yet, you’re the one who took the lead. you’re the one who made him forget how to function. you kiss the edge of his jaw, soft and uncertain, and it undoes him more than anything else.

satoru gojo, campus heartthrob, ruined by a shy nerd girl who reads too much smut on her kindle late at night under the covers. who probably has a secret ao3 account and bookmarked folders. who looks like a timid schoolgirl but fucks like she’s been studying him like a midterm exam. and passed with extra credit. honors. valedictorian. summa cum laude of making him lose his damn mind.

he’s never been so obsessed.

and you? you’re already pressing your forehead to his chest, voice small, eyes wide with want and something raw and messy and needy as you look up at him.

“can we… try again? i think i missed a step.”

he doesn’t know if he wants to laugh, cry, or propose.

he’s never been more in love. and all he knows is he’s done for.

[swtheartz]

anyway. healer!reader that’s really fucking mean in literally every universe. especially towards mark. doesn’t matter what universe it is, they’re so sarcastic and look at mark in disgust whenever he comes to them asking if there’s a little chance that he can get healed again.

sinister mark was really fascinated with you. rarely ever needs to be healed, but when he does, you stare at him like he’s less than the dirt underneath your feet. like he should have just laid down and died rather than coming to you.

omni mark who lets himself get hit every once in a while just to bug you. just to hear you berate him, to hear you say that you know he did this on purpose. he should’ve just bled out if he was going to be an idiot and let himself get hurt just to see a mere human.

mohawk mark who acts like he couldn’t care less when he gets hurt every once in a blue moon, but sees the look of pure disdain on your face whenever he approaches you with a cocky grin, laughs when you tell him to crawl in a ditch and die.

your mark who gets pummeled because all he does is hold back, who comes to you to get healed despite listening to you rant about how he needs to stop pulling his fucking punches because next time—if there ever was one, if he bothered to just listen—you would disappear off the face of the earth to avoid healing him.

every single version of him knows you hate him. they’re all a little (extremely) obsessed with the way you borderline degrade him, contradicting yourself with the way you take care of him.

a / n : he’s such a fucking freak i need him to cry in every single world he exists in /affectionate

[espurr-roba]

playing pokemon pinball ruby/sapphire and i've come across a realization

does anyone see my vision

[bonsiii-art]

🩷The hero queen welcomes your enthusiasm for her antics🩷

FINALLY FREE FROM DEVELOPMENT HELL. Only took like, what? A year? :P SDFGHFGHJ This one was a doozy bc while the majority of it was complete, I had to go back and touch up a lot of things. Σ(っ °Д °;)っhell, the file even got messed up a little but thankfully, nothing too important got mangled, just had to re-do some lineart. ANYWAYS, I hope you guys like this one <:P

[moonphotos0]

scrapped orv art from january 2025 that I forgot about lol

[mulderscully]

THE X-FILES | 3.12

[dorkszn]

......Logan fucking you face down ass up while smoking a cigar

FACE DOWN ASS UP THATS THE WAY I LIKE TO GET—

quick lil drabble, gn reader, heavy overstim, pain kink, dacryphilia, smoking, sadism and masochism elements, pet names, a little bit mean dom logan, nsfw under the cut, not proofread

He’s fucking you so mean too. His free hand wrap around the back of your neck, pushing your head down into the pillows. A ring of your mixed cum forming around his wide base. Your hands clutching at whatever you can. That perfect arch in your back that Logan practically molded into you. Tears glistening on your lashes because it’s just so much.

Meanwhile, Logan’s just taking puffs of his cigar. Blowing the smoke out of his lips and letting it fill your senses and intoxicate your (damn near turned to mush) brain. He basically taunting you with it. That you’re so fucked out and messed up while he’s just smoking and absolutely ruining you.

You’re weakly moving before you can think. Which you can barely do anyways. Trying to crawl away from him just for a second because it feels so good but you’re so sensitive it almost hurts. “Lo, can’t— ngh, can’t take it,” you moan out pathetically.

Only for him to grab your hips with both hands and pull you back to him with minimal effort. Stuffing you to the hilt with his cock and making your legs nearly give out under you. “Yes, you can, darlin’. Stop tellin’ me what you can’t take.” He responds, words slightly muffled by the cigar between his lips. His words nearly push the tears over while making you tighten around him at the same time. The cigar almost falling from his lips as he groans due to the feeling off your warm walls hugging his dick.

What does finally make the tears spill from your glossy eyes is when he presses the butt of his cigar against your ass. And it’s entirely intentional. He watches as your skin reddens and burns slightly. Your words fall into weak, broken cries at the feeling but it also makes that knot in your stomach clench further.

“Shh, s’okay, sweetheart,” he says to you softly as he leans down, pressing his hairy chest into your back while pressing hot, open mouthed kisses down your skin. The sting of his cigar still prominent along with the stretch of his cock with every thrust. “S’okay, it looks pretty on ya.”

[verstappen-cult]

ACCIDENTALLY SENDING HIM AN AUDIO MOANING, F1 GRID.

✶ THE GRID. max verstappen. charles leclerc. oscar piastri. lando norris. daniel ricciardo. george russell.

content warnings ✶ disclaimers. fem!reader. smau. sexting. suggestive content. attempted humor.

do not repost, translate, plagiarise or claim any of my works as your own. | © verstappen-cult, 2024.

GWEN RAMBLES — helloooo 🙂‍↔️🙂‍↔️🙂‍↔️ what is this? you may ask yourself. well, this is just a silly little thing i wanted to try. let me know what you think and if you’d like to see more of this. i had a very fun time doing these! comments & reblog are greatly appreciated.

[elalalune]

~Fly me to the moon,

Let me play among the stars~

[cybersunnie]

rock-a-bye baby

RAFE CAMERON helps his drunk stepsister get ready for bed.

includes 18+ MDNI / DUBCON / STEPCEST / fem!drunk!reader / unprotected sex (pull out method) / rafe being an unreliable narrator / emotional manipulation / misogynistic undertones / wc 1.9k this is a work of fiction. the behaviors depicted do not reflect my personal beliefs, nor do i endorse or condone such behavior in real life.

Rafe hated that you were his stepsister. 

A little over two years ago, you and your mom moved into his home, and because you all lived under the same roof, that made you family. Bullshit. What you were was an extra mouth to feed. A new problem he didn’t want.

And now, with your arm thrown over his shoulders, Rafe was forced to help you up the stairs. 

A party was thrown at the Boneyard, and you clearly had too much to drink. He wasn’t exactly sober either, but you were slurring your words and couldn’t walk straight to save your life. A part of him wondered if you were playing it up. While he was tempted to leave you behind as not to deal with you, he knew his dad would be pissed if he had, and his dad already disliked him enough.

Eventually, the two of you made it to your room, and you fell face-first to your bed, nuzzling into your warm sheets. Rafe scoffed, a hand running down his face as he turned to leave, but you stopped him.

“Rafe,” your muffled voice called out.

He looked at you and saw you hadn’t moved a muscle. “What?”

You raised an arm. “Clothes.”

“What fucking clothes?”

When he failed to read your mind, a groan left your lips, and you rolled onto your back, a frown tugging your features. 

Oh, he would do anything to wipe that off your face. 

You squinted and then pointed at the clothes dresser behind him. “Nightgown. Top left drawer,” you ordered, the words strung together. Rafe couldn’t believe you were bossing him around. When he didn’t move, you pouted, “Please?”

Spoiled brat. 

But because he was a good stepbrother, he bit back his snippy comments and went to retrieve your nightgown. As he opened the designated drawer, his eyes were immediately drawn to your lace panties. You must have forgotten that those were with your collection of nightgowns. He cocked a brow and picked one up, the fabric soft between his fingers. Who the fuck were you wearing these for? A little boyfriend he didn’t know about? 

Rafe looked over his shoulder, and while you were preoccupied counting how many fingers you had on each hand, he slid it into his pocket. He didn’t know why he did it. An act on pure impulse, he supposed. You wouldn’t notice if one went missing, right? 

He cleared his throat and grabbed a nightgown, tossing it to you. 

“Nice panties,” he commented, maybe a little too casually.

Once you processed his words, a smirk tugged on his lips. You wore a scowl, but he knew you were embarrassed. 

You huffed. “Shut up. You’re so weird.”

Before he could say anything more, you started taking off your shirt. 

Everything within Rafe told him that that was his cue to leave, but his feet were glued to the ground. You didn’t ask him to go. Maybe you still needed him there. Maybe you wanted him to watch. That must be it. You wanted him to see what you were hiding under those clothes. 

After some struggle, you pulled your shirt over your head, movements sluggish. His eyes traced the length of your shoulders, then lingered on your tits for a second too long. Even if he was your stepbrother, he was still a man. And a man had the right to admire the female body. Surely, you would understand.

“You can go now, y’know?” 

His gaze snapped to your face. You looked confused, wary. Fuck, what was he doing? He should leave like you said. No, he couldn’t. Not yet. 

Rafe found himself closing your bedroom door. He turned the lock. Click. “Nah, I’m gonna help you get ready for bed.” 

There was a long pause. “I don’t need help.”

“Cut the shit. You can’t even walk without tripping over yourself.” Rafe walked towards your bed, crouching once he was in front of you. He placed a hand on your knee. “C’mon, just let your big brother help, hm?”

He could see the gears in your mind starting to turn, but you must have ignored it because you said, “You’re barely a year older than me.”

Rafe hummed, unfazed. 

The hand on your knee lifted to the button of your shorts. “Let’s take this shit off,” he murmured, his eyes flicking to your face. You were just watching. 

When he unbuttoned and unzipped it, you moved, putting on your nightgown. Poor thing. Were you getting shy? Did you not want him to see you in just your lingerie? His fingers curled into the waistband of your shorts and gave a light tug. Not needing further instruction, you stood up, and he pulled it down your legs, fighting back a grin.

Too fucking easy.

As you stepped out of your shorts, a hand on his shoulder to keep yourself steady, Rafe stared up at you. The nightgown you wore was white and silky and stopped above your knees. He itched to push them up. Luckily, he didn’t have to do a thing. You raised the silk fabric just enough to allow you to remove your bra, and his gaze dropped to where your breasts were, your nipples hardening underneath. His lips parted, and he sank to his knees.

“Rafe, what’re you doing?” you asked, your eyes still hazy from the alcohol you drank.

Only then did he realize that his hands snuck up your nightgown, fingers gripping your thighs. He was mortified. Not because of what he was doing but rather at the thought you would reject him completely.

He loosened his hold on you. “I’m just, uh, testing the waters.” 

A crease formed between your brows. “What?”

“I’m testing—” his hands slid further up, “—the waters.”

And then Rafe paused. He waited for a reaction from you. For you to slap him. Curse him out. Anything. But it never came. 

Instead, you reached down to pry his hands off you. “Stop, what—? I don’t understand.”

“I do.” He held you tighter, closer, his chin hitting your abdomen as he stared at you, eyes wide and frantic. You pushed his head, though your attempt was weak. “You want this. You want me.”

You stilled. There was a look that loomed over your eyes. Fear. Fear because he was right. No matter how forbidden it was. How fucked it was. You wanted him. You wouldn’t admit that to yourself, but he knew that to be true. He just needed to find proof to help you realize. So, Rafe pushed up your nightgown and worked to spread your legs apart. And there it was, your cotton panties clinging to your already weeping cunt. 

“I fucking knew it,” he whispered, and his thumb hovered over your clothed pussy. “Shit, you’re so wet.” 

You shoved his hand away and squeezed your thighs shut. He watched your gaze dart around your room as if the walls were closing in. You looked overwhelmed—ashamed that you had been caught wanting him the same way he wanted you. No, he couldn’t have that. 

He stood up, hands reaching for your face. “Hey, hey, you’re good,” he soothed, searching for your eyes, your cheeks hot under his palms. 

Finally, you looked at him. “Rafe, I—”

“You trust me, right?” He gestured to himself, fingers tapping his chest. “Right?”

You shook your head. “Yes, but we can’t—”

He shushed you, your name a whisper. “We can. We just gotta be lowkey ‘bout it, yeah?”

You looked torn, your morals pulling you one way and your desires another. But Rafe had you stretched thin, and you caved in like he knew you would. “Right, yeah.”

A pleased smile flashed across his face. “I’m gonna take care of you,” he promised, your cheeks smushed between his hands, “gonna make you feel so good.”

Then he leaned in, his nose nudging yours. You didn’t pull away. He took that as an invitation and kissed you. The first was fleeting, lips brushing, barely there. You still didn’t pull away. After that, he didn’t hold back. He licked into your mouth, hungry. You tasted like the beer you got drunk on, and now he was getting drunk on you. For something considered so vile, he never felt more alive. If this sin were his doom, he would die a happy man.

Rafe was the first to part. “Turn ‘round.” You did as you were told. He placed a hand on your shoulder and another on the small of your back. “Bend over for me. That’s it, fuck, look at you.”

He had envisioned you like this before, but seeing it with his own eyes made his cock stir. With a suppressed groan, he folded over you, his chest pressed against your back, trapping you between him and your mattress. “Gonna make this quick, don’t worry.” His hand slid between the two bodies, working to get his shorts off. “Wouldn’t want us getting caught.”

He felt you nod. You didn’t resist. 

Everything after that blurred together. Movements rushed and jittery and fueled by unadulterated lust.

Rafe had your nightgown flipped over your ass and your panties down at your ankles, his hips rutting into you. He had to clamp his hand over your mouth to mute your whines, one of the sweetest sounds he had ever heard. He knew he should feel disgusted with himself, but he wasn’t. Not one bit. He was right where he wanted to be, buried deep in your warm, wet pussy. And you wanted this, too. He knew you did, despite the glazed look in your eyes. You were just lost in the pleasure of it all. 

“Takin’ this dick so well,” he breathed into your ear, his thrusts growing desperate. “Shit, gonna make sure you don’t need anyone else. Just me. That sounds nice, huh?” 

His mindless murmurs went unanswered. 

You blinked once. Twice. You whimpered into his palm. 

That was enough for him.

It was better you stayed quiet, anyway. You wouldn’t want everyone in Tannyhill to know how much of a slut you were, letting your stepbrother fuck you like this. Rafe would hate for that to happen to you. 

When your cunt fluttered around his cock, he stifled a moan and sunk his teeth into your shoulder. He wasn’t going to last much longer. But he was keeping his word—he would make this quick. His hips stuttered against your ass, chasing his release, wishing he could just cum in your tight pussy with no risk of you getting pregnant. 

With one last thrust, he pulled out, stroking his cock until he came, painting your ass with his cum. 

He panted, his chest rising and falling. Satisfied, he stuffed his softening dick back into his boxers and put on his shorts, making sure the lace panty he took was still in his pocket. Slowly, you lifted your head off your bed and tried to push yourself up, your arms trembling. 

“Don’t, alright?” Rafe leaned over you, his hand brushing back the strands of hair stuck to your face. “I told you, I’m gonna take care of you.”

There wasn’t much fight left in you. Not when you were drunk and all fucked out. So when your eyes found him, you dropped back to the mattress, nodding. He smoothed his thumb across your cheek then kissed your temple. And Rafe did as promised. He cleaned you up, helped you brush your teeth, and tucked you into bed. 

Like a good stepbrother would.

sunnie speaks! stepbro!rafe lacks sooo much self-awareness its crazy. also literally the filthiest thing i ever wrote. but i hope you freaks found how fucked up he is interesting to read?? i guess??? — remember, this is a work of fiction! let's chat about stepbro!rafe

if you like my work, consider following @sunniefics to stay up to date on all my future fics!

[sixeyesonathiel]

told the nerd to film it and he exported inside me instead!

pairing — tech nerd!gojo x fem reader

synopsis : you crushed on him for months, watched him dodge every advance like you were malware. so you dressed up a little, played a little dumber—and now he’s got you spread out in pixels and moaning in surround sound. worst part? you kinda want him to do it again.

tags/cw — masturbation, degradation, praise kink, dacryphilia, marking, overstimulation, explicit language, filming, voyeurism, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, rough sex, dirty talk, power dynamics, obsession, lingerie, virgin weeb satoru, questionable but effective way of seducing ur crush. 13k wc, 18+ only, minors DNI.

a/n : plz don't nitpick about how a fashion vlog shouldn't be like that bc that's the point. toru doesn't know the difference because all he watches is 2d girls

the compressor’s peaking again.

satoru squints at the waveform, drags the threshold down two decibels, then listens back to the same three-second clip of voiceover for the tenth time. it’s a podcast intro, some wannabe influencer droning about mindfulness. he doesn’t care. he’s just here to make it sound less like it was recorded in a bathroom.

“sounds like shit,” he mutters, even though it’s clean. crisp. perfectly balanced.

it doesn’t feel right. nothing ever does. he tweaks the bitrate, checks the export codec, wonders if he should build a custom ffmpeg preset. maybe write a quick script to batch clean all future files—something to shave off a few milliseconds of his life. his fingers hover over the keyboard, itching for efficiency, for control.

ping.

discord overlay glows in the corner of his ultrawide monitor, a neon-green intrusion on his meticulously organized desktop. he freezes. the notification pulses like a heartbeat.

you.

he stares at it, lets it sit there like it’s radioactive. doesn’t even remember keeping you added. your username—something stupid with a heart emoji—feels like a splinter under his skin. he should’ve purged his contacts months ago, but here you are, slipping through the cracks of his digital fortress.

hey. remember when u edited our project? can u help me trim some vids pls…

his jaw tightens. of course you’d ask now, at 2 a.m., when he’s neck-deep in audio plugins and caffeine. his fingers hover over the keyboard, poised to dismiss you.

“no,” he types, then erases it.

“what kind of vids,” he tries, but deletes that too. too eager. too curious.

after a solid twenty-five seconds of overthinking, he finally sends:

i guess. send what you have.

he leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. his room is a cave of glowing screens and scattered energy drink cans, the hum of his overclocked pc the only sound besides his own shallow breathing. he shouldn’t care. you’re just another art student, another distraction. but his pulse betrays him, thudding a little too hard in his throat.

flashback.exe

he hated group projects. despised them. a bunch of useless art students in overpriced streetwear, trying to make films with no understanding of pacing or continuity.

they’d fumble with premiere pro like it was rocket science, leaving him to clean up their shaky cuts and mismatched audio tracks. he always ended up doing 90% of the work, and he preferred it that way. control was his god, and he worshipped it.

but you were different.

not better. just... a different kind of stupid.

you showed up late to the editing suite, glitter pens spilling out of your bag, heart stickers plastered on your water bottle like a middle schooler’s diary. you called the lav mic a “weird nipple thing” and giggled when he glared at you. once, you spilled your lip gloss on the soundboard, leaving a sticky pink smear he had to scrub off with isopropyl alcohol. another time, you asked if uploading to drive made your data heavier, and he almost threw you out.

but.

you let him do whatever he wanted.

you didn’t hover or micromanage. you just sat there, cross-legged on a swivel chair, watching him cut scenes like it was magic. you leaned over his shoulder, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath, your wide eyes reflecting the glow of the timeline.

