#jujutsu kaisen x you

[aquasoftware]

⌕ Giving ōral, for dummies! ★

Snippet | "Hmm. Increase suction gradually... Got it."

FT║ Fem!Reader ✘ Nerd!Choso K.

Desc | Your boyfriend was a perfectionist—so when you told him his heąd game wasn't that good, he took it personally ➜ Now, with a book and determination, he's is set on proving you wrong. But when he starts flipping pages mid-act, you realize you might've created a monster.

Cw║ ørāl f!xát!on, crack/šmųț (proceed with caution 18+ ⚠️) ōvėrstım, praısė, service dom!choso, fınġer!ng, pıv implied at the end, volleyball!player reader, mărk!ng, choso has braces & glasses, nerd/dork! Choso duh, sızę difference (if you squint,) + college au.

WC ➜ 2.1K ♪ ML

11 min read & Oneshot.

Your boyfriend was a perfectionist at everything he did. And when it came to pleasing you? Best believe there was no exception.

When you were reluctantly honest with him, telling him his head game skills weren’t that good, it hurt at first, yes, but he urgently became dedicated to getting that statement to eventually change. Proving he could take criticism well, he studied multiple articles and at one point even bought a few expensive books that fairly put a hole in his wallet on how to give a woman pleasure.

Which led you to being here in his neat dorm room after volleyball practice.

Head spinning like whirlpools as you leaned up on both elbows, staring down extremely fascinated at your boyfriend in between your spread thick thighs.

His glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose, pale flushed face buried into your pussy all while checking every second to read another step.

“Cho, w-what’s with the book,” you stammered, already becoming a breathy whiney mess, from the tutorial he was following. “You could’ve–”

He must’ve finished reading a step off of the page or something, since he cut you off. Not with words, but with slow gentle wet kisses on your clit. As if he were taking little nibbles on his appetizer before getting to the main course.

Your whole body jerked. “Oh, fuuuck…” A long drawn out cry fell out from your mouth, sauntering over to his ears that were painted light-pink at the tips.

Choso hummed like he’d just confirmed one of the fun-facts about the clit having 10,281 nerves. Briskly adjusting his tortoise-shell glasses before flipping to the next page in the book propped open beside him titled “Giving Oral Sex, For Dummies!”

He kept his face relished between your legs, licking long, careful stripes across your slit—like he was terrified of leaving you unsatisfied again.

“Choso!” You abruptly gasped at his mouth working itself on you, tossing your head back, before blinking up, staggering eyes watching him. Unsure whether your stomach began to twist in arousal or secondhand embarrassment.

You were too lost in ecstasy to fully process what was happening either way, the only thing your brain could maybe manage to pick up was the faint buzz of the TV static in the background.

He continued, moving away for a moment to bring his head towards your slightly sweaty inner thigh lips latching onto the soft flesh, sucking delicately, as if the spot had a fragile sticker placed on it.

His tongue flicked against the skin in lazy strokes while a deep low groan vibrated against your thigh, and you felt it—the sensation rumbling through your skin, sinking into your bones.

You shivered. A whimper left your lips before you could stop it, secretly hoping his roommate wasn’t there. Your thighs twitching ever so slightly as heat charged through you.

Choso lifted his lips about thirty seconds later, admiring the deepening mark blooming on the fat of your thigh. He smiled, exhilarated at the sight of his masterpiece, his fingers kneading possessively at the painted flesh.

“Shit, it looks so beautiful on you, angel.” He murmured, voice spilling with warmth. His half-lidded eyes dragged over your skin, pupils dilated with admiration.

Your stomach flipped at the lovesick haze in his expression, heart hammering at how beyond gone he looked over a single bruise.

Then, Choso’s lips curled into a small, knowing smirk, fingers tracing the sensitive mark he’d left behind.

“Damn,” he uttered, amusement sprinkling his voice, “what’s the team gonna say when they see this, huh?” His confidence had soared—fed by the pretty sounds you repeatedly gave him, the way your body responded so easily to his mouth. Thanks to this little guide he knew he’d never receive poor ratings on his oral skills again.

Your breath hitched. A fresh wave of heat rolled through you at the realization—your shorts weren’t long enough to hide it.

“Shut up, and just make me cum.” You shot back, face heated in embarrassment, still making it your business to humble him somewhat.

Choso let out a deep, throaty chuckle against your thigh, the vibrations sending a fresh wave of heat straight to your core.

“Yes, ma’am!” He grinned, flashing just enough of his braces to make your mind dizzy, eyes gleaming as he lowered himself back between your legs. His wet muscle circled your bud at a deliberate, teasing pace—never too fast, or too slow, just enough to keep you desperate.

His mouth was hot, breath fanning over your slick sticky folds. When he pulled back just slightly—lips and chin glistening—his braces caught the bright light.

You swore you felt weak at the immense sight, everything about this man turned you on.

Choso licked his lips, not even bothering to wipe the mess off his face, and let out another low hum.

“Mmph, the book didn’t mention you’d taste this good, baby.”

You would’ve rolled your eyes at the comment—if his tongue wasn’t currently making your legs shake.

Meanwhile, your boyfriend’s violet eyes switched back to the page in front of him, scanning the text like he was preparing for a damn exam.

“Choso—oh my god—what are you even…”

“Shh, relax for me, okay?” He mumbled shushing you, pink lips still strikingly warm against your pussy.

Then—he turned the page, mouth poked out paired along furrowed brows. Tilting his head seriously too concentrated on what he read.

You blinked in disbelief, jaw dropping wide at the action nearly like you’ve seen a ghost. Did he just skip to another page?

“I need to see what step five is.” He added on, eyes glued to the details on what to do next.

“STEP FIVE?!”

Your head shot up, barely able to focus through the waves of pleasure crashing over you. But sure enough—Choso was nodding to himself, eyes scanning the page, mustering under his breath like he was taking mental notes.

“Hmm. Increase suction gradually… Got it.”

A second later, he wrapped his lips around your puffy clit and sucked, languid but firm, and your whole body convulsed. Your legs snapped around his head, locking him in place as your face contorted in pure, unfiltered pleasure.

“Choso—fuck—what exactly are you studying for?!” you yelped, genuinely confused, fingers tangling into his dark brown ponytails for support.

Your boyfriend actually pulled back, pushed up his glasses, and raised an eyebrow at you like you asked him the most obvious question ever.

“For you,” he answered back, completely calm. Then—without hesitation he dove right back in, swishing his head back and forth as his pointed nose brushed on your sensitive bundle of nerves.

Holy. Shit.

You were fully losing it, while he remained completely composed, taking his sweet time applying every technique like he was testing out a new experiment. His fingers gripped your thighs, keeping you extended open like a damn science project.

“Ooh…ngh—Choso, wait!“

He did NOT wait.

In fact, he casually flipped to another page and straight away tried a new tongue technique.

Your back almost arched off the bed. Your head fell back. You were so gone.

And then you heard a fucking pencil scribbling?

“…Baby, the hell?” You heavily panted chest rising and falling on loop. “Are you seriously taking notes?!”

A long pause poured throughout the room, then sheepishly followed behind a high pitched…

“Maybe.”

If you weren’t seconds away from falling apart on his tongue, you’d burst into rib-hurting laughter.

“You’re doing amazing,” he praised, like you were the one putting in work—like you weren’t the one seeing stars.

And as you felt his fingers easily push inside, curling just right, your stomach tensed.

Your own fingers never felt this good.

Your body recognized that telltale tightening in your core—the coil rapidly winding down.

No fucking way.

No way your boyfriend—who was literally using a goddamn manual—was about to make you cum off of it.

You swallowed hard, body trembling.

But with the way Choso was fingering you—intent, precise, full-on committed—you had a sinking feeling this was about to be the best orgasm of your life.

And you were right.

“F-Fuck—Choso, I’m…“

He didn’t stop. His fingers pressed up against that spot, tongue moving faster, tighter, messier, fully loyal to the task at hand. His glasses slid down his nose a second time. His face was dripping with you, and he didn’t even care.

If anything, he looked like he was thriving.

“C’mon, baby,” he coaxed, lapping you up like you were his drug. “I know you’re close.”

You were. Too close, causing you to have an almost love-hate relationship with his attentiveness.

Your thighs shook around his head, your fingers scrambled for something to hold onto, the tension snapped in your belly, and suddenly—

You were coming so hard you forgot your own name for a minute.

A sharp sob tore from your lips as your back arched off the bed, pleasure crashing over you in thick, electric waves.

Trembling, while Choso whimpered low. Desperate with arousal, like you just did something to him.

Then you felt it.

His hips rolling against the mattress, shaking the whole bed.

Grinding into it like he was losing his damn mind, whining softly as his fingers dug into your thighs nearly leaving more marks.

The awareness sent a fresh wave of heat through you.

Even with his mouth on you, his hands on you, his tongue deep in your pussy—he still needed more.

Finally, your body collapsed—unable to lean on your elbows anymore. Boneless, breathless, outright ruined.

Choso pulled back, shining with your slick on his chin, glasses fogged, pupils blown like a hot air balloon as he stared at you, awestruck. His breath came in uneven pants, chest rising and falling as if he’d just finished a marathon—except the only thing he had been running was his tongue against your cunt.

You let out an unhurried, quivery breath, body still trembling in the aftermath.

“…Gosh, you’re so ridiculous, babe.” You sighed, still trying to catch your composure, the remnants of pleasure making your voice weaker than intended.

Choso grinned, bashful, swiping the back of his hand over his chin as if to wipe away the mess—only to smudge it further. “Listen… it helped at least?”

Your core throbbed, empty, still fluttering around nothing. The ghost of his fingers, his mouth, the relentless precision of his tongue, lingered between your thighs, and it was very clear—you weren’t stopping here.

You tilted your head, voice firm. “I want your cock inside me. Now.”

Choso choked on his own spit.

His whole body tensed, hands gripping your thighs a little tighter, lips parting like he wanted to say something—but nothing came out. His pupils were blown, his breath shaky, and fuck, he was practically vibrating with restraint.

But who was he to deny you?

His fingers fumbled to undo his sweats, shoving them down just enough to free his cock—already painfully hard.

The tip drooled an ample amount of pre-cum, glistening under the dim light, a desperate testament to just how much eating you out had ruined him.

He exhaled sharply, giving himself a few slow, measured strokes, watching the way your thighs trembled, the way your lips parted when you saw him. A deep moan rumbled in his chest, and he finally lined himself up, running the swollen tip along your entrance, smearing his slick against your heat.

Then—he fucking picked up the book again.

Your eyes popped open.

“Choso.” Your voice was sharp and dangerous.

Forcing him to freeze.

“Uh—“ He glanced at the book. Then at you. Then back at the book. “I just wanted to see if there’s a section on penetration—”

“Boy if you don’t put that damn book down.”

Choso’s eyes widened, and the book was on the floor in seconds.

“Okay, okay—fuck,” he laughed breathlessly, his hands finding purchase on your thighs again. “You’re so sexy when you’re all bossy.”

You felt the massive tip press against your entrance, splitting you open as he steadily pushed in.

Yeah, you could tell you were in for a long night.

By the time morning hit, your entire body ached—not the good kind of sore after a tough practice, but the kind that made you rethink all your life choices. Your legs felt like jelly, muscles strained and overworked in a way even the most brutal drills had never managed.

It was worse than endless blocking reps. Worse than the time your coach made you do wall sits for five straight minutes after missing a serve.

You groaned as you shifted, a sharp ache shot up your thighs. Your abs protested, your hips throbbed, and as you carefully swung your legs over the edge of the bed, you had a horrifying realization.

There was no way in hell you were walking normally today.

Your toes barely touched the floor before your knees buckled, forcing you to grab onto the nightstand for balance.

Already dreading the moment you had to step onto the court.

All you could do now was pray your coach wouldn’t notice how funny you were walking.

➜ Masterlist.

➜ A reblog, like, or comment is highly appreciated!!

➜ A/n | I had this silly little idea a few days ago, so I hope you enjoyed it :) + this was lowkey supposed to be a drabble but I got carried away

Divider/Boarder creds | hyuneskkami + adornedwithlight.

[malvikareader]

@tonycries OH MY GODDDDD!!!!!!!🔥🔥

Executioner Style - R.S.

Synopsis. How long does it take for the demon king, Ryomen Sukuna, to figure out why you summoned him? Three hours. How long until you wonder whether you’ll make it out of the bed aIive? Well…

Pairing. Ryomen Sukuna x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, demon king! true form! Sukuna, dp, Sukuna’s second mouth, big tongues, oraI (fem rec.), he’s BIG, making it fit, cervíx kíssing, tummy buIges, MARATHONS, creampíes, ínnapropríate use of POWERS, unprotected, DOUBLE the cúm, cúmplay, slight bréedíng, d slipping, HEADLOCKS, manhandIing, he calls you “master”, p talking, p sIapping, squírting, he goes FÉRAL, ríding his second tongue, spítting, overstím, making Sukuna whíne, breaking the bed, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 9.2k

A/N. RlP that puthy ayyyy!!

Lo and behold, late tonight found you boredly thumbing through pages upon yellow, moth-eaten pages of a dusty demonology textbook you’d acquired from the very back of your campus library.

And maybe it was sheer tedium, maybe it was your recent lack of…satisfying exploits - but the man in the illustration you were currently ogling at was smokin’ hot. 

“Ryomen Sukuna: King of Demons.” 

Your eyes greedily skim from his tall, towering figure, to those naturally chiseled abs. And was that a second mouth on his sculpted front? 

Television whirring softly in the background, you thumb over the short, scrawled-out incantation right underneath his picture. According to what the book claimed, it was for those who wanted to summon the king. Oh…couldn’t hurt. Right? 

Biting your lip, you let out a huff of disbelieving laughter before starting to incant it. 

Stuttering, unsure.

And once you’re done, well, nothing happens.

You set aside the book with a sigh, turning to the tv that was now only playing repeated, flickering static. What else did you think would happen? Pressing frustratedly on the remote, as if-

“Summoned me, mama?”

Fuck.

The book you were just reading described Sukuna as big - but he was big.

And standing right in front of you.

Well over seven feet, muscular frame taking up every inch of your cozy living room. You can’t help but gape at everything from the cherry blossom-pink strands of slicked-back hair, to the thick rings tattooed ‘round his feet. 

And he had two of everything - two sets of big, beefy arms just covered in veins that popped when he crossed his arms, two sets of dangerously crimson irises that roamed over your cutely trembling figure sprawled across the couch.

You had. Summoned. A demon. 

And he really did have a second mouth gashed across his stomach.

“Or should I say…” Sukuna’s husky baritone sends stark shivers skittering across your skin, something he’s sure to not miss. He lets out a low whistle, “-master?”

“Wh-who are you?” You’re sputtering out stupidly, even though you already knew the answer to that question. It was right there, boldly titling a section in a textbook that you were two seconds away from throwing at the demon’s head right now. 

“Heh- as if those puny human arms could do much damage to me.” He’s gruffing out, “I might even like it.” 

It hits you in an instant then. Sukuna’s plump lips curl ever-so-smugly when your mouth drops at the realization that he’d just read your mind.

What the…fuck.

Your heart pulsates so loudly that you almost miss his next few words-

“Language, mama.” Sukuna’s feet thud! thud! thud! closer to you, every step reverberating an echoing shake of your apartment infrastructure. He kneels until he’s almost eye-level with you, and you can’t help but shiver at the heat radiating off in scorching waves from his hulking body. “Ryomen Sukuna, King of Demons.”

“W-well I’m-”

“I-I-I already know who ya are, silly brat.” He mocks, with a roll of his eyes. Rude, you huff. “The first dumb lil’ human to summon me in eons. And the first one so pretty, too- keh, don’t let that get into your head, just tell me what you summoned me here for.”

You’re shaking your head frantically, every ounce of will in your body trying not to think about just how you’d summoned the fucking demon king because you were…horny. “Can’t you just- I don’t know- leave? Go back?”

“Doesn’t work that way.” He seems to be enjoying your pain more n’ more by the second, both devilish mouths curving up into a smile that showed off his gleaming canines. Sharp. 

“What if I take it back?” You try to reason, hands throwing exasperatedly in the air. “Un-summon you so you can go back to your…wherever you came from, and I don’t have to tell my landlord about changing the rent.”

You probably looked a mess right about now. But, at least in your defense, how were you supposed to know that spontaneously-borrowed demonology books might actually work?

And Ryomen Sukuna looks at you with all the patience of someone - a demon - that well and fully expects you to have known. “Stupid human. First you summon the king and then you want to send him back? I should curse you and fifty of your generations for this.”

Heaving out a sigh, he seats himself on that cottony carpet of yours. So monstrous, so strong that every piece of loose furniture is thrown two inches in the air once he does. 

You yelp as you cling onto the tufted cushion of your dear sofa. 

“I, Ryomen Sukuna, am contracted to stay in the human world until I accomplish the task my new…master has summoned me for.” He drawls out, pinkish brows quirking. “So spit it outta that pretty lil’ head now before I should hope you know how to take care of the demon king.”

You breathe, voice as fragile as if it was about to shatter into a zillion pieces against the slightest gust of air. “Take care…of a demon…king.”

“The demon king.”

Great, your brand-spankin’ new roommate was the king of demons. 

“F-first things first.” You move to get up from your helpless position, trying not to let your knobbly knees trembly unsteadily as Sukuna watches you with interest. 

Shit, even seated he was such a staggering size. 

All rippling muscles and big, big…

Shaking your head to rid it of thoughts you knew he’d enjoy, you disappear into your laundry room to find the biggest oversized t-shirt you had stored away. 

Striding back into your living room, you find him still sitting obediently for you. Unimpressed at your findings, yet still obedient. You’re presenting the piece of cloth back to him like a shield, “Wear a damn shirt.”

For your sake more than anything. Because it didn’t matter what baggy white pants Sukuna had on, having his upper half so shirtless and…attractive really wasn’t helping. 

Fuck, if you thought the illustration was hot then it didn’t do enough justice for the real thing. 

“Haaah? Stupid human customs. This get ya silly brain distracted or what?” Sukuna grumbles, though one of his four arms reaches out for the t-shirt. Close. And before you can snatch your fingers away, just one of his long blackened nails skims your sensory pads. 

Too close.

Just one split-second touch and the king’s sultry eyes widen, nostrils flaring a fraction once he takes in a deeeep breath. You can’t force your eyes away from the tight, toned heavals of his cushy pecs fast enough, snapping your eager gaze back to his as if nothing ever happened. 

Only to be met with a leer. Sleazy. “Though, maybe I don’t mind, mama.”

You find the rational part of your brain pricking with slight concern at the whiplash-like change in Sukuna’s tone. Though, most of it is overcome with utter relief as he wears the top.

Even though it doesn’t change much.

Despite being a t-shirt so big on you that it travelled all the way down to your knees, it barely even covers half of his cursed second mouth. Pulled so taut that you could map the exact circumference of his puffy, maroon nipples. And the slightest movement makes your tense living room ring out with a threatening riiiip–!

And on either side of Sukuna’s ridged obliques, he’d punctured gigantic holes for his two extra hands to flex through. Large and intimidating. 

Raising a teasing brow, “This better, master?”

No, your mouth waters. And yet, somehow manages to shape out, “Y-yes.” Desperately whirling your pupils anywhere but at him, they finally find themselves landing upon the tick-tick-ticking clock on the far end of your wall. 12:01AM it showed. “And it’s late, I have early lectures tomorrow so…”

You didn’t. And you hastily pick up the demonology book from your coffee table to make sure that Sukuna couldn’t sense lies. Given the little you know about him already, you wouldn’t be surprised.

“So you can make yourself at home on the…” You’re wincing, realizing that your shabby couch was much too small for an above-average height human let alone a fucking demon. 

“Hmmm?” Before you can do something stupid, like offer Sukuna your own bed - or better yet, you right along with the bed - he clicks! his thick fingers. And in a sudden puff of smoke, your humble sofa had transfigured - exactly the same, but bigger.

Big enough to fit him.

Shit. Your tummy lurches, he really was the real deal.

And even though you felt slightly disgruntled about the way this all-new furniture was jostling your poor television stand, you’re giving him a jerky nod in reply. Alarmed, you dart towards your own bedroom with a soft gasp of something like ‘goodnight!’

Hopefully when you woke up this would all be some strange fever dream.

.

.

.

You couldn’t sleep.

Though, that’s not for a lack of trying - no, according to your glaring phonescreen, the time was 2:53AM and you’d spent almost three hours tossing n’ turning fussily in your bed. 

And it was all Ryomen Sukuna’s fault - well, indirectly. 

Because you might not have heard even the faintest peep from him since you’d slammed your bedroom door shut, but you mind still raced a mile a minute over the fact that he was inevitably there.

And the fact that…you gulp, your thighs squeezing together through flimsy cotton shorts. You were still as horny as when you first summoned him.

…Fuck it.

Your patterned sleep shorts end up on a sad heap on the floor, padded digits gliding over just the swollen hood of your clit. “Sh-shiiit.”

By now your legs are splayed nice and close, heart curdling in your lower belly once you reach for that familiar second drawer on your bedside table. The one that’s hidden away. The one that opens up to show off a hot pink rose toy you kept for nights just like this.

Though, usually you didn’t have a demon sleeping over.

But you digress! Sukuna would be none-the-wiser; the demonology book had mentioned his superhuman olfaction, but it said nothing about super-hearing abilities.

They also did mention - several cautionary times - about the risks of summoning a demon, and how a summoner and demon shall live together as long as the task dictates. Sometimes even forever, with the contract sharing immortality. 

So… 

With this in mind, you’re biting down on the gummy insides of your cheek to push back the heavy pants that battle to depart. Eardrums perked in the direction of your door, your fingers scratch impatiently against the power button near the base and let the sinful bzzzzz knock on each of your four walls. 

Not a sound from Sukuna. Good.

The sparkly tip of your cute lil’ toy kisses your clit and you moan, smearing it in a wet little glissade around n’ around. 

It was sooo wet - your needy pussy. Even more so than usual, at this point your jittery thighs were just coated in a fresh lacquered layer of syrupy slick. Drenching down to your silky bedsheets and ringing out the most pornographic squelch after squelch.

“Fuh-fuuuck–” You’re whining, watery peripherals locked on the frigid vibrator tip teasing perfect eights near your sloppy hole. 

The plump crowned tip of your toy was such a pretty shade of ruddy pink - one that reminded you so much of Sukuna. Shit…maybe this was a bad idea. Because all you could think about right now was whether he would-

No, no you can’t go there. 

Spanking your throbbing clit with the firm base of it, silvery strands of slick dangle and squirt out from you repeatedly. Wanting and wanting, and no matter how much - you wanted more. 

Probably. 

“S-su…Kuna-” You spit a hot mass of webbed saliva that dollops down the tip of your rose toy, promptly aligning it in front of your dripping cunt. In front of where you wanted him- it the most before-

“Battery low…powering off.”

Heart plummeting to right between your legs, you take one look at the flashing battery indicator on your rose toy and sigh. “Fucking hell.”

“S’where I’m from.” 

“Fuck!” You drop both your vibrator and your jaw to jerk your head towards the origin of that low, rasping, unfortunately familiar bass. 

And there, hunched right in front of your now-open bedroom door, was Ryomen Sukuna. Two of his bulging arms homed right above the banister to your entrance, helping him lean down. Other two crossed over his bulky chest, grinning. “That’s the objective, brat.”

Perhaps you’re simply frozen, perhaps you like the way that Sukuna’s half-lidded eyes were rovering allll over your body without a shred of embarrassment. 

“H-haven’t you heard of knocking?” You’re whimpering, sticky thighs closing in together with a stinging plap!

And Sukuna has the audacity to look almost disappointed when he can’t see that heavenly sight between your legs anymore. Stepping one foot - two - into the clouded headiness of your bedroom. The pressure in the air was so thick that the maneuver makes your skin prickle with frosty goosebumps. 

He’s ignoring your previous question. Snickering, “I know you were thinkin’ about me, mama.” Closer. “I know you were moanin’ my name while you toyed with that pretty lil’ pussy. I could smell that you were in sweet ovulation ever since ya gave me this damn t-shirt.” Too close. His capped knees strike the edge of your mattress, making it groan underneath the weight - and you felt like doing much the same right about now. “I know why you summoned me here.”

There’s a beat of silence. 

Two.

Three.

Before you open your cottony mouth- “W-want you, Sukuna- please.”

And one minute Sukuna’s hovering over the end of your bed, colossal figure casting a shadow over your body - the next, he has two meaty palms slapping down on your ankles. Kissing your lips, kissing your thighs.

He’s draaaagging you from your position near the very tippity-top of your pillows to him. 

Down, down, down.

All the way until half of your ass dangles off the bedframe until he cups a ravenous handful of it. Tittering, Sukuna’s kneeling - the king is kneeling - on your bedroom floor with a dull thud! that makes your cunt flutter.

“Ohhh look at ‘er throbbing already.” He’s tittering, hazy gaze clinging to your adorably squirming body as if a moth to flame. The honed edges of his nails trace all along your thighs, raw carnal need. “That greedy f’me, human?”

“P-pleeeease—” You’re gasping, your own nails clawing red, red train tracks along his thoroughly veined forearms. 

One spank of his doughy soft-tipped fingers exactly where your slobbery hole was leaking the most, and the sweltering hot wetness of it is almost dizzying. You watch with your mouth agape as Sukuna brings his treacly covered digits down to his stomach mouth, letting it sluuuurp all the dewy goodness of your sugarcoated slick. “That all you can say?”

Another clingy slap brings you out of your sweet reverie- you’re hiccuping out a scratchy, “N-nooo. I wan’ your mouth, Sukuna- ngh, I want-” You can’t stop your eyes from drifting away to his toned front, that mouth.

And Sukuna notices, of course, he does. 

“Ohhh, ya really are a greedy lil’ thing, huh?” For a second, you swear his bloody lids widen in sharp surprise. Before Sukuna throws his head back with a cackle- “Of course, master, anythin’ ya want.”

Oh, that little nickname makes you arch.

Roughened, calloused hands crack your legs apart until the rounded curves of your knees hit your tits. Sloshing out a watery clump of spittle that puddles all over your overspilling slit, “But first, we gotta stretch this lady out reeeeal wide.”

You can’t even say a word, you can’t even register what he’s saying before Sukuna hunches over your damn bed and gives your pulsing pussy a good French kiss. 

And just as monstrously big he was - his tongue was just the same.

Putting your rose toy to shame, he’s prying open your gluey pussylips with a single swipe of his filthy muscle. Simmering tastebuds splashing soggy smears all along every nook n’ cranny of your cunt, the underside of his tongue comes thudding down your heated clit with a harsh thwack!

“Nghhhh– fuck, Sukuna”

“Can’t hear ya, pretty mama.” He’s groaning into your slick-glossed folds, the carnal vibrations making your heaving chest rip with such raw squeals. “Louder. Make those hah- pretty noises louder f’me.”

The fat of his tongue was licking you up deliciously. Urging out bucketloads of honeyed slick, bucketloads of moans upon moans upon moans- “M-more- mmpf!”

“Not you, brat.” Sukuna bites out, though his strained throat trembles with amusement at the way your cute voice pitches. Thrashing as one upper hand treks up to muffle your unhinged mouth, he makes such a big show of letting your pouring sap sliiiiide down his open tongue. “Shut up n’ let me talk to her.”

Slurring slurps upon slurps that thunder in his ears like his favorite song, each n’ every one that he nods along to. Such a lecherous conversation. 

“Mhm. Mhmmm, you’re heh- right.” His scorching hot breath tickles your pussy, and you can feel the way his handsome smirk curves into your aching flesh. “Yeah, she is fuckin’ filthy, huh? What a needy girl…” 

Every gyrating motion of his head grinding the tip of his nose into your achy clit, pressing down like his favorite toy button. N’ dragging your tender nub up and down up and down up and down. 

Clammy hips lurching the perfect curvature off of your springy mattress, your cute whines slip through his thickened fingers. “I-inside, want you- haaah-”

To which the only answer you get is Sukuna pressing down to shove your head into the softened pillows, snarling. Gritting his lustrous canines in a smile as his skin tingles with power-

Your perspiration-stuck forehead crinkles at the feeling of atoms and axioms stressing to a stop in the air all around you. Crackling with such power. 

“What are you- oh.” And then you’re kissing - not just anyone, but the king of demons’ second mouth. Transferred all the way from where it was slashed across his stomach right up to the pulpy mountain of his palm. Gooey tongue plunging past your lips and into your own maw- “Ngh- fuck! Su-Kuna- Kunaaa–”

“Hear that? Callin’ the king ‘Kuna’.” Sukuna tuts, nibbling along the outer lips of your cunt and leaving bitemarks for days. “N’ for that, suck my tongue a lil’ bit.” Pressing even deeper, “C’moooon, can feel the way you’re drooling underneath me. Open that mouth, mama.”

And how could you not let your gasping lips droop even further pathetically open?

Because the taste of his slithering tongue was so addictive, like mulled wine and the sweetest of something that made an urge inside your fuzzy mind yearn. Your lips swirl around his probing muscle and suck-

“There we go. Theeeere we go. Shit, the dirtiest lil’ human I’ve e-encountered my whole life- heh, where the fuck have ya been my whole life?”

Punishing you, punishing your pussy with a barreling crowned tip of his digits smooching your flooded entrance.

Drawing delicate lil’ hearts all over your rubbery hole before he flicks at your gummy orifice and sinks in. All the way till his attractive, stocky knuckle was just winking up at him from underneath your saturated lips as if to say hello. 

All glossy and soaked-through. Beast-like nails thankfully retracted, Sukuna’s fingers were just so thick that you could almost taste the fat circumference of him in your throat.

Just feel him swab every inch of your mushy insides without even trying, curling into every sweet ridge and geyser that makes your wailed whines sing. Louder and louder. The knotted mess in your belly tighter and tighter. 

Oh-so-loud even through his unrelenting hold on you, you’re feeling your dizzy pupils circle and circle the whites of your eyes before sliding all the way back.

“Should banish ya for that.” He’s tugging you to and fro with both his broiling hot maw and his fingers toying with your pussy. Eyeing the way you spurt out something so thickly viscous that it streaks down his wrist; he lets the stray excess slather all over your sensitive clit and suckles. “But I liiiike you- like this pretty pussy. What a cutie she is.”

Pussydrunk. You had the big, bad king of curses pussydrunk.

You don’t know whether he’s talking about you or your cunt and right now you don’t even have enough brain power to wonder.

Not when Sukuna’s second tongue rolls straight inside your unhinged maw, the scratchy graze of his buds driving you wild. The slap of his tongue against the roof of your mouth fills your dazed eyes with such copious volumes of tears.

Ones that make him gluttonous. He is a demon, after all.

You almost feel as if you’re about to break into hysterics once his parched, cursed mouth rovers all over the caramel-salted beads of your tears. Lapping n’ lapping it up off of your teary face. 

There’s a sudden plop! from below you, and you’re ogling once you feel your elastic walls stretch out even more under a second- third one of Sukuna’s fat fingers. Prying your syrupy pussyfolds aside with his teeth, he’s staring up into your heart eyes dead-on.

Scissoring them inside you, the knobbled fringes of his fingerpads whack back and forth into the targeted crevices of your sweetest spots. Probin’ into spots you didn’t know existed.

Holy shit, if his fingers were this big then how huge would his cocks be?

“Chehhh- don’ know where you’re droolin’ more from, here or there. Filthy human.”

Massive palm lumbering over your mouth to knock the gusts of wind off your lungs and make you bask in the wiped puddles of spit you’d made on his hand. 

You’re bubbling out in even more tears and mewls. “I-I’m so close.” Stuttered cadence reaching such a feverish high point, the insides of your thighs burn as you meet his thoroughly plapping mouth. “Gonna- gonna…”

“Yeah? Better cum soon before I make ya pay for makin’ this mess on me, brat.” He’s gruffing ‘round your pulsating clit, rumbles making you see white. One spank to your dripping pussymound, the other to right on your g-spot. “Hop to it, human- cum f’me. Cum.”

You didn’t need to hear the pressurized pop! of your eardrums to know you were cumming, because Sukuna’s mouth smiles against your lips. Both of them.

Slow, sensual while he dragged you heedlessly through your high. No matter how much your stimulated body wriggled and wrenched though the white-hot bliss, you were no match for his complete strength. 

Desperate.

He’s lapping up every. single. ounce of your gushing ribbons of slick like he was a man starved, and it was hitting the back of his throat in decorative gulps. 

Sukuna’s snarling canines entrap your pulsing clit, tugging— “What a goood fuckin’ girl. Ya like that? Like cumming all over the king’s face?” It makes the tips of his ears burn flaming red to watch the way your toes curl, panting. “Sweet. Sooo fucking sweet.”

So much leaking out of you and yet, it still wasn’t enough.

Still pumping your goopy cunt with solid thrusts, he’s striking your weepy hole with a slab of saliva that only leaves you wetter. The razor-sharp hit of it making the darkness behind your closed lids burst with stars. 

“P-please.” Your spit-slicked lips trembly non-stop, bleary eyes fighting to focus down at Sukuna. Where he was still addicted. 

“Hmmm?”

The mounds of your heels rest on his bulky shoulders and start to weakly push, “Please- pleeeease, m’s-so sensitive, Kuna- hck!”

“Oh?” His deep tone comes out almost…delighted. Thick locks of blushed pink plastered all over Sukuna’s sweaty forehead, and he has to spy up at your adorably awe-struck expressions through his long lashes. “S’that sooooo?”

Mean. He was so mean - and the only thing meaner than Ryomen Sukuna himself was both of his tongues. 

The one making out with your pussy steals another drawling drag over your quivering pussy, and the other shoves his lengthy muscle so far deep in your throat that he can almost taste your shocked whimpers. 

“Fuh-fuuuuck–!”

“Told ya already- that’s the heh objective, silly brat.” Sukuna’s hissing out as he finally, finally pulls away from your pussy with a resounding, claggy mwah! A similar plop! sounding from your mouth when he sets you free from that, too.

The gulp of scorching air you’re drinking in almost chokes in your throat once you get a good look at Sukuna.

The entirety of his pointed chin, up to the curves of his high cheekbones was just covered in a thick topping of your slick. Glistening rivulets of it hitting your open thighs with pap! pap! pap! You could barely see his eyes through those mussed-up bangs of his - but you could tell they were wine-red and just as drunk, glassy, gone. Overworked tongue gliding slowly all across his glossy lower lip. 

And was he- was Sukuna blushing?

“Oi, don’t think stupid shit.” His grumbling cuts through your whirlwind of thoughts, rouge-dusted skin flushing even darker. 

Without another word, Sukuna darts his peripheries over at the splashed pools of your dumbstruck spit on his palm - his now-normal palm - and smirks. “Keh- so messy.” And before you can rebuke, before you can bluff, he spanks his drooly hand over your cunt and smears it down everywhere. 

“Sh-shit, stop teasin’.”  You huff and puff, unable to look away from the huge bulge that was tenting Sukuna’s billowy pants. He looked big…more than big, actually. And your thighs clench as you wonder whether twice of everything applied down there, too. “Wan’ you s-so badly, Kuna.”

“Huuuh? Don’t tell me that human brain o’ yours is cockdrunk already.” He scoffs, catching your gawking. “Impatient impatient. I haven’t even accomplished your first request, spoiled brat.”

“What first…”

Oh.

Oh.

The leaden ball in your throat grows about tenfold as Sukuna straightens up from his sexy slouch, showing off the way the lower half of his too-tight t-shirt was so drenched that it was see-through now. 

Sopping even wetter by the second when his other maw slobbers with torrents of greedy drivel at the just the sight of you. Drooling through the fabric. “Guess we got a lil’...impatient.” He thumbs over the mess he’s created.

Just at sight of you.

Pulling- ripping that useless shirt off of him, Sukuna lets his fat, massive stomach tongue flop! out between your boneless legs. Fuck. 

Striking you with the flat underside of his oversized tastebuds, proudly licking up the fresh batch of slippery slick that’d just begun pouring out from between your folds. Anticipating. Tense. 

Filthy.

“Would ya look at that?” Sukuna croons with that mean tonality from above, two arms wrangling your legs pinned open. Wiiiide so that his cursed maw can fit between. Another hand roaming down to his bulge and massaging, “Was just complainin’ about being ‘s-s-sensitive’ but look at ya now.”

Before you can even blink, his colossal tongue constricts out until it’s about two, no- maybe even three feet long. And just as thick, too, he has to swirl n’ swirl all over your drenched inner thighs, the crevice of your pussy, your tight hole before being able to fit just the tip inside. 

“Oh my- o-oh- ohhh fuck!” You’re shrilling with cracked vocals, feeling the slushy inches of his tongue crawl past your walls. 

Shit. He felt even bigger than he looked - and that was saying something. 

Sukuna’s stomach mouth was just so biiiiig that he wasn’t easing even halfway inside your awaiting cunt before the ridged texture of his tongue scratches your g-spot. He doesn’t even have to try until he’s stretching out your pulsing pussy in ways you’d never even imagined before. 

Suddenly thankful for the way the king had trained your gummy walls to open up just earlier, you’re clawing at your best, soaked-through bedsheets. Fisting them. Tearing through. 

“What happened to ya?” Sukuna croaks out in a thickened voice, leaning over to change up the angle so that his second tongue was pinpointing your tenderest orifices. Purposefully flicking over to peck your cervix before he slobbered allll over your magical spot. “Not so t-talkative now, huh?”

And it was true - just about the only thing you’re managing through the masses of drool overflowing your mouth were broken syllables of “Yes!”

Only to get strangled inside of your throat all over again when he stretches out his tongue and lets it slather your heated flesh with a clingy coating of salivated spit. Probing and probing oooout until he somehow skims over your throbbing clit. 

You’re letting out the cutest moans of his name, so loud that you faintly think your neighbors will have a thing or two to say. “K-Kunaaa—” If you make it that far, that is. “P-please, can’t any nghhh- longer.”

“Again, mama?” 

“Yes, yeeees- fuck!” You don’t know where you’re fountaining more from, thick drool seeping from both sets of your lips. Every slap! of Sukuna’s tongue makes you buck even more animalistically, “Please. Please, m’not gonna…”

You feel a clawed hand hang off of the curve of your lips, tugging on your glissading body so that you crawl backwards and hit Sukuna’s pink happy trail with a spank!

“So fuck back in hngh- t’me, human.” He groans, holding you stockstill until you can do nothing but drag and trawl the stinging mounds of your ass over his sculpted front. Guiding you to pound back, to rut– “Ride me. Ride me.”

Your mouth floods with fresh flints of heat and drivel, “Wh-what?”

“Fuckin’ ride my tongue like a good girl.”

Shivering, it’s all you can do to plunge your hips in such a messy back and forth. Core tensing, pussy sloshing slick, head bobbling like one of those stupid dolls. Long tongue reaching eeeeeverywhere, every time you guide him to your most favorite spots - his, too - he gives you a congratulatory swat of his perky tip.

Grunting, “Faster now. Faster.”

On shaky legs, your tempo is so fuckin’ messy that you feel your skin flare up until it’s as if you were melting. Repeatedly. 

Melting all over Sukuna’s girthy tongue, where he was furiously pumping in and out of you. Your knees creak, letting him drill the curve of his plump budded muscle into your g-spot. In a deep kiss over n’ over n’ over–

And with a final sluuuurp, you’re falling apart on the king’s tongue all over again. Your high sprinting all down your bent spine as if it was the first time, no less intense. 

No less sudden. No less leaving you yelping.

“Oh- oh my god-”

“Jus’ your cute ‘Kuna’ s’fine, brat.” Sukuna has the audacity to giggle - giggle - at the way your dazed eyes criss-cross apple sauce. And it was so cute how your pussy couldn’t stop throbbing and creaming around his mouth. “What a slutty pussy ya have.”

