thexmistress

[thexmistress]

CROSS OVER ! - R. SUKUNA X FEM! READER

Pairings - ghost! r. sukuna x fem! reader

summary - your husband—who had now been dead a year, won't cross over, and it's getting harder for him to go to the light. You need to help him finish his business, so he can wait for you in the light. Oh yeah, you can see ghosts by the way.

words - 3.5 k

a/n -art by @/ kcokaine on X

"I'll ruin you," he promised against her neck, voice all sin and shadow. "Slowly."

She should have shoved him away. Said something righteous. But when his mouth ghosted over her collarbone, her only answer was the sound of her breath catching.

"Say stop," he whispered, fangs grazing her skin. "And I'll pretend to be human again."

But she didn't.

She couldn't.

You hummed, quiet and distracted, flipping the page with a soft flick. A calm smile played at your lips — the kind you wore when you were trying not to react. Trying not to feel anything at all.

Flick.

The lamp beside you turned on.

Flick.

It turned off again.

You let out a loud, deliberate sigh, eyes still on the page. "Sukuna."

His voice came from the other side of the room, too casual. Too smug. "So now you decide to talk to me."

You didn't answer right away. Just turned another page. Slow. Measured. You weren't really reading — hadn't been for the last few chapters — but it gave your hands something to do.

"Don't act like I'm doing it for no reason," you said eventually.

Sukuna shifted on the couch, the leather creaking under his weight. He made himself comfortable — because of course he did. Like this was still his house. His life.

"I haven't done anything," he said.

You finally looked over at him.

He was exactly where you'd left him — sprawled out, one arm draped along the back of the couch, the other resting on his knee. He looked like death warmed over, which made sense. Given the circumstances.

"If by 'haven't done anything' you mean 'haven't crossed over,'" you said, "then yeah. You're right. You haven't done a goddamn thing."

He didn't flinch. Just smiled. That lazy, dead-eyed expression he used to wear when he knew he'd already won the argument.

"I like it here."

You sighed. "Well you don't belong here—not anymore."

"Maybe I'm still here because you want me to be."

You stared at the book, unblinking. "That's not how hauntings work."

"It's exactly how they work."

"No, it isn't—I've been seeing ghosts since I was five, Sukuna. I knew what a haunting was long before you died."

"Yeah? Well, I am dead. That makes me the expert now."

You flipped to the next page of your book, the paper sharp between your fingers. "Just... go. You're dead. I didn't ask for that. And I definitely didn't ask for you to stick around and haunt me like some unfinished project."

He didn't leave. Of course he didn't. His voice was smooth, amused, almost fond.

"Still wearing my ring, though."

A pause.

"Not yours. Mine. Wedding and engagement."

You said nothing.

He drifted closer, or maybe you just felt him closer. The air pulled tight.

"Like you don't want to admit I'm gone. Like some part of you wants me to stay."

You shut the book.

"No," you said, carefully. "I'm grieving. I'm furious that you're gone.but I know what's right, that it's your turn to cross over into the light."

He exhaled — not quite a sigh, not quite a scoff. "But I don't want to," he said. "I can't."

You looked at him then. For real. The way the lamplight passed through his outline made him look half-finished, like he was fading already.

"But you can see the light?" you asked quietly.

He nodded, eyes flicking to the corner of the room. "Yeah. Right over there." He pointed to the left. You followed his gaze but saw nothing.

"Then go. Just go." You stood up. "I can't deal with you, not when I know I can't touch you, hold you, nothing! You're just there, like a piece of furniture." You exclaimed.

He chuckled.

Then he stood. Slow. Gentle. The way he never was when he was alive.

"Alright," he said softly. "I'll go. Just... go to sleep."

You tried to smile. You even managed half of one.

He turned toward the corner.

Took one step.

Then another.

And by the third, he was gone.

—

"This one's from the Heian era," you said, lifting the lacquered relic with practiced care. Your fingertips brushed the worn edge, reverent, steady. "Came in just yesterday. Beautiful condition, considering its age."

The woman leaned in, breath catching. "It's... stunning."

You nodded, lips curling into a soft smile. Five years of owning this shop, and that reaction never got old.

It had started after Sukuna. After the vows, after the chaos of loving someone like him — you needed something slower. Something solid. Something with a past that didn't whisper back at you.

Antiques gave you that.

Every item in your shop had already survived centuries. Breakage, loss, war, abandonment — and still, here they were. Still standing.

Much like you.

"I've always had a thing for the past," you added quietly, tracing a worn pattern in the gold. "The stories behind these things. What they've seen. Who they belonged to."

The woman glanced around, caught in the quiet spell of the shop — the soft light, the scent of old paper and polished wood, the air thick with quiet memory.

You placed the piece gently back on the velvet-lined stand and smiled. "So, what do you think? This one... or are you still thinking about the Kaidō-era incense burner?"

She hesitated, eyes flicking between the two — torn, enchanted, almost reverent.

"I'll take the heian piece."

You smiled clasping your hands together. "I'm very pleased!"

She smiled as you tucked the small jar of koso into the paper bag, wrapping it neatly even though you both knew she'd tear it open before she got home. Still, habits like that—soft hands, careful folding—had a way of making you feel human again.

"That'll be... 2,567 yen," you said, voice gentle but detached, like it had been rehearsed a thousand times before.

She didn't flinch at the total, already counting the coins from her purse with practiced ease. Then she placed the money on the counter, each clink of metal unusually loud in the quiet shop.

"Thank you very much," she said, taking the bag. She paused for a heartbeat. "Such a sweet woman."

You gave her a noncommittal hum, more acknowledgment than gratitude. She didn't seem to notice.

The bell above the door jingled as she walked out, the soft chime echoing for a beat too long. Then silence returned, thick and familiar.

You counted the coins again anyway, out of habit. Sorted them into neat piles. Slid the drawer of the till shut. The shop felt colder now. Not physically, but in that subtle way silence sometimes scratches at the back of your mind, just before—

"Hey there."

You screamed.

The sound tore out of you without warning, a raw, startled sound that echoed against the dusty walls. You spun around, breath caught in your chest, stomach already sinking before your eyes even landed on him.

And there he was.

Of course.

Sukuna.

Smirking, hands in the pockets of a coat he wasn't wearing when he died. Standing like the rules of reality had never applied to him.

You frowned, wiping a hand over your face. "Are you actually serious right now?"

He tilted his head, that lazy smirk growing. "Look at my pretty wife, working so hard. Don't you get tired being this adorable all day?"

You stared at him, jaw clenched. "Why haven't you crossed over?"

He shrugged. "Never said I would."

"You did last night! You said you would!"

He looked unconcerned. "I said, 'I'll go.' I never said, 'Yes dear, I'll go cross over for you.'"

"Same thing!"

"Nope." He stepped closer. His voice dropped just a little, almost soft. "I'm not going. I'm not leaving you."

Your hands curled into fists. "You have to go, Sukuna. You can't keep doing this—just showing up like nothing happened. I buried you."

"I know," he said quietly. "I was there, remember? Front row."

"Don't joke."

"I'm not." His expression faltered for a split second—long enough to catch it. "I just don't want to leave. Not yet."

"You have to!" Your voice cracked, sharper than before. "You're dead, Sukuna. This—whatever this is—it's not fair. It's not real. You're not supposed to be here anymore."

He didn't move. Just stood there, watching you fall apart like you always did when he pushed you too far.

You took a shaky breath. "Cross over... or I swear to God, I'll stop loving you. I'll never forgive you for this."

That finally made him blink.

He stepped back, but not far enough. His voice was quiet now. "That won't be the case. You'll always love me. You know that."