“whoa... you made it feel like a real movie,” you whispered, like he’d just parted the red sea.

you smelled like something artificial. strawberries, maybe, or some overpriced body mist from a mall kiosk. your hair was always tied with a ribbon—pink, blue, sometimes yellow, always obnoxiously bright.

he didn’t care.

he told himself he didn’t.

but he remembered. every fucking detail.

the zip file lands in his downloads with an obnoxious ka-chunk, snapping him out of the memory. he doesn’t rush. just opens it like it’s any other favor, like his heart isn’t clawing at his ribcage. the folder name stares back at him: “pls help <3”

typical.

he clicks it open, expecting shaky iphone clips of cafes and shopping hauls. maybe some cringe tiktok dance you think is cute. he’s ready to hate it, to scoff at your lack of framing or shitty lighting.

but then—

you appear on screen.

not just appear. you perform.

you’re biting your lip, laughing into the lens like it’s your lover. wearing something stupidly short—a skirt that barely qualifies as fabric, hugging your thighs like it’s painted on. you spin around in front of your mirror, the camera catching every angle, every curve, like you’re being filmed for someone else. someone who’d appreciate it.

you pose. cock your head. giggle. the sound is loud, breathy, smiling when you speak. “do you think this is too short?” you ask, tugging the hem of your skirt, your fingers lingering just a second too long.

he blinks.

backs the video up three seconds.

watches again.

your laugh echoes through his headphones, a little distorted, a little too close. he pretends he’s checking the audio, tells himself it’s for sync, that he’s just doing his job. but his eyes are glued to the screen, to the way your skirt rides up as you twirl, to the flash of skin that makes his breath catch.

he watches again.

his mouth is dry, his tongue heavy against his teeth. your skirt flips up higher this time, and you gasp—like you’re surprised, like you didn’t mean to show that much. but you don’t stop filming. don’t cover up. just... laugh, a sound that curls around his spine and sinks into his gut.

he doesn’t even realize his hand is moving until it’s there, slipping under the waistband of his sweatpants. his fingers brush against himself, and he hisses, the contact sharp and sudden. he’s already half-hard, his body betraying him before his brain can catch up. the room feels too warm, the hum of his pc too loud, but he doesn’t care. he can’t care.

he rewinds the clip again, pauses on the frame where you’re mid-spin, your skirt flared just enough to show the curve of your ass. his hand wraps around his cock, slow at first, tentative, like he’s testing how far he’ll let himself go. the texture of his own skin is rough, familiar, but it’s not enough. not when it’s you on the screen, laughing like you know he’s watching, like you’re daring him to lose control.

he strokes himself, a tight, deliberate rhythm, his thumb brushing over the tip where he’s already leaking. the sensation jolts him, makes his hips twitch in the chair.

he imagines it’s your hand, your fingers—small, soft, probably clumsy, but eager. he pictures you kneeling between his legs, looking up at him with those wide eyes, your lips parted like they are in the video, glossy and pink and begging to be kissed. or more.

the video plays on. you’re bending over now, adjusting your hair in the mirror, your skirt riding up to expose the thin strip of your underwear. he groans, low and guttural, his hand moving faster.

the sound of your voice—teasing, playful—fills his headphones, and he closes his eyes for a moment, letting it wash over him. “do you think this is too short?” you say again, and he wants to answer, wants to growl that it’s perfect, that you’re perfect, that he’d rip it off you if he could.

his grip tightens, his strokes growing erratic. he’s not gentle with himself—never is. it’s all pressure and friction, chasing the edge as fast as he can.

his free hand fumbles with the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back to the moment you gasp, to the split-second flash of your thighs. he loops it, the clip stuttering in time with his breathing, with the slick sound of his hand working himself over. his cock throbs, hot and heavy, and he imagines it’s you—your warmth, your wetness, the way you’d probably whimper if he touched you like this.

he’s close. too close.

his vision blurs at the edges, his pulse hammering in his ears. he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be jerking off to your stupid video like some desperate creep, but the shame only makes it worse, makes it sharper.

he pictures you catching him, walking in right now, seeing him with his pants down and his hand on his dick. would you laugh? would you blush? would you get on your knees and—

he comes with a choked gasp, his hips bucking up into his hand. it’s messy, spilling over his fingers, onto the hem of his shirt. his chest heaves, his head tilting back against the chair as the aftershocks ripple through him. your laugh loops in his headphones, oblivious to the wreck he’s become.

it’s filthy. it’s desperate.

ten minutes later, he’s cleaned himself up, his hands steady again as he trims the file like a good little editor. he cuts out the shaky parts, stabilizes the footage, adjusts the audio so your voice doesn’t clip. it’s clinical now, professional, like he didn’t just fall apart to the sight of you. he names it something sterile: “vlog_cut_1.mov.”

he exports it twice. once normally, for you. once... not. the second version is raw, unedited, every twirl and giggle preserved in crisp 4k. it gets copied to a different folder, buried in a directory labeled “shader_study_2022.” he tells himself it’s in case you need a re-edit. a backup. that’s all.

when you text back:

thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3

he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. his heart’s still racing, a faint tremor in his fingers.

he types “anytime :)” and erases it. sends:

np.

what he doesn’t say: he rewatched the part where you bend over six times. he had his dick in his hand by the second loop. he renamed the close-up to “test_render_asscloseup.mov” and hid it behind three layers of subfolders.

he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.

he’s into 2d, girls with big swords and bigger tits, drawn in sharp lines and impossible proportions. he once bought a dakimakura because the shipping came with a free pin, and it’s still shoved in his closet, one corner stained from a late-night mistake. real girls are messy, unpredictable, too much work. but now?

he’s thinking about the way your laugh dipped when you turned around, the way it caught in your throat like you were nervous. the way you looked into the lens like you knew someone was watching.

someone like him.

next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.

pink fuzzy shrug, low-rise jeans that sit dangerously low on your hips, a sliver of stomach peeking out like it’s 2004. your hair’s up in a ribbon—pink, of course, swaying as you move. you’re all glitter and confidence, a walking distraction in a lecture hall full of tired students and flickering projectors.

he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”

but his heart’s pounding, a traitor in his chest. his fingers twitch against the edge of his laptop, betraying the calm he’s trying to project. you slide into the seat two rows ahead and twist around, grinning like a cat, like you know something he doesn’t.

your eyes catch his for a split second, bright and teasing, and he forces himself to look away.

he opens his laptop, types random garbage into a terminal window—some half-baked python script he doesn’t even care about. he runs a fake compile just to feel busy, to drown out the way his blood is rushing too fast.

you lean over to whisper to the girl next to you, your laugh spilling out, loud and careless. your hair tosses, and he swears he catches the scent of your perfume drifting past in invisible waves. saccharine, overwhelming, like strawberries dipped in sugar syrup.

his brain short-circuits. he snaps his headphones on, the cord tangling in his haste. not to listen to music. not to block you out.

to replay your giggle.

he’d isolated the audio last night, cleaned it up with a high-pass filter, boosted the mids to make it crystal clear. exported it as a high-quality .wav, tucked it into a folder labeled “audio_ref.” he tells himself it’s for study, just good reference for future projects. but he loops it now, the sound of your laugh layered over faint lo-fi static he added for texture. it’s you, distilled into a three-second clip, filling his skull.

he closes his eyes and pretends you’re saying his name. satoru, you giggle, breathy and soft, like you’re leaning over his shoulder again, watching him work. satoru, you made it feel so real.

the lecture drones on, but he’s not listening. he’s lost in the rhythm of your voice, the way it dips and rises, the way it makes his skin feel too tight. he shifts in his seat, adjusts his hoodie, tries to ignore the heat pooling in his gut. he’s not supposed to want this. not supposed to want you.

but he does.

the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.

no dramatic thunderclap. no internal monologue screaming, ah yes, now i am a pervert. it’s quiet. insidious. it sinks in like static, crackling at the edges of satoru’s brain until he’s not sure where his old self ends and this new, wretched version begins.

it’s not like he’s not already a pervert who gets off from pixels. this simply wasn’t his brand of perversion.

that night, he stayed up longer than he should’ve. stared at code for so long his ide crashed, the screen flickering to black as if it knew he was wasting his time. not that he got anything done. 

he just kept switching tabs—your final cut in vlc, some useless bash script in vscode he pretended to care about, then back to your video, the timeline frozen on that twirl, that gasp. his fingers shook when he closed the laptop, but sleep never came.

and now it’s the next day. mid-afternoon. the sun is doing that thing where it turns his apartment into a blinding box of heat and regret. his ac hums like an old man, wheezing against the sticky air. he’s sprawled in his chair, one leg slung over the armrest, staring at the ceiling fan like it might tell him how to stop.

ping.

another discord notification. he doesn’t even flinch this time. your username glows, and the filename attached makes his stomach do a weird little roll: “try-on2_raw.mov”. his eyes linger on the heart emoji you’ve tacked onto the message, like it’s a personal invitation.

hiii! ty for the last edit, ur a lifesaver <3 can u check and trim this one too? i’m trying smth new but idk if it works… lmk what u think pls!!

he clicks download. no hesitation. doesn’t even pretend to care anymore.

the file loads into his editing software like second nature, the premiere pro interface blooming across his screen. muscle memory. routine.

he’s done this a hundred times—except never like this, never with his pulse hammering in his throat and his mouth already dry.

the video starts the same way as the last—handheld, messy lighting, your voice trailing in from offscreen as you fiddle with the camera angle. no mic, of course not. just raw cam audio, unpolished, real, every breath and rustle amplified. he leans closer, like proximity to the screen will make it less dangerous.

“okay—wait, hold on,” you mutter, slightly out of breath. there’s a plastic rustle, fabric scraping skin, the light jingle of a zipper. he catches the sound of your nails tapping the digicam accidentally, a faint clack-clack that makes him picture your fingers, probably painted some ridiculous color, fumbling in that endearing way you do. 

“ugh… come on…” your voice drops, a frustrated huff, low and throaty. “mm—sorry! this one’s hard to pull up.”

then—zipper slides. metal on fabric, slow and deliberate, like it’s teasing him on purpose. you let out a sigh, long, slow, just a little too satisfied, like you’re savoring the release of pressure. the sound coils in his gut, tight and hot.

he freezes.

his mouse stays hovering over the playhead, the cursor trembling slightly. blood is already rushing south, his sweatpants tightening in a way he can’t ignore. his breath catches, shallow and sharp, and the worst part?

you giggle.

“probably got the wrong size,” you say, tugging the dress up higher. the hem catches on your thighs, rising indecently, the fabric clinging to your skin like it’s reluctant to let go. “don’t tell anyone i didn’t try it on in-store first.”

he swallows nothing. jaw tight. the room suddenly feels suffocating, the ac’s hum drowned out by the thud of his own pulse. your lip catches between your teeth, a flash of white against pink gloss, and the camera catches that too, lingers on it like it knows what it’s doing.

you glance at the lens, eyes half-lidded, like you’re waiting for approval, like you’re asking him directly—do you like this?

satoru’s fingers twitch.

one hand stays on the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back three seconds to hear that sigh again. the other hand moves before he can stop it, slipping under his waistband, brushing against the heat of his skin. he’s already hard, achingly so, the kind of hard that makes his head swim.

he wraps his fingers around himself, slow at first, testing, like he’s not sure he’s really doing this again. but the sound of your voice—breathy, teasing—loops in his headphones, and he’s gone.

he strokes himself, deliberate and tight, his grip almost punishing. the video plays on, and you’re stepping into frame now, the dress half-zipped, hugging your curves in a way that makes his throat burn. your thighs shift as you adjust the hem, and he imagines them under his hands, soft and warm, parting just for him.

his thumb swipes over the tip of his cock, slick with precum, and he groans, low and broken, the sound swallowed by the hum of his pc. he pictures your fingers instead, clumsy but eager, your nails grazing his skin as you try to keep up with his rhythm.

he’d guide you, show you how he likes it—fast, rough, no mercy.

you sigh again, and he speeds up, his hand moving in time with the rise and fall of your voice. “this one’s kinda tight,” you murmur, tugging at the neckline, and the fabric stretches, exposing the swell of your chest.

he wants to rip it off, wants to hear you gasp for real, not for the camera but for him. his strokes grow erratic, desperate, the slick sound of his hand filling the room, obscene and unstoppable.

he scrubs the timeline back again, pauses on the frame where your dress slips, where your underwear peeks out—a thin, lacy thing that makes his vision blur. he imagines pulling it aside, imagines the heat of you, the way you’d whimper if he pressed himself inside.

he’s close, too close, his hips twitching up into his hand. the video loops your giggle, that satisfied sigh, and he’s drowning in it, in you.

he pictures you catching him like this, walking into his apartment right now, seeing him with his pants down and his cock in his hand, flushed and leaking. would you laugh? would you blush? would you drop to your knees and let him finish on your lips, glossy and perfect and—

he comes with a muted groan, his head tipping back, eyes screwed shut as his release spills over his fingers, hot and messy. his breath shakes, a ragged exhale that leaves him hollow. the aftershocks pulse through him, and he slumps in his chair, the video still playing, your voice oblivious to the wreckage you’ve caused.

he pauses the frame. your mouth is mid-word, forming the shape of “oops,” lips parted just enough to make his chest ache. he wipes his hand on a paper towel from his desk, crumpled and stained from earlier sins. doesn’t look at himself. doesn’t think.

exports the file without touching a thing. names it “final_edit.mov.” then saves another copy, the raw footage, every sigh and rustle preserved. he names it “jesusfuckingchrist.mp4” and buries it in a folder labeled “misc_ref.”

he tries to normalize it.

“it’s just grading,” he mutters the next time he opens the project, the lie sour on his tongue. “just adjusting white balance.” but the playback bar hasn’t moved from your thighs. he doesn’t touch the colors. not really.

he zooms in under the excuse of checking “grain smoothing,” but it’s just your lip, caught between your teeth, your breath clipped at the edges like you’re holding back.

he tells himself he’s just learning.

every artist has their muse, right? except now he edits to your audio. he used to play podcasts, background noise to keep his brain from spiraling.

now? your breathing is layered into the timeline, a track he’s labeled “vox_ref.” he loops your laugh in reverse, lets it pan from left to right like it’s some surround sound experience.

“this is practice,” he whispers, dragging eq curves around nonsense, boosting the highs until your voice is sharp and intimate. “i’m experimenting with filters.”

right. filters. filters until your voice sounds like it’s right by his ear, like you’re whispering in bed, your breath warm against his skin. he plays a clip of you saying “do you like this one?” over and over, the words detached from context.

he doesn’t even care what you’re referring to anymore. he’s got that part memorized, the way your voice dips, soft and unsure, like you’re asking him to love you.

the next class is worse.

you walk past him in that fuzzy pink shrug thing, one sleeve slipping off your shoulder, and it’s like a bomb goes off in his chest. the fabric clings to you, soft and teasing, and he wants to grab it, pull it down, see how much skin you’ll let him have.

you lean down to plug your charger in, your jeans riding low—too low, the kind of low that makes him wonder how they’re even allowed on campus. he catches a glimpse of your underwear, a flash of lace, and his brain whites out.

he glares at his laptop, scoffs under his breath. “that outfit’s… desperate.” the word feels like a blade, sharp and mean, but it’s all he’s got to keep you at a distance.

your head tilts, innocent, eyes wide like you’re genuinely curious. “you think so?” you say it like you mean it, like you don’t already know the answer, like you haven’t watched your own footage and seen what he’s seen.

he shrugs, keeps scowling, doesn’t look at you. his fingers grip the edge of his laptop too hard, knuckles white. behind the screen, he’s got a paused frame of you licking lip gloss off your thumb, minimized in the corner. it’s been open since he got here.

his file structure is disintegrating. he used to name things with logic—timestamps, project codes, version numbers. now his desktop looks like a manifesto, a digital shrine to his unraveling. “vlog_tryon_final.mov.” “edit_3alt.mp4.” “fuckmeagain_laughcut.mov.” there’s a folder called “NOT work (unless)” that he doesn’t even open anymore, too afraid of what he’ll find.

he tries to draw a line, but it’s blurry. always blurry. he doesn’t know where the edit ends and obsession begins. when he dreams, he dreams about zippers—except they’re not zipzers. they’re your legs, parting slow and deliberate, your breath hitching as he pulls you closer.

a new text lights up his screen:

 hey! idk if the last one looks good… should i redo it? it felt kinda awkward lol sorry T_T

you sound insecure, unsure, your words dripping with that self-conscious charm that makes his chest hurt. he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard, his mind spiraling.

you don’t know, do you? you don’t know what you’re doing to him, how your voice alone is enough to make him hard again.

he types:

looks clean. don’t worry about it.

satoru watches the word clean sit there like a fucking lie. his dick twitches, traitor that it is.

he hates himself.

but he opens the raw file again. scrubs through, frame by frame, until he finds that timestamp—where you moan, soft and accidental, like you didn’t mean to let it slip. he watches it, his headphones sealing him in with the sound of you. he exports that single second, names it “moan_finalgodhelpme.mp4,” and tucks it away like a secret he’ll never confess.

the timeline sits open, your frozen frame staring back at him. he doesn’t close it. doesn’t want to.

it starts with static in his skull.

not the loud, electric kind that chokes you up or begs to be noticed. it’s quiet. a whir, like an old fan that never shuts off, humming behind his thoughts. when satoru drags his mouse across the screen and sees your name still on the folder, it buzzes—faint, familiar, a sickness with your scent.

he changes the name from “NOT work (unless)” to “ARCHIVE_21,” moves it to a different directory, pretends it’s work, or dead, or both. but the static doesn’t stop. it clings, sticky and warm, like your laugh looping in his headphones.

it doesn’t help.

not when he dreams in highlighter gloss and those half-bitten whines you make when stretching, your body arching just so. not when he wakes up rutting into damp sheets, mouthing your name like a damn prayer, his hips jerking against nothing. the shame burns, but it’s not enough to make him stop.

satoru’s trying.

really.

he takes up freelance gigs, edits wedding footage for some guy he hasn’t spoken to since second year. overlays cheesy filters, mutes the groom’s ugly laugh, syncs the vows to some overused acoustic track. it’s clean. respectable. sterile enough to make him itch, like he’s wearing someone else’s skin. but the folder’s still there, buried in his drive like it knows he’ll come back.

2:03 a.m.

his inbox pings, a sharp sound that cuts through the drone of his pc fans. your name lights up the screen, and his chest tightens before he even reads the message.

hiii satoru!! sorry for the late send, been sooo busy <3 can u take a look at this haul vid? i tried smth spicy but idk if it’s too much… lmk what u think pretty pls!!

march haul (raw).mp4

he knows he shouldn’t. there’s no logical reason, no business context, just the weight of your words—spicy, pretty pls—sinking into his gut. but his hands move on their own, clicking download, the progress bar filling like a fuse burning down.

click.

of course he does.

the video starts soft, your bedroom light diffused to a golden haze, casting shadows that dance across rumpled sheets. it looks like you’ve been tossing in them all day, the fabric creased and inviting.

you’re in lace—barely. something soft pink and flimsy, a slip of fabric that clings to your curves like it’s begging to be torn off.

your thigh’s out, one leg bent just enough to draw his eye, and the camera’s angled low, too low, like you meant to frame it this way.

“god, i hope this one fits…” your voice is breathy, a little strained, like you’re fighting the fabric. you adjust a strap, your fingers lingering on the lace, and your lip catches between your teeth, glossy and pink, a casual gesture that’s anything but. his breath stutters, a sharp inhale that burns his throat.

“oops, sorry—too much cleavage?” you laugh, not to yourself but at him.

he knows it.

his cock knows it, twitching against the seam of his sweatpants. the screen shakes as you set the camera on something unsteady—a stack of books, maybe—and it rocks just as you turn around, hips swaying, your ass hugged by that tiny thong, the lace cutting into your skin like a claim. you glance back over your shoulder, smirk poised like a dagger, eyes glinting in the soft light.