You tremble with the bolting aftershocks of your orgasm, the high making your brain a stupid fuzz of nothingness. “S-so sensitive-”

“Yeah yeah, she’s sensitive.” Forcing your mouth to fall into a perfect oh! when he promptly slaps your quivering pussymound, rudely. Bucking his hips in a little one-two to fuck you through your soaring high, the friction makes you keen-

“Kunaaa–”

“Chatty chatty.” He’s leaning over to crash his lips filthily against yours, suckling on the sugary beads of spittle that leaves you like his favorite dessert. Sharp fangs sinking into your wobbly lower lip, “Why don’tcha beg for a change, lil’ human?”

You’re sputtering, “Wh-what do you mean-”

“Beg.” He pummels two fat fingers between your mouth, slithering the bulbous crowns of his finger against the back of your thrashing tongue and pressing. Hard. “Beg for your king.”

So smug.

Even smugger when he leverages the hold inside your mouth to open you up widely agape and spit- One generous helping inside your maw, another generous helping from his stomach mouth inside your cunt. 

“P-please.”

“What was that?”

“Please!” Tears streak hotly down your cheeks, and your pretty sounds make his cocks twitch. “Please…fuck me, Sukuna.”

He pulls his long fingers back with a smile, satisfied. Lips curling even wider at the saturated globules of spittle that dribble from the ends of your mouth n’ to the tips of his buried digits. “As you wish, master.”

Your heart raced so hard it almost hurt as he’s tracing a teasing few fingers over the thick hem of his pants. The usually-loose fabric was now so packed with all the endless inches of him that it took a few tight tugs for Sukuna’s leaking, globular tip to peek through.

Immediately a juicy trail of pre butters from his divot in a creamy topping. You spy just the spatter of his scratchy pubes tufting together - drenched, the same rose pink that his cockhead was blushing. 

“S’pink.” You babble off mindlessly, a drunken smile gracing your face. “S’cute.”

“Cute.” Sukuna breathes out, crimson eyes wide. Crazed. And both sets of his mouths leer as if he couldn’t believe what the fuck just fell from your mouth. He’s seething, “Cute?”

With only one hand stuck to the edge of your waist like adhesive, he flips your entire body ‘round so it sprawls into the plush mattress and pins you down. Kneeing your spine so you squirm helplessly, pushing and pushing until you whine.

You hear a long teeeeear–! echo in your ears, and as you get your thoughts together you’re realizing that he’d torn his royal trousers off. Adding it in a pile of tatters beside your bed, right with your newly-ripped sleep shirt. 

Sukuna’s rugged hips hump against the mounds of your ass like an animal, and oh…he really did have two sets of everything. 

Exclaiming breathlessly, “S-Sukuna you can’t be hngh- serious.” Fuck, he was serious. Dead serious. And a singular look over your shoulder told you that so were his cocks.

Aching, swollen. You count about thirteen inches - each. 

So thick that they were proudly fatter than even the girth of the tongue across his washboard abs. Stacked one on top of the other, his upper shaft was slightly longer, dripping wet with sappy globules of precum that formulated a little puddle underneath him.

At this point you’re openly gawking. 

Because not only were they massive - they were textured. In the most prominent of puffy veins zig-zagging all down Sukuna’s pinkish-beige length. Darker at his heavy hilts, rubier right on his mushroom tips. 

Your mouth waters hotly just aching to feel all of him - both of him - inside you…

Spank! The demon soothes over those five exact prints of his fingers on your ass, then moving over to your damp pussy to gift yet another swat. “Intimidated? Ya wanted ta fuck a demon, so you’re gonna fuck a demon. Tch- spoiled brat.”

Letting off a pitchy mewl, you sliiiide the crevices of your cunt all over his drenched cocks. “Give it t’me- fuck, I n-need it so baaad.”

“What was it ya said, lil’ human?” Sukuna grouses from above, you yelp when you’re feeling his second mouth lather down your thighs allll over. He rests two hands on your hips and ruts– “Oh yeah- cute.”

And before you know it, you feel like you’re being split apart. 

You feel like you’re seeing heaven behind your shuttered lids and smooching Sukuna’s monstrous, rotund head with your lungs. So impossibly thick that he was swabbin’ around your insides just by settling himself inside your welcoming channel, greeting your sponged cervix with a nice snog. 

“Oh yeah…cute.”

Strong, heavy hands are the only thing holding you up as your knees weaken, and a hand wraps gently around your throat from behind. Lurching you up, up, up to meet Sukuna’s mouth in a kiss.

Holding you up, with just one hand.

“S’this ‘cute’?” He seethes against your dangling-open mouth, ridged buds hot. His own words hot. “Yer real fuckin’ lucky m’going easy on my lady, mama.”

Going easy on you?

If this was going easy on you— then you didn’t know what to think about him going hard.

But it’s like the very idea was simmering right underneath Sukuna’s sweltering hot skin, just brimming right underneath every motion of his body. About to break through. About to make him snap when he plants a thorough pound. Then doubling to two. Four. Eight. 

“Oh f-fuuuuck–” You’re sobbing out, useless head haphazardly tumbling until you’re peering face-to-face with the way he was battering rams inside of you. “So deep- s-so deeep-”

A hand of his flies up to muffle your ever-breaking moans, the sloshes of your drool sticking against his doughy flesh in strands. 

“Kehhh- ya ever stop makin’ a hah- mess?” Sukuna tightens his vice-like grip on your throat, and as you raise your head he makes sure to dig his fangs into your pulse. Planting another thwack of his bruising palm, “Just sh-shut up n’ take it like a good girl, yeah?”

“Y-yes.”

“Say it. Say it f’me.”

You’re sobbing at this point, and a third of his hands spank your waterfall of a slit until you manage to look up at him. Spank after spank. “G-gonna take it all.” You’re sniffling, “Like a- like a good girl.”

It was impossible to utter anything more. 

His sleek, bloated tip was an expert - rovering over each of your hidden nooks and crannies. Dappling out thick wads of pre that you felt swash around you with every slap of his hips. Rough. 

And it was a damn good thing that the king had stretched you out so much, because he was long. Driving a spherical welt right where his cock whacked your sheened cervix, and he was still pushing. Still rutting until his slightly unruly hair tickled your tender lips. Deeper-

“Ohhh can ya f-feel that?” Sukuna stutters out in scratchy heavals of air. Slowing down his harsh cadence until it reaches a looow n’ slooow pace that leaves your voice pitching into equally lazy whines 

There wasn’t anything that you couldn’t feel.

You could count every curvy bump of his veins massaging your deepest innards, the wet texture of his slick-glazed shaft tunnelling into you like a madman. Like he was addicted. And Sukuna’s chubby breeder balls sizzle against the backs of your thighs as he feels a hand up your stomach.

Feeling for that one spot near your cervix - your womb. That one spot he was fucking a rounded tummy bulge into you. 

“Feel me heh- making you bulge with all of me, pretty mama?” He leans a few degrees backwards to thumb at the way your pussy was quivering, your stretchy hole flexing n’ molding all around him. “So big that this pretty pussy doesn’t know what ta do w’me.”

You’re trembling at the feeling of his secondary tongue sleazing over your dripping entrance, everywhere and anywhere. 

Like he doesn’t know what to do. Where to ruin you. 

He’s drawing a long line of translucent spit up until he reaches that gorgeous mound on your stomach. Circling. Worshipping right where he was fucking you stupid. 

His tastebuds loop once around your leg and start jostling the angle so that your clit grazes with something thick. And hot. And…rock hard. “N’ I’ve only put one in.”

“O-only- fuck-” You’re voice wavers and cracks unstably when you cum once more. You can’t even control it - can’t do anything but cry out with every jolt of your body. Every spark. Every flash of heat when you’re lolling helplessly backwards. 

Sucking his teeth in from the way your warm insides squeeze him on instinct, “Oh- you’re sensitive, mama.” You’re barely half-opening your eyes before he’s rummaging your insides everywhere. 

Ballooned-up cock crownhead poking the bullseye of your g-spot, he licks up such greedy flicks in and out. The only blissful sensation you’re given other than the trawling grinds of his other vein-covered shaft smacking against your nub.

“Kuna- Kuuuuna—” You’re mumbling, feeling the slope of his cylindrical outline slide in feverishly. “Give me ‘nother- other–”

“Don’t you talk t’me outta ya pussy, brat.”

“M’serious.” Your voice shakes ridiculously much, thickened with lust and pure need for more, more, more. His ripped abs press deeper to listen to your adorable whimpers, “I want it. Want it s-so bad.”

“How cuuuute.” With a swift, thundering slap! you’re feeling the mushroomy tip-top of his matchingly achy cock pry between your gluey pussylips. “Better not blame me when ya end up ngh- pregnant, master.”

You think you might be crashing headfirst into your fourth orgasm - perhaps even your fifth when Sukuna lets his swollen, blushing tip nudge against your tight lil’ entrance. Fluttering, stretching when he pokes away your dewy folds and grinds in–

You’re flinching at the wet plap! plap! plap! of something wet hitting your back - only to realize with a turn that Sukuna was drooling. With saccharine lines of saliva overcoming each side of his maw. 

Dilated pupils so dark that you can barely find a trace of red, Sukuna bores into your eyes. Hypnotized. “Take it.” He pants against your lips in great gales of summer heat. “Take it.”

If you thought that one of Sukuna’s massive lengths was enough to make you dizzy, then you weren’t ready for what two could do to you.

He’s barely flopping in his rigid, tight crownhead past your snug hole before your mouth bursts at the seams with ripples of sleek saliva. 

“Fuck- fuuuuuck!” Your fleshy cervix almost stings with the way he was mazing all through inside. Pushing n’ pushing until the strawberry-pink divot right in the middle of his throbbing cock also kisses the goopy bottom of your pussy.

He was spreading you wiiiidely open.

So massive that you’re left squealing after each spanking jackhammer. Your gripping pussy nothing against the way his slicked mess was coating your mushy insides, swirlin’ around and around until his globed tip locates sweet spots you’d hidden away.

Jostling and sliiiding against each other, the viscous jetstreams of his pre glissade down each of his lengths. Throbbing inside you at the very same pattern of your heart going ba-dump–! Prodding away until you’re weak, the curled hairs decorating his bases rub your skin raw. 

One of his fattened-up shafts shovels into your bruised n’ battered g-spot, while the other digs away at your fleshy cervix. Both at once. He’s poking and prodding and stretching.

Two in one. 

In the blink of an eye, Sukuna grabs your neck with the curve of his big, bulging biceps. Dragging your poor head into a fucking headlock of all things. 

One hand smearing open your cunt to slobber down each inch by fucking inch, the other crowning your sweat-dampened head to push you down. And two more were guiding your delicious hips. He was treating you so rough. Manhandling you. 

He was so sculpted, all curves and firm muscles that massaged your backs soothingly. Sukuna’s sweat-laminated abs smush and scratch some primal itch inside of you.

“Mmmm, made ta take my cocks.” Sukuna rasps in your ear, all primal need. “This turns ya on? Doesn’t it? This-” The final of his rugged palms press into the base of your spine, arching you right. “-makes ya wanna fuh-fuck?”

You’re nodding and nodding, head lolling back into the cushion of his pecs. So lush.

And it’s all you can do that Sukuna finds not a single shred of shame in surging up his cursed tongue once more to thwack! your bulging pussy.

Tightening the headlock until his veins pop out and rub the tender skin of your neck. Until you’re wheezing for desperate air- “Hehhhh, even f-fuckin’ deeper now.” He palms over the bulge at your tummy that had now grown in size. Raising a dark pink brow, “Even bigger. Feel me all up inside?”

Flawlessly, Sukuna raises the tendril of his tongue to wrap around your adorably throbbing clit. Outlining slobbering little hearts that having you screaming-

“Yeah? Tell me. Tell me.” Stretching and stretching and stretching until a claw-ridden thump presses into the lecherous protruding bump. It’s so firm and heavy underneath his sultry touch. Dewdrops of his cream splattered everywhere, “Tell me all-” Pressing down hard. Harder still. Snarling, “-tha’s on your ngh- mind, silly brat.”

“K-Kuna–”

“Yeeeees?”

“M’gonna cum!”

Within just two blinks of your tear-heavy eyelashes, Sukuna’s got you flipped onto your back. Chin hitting your chest at the slight bouncy recoil, a shrilling whine of disappointment makes its way to your throat-

Right before Sukuna fucks it back in again with a fast burial of his weighty cocks, and then your upcoming orgasm.

You can’t even string together slews of proper syllables anymore, your tongue smacking uselessly inside your unfastened mouth. You cum looking allll up into Sukuna’s loving eyes. 

“Tch, wan’ned to see your- ngh- your cute face when you cum.” He grabs your teary pussymound with one bulky palm and gyrates on your overstimulated clit. “Cum. Cum.”

And not only do you cum – you’re squirting. 

Barely even realizing it before it registers in your mind that the sploshes of watery liquid coating your body wasn’t just tears n’ sweat, it was your sappy slick spraying out in bucketloads. Utter bucketloads. 

The streaming spurts of it struggle to burst past your lips with the way that he’s ramming furiously into you. Aggressively, even. You’re whimpering with each fat webbed mess that manages to trickle down to the sheets below your ass.

“I-inside.” You’re muttering, inaudible. And yet, Sukuna hears - of course, he hears. The perches of his barrelling cockheads giving a dangerous sort of twitch!

And that’s all said before the king of demons glues together your sticky inner thighs with piling heaps of his cum. Gasping. He’s finishing in such a vulgar way that marks you as his from the inside and out. 

First his upper length, and then his lower. Twin rivulets of stringy seed that hit the back of your pussy with a squelch–! so loud that it rings in your buzzing eardrums. The mass weight of it so much, so striking that you almost find yourself wincing. 

Flooding every ounce of space inside you — and not only did his monstrous cocks bawl out way more than your average human, he had two of them. And oh, it was so hot…

“Fuck- fuck fuck fuck fuck!” Sukuna growls, hips papping yours mindlessly. You swear you’re seeing the skin around his pelvis redden angrily at the impact. “Fuh-fuck I— fuuuck.”

He’s hunching over you, skin against boiling hot skin. Speckles of beaded sweat seem to trail down from Sukuna’s temples and fizzle in the mere air between your bodies. 

Rough, rugged fingertips cling onto your hips, and two more of his hands throw your twitching legs pliably over Sukuna’s bulky shoulders. Locking them behind him, bending and bending and bending into a mean mating press. 

He was just pumping you full, and that inflationary bump in your tummy swashes over with ribbons of cum after every thrust. Making both you and your overworked bedsprings whiiine.

“O-oh my god.” You gasp, tiny clumps of air your current salvation. Sukuna flicks his eyes drunkenly over to you and meets your mouth with his palm - manifesting his second mouth there in a sloppy, sloppy kiss. “Mmmm—”

“Wh-what did I ngh- s-say, pretty mama?” Sukuna’s smug tone was gone now. Hoarse. Cracking into so many octaves higher, even. 

You’re only watching through partly-spellbound eyes as he languidly slithers a hand down to cup both rummaging shafts still plugged away inside you. Firm. His sweat-slicked brows furrow, boring down at you through strands of cerise. “Y-you can jus’ call me–” And then you feel it happen. You feel him harden. “-Kuna.”

Scrambling up onto your elbows, “Kunaaa—”

“Atta girl.”

He was getting impossibly harder.

Bigger.

And you swear the fat girth of his matching cocks were even thicker than usual. Plumping right inside of your slick-glued walls, your pussy sticks against him like gum when he throb-throb-throbs rock. fucking. hard. 

Feral-like shafts twitch and flinch with even the tiniest of your primal clenches, prodding your cunt like magic, and you were quite sure that it was magic- 

“Blood manipulation.” Sukuna grins, still catching his breath. And yet he was already moving, already rocking back n’ forth. “Ohhh- you didn’t th-think we were done, right?”

You whirl your eyes downwards to watch in some animalistic awe at the bump formulated on your tummy, oh-so-obvious now. And Sukuna’s ramming juts leave the bloated mound jiggling.

“Fuck- fuuuuck–” Mewling, as if a broken record. But it doesn’t matter how many times you’d repeated it, just your pretty voice makes it Sukuna’s favorite song. “M’s-so…”

Sensitive. 

Your thighs writhe every time he dabs his full, rounded crownheads against your g-spot. Beating. Shuddering. With a sob, you’re fisting the splintered mahogany of your headboard and pulling yourself–

“Oi oi. Where’d ya think you’re ngh- runnin’ off to?” His lengthy stomach tongue creeps between the wetness of your thighs to circle one of your limbs and drag you dooooown into him. Grating your tender clit into his soaked hairs. 

“D-dunno if it’ll all-” You nod haplessly towards the ever-gushing sploshes of seed and slick swamping out of you. “-fit.”

“Oh, I’ll make it f-fit, lil’ human- don’t you hah! worry.” Sukuna snickers, scraping your scalp with one hand to stop your cute wrangling. Pushing you down, spearing you. “You just sit baaack n’ take it.”

The room wrings with a sudden slap! Once. And then twice. And then so many repeated times that you couldn’t count how many harsh rolls of his hips it took for you to cream ‘round Sukuna’s cocks once more. 

You can’t even feel it at this point, can’t even breathe.

But that familiar knot at the base of your stomach twists and suddenly your vision blanks with white-hot euphoria. 

Mere trembles but intense. It’s so good that your toes curl, clawed nails dragging down his broad back.

“Cumming again?” He’s musing, curved veins stretching your fluttery core. It was so cute the way even biting down on your trembly lips can’t stop your moans. 

And then you throw your head back with a sob of ‘K-Kuna’ and Sukuna thinks he’s going fucking insane. Veering right down the one-way street to madness as he swivels his hips hypnotically to draw a pretty milky heart at the base of your cervix.

Before topping his masterpiece with such aroused oodles of cum, and ohhhh- the demon’s finding himself tilting his head back attractively. Just addicted to watching the way your tight pussy overfills past the brim with all his sugarcoating seed.

More. 

More more more. 

Allll night long, and even when rays of dawn break through your fluttering curtains. Birds chirping outside, cards revving, and yet the only constant was that repeated spank! of skin on clammy skin.

He’s filling you up with second helpings, thirds, fourths- you’ve lost count at this point. 

In every position possible, on every surface until the both of you felt more like animals than people. Though, well, maybe Sukuna’s demon-like nature was rubbing off on you. More n’ more every time he filled you.

So much so that the torrential currents of it - thick and taking up every inch of space inside your snug channel - are pushing Sukuna’s fat, veiny cocks out of your pussy. Out past your flashing folds.

He had you back on the bed now, the plush mattress so soaked-through that every ram makes it ring out a soggy schwf! Your legs dangle down somewhere near Sukuna’s slobbery mouth, where it was supposed to be some hazy mess of a mating press - his favorite. 

And it’s slippery. 

His pulsating lengths are having trouble pushing and sliiiiding off of your sheeny folds, lathering itself in more and more of an utter mess that the both of you were making. 

But what Sukuna didn’t expect was for your throat to burn with a carnally furious whine. Ripping up and out of you once you’re reaching a shaky hand below - not even managing to close your hands around both his hilts - and squeezing them back inside with a waterlogged plop!

He’s fucking you like it was second nature, something dark and primal that made his entire body wrack with shivers. That made this famed king look at you with tender wonderment- before slamming a free hand down on your wooden bedframe. 

So powerful that the poor furniture cracks! right down the middle where his hand lay - and that was not the only thing that broke.

No, Ryomen Sukuna was close in second place as he flaps his peripherals scrunched shut with a grunt. Those slapping rams increasing in pace and sound until he empties his breeder balls once more. 

And it felt like the nth time he was gasping into your parted mouth while he cums. 

Both dicks all soooo sensitive n’ red while they swirled around thin wires of squishy cum, opening up your tummy bulge so full that Sukuna can’t help but thumb over it fiercely. 

“Please- please–” You’re begging now, and you think that the trembles of electricity bolting from between your legs meant that you, too, were orgasming. Not even properly. For the…what time was it now? “Inside. Inside, Kuna.”

“Inside.” He echoes, as if it was the only thing he could. “Inside. Gonna k-keep it ngh! all inside, pretty mama. Yeah, fuckfuckfuuuuck- gonna be mine.”

Oh, he was babbling now. He was actually whining. 

Gingerly licking his kiss-bitten lips at the frothed ring of cum that painted his happy trail white. The schwf-schwf-schwaf of his tickling hairs polishing your skin with swift smears left you drooling. 

And Sukuna was, too. 

From both mouths that bubbled with glinting tracks of sweltering hot saliva. His wheezing gasps strained, “H-heir.” He’s cupping your treasured tummy - your womb. Overfilled. 

Sukuna watches with bated breath as your filthy, cockdrunk brain told you to open your mouth wide and slurp up a few of his leaking wads.

“O-oh.” More cum sticks against your thighs like icy white frosting, spraying inside and outside and everywhere. “Fuuuuck- yer real interestin’, human.” His perspiration-sheened forehead drifts down to yours, curtained with unruly pink hair. “R-reeeal interesting…master.”

Ah, that makes you throb.

And it makes Sukuna’s shaft veins pulse rapidly as he cums - though, only in a few lecherous pearls of ivory sap. All adding onto the sploshing waves of seed inside you- before the rest of it is nothingness. Even though he feels it, even though he knows it.

You just made the king of demons cum dry. Even with his superhuman powers, ohhh your stamina was fit for a…queen. His queen. 

Sukuna lumbers down a beefy arm, loving the way your eyes ogle his every muscular flex. His own glazed over with a teary film.

His thick n’ ready fingers wrap around his sloppy bases - not even minding the mess, he loved it. Both holding his sagging weights up and slipping himself through the filthy, saccharine puddles inside. Your heart races with anticipation once you feel the bzzzz of powerful energy in the murked atmosphere between your legs; his blood manipulation at work again.

Ohhhh fuck, you already knew his night was going to be a long one. Never-ending perhaps. 

Your suspicions are confirmed when Sukuna’s dual tips twitch–

“S’never gonna b-be ngh- enough.” You’re batting your lashes sensually, words still hitching with the constant shocks of your orgasms upon orgasms. “M-maybe you should just ah! stay here w’me, Kunaa—”

And oh, he simply grins a wicked grin like you’ve never seen before. “A-anything. Anythinganything for my fuuuuck- master.”

“B-but you’re gonna hafta help pay rent.”

“What’s a…rent?”

A/N. Hope you have a lovely week <3

Plagiarism not authorized.

[gossamyrrh]

part two to this ! fem!reader. intox. coercion.

the next time you meet plug!geto, it’s at his flat two weeks later with a dreadfully low stash and an achingly empty cunt. he, of course, is more than happy to fill both free of charge.

…of money, that is.

plug!geto opens the door with a mischievous grin, leans lazily against the doorframe and crosses his arms as his eyes rake over your body. shamelessly lingering on your more…intimate areas.

“nice seein’ you again.” he purrs, lips curling like the wisps of smoke that waft up into the air behind him. “you haven’t been answerin’ my texts.”

“been busy.” you mumble, which isn’t exactly a lie. you have been busy—trying not to wallow in the shame that comes from cumming around your dealer’s fingers…getting off to him calling you a slut and a whore. dreaming for it to happening again and again and again and—

“yeah? thought you were ignorin’ me.”

“n-no.” you stutter, meeting his eyes for the first time tonight. they glint with something predatory. like he’s playing with you. pawing at his meal before he pounces. “i’d never do that.”

another lie.

suguru leans up off the frame now. turns his body to the side and gestures with his chin for you to slip past. “good. c’mon in, doll. since you’re so… busy and all.”

his large hand snakes down and settles on the small of your back. and before you can even think to resist him—give this all a second thought—suguru is shoving you through the threshold and slamming the door closed. leads you to the sofa, with his warm hand still tight around you.

and you can’t help but feel like he’s closing in.

you can smell him in the air, that unique, signature scent of him: smoke, spice—something musky. his palms glide with an indescribable possessiveness along your waist and down your hips as he nudges you to sit. his breath hot along your cheek as he leaves little room between you both. makes himself comfortable in the dips and arches of you; meshes his skin to yours.

your head begins to spin.

and he notices this. of course, he does.

plug!geto’s grin is all teeth now. wolfish. amused as he leans closer, forces your thighs to squeeze together. your shoulders to curl.

“you nervous, doll?”

“no.” you lie. but it comes out too quickly. lands flat.

“mm.” suguru hums, unconvinced, and a heavy hand smooths over your shoulder. drags down your arm. “you sure? you’re practically shakin’.”

your breath catches. you hadn’t event realised…

he laughs at that. and it comes low. rumbles. his free arm reaches forward for something, and it’s then you notice the pre-rolled joint on the coffee table. just how deep in your head are you?

“let’s take the edge off yeah? help you forget that busy life of yours.”

suguru brings the joint to his lips, fishes a lighter from his trouser pocket, and you watch as the tiny flame licks at the tip. makes the paper crackle and shrivel as it burns, glowing a fiery red as he takes a slow, deliberate pull.

“b-but there’s only one.” you squeak.

a deep exhale, and suguru’s eyes are on you. his grin never faltering. “what? you gotta problem with sharin’?”

he offers it to you.

“c’mon, doll. you’ll be less uptight.”

you hesitate, and suguru’s grin stretches. miles long, you think, if even that.

“c’mon, doll,” he coaxes again, tapping the joint against your lips, the lingering heat of it a near ghostly kiss. “don’t tell me you came all this way just to get shy on me.”

the worst part? he’s right. you did come a long way. tried to steel your nerves for almost an hour, paced outside his building as you debated whether you should go home or not.

(you should’ve. you really should’ve.)

it shouldn’t all be for nothing. you shouldn’t waste both your time, right…?

before you can think, your mouth parts, eases open just for him. the filter presses against your lips, tasting of ash and something unmistakably suguru, and you inhale, slow and tentative, the burn blooming in your lungs before settling deep within your bones.

it feels good—too good. makes you feel nothing yet everything in some….indescribable sort of way.

“atta girl,” suguru murmurs, watching you through heavy lids. his voice drips with something rich, thick and syrupy. he plucks the joint from your fingers to take another long drag before he blows the smoke right into your face.

you barely register the sharp pull of his hand on your jaw until your head tilts back, your body pliant under his touch. his fingers press, firm and possessive, as he exhales into your mouth. the smoke curls past your lips, seeps into your lungs. hot. overwhelming.

your mind fogs.

he watches as you swallow it down, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. “there you go,” he soothes, thumb stroking the hollow of your throat. “you always take what i give you so well, don’t you?”

the room tilts. or maybe it’s just you.

you blink, slow and heavy, warmth pooling in your limbs as a lazy kind of heat starts to spread through you. it’s the weed, but it’s also him—the way he looms, the way his touch lingers, the way his words slither beneath your skin like a secondhand high.

“feelin’ good, doll?”

you nod, dazed. “y-yeah.”

suguru chuckles. “that’s what i like to hear.”

his hand begins to drift lower. off your arm now, skimming your thigh, fingers teasing the hem of your skirt. testing.

and you—hazy, pliant, needy—don’t stop him.

he notices. of course, he does.

and he gets ready to take his payment.

“come up here, doll. it’ll make it easier to sure the weed.”

the weed….sure.

but when he tugs you forward, you go without question.

suguru guides you onto his lap with ease, like he’s done it before—like you slot against him like some missing puzzle piece, fitting perfectly wrapped around him.

his hands find your hips as if on instinct. thumbs stroking slow, soothing circles—but there’s nothing soothing about the way his grip tightens. keeps you right where he wants you.

“good girl,” he murmurs, low and approving. “knew you’d listen.”

your thighs spread to straddle him, knees pressing into the sofa, and the position is… compromising. intimate . his body heat sinks into yours, the thick scent of weed and something musky filling your lungs.

your head spins.

he holds the joint between his fingers, tapping the ashes into the tray beside him, before bringing it back to his lips for another deep inhale. his gaze stays on you the whole time—watching, assessing, waiting.

you swallow. thickly.

his free hand slides up your spine, slow and deliberate, stopping just beneath the nape of your neck. he tilts his head, eyes brimming with want, lips curved into something that’s not quite a smirk, not quite a smile.

“open.”

you hesitate for just a second too long.

his grip tightens.

“c’mon, doll,” he coos, a stone-like hardness to his tone that has you straightening atop him. “you were so eager before. don’t go gettin’ shy on me now.”

heat prickles across your skin, shame curling low in your stomach, because he’s right. you shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t crave it, but you do—you really fucking do.

so you part your lips, obedient—good—and his smirk widens.

“there’s a good girl.”

he exhales slow, measured, a thick cloud of smoke curling from his lips and past yours. it’s hot, intoxicating, thick enough to make your lashes flutter and a soft groan to escape you. his fingers flex against your nape as he watches you swallow it down, approval humming deep in his chest.

“see?” he murmurs, thumb stroking lazily along your throat. “ain’t so bad, huh?”

you nod, dazed, the warmth pooling low in your belly now sinking deeper.

his other hand—still heavy on your hip—skims beneath the hem of your skirt, fingers toying with the band of your panties. testing. asking (but not really).

and you don’t stop him.

“fuck,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “knew you’d be easy for me. feelin’ good, doll?”

his fingers dip lower, teasing against your damp heat, running along your folds—and you shudder. the weed has settled deep, makes every touch feel heightened—like sparks licking across your skin. needles pricking.

“i feel—” you let out a whimper. “fine.”

suguru grins. all slow satisfaction, like he’s won something. like he’s known all along how this would go.

“that’s what I like to hear.”

and then his fingers push past the fabric, finding you soaked.

a deep, pleased groan rumbles in his throat as he presses in, spreading you open, testing just how ready you are. how needy you are.

“shit, doll,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers through the slick. “you this fuckin’ wet just from smokin’ with me?”

your face burns, and he chuckles.

“hey, don’t get shy now,” he purrs. “not when you’re so fuckin’ eager to let me take what’s mine.”

suguru’s fingers tease at your entrance, just barely pressing in before retreating, dragging slick warmth over your folds. he’s toying with you. that much is clear. drawing out every little tremble, every tiny catch of breath, watching you unravel bit by bit.

“fuuuuck, doll,” he groans. “you’re practically drippin’. makin’ a mess all in my lap.”

shame pools low in your stomach. and you lift your hips to move, but suguru is gripping your hips and pulling you back down.

“don’t.” his grin widens as his fingers leave you, moving to grip your other hip instead.

“c’mere.”

you barely have time to register it before he’s shifting beneath you, pressing you down against the thick hardness straining against his sweatpants. a choked sound catches in your throat as the pressure sparks through you, heat curling sharp and insistent between your thighs.

suguru groans, low and drawn out, fingers tightening as he pulls you even closer. “fuck,” he mutters. “you feel that, doll?”

you do. god, you do.

your breath stutters as he rolls his hips up, slow, deliberate, letting you feel every inch of him through the thin fabric separating. it’s too much, yet somehow not enough.

and he knows it.

“that’s it,” he coaxes, his voice smooth and syrupy, thick with approval. “go on, baby. give me what i need.”

it’s humiliating how easily you give in. how naturally your body moves with his, grinding down, chasing the friction that makes your head spin. every slow drag of his cock against your clothed cunt sends another shiver rolling through you, pleasure licking up your spine, twisting tight in your gut.

suguru watches, heavy-lidded and satisfied, drinking in the way you melt against him. “fuckin’ knew it,” he mutters, mostly to himself, dragging his hands up your back. “knew you’d be like this for me.”

“w-what does that mean?”

“delicious.” he coos, thrusting his pelvis up to meet yours.

your hands find his shoulders, gripping tight, needing something to ground you as he keeps moving, keeps working you over the thick length of him, rolling his hips just right, just enough to make your thighs tremble. your cunt weep.

“you like that, doll?” his voice is teasing now, a purr in your ear. “ridin’ me like you’ve been thinkin’ about it since last time?”

a whimper slips past your lips before you can stop it.

suguru grins, pleased. “yeah? you gonna cum just like this? just from dry humpin’ me like a needy little thing?”

the worst part is that you might.

and he knows this. knows you.

he can feel it—the way your body tenses, the way your breath catches, the way your hips stutter like you’re on the edge of something devastating.

you lose your strength and fall into his chest, panting and moaning in his ear as your hips rock back and forth into him.

“c’mon, doll,” he murmurs, voice smooth, coaxing. “be good for me. let me feel you.”

and just like that, you break.

pleasure crashes over you in slow, shuddering waves, a choked moan spilling from your lips as your body clenches, thighs trembling around him. the friction, the heat, the intoxicating push and pull—it all swallows you whole.

suguru groans, grinding up against you one last time, dragging out your pleasure as his hands stroke slow, soothing patterns down your back.

“f-fuck,” he mutters, breathless, lips brushing your temple. “knew you’d be perfect for me.”

you can’t even respond. can’t do anything but collapse against him, skin fever-hot, body weak. the high lingers thick in your veins, pleasure still buzzing beneath your skin. high and blissed out.

suguru chuckles, lazy and satisfied, fingers trailing along your spine as he helps rock you against him slowly. “make sure you answer my texts next time, pretty girl.”

[pmpmyread]

Okay. I can’t hold back anymore, I must share this FANTASTIC commission crafted by the amazing @aliasnnmknt!!

A couple of weeks ago, I reached out to Teri to see if she could help me bring an idea to life. This was the first time I’d ever commissioned an idea including an original character/MC, and watching Teri turn my scattered descriptions and references into the EXACT vision I had for this character was like witnessing magic. And we all know Teri’s depictions of Nanami are always A1 (and if you don’t know, you must check out her page, yesterday lol).

The level of detail she managed to incorporate in this is truly incredible, from the braids and the charms, to the sheet music, to the specific vinyl LPs! The mood captured here, in the facial expressions, in the posture and overall body language is immaculate and so true to what I wanted to convey.

I feel so blessed to have been able to collaborate with such a talented artist and to add such a wonderful illustration to this little idea that has been trotting in my mind for a while. I keep staring at it in awe and I am using it as fuel as I put the finishing touches to this story.

Working on this was such a delight, Teri is so kind, patient and incredibly quick! Thank you @aliasnnmknt, for taking my request and for crafting such a lovely piece! Anyone reading this, run, don’t walk to her blog — she delivers banger after banger after banger!

This concept is based on an upcoming Nanami x Reader fic of mine titled Syncopation. It’s a story that tackles themes that are so meaningful to me, such as combatting stifled creativity, finding purpose in life, and learning to accept love, and it’s all set against a backdrop of modal jazz music as a genre.

I’ll be posting it in the upcoming days, in the meantime, I’ve put a snippet below, if you’d like a sneak peek:

If you made it this far, thanks for reading and I hope that you'll enjoy the full story! Now go follow the wonderful @aliasnnmknt!

[matumogs]

Urghhhhh 🤬💘 he deffo got us in our feels 😩😫

— part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6 !

college! sukuna was fucked. not only had he, the campus playboy, fallen in love. he had also made his said dream girl cry. and now you were ignoring him. no matter how much he tried he tried to talk to you, or push you in a corner, you refused to talk to him.

sukuna had tried every trick in the book. approaching you after class, coming to your dorm, talking to you in break time. it was getting desperate at this point, and oh, if his friends weren’t eating this up by now.

“you’re fucking pathetic, y’know that?” toji laughed mockingly as sukuna once again attempted to grab your attention at lunch. “didn’t ever think i’d see the sukuna this down bad for a girl,” gojo joined in.

“shut the fuck up, both of you. what’s so bad about apologizing? get off my fucking dick,” he retorted back. though neither gojo or toji were stopping there.

“you used to fuck a different girl every night, now you’ve been chasing after the same girl like a dog for weeks,” toji commented.

“a girl that hates you no less,” gojo snickered, “you’d get on all fours if it meant she’d forgive you, wouldn’t you?”

“if you two don’t shut the fuck up, i’m beating both of your asses up in front of everyone,” he scowled.

sukuna was seething. his friends wouldn’t shut the fuck up (when would they ever?), you were avoiding him at every chance you got, and he couldn’t get his mind off what happened. he felt like killing someone at this point.

you, on the other end, were getting sick of this. you were still in a foul mood from the 49% you got on the project, the same project you busted your ass off for. and sukuna still wasn’t giving up, though you weren’t giving him the light of day at all.

though, unfortunately, sukuna was very persistent, and he would catch up to you.

you were walking along the empty halls, a little late to class. but you felt somewhat at ease, which was the first time in days. that was until your vision was blocked by someone.

sukuna had yet again cornered you. “where you going, y/n?” he asked, looking down at you. you were not in the mood to deal with him, especially not right now.

“get the hell out of my way,” you snarled. he didn’t flinch at your irritated tone, and your blood started boiling once more when you notice the sides of his lips curling up into a smirk.

“aw, still pissed about last week? y’know i didn’t mean shit, y/n,” sukuna replied, though he seemed more genuine than taunting.

“i don’t give a shit. get out of my way,” you responded in annoyance. then, he had the audacity to grab your wrist when you started walking, pulling you back.

“listen, i’m sorry for making you cry, i didn’t think you’d be this fucking upset about it,” sukuna apologized, but it still didn’t make up for how you were feeling.

“great, man, now let me go,” you mumbled. you felt his grip tighten slightly.

“c’mon baby, i already apologized, what else do you want me to do?” he questioned, his tone growing less calm.

“for you to leave me the fuck alone, sukuna! jeez, man, how much clearer am i supposed to get? i don’t want to talk to you. you ruined this stupid project that i put my blood, sweat and tears into, and you didn’t do crap!” you told him sternly, before ripping your wrist out of his hold.

you grumbled a few irritated things under you breath, getting to class. and there went the feeling of peace you felt this morning.

sukuna thought he couldn’t be even more down bad for you, well, he was wrong. the way you stood up to his shit, oh girl, he was crazy about you.

he stood there in silence. should he drop this, and should he drop you? yes. will he do that? nah, absolutely not. he was in love, and pissed off you weren’t talking to him. that man wasn’t stopping at anything until you forgave him.

──★˙🍓̟!! okay guys wrap it up this is getting insane😭😭 again i feel so flattered with all the likes, comments and reblogs!!! and i’m sorry for this part idk, really more a filler part than anything im sorry, but part 7 is the last part!! it’s going to take a little longer because i attend to make it the longest part yet, so stay tuned 😝😝

— taglist ! @imlikeacoffeeconnoisseur @totallygyomeiswife @sukubusss @seizecherry @xlilycoco @v1x3n @go-go-gadget-autism @elizabeth-von-winken-universe @paradisestarfishh @whosmarjj @aquariusscollection @satorushousewife @rwirxles @anonnieghost @bitchpleaseeeeeeeeee @iminloveweveryone @poopooindamouf @phisen @ryomku @erintaro @clp-84 @mastermasterlist1p1 @katsukiseyebrows @iioveoldermen @happy2delivur @jup1tersuccubus 🍓

[sixeyesonathiel]

free throws and figure drawings

pairing – star player! gojo x broke artist! reader

summary : satoru gojo is many things—basketball star player, campus menace, objectively the best-looking guy in any room—but he is not a model. so when you, some quiet, intense art student, shove a flyer in his face and ask him to pose for a painting, his first instinct is to laugh. his second instinct is to say no.

it’s supposed to be easy money. sit still, look pretty, collect cash. but between your infuriating perfectionism, your absolute refusal to be flustered by him, and the way you stare like you’re trying to figure him out, satoru starts to suspect he’s in way over his head

tags –> one shot, 22k wc, university au, oblivious mutual pining, slow burn, idiots to friends(?) to lovers, banter, fluff, light angst, first kisses, reader has questionable financial priorities

satoru hates being late.

he’s not a model student, not by a long shot, but failing a long quiz because a horde of fan girls blocked his way to class? unforgivable. he was so close to making it in time, too—if only he hadn’t stopped to sign that last autograph. normally, he’d brush it off, but this wasn’t just any quiz—this was for a professor who already had it out for him. if he fails even one subject, the coach might force him to take a break from the team to focus on his studies, even if he was their star player.

he thrives on attention, okay? what’s the point of being their university's star player if he can’t bask in the privelege and the fame? that last game was legendary—he clutched the final shot, the crowd went insane, and now half the campus is screaming his name. still, if he gets benched over grades, that win won’t mean a damn thing.

now, he’s sulking on a campus bench, spinning his phone between his fingers, wondering how hard his professor is going to roast him next lecture. probably a lot. maybe enough to make him consider actually studying. his teammates will be insufferable about it, especially suguru.

and then, like a gift from the universe, you show up.