"I—" You faltered, words knotted in your throat. "Shut up. Just... shut up and leave me alone."

You turned your back on him, closing your eyes like that might undo it, erase him, pull you back into a world that made sense.

A breath passed. Then another.

He sighed—loud, theatrical, familiar. Like he always did when you won a fight and he let you pretend it was your idea.

"See you later," he said.

And then he was gone.

Again.

Just like always.

—

It had been five days.

Not a long time, really. Barely a blip in the grand stretch of a calendar.

But it mattered.

Because Sukuna hadn't come back.

Five full days of silence. Not just the usual quiet that filled your home when the shop closed and the lights dimmed—this was different. This silence felt unnatural. Hollow. A space where something used to be. Where he used to be.

And maybe... maybe he'd crossed over.

That was good, wasn't it? You told him to go. Begged him, really. Shouted it at him like an ultimatum you never truly meant.

So he listened. And left.

You should be happy. At peace. That's what people say—you helped him move on, as if that's some kind of achievement. As if you're a stronger person for letting go.

But were you really happy?

No. Of course not.

You sat in the silence, waiting. Pretending not to. Convincing yourself you didn't still glance over your shoulder, flinch at the sound of your own breath in the hallway, freeze every time the front door creaked—hoping, stupidly, that it was him.

It'd be selfish to want him back. He was probably at peace now. Maybe even happy, finally. Waiting for you. Watching from the light, like people in books and movies always do.

Still.

Your six-year anniversary was coming up.

That was the part that caught you in the ribs.

You used to joke about it—how he remembered the day down to the hour, even if he pretended to forget. How he'd scowl and roll his eyes when you brought it up, but still always showed up with flowers and your favorite wine. How he'd call you "ridiculously sentimental" while pressing a kiss to your wrist and pulling you close.

But this year, there was nothing.

No knock on the window. No voice behind you. No smirk in the mirror. No ghost.

Just silence.

You sighed and turned toward your mirror, pausing to look at your reflection. The room behind you was still, like it was holding its breath.

You wore the dress. The one he bought you three years ago on a whim because it was "too damn perfect not to." The one you wore when he proposed to you on the rooftop. The one he tugged off later that night, fingers reverent and teasing all at once.

It was the dress you realized you loved him in. Not just loved. Chose him. Completely.

And now, you were wearing it again. Alone.

You didn't even know why you put it on. Maybe you were trying to summon him, like a ritual. Maybe you just needed to feel something other than aching emptiness.

You reached for your bag, fingers trembling slightly as you grabbed your keys.

You knew where you'd go.

~

You stood at the edge of the rooftop, the city stretching out beneath you in dull glimmers and distant noise. The wind pulled gently at your dress, lifting the hem like invisible fingers still curious about you. The night air was cool, but not cold. Comfortable, if not a little lonely.

You set the old boombox down by your foot with a soft thud, the plastic casing scuffed from years of being dragged around—picnics, road trips, impromptu dance parties in your cramped living room. It still worked, barely. The rewind button was jammed and the volume dial crackled if you touched it too fast.

But it worked.

You clicked play.

The opening synth of Hungry Eyes bled into the night, too loud, too romantic, too specific. And perfect.

It was always this song. Always.

You set the bottle of wine beside it—a red, the expensive kind he used to complain about because "no one with working taste buds needs to spend that much on fermented grapes," but he always bought it anyway. The cork popped a little too early. You poured a glass anyway.

Tonight was going to be perfect.

Not in a dramatic, Instagram-worthy, movie-ending kind of way. But your kind of perfect.

You sat on the edge of the rooftop, dress pooling around your hips, heels kicked off somewhere behind you. Your legs dangled off the side like you were sixteen again, like gravity didn't apply as long as you didn't look down.

Your glass trembled slightly in your hand. You blamed the wind.

You looked out over the city. Some couples were probably slow dancing in their kitchens. Some were fighting over whose turn it was to take out the trash. Some were in love. Some were leaving each other.

You were doing none of those things.

Just sitting.

Just listening.

Just waiting.

The chorus hit

You closed your eyes. Let the song wash over you, bubble up all the memories you'd been trying to lock down for five days straight. The dance in your old apartment with the flickering lights.

The way his hand slipped onto your hip, warm and casual, like it belonged there. The grin that split his face when he saw you try to twirl and nearly fell into the bookshelf. The quiet after.

His breath near your ear, and the whisper: "You're it for me, you know that?"

You took a sip of wine. It didn't burn enough.

The city didn't stop for you. No one knew this was the night he asked you to marry him. No one knew what the dress meant, what the song meant, what this rooftop meant.

It was your secret shrine. Your grief. Your anniversary.

You didn't even know if he'd come.

Maybe he wouldn't. Maybe this was the real goodbye, and five days of silence was all you were going to get. Maybe the universe had finally listened to you—for once—and taken him away properly. Permanently.

You wiped your cheek before the tears could fall far enough to be real.

"Happy anniversary," you whispered into the wind.

Your voice sounded too small, too fragile—like it might break apart before the wind could carry it anywhere. But you said it anyway.

And then you waited.

Because no matter how many times you told yourself it was over—

Some quiet, unreasonable part of you still believed he might answer.

Then:

"Thought you'd be here."

You turned at once.

Sukuna.

He stood at the edge of the rooftop, bathed in that soft twilight glow that made everything feel like memory. Like dream. His hands in his pockets, that crooked, knowing smile you hadn't seen in so long.

You stumbled to your feet, breath caught in your throat as you ran to him. "I... I didn't think—"

Your hand hovered near his chest. You wanted to touch him, but the ache of what wasn't real, of what you couldn't hold, was already pulling at your ribs.

But then he reached first.

His fingers curled around yours—solid, warm. Like it used to be.

You looked up at him, disbelieving.

You could touch him, feel him. And he could feel the same.

"I had to give it time," he said quietly, raising your hand to his cheek. "I'm sorry I left like that. But I had to come back for this—for you. For our anniversary. To dance. To see my wife one last time."

Tears blurred your vision. His skin felt real. His voice sounded real. And that made it hurt more.

"Y/n" he murmured, "dance with me?"

You nodded, barely able to breathe, and let him draw you close. One arm around your waist, the other holding your hand. He took the first step, slow and steady, guiding you as if music filled the air—even though there was none. Just the wind, the faint hum of the city below, and the sound of your own trembling breath.

You moved together in silence, his movements careful and sure, yours unsteady at first. But muscle memory, that old rhythm, came back.

He pressed his forehead to yours. "You changed me," he said softly. "I used to be—"

"An asshole," you whispered, a soft laugh breaking through your tears.

He smiled. "Yeah. That. But with you... God, it wasn't even about your body, or what people saw. It was you. The way you looked at me. The way you never backed down, even when I was awful."

You clung to him tighter, swaying with him across the rooftop. It didn't matter that there was no music. You remembered the song from your wedding night. He must have remembered too—because he began to hum it.

It was off-key, low and gravelly, but it made your heart twist in your chest.

"I didn't deserve you," he said, brushing your hair from your face. "But you still gave me everything. And then I died."

More tears fell. He wiped them gently away, his thumb soft against your cheek.

"It wasn't your fault," he said firmly. "The crash, the road—it was me. I was distracted, reckless. But I would've done it all again. I would've driven through storms and fire for you."

"I can't accept that," you choked. "If I hadn't called you... If I hadn't made you come all that way—"

"Don't." He stopped, holding your face between his hands. "Don't carry that. I never blamed you. I never could. You were the reason I lived in the first place. For once, I had something worth everything."

The music in your head swelled again—memories of an old song and an old life. You kept dancing.