“i bet you’d pause right here, wouldn’t you?”

he does.

the video cuts mid-breath, and he doesn’t hear the silence. he’s frozen, hand halfway down, brain wiped clean. the frame lingers on your ass, the curve of it framed by lace, and his mouth is dry, his pulse hammering so loud it drowns out the static.

ping.

march haul (real).mp4

oops. wrong send lol. this is the real one!

his screen is still painted with the freeze-frame of your ass. his dick’s straining so hard it aches, a dull throb that makes him shift in his chair. he doesn’t respond, doesn’t move for a full minute, just stares at the message, the word oops taunting him. then—

he saves both files. drags them into “ARCHIVE_21” with a trembling cursor, his fingers clumsy on the trackpad. he opens the raw one again, slower this time, one hand on his lap, the other fisting his sheets until the fabric creaks.

you’re back on screen, adjusting the strap again, your laugh curling through his headphones like smoke. his hand slips under his waistband, and he’s already leaking, the tip slick and sensitive as he grips himself.

he strokes slow, deliberate, savoring the friction, but his mind’s elsewhere—on the hentai he’s spent years jerking off to, the doujins with dog-eared pages and cum-stained corners.

he pictures you like those girls, bent over and begging, your lace thong pushed to the side as he fucks you from behind, your moans louder, needier, than anything you’ve let slip on camera.

he imagines pinning you to those rumpled sheets, your thighs trembling under his hands, your ass bouncing with every thrust. no teasing giggles, no coy glances—just you, fucked out and whimpering, his name on your lips as he buries himself deep, so deep you can’t think.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound obscene in the quiet of his room. he scrubs the timeline back, pauses on the moment you turn, your smirk sharp and knowing.

he wants to wipe it off, wants to fuck you until you’re too wrecked to smile, until you’re clawing at the sheets and sobbing his name. he imagines your cunt, tight and wet, gripping him as he pounds into you, the lace of your thong rubbing raw against his skin.

it’s not enough to watch you anymore, not enough to stroke himself to your voice—he wants to ruin you, wants to feel you break under him, wants to make you his in a way those 2d girls never could.

he cums with a low, breathy whisper of your name, his hips jerking up into his hand. it’s intense, almost painful, spilling over his fingers and onto the hem of his shirt.

his chest heaves, his vision blurring as he slumps back, the video still playing, your laugh oblivious to the mess he’s become. he opens it again, doesn’t touch himself this time—just watches, memorizes, eyes glassy and mouth parted.

at one point, he swears he moans with you, a soft sound that slips out unbidden, his body betraying him even when he’s spent. when he edits the “real” file, he’s a machine. no stutters, no slips, just sharp keystrokes and surgical cuts, trimming shaky frames and boosting your voice until it’s crisp.

the guilt claws at him, a dull ache in his chest, but it only makes the next orgasm worse—and better. he exports it, names it “haul_march_final.mov,” and saves the raw file to a new subfolder: “stills_ref.” he doesn’t name the second copy. doesn’t need to. it’s just for him.

he plays it cool in class. “wow. another fit straight outta your grandma’s closet,” he scoffs as you pass, voice dripping with mockery, lips curling into something lazy and mean.

but his gaze flickers—just once, low and quick, like he’s checking for danger. and there it is. a flash of soft pink lace against the curve of your thigh as you shift your bag higher up your shoulder. just a sliver. deliberate.

he knows that lace. knows it from the raw footage, from the way it hugged your skin under golden light. his smirk falters for half a second, a crack in his armor.

you turn your head, slow as syrup, and smile at him over your shoulder. it’s airy, innocent, ditzy enough to play dumb, poisonous enough to feel like a threat. “mm? that bad, huh?” your voice is light, but your eyes linger a moment too long, sharp and knowing, like you’re peeling him open.

you take your seat two rows away, crossing one leg over the other with careful grace. your skirt rides up, just enough to show the edge of that lace again, and your fingers toy absentmindedly with the hem, brushing the fabric like it’s a game.

he doesn’t blink.

he knows what’s under that skirt, knows the way that lace bites into your skin when you move just like that. he’s seen it in soft lighting, tangled with shadows and sighs. he knows, and you know, and neither of you say a word.

he can’t breathe.

his hand trembles as he grips his pen, scrawling nonsense on the corner of his notes—random numbers, jagged lines, anything to keep his fingers busy.

someone’s asking a question about identity and performance, something about how we present ourselves versus how we wish to be perceived, and satoru’s already halfway to standing.

“sorry. washroom.” his voice cracks halfway through the lie, too sharp, too rushed.

satoru stumbles into the men’s room like he’s escaping a crime scene, the door clicking shut behind him. palm flat against cold tile, forehead pressed to the inside of his wrist, he tries to breathe, tries to think of anything else—code, deadlines, the wedding edit he’s behind on.

but it’s you.

always you. your smile, your laugh, the lace peeking out like a taunt.

he’s already hard, already leaking, the front of his jeans tight and unforgiving. he fumbles with the button, shoves them down just enough, and grips himself, his hand shaking as he strokes.

he closes his eyes and sees you—not the you in class, not the you playing dumb, but the you from his fantasies, the you he’s built from hentai panels and late-night desperation. he imagines you on your knees, lace thong pulled down, your cunt glistening as he fucks you against the bathroom sink.

no giggles, no teasing—just raw, desperate need, your moans echoing off the tiles as he slams into you, his hands bruising your hips, your body arching to take him deeper.

he wants you messy, wants you marked, wants to fill you until you’re dripping, until you’re his in a way that’s permanent.

he strokes faster, his breath hitching, his teeth sinking into his knuckles to muffle the groan clawing up his throat. he cums hard, too fast, his knees buckling as it spills over his hand, hot and shameful. he shakes, gasping, his forehead slick against the tile, and thinks of lace. thinks of lip gloss. thinks of your voice saying “oops” like it’s a sin.

it doesn’t take long for his desktop to become an altar.

the background’s still you, a freeze-frame from the first video, your lip gloss shimmering and fingers caught mid-twist in your hair. he tells himself it’s temporary, just a visual reference.

it’s been three weeks.

folders on folders: “hauls > favs > zoom_ins > stills > pantyshots.” “audio_samples > moan_loop > breath_only.wav.” “color tests > gloss_ref > lips.png.”

some nights, he replays a single frame just to watch your mouth form the word “fuck,” slows it down, isolates the syllables, pretends you’re saying his name instead.

the worst part?

you’re still pretending nothing’s changed. still calling them “favors,” still sending content like it’s work, like it’s nothing.

but your outfits are shorter, your giggles stick to the air longer, your eyes linger like you’re testing something. and when you purr, “you’re sooo good at this, satoru,” with that saccharine lilt, your voice curling around his name like a caress, he bites the inside of his cheek just to keep quiet. fists the sheets at night and prays.

he moans your name in the dark, face hot with shame, and hates how much he wants you to hear it.

satoru’s become sleep-deprived, dark smudges nesting beneath his eyes like fingerprints left behind by guilt or obsession or both. he wears his glasses more lately, less out of need and more as a buffer between him and the world—between him and you.

the lenses catch the glow of his new triple-monitor setup, a sleek beast he told himself was for coding, for editing, for multitasking. not for keeping your videos looping on the side monitor while he pretends to work on the main one. not for that at all.

your folder’s pinned in quick access, a permanent fixture in his file explorer. he keeps it open in the background at all times, a digital pulse that hums alongside his pc fans. second nature now, like breathing or wanting. not unlike a shrine.

in class, he pretends to take notes, his stylus scratching nonsense on his tablet. he’s not. he’s watching a gif on his phone, hidden under the desk—a loop of your tongue dragging slow across lip gloss, eyes soft with focus like you’re painting yourself pretty just for him. the gif’s only three seconds, but he’s memorized every frame, every flicker of your lashes. his thumb swipes to replay it, again, again, until his vision blurs.

ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.

three days pass, and you haven’t messaged. he checks your chat thread more than he breathes—opens, closes, re-opens, scrolling through your old texts like they’ll reveal something new. every flicker of hope is a false start, a phantom ping that makes his chest lurch. he’s pathetic, he knows it, but knowing doesn’t stop the itch.

then:

ping.

april haul (suits).mov

hii satoru!! new haul vid for u to check <3 tried some swimsuits this time, hope it’s not too boring to trim hehe. lmk what u think!!”

he nearly drops his phone, his thumb smudging the screen as he fumbles to download. his new setup hums to life, the main monitor flashing with code he hasn’t touched in hours, the side monitor already open to your folder.

he drags the file into premiere, the timeline blooming across the screen, but his eyes are on the raw video, already playing on the right monitor, your voice spilling through his headphones like honey.

the video’s different this time. the camera’s lower, like it’s been left on a desk or shelf, pointing slightly upward to frame you from your knees to just above your head. your bed makes a cozy blur in the background, sheets tangled like an invitation.

you’re in a bikini top that isn’t trying very hard to stay on, thin strings knotted loosely at your neck and back, the fabric barely containing you. “mmm. does this scream summer, or slut?” you giggle, feigned innocence like frosting over heat, your voice curling around the words like you know exactly what they’ll do to him.

you play with the strings at your chest, tugging, adjusting, your fingers brushing the swell of your breasts. then, softer, breathier, to the lens: “baby, help me pick…”

baby.

it breaks him all over again, a crack that runs straight through his chest. his cock twitches, already hard, straining against his boxers.

everything after that gets softer, lazier, dangerous in how intimate it feels. there’s no performative energy now—just casual, candid seduction, your movements slow, like you’re not hurrying for anyone. like you know exactly who’s watching and how long he’ll linger.

when you shrug a dress off your shoulders, you sigh, the sound catching in your throat. when you twist to adjust a strap, you hum, low and absentminded. and when you struggle with a clasp at your back, your fingers fumbling, you moan—soft, unintentional, a sound that slips out like it surprised even you.

satoru’s thumb slams the spacebar, pausing the video, rewinding three seconds to hear it again. he watches the way your lips part, the way your brows twitch, the way your body shifts like you’re chasing the sensation.

he’s already leaking, his boxers damp as he shoves them down, his hand wrapping around himself. the side monitor loops the raw footage, your moan playing over and over, while the main monitor holds the paused frame of your parted lips. he strokes slow at first, his grip tight, his thumb swiping over the tip where he’s slick and sensitive.

his mind slips to the doujins he’s hoarded, the hentai he’s spent years chasing—the girls with flushed cheeks and desperate eyes, fucked raw and begging for more. but now it’s you, not some inked fantasy, and it’s so much filthier.

he imagines you sprawled across your bed, that bikini top ripped off, your thighs spread wide as he fucks you deep, relentless, your cunt clenching around him as you sob his name. no teasing, no giggles—just you, wrecked and dripping, your nails clawing his back as he takes you again and again, each thrust harder, messier, until you’re nothing but his.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound loud in his room, mixing with your looped moan. he wants you pinned beneath him, wants to feel you squirm, wants to fuck you until the bed creaks and your voice breaks, until you’re begging like those hentai girls, your glossed lips trembling as you say his name—satoru, please, more.

he imagines filling you, his cum leaking down your thighs, your body marked by him in ways he can’t unsee. it’s not enough to watch, not enough to stroke—he wants to own you, wants to make you his in every way those 2d fantasies taught him to crave.

he cums hard, forehead pressed to his desk, a low groan tearing from his throat as it spills over his hand, his keyboard, the edge of his new setup. his breath is ragged, like he’s run a marathon, his glasses fogging slightly as he gasps.

the side monitor still plays, your voice oblivious, your moan looping like a hymn. he doesn’t stop the video, just slumps back, spent and shaking, and watches again, his hand twitching like it’s not done.

it doesn’t take long for his room to reek of sweat and sin.

he edits shirtless now, sometimes in boxers, always hard, always leaking. every file’s renamed with trembling hands: “wifey_take7.mov.” “wifey_raw.mp4.”

he syncs your sighs to his lo-fi playlist, turns it into a lullaby, falls asleep to the sound of your breath. sometimes he slows your voice just to hear “baby” dragged out into velvet, makes gifs of your hands skimming your hips, kisses the screen when he’s drunk enough to forget shame.

you, on the other hand, don’t break character.

in class, you chew your pen and lean forward, the arch of your spine exact, your cleavage subtle—barely a tease, just enough to make his throat tighten. he looks away with a clenched jaw, adjusts himself under the desk, twice, his jeans unforgiving.

you whisper to a friend and giggle, and he lipreads, thinks he sees the words “can’t wait,” but maybe he’s hallucinating, maybe not. it doesn’t matter.

he starts responding to the clips aloud.

“fuck yes, that one.” “spin again, baby.” sometimes he mumbles your name like a prayer, sometimes he chokes it into his pillow. every orgasm has your name carved into it, a brand he can’t erase.

one night, he opens a file to edit, drags it into premiere, but he doesn’t touch it. just watches, headphones in, barely breathing. not a content creator now, not a student, not even a man—just a creature of need, and you his ritual, his muse, his goddess.

the screen shows you adjusting the straps of a silky babydoll, the lighting warm, your thighs bare, half-tucked under you as you sit prettily at the edge of your bed.

“okay, so this one’s… like, totally giving ‘come to bed’ energy, right?” you giggle, voice light, teeth sinking into your glossed lip as you bounce once, soft and natural, the fabric barely covering your chest.

satoru groans low in his throat, not even trying to hide it. “it’s giving bend over,” he mutters, lips twitching, his side monitor looping the raw footage, his main screen frozen on your smile. “fuck, look at you…”

you reach behind you, struggle with the clasp, wiggle your shoulders like you’re teasing whoever’s behind the camera. “oof. that’s tight… should i size up?” a breathy laugh follows, your sigh melting into it.

he licks his lips, your audio crystal-clear in his headphones. you’re right there, talking to him. “nah, baby,” he croons, eyes fixed on the curve of your spine as you turn. “tight’s perfect. keeps the goods in place.”

you blow a kiss at the lens. “hope you’re not bored yet,” you say with a wink. “i saved the cutest for last…”

you bend off-frame, your ass peeking just above the edge of the bed, round and inviting in cotton panties with lace trim, and when you rise again, your hands hold something sheer and tiny. “tadaaa,” you whisper, eyes glinting with mischief. “this one’s for my favorite viewer.”

00:05:46—satoru slams the shortcut, timestamp saved. a second later, he screenshots, then again, then again, frame by frame, until he finds the exact one where your lip’s caught between your teeth and your ass is still halfway in the air.

“fucking perfect,” he mutters, breath uneven. he pulls the image up on his main screen, zooms in, sharpens it, runs it through noise reduction. the side monitor loops the raw video, your voice sweet and teasing, while the right monitor plays a gif of your earlier moan, your lips parted in that soft, accidental sound.

his hand’s already moving, shoving his boxers down, his cock springing free, hard and leaking like it’s been waiting for this. 

he grips himself, rough and urgent, no pretense of patience. the new setup’s perfect—your video on the side, his code on the main screen like he’s working, but it’s all you, every pixel, every sound.

he strokes in time with your giggle, his eyes flicking between the gif of your moan and the screenshot of your ass, his mind spiraling into the filthiest corners of his hentai-soaked brain.

he imagines you on that bed, face down, ass up, the babydoll hiked to your waist as he fucks you so hard the headboard cracks. he wants you screaming, wants your cunt pulsing around him, wants to pull your hair and make you look at him as he fills you, over and over, until you’re a mess, until you’re his completely.

his strokes are frantic, his breath hitching, his hips bucking into his hand. he pictures you tied to the bed, like that one doujin he read last month, your wrists bound with those same bikini strings, your thighs trembling as he fucks you through one orgasm into the next.

he wants to cum inside you, wants to watch it drip out, wants to push it back in with his fingers and make you lick them clean. it’s not enough to jerk off anymore, not enough to dream—he wants to break you, wants to make you real, wants to fuck you until you’re as addicted to him as he is to you.

he cums with a choked growl, his head tipping back, glasses slipping down his nose as it spills over his hand, his desk, the sticky mess splattering his keyboard.

he’s shaking, gasping, his chest heaving as the side monitor loops your voice, your “baby” purring like a mantra. his wrist’s sticky, his room a haze of sweat and shame, but he doesn’t care. he’s not even really here.

you’re everywhere now—three monitors, three altars, your image burned into his retinas. he’d worship on his knees if you asked.

the next day, another file:

april haul (closeups).mp4

sorry! idk if this one’s helpful but i liked the shots hehe

he doesn’t unzip his pants. doesn’t need to. he’s already throbbing from the inside out, his body reacting to your name alone. he clicks, watches, kneels, and whispers your name like a benediction, the static in his skull louder than ever.

it starts with a ping.

innocuous. a single pixel shift on the main monitor mid-code, just as satoru’s debugging a script for a deadline he already missed. his side monitor hums with your last video, paused on that frame where your lip’s caught between your teeth, and the third monitor’s open to a half-finished render he hasn’t touched in days. he glances lazily at the notification, expecting another reminder from suguru to shower or eat—

but no. it’s you.

hey… do u do filming too?

his fingers freeze. heart jams, a dull thud in his chest. the cursor blinks, waiting, mocking. he doesn’t think. doesn’t breathe. his glasses slip down his nose, and he doesn’t fix them. the words burn into his retinas, and his cock twitches before he can process why.

yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?

he sends it, his thumb trembling over the enter key. no reply. not for five whole minutes. the wait is a crucifixion, each second stretching into eternity. he keeps opening and closing the chat, rereading your words like they might shift into something dirtier, something more.

his triple-monitor setup glows, your frozen frame on the side monitor staring at him, lips parted, eyes glinting. he’s already leaking in his pants, a damp spot spreading against his thigh.

then:

just a casual thing. home setup. come over?

he reads it twice. three times. his breath catches, sharp and shallow, like he’s been punched. come over. your dorm. your space. he’s hard, achingly so, his boxers tight and unforgiving. he doesn’t reply, just slams his laptop shut, grabs his camera bag, and stumbles out the door.

he shows up twenty minutes later, barely remembered to wear deodorant, definitely forgot his dignity. his high-end sony alpha mirrorless—loaded with a lens that costs more than most people’s rent—bounces against his chest as he knocks. his palms are slick, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat of his own nerves.

you open the door with a giggle, wrapped in a pastel pink robe that might as well be air. it clings to the curve of your waist, parts at the thigh, revealing soft skin that makes his throat burn. your hair’s still damp, sticking to your collarbones, and the scent of vanilla lotion hits him like a drug. “thanks for coming! i’m kinda nervous…”

he wants to bark out same, but his jaw locks. he swallows instead, the motion too loud in his ears. “no problem.” his voice is gravel, like he’s choking on his own want. he steps inside, and your dorm swallows him whole—warm, cutesy, a pastel fever dream of plush throw pillows, fairy lights, and a pink velvet couch that looks too soft, too inviting.

he’s already imagining you bent over it, your robe hiked up, your moans echoing off the walls. it smells like you sprayed your strawberry perfume over every surface, dizzying, suffocating. his glasses fog again.

he sets up the tripod with shaking hands, the sony’s weight grounding him just enough to keep from falling apart. you bounce around the living room, humming, fluffing pillows on the couch, fixing your gloss in a heart-shaped mirror propped against a shelf.

“does this lighting make me look washed out?” you ask, stepping back, tilting your head. then you bend to adjust a lamp, and your robe parts just enough to reveal the gentle curve of your ass, bare except for a sliver of lace.

he sees. pretends he didn’t. fumbles the lens cap, twice, the plastic clattering to the floor. his face burns, but he keeps his eyes on the camera, adjusting settings he doesn’t need to touch.

you brush past him again and again, your bare arm glancing his, silk whispering across his knuckles when you pass. he smells shampoo in the air, thick and sweet, and it’s you, all you, sinking into his lungs. “you nervous?” you tease, voice light, a giggle curling at the edges.

he scoffs, wiping his palm against his jeans, the denim rough against his slick skin. “pfft. nah. i’ve filmed worse.” a lie, bold and brittle, his voice too tight to sell it.

“worse than me?” you pout, stepping closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath. “ouch.”

“i didn’t say that.” his voice cracks, a hairline fracture. he’s too aware of you, of the way your robe slips an inch, of the way your eyes glint like you’re playing with him.

you tilt your head, wide-eyed, all fake innocence. “sooo… you have filmed pretty girls before?”

he falters, breath stuttering in his chest. he’s a virgin, hasn’t touched a girl in years, hasn’t wanted to—not when hentai’s been enough, when doujins have been his only lovers. but you’re real, and you’re here, and you’re breaking him.

“no one like you,” he says, unfiltered, raw, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

your lips curl, slow and sweet, a smile that says i know. “hm. figured.”

you disappear into your bedroom for a few minutes, the door clicking shut. he pretends to adjust the white balance, tweaking settings on the sony that are already perfect, but really he’s staring at the door like it owes him salvation.

his cock’s throbbing, a dull ache that won’t quit, and he shifts, trying to ease the pressure. the living room feels too small, the pink couch too soft, the fairy lights too intimate. he’s imagining you sprawled across that couch, your robe gone, your thighs spread, his camera capturing every gasp.

the door opens. you emerge. lingerie set, pale and sheer, a mini skirt that barely qualifies, lip gloss freshly reapplied. you look like a doll, saccharine and sinful, every curve a taunt. “can you help me zip this?” you turn, bare back exposed, the zipper halfway up, your spine a perfect line that begs to be touched.

he steps forward, too close, his exhale brushing your shoulder. his fingers graze your skin—soft, warm, real—and you shiver, a small, deliberate tremor. he pulls the zipper up with trembling hands, the metal catching once, his breathing uneven. the distance between you shatters into nothing, the air thick with static.

“you’re doing this on purpose,” he rasps, low in your ear, his voice rough with want.

“doing what?” you whisper, fake innocence thick as honey, your head tilting just enough to catch his eye.

you look back at him, lashes fluttering, lips parted, glossy and pink. he breaks.