“excuse me.”

he barely glances up. he’s still bitter. still annoyed. but when he finally does look—oh, he knows your type. wide-eyed, a little nervous, clutching a sketchbook like it’s a lifeline, like it holds something more important than just paper and ink. he bets you’re about to ask for a selfie, or his number, or—

“i need you to model for me.”

his head tilts slightly, brow arching in lazy amusement. huh?

he waits for the punchline, but you only stare, unwavering. there’s something unnerving about your gaze—not shy, not desperate, just… intent. like you’ve already decided something, and his answer doesn’t matter. then, as if confirming it to yourself, you give a small, determined nod. “yeah. you’re perfect.”

his lips twitch, the ego in him flaring up instantly. “obviously.”

“so you’ll do it?” you lean in, hopeful, hands gripping the edges of your sketchbook like it’s anchoring you.

“obviously not.” he leans back instead, stretching an arm along the back of the bench, his smirk turning sharp. “listen, i know i’m pretty, but i’m not that easy.”

your expression shifts, a flicker of something unreadable—then, with a breath, you square your shoulders. “i’ll pay you.”

he barks out a short laugh, blue eyes gleaming with amusement. “oh? and what’s my going rate, then?”

without hesitation, you pull out a flyer from your bag, movements quick and businesslike. “i have an hourly rate. cash upfront.”

he plucks the paper from your hands, more entertained than anything, scanning it with a smirk. this is, without a doubt, the most absurd thing to happen to him all day (and that’s saying something). you’re actually serious. actually offering him money to sit still and look pretty.

you must be so down bad.

“sorry, sweetheart,” he drawls, handing it back lazily. “but i’m a busy man. can’t waste my precious time sitting around just so you can stare at me.”

he expects you to stammer, to get flustered and retreat. most people would.

there’s a pause, thick with hesitation, before you finally speak—like you’re pulling the words from somewhere deep, somewhere you don’t usually let people see.

“hold still,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. your gaze moves over his face with the kind of scrutiny that makes people uncomfortable, but satoru doesn’t squirm—he preens under it, smirks like he’s used to being admired. but that’s not what this is.

your eyes narrow slightly, head tilting. “your features are sharp, but not harsh. the lines of your face—” you trail off, thoughtful. “they flow too well. it’s almost unnatural.”

he blinks. “uh. thanks?”

you ignore him, scanning lower. “your collarbones frame the composition perfectly. and your hands…” your gaze flickers to them, fingers twitching against your sketchbook. “deliberate. expressive.”

his brows lift. “you’re checking me out.” he accuses, tone dripping with amusement.

“i’m analyzing your composition.” your voice is absentminded, matter-of-fact. you’re still staring, still studying, like he’s some kind of divine anomaly.

and maybe he is.

satoru should be smug about this. should be teasing you. but there’s something about the way you’re looking at him—serious, unwavering, like you’ve seen something no one else has. something not even he knows how to name.

his smirk falters, just slightly. “…so?”

“so,” you say, straightening, gripping your sketchbook tighter. “i need to paint you.”

not want. need.

and for the first time in a long time, satoru gojo is left without a clever comeback. because—okay. wow. that was a lot.

for the first time, he actually looks at you, really looks at you. and there’s no hint of deception in your expression, no underlying flirtation. your eyes—burning with something too raw, too genuine—throw him off completely.

“sounds like you’re obsessed with me.” he tries, aiming for his usual brand of cocky. but it’s weaker this time. a little off.

“i’m obsessed with getting my pieces right,” you counter, and it lands like a challenge. your voice doesn’t waver, steady in a way that makes his smirk twitch. “i’ll even raise your pay.”

his smirk falters for half a second. “yeah?”

“i—” you hesitate, fingers tightening around your sketchbook, knuckles pale from the pressure. “i can go up to… ten bucks per session. upfront.”

he snorts. “sweetheart, do i look like a discount model to you? you want me to sit still for hours, me—an in-demand athlete, a social necessity at every party, the backbone of this school’s sports program—for a measly ten?” he leans back, draping an arm over the bench like he’s getting comfortable for a long negotiation. “at least pretend to respect my market value.”

you exhale sharply, visibly weighing your options, then straighten with new resolve. “fine. twenty-five bucks per session. i can push to fourty, but you have to commit to at least three sittings.”

he opens his mouth to refuse—just for the drama of it, just to watch you scramble for a better offer—but then he hesitates.

and he sees it.

the way your fingers tighten around your sketchbook, the way your shoulders hold a quiet, unyielding tension. the way your eyes stay locked onto him, not with admiration, not with infatuation, but with something deeper, something urgent. there’s a pull in them, a quiet desperation—not for him, not for his attention, but for the shape of him, the angles of him, the way light bends and softens around the sharp edges of his face. he realizes, with a strange flicker of something he can’t name, that you aren’t begging him—you’re needing him.

…ugh.

satoru groans, throwing his head back dramatically, hands flopping uselessly onto the bench like the universe has personally inconvenienced him. “you’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“nope.” your jaw sets, firm, unwavering.

a sigh. a pause. a moment of self-reflection where he briefly considers if the extra cash is worth sacrificing his free time—his parties, his practices, the worship of a school that already thinks he’s untouchable.

then—he grins, sharp and easy, like he’s the one who’s won something here. “alright, mystery artist. i’ll be your muse.”

he leans in, cocky and insufferable, but there’s something new behind it now—a flicker of intrigue, the curiosity of a man who knows he’s irresistible but has never quite been needed like this before. “but only because i’m feeling generous.”

the next day later, satoru reminds himself—firmly—not to let this happen again. he should have held out longer, should have played hard to get, should have, at the very least, haggled for more cash. but no, he let himself get swept up in whatever this was, in your weird little artist intensity, and now he’s sitting on a questionably stable stool in the middle of your cozy, cluttered studio space. regretting. just a little.

your “studio” is barely more than a corner of your dorm room, wedged by the window where the light slants in at an annoyingly aesthetic angle. the floor is a battlefield of abandoned sketchbooks and paint tubes, half-squeezed and discarded like fallen soldiers. unfinished canvases lean against the walls in various stages of completion—some just rough sketches, others hauntingly close to done but left untouched, as if you lost interest mid-stroke. it’s clean and chaotic all at once, the strange contrast between the precisely arranged brushes—lined up by size, bristles all facing the same way—and the paint-stained rags draped carelessly over the back of your chair. the room smells like turpentine and old paper, sharp and familiar, like stepping into the mind of someone who never really stops thinking.

he should be bored—but he’s not.

“shoes off.” you say the moment he steps inside, not even looking up as you sort through your supplies.

satoru stops mid-step, blinking. his latest purchase—some limited-edition basketball sneakers, bought with the last of his cash prize from securing mvp last season, the sheer reason why he is broke right now to be here in the first place—suddenly feel heavier on his feet. his gaze flicks from you to the floor, then back again, a slow, deliberate movement as if testing whether you’re serious.

“seriously?” he drawls, shifting his weight.

“yes.”

“what, afraid I’ll track in dirt?” he tilts his head, smirk lazy, but his fingers hook around the back of his shoes, already anticipating your answer.

“no, i just don’t want you stepping in paint and crying about your expensive sneakers.” you finally glance up, eyes flickering to the telltale logo on the side of his shoes. there’s no mockery in your tone, just detached amusement, but he still bristles slightly—maybe because you’ve already figured him out so easily.

satoru exhales, exaggerated and put-upon, before kicking them off with a bit more force than necessary. the shoes land haphazardly by the door, slightly askew, pristine against the chaos of your floor. “...fine. but I better not step on a thumbtack and die.”

“noted.” you murmur, already moving on.

he takes in the room as he tugs at the hem of his hoodie, adjusting it. the space is a contradiction—small, but alive, every inch used with an artist’s careless precision. tubes of paint lie scattered like relics of past battles, pages of half-formed sketches peek from beneath stacks of books, and the air smells sharp—turpentine, charcoal dust, something faintly citrusy, probably from the cup of tea cooling by your desk. he should be unimpressed, but his gaze keeps getting caught on the little details—the careful arrangement of brushes, the single paint-smeared rag draped over your chair, the faint blue smudge on the back of your wrist.

"sit here." you drag a wooden stool into the light, the scrape of its legs against the floor cutting through the quiet.

his eyes narrow. “this thing gonna hold up?”

“unless you plan on moving around like a child, yes.”

satoru hums, unimpressed but intrigued, tapping two fingers against his thigh before finally dropping onto the stool. his posture is lazy, all careless sprawl and long limbs, arms hanging over the backrest like he’s got all the time in the world.

you click your tongue, stepping closer. “sit up straight.”

he sinks even lower, stretching his legs out in front of him. “but I like this angle. mysterious. brooding. like I have a dark past.”

you don’t even hesitate. “it looks like you have scoliosis.”

he barks out a laugh, sharp and genuine, teeth flashing under the dim light. “maybe that is my dark past.”

“fix your posture.”

satoru sighs, rolling his shoulders back—but not enough. you click your tongue, unimpressed, and before he can react, your hands are on him, firm but careful, adjusting his posture with practiced ease. your fingers press lightly against his upper back, trailing down to nudge at his shoulder blades, guiding him straighter. clinical, detached, nothing more than necessity. but he still goes still, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

your hands are cool against his skin, grounding in a way he doesn’t expect. for the first time, he realizes you’re really looking at him—not like most people do, with admiration, envy, or that desperate need to impress. no, you look at him like he’s a problem to solve, a subject to study, something to be rendered on paper in strokes and shadows. he should say something—flirt, tease, break the moment before it turns into something else—but the words sit strangely in his mouth. and then you’re already pulling away, back to your desk, already moving on.

"good," you murmur, reaching for a pencil amid the mess of supplies. you don’t sound satisfied, exactly—just focused, as if his presence in your studio is nothing more than another detail to get right. then, after a beat, you look up again, really look at him, and say, “don’t move.”

satoru smirks, tilting his head just enough for his bangs to shift, casting a fleeting shadow over his eyes. “no promises.”

you exhale sharply, shaking your head as you adjust the angle of your easel. the wooden frame creaks as you tighten a knob, movements brisk, precise—like you don’t have the patience for his nonsense today. “relax your shoulders.”

he spreads his hands, a lazy, exaggerated gesture, his varsity jacket slipping slightly off one shoulder. “my shoulders are relaxed.”

you glance up, unimpressed. “you look like you’re trying to fight god.”

“that’s just my natural aura.”

your hand pauses over your palette, fingers hovering just above the tubes of paint. then—a twitch. fleeting. almost imperceptible. but he sees it, the tiny, reluctant quirk of your lips, and his eyes glint with amusement.

“was that a smile?” satoru's grin is all teeth, sharp and victorious, as he leans forward, resting his forearm on his knee. “are you falling for me already?”

you don’t even bother looking up as you squeeze out a streak of cadmium red onto your palette. “i was smiling at the thought of shoving you off that stool.”

he lets out a low chuckle, leaning back again, hands bracing the edge of the seat as if testing its limits. “that’s fair.”

acrylic meets oil in a slow swirl, the colors blending as you mix with deliberate strokes. outside, the sun shifts, casting golden streaks through the dusty windowpanes, dappling his profile in warm light. he watches you in the silence that follows, something unspoken settling between the brushstrokes and banter.

and that’s how the first session goes—him trying to be difficult, you trying to make him less difficult.

but somewhere between the banter, the occasional begrudging moments of stillness, and the quiet scratch of pencil against paper, something shifts.

at first, he’s just counting down the minutes until he gets paid, watching the clock, tapping his fingers idly against his knee. but then, he starts watching you instead.

satoru notices the way your brow furrows in concentration, the way your fingers hesitate before committing to a line, the way your teeth graze your bottom lip when something isn’t turning out right. there’s a softness to you when you work, an intensity that feels different from how people usually look at him. no awe, no expectation—just a quiet, unwavering focus, like he’s something worth capturing.

he should be bored. this kind of thing isn’t for him—sitting still, staying quiet, being studied like some museum exhibit. but he’s not. instead he is interested.

not by the painting itself—he still doesn’t get the whole ‘art’ thing, still doesn’t see why people obsess over lines and colors and whatever meaning they think is hidden beneath. but he gets this. gets the way you treat it like it matters, like it’s something real, something worth your time.

so he keeps coming back.

SPRING bleeds into familiarity as summer approaches. the air carries the scent of sun-warmed pavement and freshly cut grass, the kind of early heat that settles into your skin before you even realize it. days stretch longer, the sunsets grow richer, but in this quiet, in the hush between afternoon and evening, it’s routine now—as natural as practice drills, as effortless as muscle memory.

the soft scratch of pencil against paper, the faint drag of graphite as you sketch his form for the hundredth time. the way you chew on the inside of your cheek when you concentrate, brows furrowing in that particular way that means you’re unhappy with a line. the way satoru makes a grand show of complaining, of stretching obnoxiously, of sighing like he’s been sentenced to something far worse than sitting still for an hour—but he always shows up anyway.

“this is cruel and unusual punishment.” satoru groans, slumping back in the chair like the very act of modeling is siphoning the life out of him. his long legs sprawl out, one foot tapping idly against the floor, an unconscious rhythm that betrays his restlessness. strands of white hair fall messily over his forehead, catching in the afternoon light, but he makes no move to fix them. instead, he tilts his head back dramatically, like a man resigned to his fate, letting out a sigh so deep it should echo through the room.

“you’re literally getting paid.” you remind him, tilting your head, adjusting the angle of your sketch with a practiced flick of your wrist. your voice is steady, patient, but there’s a weight to it—a quiet exasperation that makes the corners of his mouth twitch.

the soft scratch of pencil against paper fills the space between you, a contrast to his theatrics. your fingers move with precision, thumb smudging a shadow, expression unreadable as your gaze flickers over him like you’re dissecting every line and curve.

“at what cost?” satoru presses, shifting slightly in his seat, the chair creaking beneath his weight. his arms drape lazily over the armrests, fingers tapping against the wood—anything to keep himself occupied. his restlessness isn’t feigned; he’s never been the type to sit still, and the urge to move tugs at his muscles like an itch he can’t scratch. but he waits, because the way you sketch—brows furrowed, lower lip caught just slightly between your teeth—has him more intrigued than he wants to admit.

“at the cost of you shutting up for five minutes.”

“bold of you to assume i’m capable of that.”

his eyes flick toward you, sharp and searching, waiting for the reaction he knows is coming. for a moment, you’re still, the only movement the subtle shift of your fingers against the page. then—your lips twitch, the barest ghost of amusement, before you catch yourself and shake your head, returning to your work. satoru leans forward just slightly, just enough for the smallest smirk to pull at his lips, because he saw it—saw the way you almost gave in—and he counts that as a win.

you start talking more.

not just the usual corrections or critiques, but more—about your process, your ideas, the frustration of trying to capture his proportions because “seriously, satoru, why are your legs so stupidly long?”

“can’t help that i’m perfect, sweetheart.” he says, flashing a grin, stretching in his seat like he’s on display. his limbs sprawl out with practiced ease, one arm draped over the back of the chair, the other lazily resting against his knee.

“you’re built like a faulty character model,” you mutter, erasing a line with more force than necessary. your brows pinch together, irritation bleeding into your strokes, and satoru watches the way your lips press into a thin line, your focus so sharp it almost cuts.

“so you admit i look unreal.” satoru says smugly, tipping his head to the side, silver strands slipping over the curve of his cheekbone.

you exhale through your nose, controlled and measured, but he catches the slight twitch in your jaw. “yes, satoru. that’s exactly what i meant.”

his grin spreads wider, pleased and easy, tapping his fingers idly against his knee in a steady rhythm. you’re getting used to him now—the sarcasm, the running commentary, the way he moves like he owns the space around him. you roll your eyes less, sigh less, even smirk sometimes—tiny, almost imperceptible, but he catches it every time, cataloging each one like a victory.

he starts talking more, too.

about his classes, about basketball, about how he wasn’t late to his quiz this time because he jumped out a window to avoid his fan girls. he says it so casually, like it’s just another tuesday, like it’s not the most absurd thing you’ve ever heard.

“you jumped out a window?” you ask, blinking, your pencil hovering mid-stroke. your brows pinch slightly, lips parting like you’re trying to process the sheer idiocy of it.

“listen, it was a short fall.”

there’s a beat of silence—just enough for him to catch the way your eyes flick over his face, searching for any sign of exaggeration. his smirk is lazy, easy, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll scold him for it.

and then you laugh.

it’s sudden, unfiltered, slipping past your lips before you can catch it. breathless, a little incredulous, like even you can’t believe he’s that ridiculous.

he wasn’t expecting that.

it’s not like you never laugh—you do, just not at him. not like this, not in a way that feels so real, so genuine, so—unfair. it hits him square in the chest, something sharp and electric threading through his ribs, like a perfectly aimed free throw sinking straight through the net.

“oh my god,” you say, shaking your head, still grinning. “you’re actually ridiculous.”

“thank you,” he says, flashing a smug grin, because he made you laugh.

and that’s the first time he realizes he likes your laugh.

so he starts playing it like a game—how many times can he make you laugh in one session? how many times can he distract you before you start scolding him? it’s almost too easy, the way you fall into the rhythm of his teasing, the way your lips press together like you’re fighting back a smile even when you’re glaring at him. he takes it as a challenge, a personal mission to pull a reaction out of you, to chip away at your stubborn focus just enough to make you crack.

“hey, what if you sketched me mid-dunk? you know, capture my essence—” satoru leans forward, gesturing dramatically, his white hair falling into his eyes.

“sit still.” you mutter, not even looking up, but he catches the way your brow furrows just slightly, the way you grip your pencil a little tighter.

“but imagine the drama! the movement! the raw athleticism—” he babbles, spreading his arms wide as if to showcase the sheer grandeur of his idea.

“sit still or i’m deducting your pay.” your voice is flat, but the way your eyes flicker toward him—just for a second—tells him you’re at least half-listening.

“cold.” he pouts, slumping back into the chair, but his grin never wavers.

sometimes, when you’re too absorbed in your work, he shifts in his seat just to see if you’ll notice. a tiny movement, barely anything—but your head always snaps up, your gaze sharp, the slightest exasperation flickering in your expression. “stop that,” you’ll say, and he’ll throw his hands up in mock innocence, feigning surprise. it’s stupid, really, but he likes it.

(he starts winning. he always wins.)

but somewhere along the way, he starts losing, too.

because he catches himself watching you between poses.

satoru catches himself noticing things he shouldn’t—the way you tuck your brush behind your ear when your hands are full, leaving a faint streak of graphite on your temple. the way your sleeves are always smudged with paint, like you’ve been too caught up in your work to care. the way your fingers twitch when you talk, tracing invisible shapes in the air, like you want to sketch your thoughts into existence. it’s the little things, the ones that slip through the cracks when he isn’t paying attention—except he is, now, and he doesn’t know when that started.

catches himself waiting for your sessions.

it sneaks up on him—slow, creeping, like a game he didn't realize he was playing until he was already losing.

one moment, it’s just a side gig, a funny little arrangement, an easy paycheck. another, it’s something else entirely, something that lingers in his mind longer than it should.

because sometimes—which is already a lot—when he steps onto the court, ball tucked under his arm, the first thing he wonders isn’t about the game, but whether you’ll be sketching from the bleachers. sometimes, when he sees something stupidly pretty—the golden slant of light cutting across the gym floor, a perfect shot arcing through the net, the weightless seconds before it sinks—he thinks, you’d know how to capture this.

sometimes, when you’re concentrating, when your brows pull together, when your lips part just slightly in thought, when your whole world narrows to the page in front of you, he thinks—he doesn’t finish that thought. because it’s just routine, right? just the same way he looks forward to practice, to games, to winning.

it’s nothing more than that.

right?

but then, it starts happening—subtle at first, easy to dismiss. a text invitation left on read, a half-hearted ‘maybe’ in response to a party he’d normally say ‘hell yeah!’ to.

it’s a gradual shift, barely noticeable at first—until it is. until suguru eyes him from across the court, spinning a basketball on his fingertips, gaze sharp and knowing.

“you skipping out?” suguru asks one afternoon, his tone casual, but the way he watches satoru says he already knows the answer. “big party tonight. everyone’s going.”

“got plans.” satoru says easily, crouching to tie his laces, fingers tugging the knots tight like he’s sealing the conversation shut.

suguru bounces the ball once, catching it smoothly. “since when do you have plans that don’t involve getting wasted?”

satoru straightens, rolling his shoulders until they pop, shaking out his arms like he’s gearing up for something. his hair is a mess of white strands falling over his forehead, a little damp from practice, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. instead, he flashes a smirk, weight shifting easily onto one foot. “i’m broadening my horizons.”

suguru snorts, spinning the ball in his hands. “yeah? what’s her name?”

satoru flicks his wrist, and before suguru can react, his hand snaps out to intercept the ball satoru just stole from him, catching it last second. suguru narrows his eyes, unimpressed. satoru just grins, rocking back on his heels, the picture of insufferable ease. “shut up.”

he tells himself it’s not a big deal. he’s just picking his battles, choosing his nights, being selective.

but then, one evening, his phone buzzes with an invite—exclusive rooftop party, vip only, the kind of thing that would’ve had him saying ‘hell yeah’ months ago. the kind of thing he used to crave, to thrive in, all flashing lights and endless noise, a crowd that could never quite keep up.

instead, he glances at the time, sees that your session starts in half an hour, and swipes the notification away without a second thought.

he doesn’t even hesitate.

SUMMER arrives with a vengeance. spring’s fleeting softness is long gone, replaced by air thick with humidity, pavement hot enough to sizzle, and days that stretch into slow, languid eternity. campus, once alive with restless energy, now feels like an echo of itself—half-abandoned dorms, quiet hallways, the distant hum of cicadas filling the silence. no fan club lurking outside his lectures, no teammates calling his name across the quad. just heat, stillness, and a lot of free time.

satoru gojo is losing his mind.

your dorm is somehow even worse than outside, the air stifling, unmoving, dense with trapped summer heat. the pathetic excuse for a fan in the corner barely stirs the air, its dull hum doing nothing to ease the sweat clinging to his skin. he’s slouched in a chair, legs stretched out, head tilted back dramatically as he groans to no one in particular.

“this is inhumane,” satoru whines, shifting again, the fabric of his jersey clinging uncomfortably to his skin. his arm drapes lazily over his forehead, white bangs damp with sweat, eyes half-lidded in a show of exaggerated suffering. “you can’t expect a man to look this good while melting, y’know.”

“satoru, i swear to god, if you move one more time—” you mutter, not looking up from your easel, brush moving in slow, deliberate strokes. there’s a tension in your shoulders, one he recognizes by now—focused, immersed, determined to ignore him.

he cracks an eye open, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “you’ll what?” he drawls, voice syrupy with amusement. “paint me uglier?”

you don’t dignify that with a response, just exhale through your nose and keep working.

it’s been months since you first hired him, and somewhere between his insufferable attitude and your exasperated sighs, something shifted. something settled. something... comfortable.

satoru is still impossible—never quiet, never fully still, always testing limits. but you’re used to him now, the same way you’re used to the hum of your fan or the scratch of your brush against canvas.

and he’s used to you, too.

he knows you never play music while you work (insane). he knows you paint in layers, slow and methodical, as if each stroke is a commitment too big to rush. he knows you hate when people hover over your shoulder—but for some reason, you let him stay.

so he stays.

“remind me why we’re even in the dorms right now?” satoru complains, flopping back onto your bed without permission, limbs splaying like he owns the place.

“because it’s a hassle to go home.” you murmur, brush dragging against the canvas, expression unreadable.

“you say that like normal people wouldn’t want a break from all this,” he gestures vaguely, letting his hand fall limply onto his stomach.

“i don’t like breaks,” you say simply, not bothering to look at him. “breaks mean i stop making things.”

he squints at you, the weight of your words settling in his chest. it sounds like a joke, but it’s not. and just like that, something clicks. maybe you’re here for the same reason he is. not because you have nowhere to go. but because being here is easier than being somewhere else.

he doesn’t say anything. just shifts further onto your bed, limbs sprawling even wider, purely out of pettiness.

the sheets beneath him smell like you—something faint, something warm, something familiar. he exhales, eyes slipping shut for a moment.

yeah. he could stay a little longer.

“seriously,” he groans again, tugging at the neckline of his jersey, the fabric clinging to his skin like a second layer. with a restless sigh, he rolls onto his stomach, sprawling out across your bed like a cat too lazy to move from a sunspot. his cheek presses against the sheets, indigo eyes flicking lazily toward you, half-lidded from the heat. “why is it so hot? isn’t there some artist trick where you suffer for your work without making me suffer too?”

you don’t bother looking up, your focus unwavering, the soft scratch of your brush against canvas filling the silence between you. there’s a faint crease between your brows, a telltale sign of concentration, though your expression remains unreadable.

“maybe if you stopped talking, you’d cool down.”  you murmur, dipping your brush into a shade of blue.

he scoffs, shifting onto his elbows, pushing damp strands of hair from his forehead with a lazy flick of his fingers. “bold of you to assume that’s an option.”

and it irritates him—how unfazed you are. does nothing shake you? does nothing break through that focus?

so it turns into a game.

at first, he starts small—subtle shifts in posture, exaggerated sighs, ridiculous flirtation, all carefully designed to draw your attention. a slow roll of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head, the stretch of long limbs sprawled across your bed as if he owns the space. each movement is deliberate, each word carefully chosen to poke at you, to pry beneath that layer of calm focus you always seem to wear.

“what if i posed like one of those renaissance statues?” satoru muses, arching his back slightly, stretching his arms over his head, the muscles in his shoulders shifting beneath sun-warmed skin. his voice is thick with faux contemplation, his white lashes lowering as if he’s actually considering it. “y’know, real dramatic, real divine. make me look like a legend in the making.”

“you already think you’re a legend.” you mutter, the barest flicker of amusement crossing your face, so quick he almost misses it.

his grin sharpens, flashing teeth, and he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to watch you work. his hair falls slightly over his forehead, messy and weightless, catching the light in wisps of silver and white. “i mean, aren’t i?”

you don’t even look at him. just reach for your paintbrush, flick your wrist—and suddenly, a few drops of cold paint water splatter against his bare arm.

he yelps, jerking away like you’ve actually wounded him. “the hell—” he glares at the tiny droplets seeping into his skin, like they’re an offense to his very existence. “are you serious? that’s abuse.”

you hum, not bothering to hide the faint smirk on your lips as you dip your brush back into the paint.

his narrowed eyes linger on your expression, on the relaxed set of your shoulders, on the tiny, satisfied twitch of your mouth.

(point goes to you.)

when that doesn’t work, he switches tactics.

his gaze flickers to the stack of empty ramen cups in the corner, precariously balanced like a monument to bad decisions. his lips twitch, smug and knowing, before his eyes drift toward the mini fridge tucked against the wall. last time he checked—which was purely out of curiosity, mind you—it was nearly empty, save for a half-full bottle of water and a single, sad yogurt cup. it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

“do you always paint this obsessively?”

“yes.”

“do you ever eat?”

“obviously.”

he hums, stretching his arms behind his head, the movement making his damp jersey stick even more uncomfortably to his skin.

“…you sure?”

your brush hesitates—a fraction of a second, barely noticeable, but he notices. then, just as quickly, you resume painting, voice perfectly even, expression carefully blank.

“what’s with the interrogation?”

“just curious,” he says, shifting until his long legs are stretched across the bed. his head tilts back against the sheets, white strands of hair falling messily over his forehead. “plus, if you pass out mid-session, who’s gonna pay me?”

you roll your eyes, exhaling through your nose, the corners of your mouth twitching. “i’ll put that in my will. ‘to satoru gojo, my life drawing model and worst financial decision.’”

satoru's laughter bursts out of him, loud and unfiltered, cutting through the thick, oppressive heat of the room. it’s the kind of laugh that makes walls feel smaller, that shifts the air, that lingers longer than it should.

and you don’t hide your small smile fast enough.

his laughter stutters for half a second, his sharp eyes catching the curve of your lips before you press them together again. fleeting, but unmistakable. something smug and delighted unfurls in his chest, a warmth that has nothing to do with the summer air.

his grin stretches slow and wicked. “oh, you like me,” he sings, rolling onto his back, looking at you upside down with that insufferable glint in his eyes.

“i tolerate you.” you correct, but your hand twitches, and before he can blink, another flick of your brush sends a tiny splash of paint in his direction.

he yelps, twisting away, but it’s too late.

(he’s still winning.)

but then—he moves too much.

a shift of his shoulders, an exaggerated sigh, the creak of your mattress beneath him. his knee bumps against your sketchbook, disrupting the careful balance of supplies stacked at the foot of the bed. then, as if testing the limits of your patience, he stretches, arms extending above his head, his basketball jersey riding up just slightly—just enough to reveal the sharp dip of his waist, the faint sheen of sweat at his collarbone. his head tilts back against your pillow, and he groans, long and drawn out.

you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a click before pushing yourself up from your stool.

satoru's eyes track your movement, bright and sharp even in the dim light of your dorm. he’s expecting a scolding, maybe even an irritated glare. but there’s something different this time—your expression unreadable, your gaze fixed on him with that same unwavering focus that always throws him off. you move with purpose, deliberate steps closing the space between you, and the room suddenly feels smaller, the heat pressing heavier against his skin, against the air between you.

he watches, waiting for the usual sigh, the exasperated reminder to stop fidgeting. he waits for you to roll your eyes and mutter something about how he’s impossible to work with.

instead—your fingers catch his chin, tilting it just so.

satoru's breath hitches, barely perceptible, but you don’t notice—or if you do, you don’t acknowledge it. your touch is firm, not hesitant, your thumb grazing just beneath his jaw as you adjust the angle of his face. then, without a second thought, your hand shifts, fingers ghosting along the curve of his cheekbone, the edge of his jaw, brushing against the sensitive skin below his ear. there’s dried paint smudged on your fingertips, faint streaks of color that leave invisible traces against his skin, and his throat bobs as he swallows.

you don’t stop there.

your other hand lifts, smoothing his slouched shoulders back against the pillows, fingertips pressing briefly into the fabric of his jersey. then you reach for his wrist, shifting his arm so it drapes more naturally across his stomach. and all the while, you’re silent, your movements efficient, unthinking—like touching him is no different than adjusting the angle of a still life, like he’s just another part of the composition you’re perfecting.

before the silence stretches too long, before his brain can fully process the casual way you just handled him, he grins, slow and wicked.

“damn,” he drawls, voice lazy, smug, but there’s something tight beneath the ease of it. his head tilts back slightly against your pillow, eyes half-lidded, watching you with a mixture of mischief and something deeper—something that makes his smirk seem almost too deliberate, like he’s waiting for you to react. “you’re really making this a whole thing, huh?”

“what?” you say absently, fingers still deftly adjusting the angle of his jaw, your touch steady as you tilt his chin just another fraction higher. the concentration in your expression is unreadable, but your gaze never wavers, sharp and focused. he notices how your brows furrow just the slightest, the way your lips press together in a line that says you’re not going to let him distract you this time.

“nothing,” he smirks, his grin widening, amused by the way your hands move over him with such intention. his fingers twitch where they rest against the blanket, itching for something to do, but he forces himself to remain still, curious to see how far he can push you. “just—y’know, if you wanted me like one of your french girls, you could’ve just said so.”

your fingers tighten slightly in response, the faintest press of your nails against his skin—not quite a warning, but close. you can feel the pulse of his heartbeat under your fingertips, steady but accelerating just slightly, as if your touch has an effect on him he’s unwilling to admit. there’s an almost imperceptible shift in his posture, as if he's bracing himself, but his eyes are still locked on you, playful but careful.

“if you don’t shut up,” you say, voice perfectly even, calm in the face of his teasing, “i will paint you uglier.” the words roll off your tongue without hesitation, but there’s an edge to them, something you both know you mean more than you let on. your hand doesn’t move from his jaw, but your fingers tighten for a moment—enough to make him flinch, just barely—and it’s enough to make his grin falter.

“mm. bold of you to assume i have a bad angle.” his voice is dripping with sarcasm, his smirk returning in full force, and his hand twitches again as if he’s resisting the urge to reach out, to touch you in return. but he holds himself back, all too aware that this is your space—your process—and he’s simply a subject in it. yet, his confidence remains unshaken, a challenge flickering behind his eyes.

you give his jaw a deliberate little nudge, the motion slow and purposeful, and barely suppress a sigh as you watch him react—his body tensing under your touch, as if the slight pressure is just the right amount to make him ache for more. but you’re not finished, not yet.

“stay still, satoru.” you murmur, your voice the slightest bit sharper this time, but with a subtle undercurrent of something softer. he could almost mistake it for a command, if not for the way you adjust his position with gentle precision, ensuring every detail of his form is just as you want it. your eyes flicker over him, tracing the angles of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his neck—something about the way you hold him, make him stay, makes him feel like you’re in complete control, and that’s when it hits him.

he doesn’t dare move.

not because he suddenly respects the process.

but because your fingers are cool against his overheated skin, an unexpected relief against the oppressive heat of the room. because for a moment, when you adjusted his posture, you were close enough for him to see the flecks of paint on your cheek, the way your lashes framed your eyes, the soft crease in your forehead when you concentrate.

because you touched him without hesitation. without thought. without treating him like something fragile, something distant, something untouchable.

and he doesn’t move for the next three hours.

...oh.

he’s in grave danger.

AUTUMN arrives with brisk winds and golden light, the air carrying the scent of fallen leaves and distant bonfires. the campus shifts with the season, summer’s lazy sprawl giving way to hurried footsteps and layered clothing, students caught between clinging to warmth and embracing the inevitable cold. the world feels sharper now, edges clearer, the sun hanging lower in the sky, stretching shadows across the pavement. satoru gojo hasn’t changed much, still striding through campus like he owns it, but there’s something different in the way he keeps showing up.

it starts with a realization: you’re an idiot with money.

satoru has been modeling for you for months now, first as a casual arrangement, then as an unspoken habit, and now—now he’s not even sure what to call it. at first, it was just a side hustle, a way to fund his snack addiction and make up for his tendency to forget that classes required effort. he still shows up late sometimes, still complains about holding the same pose for too long, still finds ways to annoy you just to see how you’ll react. but somewhere between summer and autumn, it stopped being about the money.

because you’re routine now.

just like basketball practice. just like late-night convenience store runs. just like winning. he doesn’t think about it too much, doesn’t poke at the feeling, just lets it settle into the spaces between his days. but then, one evening, it clicks—this thing between you isn’t exactly balanced. because for all the money you pay him, you’re the one stretching yourself thin.

it happens when he catches you eating a sad cup of instant noodles for what must be the fourth day in a row.

at first, he doesn’t say anything, just watches as you peel back the lid, steam curling weakly into the cool autumn air. he thinks maybe it’s a preference thing, some weird artist habit, until his gaze drifts—to the extra commissions stacked on your desk, the supply receipts stuffed into your sketchbook, the way you barely check your phone unless it’s him texting about a session. your fingers tighten around your chopsticks, movements slower than usual, exhaustion threading through the way you stir the noodles.

you are, quite literally, funding him instead of yourself.

“again?” he finally asks, gesturing at your dinner. his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else behind it, something sharper, like he’s waiting for you to slip up. he watches the way you barely react, how your grip on the chopsticks stays loose, how you keep your focus on the pitiful cup of noodles steaming in your hands instead of looking at him. his knee bounces once, a restless motion, before he stills it with a pointed exhale.

you shrug, not meeting his eyes, stirring half-heartedly, and the broth sloshes over the rim, spilling onto your sleeve in a dark stain. but you don’t react, don’t even seem to notice, just keep stirring, keep avoiding his gaze like you can will this conversation into disappearing. “i have a budget.” you say, voice even, detached, like you’re stating a fact and not making an excuse. your fingers tighten around the flimsy cup for half a second before you force yourself to loosen them, nudging a stray noodle back under the broth like you can’t feel his eyes on you.

satoru narrows his eyes, shifting where he sits, the mattress creaking under his weight. his arms stretch over his head for a beat, but there’s tension in the motion, his jaw tight even as he forces himself to lean back, feigning nonchalance. “you literally raised my pay just to get me to pose.” he says, voice incredulous, edged with something between concern and irritation. he isn’t laughing anymore, isn’t teasing, just watching, waiting, expecting you to have some kind of answer.

“those two are completely different things.” you mumble, slurping up some noodles like the conversation isn’t happening, like you can hide behind the motion. your posture shifts, shoulders curling inward, the steam from the cup rising in thin wisps against your face, half-obscuring your expression.

different how?

but you don’t elaborate.

you don’t meet his eyes, either, just keep pushing your noodles around the cup, the movements small, aimless, stalling. his gaze flickers down, catches the little details—the fading paint stains on your fingers, the slight tremor in the way you stir, the tension coiled in your shoulders like you’re bracing for something. he exhales, head tilting, watching you with the same sharpness he saves for an opponent about to make a move, for a moment of weakness he can take advantage of—but this time, it doesn’t feel like a game.

and then, all at once, it clicks. how much you’re actually paying him. how much of your already-limited allowance is going to him just so you can paint. how much you’re giving up without a word, without a complaint, without even a hint of hesitation.

and suddenly, his next paycheck doesn’t sit right with him.

so from that moment on, satoru starts caring for you in ways you don’t even notice.

it’s subtle at first, woven into the fabric of your routine, slipping in so seamlessly that you almost don’t register the shift. he still shows up late sometimes, still drags his feet through the doorway like he’s doing you a favor, but now—now he’s always carrying something. a plastic bag crinkles against his fingers as he drops it onto your desk, careless and offhand, like he isn’t watching for your reaction.

“leftovers,” he says way too casually when you glance up at him, suspicion flickering in your eyes. his voice is loose, unconcerned, but there’s something too deliberate in the way he nudges the bag closer, the way his hand lingers just a second too long before he pulls away. “figured you’d want ‘em before i threw them out.”

you eye the freshly wrapped onigiri and convenience store sandwiches, brows knitting together as your fingers hesitate over the bag. the packaging is neat, unopened, no signs of the mindless picking and half-eaten portions he usually leaves behind when he’s actually careless. “…since when do you not finish your food?” your voice is skeptical, flat, but there’s something guarded in the way you ask it, something careful.

“since now,” he says, flopping onto your bed with the kind of dramatic ease only he can manage. his hoodie rides up slightly, exposing a sliver of tanned skin, but he doesn’t bother adjusting it, too busy stretching his arms over his head. “just eat it before i change my mind.”

you do. you don’t question it, don’t pick apart the way he shifts his weight against your mattress like he’s making himself at home, don’t dwell on the way his voice sounded just a little softer than usual. he pretends not to notice when you eat in silence, barely glancing at him. but later that night, when you’re alone, you find yourself smiling down at the empty wrapper before tossing it in the trash.

then he starts paying for your drinks when you go out, slipping the cash over the counter before you can argue, calling it his ‘treat’ like he’s some kind of benevolent patron.

“you only say that because i’m the only artist you know.” you deadpan, reaching for your coffee, fingers brushing the warmth of the cup.