His hand pressed to your back, holding you steady, close. Your bodies moved like a memory, the kind that visits just before sleep. He spun you gently, then pulled you back in, arms wrapping around you tightly.

"I would've done anything for you," he said, voice thick. "And that night? It was enough. I had already been given more than I deserved."

You rested your head on his chest, listening for a heartbeat that wasn't there. And still, you swore you could hear it.

He whispered into your hair, "Will you be alright when I go?"

You hesitated. "No one will ever be you. But I'll be alright. I know what's right. You have to go, and I have to stay."

You looked up at him and smiled through your tears. "But you'll wait for me, won't you? You won't find anyone in heaven, right?"

He chuckled low. "Never. Never," he said, eyes shining. "I wouldn't dare."

He spun you once more—slow and tender, the kind of dance made for goodbye. Then he leaned in, brushing your lips with his.

Soft. Familiar. Home.

"I'll be waiting," he said.

And then he stepped back.

The light behind him had grown. It bled gold across the rooftop, casting him in something ethereal and whole.

"It's brighter now," he murmured, looking over his shoulder. "It's... beautiful." He laughed—just once, and it sounded like it used to, rich and full of life.

Then he looked at you one last time.

"Happy anniversary, I love you."

And then—

He was gone.

Not far. Not away.

Just... gone.

But you know he'll wait.

He always will.

And you love him for that.

a/n - watcha think for my first oneshot / post

[thexmistress]

[thexmistress]

Sooooooo…… I spent literally a month writing a COMPLETE story AND sequel. Imma drop the entire first part of the story (Book 1) tonight and the entire sequel tomorrow night. I think I might be on to something with this binge writing ngllll!

Also the first part of the story is angst. Like pathetic angst! But the sequel gives hope and shows the strength reader has to overcome challenges <3 sooo as an angst lover I know how too much angst can be too much so I balanced it out in the sequel. Buttt I’m excited and can’t wait to share ^.^

Title of the story (Book 1): Ink-Stained Ruin

Sukuna x Reader | Tattoo Artist AU | 2nd Person | NSFW (smut toward the end) | Cheating | Emotional neglect

[thexmistress]

In the Wake of Blue

Jujutsu Kaisen | Gojo Satoru x Reader | Angst AU. This is not a love story It’s what’s left after love dies And how you learn to keep living anyway

The first thing you noticed was the cold.

Not the kind that settles in your bones after a long winter. Not even the kind that creeps into the empty spaces of a too-large bed. No—this cold lived deeper. It was marrow-deep. A quiet, permanent frost that had taken root in your chest the moment Satoru Gojo stopped breathing.

It never thawed.

You had cried, of course. At the funeral, surrounded by faces that blurred into black fabric and muffled condolences, you cried until your ribs ached. But even then, you’d known it wasn’t just grief gnawing at you. It was betrayal. A shame too raw to speak aloud, even to yourself. Because when they lowered him into the ground, you weren’t just mourning the man you loved.

You were mourning the illusion he built around you.

He died a hero. Japan’s strongest. The pride of Jujutsu society. But to you—he died a liar. A coward. A man who whispered I love you while building a second life behind your back.

You hadn’t found out until weeks before his death.

You remembered the moment clearly: the text that wasn’t meant for you, his silence when you confronted him, the vacant guilt in his expression as he confessed. And then the final, unforgivable truth—

“She’s pregnant.”

You had screamed. Cursed him until your throat was raw and your vision blurred with tears. And he stood there, not with remorse or panic, but a sadness that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he said. As if that somehow made it better.

But you stayed. Not out of forgiveness. But because you were too tired to leave. And maybe, deep down, because a small part of you had hoped he wouldn’t die. That if he lived, you could leave him. Make him watch you walk away. Let him suffer the consequences.

But he died.

So there was no justice. No closure. Just an apology echoing in your ears as they zipped him into a body bag.

That was a year ago.

Now, the apartment is too quiet. Your world is too still. And the ache you carry isn’t something you can cry out anymore—it’s woven into your routine, stitched between your breaths.

You thought the worst had passed.

Until the knock

It came on a Tuesday morning. You were still in your robe, barely awake, coffee cooling untouched on the counter. You weren’t expecting anyone.

The knock came again—sharp, hurried.

You opened the door.

And your world tilted.

At first, you didn’t understand what you were looking at. A basket? No—a baby carrier. A blanket. A small, squirming form nestled inside it.

Then you saw the note.

Your fingers shook as you unfolded it.

“I can’t do this. You were always better than me. Please raise her. She’s yours now.”

— R.

You didn’t have to guess who R was.

You looked down at the baby.

Blue eyes stared back. Not just blue—his blue. Bright and sharp, like a cursed blade made of sky.

And suddenly, your hands went numb.

You didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. You just stood there, heartbeat thundering in your ears, as the chill in your chest sharpened into something else.

Hatred.

⸻

The baby—Sora, you called her, because you refused to name her after her mother—cried constantly. You fed her, changed her, held her when she screamed, but everything felt mechanical. Distant. Like caring for a stranger’s child.

You told no one.

There would be questions. Accusations. Pity. You didn’t want pity.

You could barely look at her for more than a few seconds without wanting to scream. Every time she blinked, every time her tiny hand curled around your finger, you saw him. And it made your skin crawl.

Worse, it made you cry.

Because she was innocent. You knew that. She didn’t ask to be born. Didn’t choose to be the product of betrayal. But logic couldn’t dull emotion. You wanted to love her—but your grief was louder.

Sometimes you stared at her in the middle of the night, rocking her back and forth in the dark, wondering if she would grow to be like him. Arrogant. Blinding. Untouchable.

Would she laugh like him? Smile like him? Make the same mistakes?

The thought made you feel sick.

So you distanced yourself.

You fed her, changed her, kept her clean and warm and safe—but you never kissed her. Never whispered soft words or lullabies. You did your duty like a soldier tending to a war wound.

She cried a lot those first few months. Like she knew she was unwanted. Like she missed a mother who didn’t love her and a father who was long dead.

There were nights you’d sit on the bathroom floor, hands over your ears, as she wailed from the crib in your bedroom. You’d scream into a towel. Cry until your chest hurt.

And then you’d go to her. Always.

Because you weren’t heartless.

Just broken.

⸻

One day, she smiled.

It was small. Toothless. Barely a twitch of her mouth.

But it hit you like a gut punch.

Because she looked just like him when she did.

You almost dropped her.

You set her down in her crib, heart pounding, hands shaking. You stared at her until the smile faded, replaced by soft coos and drowsy blinks.

You didn’t sleep that night.

⸻

Weeks turned into months.

Slowly—reluctantly—you adjusted.

You started talking to her, just to fill the silence. Not sweet things, not at first. Just whatever you were thinking.

“I hated your father,” you’d whisper while washing her bottles. “I still do.”

Sometimes, you’d cry while holding her. Other times, you’d stare at her and wonder if she would remember this coldness. If the distance would scar her the way her existence scarred you.

But she grew. She laughed. She reached for you when she was scared. And over time, you stopped flinching when she did.

One night, while feeding her, she reached up and touched your cheek.

Soft. Curious. Her fingers tiny and warm.

You froze.

And for the first time, you didn’t pull away.

[thexmistress]

In the Wake of Blue

Jujutsu Kaisen | Gojo Satoru x Reader | Angst AU. This is not a love story It’s what’s left after love dies And how you learn to keep living anyway

The first thing you noticed was the cold.

Not the kind that settles in your bones after a long winter. Not even the kind that creeps into the empty spaces of a too-large bed. No—this cold lived deeper. It was marrow-deep. A quiet, permanent frost that had taken root in your chest the moment Satoru Gojo stopped breathing.