“fuck.”

he grabs you, his hands rough on your hips, your mouths crashing together—teeth, tongue, gasps. your lip gloss smears against his cheek, sweet and sticky, and he groans into the kiss, devouring you.

you moan into his mouth, legs wrapping around his hips as he lifts you onto the counter, the edge biting into your thighs. you’re silk and heat and sin beneath his hands, and he’s forgotten everything else—his camera, his code, his shame. only you exist now.

you feel his hard-on through his jeans, pressed against your thighs, and he’s panting, his breath stuttering against your skin as he kisses down your jaw, your neck, the ridge of your spine. his mouth is everywhere, like he’s starved, like he’s trying to memorize you with his tongue.

his glasses slip down, and he grins against your collarbone. “need to get a better look,” he mutters, a flimsy excuse to lean closer, until the fog of his breath warms your skin. he bites your collarbone, hard, groaning when he leaves a mark. “wanna see that in playback.”

he drops to his knees without hesitation, a virgin’s worship, reverence born from years of hentai and nothing else. his fingers dig into your thighs, spreading them wide, and he groans like he’s just found salvation. he runs his tongue along the inner part first, slow and teasing, so close to the lace of your panties but not touching what you want.

you try to close your legs, but he forces them open, his grip bruising, his mouth finding the wet spot through the fabric. “fuck, you’re soaked,” he growls, voice muffled, his tongue dragging heavy and slow, the lace rough against your clit. “been wet for me this whole time, huh? fuckin’ tease.”

you whimper, hips bucking, and he moans into you, the vibration making you gasp. he licks through the panties, relentless, his glasses slipping halfway down his nose but he doesn’t care.

“you taste better than i dreamed,” he says, his voice hoarse, hentai dialogue spilling out like it’s natural. he sucks at the fabric, tongue pressing harder, and you’re trembling, your hands fisting his hair as you grind against his face. he’s messy, desperate, his moans louder than yours, like he’s the one about to cum. you do, hard, a cry tearing from your throat as you shudder against his mouth, and he doesn’t stop, lapping at the soaked lace like it’s his last meal.

he presses his cheek to your thigh, sticky and glistening, looking up at you with glassy eyes. “first one’s mine,” he says, grinding his hips into the floor, his jeans tight with his own need. you don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. he spreads you open with his fingers, peeling the panties aside, watching your hole twitch with a hunger that makes his mouth water.

“look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice dripping with awe. “fuckin’ perfect.” he slides two fingers in, slow at first, then deeper, curling them just right, like he’s memorized every doujin panel that showed him how. “shit—i’ve seen this in hentai but it’s better. fuck, it’s real.”

his fingers pump, slick and steady, and you’re moaning, head thrown back, the counter digging into your hips. he adds a third, stretching you, his free hand jerking himself through his jeans, matching the pace of his fingers inside you. “so tight, baby. you’re gonna feel so good around my cock.”

he spits on your pussy, a quick, filthy gesture, his eyes locked on yours as it drips down. “they never show that part right in hentai. had to test it myself.” you moan, loud and broken, and he moans louder, his fingers slipping out with a wet squelch. he licks them clean, slow, eyes fluttering shut like he’s savoring you. “fuck—want it all.”

he stands, trembling, his jeans tented painfully. “can i?” his voice is small, almost pleading, a crack in his bravado. you nod, and he fumbles with his belt, shoving his jeans down just enough. he lines himself up, his cock thick and leaking, the tip brushing your entrance. “you’re so warm—holy shit—you’re squeezing me—fuck—”

he slides in, slow at first, gasping as you take him, your cunt tight and slick around him. he’s a virgin, but he knows this, knows the rhythm from years of jerking off to scenes just like this. he freezes, trying not to cum, his glasses fogging as he pants. you clench down, deliberate, and he slaps your thigh, a quick, sharp sting that earns him a whine.

“don’t—fuck, don’t do that yet.”

he pulls out, just to slam back in, harder, the counter creaking under you. his rhythm’s sloppy, desperate, but he finds it, each thrust deeper, rougher. “look at you,” he growls, his voice pure filth, hentai dialogue spilling free. “taking my cock like a good little slut. you love this, don’t you? fuckin’ made for me.” he licks the tears running down your cheek, his tongue hot and greedy. “crying already? baby, i’m not even close to done.”

you moan his name, and he loses it, his thrusts turning frantic, messy, like he’s trying to ruin you. “film it. show me what you see,” you gasp, and he fumbles for his phone, almost dropping it with how hard he’s shaking.

the camera app opens in a blur of fingers, then steadies, the lens catching you spread wide beneath him, thighs trembling, pussy stuffed full of his cock. he holds it there, watching the way you flutter around him, his breath ragged. “watch this later and see how ruined you look, baby,” he pants, voice hoarse, wild.

he leans in, still recording, whispering filth against your ear. “that’s right. take it. cry for me. i want you loud.” his other hand drags the mic closer, the sony’s external recorder capturing every slick thrust, every broken sob, every wet squelch, loud and obscene.

he fucks you harder, the counter shaking, your tits bouncing with each thrust. “gonna fuck you on every piece of furniture in here,” he growls, his voice low, unhinged. “that couch? gonna bend you over it. that table? gonna spread you wide. your bed? gonna fill you till you’re screaming.”

you clench around him, and he groans, his hips stuttering. “fuck, you like that? you want me to wreck you everywhere, don’t you?” you nod, gasping, and he slaps your thigh again, harder, leaving a red mark. “say it, baby. tell me you want it.”

“i want it,” you whimper, voice breaking, and he grins, feral, his thrusts turning punishing. you cum again, a shuddering mess, your cry echoing in the mic as your cunt pulses around him, slick dripping down your thighs. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, his cock throbbing as he fucks you through it.

“gonna fill you up,” he pants, his voice cracking, hentai fantasies spilling out. “gonna cum so deep you’ll feel me for days. you want that, don’t you? want my cum dripping out of you?”

you nod, moaning, and he loses it, slamming into you one last time as he cums, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. it’s hot, messy, spilling inside you, and he keeps thrusting, shallow and desperate, like he’s trying to push it deeper.

satoru doesn’t stop.

in fact, he lifts you, his arms wrapping under your thighs like you’re weightless, his cock still buried inside you, slick and pulsing. your head lolls against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, and he groans, low and guttural, as he carries you toward your bedroom.

the air shifts as he crosses the threshold, your perfume hitting him harder here—floral and sugary, the same scent that clings to your pillow, your wrist, your everything. it’s thicker in this room, curling around him like a trap, and he kicks the door shut behind him, the click loud in the quiet.

he pushes you toward the vanity, your back meeting the cool glass of the mirror with a soft thud. he bends you over it, slow and deliberate, his hands guiding your hips until your cheek presses against the surface, your breath fogging the reflection.

“look at you,” he groans, angling his phone to capture the scene—your flushed face, your glossed lips parted, your eyes half-lidded in the mirror as you whine in embarassment.

“pretty little thing, still trying to act innocent.” his voice is rough, edged with hunger, and he shifts his hips, thrusting shallowly, keeping you pinned, reaching for your lip gloss.

you mumble something, a weak protest or plea, but he shuts it up with a swipe of your lip gloss across your mouth, his hand trembling as he paints your lips pink, the applicator slick and messy.

“perfect,” he says, pulling back just enough to admire the shine, the way it catches the light. then he pushes in again, deeper, and you both moan, the sound mingling in the air, caught by the sony’s mic still recording from the tripod in the corner.

he kisses you messily—gloss smearing, lips hungry, teeth clashing as he grinds his hips, slow and torturous, never breaking the rhythm. the camera stays on, the phone propped against a perfume bottle, capturing every gasp, every shudder.

“taste so fuckin’ good,” he mutters against your mouth, his tongue chasing the sticky sweetness. “gonna kiss you till you’re dripping everywhere.”

satoru lays you on the bed next, gentle but urgent, his hands shaking as he props his phone against a stack of books on your nightstand, the camera app open, framing you perfectly—your body sprawled across the pastel sheets, thighs parted, lingerie barely clinging to your skin, the sheer fabric of your top stretched tight over your chest, the mini skirt hiked up to expose the lace of your panties.

he climbs over you, his glasses slipping down his nose, and pushes your legs up, hooking them over his shoulders, the angle forcing you open, vulnerable.

“fuck, you feel like heaven,” he says, voice cracking, almost reverent, as he slides back inside you, slow and deep, the heat of you pulling a groan from his throat. “i’m never gonna stop, baby.”

each thrust is deliberate, his hips rolling to hit that spot that makes you arch, your nails raking down his arms, leaving red trails he’ll stare at later.

he kisses you through it, his mouth sloppy and desperate, swallowing your moans like they’re his lifeline. the bed creaks under you, the fairy lights casting a soft glow over your tear-streaked face, and he’s lost in it, in the way you clench around him, so tight it’s like you’re made for him.

“so fuckin’ perfect,” he pants, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and uneven. “taking my cock like you were born for it.”

he tugs at the straps of your lingerie top, pulling it down until your tits spill free, the sheer fabric catching under them, and he groans, his mouth latching onto a nipple, sucking hard until you whimper, your hips bucking against him.

but it doesn’t last—he needs more, needs to see you break in ways he’s only imagined in the dark of his room, his hand on his cock and your videos on loop.

he pulls out, his dick slick and throbbing, and grabs your hips, flipping you with a low grunt. he drags you up by the waist, positioning you on your knees, your ass high, your face pressed into the sheets, the skirt still bunched around your hips. his hand slides up your spine, pushing your chest down, arching you just right, and he yanks the lace panties to the side, not bothering to take them off.

“this is what you get for teasing me all these days,” he growls, his voice unhinged, as he lines himself up and thrusts in, hard and deep, the slap of skin sharp in the quiet room.

you whimper, muffled against the pillow, and he fucks harder, each thrust rocking you forward, the bedframe rattling, your moans spilling free despite the fabric. his phone’s still recording, propped precariously, catching every angle—your arched back, your trembling thighs, the way his cock disappears into you with every brutal snap of his hips.

“look at that pussy,” he says, his free hand gripping your ass, spreading you open for the camera. “so greedy, swallowing me whole. you love this, don’t you?” he tugs your hair, pulling your head back, forcing your cries to echo. “louder, baby. let the whole fuckin’ dorm hear you.”

he slows, just to torment you, his hips grinding deep, making you squirm, your overstimulated body shaking under him. you’re teary, sobs catching in your throat, but he doesn’t care—he wants you loud, wants you broken. he leans down, his chest pressed to your back, and bites your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.

“cry for me,” he whispers, his voice rough, his hand slipping around to pinch your nipple, twisting until you gasp. “wanna hear you fall apart.” he pulls out, leaving you empty, and you whine, a desperate, keening sound that makes him smirk.

“patience, princess,” he mocks, slapping your ass lightly, the sting making you clench around nothing.

satoru guides you up, turning you to face him, and pushes you back onto the bed, climbing over you. “wanna see you ride me,” he says, lying back against the headboard, his hands gripping your hips as you straddle him. he tugs the skirt off completely, tossing it aside, leaving you in just the stretched-out lingerie top and soaked panties.

“bounce,” he growls, his eyes locked on where you sink down onto him, slow and deliberate, your cunt stretching around him as you take him inch by inch. “show the camera how you fuck me.”

his phone’s angled to catch it all—your tits bouncing, still half-caught in the sheer fabric, your thighs trembling, the way you gasp every time you drop down, taking him to the hilt.

you move, your hips rolling, your hands braced on his chest, and he’s sweating, his glasses slipping, his breath ragged. he doesn’t let you slow, his hands lifting you, slamming you back down, making you take him deeper. “that’s it,” he says, voice hoarse, his fingers digging into your ass, leaving bruises. “fuck yourself on my cock. show me how bad you need it.”

you’re sobbing now, tears streaming down your cheeks, but you keep going, your moans loud and broken, your body shaking from the overstimulation. he reaches up, ripping the lingerie top off completely, the fabric tearing with a sharp sound, and gropes your tits, squeezing hard, his thumbs brushing your nipples until you shudder.

“these are mine now,” he says, his voice pure filth. “gonna mark ‘em up so you can’t hide.”

he’s close, too close, but he’s not done.

he pushes you off, gentle but firm, and stands, pulling you with him toward the full-length mirror by your closet. he spins you, pressing your chest to the glass, your hands splaying against it, your tear-streaked reflection staring back.

he kicks your legs apart, his cock nudging your entrance, and slides in, slow and deep, his breath hot against your ear. “look at you,” he says, his lips brushing your neck, his hands caging you against the mirror. “look at my cock ruining your pussy.”

he thrusts, slow at first, watching your reflection—your tears, your drool, your gloss-smeared lips, the way your body shakes with every snap of his hips. “you wanted a nerd? this nerd’s gonna fuckin’ break you.”

he fucks you harder, the mirror rattling, your moans bouncing off the walls, loud enough to wake the neighbors. “so fuckin’ pretty,” he pants, one hand slipping to your clit, rubbing messy, relentless circles. “gonna cum all over my cock, aren’t you? gonna make a mess for me?”

you nod, sobbing, your body trembling, and he slaps your ass, the sting sharp, making you clench around him. “say it, baby. tell me you’re mine.”

“i’m yours,” you gasp, voice breaking, tears streaming, and he cums with a raw groan, spilling inside you, hot and thick, his hips stuttering as he rides it out.

he doesn’t pull out, doesn’t stop, his cock still hard, still twitching as he fucks his cum deeper, the slick sound obscene. “not done,” he mutters, his glasses fogged, his voice wrecked. “gonna make you cum again.”

he keeps going, relentless, his thrusts slower but deeper, each one pushing his cum back inside, making you shake. his fingers on your clit are merciless, circling fast, and you’re oversensitive, your body convulsing, your moans turning to desperate cries. “satoru—fuck—too much—” you sob.

he only slaps your thigh, sharp and stinging, and leans in, his lips grazing your ear. “too much? nah, princess, you can take it. wanna feel you squirt for me.”

he angles his hips, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, and you’re gone, your body locking up as you cum, a gush of wet heat soaking his cock, dripping down your thighs, pooling on the floor. he groans, loud and broken, his hips jerking as he cums again, another hot rush filling you, spilling out around him.

“fuck—look at that mess,” he pants, his hand smearing the slick between your legs, rubbing it into your skin. “all for me.”

but he’s not done. he pulls you back to the bed, laying you on your side, one leg hooked over his arm as he slides back in, his cock still hard, slick with your cum and his. “one more,” he begs, his voice cracking, his glasses crooked. “gimme one more, baby. need to feel you again.”

he thrusts slow, deep, his hand slipping between your legs to tease your oversensitive clit, and you’re crying, tears streaming, your body shaking from the intensity. he bites your neck, leaving marks, and whispers, “love it when you cry for me. so fuckin’ loud, just how i like it.”

he shifts, rolling you onto your stomach, keeping you pinned as he fucks you into the mattress, his hand pressing your face into the sheets. “gonna cum all over you,” he growls, his thrusts turning sloppy, desperate. “gonna fill you up till you’re leaking me for days.”

you cum again, a shuddering, broken mess, your sobs muffled against the pillow, your body convulsing as you squirt again, weaker but still enough to soak the sheets. he cums with you, a third time, his groan hoarse, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, the mess dripping out, pooling under you.

“fuck—baby—” he gasps, his voice wrecked, his body shaking as he collapses against you, his glasses falling off completely, clattering to the floor.

“mine now,” he whispers, hoarse and ruined, his forehead pressed to your back, his breath hot and uneven. “you’re mine now.”

you nod, too spent to speak, your body limp, your reflection in the mirror a blur of tears and gloss and him, the phone still recording every ragged breath, every whispered “fuck” as he pulls you closer, not letting go.

but then silence swells, heavy and slow, filling the room like a fog. the air’s thick with the aftermath—sweat, cum, and the lingering sweetness of your perfume, still clinging to the sheets, to him.

satoru’s hands tremble where they hold you, one slipping down to fumble with his phone, stopping the recording with a clumsy tap, the other pressing flat against your stomach, grounding him, grounding you. your breaths are too loud, ragged and uneven, syncing in the quiet like a metronome.

he leans away slightly, just enough to grab a towel from the edge of your bed, awkward in the afterglow like he just realized he desecrated a temple. his glasses are gone, lost somewhere in the mess of sheets, and his hair’s a disaster, sticking to his forehead, damp with sweat.

“shit,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper, too quiet for the boy who was growling filth ten minutes ago. “did i—i mean. that wasn’t too much, right?” there’s a crack in his tone, a flicker of panic, like he’s replaying every thrust, every slap, every sobbed moan he pulled from you.

you don’t answer at first, too dazed, too wrung out, your body still humming from the overstimulation, your thighs sticky and trembling.

your silence makes him spiral.

“fuck, i knew it. i pushed too hard. i got carried away—i was recording—fuck—i didn’t even ask—” his words tumble out, frantic, his hand raking through his hair as he sits up, eyes wide, searching your face for any sign of regret.

you turn to face him, slow and sore, your cheek pillowed against your arm, the motion making your body ache in the best way. your eyes are still wet, lashes clumped with tears, lips kiss-bruised and sticky with half-worn gloss, swollen from his teeth. you stare at him—this boy, this dork, with his mussed-up hair and the panicked look of someone who just lived out a lifelong fantasy and now doesn’t know what to do with it.

“i’m okay,” you say, your voice shredded, raw from screaming his name. “jesus, i’m so okay.”

he exhales, a shaky rush of air, like he’s been holding it in for hours. he collapses back against you, burying his face in your neck, his lips brushing the bite mark he left earlier. “fuck, you scared me,” he mumbles, his voice muffled, warm against your skin. then, quieter, almost unhinged: “we just speedran my entire hentai folder.”

you laugh, a weak, breathy sound that bubbles up despite the ache in your ribs. “i know.”

“i didn’t even know i could,” he says, his voice small, like he’s confessing a sin. “i haven’t even done that in vr.”

you snort, the sound catching in your throat. “nerd.”

he groans, but it’s not annoyed—it’s mortified, the kind of sound that comes from knowing he’s exposed himself completely. “i’m never gonna recover from this. i glossed you like a fuckin’ bratz doll. i glossed you.” his hand gestures vaguely at your lips, still shiny and smeared, and you laugh again, the sound softer now, your body too tired for anything more.

you roll over fully, tugging him down into the blankets with you, the pastel sheets tangling around your legs. he follows like a kicked puppy, his head resting on your chest, his breath warm against your skin. you can feel his heart still racing, his body still trembling from the high.

“i just,” you mumble, your voice barely audible, “wanted you to notice me. back during the group project, you never looked at me. just your laptop. even when i wore that stupid short skirt.”

he goes silent, his fingers pausing where they’re tracing lazy circles on your hip. then, in a voice so small it barely carries: “…you wore that for me?”

you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.

he lets out the tiniest, most violated gasp, like you’ve just rewritten his entire reality. “i thought you were just one of those girls who always looked hot. like, default setting.” his voice cracks on the last word, and you can’t help the teasing smile that tugs at your lips.

“no,” you say, your tone playful despite the exhaustion. “i was trying to seduce the dumbass with the mecha desktop background.”

he muffles a sob into your chest, half-laugh, half-groan, his arms tightening around you. “i love mecha…” he says, like it’s the most tragic thing in the world, and you hum, stroking his hair, your fingers catching in the sweaty strands.

“i know.”

a long pause settles over you, the kind that feels like it could stretch forever. the fairy lights twinkle softly, casting shadows across the room, and your perfume lingers, mixing with the musk of sex. his breathing slows, but he doesn’t let go, his body still pressed to yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

then he lifts his head, his eyes serious, stripped of the wild edge they had before. “can i… hold you properly? not like—y’know—breeding press. like, real holding.” his cheeks flush, like he’s embarrassed to admit he wants something soft after all that.

“you already folded me in half like a love letter,” you whisper, but you shift into his arms anyway, letting him pull you close. he wraps around you, tight, needy, his hands trembling like he’s still processing you’re real, not just pixels on a screen. his hold is desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, every curve, every soft inch, in case this never happens again.

“don’t make fun of me,” he says, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “i think my crush on you just speedran into obsession.” there’s a rawness to it, a confession that feels too big for the quiet, but it lands soft, like he’s finally letting it out.

“you’re the one who begged for one more while crying into my shoulder,” you tease, your voice barely above a whisper, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

“stop,” he groans, burying his face deeper, his arms tightening like he could squeeze the embarrassment out of himself. “i’m gonna die.”

you press a kiss to his forehead, slow and deliberate, your lips lingering on his sweaty skin. “you’re not gonna die,” you say, your tone soft but firm. “you’re gonna eat me out on friday and wear your glasses while you do it.”

he whimpers, a pathetic, needy sound, his hips twitching involuntarily against your thigh. “say less,” he mumbles, his voice wrecked, but there’s a spark in it, like you’ve just lit something in him again. you giggle, wrapping your leg around his waist, pulling him closer, your skin sticking to his in the humid air.

and in the quiet, as you’re both drifting off—sore, sticky, still catching your breath—he says it again. not ruined this time, not even possessive. just low. certain. like he’s already planning his next sin.