“yeah,” he grins, unapologetic, smug, like he’s already won something. his fingers drum lightly against the side of his own cup, restless energy bleeding through the way he leans just slightly into your space. “and you’re killin’ it at first place.”

your fingers twitch slightly against the cup, grip adjusting like you’re trying to steady something that isn’t your coffee. you pretend not to feel the warmth in your chest, pretend his words don’t settle somewhere deep, somewhere dangerous. but when you take a sip, you don’t fight the way the heat lingers.

but it still doesn’t feel like enough.

satoru watches the way you flip through your sketchbook, fingers skimming the edges of each page like you’re weighing how much space you have left. he sees the way your gaze lingers on your paint tubes, the way your thumb presses absently against the label, as if debating whether the color is worth using. he notices the way your sleeves push up slightly when you mix paints, the faintest crease forming between your brows when you check how much is left. you won’t take money from him outright—he knows that much—but maybe, just maybe, he can get you to make money some other way.

so he tries introducing you to sports betting, grinning like he’s telling you the best-kept secret in the world. his energy is relentless, all sharp confidence and easy arrogance, like he truly believes he’s about to change your life. you don’t even need to look up to know he’s leaning in too close, elbows braced against your desk, practically radiating self-satisfaction. it’s unbearable.

“satoru, that’s literally gambling,” you say flatly, dragging your pencil across the page, deliberately uninterested.

“it’s strategic investing,” satoru corrects, voice smooth, pleased with himself, like he’s just introduced you to some kind of financial loophole. he shifts slightly, and his jersey slips off one shoulder, exposing the curve of his collarbone, but he doesn’t seem to notice—too caught up in his own nonsense. his fingers tap against your desk, impatient, restless, waiting for you to take the bait.

you don’t. instead, you finally glance up, brows raised. “you lost thirty bucks last week.”

his lips part like he’s about to argue, but then he pauses, reconsiders, and pivots. “okay, but that was a fluke,” he says, already curling his mouth into a perfectly crafted pout.

“was it?”

satoru exhales dramatically, like this conversation is somehow exhausting him, and drops his head onto your sketchbook, completely unbothered by the fact that you’re still holding a pencil. “have a little faith in me, damn.”

you shake your head, amused despite yourself. you shouldn’t be. you should shut this down, make it clear that you have no intention of entertaining whatever scheme he’s trying to rope you into.

but then—

“fine,” you say one day, flipping through your sketchbook, voice too casual, too offhanded. like this is barely worth mentioning, like you’re not actively indulging him. “i’ll bet on your team.”

the change is immediate.

satoru's body goes still, and for once, there’s no teasing, no smirk, no cocky remark. just a blink—slow, calculating—like he’s processing the words more carefully than anything else you’ve ever said to him. the tension lasts only a second before his mouth curves into something dangerous, something sharp, something entirely too pleased.

oh. oh, no.

“oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice all silk and trouble, reaching up to ruffle his already-messy hair. his fingers linger for a second, pushing back the damp strands before he tilts his head at you, grin widening. “you’re not gonna regret that.”

he doesn’t wait for your response. he’s already out the door. and frankly, you didn't expect the game to be brutal.

clearly, your estimate was wrong. the gym is packed, filled with students from both universities, the air thick with tension, sweat, and school pride. banners hang from the walls, school colors clashing, chants echoing through the space like war cries. the visiting team—tall, muscular, built like they were engineered for this—carries themselves with the weight of confidence, a roster of starters who have dominated the league all season. they tower over the court, standing like an immovable wall of defense, but it only takes one play for them to realize they’re in trouble.

because satoru gojo is simply faster. better.

the moment the ball is in his hands, he moves like he owns the court. the opposing point guard—a solid 6’5 with broad shoulders and a killer defensive record—lunges to block him, but it’s over before it even starts. satoru feints left, shifts right, and leaves him grasping at air, breaking into a sprint toward the basket before the others can react. their power forward—tall, heavy, built for blocking shots—steps in, arms raised high, but satoru barely acknowledges him.

because satoru is 6’3, fast as hell, and has a vertical leap that makes people question physics. he jumps, body twisting mid-air, and the slam dunk is so violent it rattles the rim.

the crowd erupts.

the visiting team’s coach is already shouting, hands flying in frustration as his players scramble to reorganize. they try to lock satoru down, try to double-team him, but it’s pointless—his crossovers are disrespectful, his footwork impossible to track, his speed completely unfair. one defender—6’7, easily one of the best in the league—steps up, stance wide, arms ready, but satoru doesn’t even give him time to think.

because satoru is playing with purpose.

his second shot? half-court. no hesitation.

the ball soars through the air, clean, perfect, and the second it lands through the net, satoru is already turning away, smirking as if he knew it would go in before he even let go.

“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” nanami mutters, watching as the other university’s shooting guard—who up until now had been known for his defense—grabs his knees like he’s questioning his life choices.

“they’re frustrated,” suguru notes, amused, stepping up beside satoru during a dead ball.

“they should be.” satoru says, rolling his shoulders, letting his sweat-slicked jersey shift against his skin. he looks completely relaxed—untouched, unbothered, infuriatingly smug—as if he isn’t systematically destroying one of the best teams in the league.

but this isn’t just about winning.

because every time he scores, he looks at you.

he doesn’t even try to be subtle. his icy blue eyes flick up to the bleachers, head tilting slightly, lips curving into a knowing grin. his fan girls scream, convinced he’s looking at them, but you know better. because satoru isn’t just playing—he’s showing off.

he breaks past another defender with ridiculous ease, dribbling once before stepping back for a three-pointer that barely even touches the rim. the opposing team’s captain calls for a switch, barking out orders, but it doesn’t matter—they can’t stop him.

the timeout huddle is a mess.

players are breathing hard, jerseys clinging to sweat-damp skin, shoulders rising and falling as they try to recover. the gym is loud—too loud—the crowd still buzzing from the absolute disaster that was the first half. their coach is talking, something about holding the lead, tightening defense, not getting cocky, but no one is listening. because across the circle, satoru is still grinning like he’s having the time of his life.

“yo, what the hell is wrong with you today?” suguru mutters, tossing him a towel, brow furrowed like he’s genuinely concerned.

satoru catches it with one hand, absently wiping the sweat from his forehead, movements lazy, easy, completely unbothered. his white hair is a mess, strands curling slightly from the heat, the glow of the overhead lights catching on the sharp angles of his face. his jersey is clinging to his frame, fabric damp where it stretches over his shoulders, his chest, but he doesn’t seem to notice—or care. instead, he tugs the collar away from his skin, letting the cool air hit, eyes flicking up toward the stands like he’s looking for something.

or rather, someone.

“nothing.” he says, voice easy, light, like he didn’t just dismantle an entire university’s defense and humiliate half their starters in front of a packed gym. his breath is steady, not a hint of exhaustion, only the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath his damp jersey, fabric clinging to his frame, sweat glistening along the sharp lines of his collarbone. his hair is an absolute mess, strands sticking to his forehead, white against flushed skin, but he makes no move to fix it. he just breathes in deep, exhales slow, and grins wider, a lazy, knowing curl of his lips, all sharp edges and unchecked arrogance.

then, too casually—“just gotta make sure my girl gets paid.”

suguru blinks. once. twice. then exhales, a slow, measured breath, like he’s trying to process what he just heard.

his expression shifts—not shocked, not confused, but amused. a slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, dark eyes glinting with something knowing, something entertained. because this is the same girl, isn’t it? the same girl satoru was ditching party invitations for, choosing study sessions over late-night drinks for, showing up to campus early for when he barely woke up on time for class.

“...oh?” suguru says, just to hear him say it again.

but satoru doesn’t elaborate. doesn’t even look away from the stands. just flips the towel over his shoulder, rolls his wrists like this is just another game, like he hasn’t just set the entire gym on fire with a single sentence.

the buzzer blasts. second half starts. and satoru gojo is playing for blood.

the other university comes back from halftime determined, desperate, their coach gesturing wildly from the sidelines, barking orders as if sheer strategy will make up for the fact that they are losing to one man. they throw everything at satoru—double teams, switches, aggressive press defense—but none of it matters. he slips through them like water, like air, like something untouchable, moving with the kind of ease that makes even the referees hesitate before blowing the whistle.

he isn’t just scoring—he’s playing with them.

he spins the ball between his fingers, a lazy smirk curling at his lips, then passes it off last second, only to sprint across the court faster than anyone expects and sink a corner three. when their shooting guard tries to lock him down, satoru just laughs—actual laughter, low and effortless, before stepping back and draining another deep shot, his wrist flicking with a perfect follow-through. it barely touches the net.

you shouldn’t be this invested.

but your eyes track him anyway, caught up in the rhythm of his movements, in the way his jersey clings to the shape of his shoulders, the sweat glistening at the hollow of his throat. he’s moving like this is personal, like the entire game is some elaborate performance meant for you alone, and it’s starting to get to you. every time he scores, he glances up, searching for you in the stands, and you hate that your stomach flips when his gaze finds yours.

you hate it even more when you catch yourself smiling.

he’s impossible to ignore, too bright, too loud, too much. the crowd responds to him like he’s some kind of basketball god, voices rising every time he moves, a mix of screams, chants, and what you’re pretty sure is an entire row of students calling out his name. his fan girls are in absolute chaos, some clutching each other’s arms, others dramatically swooning, like they’re seconds away from fainting just from watching him exist.

the other team is beyond frustrated.

they’ve thrown everything at him—double teams, switches, aggressive defense—but it doesn’t matter. because satoru isn’t just playing to win. he’s playing to humiliate.

his next victim is their shooting guard, 6’4, all muscle, built like he should be a defensive wall. he steps up, arms wide, eyes sharp, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. but satoru? satoru doesn’t even look like he’s trying. he bounces the ball once, twice, just enough to let the anticipation build, before shifting forward like he’s about to drive in.

the defender lunges and satoru, the absolute menace that he is, just stands there.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t even attempt to go around him. just watches—completely unbothered, completely still—as the guy flies past him, momentum carrying him forward, stumbling face-first onto the court.

the crowd gasps.

the defender scrambles to recover, but it’s already over. satoru spins the ball in his hands, takes a single step back, and—without even looking at the rim—launches a half-court shot.

the ball soars, clean, effortless, perfect. it barely even touches the net. the gym absolutely erupts. and then—he winks up at the bleachers.

or rather, at you.

it’s infuriatingly slow, deliberate, the corner of his mouth curling up in a way that is both cocky and playful. his white hair is a mess, damp with sweat, strands sticking to his forehead, but it only makes the sharpness of his features more pronounced. his lips part slightly, the ghost of a smirk still lingering, the blue of his eyes catching under the lights—bright, focused, sharp enough to be dangerous.

the reaction is immediate.

“he saw me!” someone shrieks, grabbing their friend’s arm in a death grip.

“no, he was looking at me!” another one yells, voice already breaking.

“oh my god, he’s literally flirting with our section!”

meanwhile, you’re still just watching him play, like he didn’t just incite a full-scale riot in the stands. you don’t even think—you just lift your hand, give him a thumbs up, then go right back to pretending this is normal.

satoru freezes.

for a split second, he stares, blinking like he wasn’t expecting you to actually respond. the gym is too loud, too chaotic, but all of it fades into static as he holds your gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his expression.

then—his grin stretches slow and sharp, something almost dangerous flashing in his expression.

the opposing team barely has time to react. the second satoru turns back to the game, he’s already moving.

their point guard makes the mistake of hesitating, fingers gripping the ball a second too long as he scans the court for an opening. satoru doesn’t wait. he lunges forward, impossibly fast, cutting through the space between them like a blade. his hand shoots out, fingers slapping against the ball with a sharp, decisive smack, and suddenly—it’s his.

the steal is clean, effortless, unfair.

the defender barely has time to curse before satoru is already gone, already breaking into a full sprint down the court. his movements are fluid, sharp, ruthless, his jersey clinging to the sweat on his skin as he takes off, the crowd roaring in anticipation.

a single defender manages to keep up, breathing hard, desperate, sprinting beside him in a last-ditch effort to block him. but satoru doesn’t even look at him. doesn’t even acknowledge him.

he takes one step inside the paint—then jumps. and he just keeps going. the crowd screams as he soars, legs tucking, arm pulling back, body arching so high it feels unreal. the defender leaps, arms stretching, trying—failing.

because satoru gojo is 6’3, fast as hell, and plays above the rim like the air belongs to him.

his fingers clamp around the ball, grip firm, the muscles in his arms flexing as he swings forward—then slams it through the net with enough force to make the entire backboard rattle.

the gym explodes. the other university’s bench is silent. their coach buries his face in his hands.

satoru drops back down to the court, landing lightly on his feet, rolling his shoulders as if he didn’t just commit a crime in front of a full audience. he turns, gaze flicking up toward the bleachers—toward you. his fan girls lose their minds.

but you? you don’t stand a chance.

you exhale slowly, pressing your knuckles against your lips, trying to ignore the warmth creeping into your face. you’re not swooning—you refuse to be one of them, one of the girls throwing themselves at him like he’s some kind of untouchable idol. but your fingers curl against your sketchbook, grip tightening, and you know you’re falling for him anyway.

the game is already over.

the scoreboard doesn’t say it yet, but everyone knows. satoru knows. the other university knows. even their coach, red-faced and exhausted from yelling, has stopped trying to call plays that might turn things around. but satoru? he’s still playing like he has something to prove.

his next move is straight-up cruel.

their point guard is waiting for him at the three-point line, arms wide, stance low, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. he isn’t. satoru bounces the ball between his legs once, twice, then shifts forward just enough to make it look like he’s driving in. the defender lunges, panicked, reaching out to block him—but satoru is already gone.

a single, fluid crossover sends the guy sprawling onto the court, hands catching empty air as satoru steps back and sinks another three-pointer like he’s just shooting around at practice. the bench erupts, players falling over each other in disbelief, a mix of laughter and shouts filling the gym. even the referee—usually stone-faced and neutral—lets out a quiet, impressed whistle.

you cover your mouth with your sleeve, shoulders shaking as you try to stifle your laughter. it’s unfair, really, how easily he does this—how easily he turns the game into his own personal stage, his own playground.

he doesn’t even look at the scoreboard. he looks at you.

your breath catches, because this time, there’s something different in the way he holds your gaze. he isn’t just searching for a reaction—he’s watching. like he’s waiting for something. like he’s confirming something.

your fingers tighten against your sleeve. you know.

and from the way his smirk softens just slightly, the way his head tilts, eyes bright beneath the glare of the gym lights—he knows, too.

the final seconds tick down.

the other team stops trying to chase the score—they know it’s hopeless. some of them don’t even bother running back on defense anymore, hands on their hips, breathing hard, completely defeated. when the final buzzer blares, it’s almost mercy at this point, the end of a game that should’ve stopped being competitive long ago.

final score: 112-39.

satoru lifts his arms in a lazy stretch, grinning, completely unbothered, as if he didn’t just personally crush one of the highest-ranked teams in the league. sweat clings to his skin, his jersey damp, hair an absolute mess, but he still looks ridiculously good, annoyingly confident.

his teammates crowd him immediately, patting his back, ruffling his hair, laughing at his absolute disrespect on the court. he takes it all in stride, leaning against suguru’s shoulder like he didn’t just outrun everyone on that court, fingers lifting in a lazy peace sign as cameras flash.

but the moment he’s free—he looks for you.

he doesn’t find you right away.

by the time the final buzzer blares and the court erupts into cheers, you’re already making your way down the bleachers, tucking your sketchbook under your arm like you can pretend you weren’t watching him the entire time. the gym is still loud, electric, the energy of the crowd vibrating against your skin as students swarm the court, players getting swallowed up in a mess of high-fives and celebratory shouts. you keep your head down, moving quickly, telling yourself that you’re just avoiding the chaos, that you’re not actually running from him.

but then—footsteps. fast. deliberate. coming straight for you.

“oi, oi—why are you leaving so fast?”

too late.

you barely have time to react before satoru catches up, falling into step beside you, grinning like he’s won something more than just a game. he’s still breathless from the court, his jersey damp, sweat clinging to the edges of his hair, but he moves easily, like the entire game was just a warm-up. the fluorescent lights overhead catch on the sharp line of his jaw, on the bright blue of his eyes, on the smug tilt of his lips as he leans in slightly, invading your space like it’s his right.

“so,” satoru drawls, voice still rough from exertion, breath still a little uneven. his skin glows under the fluorescent lights, sweat clinging to the sharp lines of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the stray strands of white hair sticking to his forehead. but he doesn’t seem to care—too busy grinning, too busy basking in his victory. he leans in slightly, crowding into your space the way he always does, eyes alight with something smug, something expectant. “how’s it feel to profit off your favorite athlete?”

you blink, gripping your sketchbook a little tighter, pressing it against your chest like a shield. this is not a conversation you want to have right now—not when he looks like that, not when he’s still riding the high of the game, not when he’s standing too close, towering over you, sweat-drenched and insufferably pleased with himself.

“…i think i probably only made like twenty bucks.”

he freezes. for the first time all night, satoru gojo short-circuits. “...huh?”

you shift your weight slightly, trying not to smile, but he sees the way your fingers twitch, the way your gaze flickers away for half a second, like you’re barely keeping it together. “i only bet the minimum,” you admit, voice calm, unaffected, like you didn’t just shatter his entire perception of the game. “didn’t wanna risk too much.”

there’s a pause. a long one.

satoru's grin falters. his gaze sharpens, like he’s replaying the last two hours in his head, like he’s remembering every dunk, every deep three-pointer, every ridiculous play he pulled off—all under the assumption that you had gone all in.

you see the exact moment he realizes. he ruined a college team’s entire morale for twenty bucks. he also accidentally started several dating rumors.

“no way.” his voice is flat, almost horrified. “no actual way.”

you bite the inside of your cheek, struggling to keep your expression neutral. it’s too easy.

he runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the damp strands, still looking like he’s processing an entire life-altering event. “you—you barely even bet?”

“yup.”

“so you weren’t—” he gestures vaguely, looking genuinely lost, like he’s been personally betrayed by the universe itself. “you weren’t, like, invested?”

you shrug, avoiding his gaze, because you suddenly feel kind of bad. “not really.”

his expression crumbles.

“oh my god.” he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his temples like this is causing him actual physical pain. “i wasted all my best moves for twenty bucks?”

you nod, lips pressing together, but this time, the guilt outweighs the amusement. you peek up at him, watching the way he slouches slightly, shoulders dropping, his usual confidence momentarily replaced with the weight of sheer disbelief.

“…i mean,” you murmur, hesitant, before reaching into your pocket. “you looked pretty cool.”

he doesn’t react immediately, still looking far too devastated to register your words, but when you pull out a neatly folded handkerchief and raise it toward him, he finally glances down.

his brows lift.

“what’s this?” he asks, voice suspicious, but there’s something softer in it now, something curious.

you swallow, suddenly self-conscious, but you don’t pull your hand back. “you’re, um… sweating.”

his lips twitch.

“oh?” he says, and now he’s watching you instead of the handkerchief, instead of anything else.

you avert your gaze, cheeks warming slightly, but you still reach up carefully, dabbing the cloth against his forehead with quiet, deliberate movements. he goes still, just for a second, just long enough for you to register the shift in the air, the way his breath hitches almost imperceptibly.

then—slowly, teasingly—

“damn,” he murmurs. “if i knew you’d be this sweet about it, i would’ve played even harder.”

your fingers pause, pressing against his skin just a fraction longer than necessary, before you pull back abruptly, heart stumbling over itself.

“forget it.” you mutter, stuffing the handkerchief back into your pocket, turning on your heel.

satoru laughs, bright and unbothered, falling into step beside you like he wasn’t just existentially wrecked a minute ago. and somehow, you know this isn’t the last time he’s going to make you feel like this.

but as it turns out, offering satoru a handkerchief isn’t enough to alleviate his mood—he sulks for an entire week.

he still shows up, still lounges around your dorm like he owns the place, but everything he does is unnecessarily dramatic. he sighs—loudly and often—collapsing onto your furniture like his limbs don’t work properly. he sprawls across your bed without asking, flopping onto his stomach like some overgrown cat, muttering about betrayal every time you glance at him. he pokes at your art supplies absentmindedly, dragging a finger along the rim of your paint jars, staring mournfully at your sketchbook like it personally wronged him.

satoru refuses to play pickup games at the campus court, claiming he’s ‘retired’ after his efforts were wasted on someone who only bet the bare minimum. he stretches out on your floor instead, staring at the ceiling with the air of a fallen war hero, occasionally tossing a basketball in the air and catching it one-handed—just to remind you of what was lost.

“you could’ve told me.” he grumbles one evening, sprawled out in the middle of your dorm, arms crossed like a petulant child. his hair is still damp from practice, the ends curling slightly where sweat has dried, but he hasn’t even changed out of his jersey yet—too busy sulking.

you hum in response, dipping your brush into a fresh shade of blue, too used to his dramatics to entertain them. “what, that i wasn’t planning to go broke over a basketball game?”

“yes!” he says miserably, rolling onto his side so he can stare at you like you personally ruined his life.

his arms are still crossed, but one hand is half-buried in his hair, fingers tugging lightly at the strands, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and heartbreak. “i would’ve toned it down.”

you snort, finally glancing at him. his blue eyes are fixed on you, sharp but lazy, like he’s waiting for you to admit you were wrong. “no, you wouldn’t have.”

satoru opens his mouth—probably to argue, probably to deny that he's the most dramatic person alive—but then he catches the look on your face. something shifts in his expression, something slower, something warmer, like he’s seeing you in a way he hadn’t before. for the first time since he walked into your dorm today, he goes quiet.

you don’t look away.

outside, the wind rattles against your window, golden leaves scraping against the glass. the air smells crisp, cold, like the start of something new. autumn is settling in.

“…did you at least have fun?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. your voice is lighter than usual, quieter, like you already know the answer but want to hear him say it anyway.

he doesn’t answer right away.

he just grins, lazy, easy, completely insufferable, like he knows something you’re not ready to admit yet.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “guess i did.”

the last days of AUTUMN slip in quietly, fading into the edges of routine like the final strokes of a painting.

the air is sharper now, biting, enough that satoru finally stops showing up in just his jersey—though he still refuses to wear anything heavier than a hoodie, claiming he’s "built different." the wind rattles your dorm window more often, slipping through the cracks to nip at your fingers as you paint, and the trees outside stand bare and skeletal, their golden leaves now forgotten heaps on the pavement, damp and crumbling underfoot.

and then, there’s finals.

campus shifts with the season, brimming with stress, the energy heavier, more desperate. the library is always full, lights flickering through the windows at all hours of the night. students hunch over laptops in cafés, their cups stacked high with unfinished coffee, their fingers smudged with ink and exhaustion.

and you—you are pushing yourself too hard.

satoru sees it before you do.

he sees it in the way your hands don’t move as fluidly when you paint, how your brushes sit in murky water for too long before you remember to rinse them out. he sees it in the way you rub your eyes more often, fingertips pressing against your temples when you think no one’s looking. the way you sip your coffee like it’s medicine, like you need it just to stay upright.

but more than anything, he sees it in the way you’ve stopped sketching between sessions.

at first, he doesn’t say anything.

because he knows you. knows that you hate being told to slow down, that you treat breaks like enemies, that unfinished work sits on your conscience like an open wound.

so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.

he starts bringing you food more often, not even bothering to pretend they’re leftovers anymore. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, side-eyes your instant noodles with blatant, unfiltered disapproval.

so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.

he starts bringing you food more often, no longer bothering with the flimsy excuse of calling them leftovers. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, always with an offhanded comment—"don’t die on me, yeah?"—before flopping onto your bed like he didn’t just shove sustenance into your hands. he drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, the plastic cool against your wrist as you sketch, and side-eyes your instant noodles like they personally offend him. when you ignore him, he clicks his tongue in disapproval, muttering something about "atrocious dietary habits" like he’s one to talk.

“you’re not my mom, satoru.” you say one evening, peeling the wrapper off the snack he just unceremoniously threw at you.

“nah,” he scoffs, propping himself up on one elbow, watching you unwrap it with clear satisfaction. “if i was your mom, i’d actually let you starve so you’d learn a lesson.”

you pause, narrowing your eyes. “...what lesson?”

he shrugs, grinning like he didn’t just say something completely unhinged, dimples showing slightly. “i dunno. that eating real food is important or some shit.”

you roll your eyes, but you still eat whatever he brings.

and when you think he’s not looking, you chew a little slower, savoring the warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the food.

he starts texting you more, too.

[10:47 PM] still awake?

[10:48 PM] wait dumb question. ofc you are.

[10:48 PM] go to sleep before ur brain melts. if you can’t sleep we can call, im a wonderful singer.

[10:49 PM] also if ur ignoring me rn i’m gonna be soooo hurt u don’t even know.

[10:50 PM] i’m okay, satoru.

[10:51 PM] just a little tired. i’ll sleep soon.

[10:51 PM] thank you for checking, though.

he doesn’t reply right away.

you stare at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard, wondering if he fell asleep or got distracted, if he’s still there. as if sensing this, his replies arrive.

[10:54 PM] yeah, i know.

[10:54 PM] but take it easy, okay?

[10:55 PM] i’ll see you tomorrow.

you exhale, something warm settling in your chest, something you don’t have the energy to unpack right now.

[10:56 PM] okay.

you flip your phone over, tucking it beneath your pillow, but you fall asleep easier that night. because it’s nice. having someone to notice. having someone to care.

then, one evening, it happens.

you’re halfway through a painting, something that’s been frustrating you for days, something that isn’t coming out right no matter how many times you fix it. the colors aren’t blending the way you want, the strokes feel too heavy, too forced—like your hands aren’t listening to you anymore.

satoru is there, sprawled across your bed like he has nowhere else to be, phone in one hand, the other tucked lazily behind his head. he glances at you between scrolling, sighing loudly whenever you don’t react, making just enough noise to remind you of his presence. when that doesn’t work, he shifts onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, eyes flicking toward your hunched form at the desk. “you’re supposed to entertain me, y’know.”

“i’m busy,” you mutter, barely sparing him a glance, your focus locked on the canvas in front of you. your brush hovers midair, colors blending under the dim light of your desk lamp, but there’s a tightness in your grip, a frustration in the way your shoulders remain stiff.

“so?” he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, his head tilting slightly as he watches you. “i am literally your muse.”

you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a little more force than necessary. “you are literally annoying.”

he gasps, clutching his chest like you just struck him. “harsh.” his voice is light, teasing, but his eyes stay on you, watching as you tilt your head, exhale through your nose, then lean forward again, brush hovering over the canvas.

you’ve been fixated for too long now, barely moving except to mix colors, sigh, and frown at your work. your posture is too stiff, too tense, your shoulders drawn up, the curve of your spine locked in place like you’ve forgotten how to relax. your fingers tighten around the brush, knuckles whitening, the bristles pausing mid-stroke as your breath shudders slightly—too shallow, too uneven.

something itches in his chest. for the first time all night, he frowns.

“hey,” he says, sitting up, his phone forgotten beside him. “id you even eat today?”

"“huh?”

your reaction is delayed, your head turning toward him like it takes effort to shift your focus. you blink at him, slow, eyes unfocused, as if you’re still caught between here and the painting, like you don’t quite register what he’s saying.

then—the brush slips from your fingers. before he even registers what’s happening—you sway.

his heart stops. then he’s off the bed in an instant, faster than thought, hands reaching, catching you before you can hit the ground.

“woah, woah—hey.” his voice is too sharp, too urgent, nothing like his usual lazy drawl. one arm curls around your waist, steadying you, while the other grips your wrist, fingers pressing against the faint pulse beneath your skin. you’re too light in his hold, your weight sinking into him like you can’t hold yourself up.

your head lolls against his chest, and he barely registers the faint smudge of paint you leave on his hoodie because—you’re not responding.

panic flares white-hot in his gut.

“okay, no. you don’t get to just faint on me,” he mutters, adjusting his grip, his breath coming quicker than he’d like. he taps your cheek lightly, the warmth of your skin too cool against his fingertips. “wake up, idiot.”

you groan softly, brows pinching together, your expression twisting like even the act of regaining consciousness is too much effort.

“...m’fine,” you mumble, barely coherent, words slow and heavy like your tongue can’t quite keep up.

satoru lets out a sharp breath, his grip on you tight but careful, like he’s still processing the fact that he had to catch you in the first place. “oh, yeah? yeah? that why you just dropped like a damn sack of flour?” his voice is sharp, edged with something that’s not quite annoyance, not quite panic, something he doesn’t know what to do with.

you don’t answer.

his jaw tightens, muscles flexing as he exhales through his nose, his chest rising and falling too fast, too unevenly. without another word, he shifts, carefully maneuvering you onto your bed, his movements stiff, deliberate, too controlled.

“unbelievable,” he grumbles under his breath, pulling the blanket over you with a little more force than necessary. “who even does this? who just forgets to function?”

you mumble something unintelligible, your voice so soft that it barely even reaches him, your eyes fluttering open just enough to meet his. they’re glassy, unfocused, struggling to stay on him, and for some reason, that frustrates him even more.

satoru exhales sharply, running a hand over his face before pushing his hair back, his fingers tangling into the damp strands at the nape of his neck. after a beat, he crouches beside the bed, forearms resting on his knees, his gaze steady as he studies you.

“you okay?” his voice is quieter now, but there’s an edge beneath it, something pressing.

“…m’fine,” you repeat, voice barely above a whisper, but you don’t even sound like you believe it.

his eyes narrow.

“you literally just passed out.” his tone is flat, unimpressed, laced with something dangerously close to concern. “try again.”

you blink slowly, like it takes effort, like you have to search for the words. “…just… tired..” you admit, the syllables slipping together as your lashes flutter, fighting to stay awake.

he doesn’t like the way that sounds.

“yeah, no shit.”

you shift slightly, eyes slipping shut again, breath evening out, and he presses his lips together, watching you too closely, his expression unreadable. his fingers twitch against his knee, like there’s something else he wants to say, something else he wants to do.

then, quieter—like he’s speaking more to himself than to you—“you gotta stop this.”

you hum softly in response, already half-asleep, your breathing slow, steady, but he’s still watching you, still too aware of how small you look like this, how fragile you felt in his arms.

but he means it. you can’t keep doing this. can’t keep running yourself into the ground, pushing past your limits like they don’t exist.

he won’t let you.

his arms remain loosely folded over his knees, but his fingers tap restlessly against his leg, his jaw tight. his hoodie is still stained with the smudge of paint from where your head rested against him, but he doesn’t move to wipe it off. instead, he watches the slow rise and fall of your chest, the faint crease between your brows even in sleep, like you’re still carrying the weight of exhaustion. he exhales, rubs a hand over his face, then reaches for the blanket crumpled at the edge of the bed and drapes it over you, movements slow, careful.

he stays until he’s sure you’re really resting.

when  you wake up, the first thing you notice is the blanket draped over you. the second thing you notice is the smell of something warm, something fresh.

your fingers twitch against the fabric, gripping the edge of the blanket like you’re grounding yourself, like you’re trying to make sense of where you are. your head feels heavy, dull with leftover exhaustion, but there’s something comforting in the warmth pressed against your legs, the scent curling into the cold air. you blink blearily, sitting up, and there—

satoru, on your floor, typing away on his phone. beside him, a steaming cup of instant miso soup sits on your desk.

his back is against the bed frame, legs stretched out, hair a mess of uneven strands where his fingers must’ve run through it too many times. his hoodie hangs loose on his frame, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose the sharp cut of his forearms, and when he hears you shift, he glances up—expression unreadable, gaze sharp but softer than usual.

“you’re awake,” he says, this time without looking away, without the usual smug edge to his voice.

satoru's eyes flicker over your face, assessing, sharp but softer than usual, like he’s searching for something—proof that you’re really okay, that you’re here, conscious, breathing. his posture is relaxed, but there’s something unnaturally still about him, like he hasn’t quite settled since you collapsed. the glow from your desk lamp casts uneven shadows across his face, catching on the messy strands of his hair, the faint crease between his brows.

“...what happened?” your voice is hoarse, rough around the edges, like you’ve been asleep for much longer than you should have. you shift under the blanket, fingers tightening around the fabric, the weight of exhaustion still pressing against your limbs.

he gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“you died.”

you blink at him, lips parting slightly—stunned, too tired to argue.

he holds your gaze for half a second longer before exhaling, reaching for the cup on your desk. “...briefly,” he amends, his fingers barely touching the ceramic as he pushes it toward you, the soft scrape of porcelain against wood filling the quiet space between you. “drink. before you die again.”

your fingers curl around the warmth, hesitating for just a second before lifting it. the heat seeps into your palms, steadying, grounding, and for some reason, your chest tightens in a way you don’t want to name.

you take a slow sip, the warmth spreading through your bones, reaching into the cold, exhausted parts of you that you hadn’t even realized were there.

“thanks,” you mumble, voice quieter now, the steam from the soup curling into the cold air between you.

satoru shrugs, but his gaze lingers, watching you a little too closely, a little too long, like he’s waiting for something. there’s no teasing grin, no smart remark—just a quiet, unreadable weight in the way he looks at you. his fingers tap absently against his knee, the rhythm uneven, restless, like there’s something on the tip of his tongue that he’s still deciding whether or not to say.

then—"you know," he starts, voice too casual, too calculated, like he’s testing the waters before fully stepping in. "you never let me see your sketchbook."

your grip tightens slightly around the cup, the warmth pressing against your palms, suddenly too much, too distracting.

he notices.

satoru's gaze flickers down—just for a second, brief but deliberate—before meeting yours again, sharper now, curiosity replacing the usual lazy amusement in his expression. the teasing edge is gone, replaced by something steadier, something unreadable. “why is that?

“…no reason,” you lie, shifting under his stare, trying to appear unaffected. but the soup in your hands is suddenly too warm, too grounding, your fingers curling tighter around the ceramic like it might steady you. you can feel the weight of his attention, the way he’s watching you too closely, too intently, like he’s waiting for the cracks to show.

his brows lift, his expression flat, unimpressed. “bullshit.”

you scowl, gripping your soup tighter, like it’ll shield you from this conversation, like it might somehow block him from seeing through you.

“it’s private.”

“so? i’m literally the subject,” he argues, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his presence suddenly heavier, more insistent. “i should get at least a sneak peek.”

“no.”

his eyes narrow slightly, the corner of his lip twitching like he’s already planning a new approach. “why?”

“because,” you say, and that’s all you give him. because you don’t know how to explain it. because you don’t want to.

his lips press into a thin line, his gaze lingering just a little too long, just sharp enough to make you shift under the weight of it.

a challenge.

but you’re still half-buried in exhaustion, your limbs too heavy, your mind still foggy, and he knows it.

so after a beat, satoru exhales through his nose, then leans back against the bed again, arms folding behind his head, stretching out like he’s already decided this conversation isn’t over.

“fine. for now,” he says, voice light, easy. but there’s something about the way he says it—something low, something certain, like a promise rather than a concession.

you glare at him, because you know him—know the way his mind works, know that he never lets things go, never drops anything without a reason. you see the way his grin lingers, the way it tugs at the corner of his mouth just slightly off-kilter, like he’s already planning his next move. it’s not a matter of if he’ll bring this up again—it’s when.

he grins wider, because he knows you know. because you’re predictable in a way that amuses him, in a way that keeps him entertained. you’re trying too hard to brush this off, to pretend like the question doesn’t rattle something inside you, but he’s always been good at noticing the little things. your avoidance, your tight grip on the cup, the way your shoulders stiffen just slightly whenever he pushes too close.

and just like that, the weight of the moment lifts, the air turning lighter again, slipping back into something familiar. you take another sip of the miso soup, the heat seeping through your fingers, spreading through your chest, anchoring you in the quiet. satoru shifts, arms still behind his head, gaze flickering away from you for once—out the window, toward the sky, toward the city beyond.

outside, the wind rattles the glass, slipping through the cracks, curling into the room like the first whisper of something colder.

autumn is ending. and winter is near.

WINTER has settled in, quiet but undeniable.

the air is colder, sharper, slipping through the cracks of your dorm window no matter how tightly you close it. the ground outside is dusted in frost, the once-vibrant autumn leaves now forgotten beneath slushy sidewalks and the occasional crunch of ice. campus is emptier now, students retreating home for winter break, leaving the dorms quieter, the hallways less crowded, less alive.

but he’s in your dorm all the time now.

it started with quick drop-ins after games—an excuse to complain about how sore he was, to stretch out on your floor like a lazy cat, to toss you a snack without explanation. then it turned into late-night visits when he had nowhere better to be—until, eventually, he stopped pretending he needed a reason at all.

your dorm isn’t much, just a tiny room barely big enough for the both of you, but somehow, it’s become his space, too.

he kicks his shoes off without thinking, leaves his jacket slung over your chair like it belongs there, flops onto your bed without asking. he always brings something with him—sometimes food, sometimes a new brand of tea he insists you try, sometimes just the lingering warmth of conversation when the room feels too quiet.

(you complain about it. “this is not a hangout spot.” “stop making a mess on my desk.” “for the last time, satoru, my bed is not your personal couch.” but you never actually tell him to leave.)

and lately, you seem less exhausted when he’s here.

finals are over. winter break has started. the campus is quieter, the stress that had settled into your shoulders finally lifting, loosening its grip.

you still overwork yourself, still get lost in your paintings for hours, but you’re taking care of yourself now, too.

he sees it in the way you actually eat full meals instead of just instant noodles. in the way you don’t fight him when he shoves a bottle of water into your hands. in the way you’ve stopped waking up with smudged paint on your cheek from falling asleep at your desk.

he’s proud of you. not that he’d ever say it out loud. maybe one day. but for now, he’ll just keep showing up.

tonight, though, you’re running late.

some meeting for an art exhibition, something you were weirdly cagey about when he asked. you had waved him off, barely sparing him a glance as you gathered your things in a rush, stuffing papers into your bag, adjusting your coat with hurried movements. he had teased you—“look at you, so professional. should I start calling you sensei?”—but you had just rolled your eyes, muttered something about being late, and disappeared out the door.

he almost doesn’t notice at first, too busy digging through a plastic bag of snacks he brought for you, tossing a pack onto your desk, then tearing open another for himself. he stretches out against your bed frame, one knee propped up, his phone in one hand, snacks in the other, making himself comfortable in the way he always does. your absence doesn’t bother him—you’ll be back soon, and besides, he’s already claimed this space as his own.

but then—his eyes flicker to your desk. to your sketchbook.

it’s right there.

he’s been curious for months.

he’s seen the way you snap it shut the second he moves too close, how you always turn it facedown, tuck it under your arm, keep it pressed against your chest when you leave a room. it’s deliberate, protective, like it holds something you don’t want him to see—something more than just rough sketches from your sessions.

and he’s been good. he’s been patient. but now? now, he’s alone. and, well—what’s the harm in taking a little peek?

his fingers brush the cover, hesitating for just a second—a quiet moment of restraint before curiosity wins out. then, with one last glance at the door to make sure you’re not back yet—he flips it open.

he expects sketches of his poses from your sessions. the usual. the planned. the predictable.

what he doesn’t expect is—pages and pages of him.

not the carefully composed ones, not the ones you’d shown him before. no, these are different. the lines are loose, unpolished, real—like you weren’t drawing to impress anyone, like you were just trying to capture something before it slipped away.

his fingers still against the page, breath catching slightly, pulse stuttering in a way he doesn’t understand. his own face stares back at him, over and over again, not the carefully arranged expressions from your sessions, but the ones he didn’t know you were paying attention to.

him, tying his shoes before a game, the curve of his shoulders loose and relaxed. him, tossing his head back, laughing, mouth open, eyes crinkled—drawn in a way that makes him look softer than he’s used to. next to it, in small, slanted handwriting: ‘loudest laugh in the world.’

satoru exhales slowly, flipping the page, movements quieter now, more deliberate.

him, spinning a basketball on his fingertip, drawn from multiple angles like you were trying to get it just right. him, leaning against your dorm room wall, arms crossed, head tilted, gaze sharp but amused—like he’s in the middle of teasing you. his eyes flick to the corner, where you’ve written, ‘always watching. annoyingly perceptive.’

he huffs out a quiet breath—not quite a laugh, not quite anything. his throat feels tight.

he turns another page, his fingers careful now, almost hesitant. a corner of a napkin peeks out—he pulls it loose, unfolding it carefully. a quick, half-finished sketch of him mid-sprint, lines rushed, motion barely captured, next to a coffee-stained note that just says: ‘too fast to draw. unfair.’

his lips part slightly, breath catching at the words, at the fact that you even tried.

another, taped messily into the spine of the book—a full-body drawing of him from behind, hoodie pulled up, hands in his pockets, walking away. ‘somehow takes up more space than anyone else.’ you wrote in the margins, the ink slightly smudged, like you had run your fingers over it absentmindedly.

he swallows, jaw tightening. his thumb brushes the edge of the page, lingering there, like if he just holds still, he’ll figure out what to do with the way his chest feels too full, too tight.e because this—this isn’t simply a collection of sketches. this is him, through your eyes.

and then—he flips another page. this one is different.

not a quick sketch, not a half-finished doodle on the edge of a napkin, not something you scribbled in passing. a full portrait. detailed, deliberate, like you took your time with it. like you wanted to get it exactly right.

he recognizes the jersey immediately—it’s from last week, when he had come over grumbling about practice, throwing himself onto your bed like it was his own, arms sprawled out, eyes shut, muttering about how being the best was exhausting. he remembers laughing, remembers the weight of your gaze on him, remembers teasing you about how you were always staring anyway.

but this—this means you had watched him even longer. the expression you captured—it’s him, but it’s softer. relaxed. comfortable. unaware.

oh.

his fingers pause against the edge of the paper, grip tightening just slightly.

but you couldn’t have done all this in front of him without him noticing. you’re always preoccupied, always doing something else whenever he’s around—never reaching for your sketchbook. had you drawn this only after he left? had you memorized these moments, watched him for far longer than he realized, until you could capture him this accurately?

his stomach does something weird again.

like a sharp twist of something unfamiliar, something heavy, something he doesn’t quite know what to do with. his throat feels tight, his pulse uneven, a strange warmth creeping into his chest and settling there, stubborn and unmoving.

his gaze lingers on the portrait, taking in the details—the careful shading of his jawline, the way his hair looks slightly messier than usual, the way his arms are draped carelessly over the sheets. he looks like he belongs there.

he swallows, jaw tightening. because he does.

he hears your footsteps before the door even opens—the soft, familiar rhythm of them padding down the hall, the faint rustle of your coat as you shift, the quiet exhale you always let out before stepping inside.

the door creaks open gently, slow and careful, like you’re trying not to startle the silence of the room. “i’m home,” you say softly, the words barely past your lips before you step inside.

but satoru isn’t paying attention. because his heart is still racing, his hands are still gripping the sketchbook, and he’s way too fucking giddy to think of a way to get rid of his crime in time.

you take two steps in before your gaze lands on him—seated on your bed, sketchbook open in his hands, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. your expression shifts in an instant—relaxed to confused to absolutely horrified.