It never thawed.

You had cried, of course. At the funeral, surrounded by faces that blurred into black fabric and muffled condolences, you cried until your ribs ached. But even then, you’d known it wasn’t just grief gnawing at you. It was betrayal. A shame too raw to speak aloud, even to yourself. Because when they lowered him into the ground, you weren’t just mourning the man you loved.

You were mourning the illusion he built around you.

He died a hero. Japan’s strongest. The pride of Jujutsu society. But to you—he died a liar. A coward. A man who whispered I love you while building a second life behind your back.

You hadn’t found out until weeks before his death.

You remembered the moment clearly: the text that wasn’t meant for you, his silence when you confronted him, the vacant guilt in his expression as he confessed. And then the final, unforgivable truth—

“She’s pregnant.”

You had screamed. Cursed him until your throat was raw and your vision blurred with tears. And he stood there, not with remorse or panic, but a sadness that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he said. As if that somehow made it better.

But you stayed. Not out of forgiveness. But because you were too tired to leave. And maybe, deep down, because a small part of you had hoped he wouldn’t die. That if he lived, you could leave him. Make him watch you walk away. Let him suffer the consequences.

But he died.

So there was no justice. No closure. Just an apology echoing in your ears as they zipped him into a body bag.

That was a year ago.

Now, the apartment is too quiet. Your world is too still. And the ache you carry isn’t something you can cry out anymore—it’s woven into your routine, stitched between your breaths.

You thought the worst had passed.

Until the knock

It came on a Tuesday morning. You were still in your robe, barely awake, coffee cooling untouched on the counter. You weren’t expecting anyone.

The knock came again—sharp, hurried.

You opened the door.

And your world tilted.

At first, you didn’t understand what you were looking at. A basket? No—a baby carrier. A blanket. A small, squirming form nestled inside it.

Then you saw the note.

Your fingers shook as you unfolded it.

“I can’t do this. You were always better than me. Please raise her. She’s yours now.”

— R.

You didn’t have to guess who R was.

You looked down at the baby.

Blue eyes stared back. Not just blue—his blue. Bright and sharp, like a cursed blade made of sky.

And suddenly, your hands went numb.

You didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. You just stood there, heartbeat thundering in your ears, as the chill in your chest sharpened into something else.

Hatred.

⸻

The baby—Sora, you called her, because you refused to name her after her mother—cried constantly. You fed her, changed her, held her when she screamed, but everything felt mechanical. Distant. Like caring for a stranger’s child.

You told no one.

There would be questions. Accusations. Pity. You didn’t want pity.

You could barely look at her for more than a few seconds without wanting to scream. Every time she blinked, every time her tiny hand curled around your finger, you saw him. And it made your skin crawl.

Worse, it made you cry.

Because she was innocent. You knew that. She didn’t ask to be born. Didn’t choose to be the product of betrayal. But logic couldn’t dull emotion. You wanted to love her—but your grief was louder.

Sometimes you stared at her in the middle of the night, rocking her back and forth in the dark, wondering if she would grow to be like him. Arrogant. Blinding. Untouchable.

Would she laugh like him? Smile like him? Make the same mistakes?

The thought made you feel sick.

So you distanced yourself.

You fed her, changed her, kept her clean and warm and safe—but you never kissed her. Never whispered soft words or lullabies. You did your duty like a soldier tending to a war wound.

She cried a lot those first few months. Like she knew she was unwanted. Like she missed a mother who didn’t love her and a father who was long dead.

There were nights you’d sit on the bathroom floor, hands over your ears, as she wailed from the crib in your bedroom. You’d scream into a towel. Cry until your chest hurt.

And then you’d go to her. Always.

Because you weren’t heartless.

Just broken.

⸻

One day, she smiled.

It was small. Toothless. Barely a twitch of her mouth.

But it hit you like a gut punch.

Because she looked just like him when she did.

You almost dropped her.

You set her down in her crib, heart pounding, hands shaking. You stared at her until the smile faded, replaced by soft coos and drowsy blinks.

You didn’t sleep that night.

⸻

Weeks turned into months.

Slowly—reluctantly—you adjusted.

You started talking to her, just to fill the silence. Not sweet things, not at first. Just whatever you were thinking.

“I hated your father,” you’d whisper while washing her bottles. “I still do.”

Sometimes, you’d cry while holding her. Other times, you’d stare at her and wonder if she would remember this coldness. If the distance would scar her the way her existence scarred you.

But she grew. She laughed. She reached for you when she was scared. And over time, you stopped flinching when she did.

One night, while feeding her, she reached up and touched your cheek.

Soft. Curious. Her fingers tiny and warm.

You froze.

And for the first time, you didn’t pull away.

[thexmistress]

aphrodisiac — geto suguru.

WARNING/TAGS: afab! reader, one shot, smut, r–18, romance, sexual acts, public sex, bathroom sex, oral sex (f! receiving), fingering (f! receiving), multiple orgasms, bodily fluids, creampie, clothed sex, profanity, cursing, ruining of underwear, accidental drinking of aphrodisiac, mention of aphrodisiacs and effects, mention of profanity, mention of sexual acts, depiction of sexual acts, depiction of aphrodisiacs and igs effects, profanity, boyfriend! suguru, girlfriend! reader;

NOTE: no other notice except that i was profane and horny and i needed to get it out my system. in short this is a day dream, its a short r–18 blurb, an unadulterated smut between two adults. read at your peril.

THIS WAS DEFINITELY BAD. Geto Suguru's heart raced as he felt the effects of the unknown substance coursing through his veins.

His skin flushed, his breath came in short gasps, and an overwhelming urge to touch, to be touched, consumed him. He grabbed your arm, his fingers digging into your skin.

"We need to go, baby." He urged, his voice strained. "Now."

He dragged you towards the bathroom, ignoring the many curious glances from the other partygoers. Once inside, Suguru locked the door and turned to you, his purple eyes eyes wild with desire at you.

"Someone put something in your drink, baby…..I didn’t want you to deal with that." he gasped, his hands shaking as he unbuckled his belt. "It's an aphrodisiac. I can't... I need..."

He didn't finish the sentence, instead pulling you flush against him, his lips crashing onto yours in a desperate, hungry kiss. Suguru's hands roamed your body frantically, his touch leaving trails of fire in their wake.

He lifted you onto the bathroom counter, stepping between your legs and pressing his hardness against you. He was feeling his skin sear with endless heat.

"I'm sorry…." he panted against your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. "I can't control it. I need you. Now."

His fingers fumbled with the zipper of your dress, tugging it down impatiently. Suguru's mouth followed, kissing and biting his way down your chest, pushing the fabric aside to expose your breasts.

He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, while his hand slid under your skirt, pushing your panties aside to delve into your wet heat.

"So wet, baby….." he groaned, his fingers pumping in and out of you. "You want this too, don't you? You want me to fuck you right here, where anyone could walk in and see."

"Yes, fuck….yessssss….." you gasped, your head falling back against the mirror. "God, yes."

You allowed your hips to be bucked against his hand, seeking more friction. You groaned against him, setting a steady rhythm. You could feel Suguru's fingers curling inside you, hitting that spot that made your toes curl.

Suguru's eyes flashed with desire at your words. He withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean. "Mmm, you taste so good, baby." he murmured, his voice husky with arousal.

“You’re so good, ‘guru.” You whisper to him. “Your fingers are so good…..”

“I know, baby.” He cooes to you, but he was having a hard time trying to keep himself calm because of the aphrodisiac. “But I gotta….I gotta make you feel better first. Lean against the wall.”