“mine.”

you don’t answer. just smile into the pillow, heart pounding. because maybe you are. and maybe you’ll let him prove it again.

especially once he finds out what cosplay you ordered last week.

friday’s going to be filthy.

[swtheartz]

sinister mark who lost his version of you in his world, so when he makes his deal with angstrom, his ultimate goal is you. don’t let him catch you because he won’t even wait until he’s back in his own dimension, he’s got you in a mating press while he’s SUPPOSED to be wreaking havoc.

[mzenins]

❛ gloria, i wanna take you to euphoria ! ❜ ✶ ࣪˖࿐ * sakadays multi characters

꒰ ⋆ ˚｡⋆ ──── contents: suggestive, gn reader, making out, spitting, dry humping, hickeys┆ `✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ how they kiss you…

꒰ ⋆ ˚｡⋆ ──── featured on this disc: yoichi nagumo, natsuki seba, shin asakura

╰⪼┆nagumo kisses you like you’re both in a constant game of cat and mouse. it’s competitive and intoxicating with a strong surge of adrenaline bustling through your veins but oftentimes it’s fleeting.

he allows for his bottom lip to gently graze yours then retracts himself from your vicinity with the mere purpose of seeing the dazed look on your face that was anticipating more. he enjoys the shocked gasp and reprimand that comes from you, followed by a murmur of “dickhead.” which he classically retorts with, “hey, that’s not nice!”

the roles switches up constantly, something he indulges in, but a sick part of him can’t help but bask in the sight of you desperately grinding down on his clothed crotch with your forehead littered by sweat as you incoherently rasp in his ear for him to kiss you harder. his mouth twists up in a sadistic manner against the column of your neck, “hm? want more neck kisses?” he feigns innocence.

his playing dumb act grinds your gears to the fullest and makes you want to choke him out till your heart’s content but he’d probably brush off your actions with a snippy comeback.

you loudly groan in frustration and his eyebrows pull up at your outburst, your hips halt against his pelvis, “god, do i have to spell everything out for you?” you grab a fist full of his noir hair to perfectly align his head with your face, “kiss me properly, nagumo.. on the lips.”

he likes seeing you all riled up. he tauntingly smirks, “ah! you should’ve just asked, silly.” before you can argue on that’s what you were doing in the first place, he encloses the space, humming contently. your lips moves together in sync, rapidly harmonizing in a sensual way. his tattooed hands slip under your shirt caressing the bare skin but the small delight comes to a pause once he uses his teeth to gently pull at your bottom lip, teasingly letting it go out from his hold. he drily chuckles at you chasing after his lips for more.

╰⪼┆natsuki kisses you like a pornstar in love. it’s lewd but intimate, igniting an untamed flame in the pit of your stomach, rapidly flickering waiting to be extinguished, but your heart beats erratically against your chest with warmth blooming around the organ.

it can be messy at times with his saliva smearing onto your chin and drippling off, or, it can be sweet and memorable leaving you smitten with butterflies for the rest of the day; pick your poison, he doesn’t mind either way.

he likes to sneak up on you— at first it was an occasional habit he’d done unintentionally but now he uses his airy footsteps to his advantage. slithering his toned arm around your stomach to pull you closer to his broad chest and grips at your jaw with his calloused hand to tilt your head upwards to somewhat face him

“open your mouth.” he calmly instructs, as if what he planned to do next was just a run-on-the-mill activity. you comply and suddenly feel a warm droplet of spit land onto your tongue, your eyes widens and before a squeal could erupt from your throat he captures your lips with his.

natsuki pants heavily against your mouth his hot tongue hastily collides with yours as he subconsciously begins to rut himself into your figure, his eyebrows deeply furrows together. his lips are soft on yours but has intensity far too hot to handle. “s-slow down natsu…” your meek voice trembles in between the heated kisses.

his usual nonchalant complacence crumbles apart. his plump lips glistens once he pulls away, a small string of saliva connecting the two of you. “can’t. sorry. you just taste so damn good.” some darken strands of hair stick to his forehead; he’s dizzy but pushes through to quench his thirst.

╰⪼┆shin kisses you like he’s almost afraid of you. he’s not and he swears by it but the way his body stiffens with his shoulders nearing his ears and rigid lips stilled has you thinking the former. he touches you as if you’re a porcelain doll glossed over with iridescent medium, and that sometimes translates into his fear of messing up.

he gets in his head a lot and stays there. but as the relationship progresses, he gains his confidence within his abilities to please you and once that layer of skin grows, that’s all he dedicates himself to. he’s rough which causes teeth to clash but he’s also sweetly passionate with his movements.

an extremely slow day at sakamoto’s store leads to you on top of the store counter with him between your legs. he disregards the opportunity to flip over the closed sign— the thought of being caught fuelled something dubious inside of him.

his large palms roam from your thighs to grazing over your chest eliciting a choked up gasp from you. he’d become too cocky, perhaps for his own good. his lips moved with delicious vigour against yours, slowly increasing the tempo with every passing second. soft grunts and huffs comes from the blond mixed in with your panting.

“is this too much?” he asked as he departs from your space with antsy eyes. you whine restlessly, “it’s not enough.” you tug at the belt loops of his baggy jeans, pulling him back in your vicinity and his face plants in the crock of your neck instead. suckling and nipping at the delicate skin and swirling his tongue around the area. your whimpers fills his ears like a lullaby.

eventually, his ministrations cause a darken bruise to appear. he ogles at the sight that encourages him to continue but an unfamiliar intruding thought enters his mind. a customer outside was planning on coming in and purchasing pockys. and while shin knows it would be morally ethical to put a stop to your activities, he can’t find the strength to do so. he’s completely and utterly drunk off by your smell and touch; what a bad influence you are.

© mzenins, all rights reserved … feedback is welcomed.

[ellesreids]

homecoming — s. reid

spencer reunites with his wife, and their baby. (post-prison spencer)

𖡼 ⊹ ˚.

Spencer can feel his spine go rigid once he stands in front of his house's door. It's the exact moment he's fantasized about so many times while trapped inside the four walls of prison; when sleep would evade him and his mind would drift to the day he finally got to see you again.

When he'd get to hold you in his arms once more and smell your shampoo and perfume and feel the way a satisfied breath left your lungs as you clung to him. That moment he's been dreaming about for months on end is finally a reality, yet it still feels like a dream to him.

With bated breath, he turns the knob and the door opens with a small creek. In the back of his mind he wants to chastise you for having the door unlocked, but the bigger part of his brain can't be bothered to make a big deal out of that right now when all he can think about is the prospect of feeling your warmth against his otherwise cold and aching body again.

Quietly, he makes his way through the house, and he realizes with a pained heart that it feels unfamiliar to him. Nothing has actually changed since he'd been gone — all the furniture was still placed where he'd left it and nothing substantially new had been added as far as he can tell — but it feels as if he's stepping into another world, an environment he no longer has a place in.

He walks past the living room when there's no trace of you in it and when he doesn't find you in the kitchen either, he makes his way down the hallway to the first room on his left. The door is open a fraction, and from behind it, he can faintly hear your voice as you softly sing a lullaby that's not familiar to him.

At once, like a bucket of ice water straight to the face, it hits him that he's not only reuniting with you, but for the first time, he's going to be meeting the newest addition to the family. The family he had so abruptly been pulled away from and deprived of some of the most monumental moments in both your lives.

His heart had been shattered when he realized he wasn't going to be present for the birth of his own child, that you would have to spend the last few months of your pregnancy alone and unsure of the fact that you'll ever see your husband again. He owes both Emily and JJ the world and would spend the rest of his life thanking them for looking after you while he was away and providing the support he couldn't physically give you.

He hadn't met them yet, but before the baby was even born, he had promised himself he would be the best father he could be. He promised himself we would never be like his own father, that he'd give his everything to his new family.

Very quietly, he opens the door, and his gaze is immediately drawn to you as you stand in the middle of the freshly finished nursery. You have your back facing him as you softly sing to the baby held within your embrace. Your voice, after he'd been deprived of it for so long, sounds like the most heavenly music to his ears, and he suddenly feels like he wants to cry. He's finally home with both of you, and he gets to listen as you sing to your baby. He gets to see his baby for the first time, and it's all too much for his big brain and even bigger heart to handle.

Finally, as though you could sense his presence, you turn around and look Spencer square in the eyes as he stands in the threshold of the nursery. For the first few moments, you try to convince yourself you're simply seeing things. It wouldn't be the first time, seeing as your mind loved to taunt you at times when you could hear his voice calling to you in the hallways or when his pillow case smelled like he was still sleeping right next to you.

You soon realize that it's not your mind playing tricks on you, though, and that it really is Spencer standing in front of you. With the realization, it felt like all the air had been sucked from your lungs, like a painful punch to the gut. You wanted to scream, to launch yourself into his arms, cling to him, and cry in a way you haven't allowed yourself to since he went away. But you do none of that, and instead, you just stand and look at him as if your feet had been deadbolted to the floor, and your voice had permanently disappeared.

"Hi." Spencer's voice finally fills the seemingly endless silence, sounding unsure and small. "Hi," you return the gesture with a much shakier tone, desperately trying not to burst into tears.

The baby in your embrace suddenly starts fussing, cooing and wiggling around in your steady arms, and both you and Spencer's attention are drawn to the small bundle still wrapped in your embrace.

You whisper a few hushes and move your arms back and forth in a calming rhythm. As the cooing turns to soft breathing once again, your eyes move to Spencer, almost as if you're scared he'd dissappear if he leaves your sight for too long. You see that his attention is still stuck on the baby on your arms, brown eyes tired yet filled with so much emotion you could almost cry just looking at him.

"Would you like to hold her?" you ask softly, and Spencer's attention is once again on you. "Her?" he asks excitedly, smiling in a way that makes your heart ache with an overwhelming amount of love. Oh, how you missed him. "It's a girl?" You nod with a sad smile, looking down at her as she now lays asleep in your arms. "You can hold her, Spencer, it's okay," you say, noting his hesitance seeing as he still stood planted by the entrance, not having taken a single step closer.

Your encouragement fuels him, and he slowly makes his way inside the nursery until he's standing in front of you, looking down into the crook of your arm. From within the swaddle of blankets, he sees the little face; closed eyes, and a mouth that stays in a permanent pout with a button nose that scrunches adorably every now and then.

"Open your arms," you say, getting ready to hand her over, and he feels his heart beat frantically in anticipation. He almost feels lightheaded with anxiety and excitement, but he opens his arms, and carefully, you place her into his embrace. You watch attentively as he holds onto her securely, head bending down slightly so as to get a better look as he peers down at his daughter, still fast asleep in his arms.

He doesn't even register he's crying until he can feel your hand gently wiping at the stray tears on his cheeks. He looks over at you, brand new tears sitting idle in his waterline as everything finally sinks in for him. He was finally home with you and his daughter, his family, and he finally got to see you and hold you close to him.

In reality, he knew there was still so much left unsaid, and both of you had a long way to go from here, but right now, nothing else mattered. He was finally home, and in that moment, everything felt perfect.

[carlislefiles]

arrangement | fushiguro toji, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, kamo choso, nanami kento ╰►an arranged marriage is about the most cliché thing he can possibly think of, and it sounds like a terrible idea...that is, until he's actually married to you, and he can't bring himself to have any regrets. 14.9k words

a/n: you could say that this maybe got a little out of hand...but I'm not mad about it. not all of these are arranged marriages exactly, but that's the gist of it. toji's is more of a fake dating type situation, and geto's is like an arranged marriage that he, himself, arranged...so yeah. warnings: cussing, kissing. enjoy <3

fushiguro was a man of few qualities. in fact, if you asked shiu, he’d list three. he never missed a shot, he never got attached, and most importantly, for the right price, he was game for just about anything. typically, he was not in for the long con, wanted to get in, get out, and get paid. so when the job came along—pretending to be someone’s boyfriend—it was almost laughable. not his style at all. yet here he was, locked into a contract that demanded exactly that.

pretend. it was a performance he resented, a role he hated, but shiu had been patient enough to explain it to him repeatedly: this was a means to an end. not real. just business. but toji didn’t buy it—not fully. because the moment he laid eyes on you, the daughter of some scummy, power-hungry politician, it twisted something inside him he wasn’t ready to name.

you weren’t what he expected. you were old enough to navigate the world, but still naive enough to be prey. the endless attempts on your life were proof enough of that. your father, a man with enemies in every shadow, had made you a target, and toji had been hired to keep you alive until the storm passed.

he’d met your father only once—gruff, oily, desperate for protection he couldn’t buy outright. toji accepted the contract with a smirk. this one was different.

usually, he didn’t do long jobs. no dragging out, no strings attached. but the payout? it was obscene, something that promised security beyond the next paycheck—a small fortune just for keeping you breathing. that stack of cash was going to buy him a new life, one where he could afford to be indifferent about everything except what he wanted.and if pretending to be your boyfriend was the price of admission, so be it.

your first meeting was terse, clipped. toji was even more curt than usual, and shiu couldn’t help but chuckle behind his back.

“you’re really off your game,” shiu had joked later. toji had ignored him, the corners of his mouth tight.

you stood there—calm, unshaken—like you had nothing to lose and everything to prove. you were beautiful, yes. but more than that, you radiated a strange kind of quiet strength, a composure that unsettled toji in a way he didn’t expect. “thanks for taking the job, fushiguro,” you said, voice steady, no hint of fear or awe.

“toji,” he corrected sharply, cutting you off. he wasn’t fushiguro—not in this arrangement. he was toji. no room for formalities here. without waiting for a reply, he brushed past you, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, bringing only the bare essentials.

goddamn it. he liked you. not in the way a man liked a woman—no, that was messy and complicated. but there was something disarming about you: your kindness, your fire, the way you didn’t flinch when he entered the room. you looked at him like he was just another obstacle to push past, and that unnerved him more than it should have.

toji made it clear he wanted distance. he stayed holed up in the guest room, insisting it was for his work. he spent hours inspecting every nook and cranny of the apartment—scanning for bugs, tracking suspicious activity, watching every visitor, every shadow.

but the truth was, it felt less like a mission and more like a sentence. because every morning, like clockwork, you were there before him, bustling in the kitchen. breakfast for two.

after a few days, you’d nailed his preferences with unsettling precision—the exact way he liked his coffee, the times he preferred to eat, even the small details like his favorite cuts of meat or the way he liked his eggs. he wanted to hate it. but the smell of your cooking, the warmth of the apartment, the sound of your soft humming as you worked—it all chipped away at his resolve.

you were as distant as he was. there was no warmth between you, no awkward stammering or false smiles. you were indifferent. and yet, that indifference drove him mad.

every day, he fought the urge to speak to you beyond what was necessary, to tease you, to make you laugh. you were so impossibly beautiful, and he wanted to see that smile break free, even just once. but you kept him at arm’s length—refusing to drop the formal “fushiguro,” insisting on driving yourself everywhere, rejecting his protective offers with a calm defiance. he wasn’t sure if you hated him, or just didn’t care.

nights were long and sleepless. toji barely closed his eyes, watching every movement in the apartment like a predator. but he noticed you didn’t sleep much either—likely haunted by the fear of waking to a blade at your throat or a gun pressed to your temple.

he could tell you rested easier since he arrived, but the tension was always there. you didn’t trust him. not really. shiu told you toji would do anything for money—risk his life, bleed, even die. but that hardly settled the gnawing doubt.

toji acted like he wanted nothing to do with you—cold, distant, biting in his sarcasm. he mocked your home décor, your pet cat, anything he could to needle you. it was a poor mask for his growing frustration. you took the jabs without flinching, without returning fire. you wore your stoicism like armor. you were thankful he was there—at least that much was true.

even without a job to keep you busy, you filled your days. you read constantly, devouring books with an appetite that surprised toji. you crocheted—something toji never expected to find charming, but watching you work the yarn through your fingers, calm and methodical, was strangely captivating.

you cooked. and you cooked well. thrilled to have someone to share your experiments with, you kept a little tally card ranking each dish by how much you thought toji liked it. reading his face was a challenge.

toji was the kind of man who’d lick his plate clean whether it was tasteless congee or the finest kimchi dumplings. but over time, you learned to notice the small tells: the flicker of raised eyebrows, the twitch of scarred lips that almost became a smile, the way he’d sometimes devour leftovers—or refuse them. when he refused, you packed the extras and brought them to nearby shelters or friends who appreciated the meals.

to keep the act going, you’d introduced him as your boyfriend. your friends were terrified of him, whispering about the intimidating figure who shadowed your life. you swore up and down he was a gentle giant.

toji, of course, thought you were a fool to leave the safety of the apartment. one of the few real conversations you had was an argument about your refusal to stay locked away like a caged animal. “I already quit my job,” you said firmly. “I’m not going to be reduced to some doll playing dress-up in one of my father’s luxury apartments.”

he admired the fire simmering beneath your calm exterior—the kind of fire he could light and feed, even if it never quite broke free. “‘forced’ to quit your job? poor thing,” he said dryly. “you act like that’s a punishment. I don’t get paid unless you survive past the election. after that, you’re free to do whatever you want.”

you didn’t listen. and he secretly loved that. he was afraid of what that meant—that he was falling for you. your calm, measured strength, your quiet rebellion. you sneaked out one morning, slipping away in the shadows just as the farmer’s market came to life nearby. toji found you—not with anger, not with a scolding, but slipping silently behind you within half an hour. his eyes scanned the crowds like a doberman on a scent, glaring daggers at anyone who dared glance your way too long.

for the first time, you caught a glimpse of something softer beneath the armor—something almost like care. that was when things began to shift. you were no longer just the charge, the contract, the obligation. you were becoming...a companion.

he learned the way you smiled when something amused you, how your laughter was low and genuine. he noticed the way your brows creased when you read something that caught your attention. he was no longer a stranger in your life.

if either of you had been honest, you would’ve admitted he had become something more than a bodyguard. he was your boyfriend, just like the contract had stated. he held your hand during quiet walks through the city—“to keep up appearances,” he grumbled, though no one was around to see. he steered your grocery cart, picking out the items you requested while you focused on your list. 

slowly, he became a part of your world. and maybe, just maybe, you were becoming a part of his…and that’s why, the morning you don’t wake up beside him, toji’s chest tightens with a cold, gut-wrenching panic.

gone are the days when you slipped out before dawn, tiptoeing past his guarded watch like a ghost avoiding the light. now, when you wanted to leave, you asked—sometimes even insisted—that he come with you. but this morning? there was no note, no whisper, no quiet footsteps fading down the hall. you were gone.

the ransom letter was a savage slap in the face, but what truly shattered him was how it was addressed—not to your father, not to some faceless politician, but to him. toji fushiguro. shiu drove him to the location marked on the letter, but the drive was silent except for toji’s grinding teeth and shallow breaths. when they arrived, toji didn’t hesitate—didn’t bother with pleasantries or playing along. he threatened shiu, razor-sharp voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

toji didn’t have the ransom money. hell, he never planned on handing over a single cent. his plan was razor-simple: get you out—alive. the killings were brutal, cold, almost automatic, each one a step closer to you.

when he finally found you—trembling, bruised, but breathing—everything else faded. before you could even speak, before you could protest, he scooped you up without hesitation.

“put me down,” you tried, voice shaky but determined.

“no.” his voice was low, sharp, no room for argument. “you’re not walking out of here on your own.”

you tried to push against his chest, weak but insistent. “I’m fine. really.”

he shook his head, voice cracking with something close to desperation. “doesn’t matter if you’re fine or not. I thought you were dead.” he buried his face in your hair, arms locking around you like a cage—safe, fierce, unyielding. “I’m not letting go. not until you’re somewhere safe.” your protests faltered, swallowed by the pounding of your heart and the steady thrum of his. he carried you away from it like you weight was nothing, like he was happy to be carrying it, and he was. 

the car ride home was thick with unspoken tension. shiu squirmed in the driver seat, clearly baffled by the strange dynamic between you two. toji’s eyes were dark, wild—furious and scared, all at once. he wasn’t just angry. he was terrified.

back in your apartment, everything shifted. toji was softer. he cleaned your wounds with care—gentle hands tracing away dried blood, questioning your well-being even when you insisted you were fine.