“satoru, what are you—” your voice cuts off mid-sentence, sharp and sudden, like you physically can’t finish.

he looks up at you, eyes bright with mischief, lips already curling into a grin, the kind that spells nothing but trouble. fingers still pressed against the pages, holding them open like evidence, like proof. then—casually, effortlessly, like he didn’t just get caught red-handed—“you like me.”

you freeze, body going rigid, fingers twitching at your sides like you don’t know whether to snatch the book back or bolt.

he tilts his head, grin widening, flipping through the pages with exaggerated slowness, dragging out your suffering. “and here i thought you only liked me for my bone structure—”

“give it back.” your voice comes out too fast, too sharp, laced with something close to panic.

he laughs, flipping another page, gaze flicking between the sketches and your rapidly reddening face. “so you have been staring.”

"satoru—" you take a step forward, but he just leans back against the bed, completely unbothered, holding the sketchbook out of reach.

“oh, this one’s nice,” he teases, holding up the sketch of him mid-game, spinning the book slightly between his fingers like he’s inspecting it. “was this from last week? so you were watching me train and not just pretending to be absorbed in your sketchbook—”

“i was drawing!—”

“—drawing me.” his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else under it—something quieter, something warmer, something dangerously close to fondness.

you snatch the sketchbook out of his hands so fast it nearly smacks him in the face.

he expects you to yell at him. maybe shove him. maybe even hit him with the sketchbook. but instead your expression twists, your cheeks burning, lips parting like you want to say something but can’t, and before he can react, before he can stop you—you groan and slam the sketchbook back to your bed, turn on your heel and leave.

“hey—!” he scrambles after you, nearly tripping over a stack of books, nearly sending an entire pile of papers flying, nearly proving why you never let him near your workspace unsupervised. his breath comes out in sharp puffs of white against the cold air, but he barely notices, too focused on closing the distance between you, on the way your shoulders are stiff, the way you move like you’re fighting the urge to break into a full sprint.

outside, the first real snowfall of the season is drifting down, dusting the campus in white, clinging to the bare branches, softening the edges of the world. but you’re too preoccupied with storming away to notice, too caught up in your own mortification to care.

“oh, come on,” satoru groans, catching up with long, easy strides, like this isn’t a crisis, like this isn’t your worst nightmare unfolding in real time. “don’t just run away—”

“i am not running away.”

“you totally are.”

“i—!” you whirl around so fast he nearly crashes into you, nearly walks straight into your personal space like an idiot. he stops just short, breath catching slightly, eyes flicking down to the tiny sliver of space left between you.

the air is cold between you, breath visible in the space that suddenly feels too charged, too warm despite the winter creeping in.

your arms are crossed so tightly it looks like you’re holding yourself together, like if you let go, you might actually combust from sheer embarrassment.

“you’re so—” you huff, flustered, frustrated, desperate to change the subject, desperate to claw back even a fraction of your dignity.

“handsome? charming? incredibly kissable—”

“—infuriating!”

he just grins, all teeth and shameless amusement, because you’re easy to read now. because no matter how much you glare at him, your ears are pink, your fingers are twitching, your weight is shifting like you want to run again but can’t bring yourself to.

“you like me,” he says again, softer this time. more certain.

you don’t answer.

snowflakes land on your lashes, catching in your hair, melting against your skin. your lips are parted like you want to argue, but nothing comes out. your eyes are too bright, too wide, too caught between wanting to flee and wanting to stay.

satoru gojo is not known for his restraint.

so, naturally, he kisses you.

he moves before he can think, before he can overcomplicate it, before you can run again. his head tilts, his breath warm against your skin, and then—he leans down, slow, deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away.

but you don’t.

and oh—oh.

his lips are warm despite the cold, despite the way the winter air bites at your skin, despite the snowflakes melting between you. his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks when he closes his eyes, those impossibly bright baby blues disappearing beneath pale lashes. he doesn’t rush, doesn’t tease, doesn’t turn it into something playful. for once, he takes his time.

his free hand lifts just slightly, like he wants to cup your cheek, like he wants to hold you there, but at the last second, he hesitates. instead, his fingers curl lightly around your wrist, grounding, steady, just enough pressure to keep you from slipping away.

you freeze for half a second.

then, you melt.

your breath stutters, your fingers gripping at the fabric of his uniform, hesitant at first, then firmer, anchoring yourself to him. your body tilts forward, just the slightest bit, just enough to tell him—yes.

and he’s already grinning into the kiss, absolutely insufferable, because he knew it. because he knew you wouldn’t pull away. because he knew you liked him.

when you finally pull back, breathless, he doesn’t let you go.

doesn’t want to.

his grip on your wrist stays firm, not tight, not demanding, just enough to keep you here, to keep you in this moment a little longer. his breath is warm against your skin, fanning softly over your lips, his fingers twitching like he’s debating pulling you back in.

“so,” he murmurs, forehead pressing against yours, nose barely grazing your own, “are you gonna admit it now, or do i have to go through another sketchbook’s worth of proof?”

your fingers tighten slightly around his sleeve, your heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape, like it’s trying to make up for every second you spent pretending this wasn’t real. your cheeks are burning, the cold doing nothing to help, but still—you force yourself to meet his gaze, to stare straight into those impossibly bright baby blues.

“…i do.”

his breath hitches.

“you… do?”

“i like you,” you clarify, somehow both firmer and shyer at the same time, words tumbling out too fast and too soft. then, before he can say anything stupid—“now you say it.”

his grin falters—not in amusement, not in teasing, but in something softer, something fonder, something that makes your stomach flip.

“i like you,” he repeats, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like he never doubted it for a second. his ears are pink, his fingers twitch against your wrist, but his voice stays steady, stays sure. “a lot.”

your stomach twists, your face burns, and before he can get even more unbearably smug about it, you shove him, pushing at his chest with more force than necessary, just to wipe the grin off his face.

he laughs, stumbling back a step but still holding onto your wrist, still looking at you like you’ve just handed him the greatest win of his life.

but this time, you don’t walk away.

instead, you sigh, shaking your head as you grab his sleeve properly and start pulling him back toward your dorm, fingers curling around the fabric like you’re holding on without realizing it.

“what, no dramatic speech about how i misread everything?” he teases, falling into step beside you, his free hand slipping lazily into his pocket.

“shut up,” you mumble, voice muffled by the scarf you’ve pulled higher over your face, like it’ll somehow hide the warmth still lingering in your cheeks.

“soooo,” he drawls, bumping his shoulder against yours, “does this mean i’m officially your muse and your boyfriend now? multi-purpose?”

“no.”

“cold.”

he laughs, and it’s light, easy, painfully warm despite the winter air, like it’s found a home between you, settling there without permission. his breath fogs in the cold, but the space between you feels warmer somehow, lighter, like the weight of something unspoken has finally lifted. his steps are relaxed now, shoulders looser, head tilting toward you every so often—a quiet, effortless gravity pulling him closer, even when he doesn’t realize it.

when you get back to your dorm, he kicks off his shoes like always, sending them haphazardly toward the corner. shrugs off his jacket like always, barely looking where it lands. flops onto your bed like always, stretching out like he owns the place, arms behind his head, hair messy from the wind.

but this time, you roll your eyes and curl up beside him, too.

he doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t tease, doesn’t even try to fight the smug grin tugging at his lips. he just shifts, adjusting without thinking, making room like he’s been waiting for this—like you’ve belonged there all along.

when he tucks his arm around you without thinking, you don’t complain.

when you mumble, half-asleep, voice softer than usual, “thanks for taking care of me.” he just hums, low and content, the sound barely more than a vibration against your skin. his fingers move without thought, absentmindedly tracing slow, lazy circles against your back, the rhythm steady, grounding.

when he presses a lazy kiss to the top of your head, breath catching just slightly against your hair, you don’t push him away.

outside, the snow keeps falling, soft and slow, blanketing the world in quiet. winter settles in around you. and for once, you let yourself rest.

the last of WINTER lingers in the early mornings, cold air curling against skin, clinging to rooftops, biting at fingertips. but the afternoons are warming up, the sun stretching a little higher in the sky, melting the ice that once lined the sidewalks. students swap heavy coats for lighter jackets, trading chattering teeth for the kind of energy that only comes with knowing winter is finally loosening its grip. cherry blossoms are just beginning to bud, hesitant, as if uncertain the cold is truly gone.

campus is filling up again. winter break is over. the once-quiet halls are alive with movement, voices overlapping, footsteps echoing against tile, the hum of life creeping back in. the scent of freshly brewed coffee drifts from the cafés, mingling with the crisp air, a sure sign that students are shaking off their winter sluggishness.

and satoru gojo is a public menace.

he was already bad enough as their university’s basketball star before. always loud, always impossible to ignore, always moving through campus like he owned it, like he was more event than person, someone you watched because you couldn’t help it. with that ridiculous, effortless kind of charm, all long limbs and easy smiles, like he’d never once known the weight of the world.

but now? now, he has a girlfriend. and now, he has you. and he makes sure everyone knows.

“my beloved!”

his voice slices through the courtyard like a warning bell, sharp and unmistakable, sending heads turning with an almost comical synchronicity. he’s leaning against a vending machine when you spot him, his navy varsity jacket loose over his shoulders, white t-shirt just barely clinging to the lean muscle beneath. his hair is a mess of soft white strands, tousled from the wind—or maybe practice—but his grin is bright, his blue eyes locked onto you with alarming precision.

you freeze for half a second—just half—but that’s all it takes for him to zero in on you, and you can feel the shift in the air, the heat of his gaze on your back as if he’s been waiting for this moment all along. the sound of his footsteps quicken, and before you know it, the familiar, teasing voice slices through the space between you.

“lovey! sweetheart! honeybunch sugarplum—”

you don’t even hesitate. the instinct to escape rises up, and you walk faster, head forward, eyes fixed on some imaginary point in the distance. it’s an old trick, pretending like if you just focus hard enough on something far away, you can ignore the fact that satoru gojo is loudly, dramatically, chasing after you like some over-the-top rom-com hero.

“stop it.” your teeth grind together, a faint blush creeping up your neck as you force your shoulders to stay stiff, trying to hold onto whatever dignity you have left.

he laughs, delighted by your discomfort, the sound almost echoing in the quiet space. with a lazy, unbothered air, he shoves his hands into his pockets and easily falls into step beside you. his white hair is still a mess from practice, some strands falling into his eyes, but he looks effortless, like he hasn’t even broken a sweat. “you wound me, darling.”

“i am not doing this with you.” you mutter under your breath, barely glancing at him, hoping that if you ignore him long enough, he’ll just go away. but it’s futile.

he’s faster. it’s always the same. his long legs carry him with a grace that shouldn’t be possible for someone so tall, and with barely any effort, he’s at your side, matching your pace, his grin stretching impossibly wide. his head tilts slightly, his white hair falling over his eyes in that way you’ve come to recognize so well—shifting and effortlessly falling into place. his blue eyes catch the light, looking so damn intense, you can’t help but notice the way they gleam through the long lashes, unguarded and almost playful.

“starlight, love of my life, future mother of my children—”

you stop mid-step, throwing him a sharp look, and his smile only widens at your frustration. “satoru.”

he gasps, clutching his chest in mock horror, eyes widening as if you’ve physically hurt him. he stumbles back a step, just for effect, and lets out an exaggerated sigh. “are you—” his voice drops to a dramatic whisper, his expression feigning scandal as he leans in closer. “are you ashamed of me?”

your jaw tightens, the irritation mixing with something else you’d rather not address. “i would like for people to know quietly.”

satoru halts mid-step, his hand flying to his chest as if you’ve just ripped out his heart. his face contorts into exaggerated pain as if you’ve just shattered him with a single sentence. “you—you don’t want to scream our love from the rooftops? you don’t want the whole world to know how much you adore me?” he flutters his fingers dramatically in the air as if visualizing the grand spectacle of it all.

you groan, shoving your hands into your pockets, doing your best to ignore the amused glances and curious whispers around you. it’s not bad, really. the attention.

you had expected—well. you don’t know what you expected. for people to react badly? for them to wonder why he’s with you, of all people?

but mostly, people are just… surprised. conversations halt mid-sentence, heads whip around for second and third takes, and whispered speculations weave through the air like static electricity.

a lot of:

“wait. gojo has a girlfriend? for real?”

“damn, i thought he was just messing around.”

“no way. no actual way.”

a handful of utterly devastated fangirls, clutching their textbooks like lifelines, staring as if their world has just come crashing down. but no one says anything cruel. no one scoffs or sneers. no one looks at you like you don’t belong next to him.

it’s a little overwhelming. but not awful. just… loud. and satoru? he thrives in it.

he’s absolutely ridiculous about it, keeps throwing his arm around your shoulders, keeps making a show of lacing his fingers through yours, keeps finding ways to bring it up in conversations that have nothing to do with him. when you’re walking together, he tugs you just a little closer, just a little tighter, like he wants everyone on campus to see. his hand is always finding its way to your waist, resting there like it belongs, fingers tapping idly against the fabric of your sweater. sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly dramatic, he’ll spin you around in the middle of the hallway, dipping you like you’re in the final scene of a romance movie, just because he can.

and you—earnest, quiet, and in love despite yourself—you let him.

you don’t indulge him the same way he does you. your affections are smaller, tucked between the spaces he leaves, a quiet echo to his relentless declarations. but you don’t pull away when he leans into you. you don’t protest when he sneaks his fingers through yours. and when you think no one’s looking, when his head is turned just so, when he’s grinning at something dumb and impossibly satoru, you let yourself look at him the way he looks at you.

one time, in the middle of lunch, he just sighs dramatically, leaning back in his chair, stretching his arms like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. his white hair is a mess from practice, sweat-damp at the nape of his neck, but he still looks effortless, still looks like he belongs under the sun, basking in the warmth of his own theatrics. he exhales, long and suffering, tilting his head back so far his chair almost tips. and then, with all the weight of the universe pressing down on his chest, he declares;

“man, having a girlfriend is crazy.”

you don’t even look up from your sketchbook. you’re used to this. you barely even blink anymore when he starts talking like the main character in a tragic love story. “you literally asked for this.”

“yeah, but still.”

he hums, thoughtful, like he’s truly pondering the gravity of his situation—then abruptly flops onto your lap, draping himself across you like he’s meant to be there. his head lands against your stomach, arms sprawled, legs stretched out across the bench, the weight of him pressing down on you like an overgrown cat. his hair tickles your wrist, and when you peer down, his eyes are already on you, bright and full of trouble. he’s grinning, of course he’s grinning, his lips twitching like he’s barely holding back a laugh.

you grunt under the sudden weight, the pressure of his body settling onto you like a heavy, careless blanket. you barely stop yourself from elbowing him off, your muscles tensing from the surprise, but he’s already too comfortable, sprawled across your lap with a dramatic sigh. “get off me.”

“no.”

he sounds so certain, so annoyingly nonchalant as he rests his head on your stomach, his hair messy from practice, damp strands sticking to his forehead like a defiant halo. you sigh through your nose, fingers tightening around your pencil, the sharp tip pressing against the paper as if it could ground you. “what do you want.”

“you know,” he says, his voice light, almost sing-song, as his head tilts just enough to meet your gaze, those ridiculously bright, ridiculously smug baby blues peering up at you with a look that’s both teasing and entirely too pleased with himself. “you kinda have a responsibility now.”

your sigh is louder this time, escaping through your nose as you flip to a new page in your sketchbook, trying to ignore the weight of him and the pull of his presence. you shift a little beneath him, adjusting to make space as your gaze flickers down at him. “what responsibility.”

he doesn’t move, doesn’t break the casual pose, his arms still spread wide like he’s claiming the space between you, his legs stretched comfortably across the bench, his fingers tapping lightly against your stomach. “you have to come to all my games. non-negotiable.”

you finally glance down at him, unimpressed, but your eyes soften just a little when you see the way he’s looking up at you, his grin wide, eyes twinkling like he’s saying something that’s a matter of life and death. you roll your eyes but can’t help the quiet smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth. “all of them?”

“yes. all.”

you blink at him, your hand drifting to your lap, pressing down the fluttering feeling in your chest, the soft affection you try so hard to keep from spilling over. “but i already go to most of them—”

“all. of. them.” his tone is firm now, a little playful but undeniably serious, his finger poking at your side like a reminder of his claim over your attention. he lifts his head just slightly, his lips pulling into a smirk that’s far too smug for anyone's good, and you know, without a doubt, that he’s completely and utterly certain of his win.

you sigh, louder this time, rolling your eyes as he grins up at you like he’s already won. his hair is soft when your fingers brush against it, a stray lock falling over his forehead as he waits, expectant. you hesitate for just a second, then let your fingers linger a beat longer than necessary, smoothing it back into place. “and why, exactly?”

his smirk falters, just for a fraction of a second. almost imperceptible. but you catch it, the flicker of something softer beneath the bravado, the way his throat bobs slightly before he answers.

“because you have to witness your incredibly talented, best-athlete-on-campus boyfriend in action, obviously.”

“obviously.”

“plus,” he adds, reaching up to poke your cheek with the most obnoxious little tap, “i play better when you’re there.”

your fingers tighten around your pencil, just slightly. you don’t answer immediately, because if you do, it might come out too soft, too earnest, too much. but your lips press together, and your gaze lingers, and when you finally murmur, “…is that true, or are you just saying that?” it sounds quieter than you mean it to.

his grin widens, eyes gleaming, mischief and sincerity tangled together like a promise. “guess you’ll have to keep coming to find out, huh?”

you shove his face away.

but later, when his attention is stolen by something else—when he’s laughing with his friends or zoning out as he stretches— you find your gaze lingering, the subtle shift of your focus as you tilt your head. your eyes trace the smooth curve of his cheek, the way the sunlight catches in his hair, making the white strands look like a halo around his face. there’s the easy slope of his shoulders, the way he leans back with that effortless confidence, his legs stretched out over the bench like he owns every inch of space around him. you notice all these things in the quiet moments when he’s not looking, and it’s almost like a secret you keep tucked away.

and then you think, helplessly, hopelessly— he plays better because he’s looking for you. it's not just the game he’s focused on. it’s the stands, it’s you. and for all his teasing, all his dramatic declarations, there’s this undercurrent you can’t deny—that he needs you there, in that spot, where his eyes always find yours.

you go to all his games anyway. it’s not a question, not a choice. you sit in the stands, your eyes fixed on the court, but your mind elsewhere, always waiting, always watching. every time, without fail, he looks for you before tip-off, and the moment he spots you, his expression shifts—just the faintest change in the curve of his lips, the way his eyes brighten as if he’s found something precious. every time, he finds you, like there’s no other place he would rather be. every time, he grins that obnoxious, confident grin, the one that says he’s already won, that he knows you’re there, and that’s enough.

spring creeps in. the last of the cold melts away, and you notice how the days stretch longer, how the warmth settles in your bones as everything begins to bloom around you.

and satoru gojo never stops being loud about loving you, his voice always rising above the noise, always unafraid of being seen. and you, quiet as you are, never stop loving him right back, holding it all in the space between the moments, where words aren’t necessary.

a/n: i would like to formally announce that i was this close to killing her off in winter via tragic anemia-induced collapse, but in a rare act of mercy, i decided against it. as such, i will be accepting 100-word minimum essays filled with gratitude in the comments. failure to comply may result in me rethinking my generosity. choose wisely.

kidding aside, im glad i finally got this fic out of my drafts—this has been rotting and slowly cooking since the episode with satoru playing basketball released😋 idk much about western school year so i apologize if the schedule is all wrong! i only relied to google writing this. not like they will read this but i still wanna thanks my homeboys for helping me write the basketball scene, i definitely needed that <3 im not an artist so i apologize if there are any misconceptions in my fic^^

[cuntyji]

TOMORROW IS GONE ౨ৎ SukuGo x Female Reader

Synopsis: When the past claws its way into the present, Sukuna is left standing in the wreckage of a fate he swore he’d never repeat. A part of him died screaming the name of one he loved, and now, in a cruel mirror of history, you and Gojo are slipping through his fingers the same way—another lesson that love, no matter how fierce, is never enough. As blood stains his hands and regret poisons his soul, one question lingers: was he always meant to lose, or was his name the curse that doomed him from the start? ( AO3 )

Content Warnings: Med student SukuGo x female reader, bicurious/bisexual sukuna and gojo, polyamory, college setting, heavy angst minimal comfort, more tba

Trigger Warnings: 18+ content, MDNI. Descriptions of illness and hospitals, toxic family/friendship dynamics, alcohol and drug use, sexual content, body dysmorphia, sexual harassment, more tba

Taglist: Open, please have your age displayed in your bio.

⚠ this fic on tumblr is posted as "parts," with multiple chapters in one post, which will make the tumblr and ao3 count vary. the story stays the same on all platforms with no change.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ part one [chapter 1-3]

. . . more tba

written and edited by @cuntyji on tumblr and archive of our own. original fanart by @to00fu, edited by @cuntyji. dividers by @hyuneskkami

[aquasoftware]

"HAVE SOME CLASS!"

FT║ Fem!Reader ✘ Sukuna | WC ➜ 624 ♪ ML

Desc | Dating a criminal with zero tech skills as a “high-class” model was your first mistake. ➜ Now, thanks to one accidental upload, the whole world knows exactly what you look like crying his name.

Cw║ (N)sfw 18+, màt!ng press, accidental sēx tape leak (Kuna being a dumbass whoops,) hūm!l!aț!on, degrādatiøn, sp!t k!nk, pøwer imbalance, s!ze k!nk if you squint, model! Reader + criminal!sukuna.

The world knew you as more than a model—a goddess. A vision draped in designer, skin kissed by flashing lights, a body sculpted to be worshiped. Your name carried prestige, once spoken in admiration. Now, it was scandalized like the greatest sin.

The leak had spread like wildfire. A single clip, no more than a minute long, of you folded in half beneath him—knees pressed to your chest, ankles hooked over his shoulders, his weight caging you in as he rutted deep, relentless, possessive.

Sukuna.

An infamous criminal—untouchable, unstoppable, and the last man anyone expected to see fucking you senseless.

The video was grainy, taken from a low angle, but there was no mistaking you. Manicured nails digging into his forearms, lips parted in a wrecked gasp. And him—looming over you, one hand wrapped around your throat, the other forcing your legs further back as he drove into you, each punishing stroke stealing the breath from your lungs.

The way your body arched for him. The way his inked hands owned every inch of you. The way your lips trembled as you whimpered his name, so pathetic “Kuna…”

But the worst part? Your voice—wrecked, needy—cut through the sinful symphony of flesh against flesh. “Spit in my mouth, please.” Sultry, desperate, dripping with desire. And he did—gripping your jaw, tilting your head back before letting a slow, deliberate trail of saliva fall onto your waiting tongue. The moan that followed? Indisputable proof of how thoroughly he’d ruined you.

And the cherry on top? His voice, mocking between every ruthless snap of his hips, calling you his little slut. Filthy words blending into the slick, obscene melody of him stretching you open. Your tight cunt clenched around his thick cock, a creamy ring forming at the base each time he bottomed out—proof of just how devastatingly deep he reached, and how much you craved it.

Your reputation was in shambles.

Your agent’s frantic calls went ignored. Social media was a wasteland, your name drowning in every filthy hashtag imaginable. Some people shamed you; others called you lucky to have a man like him wreck you so thoroughly.

And Sukuna?

That bastard was amused.

You stormed into his penthouse, the city skyline glowing behind him as he lounged on the couch, phone in hand. His sharp eyes flicked to yours, a slow smirk curling on his lips.

“Enjoying your newfound fame?” he drawled, tossing his phone aside.

Your rage surged. “What the fuck did you do?”

Sukuna clicked his tongue, stretching lazily. “Relax, princess. It wasn’t on purpose.”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

“How the fuck was I supposed to know hitting the wrong button would post the damn thing?” He exhaled, tilting his head back. “They need to make this shit less complicated.”

Your breath hitched. “You’re telling me you accidentally leaked it?”

His smirk widened. “Tsk, I was trying to send it to you.” He rolled his shoulders like this was some minor inconvenience. “Guess I hit the wrong button.”

“Sukuna, you fucking idiot—”

Your words shriveled as he grabbed you, yanking you onto his lap. His grip was firm, unyielding, his breath hot against your ear.

“Listen to me,” he murmured, lips ghosting along your jawline. “The whole world’s seen you now. They’ve watched you break under me, fall apart for me. You think any other man can look at you without seeing me buried inside you?”

Heat surged through you, a mixture of anger and something far more dangerous.

Sukuna’s fingers pressed between your thighs, feeling the warmth even through your designer dress. “Oh?” he purred. “You like that, don’t you?”

His teeth grazed your earlobe, a wicked grin curling against your skin.

“Let them look, princess. They already know who you belong to.”

Divider/Boarder creds | enchanthings-a + miffyvirtuales.

[mononijikayu]

sequel's out 🙏

https://www.tumblr.com/mononijikayu/778863077830672384/killing-me-softly-with-his-song-telling-my-whole?source=share

wildflower— nanami kento.

Your breath caught in your throat. “I—” “Do you have any idea how brilliant you are?” His voice was trembling now, thick with emotion. “You were always the smartest person in the room. You deserved to get out of here….to have everything you ever dreamed of. And instead… you stayed. You gave it all up. Why?” Tears burned the back of your eyes. “Because I didn’t have a choice, Kento.” “Yes, you did.” His voice cracked. “You could have told me. You could have called me. I would’ve—” “You would’ve what, Kento?” you choked. “Fixed my life for me? Paid my bills? Dragged me to Tokyo and pretended like I belonged in your world?” His jaw clenched. “You do belong in my world.”

GENRE: alternate universe - actor/s au!;

WARNING/S: afab! reader, use of she/her pronouns, romance, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, hurt, love, fluff, humor, light-hearted, long-term relationship, marriage, loss, emotional distress, hatred, resentment, domestic, confessions, getting together, friends, slice of life, childhood friends, distress, cheating, falling out of love, toxic relationship, drama, depression, bitterness, grief, trauma, pregnancy, explicit birthing scene, illness, post-partum depression, bodily fluids, children, therapy, explicit depiction of birthing, depiction of bodily fluids, depiction of post-partum depression, mention of blood, mention of birthing, mention of bodily fluids, mention of depression, actor! nanami, housewife! reader;

WORD COUNT: 18k words

NOTE: this took a while and im a bit sick all the sudden but i realized i have to put this out so i just decided to go on and post this. anyway, i hope you enjoy this. ready the tissue for this, its a crier. i love you all so much <3

masterlist

if you want to, tip!

the good life ― masterlist.

IT WAS HARD NOT TO KNOW WHAT EVERYTHING MEANS AFTER TWENTY YEARS OF MARRIAGE. After all that time, wouldn’t you know much about the person you were married to? This moment was not an exemption, of course. You were his wife, you knew everything about him. You just had to know.

So, as you stood there, looking at him, you knew that look. That look in Kento's caramel eyes as he’s putting on his suit. The quiet resignation. The practiced ease of sliding the tie around his neck, smoothing down his shirt, adjusting the cufflinks. Like a man preparing to go to war — except it isn’t war. It’s something worse. You knew that much.

You hum softly, curled up on the couch, and watch him from across the room. He doesn’t notice you at first, too focused on making himself presentable. Like it matters. Like any of it matters. You know where he’s going. You’ve always known.

It’s something you never said out loud, not in the past twenty years, not when the nights stretched long and lonely, not when his touch began to feel like an apology instead of love. You haven’t said a word, and he hasn’t either.

But you know all about it already.

There was no need for such words.

There was no need for anything else.

You know because when he turns around, there’s that smile all over again. That smile you fell in love with all those years ago. It was that loving, gentle smile. Strained by the weariness, the tired, and the painfully distant bitterness that dwelled over time on his face. 

And then besides that, he lies. 

He always has to know how to lie.

He was an actor by trade, after all.

"I’ll be home late, baby." he says like it means nothing, like it’s any other day. His voice doesn’t crack. His eyes don’t betray him. But you see it. You always do. And it kills you a little more each time. 

You know he loves you. It’s never been a question of love. It’s always been a question of truth. And the truth is, love doesn’t stop him from leaving. The truth is, love doesn’t make him stay. The truth is, he’s already gone before he’s out the door.

And sometimes you want to kill him for it. Even if you don’t want to, you think about it often. You think about wanting to just be angry and let yourself loose into the madness of it all. You wanted to go and have something for yourself. Even if that was a life, even if it was his life. After all that you had suffered and endured, don’t you deserve it? Don’t you deserve to take his life?

For the silence. For the way he pretends. For the way you let him. For the way you can’t bring yourself to break it all apart because maybe —just maybe— if you keep pretending, too, it’ll hurt less.

You don’t say a word when he leans down to kiss your temple as gently as he could, as lovingly as he could. You don’t flinch, you don’t cling. You don’t beg him to stay. You just hum again, quieter this time, and watch him leave like you have a hundred times before. 

And when the door closes behind him, the sound is deafening.

You stare at the door long after he's gone. Like if you watch long enough, he'll come back. Like if you sit still enough, you'll hear his footsteps retreating down the hallway. But silence is all that answers you. Silence, and the faint hum of the clock that ticks louder with every passing second.

Your hands twitch against your lap, curling into fists before releasing again. You wonder if tonight it'll be different, if he'll come home and tell you the truth. If he'll break, just once, and tell you what you already know. That there’s someone else. That his heart no longer belongs here, with you.

But it never happens. It’s never happened.

You get up after a while, wandering through the house like a ghost. You pass by the photos on the walls. The framed moments of happiness frozen in time. His smile in those pictures looks real. Like he didn’t know back then what would become of you both. You touch one of the frames, trailing your finger down his face. It feels cruel now, looking at those captured memories.

The bed feels colder when you climb in alone. You face his side, the sheets still perfectly made, undisturbed by the weight of his body. You press your face into his pillow, breathing him in. You think, for a fleeting second, that if you cry hard enough, he might feel it from wherever he is and come home.

But you don’t cry. You’ve already wasted too many nights crying. Instead, you just wait. 

Because that's all you know how to do now. Wait. And love him. And hate him a little, too.

THE STORY STARTS EVEN BEFORE THAT. You and Nanami Kento grew up together. Two kids from two very different worlds — he is filled with wealth and privilege, you were with struggle and scarcity. His parents lived in a grand, pristine house, while you lived in a cramped apartment that barely stayed warm in the winter.

His clothes were always crisp and clean, and yours were worn out and patched up. From the moment you realized just how different your lives were, you knew people like you didn’t belong in his world.

And the world didn’t hesitate to remind you of that. The neighborhood kids who ran in the same circles as Nanami never let you forget it. They whispered when you came around, made faces when you approached, and laughed when you walked away. 

“Why do you let her hang around you?” they’d ask him. “She doesn't fit in with us.” 

But Nanami Kento never wavered. Not once. Not ever.

“She’s my friend.” he’d say, firm and unwavering.

And that was all it took.

It didn’t matter if your shoes had holes or if your hands were rough from helping your family with chores. It didn’t matter that you didn’t have expensive toys or that you couldn’t bring lunch to school some days. 

Kento always shared this with you. He always liked making sure you were as full as him. So he would go and split his neatly packed bento in half and hand you the bigger portion without a second thought. 

You’d protest, of course, but he’d only shrug and say, “I wasn’t that hungry anyway.” 

You knew it was a lie.

Even back then, he always lied.

And he smiles all the same.

He always did that, giving without asking for anything in return, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And you valued him more than anything because of it. But what you didn’t realize was how deeply it had settled in your bones. The way you looked at him, the way you cherished him, the way you loved him.

It wasn’t like one day you just woke up and decided to love Nanami Kento. No, it was a gradual thing. Like the warmth of the sun slowly rising over the horizon. It happened on the days he’d sneak away from his house to find you playing in the dirt, unbothered by the stares of his so-called friends. 

It happened when he’d walk you home after school, insisting it was just on the way when it wasn’t. It happened when you were crying after your father came home drunk again, and Nanami held your hand quietly, letting you cry into his shoulder without a word.

It happened every time he chose you.

And because of that, because he never treated you like you were less than him, because he never made you feel like you didn’t belong — you fell in love with him. Quietly. Deeply. Hopelessly. Truthfully. 

But you never said a word about it. How could you?

You were still just you. You were unimportant, rough around the edges, struggling to keep your life from falling apart. And he was Nanami Kento, brighter than the sun itself. He was polished, brilliant, and destined for a life far better than the one you could ever give him. 

Loving him felt like holding sunlight in your hands. 

It was beautiful, but impossible to keep.

And so you stifled it, you swallowed it down. 

You smiled when he spoke of his future. Of traveling abroad, of making something of himself — and you ignored the ache in your chest. You told yourself it was enough to simply have him in your life, even if you could never have his heart. But deep down, you knew.

One day, he’d leave. 

He’d outgrow this town. 

He’d outgrow you. 

You’d be left where you always were. You would be standing in the shadow of his light, loving him from a distance. You knew that even if he leaves, even if he doesn’t stay. You would love him all the same.

WHEN THAT DAY CAME, YOU HADN’T EXPECTED IT. You were sixteen when Nanami Kento told you he was leaving. He had gotten accepted into a prestigious school overseas. One that would guarantee him a promising future. His parents were thrilled. His friends envied him. 

Everyone around him kept saying to him — You’ll do great things, Nanami. You’re destined for success.

But all you could hear was the sound of your own heart breaking. Yet you didn’t want it to be broken down out loud.  So, you decided to go and smile all about it. It was better this way, you think to yourself. He, after all, deserved better than you.

He found you later that evening, sitting on the rusted swing set in the small park where you two always met. You already knew what he was going to say. You could see it in his eyes — a mixture of excitement and guilt.

“I’m leaving.” he finally said, voice quiet. “I got accepted into a school in Denmark.”

You forced a smile, ignoring the lump in your throat. “That’s… that’s amazing, Kento. Really. I’m happy for you.”

But you weren’t. 

God, you weren’t.

“I’ll only be gone for a couple of years, you know.” he tried to reassure you. “I’ll visit during the holidays. And we can write letters—”

“Yeah, I know.” you cut him off, still smiling. “We’ll stay in touch. Like we used to.”

But deep down, you knew better. People like you didn’t get to stay in the lives of people like him. Nanami Kento was destined for bigger and better things, all these things that didn’t include you. And you hated yourself for thinking that way.

So instead of breaking down, instead of begging him to stay, you spent your remaining days together trying to memorize everything about him. The way his blond hair would fall over his forehead when he was deep in thought. 

The sound of his laugh when you said something ridiculous. The warmth of his hand whenever it brushed against yours. You burned it all into your memory, knowing it was the closest you’d ever get to having him. 

And then like the wind, that day came in a sudden push.

You didn’t cry when you said goodbye to him at the train station. 

You didn’t flinch when he pulled you into a tight hug and whispered, “I’ll see you soon.” 

You didn’t break down when you watched the train pull away, carrying him farther and farther from you. But that night, when you were alone in your bed, staring up at the cracked ceiling — you sobbed until your throat was raw. Because you knew.

You knew that he’s not coming back.

Maybe not intentionally, maybe he would write you a few letters, maybe he would visit during the holidays but eventually, the distance would settle in. He’d meet new people, make new friends, build a new life. 

And you? You’d still be here, stuck in the same town, living the same hard life you always had. You didn’t blame him. How could you? He deserved better. Yet you told yourself that you’d get over him. That the ache in your chest would eventually fade. That you’d move on.

But you never did.

The letters came at first. Handwritten, neat, and always signed, Kento. 

He’d tell you about the classes he was taking, the places he was visiting, the new friends he was making. And you’d read every word, trying to picture him in that new world of his — a world you didn’t belong to. You always write back, of course. But your letters were never as exciting. What were you supposed to say? 

Hey, I’m still working two part-time jobs to help my mom make rent. Our fridge broke again last week, but it’s fine. I’ve gotten used to eating once a day. 

No. Instead, you lied. You told him you were doing fine, that life was okay, that you were just happy to hear from him. But as the months went on, the letters became less frequent. And then, eventually, they stopped altogether. And that was it.

Nanami Kento became a part of your past.

He was just another thing you had to let go of.

Yet you think about it now, you should have let go.

You should have let it all be.

IT WAS QUITE A SURPRISE, NOT ONE WHICH YOU HAVE THOUGHT ABOUT. You didn’t know he became an actor. The Nanami Kento standing in front of you now. He was still quite as polished, poised, and impossibly handsome as he was.

And yet, he was a far cry from the boy you used to know. But it was still him, he was all the same. Same deep voice. Same gentle gaze. Same presence that made the world feel a little less heavy.

And yet, there was something else too. A distance. 

Like he didn’t quite belong here anymore.

It was like he had outgrown this town, just as you always knew he would.

“Kento, oh wow….” you managed, trying not to let your voice shake. “I… I didn’t know you were back.”

His smile faltered slightly, like he was trying to keep his composure. “Just for a few days. I had some… time off.”