Suguru dropped to his knees in front of you as you leaned against the wall. He grabbed your hips, lifting your skirt, pulling you back against his face. He marveled a little bit before letting his tongue delve between your folds, licking a long, slow stripe up your center.

"Fuck, you taste amazing, baby. So so fucking tasty." he groaned against your flesh.

Suguru's tongue circled your clit, flicking the sensitive bud back and forth. He sucked it into his mouth, applying gentle pressure as he thrust two fingers inside you. His fingers curled, stroking your inner walls as he ate you out with fervor.

Suguru's eyes were wild, his pupils dilated with the effects of the aphrodisiac. He gripped your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your flesh as he buried his face between your thighs.

His tongue was relentless, licking and sucking at your clit with a fervor that bordered on desperation. He thrust his tongue inside you, fucking you with it as his fingers teased your entrance.

Suguru's other hand reached up, tearing at your dress, exposing your breasts to the cool air of the bathroom. He pinched your nipples roughly, sending jolts of pleasure–pain straight to your core.

His movements were frantic, almost violent in their intensity. Suguru was consumed by his need, driven by the aphrodisiac coursing through his veins. He ate you out like a man possessed, determined to make you come undone beneath his mouth.

You gasped as more of Suguru's fingers plunged into your dripping core, stretching you wider than you thought possible. His other hand continued to tease your clit, rubbing it in tight circles as he pumped his fingers in and out of you. The pleasure was intense, bordering on painful, but you didn't want him to stop.

You couldn't believe how much he could fit inside you, his fingers curling and twisting, hitting spots you didn't even know existed. Suguru's mouth found your nipple, sucking hard as he fingered you relentlessly. He added a third finger, then a fourth, his hand disappearing inside you completely.

You screamed, your back arching off the counter as an orgasm ripped through you, your inner walls clamping down on his fist. But Suguru didn't stop. He continued to fist you through your orgasm, his hand moving in and out, prolonging your pleasure until you were begging him to stop.

Your fucked out face felt hotter by the second, back and front, your juices trickling from your legs as your boyfriend moved away, licking the juice on his face. He was getting hotter than you, even though he was not dugged into the wall. He starts to look at you, just as fucked out as you.

“You’re crazy…..You ruined my underwear.” You say, looking at your wet underwear. “You’re buying me a new one.”

Suguru's eyes darkened with desire at your words. He leans in again, kissing your neck. His hand palming your breasts. “As many as you want, baby. Lace, silk. I don’t care. I’ll buy you all you want.”

You groaned at him. “You’re just saying this because you want to keep it for yourself.”

He laughs. “How’d you know?”

“Cause even without aphrodisiacs, you’re a perv!”

He gripped your hips, positioning himself at your entrance once more. "You're sure about this?" he asked, his voice low and husky. "I don't know if I can be gentle. I can fist myself to calm down.”

You bit your lip, nodding eagerly. "I don't want you to be gentle, baby." you whispered. "I want you. All of you."

He unbuckled his belt with shaking hands, unzipping his pants and freeing his erection. Suguru's cock was thick and hard, the tip glistening with pre–cum. "Turn around, baby." he ordered, his voice firm. "Hands on the mirror."

You hesitated for a moment, but the look in his purple eyes, the commanding tone of his voice, made you comply. You turned, pressing your palms against the cool glass. Suguru lifted your dress skirt, exposing your bare bottom even more.

"Wrap your legs around me." He commanded, his voice rough with need. You obeyed, locking your ankles behind his back. Geto Suguru gripped your hips, positioning himself at your entrance.

"Look at me, baby." He said, his eyes boring into yours. "I want to see your face when I take you."

And with that, he thrust into you, filling you completely in one powerful stroke. Suguru's hips snapped forward, driving into you with a force that made the mirror shake.

The sound of flesh hitting flesh echoed off the bathroom walls, mingling with your moans and his grunts. He gripped your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your skin as he set a brutal pace.

"Fuck, you're so tight." he growled, his forehead resting against yours. "So perfect. My pretty baby."

Your legs tightened around him, pulling him deeper with each thrust. Suguru's mouth found yours, swallowing your cries as he fucked you against the mirror. He reached between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles.

Suguru's eyes were wild, his pupils dilated with the effects of the aphrodisiac. He gripped your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave bruises. His thrusts became erratic, almost violent in their intensity.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" he chanted, his voice a guttural growl. "You're mine, do you hear me? Mine!"

He bit down on your shoulder, hard enough to break the skin. The pain mixed with pleasure, pushing you closer to the edge. Suddenly, Suguru pulled out, flipping you over onto your stomach. He kicked your legs apart, exposing you fully.

Without warning, he plunged back into you, his hips slamming against your ass with a force that made you cry out. Suguru's hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back as he fucked you mercilessly.

"Say it!" he snarled."Say you're mine!"

"I'm yours!" you screamed, tears streaming down your face."I'm yours, Suguru! Only yours!"

Your words seemed to snap something inside him. Suguru's movements became frenzied, his thrusts losing their rhythm as he chased his release. He came with a roar, his cock pulsing inside you as he filled you with his seed.

But even as he emptied himself into you, Suguru didn't stop. He continued to thrust, his movements slower now but no less intense, as if he were trying to brand you with his touch, to imprint himself onto your very soul.

"Never forget it, baby." he panted, his breath hot against your ear. "Never forget who you belong to."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of fear and something darker, something you refused to acknowledge.

Suguru's hand slid around your throat, his fingers wrapping around your neck possessively. "I'll never let you go, never." he whispered, his voice low and dangerous. "I'll kill anyone who tries to take you away from me."

His grip tightened slightly, just enough to make you gasp for air. Suguru's other hand slid down your body, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing in rough, demanding circles. You couldn’t stop mewling and drooling in the heaviness of pleasure all over your body.

"Come for me, baby." he commanded, his voice low and dangerous. "Come on my cock like the good little slut you are."

His words, his touch, the lack of oxygen – it all combined to push you over the edge. You came with a strangled cry, your body convulsing as pleasure mixed with pain. Suguru rode out your climax, his hips jerking erratically as he emptied the last of his seed into you.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight crushing you into the surface beneath you.You gasped for air, your lungs burning, your body aching.Suguru's hand slid from your throat, his fingers trailing down your chest possessively.

Suguru's grip on you tightened, his fingers digging into your flesh possessively. He nuzzled into your neck, inhaling deeply. "You smell so good, baby. " he murmured, his voice husky with desire. "I could fuck you forever."

His hips pressed against your backside, his hardness evident even in his semi-erect state.You gasped, your body still sensitive from the previous encounters. "Suguru, please, babe." you whispered, exhaustion evident in your voice."I can't...I need a break."

He chuckled a bit darkly, the sound sending shivers down your spine."A break?" he echoed, his hand sliding down to grip your thigh. "Baby, the night is still young. And I'm far from done with you."

His fingers tightened, pulling your leg back over his hip. You could feel him, hot and hard, pressing against your entrance. Geto Suguru's teeth grazed your earlobe, his breath hot against your skin.

"Don't you want more?" he whispered, his voice low and seductive. "Don't you want to feel me inside you again?"

His hips rolled, his tip sliding through your folds, coating itself in your juices. "You're so wet, baby." he groaned, his voice strained with need. "So ready for me."

Suguru's hand slid up your body, cupping your breast and squeezing gently. "Let me make you feel good…." he murmured, his thumb brushing over your nipple. "Let me fuck you until you can't walk straight."

His words, his touch, the lingering effects of the aphrodisiac — it all combined to stir the embers of desire within you. Your body responded instinctively, your hips arching back against him. Geto Suguru took that as permission, his hand tightening on your thigh as he began to push into you slowly.