“no,” he scoffed. “you’re not fine. you’re still here because I didn't let those assholes finish the job.”

that night, he refused to let you cook, ordering in some regrettable takeout that neither of you touched with enthusiasm. he watched you like a hawk—every blink, every shiver, every quiet breath—until exhaustion finally pulled you under. when you finally climbed into bed, he didn’t leave.

“you don’t have to stay, toji. the guest room’s just twenty feet away.”

his voice was rough, low, and thick with something raw you hadn’t heard before. “yeah,” he said, voice cracking. “I was twenty feet away when you got taken.” he sank into the chair you’d barely noticed before—one you kept mostly for decoration—and didn’t move. “I’m not going anywhere.” no explanations. no promises. just presence.

after that day, everything between you changed. toji became something more than a hired gun. he became your boyfriend—not just in name, but in every small gesture. you talked—really talked—for the first time. about his past, the ghosts he carried, the scars left by a wife he’d lost in ways no one understood. about your father, the political games, the betrayals and backstabbing that left you both hollow in different ways.

you showed him your recipe ranking card, and he smiled—rough, rare—and corrected your assessments.

“onigiri, a couple weeks ago? that was the best I’ve ever had,” he admitted, voice a little softer than usual. “make it again. please.” he’s teasing, but you don’t laugh, in fact his plea roots itself deeply and seriously in your chest. 

he bought you little trinkets—simple jewelry he wanted to see you wear, something to remind you he was here. he offered his hoodies when the nights got cold, and you accepted, feeling the warmth of something you hadn’t known you needed.

movie nights became a ritual—mostly his favorites, gory horror flicks that had you curling into his side whenever the blood spilled a little too vividly, and he teases you mercilessly, even though he secretly loves how you tuck your face against his chest like you trust him with the darkest, ugliest things.

the election came and went. your father won by a landslide, just like you both knew he would. toji was off the hook, free to retreat back to the hellhole apartment he called home—or whatever ramshackle place shiu could find for him to crash in.

but your guest room sat empty, pristine, a silent invitation. besides, life here had its perks. the soba and udon cart just a few blocks away. shiu close enough to catch him if needed. you insisted he stay. at first, it was a joke. then it became a hope.

and finally, it became something more. one night, as you rambled about the neighborhood—the quiet streets, the friendly shopkeepers, the little park bench where you liked to read—he cut you off with a kiss. soft, deliberate. the kind of kiss that said everything without saying a word. “I’m staying,” he murmured against your lips. and just like that, the guest room wasn’t empty anymore.

there were murmurs, and not the kind geto could afford to ignore.

at first, it amused him. the whispers that he’d never taken a woman before—never so much as kissed someone in earnest, never truly let another person into his personal sphere. as if he cared. as if any of that mattered in the grand scheme of things. he wasn’t here to play house. he was building a world. a new age. a godhood. but over time, the whispers festered. they didn’t remain idle gossip passed around bored followers in temple halls. no—rumor became narrative, and narrative became belief. and belief, to geto, was currency. worship was leverage. if the people started to think he was unloved, undesirable, even unworthy…well. that was bad for business.

his presence had always demanded respect, but lately it had been drawing more pity than awe. so, he considered the simplest solution: take a wife. the logic was clean. appearances mattered. to the world, he would become a man desired. a man chosen. it didn’t need to be real—he just needed a woman who looked good on his arm and knew how to smile through a lie. he could force it, if he had to. plenty of women in his ranks would drop to their knees for him without hesitation. he could choose any one of them, claim her, and that would be that. but they were...unimpressive. all of them. pretty, yes. devoted. but empty vessels. parroting back doctrine without a shred of understanding. suguru geto was not going to be associated—married—to someone who couldn't hold his gaze without asking permission.

so he remained single. untouched. unbothered. until manami pointed you out. you were not one of his. you were not a sorcerer, not even particularly spiritual. but you had just graduated with a degree in some intimidating branch of mathematics, and you carried yourself like a woman who knew things. not just facts—but people. the way your eyes scanned a room before entering. the way you paused, mid-sentence, like your mind worked in algorithms and not emotions.

you were not beautiful in the way the others were. you were devastating. geto watched you once. then again. then again. and suddenly he found himself doing something he hadn't done in years: considering. he didn’t want to kidnap you—though, in a different life, that might’ve been easier. no. if you were to be his, you had to come willingly. even if only for show. but what was he supposed to say? hello. I'm suguru geto. I run a violent, weird cult and believe most of humanity is a disease, and wish to wipe them out, you included. be my wife? hard sell.

so he softened. slowed down. approached carefully. he befriended you. as much as he could. coffee in crowded cafes. long, quiet walks filled with philosophical debates you didn’t know you’d win. you challenged him in a way that was neither aggressive nor flirtatious—it was natural. and he hated how much he liked it. you weren’t enamored with him, and that made you perfect. you weren’t trying to impress him, and that made him obsessed.

he knew it wouldn’t last. his time was stretched too thin. his followers were waiting, watching, wondering. he needed a solution. so he made you a deal. marriage. in name only. three to five years. no romance, no expectation. he would cover your expenses. you would live in his home—technically. your own room. your own space. all he asked in return was attendance. appear beside him during select gatherings. smile. nod. pretend. that was all.

you were skeptical. overthinker that you were. he liked that about you—until it made him afraid you’d say no.

then, the night of a morale-boosting celebration—one of those ornate, incense-slick parties filled with silent devotees and powerful investors—you showed up. you didn’t just walk in. you showed up. hair done up like it was sacred. a modest but stunning dress. jewelry glinting like devotion. your nails were painted. your perfume was intentional.

you approached him in full view of the gathering and—without asking—kissed his cheek. your lips lingered long enough to let the room talk. then you leaned into his ear and whispered, soft as sin: “I’ll accept your deal.” he had expected relief. instead, he felt desire. not lust. not even love. something worse—attachment. interest. a dangerous craving for something he couldn’t control.

he spent the rest of the evening parading you through the room, introducing you as his girlfriend—wife, if you corrected him, which you often did—with a quiet affection that bordered on convincing. he watched you charm donors, engage with scholars, maneuver conversations with calculated grace. you made him look like a fool in comparison, and he adored you for it.

the transition was quick. you moved into the estate. brought only what you needed. your room remained tidy. you were unobtrusive, like a guest in a museum. but your presence lingered in the air. a forgotten book on the table. a mug with lipstick at the rim. a scarf that smelled like soap and morning.

you played your role flawlessly. sat beside him with quiet loyalty. held his arm with a lover’s grace. you never slipped. not once. and the cult loved you. they bowed to you with more devoutness than they ever offered him. they brought you flowers. confided in you. hung on your words. you didn’t ask for their worship, but they gave it freely.

where geto commanded with doctrine, you ruled with kindness.

and slowly, the rumors changed. no longer was he the pathetic, untouched false prophet. no. now he was something else—something enviable. a man with a sharp, elegant wife who had chosen him. how else could he have pulled someone like you?

it was late—close to midnight. the halls of his northern shrine were quiet, flickering with the low, golden light of oil lamps. geto had wandered them without thought, seeking nothing. just movement. restless in the way only men who are too full of feeling and too empty of peace can be.

that was when he heard your voice. faint, from around a stone corner. not afraid. but strained. he paused in the shadow of a carved pillar, half-hidden, half-listening. a higher-level follower—one of the more politically useful but spiritually hollow types—stood speaking with you. no, not speaking. lamenting.

“...he’s too harsh. too rigid,” the man sighed. “I’ll be honest, the only reason I've stayed loyal to this place is because of you. you make this place livable.”

a pause. your reply came short, clipped. “thank you.” but then—colder. “that said, you misunderstand him. suguru acts out of necessity, not cruelty. if he wanted a cult full of weaklings, he’d put on a softer face. but he doesn’t. he wants people with purpose. with power. that takes force.”

geto froze. heart in his throat. you weren’t defending him out of obligation. you were…angry. angry on his behalf. “he’s not heartless,” you continued, voice steady, razor-sharp. “he’s strategic. he’s smarter than most of us combined, and the weight he carries would crush you if you tried to bear it for even a day. he’s a better man than you think.” something twisted in geto’s gut. something old and bright and dangerous. because when the man laughed lowly and leaned closer to you—too close, with a smile too familiar—it turned to a spark of rage.

“still,” the man murmured, “you could’ve done better than him.”

you stepped back. your discomfort was visible, even in your silence. you didn’t like this. you didn’t want it. that was enough. geto stepped forward, quiet as death. “go home.” the man startled. his mouth opened, closed again. geto’s presence was ice. his voice, quieter now, more final: “don’t speak to my wife again.”

there were no threats. no violence. but he left shaking. you stood stiff, looking down at your hands.

“I’m sorry,” you said, voice soft. “I didn’t mean to make a scene.”

“you didn’t,” he replied. “I did.”

but his gaze lingered, almost intimate. you had defended him. without being asked. without reward. not for appearances—but because you meant it. he left that night different than he arrived. something in him had shifted. whatever tether had been holding him back, had been convincing him this was just strategy—just performance—had frayed completely.

from then on, geto became yours in the quietest, clearest of ways. he skipped council meetings to sit with you on the back balcony, legs crossed beneath him as you braided his long hair with gentle, idle fingers. he abandoned tactical briefings just to listen to you explain some theorem he didn’t understand but loved watching you describe—so alive, so sharp. he no longer held court after dark. his evenings belonged to you.

he didn't care that his men muttered about how soft he’d become. that his enemies started whispering about how domesticated he looked. that his public image had cracked around the edges. he let it.

you were the first good thing in years that didn’t ask him to be something else. and in turn, he stopped trying to resist the pull. he watched you build a quiet life within his temple walls—still working, still learning, always hungry to understand more. you weren’t ornamental, you weren’t submissive, and you weren’t easily impressed.

you just…were. and that was enough.

he began to crave those soft weekend mornings, when he’d find you sitting alone on one of the garden benches, knees to chest, reading something complicated. your brows drawn, lips slightly parted in thought. he’d sit beside you, close but not intrusive, letting his fingers trace soft lines into the skin of your arm or thigh. a grounding ritual neither of you questioned anymore.

he picked wildflowers from temple paths and tucked them behind your ears with complete sincerity. he carried you inside when you fell asleep near the water, curled into yourself like some forgotten nymph, his coat draped over your shoulders.

he loved you. he hadn’t said it. but everyone could see it. and you? you were falling, too. gently. undeniably. it was in the way your head tilted toward him when he entered a room. the way your hands lingered longer when brushing against his. the way you now wore rings on both hands, but only one mattered.

your place in his home grew permanent in the most quiet, irreversible ways. your clothes in his wardrobe. your slippers by the door. your hum in the kitchen. your toothbrush beside his. you weren’t pretending anymore, and neither was he.

so it made perfect sense—though it still managed to break him completely—when one night, as the stars hung low over the lake and the house had gone still, you kissed him. you were brave. braver than he’d ever been. your lips were soft but certain, trembling only slightly as they pressed against his.

geto froze. and then he shattered. he kissed you back with something dangerous in his chest. hands braced on either side of you, mouth rougher now, panting against your skin. he pressed you gently against the wall, reverent but greedy, overwhelmed by how long he’d waited.

“my wife,” he groaned between kisses, as if the words hurt to say.

now that you were his—truly his, not just in title but in breath, in blood, in shared silence—geto stopped pretending he was anything less than obsessed with you. he became…possessive. not in the loud, showy way. no, he didn’t flaunt you. he didn’t drape you in diamonds or have you paraded at his side. he didn’t need to. you existed in his life, and that was enough to shatter his composure completely.

he stopped bringing you to cult gatherings as often, no longer sat you at his right hand during meetings. not because he was ashamed—god, no—but because the sight of other people bowing to you stirred something ugly in him. pride, yes, but also jealousy. they looked at you too long. they took too much from your softness.

his wife—and oh, how the title ruined him. he said it constantly. unnecessarily. gleefully. he used it to tease you, smirking with lazy smugness every time your cheeks flushed. “my wife,” he whispered as he kissed your shoulder. “my wife,” as he untied your apron in the kitchen. “my wife,” while you argued over chess strategies and he let you win anyway. it was annoying. it was adorable. you loved it.

and yet, despite his ease with you, despite the quiet comfort you brought him, geto still had moments where panic gnawed at the edges of his ribs. what if you wanted more? what if the lake and the shrine and his terrible world were not enough for you? what if you grew restless, and one day you left?

he tried to hide it, but one evening—when the sun had nearly dipped beneath the horizon and the air smelled like moss and the lake shimmered silver—he broke. you were sitting beside him on a blanket, curled against his side, wearing one of his old black robes like it belonged to you (and it did). the world was quiet. softly spinning.

“I can let you go,” he said suddenly. you looked at him, a little startled.

“if you want,” he added, slower now, like the words hurt. “you don’t owe me anything. this arrangement...I never meant for it to trap you. if you want to leave—truly—I’ll make it safe for you. I’ll fund your life for as long as you need. no one will follow. no one will stop you.”

your gaze didn't leave him. you let him finish, then reached out and took his hand, weaving your fingers through his. you leaned your temple against his shoulder. “if I wanted to leave, suguru,” you murmured, “I would've.” silence stretched between you, sweet and thick and tender. “I’m exactly where I want to be.” he didn’t reply at first. his throat closed around something too raw.

but then he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you flush against him, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and letting himself breathe again. you could feel the way he exhaled—like the weight of the entire shrine, of the whole world, had finally left his shoulders. he held you tighter.

satoru had spent years pissing off the higher-ups, mocking them behind closed doors, disobeying orders with a smile, and tossing out their thinly-veiled demands like yesterday’s trash. they’d long grown tired of his antics, but tolerated them, because gojo was, after all, the strongest. untouchable. unmanageable. unmarried.

they’d been pushing for a union for years—someone respectable, traditional. a woman from a noble clan. quiet. pretty. powerful enough to birth the next heir of the gojo line, obedient enough to stay in her lane. it sickened him. the very thought of shackling some poor woman to the political machinery of the jujutsu world—to him—felt inherently cruel. he refused, outright and loudly.

that is, until he met you. you showed up quietly at jujutsu tech one spring, a new instructor assigned to teach close combat. fists only. you didn’t wield a flashy cursed technique. you didn’t brag or posture. you taught students how to survive with grit and knuckles and instinct.

he noticed you before he even realized he had. at first, it was just curiosity—how you held your ground in the staff meetings, how you always sat by yourself at lunch but never looked lonely. you were strong. maybe not gojo-level strong, but you moved with precision and power, and your presence commanded attention. still, what struck him most wasn’t any of that.

it was your kindness. you weren’t sweet in the obvious way. you weren’t a pushover. but there was something about you—gentle when you didn’t have to be, encouraging even on your worst days. the students adored you. nobara would go on and on about how much more she liked you than any other teacher, looking pointedly at gojo. yuuji would recount everything you’d taught him during training, as if the other first years hadn’t been there. megumi liked you, too, of course in his own secretive, soft way. 

and gojo? he was smitten. not instantly. it happened over weeks. months. you disarmed him with every passing day. he kept expecting you to hate him like utahime did. to pity him like nanami sometimes did. but you didn’t. you laughed at his jokes. called him out when he deserved it. you treated him like a person, not a weapon, not a myth.

he hadn’t planned to say anything at the next clan meeting. but when they started in again about marriage, the words just tumbled out. “wouldn’t it be hilarious if I married the new combat teacher?” he said it like a punchline. a grin tugged at his mouth. a joke. sort of. not really.

the elders pounced. unorthodox, yes—but at least it was something. they took it seriously. they liked the idea. you were respectable enough. and if this was what it took to get satoru to do what they wanted—fine. a quiet, pretty wife with discipline and strength. acceptable. they brought it up to you the next week. not as a suggestion. as an order.

gojo had never felt guiltier. he told himself—swore to himself—that if you so much as hesitated, if you looked the slightest bit hurt or uncomfortable, he’d call it off immediately. but you didn’t. you said yes. calmly. clearly. like it was just another mission. and being married to satoru gojo didn’t seem like the worst thing in the world.

the wedding was beautiful. lavish to the point of discomfort. you’d never been given anything like this. flowers, silks, gold-dusted food. the dress alone was enough to make you feel like a stranger in your own skin—white and flowing, clinging in all the places gojo tried so hard not to look at. he kept close to you, but not overly so—hands tucked behind his back, smiles offered gently. he didn’t want to make you feel like a prize or an ornament.

the ceremony wasn’t for you. not even for him, not really. it was for them. for the elders, for the world, for the headlines. you said yes because that’s what good sorcerers do. and gojo—well, gojo made it as bearable as possible. sweet, funny, thoughtful in a way you didn’t expect. 

then came the house. if the wedding was unsettling, his estate was something else entirely. a mansion outside the city, all glass and high ceilings, polished floors that felt too clean to walk on. he gave you the grand tour, pointing out rooms he hadn’t been in for years.

“I forgot this one even existed,” he muttered as he opened a study lined with books. “seriously, I don’t know who’s been dusting in here, but I need to give them a raise.”

the kitchens were fully staffed. cooks, assistants, spotless fridges full of delicacies you didn’t even recognize. you nearly cried. when he asked what was wrong, you couldn’t quite answer. the kindness? the extravagance? it felt too big, too much. you’d never had luxury before. never had ease.

he showed you to your room across the hall from his. you gasped softly. it was bigger than your entire apartment had been. the walls were still mostly bare, the bedframe stark—but the potential shimmered. “I’ll fill it with anything you want,” he promised. “you want books? a piano? anything. say the word.”

you laughed, and something clicked in his chest. from that moment, gojo made a quiet, private vow: he would spoil you. gently. endlessly. just because he could.

you lived together, so time together became natural. you woke up at the same time, got ready side by side. his showers were long and theatrical. your mornings were quiet and fast. you tried to help in the kitchen—couldn’t shake the guilt—but satoru stopped you every time. “I hired them,” he said softly. “they’re paid very well. let them do it for you.” you nodded, but it still sat heavy in your chest. you’d never had help before. never been allowed to relax.

but you still felt it—that looming question. why me? you weren’t from a notable clan. you weren’t docile. you didn’t bat your lashes and whisper behind silk fans. you weren’t a perfect wife.

and yet, gojo couldn’t stop watching you. couldn’t stop thinking how lucky he was to have you in his orbit. so he started to shower you in praise. a constant stream of warmth, tucked into jokes and winks and soft murmurs.

“you look radiant today, wife.”

“you’re too good to these kids.”

“your students love you, y’know? but not as much as I do.”

every compliment made your heart skip. still, after months, you felt like a guest in his home. so he asked you out on a date. “come on,” he said one evening, spinning his chopsticks. “let me take you out. one night. for real. if we’re gonna live together, we might as well know each other, right?” you hesitated. but you agreed. and the restaurant…oh, it was a mistake.

the building shimmered. the valet line alone made your stomach twist. you’d checked the menu before leaving—it cost more than a month’s groceries. you were dolled up, but you didn’t feel like yourself. this wasn’t your world. this wasn’t you.

you stood on the curb, heart hammering, sure he’d regret this the moment he saw you. and then he did see you. and gojo forgot how to breathe. god, you were beautiful. he wanted to bottle the image of you—eyes wide, shoulders drawn in shyly, that tiny uncertain smile. you didn’t know what to do with your hands. you looked like you wanted to run. and he never wanted to make you feel that way.

“you look stunning,” he said, not joking for once.

you flushed. “you don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not–I'm not saying it because I have to,” he says, earnestly, a little disturbed at the suggestion. “I’m saying it because I want to.” your embarrassment and joy at his words was too strong for you to form a response. 

dinner was…perfect. he talked too much. you listened, soft and smiling. you talked a little, about work, about your students, about your favorite kind of bento. he leaned in closer, listening like you were the most important voice in the world. and you felt it. slowly. you felt it. safe. wanted. not as an object. not as a sorcerer. but just… as you.

you laughed when he told you about a mission gone wrong—accidentally setting off a cursed trap that dyed his hair slightly green for two days. he laughed when you mimicked yuuji’s horrendous battle stance. the air between you shifted.

you felt beautiful under his gaze. he felt peace in your presence. by the time dessert came, you forgot how uncomfortable you’d been. by the time the bill came, you forgot how small you’d felt. by the time he walked you to your room that night, you forgot this had started as anything less than real.