You didn’t miss the way his caramel eyes swept over you. From your wrinkled convenience store uniform to the worn-out shoes on your feet. It was subtle, but you saw it. And it made your stomach twist in shame.

“How’ve you been?” he asked, carefully. Like he was afraid of the answer.

You forced a small laugh, waving a hand. “You know… same old, same old. Nothing much has changed.”

Lie. Everything had changed. You were still here, yes. You were still in the same town, still in the same life — but it felt different now. Colder. Like the weight of the world had settled heavier on your shoulders after he left. And it didn’t escape Kento’s notice.

You were supposed to be somewhere else. He knew that. Out of everyone he’d ever known, you were the smartest. You were the sharpest, the most capable, the one who always dreamed bigger than the town could ever hold. 

You used to talk about it all the time — the places you wanted to go, the life you wanted to build. You were supposed to go to college. You were supposed to do great things. And yet here you were. Stuck. In this town. Wearing a faded uniform and a name tag, working a dead-end job.

Why? Why are you still here, suffering like this?

“So, uh….” you cleared your throat, forcing a smile. “How’s Denmark? Or… wait. Are you still there?”

“No, no. I don’t live there.” he answered, his voice quieter now. “I, uh… I moved to Tokyo. For work.”

“Work?” you tilted your head.

And that’s when you saw it. The subtle shift in his stance. 

Like he was bracing himself for something.

“...I’m an actor now,” he admitted, almost sheepishly.

You blinked. “Wait — like… on TV?”

“Yeah.” He scratched the back of his neck, looking a little uncomfortable. “Film, mostly. I’ve done a few series too.”

You stared at him, dumbfounded. “You’re kidding.”

He chuckled, though there was no real humor in it. “I’m not. It just… happened, I guess.”

Of course it did, you thought bitterly. Because that’s what people like him did. They left, they made something of themselves, and they became untouchable. Meanwhile, people like you stayed exactly where they were rooted in place, forgotten, ordinary.

“That’s… amazing, Kento. Really.” You smiled, even though it burned your throat. “I’m happy for you.”

But Nanami Kento couldn’t find it in himself to smile back. 

Because all he could think about was how wrong this felt.

You’re supposed to be the one out there, he thought. You were always the brilliant one. You were supposed to leave this town — not me. You were supposed to make something of yourself.

Instead, you were still here in this wretched place. In a store that smelled faintly of stale bread and cleaning supplies. Ringing up snacks for high schoolers who would eventually leave you behind just like everyone else did.

“You’re still working here?” he asked softly, his voice careful.

“Yeah. Been here for a couple of years now.” You shrugged like it was nothing. “Pays the bills.”

His stomach twisted at your words all the sudden. “What about school?” he asked. “You… you were supposed to go to college, right? Didn’t you get accepted somewhere?”

You froze. For a brief moment, the smile cracked on your face. But you stitched it back together quickly. “Ah, yeah… I did. But, you know. Life happens.”

Lie, again, huh?

The truth was that you did get accepted. To a top university in Tokyo, actually. But your mom lost her job the same week you got the acceptance letter. Rent fell behind. Bills piled up. And you did what you always did — you stayed. 

You got a job, dropped out before you even started, and spent the next few years trying to keep your family afloat. You did everything you could to help your family to survive. You abandoned everything to survive. But you didn’t tell Kento that. You couldn’t.

“Anyway, uh….” you deflected, forcing some cheer into your voice, “I’m sure you’ve got somewhere to be. Don’t let me keep you.”

But Nanami Kento didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

Because he couldn’t stop staring at you. He couldn’t stop thinking about how wrong this was. The person he loved most in this world, the one who deserved everything was still here, stuck, while he was out there living a dream he never even wanted in the first place.

And he hated it. 

God, he hated it.

“…Have dinner with me, at least.” he blurted out suddenly.

Your head snapped up. “What?”

“Dinner. Tonight.” His voice was steadier now. “I want to catch up.”

You hesitated. “Kento, you don’t have to—”

“I want to.” His gaze softened. “Please.”

And maybe it was because you were too tired to argue. Or maybe it was because, despite everything, you still loved him. So you gave in. “…Okay. Yeah. Dinner sounds nice.”

And for the first time since he left, Kento felt like he could breathe again.

That night, he picked you up from your small apartment. You tried to dress nicer, but you didn’t have much to work with. It was just a worn-out dress you hadn’t touched in years. When you opened the door and saw him standing there in a tailored coat and polished shoes, you almost told him to forget it.

But Kento only smiled and said, “You look beautiful.”

And God, you hated how much you still loved him.

Dinner was… nostalgic. You talked about old memories, laughed about stupid things you did as kids. But Kento couldn’t stop noticing how guarded you were. How carefully you danced around your life now.

Never mentioning anything too personal, never hinting at how hard things really were. And when the night was over, when he walked you back to your door, he couldn’t help himself.

“…Why did you stay?” he finally asked.

You froze, your hand on the doorknob. “…What?”

“You were supposed to leave this town, you know.” he said, voice cracking slightly. “You were supposed to go to college. Travel. Do everything you always talked about. So… why didn’t you?”

You hesitated. But then you smiled soft and hollow. “Someone had to stay and take care of things.”

And before he could ask what you meant, you gave him one last smile and said. “Goodnight, Kento.”

Then you closed the door. And Kento stood there, staring at the chipped paint on your doorframe, his heart breaking all over again. Because the person he loved most in this world was still stuck in a place she was never meant to stay.

And he didn’t know how to fix it.

NOT A WINK OF SLEEP THAT NIGHT ONCE AGAIN. After you closed the door on Kento, you leaned against it, heart pounding so hard you thought it might burst out of your chest.

You could still feel the warmth of his gaze, still hear the tenderness in his voice when he said you looked beautiful. It was like he still saw you the way he did when you were kids. Like time and distance hadn’t changed a thing.

But it had.  You weren’t the same girl you used to be. And he wasn’t the same boy who once shared his lunch with you. He was Nanami Kento now, an actor, a star, someone the world adored. And you? You were still here. Working a dead-end job, carrying the weight of your family’s survival on your back, and holding onto the ghost of a love you never confessed.

So why did it feel like he was still yours?

Why did it still hurt like hell to let him go?

On the other side of that door, Kento didn’t move for a long time. He just stood there, still staring at the door you closed between you two and felt his throat tighten with a kind of pain he hadn’t experienced in years. 

Because no matter how much you smiled that night, no matter how light you tried to make your voice sound, he saw it. The exhaustion in your eyes. The tension in your shoulders. The carefully crafted responses designed to keep him from knowing the truth. You were struggling. And it killed him.

Because you were the smartest person he knew. You were supposed to be miles away from this town, pursuing the future you always dreamed of. You were supposed to be untouchable, unstoppable, radiant. But instead… you were here. Tired. Small. Dimming under the weight of a life that never stopped asking more from you.

And Kento couldn’t stand it. The thought of going back to Tokyo, of returning to his world of flashing cameras, scripts, and fame while you were stuck here, surviving day by day, made him physically ill.

I should have taken you with me, he thought bitterly. I never should have left you here.

And that’s when he decided — he wasn’t leaving without you this time.

He didn’t care what it took. He didn’t care if you pushed him away. He didn’t care if you convinced yourself you didn’t belong in his world anymore. He would break down every wall you built around yourself if it meant pulling you out of this life.

Because the truth was he never stopped loving you.

And he’d be damned if he lost you a second time. The next day, you were working your usual shift when the doorbell chimed and you didn’t need to look up to know who it was. You felt it before you even saw him. 

“…Kento.” You swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “What are you doing here?”

He looked painfully out of place in the small convenience store. He was dressed in a dark coat, hair perfectly styled, standing taller and broader than you remembered. It was almost laughable. This man who graced movie screens and magazine covers standing in the middle of your dusty workplace like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Thought I’d stop by today.” he said simply. “I was hoping to see you.”

Your stomach twisted painfully. Don’t do this, Kento.

“I, uh… I’m working on the floor.” you stammered. “Can’t really chat right now.”

“I’ll wait.”

You blinked. “…What?”

“I’ll wait until your shift is over.” he said, completely serious. “Then we’ll grab dinner. My treat.”

“Kento—”

“Don’t say no.” His voice was soft, but firm. “Please.”

And God, you almost did. You almost told him no. You almost told him to leave you alone, that you didn’t want him to see you like this anymore, that you couldn’t handle standing next to him and being reminded of how far apart your lives had become.

But you didn’t. Because deep down, you still craved him.

You craved his voice, his touch, his presence. 

Even if it hurts you just do it all over again.

“…Okay.”

The night air was cold, but his coat was warm. Somewhere between dinner and walking you home, Kento had shrugged off his expensive wool coat and draped it around your shoulders without hesitation. You tried to protest, but he wouldn’t hear it.

“Don’t argue with me about this, please.” he murmured, his hand lingering against your arm a little too long.

It was dangerous being this close to him again. 

But you couldn’t pull away from him.

“So….” you forced lightness into your voice. “What’s it like being famous?”

He scoffed. “Overrated.”

You laughed softly. “Oh, come on. You’re on billboards now. You can’t tell me it’s not a little amazing.”

“It doesn’t mean anything.” His voice was distant. “Not if you’re not there to see it.”

Your steps faltered. “…What?”

Kento stopped walking — turning to face you, his expression unreadable. “I thought about you every day.” he confessed, his voice raw. 

“Kento—”

“The entire time I was gone. I kept wondering what you were doing, if you were okay, if you were happy.” His throat bobbed. “And every time I came back home, I hoped I’d see you, but you were always gone. I… I didn’t know if you wanted to see me again.”

You felt your heart crack open. “Kento…”

“Why didn’t you tell me you stayed?” His voice broke slightly. “Why didn’t you tell me you never went to college?”

Your breath caught in your throat. “I—”

“Do you have any idea how brilliant you are?” His voice was trembling now, thick with emotion. “You were always the smartest person in the room. You deserved to get out of here….to have everything you ever dreamed of. And instead… you stayed. You gave it all up. Why?”

Tears burned the back of your eyes. “Because I didn’t have a choice, Kento.”

“Yes, you did.” His voice cracked. “You could have told me. You could have called me. I would’ve—”

“You would’ve what, Kento?” you choked. “Fixed my life for me? Paid my bills? Dragged me to Tokyo and pretended like I belonged in your world?”

His jaw clenched. “You do belong in my world.”

“No, I don’t.” you snapped, tears finally spilling over. “Look at me. I’ve been stuck in the same place since you left. I’m still living paycheck to paycheck. I didn’t finish school. I’ve done nothing with my life. And you—” your voice cracked painfully. “You’ve become everything you were meant to be.”

Silence. Thick. Suffocating.

“I didn’t want any of it.” His voice was barely a whisper.

You froze. “…What?”

Kento swallowed hard. “I didn’t want fame. The career. The spotlight. I didn’t want any of it. The only thing I ever wanted was you—and I thought… I thought if I made something of myself, you’d still be here when I came back.” His voice cracked. “But you weren’t. And I hated myself for leaving you behind.”

Your knees almost buckled.

“And now that I’m here, with you.” his voice broke. "I can’t stand seeing you like this.”

Tears poured freely down your face. “Kento, don’t—”

“Come with me.” He took a step closer, his hands trembling as they cradled your face. “Come to Tokyo. Stay with me. I’ll pay for your school, I’ll—”

“No!” you sobbed, pulling away. “I’m not your responsibility, Kento—”

“You’re not a responsibility, nor a liability.” his voice cracked. “You’re the love of my life.”

Your heart shattered. And before you could protest again, his mouth was on yours. Desperate, burning, like he was trying to make up for every single day he spent without you. His hands cradled your face, his kiss messy and filled with heartbreak. When he finally pulled away, his forehead pressed against yours.

“Please.” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Let me take you away from here. Let me love you the way I always should have.”

For the first time in years, you let yourself sob in his arms.

Because despite everything, you loved him more than anything in this world.

Despite the distance, the pain, and the time lost, you never stopped loving him either.

And maybe… just maybe… he could still save you.

YOU COULD REMEMBER THE WAY IT RAINED WHEN YOU GOT MARRIED. Not a heavy storm — just a soft, steady drizzle, as if the sky itself was quietly weeping with joy. You stood in a small, intimate venue with that beautiful smile on your face.

Both of you of you surrounded by only a few close friends and family, wearing the simplest white dress you could afford because despite Kento’s insistence that he’d buy you the most extravagant gown in Tokyo, you refused.

“I don’t need anything fancy, you know.” you told him. “I just need you.”

And so there you stood with your fingers trembling, heart racing as Kento watched you walk down the aisle like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. His jaw was tight, his caramel eyes glassy with unshed tears, like he still couldn’t believe this was real. Like he couldn’t believe, after all those years apart, you were finally becoming his wife.

When you finally reached him, his hand grasped yours like a lifeline. 

His thumb trembled as it brushed against your skin, and when he whispered, “You’re beautiful.” his voice cracked.

And when the officiant asked if he took you as his wife, Kento didn’t hesitate one bit as he looked at you with the warmest gazes. “I do.” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I always have.”

Kento never let you go after that.

You moved into his apartment in Tokyo. It was a spacious, light-filled place with floor-to-ceiling windows and a breathtaking view of the city. It was bigger than anything you’d ever lived in, and it almost made you uncomfortable at first.

But Kento never let you feel like you didn’t belong.

“This is our home now, hm?” he told you softly one night as you stood by the window, still struggling to wrap your head around it all. “Not just mine. Ours.”

And you believed him. Because every time he came home from a shoot, tired, disheveled, and smelling like expensive cologne — the first thing he did was find you. 

\Whether you were in the kitchen, the bedroom, or curled up in the living room studying, he always sought you out, kissing you like it was the first time every time.

“My wife.” he’d murmur against your lips, as if the words themselves tasted sweet. “My beautiful wife.”

And every time, your heart would ache with disbelief. Because this was real. You were really married to him. You really woke up to him every morning. His arm draped around your waist, his face buried in your neck and he really loved you like you were the most precious thing in the world. But Kento wasn’t done giving you the life you deserved.

“Tokyo University.” he said one night, casually, like it wasn’t the single most outrageous thing you’d ever heard.

You froze mid-bite. “…What?”

“I want you to apply, like you did a long time ago.” he said simply, sitting across from you at the dinner table. “You always wanted to study chemistry. Now’s your chance.”

Your throat tightened. “Kento… I can’t. I haven’t been in school for years. I can’t just—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice was firm but gentle. “You’re the smartest person I’ve ever known. Don’t tell me you can’t do it.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding. “But the tuition—”

“I’ll pay for it.”

Your head snapped up. “Kento, no—”

“Yes.” His gaze was unwavering. “I’ll pay for every single yen. I’ll cover your tuition, your textbooks, your lab fees. Everything. You won’t have to worry about anything.” His voice softened. “Please. Let me do this for you.”

Tears burned your eyes. “I don’t want to feel like a burden to you, Kento.”

“You’re not a burden, never will be.” he said fiercely, already pushing his chair back so he could kneel in front of you. His large hands cupped your face, his thumbs wiping away your tears. “You’re my wife. Everything I have is yours. My money, my time, my life. It’s all yours. And if it means giving you the future you always dreamed of, then I’ll do it a thousand times over.”

And with that, you broke down. You sobbed into his chest, clutching him like your life depended on it, because you realized Kento meant it. Every word. Every promise. He was going to build you a life so beautiful, so far removed from the pain you endured, that you’d never have to feel unworthy again.

So the next day, you applied. And Kento wrote the check without blinking an eye. 

You could still remember months later, the day you got accepted into Tokyo University, you burst into tears. You were in the kitchen when the letter arrived, your hands trembling as you tore it open and the second you saw “Congratulations, you’ve been accepted!”

You collapsed onto the floor, sobbing.

“Kento, Kento!” you choked, clutching the letter like it was your lifeline. “I got in! Oh god…. I got in!”

Kento was on you in seconds, kneeling beside you, his face crumpling with pride. “I told you. I told you, baby!” he whispered, kissing your forehead. “I told you you could do it.”

And that night, he took you out to dinner, something extravagant, something you never would have been able to afford on your own. When the waiter congratulated you, Kento beamed like he was the one who got accepted.

“Her, it was her who got in.” he told the waiter proudly. “That’s my wife. She’s going to Tokyo University for chemistry. Smartest woman I’ve ever met.”

And when you glanced at him, with those eyes glassy, heart full, you realized he wasn’t just proud. He was in awe of you. Like he always had been. 

And for a while, it was perfect.

Life slipped into something sweet and steady. You were a university student again, just like you’d always dreamed. You spent your days attending lectures, taking meticulous notes, and spending long afternoons in the library surrounded by textbooks and the faint smell of old paper. You were learning again. Living again. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you.

And Kento? God, he was your biggest cheerleader.

Every morning before you left for class, he kissed you on the forehead and said, “Knock ‘em dead, love.” 

Every night when you came home, exhausted but fulfilled, he had dinner ready and waiting. When you showed him your test scores, perfect marks, one after another. Your husband would beam with pride like he was the one who’d aced the exam. 

When you complained about a difficult professor or a tedious lab experiment, he’d listen intently, rubbing circles into your back, and say, “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

And every night, when you fell asleep beside him, you felt something you hadn’t felt in a long time. Hope. But then —slowly, quietly— the loneliness crept in. Because Kento wasn’t home most of the time.

At first, you didn’t notice. You were busy, after all. You were drowning in lab reports, study sessions, and back-to-back classes. But then you started realizing how quiet the apartment felt when you got home. You’d unlock the door, expecting to hear the hum of the television or Kento’s soft humming in the kitchen but it was always silent. Always empty.

You told yourself it was fine. That was just how it was going to be sometimes. Your Kento was working hard, just like you were. It was only temporary. But weeks passed. Then months. And Kento started coming home later and later.

At first, it was 8 PM. Then 9. Then 10. And soon, there were nights where he didn’t come home at all, just a brief, apologetic text. “Late meeting. Don’t wait for me. Love you.”

And you tried to be understanding. You tried. After all, Kento was the one supporting you. He was paying your tuition, your textbooks, your transportation — everything. He was shouldering the entire financial weight of your dream without a single complaint. The least you could do was be patient.

But good god, it was so lonely.

You’d eat dinner alone most nights, your plate growing cold as you stared at the empty seat across from you. You’d do your assignments at the kitchen table, hoping to hear the jingle of his keys at the door  but it never came. You started sleeping alone more often than not, his side of the bed cold and untouched.

And worst of all you missed him.

You missed Kento. You missed the man who used to laugh with you until your stomach hurt. 

The man who used to kiss you breathless in the middle of the kitchen just because he could. 

The man who used to touch your belly every night and whisper. “I can’t wait to meet our baby.” 

The man who promised you. “I’ll always put you first.”

But now? You were starting to feel like you’d lost him. And then came the night that broke you.

It was well past midnight, and you were curled up on the couch, your textbooks sprawled around you. You told yourself you wouldn’t wait up for him, but you did. You always did. Hours passed, and still — no sign of him. Finally, at 1:27 AM, you heard the door unlock.

“Kento?” you called, your voice cracking.

He didn’t answer right away. When he finally stepped into the living room, his tie was loose, his shirt wrinkled, and the exhaustion in his eyes was so deep it made your chest ache.

“Hey.” he murmured, already walking past you toward the bedroom.

And something in you snapped.

“Seriously?” you blurted. “That’s all you have to say?”

Kento froze, his hand still on the doorframe. “…What?”

You stood, your heart pounding. “You’ve been gone all day again. And you just walk in like I don’t even exist?”

He turned to you, confused. “I—I’m sorry. Work ran late—”

“It always runs late, Kento!” your voice cracked, hot tears stinging your eyes. “Every night, I sit here alone. I eat alone. I sleep alone. Do you even realize how lonely it is to come home to an empty apartment every single day?”

Pain flickered across his face. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just… I’m doing this for you, love. I’m working so you can go to school—”

“I never asked you to do that!” you shouted, and the second the words left your mouth, you regretted them.

Kento blinked, stunned. “…What?”

Your chest heaved. “I never asked you to throw your entire life away for me, Kento! I never asked you to quit your project, or work insane hours, or pay for everything. You just did it. And now it’s like I don’t even have a husband anymore. I just have this… ghost who comes home at 2 AM and leaves before I wake up!”

Silence. Thick. Suffocating.

Kento’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening. “…You think I want this?”

You froze. “…What?”

“You think I like working sixteen-hour days?” his voice cracked, raw and strained. “You think I enjoy being away from you? Missing dinner, missing sleep, missing everything…..you think any of this is what I wanted?”

Your throat tightened. “Kento—”

“I did it for you, you know that.” he said bitterly. “I did it so you wouldn’t have to worry about money. I did it so you could chase your dream without worrying about bills or tuition. I did it because I thought it would make you happy.” His voice cracked. “But you’re not, are you?”

Tears blurred your vision. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” he laughed hollowly, running a hand down his face. “I work until I can’t see straight just to keep everything together and you still think I’m not doing enough.”

“That’s not true at all!”

“Then what do you want from me, love?” his voice finally broke, desperate and shattered. “Tell me. Please. What do you want?”

And the answer was so painfully simple, it tore you apart.

I just want you.

But you couldn’t say it. Because how could you ask that of him when he’d already given you everything? When he was breaking his back just to keep you afloat? When he’d already sacrificed his career, his sleep, his time, his life for you?

So instead, you just cried and cried.

And for the first time in your marriage, Kento didn’t comfort you.

He just turned away, defeated, and said, “I’m going to bed.”

And you realized somewhere along the way, you and Kento had become strangers for the first time.

And it hurts like hell to live with that thought.

But of course, it wouldn’t be the last time.

THINGS DID NOT GET BETTER.  If anything, they got worse. You were pregnant. And everything was hurting. It was a different kind of pain now, not just the crushing weight of your depression, but something more physical, more suffocating. 

Your body aches constantly. Your back screamed from the weight of your growing belly. Your feet were perpetually swollen. Your nights were restless, spent tossing and turning as the baby kicked relentlessly inside you, reminding you always reminding you — that there was no way out of this life you didn’t want. And it was killing you.

You thought hitting rock bottom would come with some kind of clarity. Like one day, you’d cry hard enough or sleep long enough or starve yourself numb enough that your body would finally break through the darkness. You thought there would be some moment, some visceral breaking point that would force you to finally start healing.

But it never came.

Instead, you just… sank.

Deeper and deeper, like trying to breathe underwater with lungs already half-filled. Every day you woke up was a fresh kind of misery. You couldn’t get out of bed without feeling like your bones were made of lead. 

You couldn’t stomach food without wanting to throw it all up later. You couldn’t look in the mirror without despising the reflection. You see a bloated, pale, hollowed out, a shell of the woman you used to be.

And the baby never stopped kicking.

You hated it.

God, you hated it.

You hated the way it never let you sleep. You hated the way your body no longer felt like yours. You hated the constant, suffocating reminder that soon, almost all too soon, you would be responsible for a life you never asked for. A life you were already failing before it even arrived.

But the worst part?

You hated yourself for hating it.

Because what kind of mother resented her own baby before it was even born? What kind of woman laid in bed, day after day, clutching her belly and wishing god, please just make this stop  instead of feeling love? What kind of wife watched her husband sacrifice everything for her and still felt nothing but numb, bitter emptiness?

And Kento.

God, Kento.

You couldn’t even look at him anymore without feeling like the most wretched person alive. He was still trying — still holding everything together, still waking up every morning and kissing your forehead, still whispering, “I love you. I’m here.” 

But you could see it now — the slow, painful unraveling of the man you loved. The exhaustion in his eyes, no longer just from work but from you. The hesitation in his touch, like he was afraid you’d pull away — and sometimes, you did.

The way his voice cracked when he said, “How are you feeling today, love?” and your answer was always “I’m fine.”

But you weren’t fine.

And Kento knew it.

You could see it every night when he crawled into bed beside you and held you close. The way his hand cradles your stomach, his thumb tracing soft circles over your skin. You could feel it in the way his touch, once so warm and electric, now felt like a desperate attempt to keep you here. Like if he let go for even a second, you’d slip through his fingers entirely.

And you hated that too.

Because you knew you were killing him. Slowly. Quietly. Without even trying. You could see it in his slumped shoulders, in the way his voice grew quieter, in the way he looked at you like he was losing you and didn’t know how to stop it.

And you wanted to scream — Stop loving me. Stop trying to save me. I’m already gone.

But you didn’t.

Because how could you say that to the man who dropped his entire career for you? The man who worked twenty-hour days just to pay for your tuition, your food, your life? The man who still kissed you goodbye every morning and told you, “I love you, always.”

So you did the only thing you could.

You kept shrinking.

You stopped eating. Barely touched your dinner when Kento brought it to you. The smell made you nauseous anyway, and even when it didn’t, you could barely stomach the idea of keeping yourself alive, let alone another human growing inside you.

You stopped leaving the house. Your classes had already been dropped; you told Kento it was temporary, just until you felt better. But deep down, you knew you weren’t going back. Tokyo University had suddenly become a distant dream once again, like a life that belonged to someone else entirely. And you were too far gone now to reach for it again.

You stopped responding to your friends. They texted you constantly, trying to check on you. You know they mean well. You know they just want to be there for you. And that they were excited. But you were having a hard time accepting their well wishes.

“How’s the baby? How’s school? We miss you!” 

But the thought of replying made your stomach churn. What were you supposed to say, that wouldn’t come out as a horrible thing? 

“I’m miserable. I don’t want this baby. I don’t want this life.” 

Would have that gotten you some mercy?

So you ignored them. Deleted their messages. Let your phone die and don't bother charging it. And then you stopped talking to Kento. Not entirely. But enough.

Later on, Kento halted the work on his upcoming project the day after you broke down. No warning. No hesitation. One phone call to his manager, another to his agency, and it was done. His voice was steady, almost unnervingly calm when he said: “I’m taking a break for now. My wife needs me.” 

And that was it. He dropped it all like it meant nothing. A project he had poured months of his life into, had gone in seconds. You tried to protest when you found out, but he wouldn’t hear it. His mind was made up before you could even form the words —“Don’t do this for me.”

And then he stayed.

Every single day, he stayed. Morning turned to night, and there he was. Bringing you water when you couldn’t stomach food. Sitting on the edge of the bed while you stared blankly at the ceiling. Holding you through the nights when your body trembled from crying, or worse, the nights when you didn’t cry at all, just lay there like a ghost in your own skin.

He was patient. Devoted. Unwavering.

But it didn’t fix anything.

Because the damage was already done.

You could feel it in the way his touch, once so warm and electric, now felt like a desperate attempt to tether you to the earth. In the way his voice,  soft, pleading, loving had seemed to echo against the walls of your hollowed-out chest, never quite reaching you. 

In this way you could still feel the crushing weight of your own failure suffocating you, no matter how many times he whispered “I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

And the worst part?

You wanted him to leave.

Because it hurt too much to see him like this. Abandoning his career, his life, his future, for someone who couldn’t even muster the strength to get out of bed. You resented the way he sacrificed everything for you. 

You hated how the look in his eyes shifted from affection to concern, from admiration to pity. You despised yourself for being the reason his world was crumbling alongside yours. And deep down, you knew. Kento could stay forever, and it still wouldn’t fix what was already broken.

And after that, you stopped going to school.

At first, you told Kento it was temporary,  just a leave of absence until you felt better. But weeks turned into months, and soon your professors were emailing you: “If you do not return, you will have to re-enroll next semester.”

You didn’t respond.

Because the truth was, you didn’t care anymore.

Your stomach was huge now. You could barely walk up the stairs without losing your breath. Your back ached. Your feet were swollen. You couldn’t sleep through the night because the baby was always kicking, and every morning you woke up with the same suffocating thought.

"I don’t want this life."

And the guilt ate you alive.

Because you loved Kento. You loved your baby. But you hated your life. You hated what it had become. You hated the fact that you were no longer a student at Tokyo University. You were just a pregnant woman, a pregnant housewife. You hated the fact that you no longer had a future — you just had motherhood. You just had this house, his status as a wife.

And Kento saw it. He saw how you’d spend hours just sitting in the nursery, staring at the crib with dead eyes. He saw how you stopped studying, stopped watching TV, stopped doing anything. It was like you were fading away.

And it killed him.

You could see it in the way his shoulders sagged a little more each day, as if the weight of watching you deteriorate was slowly crushing him. In the way he tried to hide the bags under his eyes from sleepless nights spent worrying about you. 

In this way his voice would crack, just barely, when he’d sit next to you and say, “Talk to me, love. Please.”

But you had nothing to say. What were you supposed to tell him? That you hated the life you were about to bring into the world? That you regretted everything — the pregnancy, the wedding, the choices that led you here? That sometimes, when you laid in bed at night, you imagined what it would be like if you just… didn’t wake up?

So you said nothing. Nothing at all.

And Kento tried to be strong for both of you. God, he tried.

He started cooking your favorite meals, hoping that if he made something delicious enough, you’d actually eat. He read parenting books late into the night, convinced that if he just learned enough, he could do this whole thing for the both of you, carry the weight, make up for the pieces of you that were falling apart. He took you on walks when he could get you out of bed, holding your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to hope.

But it was never enough.

It was never going to be enough.

Because the truth was — you weren’t just sad. 

You were grieving everything that had come to pass.

You were grieving the life you lost, the person you used to be. You were grieving the dreams you once held so fiercely. Finishing university, traveling, building a career as a chemist on the international level. All of it now reduced to a hazy memory of a different girl. A girl you didn’t even recognize anymore. A girl you resented for being so foolish, for thinking she could have it all.

And you were grieving the love between you and Kento — or rather, the version of it that existed before the pregnancy. Before everything became tainted by your guilt, your depression, your ever-growing resentment for the life you didn’t want.

You knew that Kento saw it too.

He saw how you flinched when he touched your stomach,  not out of pain, but because it reminded you of what you were trapped in. He saw how your kisses grew colder, how you turned your head when he tried to kiss you goodnight. He saw how you stopped saying your i love yous first — how sometimes, you didn’t say it at all.

And still, he stayed by your side. But it was breaking him whole. 

You could hear it in the way his voice cracked one night when he thought you were asleep.

He sat beside you in bed, his hand resting gently on your belly, and you heard him whisper back to you. “I don’t know how to fix this.” His voice trembled. “I don’t know how to help you.”

And that was when you realized — you weren’t the only one grieving. Kento was grieving too. He was grieving the wife he used to know. The one who laughed too loud at his jokes, who kissed him in the morning just because, who fell asleep on the couch with a textbook still in her lap. 

He was grieving the life you both dreamed of late nights studying, early mornings rushing to class, careers that would take you far. He was grieving the love that used to be effortless, the kind that didn’t require whispered prayers in the middle of the night, hoping that tomorrow would hurt less than today.

And the worst part?

You were the one who did this to him.

At least that’s how you saw it all now.

You were the one who dragged him down into this suffocating darkness with you. You were the one who made him abandon his project, his career, his life. All for a woman who could barely look at herself in the mirror without breaking. 

And every day he stayed, every day he kissed your forehead and said “I’m here”, you hated yourself a little more.

You hated yourself so much that you started to wonder if maybe — just maybe — Kento would be better off without you.

And that thought never really left.

Even when he painted the nursery walls soft yellow and smiled like he wasn’t dying inside.

Even when he held your hand in the middle of the night and promised, “We’ll get through this. I swear we will.”

Even when he looked at you with a love so devastatingly pure, it only made you ache more.

Because you couldn’t shake the feeling. That Kento deserved a better wife. And your baby deserved a better mother. And you? You didn’t deserve them at all. Around your seventh month, you completely broke.

Kento found you in the bathroom at 3 AM all alone as you were sitting in the empty bathtub, knees pulled to your chest, sobbing silently. You looked miserable with your hair disheveled and your face contorted into this look, full of grief and suffering.

“Baby?” His voice cracked. “Oh my god, baby, what’s wrong?”

And you just shook your head. “I hate this so much.” you gasped through your tears. “I hate my life. I hate my body. I hate everything. I don’t want to do this anymore, Kento. I can’t…..I can’t breathe.”

And Kento completely fell apart at the sight of your tears, falling over and over again.  “Baby, no— no, no, no.” he dropped to his knees beside the tub, his hands shaking. “Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. I’m here now. I’ll fix it. I’ll make it better, so—”

“You can’t!” you screamed, your voice raw and cracked. “You can’t fix this, Kento! I’m already ruined! My life is already ruined!”

And Kento? Kento completely broke. Because he realized you weren’t talking about the pregnancy. You were talking about yourself. And you were gone. All there was left now was the shell, that shell he didn’t recognize.

“I should’ve never gotten pregnant, Kento.” you sobbed, your body shaking. “I should’ve never gotten married. I should’ve stayed in school. I should’ve never left the countryside. I should’ve……I should’ve never let this happen.”

And Kento completely lost it. “Don’t say that.” he begged, his voice cracking. 

He climbed into the bathtub with you, fully clothed, and wrapped his arms around you. “Don’t say that, baby, please— please don’t say that. You’re not ruined. I swear to god, I’ll fix it. I’ll fix everything. Just don’t give up on me. Please don’t give up on me.”

And you just sobbed.

Because deep down, you already had.

You were right to feel that way.

It was only a matter of time when the labor came early.

You had never expected it — not this soon, not like this.

It was just around thirty-five weeks then. The baby wasn’t supposed to come yet. You still had time. Weeks. You weren’t ready. Your hospital bag wasn’t packed. The nursery still smelled like fresh paint. You hadn’t even washed the baby’s clothes yet. You weren’t supposed to go into labor yet.

But the universe didn’t care.

Your water broke in the middle of the night — and you knew instantly that something was wrong. The pain hit fast and hard, unlike anything you’d ever felt. Sharp, blinding contractions ripped through your abdomen, so intense that it stole the breath from your lungs. 

You barely managed to shake Kento awake, your voice cracked and choked, “Kento — my water……it broke—”

And the moment he saw the panic in your eyes, he moved. Kento didn’t even ask questions. He sprang out of bed, grabbing his phone with one hand and you with the other, already calling for an ambulance. 

His voice was low, controlled, but you could hear the terror behind it. “Yes, my wife is thirty-five weeks pregnant. Her water just broke — she’s in pain — please send someone—”

But the contractions were coming too fast. One after the other, barely a minute in between, and by the time Kento helped you into the back of the ambulance, you knew. The baby was coming now. And the baby would have no mercy on you.

“No, no, no!” you sobbed, clutching your belly as another contraction ripped through you, your body already beginning to push despite your desperate attempts to stop it. “It’s too soon — it’s too soon—”

Kento was right there beside you, his hand in yours, his voice cracked and desperate. “You’re okay, love. You’re gonna be okay. I’m right here. I’m not leaving you.”

But you didn’t feel okay. You felt like you were dying. And by the time you reached the hospital, you were already fully dilated. The doctors barely had time to wheel you into labor and delivery before you were screaming through another contraction, your body forcing you to push despite your terror.

And Kento was there. The entire time — he was there. His hand never left yours, his voice never stopped murmuring reassurances in your ear. “You can do this, love. I know you can. Just a little longer. Just hold on for me.”

But you couldn’t.

Because something was wrong.

You could feel it in your bones. In the way your body fought itself with every push, in the way your vision kept blurring, in the way you couldn’t seem to catch your breath no matter how hard you tried. And then, in the middle of a push — you felt it.

A sudden, hot gush between your legs. But it wasn’t amniotic fluid this time. It was warm. And sticky. And you didn’t have to look down to know. You were bleeding. A lot. You could feel how it echoes down, heavy and brutish.

“Kento—” your voice cracked, raw with pain. “Something’s— something’s wrong—”

And then you heard it.

The doctor’s voice, sharp and urgent. 

“She’s hemorrhaging. We’re losing her.”

And that’s when Kento lost his fucking mind.

“What?” His voice snapped, pure, raw panic flooding his face. His grip on your hand tightened like a vice. “What do you mean you’re losing her?!”

“Her blood pressure is dropping! Massive uterine hemorrhage. Doctor,  she’s losing too much blood—”

“No — no, no, no—” Kento stumbled forward, his voice cracking as his hands shook. “Do something! Save her! Save them both!”

“We need to get the baby out now or we’re going to lose them both, Mr. Nanami!”

And suddenly it was chaos. Nurses shouting. Machines beeping. Someone calling for blood transfusions. And you — fading. You could feel it. Your body was giving out, your vision was growing dim, and the only thing you could focus on was Kento.

“Kento.” you rasped, your voice so faint, so weak. Your body felt like it was drifting. “I—I love you—”

“No!” Kento screamed. He screamed like something inside him was tearing apart. His hands clawed at the hospital bed, his body lunging toward you as the doctors tried to pull him away. “No, stay with me! Stay with me, love! Don’t you fucking do this—Don’t you dare leave me!”

But you were already slipping.

The last thing you heard was his voice, raw and broken.

“I can’t do this without you. Please! Please don’t leave me. Please—”

And then, darkness.

HE DOESN’T KNOW WHAT TO DO. Nanami Kento couldn’t do anything but collapse in the hallway. The moment they pulled him out of the delivery room. The moment the words the doctor said, all of that rang in his ears like a death sentence. He was sure that something inside him snapped.

And when the door slammed shut behind him, separating him from you, Kento’s knees buckled. He hit the floor hard. Hands splayed out against the cold tile, chest heaving, throat raw from screaming. He didn’t even realize he was still screaming until two nurses rushed toward him, trying to pull him up, trying to calm him down, but it was useless.

Because he could still hear it. The frantic shouts of the doctors. The horrifying words “Massive hemorrhage. We’re losing her.” The sound of your screams cutting off too abruptly. And worst of all — the unbearable silence that followed.

“No—” Kento howled, his voice breaking like glass. His hands clawed at his hair, his entire body wracked with violent, gut-wrenching sobs. “No, no, no— I killed her. I fucking killed her—”

“Sir, Mr. Nanami.” one of the nurses knelt beside him, reaching out. “You have to breathe, you’re hyperventilating—”

But Kento didn’t hear her.

He couldn’t hear anything.

He didn’t care to hear whatever that was.

All he could think about, all he could see was you. Your face twisted in pain. The absolute terror in your eyes when you realized something was wrong. The way you sobbed I don’t want this, Kento, I’m not ready. And he did this. He did this to you.

His body convulsed with the force of his grief, his head slamming against the tile as his sobs tore from his chest like a wounded animal. “I killed her. I killed her. I made her hate her life and now she’s gone. She’s gone—”

“Sir—” The nurse was trying to hold him down now, his entire body thrashing against the floor as he screamed. “Sir, please, you’re going to hurt yourself—”

“LET ME GO!” Kento roared, his voice so raw it barely sounded human. “She’s dying in there. Do you understand me?! She’s fucking dying in there and I……”

Another contraction of sobs wracked his chest, and his fists slammed into the floor so hard that his knuckles split. Blood smeared against the tile, but he didn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything.

“I made her hate her life.” his voice cracked, his chest seizing with suffocating grief. His hands curled into his hair again, yanking hard as if trying to punish himself. “I did this to her. I made her want to die. And now she’s gone and I’m still here. ”

“Stop, please.” the nurse’s voice broke, her own eyes glassy as she tried to steady him. “She’s not gone. They’re trying to save her in there, with the baby.”

“No.” Kento’s head snapped up, his face twisted in a horrifying mix of rage and agony. His eyes were bloodshot, glassy, utterly devastated. “You don’t get it. You don’t fucking get it.” His voice cracked so sharply it sounded like it physically hurt him to speak.

“She wanted to die, to be free of that misery. Don’t you see?” he choked. “She hated her life. And it’s my fault. It’s my fucking fault—”

And then his body gave out.

His chest collapsed onto the cold tile floor, his forehead pressed into it as his entire body shook. Choked, gasping sobs clawed from his throat, so violent that he could barely breathe. His lungs were burning, his vision was spinning, and he was sure, so fucking sure, that this was it. That they were going to come out and tell him you were dead.