"That's it, baby." he praised, his voice a low growl. "Take my cock like a good girl."

Suguru's movements were slow and deliberate, savoring every inch as he slid deeper into your welcoming heat. He filled you completely, his thickness stretching you deliciously. He began to move, his hips rolling in a gentle rhythm that built with each thrust.

"You feel so good, so so good…." he murmured, his lips brushing against your neck. "So tight, so perfect."

His hand on your breast squeezed gently, his thumb and forefinger pinching your nipple lightly.The combination of sensations was overwhelming, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Suguru's other hand slid down, his fingers finding your clit and circling it in slow, teasing motions.

"Come for me again, baby." he commanded softly, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "Come on my cock, baby. Let me feel you."

"Fuck, yes!" he groaned, his hips snapping forward as he rode out your climax. "That's it, milk my cock."

Suguru's movements became more urgent, his thrusts faster and harder as he chased his own release. He bit down on your shoulder, marking you as his as he fucked you through the aftershocks of your orgasm.

Your body was limp, spent, but Suguru showed no signs of stopping. He flipped you onto your back, spreading your legs wide and driving into you with renewed vigor.

"I'm going to fill you up, baby." he promised, his voice strained. "I'm going to pump you full of my cum again and again and mark you as mine."

His words, his actions, the sheer intensity of the moment — it was all too much. The bathroom door swung open, and Suguru froze, buried deep inside you. But he didn't pull out. Instead, his grip on your hips tightened, his fingers digging into your flesh possessively.

"Get out, you fuck." he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. He didn't turn to look at the intruder, his gaze locked onto yours, his eyes blazing with a fierce intensity. "Now."

The person in the doorway was flustered red and was too stunned. They hesitated, no doubt taken aback by the scene before them. But Suguru's tone left no room for argument.

They muttered an apology and retreated, the door slamming shut behind them. Suguru's attention returned to you, his hips beginning to move again, his thrusts slow and deliberate.

"Where were we?" he murmured, his lips curling into a wicked smile. "Oh, right. I was about to fill you up."

[thexmistress]

therapy — nanami kento and gojo satoru.

“Seriously, Satoru–kun.” you muttered. “Why are you here?” Satoru smirked, leaning back against the bar. “What, I need a reason to drink?” You gave him a flat look. “You don’t drink. Well, that I know of. Last time I made you drink tequila, you looked at me funny after just one shot.” “Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy a good ambiance, or the sweetness, or the smell.” he quipped, gesturing vaguely to the dimly lit space around you. You snicker at his words. “Plus, I have a sixth sense for finding people who look like they’re about to make bad decisions.” You huffed a small, tired laugh, shaking your head. “And you think that’s me?”

GENRE: alternate universe - actor/s au!;

WARNING/S: nsfw!, r-18, afab! reader, use of she/her pronouns, romance, angst, hurt/comfort, hurt, love, fluff, humor, light-hearted, falling in love, long-term relationship, toxic marriage, healing, age gap, emotional distress, relief, mental health issues, resentment, trauma, depression, confessions, cheating, profanity, drama, bitterness, explicit, sexual intercourse, making out, scratching, biting, multiple orgasms, kissing, rough sex, p-i-v sex, fingering, oral sex (f! receiving), creampie, praising, bodily fluids, mention of bodily fluids, mention of trauma, mention of emotional distress, mention of cheating, mention of sexual innuendos, depiction of emotional distress, depiction of cheating, depiction of sexual activities, actor! nanami, actor! gojo, housewife! reader;

WORD COUNT: 19k words

NOTE: this probably published while im still abroad, so this is automated put out by the queue!!! this took awhile and there were stuff i wanted to add, but that didn't work out. still, this means there'll be a couple more chapters and this isn't the finale. that being said, i think i love this chapter a lot and so did @areyna who graciously proofread this and was the very first victim and winner of this entire chapter. i hope you enjoy it as much as i did writing and as much as areyna did proofreading it!!! i love you all <3

masterlist

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the good life ― masterlist.

YOU DON’T WANT TO BE HERE. But this is what has to happen if you are planning to stay together. You purse your lips, watching the old grandfather clock ticking away against the wall. The office smells like lavender and old books, a forced attempt at making the space feel welcoming. It doesn’t work. 

The tension between you and Kento is thick enough to suffocate, coiling in the silence as the therapist, this woman who seemed to be someone too young to understand marriage, let alone the wreckage of a twenty-five-year one, continued to flip through her notes. But she was all you had at this moment. So, you let your mouth stay shut.

“This is a safe space, you two.” she says, offering a practiced smile. “I want you both to feel comfortable expressing yourselves.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “I don’t think comfort is possible when my husband’s only here because his company forced him.”

Kento exhales sharply, hands clasped on his lap. “That’s not fair.”

“Oh, it’s not?” You turn to him, eyes sharp. “Then why are we here, Kento? Pray tell.”

He presses his lips together, a telltale sign of his irritation. “Because we need to fix this.”

“You need to fix this.” you correct. “I’ve been living in the mess you made.”

The therapist clears her throat, interrupting before the conversation spirals into yet another argument. “Let’s take a step back. Kento, why don’t you tell us what you hope to achieve from these sessions?”

He hesitates, as if he hasn’t even considered it. Then, he sighs. “I want us to be able to talk again. To be... something other than enemies.”

You resist the urge to laugh. Enemies. As if you asked for this war. As if you asked for all this trouble. The therapist turns to you. “And you?”

You stare at her, then at your husband Kento, then down at your fragile hands, sharp nails digging into your palm. As if wanting to wound, as if wanting something that echoes some sense of the hurt you feel. 

What do you want? An apology? A time machine? A different life?

“I want to stop being angry.” The words slip out before you can overthink them.

The room is silent for a beat too long. Kento looks at you then really looks at you. For the first time in years, he actually looks at you. And for a second, you remember who he used to be. The man that actually loved you, the man that actually takes care of you and wants you. 

The man who didn’t hurt you. You wanted to look at that Kento you once knew all over again. That Kento before fame, before the affairs. Before the resentment built a wall so high you forgot how to climb over it.

Maybe therapy was a bad idea. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s the only chance you have left. The words hang between you, fragile and uncertain. I don’t want to keep hurting you. I don’t want to keep being hurt by you. I can’t do this with you anymore.

Yet those words are never said, they shouldn’t be said ever again. It’s too late for that, though, isn’t it? The damage has already been done a long time ago. And it was never going to be possible to fix. Not even when you wanted to, not even when he wanted to. The thought of staying is just the thought of foolish fools.

It was now etched into every sleepless night, every forced smile at industry events, every moment you swallowed your own misery for the sake of keeping up appearances. A single sentence, no matter how sincere, cannot erase twenty–five years of betrayal, resentment, and loss.

You inhale deeply, forcing yourself to keep your composure. “You say that now,” you murmur, not looking at him. “But where was this concern when I was at home raising our children alone? When I was waking up to rumors about your latest affair? When I was becoming a ghost of myself, while you—” 

“That’s unfair—”

“It is not unfair.” Your voice falters, thick with emotion. “While you were out there playing the perfect leading man for everyone but me, I had nothing. And you know it. You always have and you never did a damn thing about it.”

Kento doesn’t flinch, but you see the way his fingers curl slightly against his knee. He always does this when you fight nowadays. He always absorbs the hit without reacting, as if that makes him noble, as if his restraint somehow makes up for everything.

“I know I hurt you.” he says after a long pause.

You laugh, but it’s hollow. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

The therapist interjects gently, “Sometimes acknowledging the pain is the first step toward healing.”