“goodnight…satoru.” and down the hall, in a room big enough to hold his loneliness, satoru lay awake and smiled to himself. she called me satoru. like it meant something.

from the moment you said goodnight, something in gojo shifted. he stopped pretending. not just to the elders. not just to the students. to himself. whatever arrangement had brought you together was irrelevant now. because for him—fully, totally, undeniably—it was real.

he’d fallen for you. maybe slowly. maybe all at once. but it had happened. irrevocably. irreversibly. and now, he woke up each morning and counted the ways he was doomed. he told himself he’d wait. however long it took. however long you needed. because he thought—maybe, just maybe—you were starting to fall, too.

he saw it in the soft smile you gave him when he drove you to work, lingering just a second longer than necessary before getting out of the car. he saw it in the note you tucked into his coat pocket during your lunch break: “I’ll be home late, meeting with ijichi and yaga. don’t wait up <3” but of course, he waited up. you were worth losing sleep over. he saw it in the mochi balls you left in the freezer when you went on overnight missions. the ones in his favorite flavor—always yours to begin with, now his because you decided so. he saw it in how you leaned into him, instinctively, when some kyoto teacher tried to talk over you at a summit. as if his presence was the only shield you trusted.

gojo had spent his entire life being a weapon. an asset. a symbol. he’d been used, revered, feared—but never once had he been treated like someone who could be loved. until you. you made him feel gentle. and he clung to that feeling like salvation.

he took you on dates like his life depended on it. maybe it did. dinner, of course—often too fancy, always too expensive. but also quiet walks through the countryside, boots crunching on leaves, his arm slung lazily around your shoulders. hikes through the mountains, where he’d tease you with sweets at the summit and watch you roll your eyes, breathless and pink-cheeked in the cold.

big sorcerer galas, where he let you coo and tsk and fuss over his migraines he’d get from not wearing his mask, massaging his temples with warm hands while whispering, “does that feel better?” god, how could you even ask that when it was the best thing he’d ever felt? he was putty in your hands, melting fast—and happily.

there were smaller dates, too. the kind that mattered more. little bookstores tucked in tokyo alleys. underground musicians he knew you liked. libraries where he’d watch you run your fingers down spines and mentally note every title you paused at.

to be loved, he realized, was to be known. so gojo satoru made it his one goal in life: to know you.

he asked questions constantly. what’s your favorite color? your favorite season? favorite book? favorite breakfast food? have you ever broken a bone? what was your worst day of high school? you answered shyly at first, then more easily. he remembered everything.

a fresh bouquet of your favorite flowers appeared in your room every week. he didn’t just read your favorite book—he devoured it. then cornered you in the kitchen to discuss every plot twist like it was the most pressing political scandal of the year. your laughter sounded like home.

you were still humble. still quietly unsure. still never asked for anything. but you’d stopped flinching when he gave you a compliment. stopped shrinking when he spoiled you. you didn’t encourage it exactly—didn’t clap your hands and beg for more—but you didn’t recoil anymore either. you took his love in slow, careful sips, as if trying not to choke on it.

gojo noticed. and he cherished every bit of it. he never said it aloud, but his chest had been torn wide open and stuffed full of sunshine. if you turned off all the lights, he’d glow in the dark.

and maybe that’s why, on one chilly night, he just couldn’t hold it in anymore. you were walking the gardens outside his estate. slowly. almost aimlessly. your pace had slowed to nothing. you were bundled in his jacket, too big on you, sleeves swallowed by your hands. the air was crisp. stars overhead. silence between you.

then you turned to him, voice quiet. “thank you…for this life.” he froze. you kept going. “I know you could’ve had anyone. I know the higher-ups have been trying to marry you off for years. I know I'm not…” your voice cracked. you looked away. “I just hope I've been good enough.”

satoru felt something dark and furious twist in his chest. he didn’t speak. he grabbed you. one hand cupped your cheek. the other slid around your waist. he kissed you like he’d been starving for you—because he had. you kissed like that for a long time. breathless. desperate. full of everything unsaid.

when he finally pulled back, you were dazed. warm. his forehead pressed against yours. “I asked for you.” your breath caught.

“I asked them to pick you.” his voice cracked. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I was afraid. I didn't know how else to have you.” his words poured out in a rush. “I’m sorry if it felt like a lie, I swear I didn't mean for it to. I just—I didn’t want to trick you, I just didn’t think I could ever actually deserve you. you’re so good. you make me feel—human. and I let you think you weren’t enough when really I'm the one who’s not—”

you didn’t let him finish. you grabbed his collar and kissed him again. fierce. certain. real. that was your answer. and it was more than enough. satoru couldn’t wait to spend the rest of his married life knowing you. 

ino had spent the better part of his life proving himself. becoming a grade 1 sorcerer under mentor recommendation wasn’t easy—especially not when you were once the kid with the fake glasses and something to prove. it took years of training, fighting, and swallowing his doubts like medicine. and when he finally got that promotion, that recognition? it felt good. really good. but short-lived. because the higher-ups didn’t care much for individual merit. not really. they cared about bloodlines, continuity. legacy. the survival of jujutsu society through children—preferably from the strongest, the best, the most ‘respectable’ clans.

it was gross. he knew it was gross. but still...he couldn’t deny it. that fantasy had always lingered at the edges of his mind. the dream. a sweet, beautiful wife—someone soft and kind, who called him honey and kissed him on the cheek and left sticky notes on the fridge. kids, loud and messy, who ran through the hallways with little paper talismans and toy weapons. a small home. a big one. didn’t matter. just a life—one that didn’t end with his cursed energy bleeding out on some battlefield.

he loved his job. he really did. loved helping people. loved protecting them. loved being useful. but that kind of love had a cost. and ino, even as young as he still was, could feel it gnawing at him. he was 15 when he became a first-year at jujutsu tech. since then, every second of his life had gone toward climbing the ranks. he didn’t go to parties. didn’t have dumb high school crushes or hold hands under lunch tables. didn’t go on vacations or have summers off. he had given everything to this life.

so, when the elders called him in at twenty-one and handed him a marriage file? he didn’t fight it. maybe that should’ve bothered him more than it did. maybe it would’ve, if he hadn’t opened that folder and seen you.

just a photo. a passport-style headshot. it wasn’t much. but even in that sterile little image, you were gorgeous. it kind of knocked the air out of him. he wasn’t sure if it was just the whole you’re gonna be my wife thing making him feel a little delirious, but… you looked like the kind of woman who was already out of his league, and now—somehow—he was marrying you.

the rest of the file gave him a little more context. you were the same age. same amount of years in the field. smart—really smart—according to your transcripts (which made him laugh; what did test scores have to do with being a good wife?). from a small, quiet clan, not big or flashy, but deeply respected. strong, too. you had dozens of successful missions under your belt and several commendations.

too perfect, he thought at first. like they’d just built you in a lab to be everything he’d ever wanted. maybe that was a good thing. maybe someone like you could pull him together. soften his sharp edges. keep him steady. he didn’t want to get too excited—didn’t want to start imagining too much. but… it was hard. hard not to imagine holding your hand in public. hard not to imagine brushing his teeth next to you. falling asleep next to you. maybe even…waking up next to you with his arm still around your waist. god, he was down bad and he hadn’t even met you yet.

you didn’t meet until the wedding. he hated that part. hated that this was how you had to meet. through obligation and duty, instead of something romantic. you deserved more than this, he was sure of it. but then you walked down the aisle, and all his guilt vanished. because it wasn’t dread that hit him. it was awe. it was you, you, you, you—and nothing else.

your dress was simple, elegant, and you wore it perfectly. hair down, soft curls tucked behind your ears. your expression calm and polite, even though he could tell—just from the way you kept your hands folded—that you were a little nervous. you kept your gaze down for most of the short ceremony, only glancing at him once or twice. he didn’t mind. he was looking enough for the both of you. god, he hoped you couldn’t hear how fast his heart was beating.

the ceremony was short. civil. boring, honestly. just enough formality to appease the elders. your family didn’t come. he didn’t ask why. he didn’t have much family of his own. maybe that was for the best. it made the moment feel smaller, more intimate. quieter. like the two of you were slipping into something private and precious, away from the noise of sorcerer society.

you answered every question like it had been rehearsed. like you were saying your lines. and ino got it. you were doing what you were told. just like him. it made something in his chest ache. he couldn’t let himself get too attached. not yet. but when the ceremony ended, and your hand finally found his—light and gentle in his palm—he knew he already was.

the house was new. small, not flashy, tucked into a sleepy neighborhood on the edge of tokyo. not too far from the school, but far enough that the city buzz faded into birdsong and the occasional neighborhood dog.

it wasn’t much—two bedrooms, a little backyard, warm hardwood floors—but to ino, it felt like everything. because you stepped inside and smiled. you ran your hand along the kitchen counter and said, “this is perfect.” and you meant it.

he showed you around room by room, stumbling over his words sometimes, rubbing the back of his neck like a teenager on his first date. but you… you seemed so at ease with him. more open than you had been at the ceremony. you laughed when he opened a closet and found a wasp’s nest. you gasped when you saw the backyard garden that had come with the property.

you already trusted him, somehow. that’s what it felt like. and ino was desperate to protect that.

he put all the furniture together by hand. dragged in chairs and tables, assembled bedframes with sore wrists, then unassembled them and reassembled them when you decided they’d look better in the other room. he didn’t mind. in fact, he’d never been happier to bruise his thumbs with an allen wrench.

every night that week, the two of you cooked dinner together. sometimes you sat in the kitchen and read while he worked. other nights you danced around each other in your socks, making curry and rice and bickering playfully about how spicy was too spicy. you seemed to be very fast friends. 

you didn’t know it yet—but he was already in love with you. quietly, fully. 

one night, over dishes still warm from rinsing, you told him. not in many words. just a whisper, quiet as steam rising from the sink. you hadn’t known what to expect from him. you’d been so afraid. that he would be cruel. controlling. that he’d treat you like something owned, expected things from you without asking. an heir. obedience. silence. you’d been prepared to be treated like an asset, like you always had. a sorcerer first. a woman second. a person last. you didn’t say much more. you didn’t need to. ino didn’t say anything, either. but it hit him like a curse to the chest.

first—guilt. heavy and hot in his gut. not because of anything he’d done, but because you’d been made to think your whole life would be like that. that someone like him—who wanted so badly to be good, to be gentle, to be enough—could be feared by someone like you. that someone must’ve made you believe you weren’t worth softness, safety, or kindness.

then—grief. quiet, cold. the ache of watching someone you care about shrink into themselves. the sadness of knowing you’d walked into this marriage bracing for pain. expecting commands, demands, rules, punishments. he hated that for you. hated every memory that must’ve taught you that love came with conditions.

and finally—relief. thick and sharp. like taking a breath after holding it underwater. because he could be safe for you. he was safe for you. and more than that—he wanted to be. you weren’t scared of him now. not when you sat beside him at dinner. not when you touched his hand during movies. not when you smiled sleepily at him from the couch like you weren’t afraid of anything at all.

you trusted him. and it made him want to weep with gratitude. so he didn’t speak. he just kept drying the dishes. handed them to you gently. let his fingers brush yours. and in that silence, in that fragile, wordless space—you relaxed. for the first time in your life.

and so did he. because even though takuma ino was silly and light-hearted and maybe didn’t always say the right thing, with you…he didn’t have to prove anything. he wasn’t just a sorcerer. he wasn’t just a husband by contract. he was someone who could love you, and that, he realized, was the best thing he’d ever be allowed to do.

things were perfect in a way that made takuma nervous. not the kind of nervous he got before a mission or when he had to answer to gojo or yaga. not even the kind of nervous he felt the first time you’d stood across from him at the altar, calm and unreadable while he’d practically vibrated with anxious energy. no, this was different.

this was the kind of nervous that crept in after you realized everything you wanted was already in your hands. because life had never felt this full before. this bright. this good. and he had you to thank for all of it. ino had once hoped—naively, maybe stupidly—that being married to someone strong and serious might whip him into shape. that his new wife would be strict, sharp, practical. that she’d mirror the same steely, polished professionalism expected of a grade 1 sorcerer’s spouse. maybe she’d keep his head on straight. help him level up in the ways that counted: promotions, reputation, rank. make him better.

but then you came along—and takuma forgot what he was trying to be better for. because with you, he didn’t think about sorcery at all. he didn’t think about his technique. or how long it had been since nanami had last given him a nod of approval. or how many cursed spirits he’d banished in the last six months. none of that mattered. 

all he could think about was you. how much he liked you. how soft you made him feel. how he woke up every morning wondering how he could make you smile that day—how he could earn your happiness, and keep it. he knew the nature of arranged marriages in jujutsu society. they were never designed to be tender. they were contracts. strategic. binding. and he didn’t even want to think about the consequences he’d face if you ever left him—professionally or personally. but it was never about that. not really.

he didn’t want you to stay because of the contract. he wanted you to stay because he couldn’t go back to being alone. to being half-human, half-weapon. to measuring his worth in mission reports and scars. he couldn’t stomach the idea of being someone you used to live with. someone you used to care about.

and the wildest part? you didn’t live like that. not anymore. it was subtle at first, but ino saw it. you’d come from a house of rules, strict and sharp-edged. you were disciplined to the core, trained to put others first, to perform, to be perfect. but now…you were learning how to live.

you slept in sometimes, you ate the sweets you used to avoid, you laughed at terrible puns. you took ino on suspiciously date-like outings to coffee shops and farmer’s markets, dragging him past flower stalls and baked goods, eyes gleaming like you’d never been allowed to enjoy them before. and best of all—you never treated him like a sorcerer.

you never asked about his technique. never seemed impressed by his grade or reputation. you asked how his day was. you packed his lunch and left notes. you let him talk, vent, joke, ramble. you saw him. just him. not the title. not the rank. just takuma. and it wrecked him.

one evening, you told him—quietly, hesitantly—that you were thankful. that you didn’t know how you got so lucky, ending up with someone who was kind to you. you stumbled over the words, which wasn’t like you. you were usually so composed. but you admitted that maybe…in a different life, things would be different. the marriage wouldn’t have to be fake.

the words made his blood buzz, like he'd been holding his breath for months. without thinking, he grabbed you—not harshly, just urgently. like he needed to anchor you to the ground. like he was scared you'd float away the second you said it out loud. and then, like it had been waiting on the tip of his tongue since the moment he met you, he said: “it was never fake for me. from the moment I saw you, none of it was fake.”

you stared at him, wide-eyed. and then, slowly, carefully, you reached out. wrapped your arms around your husband. leaned in close. and kissed him, because isn’t that what married couples do? and takuma kissed you back like he’d been waiting his whole life to be allowed to.

……

the house was louder now. a little messier. there were fingerprints on the glass doors and juice cups in the sink, toys left halfway through elaborate adventures on the living room floor. someone had drawn all over one of his mission reports in crayon. he hadn’t even been mad.

because when he looked up and saw you—hair pinned messily back, laughing in the kitchen as you tried to scoop rice into a bowl while a toddler clung to your leg—he felt something in his chest swell so big and full it was a wonder it hadn’t broken open yet.

this was his life. you and the kids. a house full of soft chaos and unshakable joy. days that started too early and ended with little bodies asleep between you, mouths slightly open, cheeks warm with sleep. he’d never been so tired. he’d never been so happy.

takuma had once believed love would cost him something. that having a family would be another weight to carry. one more duty. another thing to fail at. but he’d been so, so wrong. this—this—wasn't a burden. this wasn’t something to carry. it was the thing that carried him. being a father was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

it changed everything. his priorities. his pace. he still took missions, still wore the badge of grade 1 with quiet pride, but he said no now. he turned down the ones that felt wrong in his gut. he left the field when he was injured. he let others take the high-risk ones. because his wife—his wife—mattered more than any of it.

he watched you now from the doorway, one arm lazily braced above the frame, eyes half-lidded with love as the kids scrambled around your legs, yelling something about dinosaurs and bugs and an impending tea party. you scooped the youngest up without missing a beat, balanced them on your hip like it was second nature. it was.

and takuma thought, not for the first time, god, she’s perfect. not just beautiful, though you were that too. but good. kind. strong. warm in a way that softened the sharpest corners of his soul.

he’d once been so scared of responsibility. now he wanted it. he wanted to be your husband. their dad. he wanted to be the one who made dinner when you were tired, who helped with math homework, who kissed bruised knees and told bedtime stories that got increasingly dramatic just to hear the kids laugh.

“I ever tell you,” he said, padding into the kitchen, voice soft as he slid behind you and kissed your temple, “that this is all I ever wanted?”

you leaned into him, eyes tired but bright. “every day,” you teased.

he grinned. “good. I’m not planning on shutting up about it.” and he meant it.

because he had everything now. a home. a family. you. and takuma—once a lonely, overworked, people-pleasing sorcerer who thought praise and promotions were the only proof he was doing something right—finally understood what it meant to live a life worth protecting.

choso was new to sorcery—but even newer to being human.

when the summons arrived, a scroll sealed and stamped in the language of tradition, yuuji and gojo were quick to explain that the higher-ups loved to play god. force alliances, breed lineages, shape the next generation of jujutsu society like clay in their gnarled hands. “you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” gojo had said bluntly, rolling his eyes. “they’re just bored aristocrats in robes.”

but choso hadn’t said no. not because he felt obligated—he barely recognized authority as it stood—but because…well, he thought it sounded kind of nice. sweet, even. romantic. yuuji had explained marriage to him in simple terms. a lifelong bond. partnership. someone who could be your best friend. a person who chooses to love you every day. it made choso's chest ache in a way he couldn’t explain.

he wasn’t even sure he could reproduce. half-curse biology was a tricky thing, and he didn’t care to explore it. but still—if it was just for looks, as gojo and yuuji insisted, then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. maybe he’d get to wear something nice. eat cake. smile at someone pretty. maybe he’d get to try being romantic.

yuuji was wary on his behalf. protective. he didn't want some power-hungry clan girl using choso's status to claw her way higher up the jujutsu hierarchy. but when they met you—quiet, trembling, kind—you shattered every cynical assumption they’d had. you weren’t from a flashy family. your clan was small and conservative, one that preferred tradition and silence to showy skill. you bowed politely. you smiled nervously. you never raised your voice, never met their eyes.

choso didn’t say much on the day of the wedding. he was stunned into silence, not out of fear but from sheer sensory overload. the ceremony was extravagant, as expected, but to him it felt like magic. he wore a tuxedo for the first time. had his long hair carefully styled by a jujutsu tech assistant. yuuji stood proudly beside him, trying not to cry. there was music, too. food and flowers. a big, beautiful cake.

and then there was you. he couldn’t look away from you. your dress. your skin. the way you held your breath when your eyes met his. you looked like something out of a storybook. choso didn’t know how to be subtle, so he didn’t even try. he stared. wide-eyed. awestruck. you looked like you were glowing. he told yuuji every thought that crossed his mind after. “she smells nice,” “her dress was soft-looking,” "Is it okay to think my wife is pretty?” yuuji begged him not to say any of that to your face. not yet.

the car ride back to your new home was silent. you sat stiffly beside him, your hands folded in your lap like you were bracing for impact. choso stole little glances at you—then long ones, staring openly when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

you noticed. you kept waiting. bracing. wondering when the act would drop. you’d been raised in a home where men didn’t love. they owned. where girls were groomed to say yes and smile and open their legs whether they wanted to or not. where being married meant being silent, and scared, and useful.

but choso just stood at the threshold of your new home, turning slowly, taking everything in. the wallpaper. the strange furniture. the cozy rug. he pulled out his phone and texted yuji: “do I say something now?” then he turned and gave you a smile—shy, awkward, but genuine.

you waited. your fingers trembled in your lap. you waited for the barked orders, for the dragging hand, for the crack of authority to echo through the house. but choso only asked you softly where you wanted your boxes placed. said your name like it was something delicate in his mouth.

he talked a little that first night, though he wasn’t good at it. told you he liked your hair. that he liked the house. that it was weird but fun to wear a tux. that he was sorry if he seemed strange, he just… didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing. you didn’t say much in response, mostly nodded. you couldn’t believe it. couldn’t believe that this wasn’t a trap, a test, or some cruel prank.

“kamo—” you started.