And it was his fault. 

All of it was his fault.

Because he saw it. 

He saw it every single day. The way you sat in the nursery with dead eyes. The way you stopped smiling. The way you couldn’t even say I’m excited without your voice cracking. The way your love for him was slowly being choked out by the sheer weight of your depression.

And he didn’t stop any of it. Instead, he told you to keep going. He told you to hold on. He let you suffer in silence because he thought that’s what you needed but you didn’t. You needed help. You needed saving. And instead, he trapped you in a life you never wanted.

And now you are dying.

All because of him.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Kento sobbed, his forehead slamming against the tile again, his blood smearing across the floor. “I’m so fucking sorry. Please….please, I’ll do anything. Just let her live. Please.”

And that was the first time in his life that Kento Nanami prayed. He prayed like a man possessed. Like a man who had nothing left to lose. His bloody fists clawed at the tile, his nails cracking against it as he begged.

“Take me,please.” he sobbed, his voice mutilated from screaming. “Please….just take me instead. I don’t care. I don’t fucking care. Just…. Please don’t take her. Don’t take my wife. Don’t take my baby. I’ll do anything.”

But the silence stretched on.

And he was certain that you were already gone.

Hours continued to make mockery of him.

Agonizing, torturous hours passed — and Kento was still on the floor.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe right. Didn’t think. His body was stuck in that same position. Still face down, forehead pressed against the cold tile, hands trembling as he clenched them into bloody fists. His chest was heaving in short, sharp gasps, his entire body quaking as he sobbed.

He was certain you were dead. He felt it. He felt the moment your soul left the room. He felt the moment the light in his life snapped off like a switch. 

He was convinced that at any second, the doctor was going to come out, look him in the eyes, and say, “I’m sorry, Mr. Nanami. We couldn’t save her.”

And he would never forgive himself.

Because he killed you.

His fault. His fault. His fucking fault.

He was still gasping, still clawing at the ground, still praying like a desperate man when he finally heard the door open. Kento’s head snapped up. His bloodshot, swollen eyes immediately locked onto the doctor walking toward him, his scrubs covered in blood — your blood — and Kento’s entire body seized.

“Mr. Nanami—”

“Where is she?” Kento screamed. His voice cracked, broke, his entire body lunging toward the doctor like a caged animal. His hands fisted the man’s scrubs, yanking him forward. “Is my wife alive? Tell me, damn it? Is she alive?”

The doctor barely had a chance to respond before Kento screamed again. “Tell me you saved her, goddamn you!”

And the doctor’s mouth opened — and Kento swore the entire universe stopped spinning when he finally said,  “…She’s alive.”

Kento’s entire body collapsed. His legs gave out. His grip on the doctor’s scrubs slipped. And then he didn’t realize that he had hit the floor. A gasping, broken sob ripped from his throat. The kind of sob that came from a man who was seconds away from losing everything and his entire body convulsed as he wept.

“Oh my god…..” Kento choked, his hands flying to his face, clawing at his own skin like he was trying to ground himself. “Oh my god. She’s alive. She’s alive!”

“Her condition is critical, Mr. Nanami.” the doctor warned, his voice low but steady. “We had to perform an emergency c-section and a hysterectomy to stop the bleeding. She lost over forty percent of her blood volume. We had to resuscitate her twice on the table—”

“Resuscitate?” he gasped, his vision swimming. His stomach lurched. “You mean she….she died?”

“Clinically, yes. Twice.” The doctor’s face softened with pity. “But we got her back. She’s stable now — unconscious, but alive.”

And that was all Kento needed to hear.

He ran. He didn’t even think. His legs moved before his brain could catch up, his entire body sprinting down the hall, his bloody knuckles slamming into every door he passed until he finally found your room.

The second he stepped inside, he broke.

Because there you were.

Unconscious.

Your body was completely limp, hooked up to a ventilator, your skin so pale it looked blue. Tubes were coming out of everywhere. From your arm, your nose, your mouth and there were fresh surgical dressings covering your abdomen where they had cut you open to get the baby out.

Kento couldn’t breathe. A strangled, animalistic sound tore from his throat like something between a sob and a scream and then he collapsed beside your bed. His hand shot out, desperately clutching yours, his entire body wracked with gut-wrenching sobs as he shook.

“I’m so sorry…..oh my god, I’m so fucking sorry, baby.” Kento’s voice shattered, his head dropping onto your hand as his body convulsed. His chest was heaving so violently that he was on the verge of hyperventilating. “I did this. I did this to you and I….”

He couldn’t stop sobbing. His forehead pressed against your limp hand, his body rocking as he cried like a child. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry….” he choked. “I made you hate your life and I trapped you. I killed you…. oh my god, I killed you….”

And the guilt hit him like a sledgehammer. 

Because it was true. All of it.

He saw the way you suffered. The way you faded every single day. The way you stopped smiling. The way you stopped living. And instead of saving you, he kept telling you to hold on. Just a little longer, love. We’re almost there. Just a little longer.

But you weren’t okay. And Kento didn’t listen. And now you were lying there. Pale, lifeless, barely hanging on. All because of him. And the weight of it crushed him whole. He felt like Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders.

And then finally, you woke up.

“…Kento?” your voice cracked.

“Baby.” he sobbed, grabbing your face, pressing desperate kisses all over your skin. “Oh my baby…..you’re awake. You’re awake. I thought I lost you. I thought….”

“…Where’s the baby?”

And Kento completely broke. “The baby’s fine, don’t worry.” he choked. “She’s perfect. She’s beautiful. But you….you scared the shit out of me, baby. Please don’t ever do that again.”

And when they finally brought your baby girl in and you held her for the first time — you did something you didn’t expect. You cried. And then you sobbed. Because for the first time in nine months — you finally felt something coherent. Something good.

“…She’s beautiful.” you gasped. “I didn’t think I’d love her. But I do. I love her so much.”

Kento just collapsed against your hospital bed, sobbing. “I knew you would. I knew you would.”

But things are like the weather.

They were bound to change.

You should have known.

THE FIRST MONTH WAS HARD, BUT AS TIME WENT ON, IT GOT WORSE. You came home from the hospital physically intact but mentally, you were gone. You still didn’t go back to school. You didn’t touch your textbooks. You didn’t even mention chemistry. The once-brilliant student who dreamed of working in a lab was now just… a mother. And you hated it.

Every single day felt like a fog. You were exhausted but it wasn’t the baby’s fault. You knew that much. It was you that was malfunctioning. You didn’t know how to connect with her. Every time she cried, you felt nothing.

Every time she smiled, you felt nothing. Every time Kento handed her to you and said something to praise your beautiful daughter, you didn’t know how to react. You just nodded and let it go.  And Kento noticed. God, he noticed.

Kento stayed home for a month. He refused to leave your side. He didn’t take calls, he didn’t attend meetings. He just stayed home. But his contract required him to go back to work eventually. And you… you told him to go.

“Go, you have to.” you whispered, your voice dead. “You have to work, Kento. We have bills. You already missed so much.”

But Kento didn’t want to.

“Baby— no. I don’t give a shit about work. I’m not leaving you like this.”

And you forced a smile. “I’m fine, Kento.”

But you weren’t.

You weren’t.

And Kento knew it.

But eventually, he had to go. He had no choice. His manager was calling nonstop. His agency was threatening breach of contract. He had a new film that needed him and Kento was the lead role. So he left. And the guilt burned a hole in his chest.

The first day he was back on set, he couldn’t focus. His co-stars were talking to him, the director was giving him instructions but all he could think about was you. Home. Alone. With a baby you didn’t love. Kento hated himself. 

He was filming a scene when his phone buzzed in his pocket — and when he saw your name pop up, he immediately froze. 

“CUT!” the director barked. “Kento, you okay?”

“…Yeah, director.” he croaked. “I just— I need five minutes.”

And then he ran.

He ran behind the trailer, shaking, and picked up the phone. “Baby?” he gasped, panic echoing in his voice. “What’s wrong? Is the baby okay? Are you okay?”

Silence. “…I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

And Kento’s heart completely shattered.

“Baby…..” his voice cracked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…..” you gasped, voice shaking. “I mean I can’t do this. I can’t be a mom. I don’t love her, Kento. I don’t—I don’t feel anything for her. I just feel empty. And I know she deserves better. I know you deserve better. I think….I….I just….”

Your voice cracked. “I think I ruined my life.”

Kento collapsed. “No, baby. No. Don’t say that. Please don’t say that.” He was crying now, gasping into the phone. “You didn’t ruin your life. You didn’t. I promise I’ll fix this. I’ll come home right now—”

“No, you won’t.”

Kento completely broke. “Baby, please.”

“No, Kento. You have to work. We need the money. We need—”

“I don’t care about the fucking money!” Kento sobbed, clutching his hair. “I care about you! I care about our family! Please don’t give up on me, baby. Please don’t give up on her.”

But you just hung up.

Kento completely lost it.

He didn’t go back on set. He stayed behind the trailer, sobbing into his hands, shaking, thinking: “I ruined her life. I did this to her. She was supposed to be in college — not stuck at home with a baby.”

And that thought ate him alive. The next few weeks were worse. Kento was dying. Not physically but mentally, emotionally and spiritually, he was. Every single day he walked onto set, it felt like he was leaving you behind. And it was killing him.

Because all he could think about was you. Alone. Depressed. Hollowed out. Not wanting the baby. And he wasn’t there. He was never there. Every single time he put on that suit, stepped in front of the cameras, smiled for his co-stars. He was dying.

Because he knew. He knew the second he came home, you would be worse. Every day it got worse. Every fucking day.

At first, it was subtle. You were tired. Distant. Quiet. But then the days started stretching into weeks, and suddenly you weren’t just tired, you were empty. Your smiles were forced. Your voice was flat. You didn’t ask about his day anymore. You didn’t kiss him when he got home.

And Kento tried to justify it. It’s just the hormones. She’s overwhelmed. She’ll come back to me soon. She’ll come back to me.

But you didn’t.

And Kento broke down again.

Because the more days that passed, the less of you he saw.

You stopped eating dinner with him. You stopped holding the baby. You stopped getting out of bed. You wouldn’t look at him. And the worst part? You didn’t even cry. You just… stared. Blank. Numb. And Kento couldn’t handle it.

He fucking hated himself. Every single day he drove to set, his stomach would turn. He’d clench his jaw the entire time, his hands shaking as he held the steering wheel because he knew. You were at home. Alone. With a baby you didn’t love. And he wasn’t there. And the guilt was going to fucking eat him alive.

One night, Kento came home early. He couldn’t do it anymore. He was on set, trying to read his lines, but his hands were shaking. His mouth felt dry. His mind kept screaming to him: She’s alone. She’s not okay. She’s not okay. She’s not okay. Go home right now.

So he left. He didn’t even tell his manager. He just ripped off his mic and drove home. And when he walked through the door….You were just… sitting there. On the couch. Completely catatonic. Your body was slumped forward. Your eyes were glazed over, completely hollow. You weren’t blinking. You weren’t moving. You weren’t alive.

Baby?” His voice shattered.

Nothing. Kento’s heart slammed into his throat. He dropped his keys, his coat, everything, and sprinted toward you, falling to his knees in front of the couch.

“Baby, please….” his voice cracked. His hands cupped your face, his thumbs trembling as they brushed over your cheeks. “Please talk to me. Please tell me what’s wrong.”

But you didn’t blink.

You didn’t look at him.

You just… stared at the wall.

Kento’s stomach lurched.

His throat closed.

And then you finally spoke.

In a voice so dead, so hollow, that it didn’t even sound like you anymore. “…I don’t want to be a mom anymore.”

“Baby,” his voice broke. He practically collapsed against you, his forehead pressing to your lap as his hands clutched yours. “Please don’t say that. Please, god—”

“I don’t.” you said flatly. Your voice didn’t even crack. It was just… dead. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want her. I don’t want anything.”

Kento’s entire body convulsed.

“Baby, no.” His voice split down the middle. His hands squeezed yours so tight his knuckles went white. “Please don’t talk like that. I know it’s hard. I know you feel alone. But I love you. I love our baby. We can fix this, baby. I’ll fix it. I’ll fix everything.”

But you didn’t believe him.

Because the truth was — you didn’t want him to fix it.

You didn’t want help. You didn’t want therapy. You didn’t want him to stay home from work. You didn’t want him to coddle you or tell you it would get better.

You just wanted your old life back. You wanted school. You wanted chemistry. You wanted the future you spent years building. But instead, you were just Keiko’s mother. And you fucking hated yourself for it.

“I never wanted this.” you whispered numbly, your eyes glazed over. “I didn’t want to have a baby. I didn’t want to give up school. I didn’t want this life. And now it’s all I have.”

Kento couldn’t breathe. His chest split open. His hands shook violently as he tried to pull you closer, his head buried in your lap. “Please, baby….” his voice splintered. “Please don’t talk like that. I need you. Our baby needs you. We love you.”

But you didn’t respond.

You just kept staring.

Kento sobbed heavily.

His entire body convulsed. His shoulders shook. His throat ripped open as gut-wrenching sobs tore out of him. “I’m so sorry.” he gasped. His face buried into your lap, his tears soaking your clothes. “I’m so fucking sorry, baby.”

And you didn’t comfort him. You didn’t hold him. You didn’t wipe his tears. You didn’t say anything. Because deep down, you hated him, too. You hated that he got to have a life. You hated that he still had his career. You hated that he still had a future.

And you, who you once knew?

You were just a mom.

You were trapped.

And you resented him for it.

YOU WENT AWAY FOR A LITTLE WHILE. It was a shut-in therapy. Somewhere far. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere that felt detached from the life you had been drowning in. Kento made the arrangements. You didn’t ask him to but he just did it. One night, after finding you curled up in the corner of the nursery, crying so hard you couldn’t breathe, he made the decision himself. 

You don’t even remember how it happened — one moment you were screaming I don’t want this, I don’t want this, I don’t want this life anymore, and the next, your husband Kento was quietly helping you with packing your bags.

“Baby….” his voice cracked, his hands trembling as he folded your clothes into a suitcase. “You need help. You need real help. And I can’t—” his throat choked up. “I can’t keep watching you like this. I can’t keep coming home to you like this. I need you to get better, baby. I need you.”

You didn’t fight him.

Because deep down, you knew.

You needed help.

And when you left, Kento didn’t cry. He didn’t break down. He didn’t beg you to stay. He just kissed your forehead, buckled you into the passenger seat, and drove you there himself. The drive was silent. But when you arrived and it came time for him to leave, you felt him break.

Kento clutched your hands so hard you thought he might shatter them. His forehead pressed to yours, his voice splintering as he begged. “Please come back to me. Please get better. Please..... I don’t care how long it takes, just please don’t give up on us.”

And then he left.

And you stayed.

And the first few weeks were hell.

You fought everything. The therapy. The group sessions. The self-reflection. The constant “how are you feeling?” The exposure therapy to bond with your baby. The “you’re not alone” pep talks from strangers who did not know you.

And every single night, you thought about calling Kento. You thought about screaming into the receiver I’m done, come get me, I can’t do this anymore, please just let me go home.

But you didn’t.

Because somewhere deep, deep, deep down, you wanted to get better. And slowly you did. It wasn’t linear. Some days were good. Some days were awful. Some days you held your baby in your arms and felt nothing. Some days you sobbed so hard that you thought you’d vomit. Some days you sat in the therapy circle, refusing to speak, refusing to participate, refusing to care.

But then some days, you looked at your baby and felt something. Not love. Not joy. But something. A tinge of warmth in your chest. A pang of protectiveness. And slowly, slowly, something began to grow. And then six months later, you came home. Kento was there, waiting for you.

The second you stepped through the door, his entire body crashed into you. His arms crushed you against him, his hands cradling the back of your head, his chest heaving as he sobbed harder than you had ever seen him cry.

“Baby!” he gasped into your hair, his voice cracking. “God, I missed you….I missed you so fucking much! I thought you’d never come back to me and Keiko.”

And you sobbed too.

Because you missed him. God, you missed him.

And that night, when you walked into the nursery and you saw your baby again for the first time in months. You cried harder than you ever had in your life. Because for the first time in a long while, you wanted her. And you didn’t hate her anymore.

But… the thing was, your relationship with Kento. It was never the same. You wanted it to be. You tried so hard. Kento tried, too. He was so patient. So gentle. So loving. But something between you both felt… off.

You had a hard time touching him. Being intimate with him. You couldn’t explain why but every time Kento kissed you, really kissed you, or ran his hands down your waist, or tried to pull you into his lap, your body would freeze.

Kento noticed. But he never pushed. He never said a word. He just waited. God, he waited. But the truth was you didn’t know how to give him that part of you anymore. It wasn’t that you didn’t love him. You did. You loved him so much. You adored him. You cherished him. You owed him your life.

But every time you tried to make love to him, it felt like you were reopening the wound. It felt like you were back there again. Heavily pregnant, crying yourself to sleep, suffocating in a life you didn’t want. And you hated it. You hated that your body betrayed you. You hated that you wanted to be with Kento, but the second he kissed you, you’d tense and apologize and turn away.

One night, he finally brought it up.

It was subtle. Careful.

“Baby…..” he murmured as you both laid in bed, his fingers brushing over your bare shoulder. “Do you… not want me anymore?”

And your heart dropped. “What?”

Kento swallowed thickly, his voice small. “You never touch me anymore. You never kiss me first. You… you flinch when I touch you sometimes. And I just…. I don’t know if it’s me or if you just… don’t want me anymore.”

“No — no, Kento, I do.” you sobbed, immediately turning to clutch his face in your hands. “I love you. I love you so much. I just…..I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to….. to be close to you. I want to. I really do. I just….”

Kento shook his head. “Baby, no.” his voice splintered. “It’s not your fault. God, it’s not your fault.”

But you still hated yourself for it.

Because every time Kento looked at you with that softness, that adoration, that undying love — all you could feel was guilt. Guilt for what you put him through. Guilt for resenting him. Guilt for pushing him away. And the fullness of the intimacy, it never really came back.

You tried.You forced yourself sometimes, letting him kiss you, letting him touch you — but it felt wrong. Not because of him. But because your body wouldn’t let you have it. Your body still remembers the trauma. Kento never blamed you.

But it killed him. Because every night he’d roll over in bed, aching for you but he wouldn’t touch you. He wouldn’t dare. He knew if he tried, you’d flinch. You’d shut down. And he couldn’t handle that. So, instead all he could do was just… love you from afar.

But how has that ever been enough?

THE FIRST TIME YOU FOUND OUT ABOUT KENTO’S CHEATING, IT WAS PURELY BY ACCIDENT. It must have been years later. After the therapy, after the recovery, after you slowly started piecing your life back together. Your daughter Keiko was already walking, already talking. You had gone back to school part-time, slowly finishing your chemistry degree. 

And your intimacy with Kento? It had started to come back. Well, not fully. Not like it used to be. But you were trying your hardest with everything. You wanted to make sure that you could do it again. Your husband was waiting, and he deserved it. He deserved your love so much more than anyone. 

You started off small. You started to hold hands and then you started kissing him again. You started letting him touch you again. You even started making love again. Though it still wasn’t what it once was. You didn’t initiate it. You didn’t crave it. You just… let it happen. Because you wanted to be close to him. You wanted to fix what was broken.

Yet, Kento was still distant. Not in the obvious way, no. Kento still loved you. Fiercely. Deeply. His hands were still gentle when he brushed your hair behind your ear. His voice was still soft when he murmured his devotions to you every morning. His kisses were still warm when he kissed you goodbye.

But in his eyes, you could see his eyes so clearly. His eyes always looked starved. Like he was still reaching for something you wouldn’t give him. Like no matter how hard you tried, it would never be enough. And deep down, you knew. You would never be able to give that to him ever again.

You saw it. Every night when he rolled over, half-hard in bed, but he wouldn’t touch you. Every morning when he’d linger in the shower, his back to you, his hand clenched into a fist. Every time you let him inside you, and you could feel the heartbreak in his touch, like he was still waiting for you to love him the way you used to.

And you hated yourself for it.

But you never thought…….

You never thought he’d cheat.

Until one day,  you saw the message.

You were on his phone. It wasn’t intentional. His phone was sitting on the coffee table while he was in the shower, and it buzzed. You didn’t think much of it at first — just a glance, a mindless reflex. But then you saw the notification. A text message. From a number you didn’t recognize.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was married.”

And your blood ran cold instantly.

You froze as your pupils dilated.

Your hand shook as you unlocked his phone. His password was your anniversary, for fuck’s sake and when you opened the message thread… It was all there. The proof.

It was from months ago. At least half a year. Some random woman. The messages were fragmented. But clearly, Kento had deleted most of them. But there was enough. Enough to piece it together.

The first message was from her. “Hey, I had fun last night :) Let me know if you ever want to do it again.”

And then his response — curt. “I can’t continue on with this. I’m married. I love my wife. And….I have a daughter.”

Then her response. “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry. I won’t bother you again.”

And that was it. But it didn’t fucking matter. Because the implication was there. The truth was there. Kento had slept with her. He had fucked her. He had cheated on you. He decided to go on with this, swallowed by the need and by lust. 

And you just… You just sat there. Staring at the message. Feeling like the ground was ripped from beneath you. And the thing that destroyed you most was that you weren’t even surprised. Because you knew. You always knew.

You saw it in his eyes every single day. That hunger. That emptiness. That quiet, unspoken need for something you weren’t giving him. And you thought you were fixing it. You thought you were trying. But clearly… clearly it wasn’t enough. 

You didn’t confront him immediately. You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry. You didn’t throw his phone at him the second he walked out of the bathroom. You didn’t do anything. You just… sat there. And thought about it.

And the longer you thought about it, the more it made sense.

Of course he cheated.

Of course he did.

You deprived him for years. You denied him your body. You made him watch you suffer, made him sleep beside you every night knowing he couldn’t touch you, made him ache for you in ways you never fulfilled. That’s the worst part. You understood. You understood why he did it. That was the part that made you nauseous.

Because the truth was you had already broken his heart long before he ever stepped out of your marriage. You had pushed him away for so long, turned cold for so long, denied him for so long — that at some point, he just stopped waiting.

And you didn’t blame him.

You hated him. God, you hated him.

But you understood.  And you still loved him.

What a foolish game for a wallflower to grow on.

And when he finally came out of the bathroom, his hair still damp, towel slung over his shoulder, flashing you that soft, tired smile. You didn’t say a word. You just kissed him. Hard. Desperate. Like you hadn’t just been crushed to death by your heartbreak.

You grabbed his face, pulled him down, crushed your mouth to his like you were trying to rewrite history. Trying to pretend like you didn’t know what you knew. Trying to convince yourself that he was still yours. Kento froze for half a second, shocked by your sudden affection but then his hands snapped around your waist and he melted into you.

“Baby….” he gasped against your mouth, his voice needy, aching. “Fuck….. what’s gotten into you?”

You don’t say a word to him. Instead, you just clung to him. Like if you held him tight enough, like you could somehow undo the fact that he had already been touched by someone else. You let him take you that night. Hard. Rough. Desperate.

You let him fuck you like he hadn’t been able to for years, you let him do as he pleased. You let him crumble into you. His mouth on your neck, his hands fisting your hair, his voice breaking as he gasped over and over —“I love you. God, I love you.”

And you let him. Because in some fucked up way, you felt like you owed it to him, after making him suffer for so long. You spent years starving him, depriving him of life. So it was only fair that he found his comfort somewhere else.…Right?

Yet you stayed up after all that love making, alone.

No, you knew the correct answer all along.

But you were just too much of a fool to say it out loud.

AND JUST LIKE THAT, IT HAPPENS ALL OVER AGAIN. Once again, you were pregnant with your second child.  It wasn’t planned. You never wanted any more children, after all that had happened. But it happened. Yet it wasn’t that surprising. In some ways, this was the only way you could find yourself taking revenge against him. To make him just as miserable as you again.

Just weeks after you found out about his cheating, after you spent night after night letting him have you in every way he wanted, desperately trying to reclaim him, trying to erase the touch of another woman from his skin. You found yourself standing in the bathroom again, clutching a positive pregnancy test. And your stomach dropped.

Because the second those two pink lines stared back at you, you knew. The cycle was about to repeat. The suffocating weight of motherhood. The slow erosion of your identity. The same cold distance that once consumed your marriage was about to happen all over again. And the worst part was that you couldn’t even blame anyone but yourself.

Because you let him touch you again. You wanted to feel wanted, and to take revenge. You wanted to erase every part of every other woman’s palm on his. You opened your legs for him, night after night, desperate to keep him anchored to you, desperate to make him forget about the other woman and now, you were paying the price.

And when you told Kento, he broke. But not in the same way he did the first time. Not with pure, unfiltered joy. Not with a beaming smile and hopeful eyes. No, this time, Kento’s face crumpled. Yet you know that look on his face. It was just like the first time.

“Baby—” his voice cracked. “You’re….. oh my god, you’re pregnant again?”

And the heartbreak in his voice killed you. Because you knew. You knew exactly what he was thinking. He was thinking we’re not ready. He was thinking not again. He was thinking I just got her back. And now, it is happening again. Yet, you just knew in the back of his mind, he was thinking this was his punishment. This is what he gets for being the worst man on the earth.

The sleepless nights. Postpartum depression. The intimacy issues. The slow unraveling of your marriage. And you could see it,  the fear in his eyes. Yet, your husband Kento pushed it down. Because he was Kento fucking Nanami. He was a husband. A father. A provider. And regardless of how horrified he was, he refused to let you see it.

So he smiled.

Or at least, he tried to.

Yet you both knew the truth.

That smile felt like the biggest lie.

“That’s amazing, baby.” he choked, his voice strained. “Another baby. That’s… that’s incredible.”

And then he kissed you, soft and hesitant, like he was forcing himself to be happy. And you felt it. You felt the hesitation. The dread. The underlying regret. But you didn’t say anything. Because you were the one who let it happen. And just like that, the cycle began again.

Kento started working more. He said it was to provide for the baby, but you knew better. You knew it was because he was terrified. Because he was already bracing himself for what was about to come for you to spiral again, for you to shut down again, for you to stop loving him again.

You tried not to fall into the same pit you did last time. You tried to stay upbeat. You tried to keep loving Kento — loving him hard enough to make up for the fact that he once touched another woman. You tried to be a good wife. You tried to be excited about the baby.

But slowly… it just happened again.

The nausea. The fatigue. The aching loneliness when Kento came home late. The bitterness when you saw happy women on campus who still had their futures. The slow, creeping resentment every time you looked at your growing belly and thought I didn’t want this.

And worst of all, you started pulling away from Kento again. Not on purpose. But your body remembered. Your body associated pregnancy with trauma, with pain, with suffering and so it shut down. You couldn’t help it. Every time Kento touched you, your skin crawled. Every time he kissed you, you flinched. Every time he tried to make love to you, you just froze.

Kento felt it.

He felt you slipping away.

He felt your body turning cold again.

He felt the weight of your touchless nights,

He felt your silent dinners, your empty stares again.

And you knew.

You knew it was happening all over again.

But this time — it was worse.

Now you couldn’t stop thinking about her. The woman he had slept with. The one he turned to when you couldn’t love him the way he needed. And every time Kento touched you, you couldn’t help but lay there and wonder over and over again.

Did she feel warmer than you?

Did she kiss him like she wanted him?

Did she make him feel loved in a way you never could?

Kento could see it.

He could see the way you recoiled when he reached for you. He could see the distance growing between you again. He could see the guilt burning you alive. And he hated himself. Because the truth was, he never stopped loving you.

Even when he cheated. Even when he fucked another woman. It was never about love. It was never about you. It was about the ache. The desperation. The years of feeling like he was losing you and just needing something to hold onto. Now he felt like he was losing you again.

And deep down, he knew.

You were never coming back to him.

Not fully. Not the way you used to.

And Kento was slowly breaking under the weight of it.

Because no matter how much he loved you, it wasn’t enough.

It was never enough to keep you from falling out of love with him.

This is the world you gave birth to Nanami Kenshin.

LIFE GOES ON AS THEY USED TO SAY. Twenty five years, two whole decades and a half of that since you and Kento had first stepped into this chaotic life together. And somehow, despite everything, you made it.

You had raised two kids, a boy and a girl. Your Keiko and your Kenshin. They were both smart, both stubborn, both carrying that unmistakable sharpness in their eyes that mirrored your husband as much as their compassion had been garnered from your heart.

In all that agony you had come to know in your life, the pair kept you busy with almost everything they could think of. Troublemaking, homework, soccer games, dance recitals, late-night fevers. Everything about it is the messy, beautiful chaos of parenting that somehow keeps you moving forward.

And then there was Kento’s career, near thirty years as a veteran in the industry. He had gone from being the promising newcomer to a household name. Red carpets. Magazine covers. Award ceremonies where his face shone on giant screens as he walked up to accept yet another trophy. The world adored him. Respected him. Envied him.

And you were right there beside him for all of it.

The photographers always wanted you in the frame. His beautiful wife, standing gracefully at his side, draped in sleek designer dresses and glittering jewelry. They loved the way you smiled for the cameras, how your hand always rested delicately on his arm, how you played the part of the elegant, unwavering woman who had supported her husband through it all.

And for a while, you convinced yourself that this was enough. 

That this life, this carefully curated image of family perfection, was what happiness was.

You learned to smile in interviews, to talk about Kento’s dedication as a father and how proud you were of him. You learned to navigate the world of high society — dinner parties with producers, mingling with other industry wives, slipping into that role of effortless charm and poise.

But behind all the glitz and glamour, it was lonely.

With two kids to raise, and a husband to care for, there was little for you.

There was no room for you to be the woman you are.

Kento was rarely home. Always on set, always in meetings, always flying across the country for some event or another. And when he was home, he was exhausted. Conversations grew shorter. His kisses felt rushed. The intimacy you’d once fought so hard to reclaim began to fade again — not because you didn’t want him, but because he was never there.

You kept yourself busy. Raising the kids. Managing the house. 

Smiling at galas, posing for cameras, over and over again. 

Playing the part of the perfect wife in a perfect marriage.

But sometimes, when the house was dark and the kids were asleep, you’d sit alone in the living room clutching an old photograph from years ago, back when Kento’s hair was still short and his smile still reached his eyes and wonder if this was all there was left.

And maybe it wasn’t enough.

But you told yourself it had to be.

Because you had already sacrificed too much to turn back now.

So, you didn’t think of anything when it broke out in the headlines.

Kento Nanami, the beloved actor, devoted husband, father of two had allegedly been caught cheating again after nearly twenty five years of marriage.

You sat at the kitchen table, having breakfast like normal. The morning sun spilled through the windows, the smell of eggs and coffee filling the air, and the faint sound of the television humming in the background.

“Sources say the woman in question is a production assistant from his latest drama series—”

You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t look up.

You just kept stirring your coffee, like the words meant absolutely nothing to you. Kento, on the other hand, was frozen. Fork halfway to his mouth. Face pale. Chest rising and falling like he was trying not to hyperventilate. And then, slowly, ever so carefully,  he turned his head and looked at you.

“…Are you alright?” His voice cracked.

And that’s when you smiled.

You smiled, soft and easy. Like none of it mattered. Like you weren’t currently listening to the entire nation gossip about your husband’s infidelity. Like you weren’t being branded the foolish, pathetic wife who stayed after her husband cheated twice. Like you weren’t dying inside.

And with a voice far too calm, you said, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Kento’s entire face crumpled.

Because he knew.

He fucking knew.

That wasn’t real. That smile. 

That sweetness. That unbothered facade.

It was performative.

It was the same smile you gave him after your first child was born, when you were drowning in postpartum depression but still told him “I’m fine” over and over again.

It was the same smile you gave him one hundred times when he told you he was going to be late at home tonight, when he didn’t have to be. 

And now, now you are doing it all over again. Feigning nonchalance. Feigning strength. Feigning normalcy. And it destroyed him to bits beyond what he could stand.

“…Baby.” his voice cracked, his fork clattering against his plate. “You don’t have to…. I mean, we can talk about it if you want. I’ll….I’ll explain everything. I swear to god, it’s not what they’re saying—”

You laughed so heartily.

A soft, almost amused laugh.

And you took a sip of your coffee, still smiling. “I don’t need you to explain anything, Kento.”

His stomach dropped. “Wh–what?”

You met his gaze and your smile never wavered. “It’s not the first time, is it?”

And fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Kento’s mouth fell open. “Baby….no. It’s not like that….I swear I—”

“It’s alright.” You cut him off smoothly. Calmly. Almost too calmly. “Really. I don’t want an explanation.”

Kento visibly flinched. His heart was hammering so loud he swore you could hear it. “…You don’t?”

You shook your head, taking another bite of your eggs. “No. I’m just glad you had fun.”

And Kento lost it. 

“Baby….” His voice cracked violently, his chair scraping against the floor as he immediately dropped to his knees beside you, clutching your thigh like his life depended on it. “Don’t do this. Don’t shut me out again. Please, baby. Please yell at me. Cry. Scream. Break things. Just…. don’t act like you don’t care. Please. Please, baby, I know you care—”

You laughed again.

But this time — it was hollow.

“I don’t.” you said plainly, popping a piece of toast into your mouth.

And that broke Kento completely, you were sure.

“No, no, that’s not true.” his voice shattered, his grip on your thigh desperate. “You love me. I know you do. You still love me. Please don’t….don’t act like you don’t….. I’ll fix it, baby. I swear to god, I’ll fix it, I’ll—”

“Fix it?” you echoed, your voice soft. Curious. “Like you did the first time?”

Kento fucking froze. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Because you never talked about it. Ever. After his first affair, you never once brought it up. You forgave him in the silence. Or at least, you pretended to. You shoved it down, pretended it never happened, and let Kento crawl back into your arms without consequence.

Now you were smiling at him like he was nothing more than a pitiful stranger. “Your ears work fine, don’t they?”

“…I don’t know what to say.” he choked. His hands were shaking. His throat constricted. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please….please just tell me what to do. I’ll fix it. I’ll do anything. Just please don’t—”

“Don’t what?” you asked softly, tilting your head.

The look in your eyes killed him.

“Don’t leave you?” you continued, your voice sickly sweet. “Don’t abandon you like you abandoned me when I needed you the most? Don’t make you feel like I loved someone else the way you made me feel for years?”

Tears burned his eyes. “Baby, please—”

“It’s fine, Kento.” You smiled again. “Really. I’m not mad.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.” You sipped your coffee. “I’m not anything.”

And Kento completely unraveled.

Because he could see it.

The way you looked at him now. Like he was just a man. Not your husband. Not your Kento. Not the love of your life. Just a man who happened to share your bed, your house, and your children. And it killed him.

“Do you still love me?” he finally choked out, his voice so small.

And you froze.

Just for a second.

But then you smiled again. 

Just as soft, sweet, cold as before.

“Of course, I do.”

And that was the sick part, wasn’t it?

You did. You still loved him. You loved him with your entire fucking soul. You loved him so much that it hurt. You loved him and you hated him with equal intensity. It was two sides of the same coin and it was tearing you apart.

And yet even if you do love him, you know what should be.

Kento didn’t deserve that love anymore.

And even if you have to act like you don’t love him, so be it.

Let him suffer the amount of suffering you had over that time.

So you kissed his forehead, brushed his hair back, and whispered. “You should finish your breakfast. You have work later.”

And then you stood up from your seat, cigarette on your lips.

And left him sobbing on the kitchen floor, lamenting.

You had errands left to run, after all.

A wife has too much to do, you know?

[vinamari]

NERDJO who first notices you when you add to his ideas and explanation on electromagnetism and it’s applications on actuators

NERDJO that has a tight knit friend group but wants to talk to you but feels too shy

NERDJO in which he got laughed at by his friends at night because he was so flustered after ranting to you about Digimon after you asked him if he had any special interests

NERDJO who is always so quick and witty to answer questions or make snarky remarks in class but turns into a mess trying to talk to you outside of school

NERDJO that gets set up by Shoko and Geto by inviting you to Gojo’s dorm only to not be there, leaving the both of you alone under the guise they both had errands to run

NERDJO learns that day your interest in Pokémon so you both sit and rant to each other about your favorite characters before realizing you need to study

NERDJO becomes giddy when you end up sleeping over because of how late it was

NERDJO who’s friends tell him that he sees you more than just a friend from physics class

NERDJO that begins writing nerdy jokes about physics in your notebook column as a way to show his interest in you

NERDJO who you find very endearing and dorky, especially the little notes and doodles he leaves in your notebook

NERDJO who you notice rambles a lot about quantum physics and Digimon all while pointing at his computer screen and squinting

NERDJO who you have now learned to harbor feelings for and vice versa

[fangdokja]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 ~ 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙚

Mornings always start like this.

You wake up to the feeling of something heavy, something suffocating. His arm slung over your waist, his chest pressed into your back, his breath against your neck—hot and lazy, even in sleep.

You shift, barely, and his grip tightens.

"You move, I break your fuckin’ legs," Sukuna grumbles against your ear.

You freeze.

His lips curl against your skin, and you feel the smirk before he even chuckles. You hate how easily he reads you, how easily he enjoys this—you, trapped under him, knowing damn well there's no escape.

“Get off,” you mutter, voice hoarse.

“Say please.”

You stay silent.

Sukuna laughs, rolling onto his back—but before you can even think about slipping out of bed, his hand grips your wrist, yanking you on top of him. You land hard against his chest, and you can feel him.

Hard.

Needy.

But he’d never admit it.

“You gonna be good today?” His fingers dig into your waist, idly rubbing circles into your hip. “Or you gonna piss me off?”

You glare at him. His smirk deepens.

He wants you to fight. He likes it when you fight.

“Fuck you,” you snap.

His grin turns sharp. “That’s the plan, sweetheart.”

Before you can shove him away, he flips you onto your back, pinning you beneath him, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of your thighs. His cock grinds against your stomach, thick and heavy through his boxers.

And he’s already pulling your shorts down.

You thrash, but it’s useless. He’s stronger. He’s always stronger.

“Sukuna—”

"Shut up," he growls, shoving your panties aside, lining himself up.

And then—he's inside.

No prep. No warning. Just him, slamming into you, stretching you open in a way that makes you bite your lip hard enough to bleed.

Your hands shove at his chest, desperate, but he catches your wrists, pinning them above your head.

"Don't start whining now," he sneers, rolling his hips, slow and deep, making you feel every inch of him. "Should've been a good girl."

Your body clenches involuntarily, and he groans, head dropping to the crook of your neck.

"Fuck, baby—" He bites down, sharp, making you jolt. "You’re so fuckin’ tight in the morning."

You hate him.

You hate how much he enjoys this, how much he needs this, how much he refuses to admit it—always acting like you're the desperate one, like you're the one who keeps coming back to him.

But you never had a choice.

And you never will.

His thrusts pick up, brutal and relentless, forcing ragged gasps from your throat. His grip on your wrists tightens, his teeth scrape against your skin, and when he feels you getting close—when your body betrays you—

He laughs.

Because you’re his.

And there’s nothing you can do about it.

Official TAG LIST of “The Red Ledger”: @save4h , @rofkshinee , @songbirdgardensworld , @yanderedrabbles

[wainawtmai]

tags: fluff, suggestive, heina era!sukuna, queen/wife!reader, nicknames, i believe in sassy sukuna

“enough with that useless nickname.”

You couldn’t help it, you loved to tease your husband. Sukuna had a temper that had all the courtiers and nobles in his court trembling in their sokutai. But for you, his queen, his resolve melted in your hands like putty. And nothing brought you greater joy than annoying him. 

Sukuna leveled you with a glare that could have brought the strongest soldier to submission, but you merely smiled in return. 

The nickname had been your newest torture method, brought to life one morning during the relatively common discourse that came with his meetings with the imperial court. You couldn’t help but notice how much your fierce husband resembled a tiger as he rattled off insults to his advisors. Ruthless and dangerous as he silenced cocky nobles with singular looks in their direction. 