You shake your head. “Acknowledging isn’t the same as making amends.” You turn to Kento, your voice sharp. “Do you even know what you took from me?”

He meets your gaze, but there’s uncertainty in his eyes. “Tell me. Tell me, so I can understand and fix it.” he says, and for once, he sounds like he actually wants to hear it.

You exhale shakily. “I was never supposed to be just your wife.”

The words taste foreign on your tongue, like something you buried so deep you forgot how much it mattered. It has been twenty–five years. Your youth was gone, it was long over. How could there be anything left of you now, when he had robbed you of all of it?

“I had dreams, Kento. I had plans for myself before you—before this.” You gesture vaguely between you. “But the moment you started rising, the moment your career became more important than anything else, I was expected to put mine aside. Because someone had to take care of everything you didn’t have time for. Someone had to be the constant in the chaos of your life. And it sure as hell wasn’t going to be you.”

His brows furrow, and for the first time in a long time, you see something beyond detachment, beyond his own grief and beguilement. Perhaps it was truthful guilt, maybe. Or honest regret. But neither of those things change what’s already happened.

“I never asked you to give up your life for me.” he says quietly.

You scoff. “You didn’t have to. I was forced to. You were never going to let me have an abortion. You always wanted children. And I didn’t.”

Nanami Kento stares at you, his face unreadable. But you see it—the brief flicker of something behind his eyes. Shock? Guilt? Maybe even hurt. “You didn’t want them.” he repeats, as if he needs to hear it again to believe it. “Our beloved children?”

You scoff, shaking your head. “I didn’t plan for them. I didn’t ask for them.” Your voice rises, filled with years of buried anguish. “I wasn’t ready, Kento. I wasn’t allowed to be ready to leave chemistry behind. Because you—” you jab a finger toward him. “—made the decision for me. You knew I didn’t want this, and you didn’t care.”

His jaw tightens. “That’s not fair.”

“Not fair?” Your laugh is sharp and bitter. “What’s not fair is being forced into motherhood before I even had the chance to figure out who I was. What’s not fair is raising children alone while their father is out playing the devoted family man on magazine covers.”

His expression darkens, but he doesn’t interrupt. Maybe he knows he can’t argue against the truth.

You inhale sharply, trying to steady yourself. “And don’t twist my words. I love our children, Kento. But loving them doesn’t erase the years I spent resenting what I had to sacrifice. It doesn’t erase the hell my body went through to bring them into this world. The sickness, the pain, the tearing, the bleeding. Do you even know what it’s like to almost die giving birth? Do you care?”

His face pales. “I—”

“You weren’t there, Kento.” you cut him off. “Not really. You were there for the photos, for the press, for the illusion of a happy family. But when I was crying in the middle of the night with a newborn that wouldn’t stop screaming, when I was too exhausted to function, when I was losing myself piece by piece. So, where were you?”

Silence.

His hands clenched into fists on his lap. “I thought you were happy.”

Your breath catches, something breaking inside you.

“You thought?” you echo, incredulous. “That’s the problem, Kento. You thought. You assumed. You never asked, you never listened. You just expected me to play my role.”

The weight of your words settles over him, pressing down like a tidal wave. He swallows, looking away. “I wanted us to have a family.”

“And I wanted a choice.” Tears sting at the edges of your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall.

“I love our children,” you say, voice thick with emotion. “I love them more than anything. But don’t you dare act like this was easy for me. Don’t you dare act like I didn’t suffer to give you what you wanted.”

He exhales, his shoulders sagging. For once, Nanami Kento who was always celebrated, untouchable, always in control. He looks utterly lost at what to do now. Kento looks down, his expression unreadable. And for a moment, you wonder if he finally understands—or if this is just another scene in the performance of his life.

What could he do to make it all better, easier for you?

How could he erase the bitterness and the anguish of twenty five years?

The therapist clears her throat, cutting through the thick tension like a knife. “Let’s pause for a moment.”

You turn to her, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, your emotions still raw and thrumming under your skin. Kento’s warm caramel gaze remains fixed on the floor, his crestfallen face suddenly unreadable.

“I can see that this is an incredibly painful subject for both of you.” the therapist continues, her voice steady but firm. “But if we’re going to make progress, we need to shift the way we approach it.” She looks between the two of you. “Right now, you’re both speaking at each other, not to each other.”

Your jaw tightens, the sting of frustration still hot in your throat. “I am talking to him. He just doesn’t want to hear it.”

“I do, I know I am.” Kento says, his voice quiet but certain. “I’m listening.”

The therapist nods, acknowledging his words but keeping control of the conversation. “Good. Then let’s slow down. Let’s take a step back and focus on what’s happening here, in this room, right now.”

She turns to you. “You’ve carried a lot of pain for a long time. And you’re finally letting yourself express it. That’s important. But I want you to ask yourself. What do you need from Kento at this moment? Right now, not in the past, not for the things he can’t change. What do you need today?”

You blink, thrown by the question. What do you need? For so long, your mind has been caught in the past, replaying every betrayal, every sacrifice, every moment you felt abandoned. But the therapist is asking you to focus on the present, and the shift feels jarring.

You glance at Kento, who lifted his face and started watching you with an expression you can’t quite place or ever explain. You took a moment for yourself. One inhale, one exhale. Then, finally, you speak.

“I need you to acknowledge what I went through.” you say, voice quieter now, but still firm. “Not just say you thought I was happy. Not just say you wanted a family. I need you to really, truly see what it cost me.”

Kento nods slowly, his throat working as he swallows. “Okay.” His voice is rough, like the words are hard to get out. “I can do that.”

The therapist turns to him now. “Kento, what do you need from your wife at this moment?”

He hesitates, and for the first time in this session, you see something raw in his eyes. Something unguarded. “I need to know if there’s still a chance that this is still working,” he says quietly. “If all I’ve done….if everything I’ve broken is beyond repair.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy with uncertainty.

The therapist watches you carefully, then speaks again. “Neither of you has to answer that today. Right now, all we need to do is be honest about where you are, and what you’re feeling.”

She leans forward slightly, her gaze soft but unwavering. “And it’s okay if the answer isn’t clear yet.”

You exhale slowly, glancing at Kento once more. Maybe you don’t know the answer yet. Maybe that’s okay. The air in the room is thick with emotion, the weight of your words pressing down on both of you.

“I don’t feel like I know what to say about any of that.” you whisper, your voice quieter now, but no less full of pain. “It’s one thing to stay, it’s another to fix the relationship.” Your fingers tighten in your lap. “You hurt me. And I still don’t know how to cope.”

Kento remains silent, but his body tenses beside you. 

You can feel his gaze on you, waiting, bracing.

The therapist speaks up again, her voice even, grounding. “This isn’t about placing blame—it’s about understanding.” She turns to Kento. “What do you hear when she says this?”

He exhales slowly, like he’s picking apart your words piece by piece, trying to find the truth beneath them. “That I took you for granted.” he finally says. 

His voice is quieter now, rougher. When he looks at you, it’s not with the usual detached acceptance of your anger. It’s something rawer, something closer to regret. Something that breaks from that egotistical sense of self.

“That I expected you to stay, no matter how much it hurt you.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t let yourself react.

Because he’s right. He did expect you to stay.

Through the betrayals. Through the nights spent alone. Through the resentment and the exhaustion and the quiet, suffocating grief of losing yourself to a life you never truly wanted. He expected you to endure it because that’s what you’ve always done.

The therapist watches the exchange carefully, then speaks again. “Kento, understanding that is important. But what does that mean for you now?”