“call me choso,” he interrupted gently, his gaze sincere. “please. I—I prefer that name.”

you nodded, unsure. your voice caught in your throat. you wanted to ask a thousand questions. do you know what marriage means? do you know what you’re supposed to do with me? do you know what’s expected of you—and of me?

but you said none of them. afraid that speaking the words aloud might summon the monster.

that night, you made dinner. a modest meal, more ceremony than sustenance, just something to ground yourself in normalcy. choso ate all of it. every bite. said it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. “yuuji once burned ramen,” he told you proudly. “he tried so hard. it was still crunchy.”

you laughed, just a little. you didn’t know it yet, but choso would hold that sound in his chest for the rest of the week. days passed. stilted. quiet. hesitant. but safe.

you began to relax in the space. your steps no longer tiptoed. you cooked more meals. choso started asking, shyly, if you’d mind packing his lunch when he left on errands. “only if it’s not too inconvenient,” he’d say. you nodded. of course, you told him. I'm here to be useful to you, choso. he didn’t answer right away. something about the way you said it unsettled him. useful? he didn’t like the sound of that. like this marriage was about what you could for for him. 

yuuji gave him advice. told him to take you out. “like a date. a real one. show her you like her.” choso brought it up clumsily. you said yes instantly—so instantly it felt like a reflex. “you don’t have to say yes if you don’t want to,” choso told you earnestly, head tilted like a confused dog. "I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

that was the moment the fog began to lift. you realized, in a single breathless moment, that choso wasn’t a monster waiting to strike. he wasn’t a master. or a soldier. or a shadowed curse. he was just a man. a little lonely. a little confused. a little smitten. a man who liked you and happened to be married to you.

"I want to,” you said. and choso’s hands shook with joy as he texted yuji, "I think she likes me now!!!!” he planned a clumsy little date. you wore something pretty and he complimented it three times before you left the house. he took you to a movie (a romcom, because you said horror was too scary), and halfway through the popcorn he whispered, “this is the best day ever.” you laughed, but he meant it.

the next week, he tried to cook for you. it went terribly. the dumplings were a mess. half-burnt, lopsided, falling apart before they even reached the plate. choso looked crushed by it—slouched at the stove, brows furrowed like he’d disappointed you. but you didn’t mind. you were quick to move beside him, murmuring a soft reassurance as you grabbed the pan, fixing what could be saved with steady hands and a bit of seasoning. you plated them neatly. made them presentable. and when he took his first bite, he looked at you like you’d performed a miracle.

there was praise in his eyes. gentle admiration. “you’re so great,” he told you, with hearts in his eyes. “you’re so good at everything.” you flinch a little at the praise, like you’re not sure what do with the weight of it on your shoulders. choso saw it—how your fingers trembled just slightly. how your eyes dropped to the floor. how praise seemed to sit heavy on your shoulders like you didn’t know what to do with it. that quiet, guilty way your shoulders curled in. he noticed how you smiled without meeting his gaze. how you moved around him like he was a fragile bomb, unsure of what might set him off. he didn’t know exactly what he’d done wrong—but he knew, with the kind of certainty that sat heavy in the chest, that something was wrong.

“are you…afraid of me?” he asked, gently. the idea made him sick. the last thing he wanted was to be feared, especially by someone like whom he liked so much. “why are you always so—careful?” the question hung in the kitchen like smoke. it wasn’t an accusation. it was a genuine wonder. because he didn’t understand why someone as soft and sweet as you looked at him like he might break you.

you opened your mouth—but nothing came out at first. then you sat down at the edge of the dining table, fingers clenched in your lap, eyes wide with something older than fear. something deeper. something that lived in the bones. and you told him. not with rehearsed clarity or poetic structure—but with a raw, unraveling honesty. stammering, halting words. a truth that had been carved into you over years.

it didn’t come out like a confession. it wasn’t a story with a beginning, middle, and end. it was bits and pieces, torn at the edges. the heaviness of your silence as it cracked open into something trembling. shame. memory. fear so deeply rooted, it had shaped the way you walked, the way you thought, the way you braced yourself for touch that never came.

marriage had never meant safety to you. it meant control. obedience. pain. you’d grown up watching women disappear inside themselves, reduced to what they could provide—bodies, labor, silence. you’d watched the world turn cruel inside the walls of a home. and somewhere along the way, you had decided that love was just another kind of wound.

choso listened. still and unmoving, like if he breathed too loudly it might scare the truth back inside you.

"I'm sorry,” you said finally, a knee-jerk apology you didn’t even realize you were offering. "I'm so sorry if I ever seemed cold or distant or strange, or-or if I ever made you feel…I don’t know—I just…” you turn your head away, unable to bear the immense weight of his silent gaze. "I'm so sorry,” you whispered again, this time into the stunned quiet. "I know it’s not fair to think that of you, and I feel awful about it, but I didn’t know. I didn’t know someone like you existed.”

his jaw was tight. his eyes shined. "I don’t want you to be useful,” he said. "I just want you to be happy. if I do anything—anything—to make you feel small or scared, I want you to tell me, and I'll fix it. I'll change it. I'll stop whatever it is.” a pause. then, with a breath like a prayer: "I want to be someone who makes you feel safe.”

the change is subtle. so small it almost passes by unnoticed—but choso sees it. it’s in the way your steps don’t hesitate beside him anymore. the way you reach for his sleeve when you’re nervous. the way, when the conversation around you grows too sharp, too loud, you lean into him rather than shrinking away. once, your posture around him was all calculation: poised, perfect, prepared to endure. now it’s something gentler. closer. unafraid.

you trust him. choso can feel it in his bones. and he holds that knowledge like a precious thing—tender, breakable, sacred. he doesn’t take it lightly.

when you stumble, he catches you. he never lets you apologize for it. when an event grows too loud, too bright, too much, he doesn’t ask. he just finds your hand, leads you out, drives you home. quietly, like it’s nothing, like it’s easy for him. because it is.

he likes driving you places. likes when you sit in his passenger seat and pick the music. likes the way you hum under your breath at red lights. likes treating you to dinner—ramen, sushi, pancakes at midnight—anything you want. it’s not about being traditional. he just wants to be good to you. provide for you. make sure you never go without, not while he’s around.

you become friends—slowly, then all at once. laughter starts filling in the gaps between awkward silences. shared jokes and quiet routines. the way he always brings you tea in the morning, even if he doesn’t drink it himself. the way you always double the recipe when cooking, setting his plate down before he even sits.

he didn’t understand, not really, what the people  meant when they said “marriage.” but now he does. it’s this. this quiet companionship. this soft joy. this life. 

he still has his quirks. he’s blunt to a fault—awkward, painfully honest, and occasionally a little too literal. romance doesn’t come naturally to him, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. he compliments you like it’s as natural as breathing.

“you are so beautiful.” “you’re the prettiest girl I've ever seen.” "I love it when you smile.”

sometimes he’ll say it in passing. midway through folding laundry. after biting into a dumpling. while you’re brushing your hair and not even looking at him. you smack his arm with a smile. tell him not to flatter you so much. but it’s not flattery to him. he doesn’t even register it that way.

choso doesn’t know how to flirt. he doesn’t realize there’s any performance to it. he just says what he thinks, exactly as he thinks it. and that’s what gets you most of all—how sincere it is. how uncalculated. no charm, no strategy, just choso, all wide-eyed and genuine and completely unaware of what his words do to you.

you begin to soften around him like melting snow. he notices the warmth in your gaze before you do. you start sitting closer to him on the couch, letting your knees touch. you start making his favorite meals without asking. you brush lint off his collar without realizing it.

he never stops doing his part. always careful, always patient. gives you space without ever making you feel alone. when he brings you to meet yuuji for the first time, he pulls his little brother aside beforehand and tells him firmly—“no yelling.” he knows loud men rattle you. keeps you far away from gojo on principle.

you cook for yuuji often, and his grumpy little friend megumi. choso eats every meal like it’s a holiday. thanks you every time. you tell him it’s nothing, that it’s the least you can do. he always disagrees. you don’t owe him anything, he says. you never did. but it still means the world to him.

one day, you’re walking together through tokyo. it’s sunny, but not hot. crowded, but not unpleasant. you’re talking softly about the bakery you want to try around the corner when you feel it—his hand, slipping into yours. like it’s normal. like it’s always been that way. you look down, blinking. he doesn’t even seem to notice, just keeps walking like it’s the most casual thing in the world. you glance up at him, a question forming. he catches your expression and offers, plainly, “yuuji said couples do that.”

you laugh—a real one, bright and unfiltered. then you squeeze his hand and lean in, close enough for your shoulder to brush his arm. he glances down at you, curious, smiling faintly. and you say, in the softest, most conspiratorial whisper—“did yuuji tell you what kissing is?” choso trips over a crack in the sidewalk. which answers your question well enough.

marriage had always been part of nanami's plan. not a romantic dream, not some wistful fantasy—but a goal, like anything else. stability. consistency. someone to build a life with. someone to go home to. someone to care for, to take care of. he never imagined love would come easy—nothing ever had—but he'd always imagined it would be real. earned. honest.

just…not like this. not arranged. not forced. not signed and sealed by the higher ups with a polite congratulations and a subtle reminder of the responsibility now placed upon his shoulders.

he put it off for years. every time the elders insisted, he declined. until gojo—with his reckless, star-bright optimism—went through with it. and somehow, shockingly, it worked for him. so nanami caved. signed his name where they told him to. said yes when they gave him your name. figured at worst, you could be companions. civil. polite. friends, even. you’d both maintain your dignity. your distance.

it didn’t have to mean anything. and then he saw you walk down the aisle. and every thread of logic in his head went up in flames.

you were breathtaking. not in the overdone, romanticized sense of the word—but truly, viscerally. the kind of beautiful that made him sit up straighter. that made his pulse spike with guilt. your dress hugged every curve like it was made to provoke him. your face unreadable, your lips soft and untouched, your eyes wide with something he couldn’t name. you looked like someone from a dream he hadn’t dared to admit he’d had. and he knew, right then, that friendship was off the table.

he was so screwed. so he did what he always does when emotions run too high: compartmentalized. stuffed it down. locked it up. told himself this was a marriage in name only. that he would be respectful. dutiful. distant. he would not touch you. he would not think about you. he would not ruin you with the weight of his own desire.

and then you spoke to him—softly, sincerely, asking if he needed anything. if there was anything you could do to make this easier on him. and you smiled at him like you meant it. like you didn’t mind being here. like maybe you were hoping for something.

and nanami felt sick. not at you—never at you—but at the situation. at the system that placed you in this position. at the knowledge that somewhere along the line, someone taught you this was your role. to ask what he needed, to offer yourself up for service like some kind of dutiful wife on day one. he told you—firmly, perhaps too firmly—that he expected nothing from you. and he meant it. but the way your face dropped still haunts him.

because you had hoped, hadn't you? not for love. not for anything improper. just for connection. for kindness. to not be alone.

you told gojo, apparently. quietly, in confidence. that you didn’t think nanami liked you. that maybe you’d done something wrong. of course gojo told him. "she feels like you don’t like her," he said, shamelessly stirring the pot. "which is crazy, 'cos she’s great."

"you’ve met her twice, gojo. and don’t talk about my wife." nanami’s voice was sharp, clipped. but the words lodged like a knife in his chest. he’d wanted to be honorable. restrained. a gentleman. but somehow you’d taken his distance as dislike. his silence as coldness. he couldn’t let that stand.

so he changed. slowly, carefully. he didn’t get any closer physically—still maintained his boundaries, still slept on the edge of the bed if you even let him in the room at all—but his efforts became more intentional. his speech softened. his tone warmed. he held doors. he asked about your day. he remembered things you said.

still, he never once commented on your appearance. not your hair, which always looked soft and neat, not your perfume, even when it made him dizzy. not your lips, even when you bit them while reading, which drove him mad. because he didn’t want you to think that was all this was. he wouldn’t reduce you to something superficial. wouldn’t treat you like a trophy. wouldn’t make you feel small.

but it was hard. so hard. because you were gorgeous. and kind. and funny, though you kept that part guarded. you were sharp-tongued and prickly and far too used to fending for yourself. you flinched under the smallest bit of praise. frowned when he complimented your cooking. got visibly uncomfortable when he opened your door or pulled out your chair.

"you don’t have to do all this husband-y stuff," you’d mutter, half-under your breath. he only smiled at that. yes, he did. you didn’t understand—this wasn’t performance. he wasn’t playing a role. he wanted to be good to you.

so he started smaller. made it subtle.

not "I bought this for you,” but "I picked up this chocolate. couldn’t finish it all, if you want some.” (he could finish it. he didn’t even like chocolate.) not "I booked you a trip,” but “there’s a train to takahama saturday morning. I remembered you said you liked coastal cities.”

you didn’t realize it was spoiling. it didn’t feel like spoiling. it felt casual. convenient. but it wasn’t. nanami had a hand in everything—softly, quietly, never drawing attention—but always thinking of you. always.

and still, you didn’t see it. because somewhere along the way, someone taught you that you weren’t meant to be treasured.

that night, on a checkered picnic blanket under low evening light, you finally told him. you didn’t look at him. you were chewing a fancy pastry he bought just for you, one you’d insisted he didn’t need to get, and between bites you murmured, like it was nothing—"I don’t really deserve any of this. you’re amazing. this whole thing feels like a joke. I mean…I'm nothing compared to you."

and nanami put his pastry down. very calmly, very clearly, he said, “don’t say that again.” you blinked. unsure if you’d heard him right. “you deserve everything,” he said. “and if you’ll let me, I'd like to be the one to give it to you.” you swallowed hard. "I know this marriage may not be the realest thing,” he continued, softer now. “but you are. you’re real. to me.” and for once, you didn’t argue.

you just looked at him. like you believed him. or maybe like you wanted to. nanami is the perfect husband, or he can be. if you’ll just let him.

you remain a bit uncomfortable, even after that. nanami can tell. you’re polite. grateful, even. but still not used to the spoiling. still flinching at the painful sweetness of his attention. like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. like you’re afraid he’ll stop.

but that only makes him more determined. he thrills at the sight of you eating sweets—how your eyes flutter closed for just a second, how you savor every bite like it’s a secret. he keeps a mental list of every flavor that makes your face light up.

he notes how you smile up at him, surprised but pleased, when he casually drops a quote from your favorite book into conversation. and how you hover near him at sorcerer gatherings—not because you have to, but because you want to.

you’re starting to like him. maybe even trust him. but not nearly as much as he likes you. as he loves you. the realization hits him quietly one evening, like most important things do. another sorcerer gala. he hates them. has always hated them. the showboating. the politics. the noise. but now…he attends them all. with you on his arm. his wife.

you, dressed in silk and sparkle, laughing under low chandeliers, letting him spin you gently on the floor like he might break you otherwise. you, with one hand in his and the other around a flute of something bubbly, looking every inch the vision you were on your wedding day.

he’s never believed in much. but “my wife” becomes scripture. biblical. he says it like a prayer. at meetings. at missions. at dinners. 

“my wife likes that brand of tea,” he says absently in meetings, pointing to the box someone brought in for the breakroom, as if it’s a credential that matters.

“my wife read that book,” he murmurs during a mission debrief when some sorcerer brings up philosophy, and then—because he can’t help himself—adds, “she said the ending was overrated, but the prose was lovely.”

he says it everywhere. your name, your title, your presence. it becomes his rhythm. his grounding. he clings to it like scripture.

my wife this. my wife that. my wife likes her soup just a little spicy. my wife hates when it rains and she doesn’t have an umbrella.

my wife once said she wanted to see fireflies again. so we’re going. end of june.

he knows you like the back of his hand. not because he memorized you like a task—but because loving you is the only thing that comes easy in a world that’s never been kind.

gojo teases him endlessly. nanami doesn’t care.

he’s proud. reverent. and somewhere along the way, you stop pulling away. start leaning in.

it’s not immediate. not dramatic. but slow. cautious. earned.

you start to accept this scary thing called love.

and then, maybe—maybe—you start to give it back.

it all falls apart (or falls together) after one of gojo’s absurd, over-the-top parties. you’d worn a sleek, fitted dress. something clingy and dark. your hair up. makeup soft and devious. you looked like danger and desire and everything he could never let himself want.

and nanami—poor, tired, utterly smitten nanami—was a little bit drunk. not much. just enough that his restraint began to crack.

you’d said something innocuous in the hallway. something about the night winding down. how your feet hurt. how you were ready to go. he didn’t even think. "you are so beautiful."

and you froze. you turned to him slowly, lips parted. eyes wide and owlish. “you think so?” you asked, quietly. like you didn’t believe it. like you couldn’t. "I thought…maybe you didn’t.” of course you thought that. he never said anything. never allowed himself to say anything. and now it hits him—how confusing that must have been. how his constant restraint had read as indifference.

and it ruins him. he fumbles through the silence, reaching for the right words. of course I think so. I always thought so. I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. you seemed so unsure. so tense. I didn’t want to reduce you to that. I didn’t want you to think I married you for that. I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t— you grab his jaw with both hands and kiss him. you kiss him like you mean it. like you’ve been waiting. like you know. and nanami kisses back like a man starved. like he’ll never get another chance. like he’s finally, finally allowed to touch the thing he’s been revering from afar.

from then on, he’s yours completely. he was yours before, too. you just didn’t know it. but now—now he doesn't hide it. not from you. not from anyone.

he brings you lunch during your breaks, walking all the way across campus in the middle of a meeting because he knows you forget to eat when you’re busy. he holds your hand like it’s second nature, like it was always meant to be there. he kisses your temple, your cheek, the inside of your wrist when no one’s looking.

he sleeps in your bed now. it wasn’t even a conversation. you’d dozed off after a movie on the couch, legs tangled up in his, head heavy on his shoulder—and when he carried you to bed, you tugged him down with you. he hasn’t left since.

he pulls you in every night, strong arms wrapped gently around your waist. breath warm against your neck. he mumbles half-dreamed things into your skin. sometimes it’s your name. sometimes it’s I love you. sometimes it’s just the kind of sigh that sounds like home.

he calls you his. always. because you are. and now, you let him. let him love you out loud. let him spoil you, lift the weight off your shoulders, remind you daily how precious you are. even if it still makes you blush, makes your eyes dart away shyly—he just coos and tuts and kisses your forehead like he’s got all the time in the world. and he does. because he’s not going anywhere.

you make plans for the future now. soft, easy ones. weekend trips. new paint for the kitchen. a second bookshelf. someday, maybe, a little house by the sea. you're no longer just wife and husband in name—you’re partners. best friends. completely, helplessly in love. and nanami does not take that honor lightly.

you belong to each other. that’s the difference. that’s what changed. it’s not just he calls you his. you call him yours. your person. your constant. your kento. he doesn't just love you—he lets you love him. completely. and you do.

you bring him his favorite coffee when he forgets breakfast, tug him away from his desk when he’s worked too long. you fold his ties and kiss his forehead and leave little notes in his wallet that say things like buy eggs and also I adore you. he blushes every time.

you don’t just call him your husband anymore. you call him your best friend. and he calls you his everything. because you are. and this—this life you’re building together—it’s all either of you ever could’ve asked for.

[stellamarielu]

hi hello everyone! i’m ovulating and can’t stop thinking about getting knocked up by jack abbot…

It’s 7:12am. You're looking over the status board, deciding which patient will be your first of the day, when McKay casually announces the arrival of bagels in the break room.

You reply that you haven’t been able to eat breakfast for the last few days. Telling her that something about the meal has been making you constantly nauseous. You couldn’t even get down one bite of oatmeal yesterday morning without gagging.

She just laughs. Telling you that your predicament reminds her of when she was pregnant with her son.

She reminisces on the months of not being able to keep down any food before noon, while sipping on her 12 ounce drip, and all you can do is stare at her with wide eyes while your mind runs laps trying to remember when your last period was.

You can practically feel Jack’s stare on you from his position on your left. There's no doubt, he can hear the conversation between you two as he types up his last report of the day.

Your gaze instinctively darts to his.

Neither of you say a word as you watch him bite at the inside of his check, pursing his lips, fighting back some sort of smile.

His expression holds something between question and revelation, as his eyes float back down to the computer in front of him again.

There’s a calming factor in the glance shared between you. Something in his amused expression instantly calms the nerves flourishing in your stomach at the mere thought of an unplanned pregnancy.

You look back up at the names of patients waiting to be seen, and pretend not to be struck with the realization that your period was, in fact, four days late.

It's a busy morning, there's no time for you and Jack to share a moment of privacy before he's giving you one last look of reassurance, and placing a gentle hand on your lower back as he brushes past you with his things.

As soon as you get a moment, you pull out your phone to send him a text— trying to figure out what to even send him before landing on a simple, I'll pick up a test on my way home.

Not even ten seconds later his reply comes across your screen,

Already on it.

And then another.

I love you.