The thought continued as you both sauntered to your bed chambers, and then settled into your shared yaedatami, Sukuna’s head resting in your lap as you carded your fingers through his hair. There was still that ever present glare on his tattooed face, though it was now softened by your doting. He resembled a tiger cub, cute and yet to be harmful.

“You look so much like a tiger, Your Highness. A tiny little cub.” You murmured out loud, smiling as Sukuna’s brows furrowing in confusion. 

“Are you well, wife?” He asked, his face hardening back into that stiff glare. “You call your king a…baby tiger?” 

Your fingers still sift through his hair as your smile broadened and you giggle, “Yes, Your Highness, you’re my little cub.” 

That night ended with Sukuna demanding you never call him that again and then facing away from you as you slept. 

(You woke up with his arm around your neck in a death grip…so clearly his anger was short lived. He could never sleep without your skin against his.) 

 You never did well with demands. It was part of why Sukuna adored you. 

★

“Are you enjoying your food, little cub?” You asked him at the dining table the next afternoon, absentmindedly sipping your green tea.  

Sukuna makes something like a growl in his throat, snapping the chopsticks in his hand in two, “You’ve ruined my appetite.” He fumed, slamming the broken chopsticks on the table and leaving swiftly, you watch his retreating back with barely concealed giggles. 

And so of course you persist, continuing to pester him with the nickname: 

“Is my little cub feeling alright?” 

“Have patience, little cub.” 

“Taste this wonderful tea I’ve made, my little cub.” 

“Isn’t this such an enchanting hitoe, little cub?” 

“Little cub, you need to be kinder.” 

Rumors spread throughout the palace of the King of Curses’ new status as the tiger cub to his Queen. What had first been a way to get a rise out of your husband quickly became endearing. You adored your husband, and the nickname represented the way you saw him, not as the feared King of Curses, but as your love, your little cub. 

But you figured you stop your teasing, he clearly found it maddening, and you didn’t want any servants to lose their heads once the gossip reached the king’s ears. 

★ 

You were taking a stroll through the palace gardens, Sukuna at your side nodding along to your laments of your queenly duties and the ladies court. He lived for the drama stirring between your ladies court, despite how much he claimed your chatter was a nuisance. 

You gave him a small, appreciative smile, “I love how you listen to me drone on, Your Highness.” 

Sukuna’s brows furrowed in confusion, usually he would give a dismissive response that you had to mentally decipher to figure out the compliment hidden underneath but now, he was silent. 

And so you continued to drone on, pausing at the sight of the koi fish swimming innocently in the small pond, “Aren’t they so adorable, Your Highness?” 

Sukuna stiffens at your words before crossing his arms with his usual suave arrogance, “You’ve ceased calling me that incessant nickname. Finally.” 

You fixed him with an understanding smile, “Of course, my king. I apologize for my continued teasing, I’ll never utter the name again. ” 

He took a short while to respond, “Good, it was ridiculous and frankly insulting.”

“Yes, my king.” You watched the koi dart through the water, golden scales illuminated by the moonlight. Through the corner of your eye you could see the slight discomfort in Sukuna’s usual glare…and decide to test the waters, “I will never call you my little cub ever again.” 

His gaze was damn near piercing as soon as the nickname left your mouth, and you had no time to react as he pulled you into him aggressively with a growl, pressing his lips to yours for a demanding and messy kiss you were sure the servants could see. 

“Again.” He growled for only a second before his lips were once again upon you, gnawing at your lower lip like a starved beast.

You were breathless and sure your jūnihitoe had been rumpled by your husband’s sudden eagerness. But you still mustered a smile at the desperate little look in Sukuna’s eyes, “Anything for you, my little cub.”

[anhesacardia]

No update for today :(

Forbidden Promises

Chapter 1 (Series Masterlist)

Pairing: Modernau!Sukuna x Mother!Reader

Genre: Hidden Baby Trope

Summary: Reader opens up a bakery after running away from her three year relationship with Sukuna, effectively ghosting him and hiding away in the middle of the countryside. Unknown to Sukuna, reader also had a baby, and now is living peacefully until an unfateful meeting starts to pull her back into the life she so desperately escaped from.

Tw: none for now except that Reader is a mother, called mumma/momma, Hana is five years old, reader freezes up at the sight of Toji but just because she’s in shock, Toji being a warning of his own, there will be eventual smut so MDNI

Word count: around 2k at maximum I wrote this on tumblr drafts so idk lol

An: Literally my second work I’m posting on tumblr so please again be kind!!! Likes and reblogs and comments all greatly appreciated!!!

Theres something serene about the way you flit around the bakery, apron speckled with little dots of flour, tied snugly around your waist. Placing the fresh goods in the glass display might just has to be your favourite step ever, that or placing the fresh flowers into the flower vase that the florist across you always sponsored for a free cream bun.

The door chime rings as you turn around, wiping off the small beads of sweat that formed on your upper lip with your sleeve, pulling back the clear mask back on, a customer service smile immediately placed on your face,

“Glad I got to you before lunch rush!”

You smiled at the frequent guest, bending at the knees and catching the pink haired girl that ran straight at you,

“Momma! The teacher said my drawings have real uh-,”

Hana turns around to look at her friends mother, her friend still holding onto Aoi’s pants, shyly hiding even after knowing you for six months now,

“Potential, she said you have great potential Hana,”

Aoi smiled, patting Hana’s head and scooping up her son into her arms not soon after,

“Well if that’s it,me and the little one are going to get going now, Kenji’s cooking dinner for us,”

Aoi starts walking back to the doors as Hana wraps her arms around you, making you pick her up and rest her on your arm as you walk towards the door,

“I’ll see you tomorrow Aoi!”

You wave at the mother-son duo as they walk down the street, a warm smile on your face as Hana copies your gesture,

“Ok big girl! I want you to go get changed and mumma will get you some lunch hmm?”

Hana runs into the back room of the shop- connected to your house as soon as you set her down. A fresh set of gloves is pulled over your hands as you move back to the counter and await your lunch rush, already dreading the influx of customers.

The first man to come in makes you stop dead in your tracks, fingers frozen mid air as you almost greet the man. A scar runs down the left side of his lip, red and rough,

“Well ain’t it good to see you again,”

He grins, matching your half assed wave with his own as he walks to the counter whistling as he turns his head around and looks at your homely decorated bakery,

“Toji,”

You breathe out, barely short of a whisper. He cocks his head at you and smirks,

“Yep, that’s my name. Never thought I’d see you on an errand for Sukuna heh,”

A shiver runs down your spine at the mention of his name and you scrunch your eyes, willing yourself back to the woman who owned the bakery and not the woman who ran away six years ago,

“It’s good to see you again too Toji, is there anything I can get you?”

Your palms have moon shaped Red Crescents in them from how hard you’ve dug your finger nails, steeling your gaze at the cash register, pulling out a new order,

“Why the cold shoulder doll? We go way back don’t we?”

All Toji gets in reply is an eye roll and a scoff followed by you moving away from the counter to stand in front of Fushiguro with your arms crossed,

“I dated your boss for a few years, that’s hardly going ‘way back-,”

You further validate your point with finger quotes in the air,

“Now either order something or get the hell out Fushiguro,”

Tojis smirk falters for a second before he holds in hands up in mock surrender,

“Still fiesty heh doll, no worries I’ll be out of your way,”

He’s turned his back on you and finally is almost out of the door-

“Momma! I can’t find my hello kitty pouch!”

Your daughter comes storming out from the back door, red eyes squinted in fury as she holds out her bag for you,

Shit.

Current Next->

[gossamyrrh]

dom!fem!reader

starry-eyed thinking about an anguished choso begging you to ride his face.

he’s on his knees, face-to-face with your glistening cunt, near salivating at the sheer closeness—the promise of such sweet, low-hanging fruit.

“pleaseee.” he whines, panting shallowly like a dog. whining like one, too. he brings his large hands up to grasp your thighs, squeezing them lightly and massaging in small circles as he watches your cunt twitch. “i need you. f-fuck i need you so bad.”

“i know, i know,” you coo. “but do you deserve it, cho’?” you level him with the meanest glare you can muster, bringing a curled finger beneath his chin and angling his head. “only good boys get to taste me.”

choso nods feverishly. blinks wildly as though he’s fighting back tears. “y-yes i deserve it. i’m… i’ve been a good boy.”

“have you?”

a whine. “yes.”

you card your fingers through choso’s hair and pull, a ragged moan trembling from within his throat. like the plucked string of a bass quavering. “good boys don’t take what they want, right?”

“r-right.” he groans. “please…”

you step a little closer, feeling choso’s quick breaths fanning against your skin. “so take what i give you, yeah? nothing more.”

and his lip begins to tremble with desire as you mount his face, hooking a leg over his broad shoulder, wringing his hair a little tighter for support. you grip it as though you are holding the reins to a mighty, wild stallion—and you suppose, in some humorous way, that you are. the dubiously proclaimed wrangler, to your needy, vulnerable pet.

and the second your pet tastes your cunt, he is a groaning, writhing mess. lets out a lengthy, broken whimper as you slowly rock back and forth across his mouth. warm tongue pressed flat against the centre of you.

“yes, cho’, just like that.” you throw your head back with a groan, yanking his hair just slightly. “you better stay still, l-like that.”

he moans into your cunt as you smother him. grinding your folds over his lips, his chin—the tip of his nose. coating him in your juices, watching as he eagerly drinks it down. as though it were the sweetest wine.

and like the good boy he promised he is—has been—choso just takes it. locks his neck, widens his mouth, does nothing to derive his own pleasure, focusing solely on yours—on being your good, little pet. your good, little toy. so you can get off and use him and find release as many times as you wish.

even if his pathetic cock is painfully straining against his briefs, a little patch of precum leaking from the top, he neglects himself. all for you! laps at your drooling cunt and noses your clit until you’re roughly tugging at his hair, rocking against his face, curling your toes in bliss as you cum on his face—all over his lips…

like a good boy, choso makes sure not a single drop goes to waste

[angelltheninth]

Hi! Can we have a JJK men reacts to their gf wanting/asking a headlock from them? 🤭 (cuz big strong biceps 💪🏻) Thank you!

Well I did start working out more lately, would like to put them in a headlock.

Pairing: Yuji Itadori, Ryomen Sukuna, Megumi Fushiguro, Gojo Satoru, Nanami Kento, Geto Suguru, Choso Kamo, Toji Fushiguro, Yuta Okkotsu x Fem!Reader

Tags: fluff, established relationship, banter, headlock, prank, slightly suggestive, kissing

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: They all want to wrap you up in their powerful beefy arms. There.

Yuji chuckles when you ask him to put you in a headlock, thinking that you weren't being serious. When he realizes you were he's more than happy to fulfill his girlfriend's request. He's always been in a good shape, but since he became a Sorcerer he's put in even more thought into his training so he knows he could put you in a headlock easily. As he puts you in a headlock he flexes his biceps, taking the opportunity to show off so close to you.

Sukuna has four arms so he can put you in a headlock for times in four different ways. More than happy to do so because he feels like he can show his power over his woman, show you how easy you are to subdue. You asked for it yourself but as soon as he gets you into a headlock he gloats about it like it was his idea and grins down at you triumphantly. When he sees you blushing and grinning at him he bends down and captures your lips in a heated kiss, further showing how much power he has over you.

Megumi feels like the requests is really silly and honestly he doesn't really want to do it. However you are very persistent in getting him to do it, asking over and over again, annoying him to the point where the only way to shut you up is to put you in a headlock. You laugh as he pins you down onto the bed, his arm around your neck, just holding you in place. While he still doesn't see why this is fun for you he's happy that he could make you laugh, as strange of a woman as you are.

Gojo laughed when you asked him to put you in a headlock, but not because he meant to make fun of you. Not that he would ever make fun of his girlfriend, but he will point out how cute it is when you ask him with such a big grin on your face. He doesn't think he's the most muscular man out there so he doesn't know how well this will work or how much you'll enjoy it. As he puts you in a he kisses your cheek really quick, making you smile even more, maybe more than the headlock itself.

Nanami always knew you were a weird girl with weird tastes, ever since you were in school together. Up until this point he was sure that your weirdness wouldn't extend to your relationship with him and apparently he was wrong. Hearing you ask this of him is odd but it's nothing hurtful, so he will gladly do so. Kisses you as soon as you thank him for it, you're too damn cute for your own good a lot of the time, but as long as you're this cute only around him it's not that much of a problem.

Geto shrugs as you ask him, it's not really something he thought about doing before but he isn't opposed to making his girlfriend happy through whatever means. And if it unlocks something new and enjoyable for you to do in the bedroom it's even better. He can already see how this move could be used in bed, to keep you close to him. But right now he keeps it gentle, the pressure around your neck is certianly there but he would never hurt you intentionally, without you asking.

Choso blushes at your request and was very close to telling you no until you promised to kiss him in return. You sure do like to abuse the girlfriend privileges you have, he might have to become more resistant to that. Lightly he puts his arm around you, asking how much he should squeeze, he's trying to be so careful with you. He didn't even notice that you asked him to this in front of mirror and take a picture to put it as your new lock screen until he sees it hours later.

Toji puts you in a headlock as soon as you ask him, and it kind of becomes his favorite way to hug you. The height difference between you two has always been a thing, but now that he has you up against him it's even more prominent. He always knew he had the best, hottest, cutest woman as his girlfriend. A headlock is less of a show of power for him, it could have been were you his enemy, but as it stands it's a cute thing he does for you, which he will actually deny if you point it out for him.

Yuta feels like it's not quite the request he would think would come out of your mouth but when you asked him he got pretty bashful about it. The only way he will do this is if he can also cuddle with you while he does it, so he makes himself comfortable on your couch and lifts his arm. His arm was barely in the air for a few seconds and you were already pressing against his chest so he could lock his arm around you. You're a strange girl but you're his girl, and there's nothing he would change about you.

[mononijikayu]

imagine you and best friend! satoru ending up having to pretend dating.....

taglist: @gumiiiiezzzz, @midnight-138, @sukioyakio, @yoonseokerist

imagine you and best friend! satoru dealing with valentine's day and seeing all these discounts.

it starts with a tragic discovery between the two of you after a long day at work. you've both been so busy that you both have forgotten that today was valentines day.

valentines day. a day both of you could never seem to touch or want to touch. a day you both don't think you could celebrate, with how busy you both are in between missions.

at times, being busy was a blessing. because you both don't have to deal with these sort of things. but today, after finishing the work schedules rather early, there was no choice for the two of you but to face the world bend to be the world of lovers on this day.

today all around tokyo was these special valentine’s day deals that's only valid for one day. your favorite bakery down the street is offering buy-one-get-one-free heart-shaped pastries. the movie theater satoru often goes to has a couples special for half-price tickets.

even that currently trendy high class french restaurant you’ve been dying to try has a special lovers night only promotion where they will serve a full-course meal, usually way out of your budget, free for couples celebrating their love.

“this is just ridiculous, isn't it?” satoru suddenly scoffs, adjusting his sunglasses. you see him put his hands on his pocket, irritated. “what about best friends? where’s the platonic soulmate discount?”

“exactly, goddamn it!” you huffed in response, glaring at all the signs right in front of you. “we suffer through all our mutual friends’ gross relationships, third-wheel their dates, and for what? no perks for us suffering folk?”

imagine you and best friend! satoru both lamenting about being single and all your friends being couples, enjoying their dates.

the thing is, its not that you hate romance. you don't. you never have hated it. but it's hard to deal with it. being very busy people with very incredibly demanding jobs, its often hard to find the time to just stop and date and slow down like all of your mutual friends.

so, it's hard this month. it's consistantly been a month of endless wedding talk, anniversary countdowns, and romantic getaway plans from your friends.

meanwhile, you and satoru sit at your usual café table, aggressively stirring your coffee as couples giggle around you. you couldn't help but feel your eye twitching.

“bet they’re all getting free desserts tonight, aren't they?” satoru grumbles, watching a couple share a milkshake with two straws. “disgusting.”

“you know what?” you say, slamming your mug down. “we deserve something nice too.”

he raises a brow at you. "well, what do you have in mind?"

and that’s how you end up at the very high-end french restaurant continue to rave about, holding hands across the table, grinning at the host and making the most of the efforts you can to actually look ike you’re both madly in love with each other.

“we're just another happy couple here for the lover’s night special, as you can see.” satoru beams at the host.

the host nods. “wonderful. we’ll just need to see proof of marriage.”

your smiles freeze at the host's words. “...i'm sorry....marriage?”

“uh, yes, mam. the promotion is exclusively for married couples., as you can see on the poster.”

satoru recovers first, throwing an arm around your shoulder. “of course! we’re very married. we got married at the city hall. yeah, yeah. now we plan to be married again with all of our friends there. i'm just waiting to repropose again, hahahaha.....isn't that so ridiculously married?”

you finally recovered and nodded rapidly. “....yes, yes. we're so madly in love. we really are, aren't we?......darling?”

"right, right, my love. isn't this great?"

the host eyes you both with scepticism but the host just gives up and eventually shrugs. “alright, alright, mam, sir.....right this way.”

and that was a success. now, you both sat there comfortably in that fine leather covered booth and start ordering almost everything in the menu.

a four-course gourmet meal later, you’re leaning back in your chair, stomach full, congratulating yourselves on your flawless deception. then the bill arrives. it’s a number so high your soul leaves your body.

satoru lets out a low whistle. “yikes. well, i'm glad we don’t actually have to pay this.”

“yeah.....” you laugh weakly, but sweat prickles at your neck. then you had a moment, suddenly smacking his arm lightly. "wait, aren't you rich, satoru? why are you worrying about the price?"

"hey, hey. just because i'm rich doesn't mean i don't want to enjoy the discounts." he says defensively, taking out his black card. "i enjoy this sometimes."

then, right as the waiter approaches again to take the bill, satoru suddenly crouches down, moving down slightly just to tie his shoe. and your overfed, panicked brain sees your husband on one knee and immediately blurts out:

“YES, I DO! I'LL MARRY YOU AGAIN!” you shout in a panic to satoru as your eyes widened along with his. "uh....."

the people in the restaurant look at eahc other before the entirety of the restaurant suddenly just burst into applause, in small bouts and then in a larger surge.

the waiter comes back with the receipt and just beams at the two of you, clapping. the host dabs at their eyes and just sighed, as if it's the incredible thing they've ever seen. satoru looks up at you, mouth open in sheer betrayal.

“babe.......” he says through gritted teeth.

“honey.....” you whisper back, frozen in horror.

and just like that, you’re fake engaged (once again).

imagine you and best friend! satoru dealing with the aftermath of your fake engagement.

as soon as you step out of the restaurant and away from the prying eyes of all the people who were still congratulating the two of you, you whirl on satoru with the most horrifed, exasperated exression you could muster all the while shaking your head.

you didn't even know where to put your hands at this point. you were just moving it about it, trying to understand what just happened. you were just both faking this to have a good, joyful discounted dinner.

“Why didn’t you just stay standing?” you hissed at him.

“i was just tying my shoe, for christ's sake!” he says, offended.

“WHO GETS ON ONE KNEE TO TIE THEIR SHOE IN A FANCY RESTAURANT?” you suddenly say in an outburst of emotion.

“excuse me for being dramatic while i'm tying my fucking shoe, bro!”

you groan, pressing your hands into your face. “this is a disaster. what if someone we know saw? fuck, what if someone took a video and uploaded it on tiktok with those heartwarming music tunes? what the fuck, everyone at work will see it, oh my god.....”

satoru wiggles his fingers. “then we milk it for free gifts. i mean, come on. think about it. it's a foolproof plan."

“no, absolutely not. this is a one of thing, satoru. oh my—”

"just hear me out! this is going to be a good thing for the both of us every single holiday and every single restaurant we visit. i mean, it's like with a birthday cake."

"satoru, that's a horrible idea!"

but it’s too late. he’s already taking a picture of the voucher that he was holding in his hand, thanks to the manager who is basically getting free advertising with what you had both accidentally done and texting it to your found family group chat.

satoru 🤍: just got engaged lol free meal WOO

nanami (ken)to: i refuse to believe this. [name} surely you have sme common sense not to do something like this.

get(oooouttt): there's no fucking way this is happening??? [name] blink twice if you feel like this is a kidnapping

ssssssshoko: did you drug her? there's no way she's agreeing to this, satoru. come on.

megumi (gojo's son): block me already oh my god, i don't want any part in this.

you snatch the phone from him, but the damage is already done. soon enough, your phone starts blowing up. it's like everyone on the planet is just spamming you. including your literal parents. and then his parents.

i mean, all the people you mutually know are calling, texts after texts are just continuing to flood in, and then all the sudden, you found yourself realizing that you might actually have to commit to this bit unless you want to explain the most humiliating scam of your life.

you look at satoru with the glare of a thousand suns. "i'm going to kill you."

he wiggles his eyebrows. “ready to be my future spouse, baby?”

you inhale deeply, trying so hard to calm yourself down. but unfortunately, that's easier said than done at this point in time. you hum to yourself, almost like a mantra.

you could strangle him. i mean it's not that hard, he will let you do it. wait, it shouldn't be could. it should be, you should strangle him. at this point, it feels like an essential thing to do now.

but you knew yourself better than that.

whatever he does, you know you can get over.

you like this guy, you were sure of that too well.

just a little bit too much, more than it should be allowed.

so instead, you sighed as you take the voucher from his hands. "you’re buying me breakfast every day until this blows over.”

he smirks. “anything for my baby.....wait wait, my wife slash fiancée again.”

"don't push it or i'll shove you."

"aw, babe, you love me so much, don't you?"

"shut up!"

imagine you and best friend! satoru waking up the next morning to absolute chaos.

you barely got a moment of peace when you finally got home before your phone starts vibrating like it’s trying to escape your nightstand. yet shook your head at it and left it there for quite a fair bit and ended up drinking some wine, regretting your decision one after the other over botles upon bottles.

and that's when your night ended, with you too drunk off your mind, still refusing to open your phone and you going on ahead to mumble in your sleep about how you didn't know what to do when you had to face reality.

but respite could only last for so long. with one eye barely open, you your found yourself woken by the stupid, endless buzzing sound that's been coming from your phone.

you groaned, still feeling the headache from alcohol from last night. you didn't want to get up. you didn't want to face the messages that's coming one after the other on there.

but even if you wanted to get back to sleep, you know you couldn't. when you woke up. you just did. there was no other recourse now. you mumbled under your breath before moving forward and blindly grabbed the phone.

opening it, it blinded you. you groaned for a bit, adjusting your eyes to the information. before long, you were squinting at the screen. you couldn't believe what you were seing. you purse your lips.

37 missed calls. 86 unread messages.

your message box, from the group chat to every other contact message on your phone, well they were all on fire. and you didn't know how to stop it or to control it. they were just all a mess and you didn't know what to do.

satoru🤍 : so actually the engagement is real. me and [name] are really engaged </3

ssssssshoko: “you got engaged, [name]???? i had to find out through TEXT??? from satoru???? that you're engaged TO SATORU? explain, asap.”

get(oooouttt): wow this is like the worst thing [name] ever did in her life actually

nanami (ken)to: “i am deeply concerned.”

megumi (gojo's son): “i hope this is a joke. i really, really do.”

then came the other kids messaging you individually. wait, how did they even find out all about this? they weren't even in the gc that satoru made for your little found family. you start to scroll up and try and figure out who they were from.

yuuji (my son actually): “CONGRATS, SENSEI!!!!!! I KNEW IT WOULD HAPPEN ONE DAY!!!!!!”

nobara (my pretty daughter): “U BETTER LET ME PLAN THE WEDDING SENSEI????”

yuuta (eldest son): [name]-sensei!!! congratulations to you and gojo-sensei!!! im wishing you well <3

maki (eldest daughter): [name]-sensei what do you MEAN you're engaged to that idiot???? MESSAGE ME BACK, SOON????

there were more of that, if you were being honest. one after the other, your students from kyoto and tokyo, and even from your one year in fukuoka, were just questioning you left and right on the same question. why the fuck would you be engaged to gojo satoru?

"i can't deal with this." you say as you continued to scroll through your messages. "i can't be doing this."

but then a message stops you at your tracks. you could feel yourself stunned with your mouth agape. this can't be happening to you right now, not at this moment. you purse your lips, as you reread the message over and over again.

yaga masamichi (ugh my boss) : “{name], i've told gojo already. but we need to talk.”

you moaned with irritation, almsot wanting to throw your phone. now your boss is involved? you can't be dealing with this after a night of drinking. you just really can't.

before you could even process that further, your doorbell rings. dreading what’s about to come, you shuffle over, still in your horribly mismatched pajamas, and open the door only to find gojo satoru, fully dressed, grinning, and holding up a tray with two coffees.

“good morning, fiancée of mine.” he chirps at you, grinning. he lowers his gaze. "ohhhh, cute set."

you groaned at him, rolling your eyes. “why are you like this?”

“because i’m very dedicated, very devoted, very enthralled with our little funny bit.” he breezes past you into your apartment, setting the coffee down before dramatically flopping onto your couch. “so my dearest baby, how does it feel to wake up engaged to me?”

“like i’ve made a terrible mistake.” you say to him, taking the coffee from his tray. "like i've ended up in a bad dream over and over again. like i've been reborn into a bad life. like i've been—"

"okay, okay, i get the point." satoru clutches his chest, sighing dramatically. he moves to take his own coffee. “but don't worry. i'm sure that's not permanent. that’s just the pre-wedding jitters, sweetheart.”

you throw a pillow at his face. "you're so annoying. let me have my drama here."

he catches it with ease, grinning. "not without me, baby."

"ugh, can't you call me something other than baby?"

"why not, baby not hitting your system?"

"no, it's giving me the ick."

"well, give me a moment." he winks at you. "i'm gonna find you a good one."

you hummed, sipping your coffee. "make it good."

"so how's pookie bear—"

you threw another pillow at him.

you should have known it wouldn't have worked.

you groaned at the appearance of infinity.

he smirked at you. "i'm taking that as a yes."

"i hate you."

"no, you don't."

imagine you and best friend! satoru realizing you have to deal with everyone’s reactions now.

you both spend the day together in your apartment, just going and watching the first season of love is blind. satoru was getting way into it that he ended up screaming at how badly it's going.

in the middle of your transition to season two, your phone goes on and buzzes once again. you raised a brow, picking up your phone again, checking who it was. must be a message again.

you purse your lips into a line. it wasn't a message this time. right now it’s your boss, yaga masamichi you on the other line calling. you exchange a look with satoru and showed him who was calling.

the white haired man smirks as he leans on your rather comfortable couch, mouthing for you to answer it. you roll your eyes at him before pressing the button to answer and putting the call on speaker.

“uh—hello?”

“get to my office. now. and bring gojo.”

you furrow your brows. "for....for what, yaga?"

"for human resources talk." he says rather bluntly. "on relationships and ethics."

"hey, yaga—" satoru starts to say in a cheerful tone.

but before satoru can breathe another word, yaga masamichi immediately ended the call. you sighed heavily as you glare at him, quickly putting away your phone. you move to take your second cup of coffee and drinking it.

satoru sips his (cold) first coffee. “welp...... i guess we’re in trouble. now.”

you groan, dragging a hand down your face soon after you drink. “ugh, i can't believe this. satoru, this is all your fault.”

“my fault?” he overdramatically gasps, feigning offense at your accusation. “who was it that panicked and said, ‘YES, I DO!’ in the middle of a restaurant knowing we were already fake married?”

you glare at him. “who the hell fucking kneels like its a proposal without warning just to tie their shoes in a romantic high end restaurant during the middle of valentines day rush hour, huh? of course i'd think it's a proposal, dumbass!"

he grins at your rant, raising his coffee cup up like it was a toast. “someone who's happy to be a trendsetter.”

you smack his arm, and he laughs, dodging you easily. “c’mon, let’s go and see yaga, let's just get this over with and give him what he wants.”

and with that, you and your fake fiancé went and headed off to deal with the next level of this disaster. and this time, without the panic that you had at the restaurant. well, at least that's what you hope.

imagine you finding out that best friend! satoru actually really likes you.

you expect the meeting with yaga to be a disaster. that's just how it goes when you had meetings with yaga when you were in high school. i mean, that's just how it was back then. you were always getting roped in satoru and suguru's stupid little messages, after all.

but as soon as you both arrived, he sat you both down and started to go and tell you both about how there's paperwork that has to be done and that you and satoru should remember ecthics (especially satoru).

well, that was much more on the fact that satoru's too well paid and relatively rich and he shouldn't be ripping people off with emotional manipulation when he could afford not getting the vouchers from a restaurant.

but all in all, it was a new experience with yaga. maybe he was really getting old. because by the end of it, he does something that you don't expect and pat you and satoru in the back.

yaga then sigh deeply, rub his temples and then simply says. “just keep it professional at work. especially you satoru. i'm watching you."

"but yaga, i can't say no if they offer it to me—"

"no ifs or buts, satoru." yaga successfully cuts satoru off. "i don't care if you get them. just give them to [name]."

"yeah, satoru. give them to me." you also butt in, almost cheekily with a shit-eating grin on your face.

"you're so annoying, i can't believe this."

yaga turns to you. "don't provoke him, not here. i want this to go as fast as possible so this can just not be more paperwork than it already is."

and then after that, that’s it. there were no punishments, no dramatic consequences from him like it used to be. it was just a pat in the back and a warning not to let your engagement interfere with your jobs. and to get take advantage of too many free coupons.

when you and satoru leave the office, you both exhale in relief. you both started to make your way out into the hall way before you went ahead and started stretching, letting the sun hit you as you walked.

“that was surprisingly easy, wasn't it?” you muttered to him. "that was so unlike yaga."

satoru smirks. “yeah, almost like he’s given up on controlling me.”

"well, i can't really call it giving up, more like he's just....you know, making life easier for him." you yawned back at him. "well, except on the coupons."

"hey, when it's being offered to me, who am i to go and say no to some good old granny offering it to me in a tuesday in her petite little shop?"

"that's why." you sighed back at him.

with the biggest hurdle out of the way, you assume things will settle down. though, it's another thing when it comes to the group chat. the group chat was still going on about it.

but you were sure today, it will eventually stop being an explosive news trend. and people would actually come to believe that you and satoru are actually, really, canonically engaged.

well, it should be fine. really, it should be. i mean, if you can fake being engaged, then you can fake breaking up too, right? it just takes a little bit of the imagination to do it all over again.

but then things start… getting weird.

at first, it’s little things.

like how he suddenly starts calling you his fiancée all the time, even when it’s just the two of you. it was as if he just really gave up about any corrections at all.

or how he insists on holding your hand when you’re out together whether that's in a public spor or a private spot, even when no one was around to go and watch the two of you.

but then it just really escalates, to the point of no return.

one night, when you’re out with some of your friends, and when someone teases you about the engagement and how it went viral on social media.

and satoru does something that you didn't expect. gojo satoru doesn’t joke back. instead, the white haired man merely wraps an arm around your shoulders and casually says to that person, “yeah, that's the point. she's mine. that's how it works, no?”

your eyes were wide to the point of bursting. satoru smiles, his blue eyes narrowed. but they were not bluffing, you can see it really well. you know that look all too well for him to just be playing an act. he means it.

you felt a sudden panic. you know that it's an act. well, it should be an act. it should be part of the bit, the one that you were both in on. but the way he looks at you at this moment, all too focused, all too sincere— you know that it’s not fake.

what was this damn feeling? you try to ignore it. but you don't know how to. not when you could feel your heart beat going on and on and on when you keep lookign at him.

you tell yourself to stop looking, to stop focusing on him. you tell your body to stop being so damn red all the time, to stop feeling flustered whenever you try to not kick your feet when he laughs.

you keep trying to convince yourself that he’s just too committed to the joke. that this is just all good fun between the two of you, that you both can stop worrying about this in no time.

until one night, when it all falls apart.

imagine best friend! satoru accidentally confessing his feelings to you.

it unfortunately happens during a late-night walk after a long mission. you both ended up taking missions that's only a few train stations away from each other.

you didn't want to give in, at first. but of course satoru keeps asking about your mission today and where you'll be. and he was happy to know you both will end up easily meeting if you ride the train to where he was.

and that's what ends up happening. you finished your mission within a couple of hours and immediately meet him at his favorite cafe in roppongi, already finishing a bout of the pastries they had in there.

you sighed as you sipped through the remainder of your strawberry matcha drink with tender ease, continuing to walk beside satoru through the brightly lit alleyways.

this part of city is quiet for some reason, believe it or not. usually roppongi is busy, but satoru seems to know which streets are relatively empty at this time.

well, you supposed that's just how it works sometimes. roppongi is his playground after all. you always preferred enjoying around shimokitazawa. there were too many good thrift stores and local food stores you go there.

all through out the walk, you noticed that gojo satoru is uncharacteristically silent. which was way too unlike him. it was really freaking you out. you have never had this much silence when it comes to gojo satoru.

you finally go and nudge him with your elbow. “what’s the hell is up with you?”

he exhales, shoving his hands into his pockets. “nothing.”

a pause comes as you both continue to walk.

you wanted to say something again, to ask.

but then he beats you to it as he looks at you.

he sighs rather softly. “really, it's nothing. i'm just thinking.”

you tilt your head, brows furrowed downward. “about what?”

he suddenly stops walking, turns to face you, and you know. even before he says it, you know. satoru never hesitates. you don't think you've ever seen this man ever have a second thought when it comes to things he's serious about.

he never falters, never holds back. but right now, standing under the dim glow of the streetlights, he looks rather nervous. and when he speaks, his voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard it. he just never was that type of person. he's not someone who falters, or ever holds back.

but right now, standing under the dim glow of the streetlights, he looks rather nervous. if anything, he looked more like a young school boy trying to convey something. and it was something you had never seen.

that's why it astounds you when he speaks a little later, with his voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard it. “you know i wasn’t actually joking, right?”

your breath catches, nearly dropping your strawberry matcha. “what?”

“this whole thing, all this.” he gestures vaguely, almost all too messy. “this thing....this....us. it's not....it wasn’t really fake. well, at least not for me.”

you felt like time stopped in that moment. you could feel your heart stop. everything in the world just suddenly stopping. everything around the two of you, everything just suddenly stops.

you can’t think. you can’t breathe. does satoru actually like you? does he really have this true honesty in his heart about this? you just felt like you were malfunctioning right now.

and furthermore, you have to stop right now and think, to go on and start asking you have to ask yourself all these questions—was it ever fake for you, either? and most of all, do you actually like him too?

all the sudden this inevitable silence continues to compound and stretch between the two of you. all there was now was the weight of his all too honest words lingers in the air, heavier than anything you’ve ever faced together.

you open your mouth, but nothing comes out. gojo satoru, for once in his life, isn’t smiling. he’s just looking at you for approval, for reciprocation.

you watched as his nervous hands still remained shoved deep into his pockets like he’s bracing himself for impact. like he’s waiting for you to break his heart and reject him and tell him that this isn't what you want from him.

you swallow and took a breath. “satoru…”

he exhales sharply, tilting his head back. “you don’t have to say anything to me, really.....i just—”

"hey, i want to say something but i just...."

his lips quirk up, but it’s not his usual cocky grin. It’s smaller, almost hesitant. “you don't have to say something out of pity, really. i just....i'm not trying to convince you. i just....figured you should know.”

your mind continues to race. you and satoru have always been best friends. from childhood to now, you were always what the other needed. you bicker, you tease, you share meals and inside jokes. you had a world of your own.

but then you think about all the little things as you grew older and got even closer, there were things you missed along the way. now you could see the way he always saves you the last bite of his dessert, the way he reaches for your hand even when there’s no reason to. the way his gaze lingers, softer than it has any right to be.

the way you never pulled away.

the way you never wanted to.

the way you wanted it to continue.

"wait, you like me?" you say, with mouth agaped. "what?"

"yes!" he says, almost defensively. "what's wrong with that?"

"nothing, nothing is wrong with that. i just....." you take a slow breath, calming yourself. “since when?”

satoru huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “dunno. maybe....a while now.” his eyes flick to yours. “i didn’t mean for it to happen, y’know? but then we fake-dated, and i thought—”

you purse your lips. "you thought?"

he hesitates, but he says it anyway. “maybe if i played pretend long enough, you’d actually look at me that way.”

your chest aches at his words. for a moment you let them sit and let yourself think inwards. to think about all these years together. and those little hints you felt within you, those little butterflies that dwelled upon your belly little by little.

you think about the times when you’d felt right at home when satoru put his arm around you in public. how your heart would continue to skip a beat when he’d whispered my favorite minx or my sweetheart just a little too softly. how the idea of this not being real had stung more than you were willing to admit.

you step closer, and his breath catches. “satoru.” you say again, quieter this time. "hey, listen to me."

“yeah?” he looked at you, almost too hopeful, too eager for you to see him. to look take in the whole of him. "what you want, sweetheart?"

you could feel your cheeks flushed and your heart running a marathon as you reach for his hand. you let them curl gently around your fingers, ever so tightly, as though there was no more option to let go. he watches you do what you did. he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe.

“…what if I’m already looking at you that way?” you ask him, almost too shyly as you try your darnest to continue to look at him. "i mean....what if i'm just into this as you are?"

his head snaps toward you. his lips suddenly part. his fingers tighten around yours, like he’s afraid you’ll let go. then he exhales a breathless laugh, tipping his forehead against yours. you gasped lightly, finally face to face all too wholly.

“god, i hope you mean that.” his voice is barely more than a whisper.

his tone just feels rough around the edges like he’s afraid to say it too loudly, as if giving the words too much weight might make them collapse. his bright eyes were now dark and searching, flicker across your face, desperate to find any hint of hesitation.

“because there’s no takebacks, okay?”

his breath is uneven, his chest rising and falling too quickly as he waits for your answer. he looks like he’s bracing for impact, like he’s convinced that at any second, you’ll change your mind.

that you would walk away and realize this is a mistake, like you would go on and step back, and leave him standing in the wreckage of something that never had the chance to begin. but you don’t.

“i do mean it, you know?” you whisper to him, with a small smile. "trust me, okay?"

he could feel how each word carry the weight of every stolen glance, every unsaid confession, every moment that had led you here. your souls meet in that one gaze, colliding in the space between you, threading together something fragile yet unbreakable.

and so when he leans in slowly, cautiously, like he’s giving you every possible chance to pull away, but you don’t. rather, you didn't want to. instead you smiled at him. you'd waited just as long as him.

instead, you let the moment stretch, let the air between you hum with the tension of everything you’ve both been too afraid to say. his fingers twitch at his sides, like he wants to touch you but isn’t sure if he’s allowed. his breath mingles with yours, warm and shaky, a silent plea in itself.

so you close the distance for him. it’s not a desperate kiss, not a collision of lips and urgency. it’s something softer, something reverent.

it was like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he’s terrified this is all a too good of a dream that will slip through his fingers the second he moves too fast and he would wake up with nothing, without you in his arms.

his hand comes up, hesitant at first, before finally settling along your jaw, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. the touch sends a shiver down your spine, a quiet ache blooming in your chest. you tilt your head, pressing into him, answering his silent question with your own certainty.

and that’s all he needs. the hesitation melts away as he deepens the kiss, his other hand slipping to your waist, pulling you just close enough that he can feel the way your heart is racing.

it was running just as fast as his. everything about this was feeling so overwhelming, so intoxicating. everything about it just feels like it was magical. everything else fades into nothing but this. but him. just it should be.

when you finally pull apart, breathless and dazed, he doesn’t let go. his forehead rests against yours, his fingers still tracing idle patterns against your skin.

“you’re sure?” he asks again, but there’s something different in his voice this time. something softer, like he’s starting to believe you.

you smile, small but certain. “i’ve never been more sure of anything.”

and when he kisses you again, it feels like home.