Kento’s gaze doesn’t leave yours. “It means I can’t keep pretending an apology is enough.” he says, voice rough, strained. “I can’t just ask you to move forward like the past doesn’t exist.”

You swallow, your throat tightens.

The therapist nods. “And you?” she asks gently, turning back to you. “What does it mean for you to hear him say this?”

You hesitate. Because you don’t know. You’ve wanted acknowledgement for so long. You’ve craved it, ached for it. And now, sitting here, hearing your husband Nanami Kento say the things you always needed to hear, you realize something terrifying. 

Recognition doesn’t erase the past. Understanding doesn’t heal the wounds. And now, you have to decide whether you want to heal. So, you don’t say anything. Because for the first time, he’s finally right. But the question remains—does it even matter anymore?

The room feels heavier now, as if the walls themselves are absorbing the weight of your words. Kento’s admission lingers between you, a quiet acknowledgment of what you’ve always known but never heard from his lips.

But does it change anything?

You cross your arms over your chest, leaning back against the stiff leather couch. “And what now?” you ask, voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you. “Now that you finally understand, what are you going to do about it?”

Kento hesitates, like he hasn’t thought that far ahead. Of course, he hasn’t. He was forced into this session, just like you were. Maybe he thought showing up was enough. That the act of being here, of listening, would be enough to fix the unfixable.

“I don’t know.” he admits, and somehow, that makes you angrier than anything else.

You let out a sharp breath, shaking your head. “Typical.”

The therapist interjects gently. “This process isn’t about quick solutions. It’s about identifying the patterns that have brought you both here and seeing if they can be changed.” She glances at Kento. “You’ve admitted to taking your wife for granted, to making choices that hurt her. But what are you willing to do to make amends?”

His jaw tightens. He’s always been careful with his words. All too trained by years and even decades in the industry to say just enough without ever saying too much. But now, there’s no script to follow. No director to guide him.

Finally, he speaks. “I want to rebuild what I broke.”

You laugh, the sound bitter. “And how exactly do you plan on doing that, Kento? Turning back time? Undoing years of neglect and infidelity?”

His expression hardens. “I know I can’t change the past. But I don’t want this—” he gestures vaguely between you, much like you did earlier, “—to be how it ends.”

Your stomach twists. “You think there’s still something left to save?”

A long silence stretches between you. Kento doesn’t answer, and you don’t think he even knows the answer himself. You knew very well what that meant. Even he himself does not know how to do anything about a marriage he broke.

The therapist’s voice is soft but firm. “Maybe the better question is—do you want there to be? Both of you?”

You blink, caught off guard by the shift in focus. Do you?

For so long, your anger has been the only thing holding you together. It’s easier to be furious than to admit how much it hurts. How much it still hurts. But wanting something and believing in it are two very different things.

You glance at Kento, the man you once loved more than anything. The man who shattered you, piece by piece, over two and a half decades. Do you want to salvage what’s left? Or is this therapy nothing more than a final autopsy of a marriage long dead?

“I don’t know.” you finally admit, the honesty sitting heavy on your tongue.

Kento flinches, just barely. But it’s enough for you to see it. Maybe, for the first time, he’s realizing that there might not be a way back from this. Maybe he should’ve thought about that before he broke you.

YOU DON’T KNOW IF YOU BELIEVE IN THE GODS ANYMORE. But you knew that it would mean a lot to your daughter Keiko for you both to visit the temple for prayer. She believes in the power of the gods a little bit more than you do. That’s why she suggests going there, at the very least to shake the nerves from the upcoming medical board licensure exams. 

The grounds of Yushima Tenman-gū are alive with quiet devotion.Perhaps equal to that during the New Year visits made by the people within Bunkyō ward. The scent of incense clings to the air, blending with the crispness of the late afternoon. 

Students and parents move through the space with careful steps, their voices hushed, their prayers whispered. Some clutch omamori charms tightly in their hands, while others write their wishes on ema plaques, their hopes hanging alongside hundreds of others, swaying gently in the breeze.

Your daughter Keiko moves ahead with purpose, stepping toward the main shrine, her back straight, her hands already reaching into her bag for a coin to toss into the offering box. She has always been like this, always so steady, precise. She was a young woman who knew what she wanted and how to chase it.

You linger behind for a moment, watching her.

The last time you had come to a shrine like this, you were still young. You had prayed for a future that felt distant yet full of possibility. Back then, you had imagined a life built on your own terms. A future of a career. A love that was chosen, not endured. A freedom that was never granted to you.

And now, here you are, standing in the shadow of everything you lost, watching your daughter reach for the things you never got to have. You don’t know if that makes you bitter or relieved. But you knew that there was pride and joy, and perhaps that blossoming of envy on the corners of your heart.

Your son steps up beside you, hands in his pockets, his posture more relaxed but no less thoughtful. “You should pray too, mom.” he murmurs, his voice barely above the wind.

You swallow, feeling the weight of his words settle in your chest. Pray? For what? For your daughter’s success? 

Of course, you want that for her. You have always wanted the best for your children, even when motherhood was something that had been forced upon you. Even when resentment had gnawed at you in the darkest hours of the night, when exhaustion had made you wonder who you might have been if things had been different.

For your son’s peace? He’s always been the quieter one, observing more than speaking, carrying a kind of stillness that reminds you too much of Kento. You wonder if he ever saw through the illusions of your marriage. If he ever realized how much of yourself you had lost trying to keep the family whole.

Or maybe you should pray for yourself. The thought startles you for a moment. You weren’t particularly religious. But every time you visit a temple, you know you have spent so much of your life praying for others, for their futures, for their happiness. But what about you? Do you even know what to wish for anymore?

Your feet carry you forward before you can think too hard about it. You reach into your bag, pulling out a singular coin, the cool metal pressing against your palm. Stepping up to the offering box, you toss it in, the small clink of it landing echoing louder in your ears than it should.

You press your hands together, fingers trembling slightly as you close your eyes. And then….there was nothing. No words come to mind. No clear wish forms in your heart. You stand there, empty, uncertain, the weight of a lifetime of silent suffering pressing against you. 

The gods, if they are listening, must already know. Maybe prayers don’t need to be spoken to be heard. Maybe standing here, finally allowing yourself to be present. Not as a wife, not as the woman Kento Nanami had molded to fit into his world, but simply you is enough. Maybe this is where healing begins.

As you step out of the shrine grounds, the late afternoon sun filters through the trees, casting long shadows on the stone path. You were sure the blue hour was about to come any time soon. The air is crisp, and the scent of incense still lingers faintly, wrapping around you like an unspoken farewell.

Kenshin walks ahead, his hands tucked into his pockets, his pace just slightly quicker than yours. You don’t call out to him. He’s always been the type to process things quietly, to put distance between himself and heavy conversations. Keiko, on the other hand, stays by your side. You can feel her glancing at you before she finally speaks.

“We’ve talked about it, mom.” she says, voice soft but firm.

You blink, turning to her. “What?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Kenshin and I. We’ve talked about you and Dad. About what’s been happening.”

Your chest tightens, your breath hitching just slightly. You don’t know why it surprises you—of course, they’ve noticed. Of course, they’ve thought about it too. You could only take a soundless breath. 

The thought of your children being such people, who think about their wretched parents instead of their own lives. You can only think you have such good kids, but also guilt that they have to deal with such a thing at all. This was after all the mess of overbearing adults. 

“I already told you and your brother that this is a mess me and your father must deal with on our own.” You tell your daughter with a sigh, feeling the cold air brush against your cheeks. “You have your own lives to live too.”

“We know.” Keiko says, her hands resting on her jacket pocket. “But we still think about it. That’s just how it is.”

“Oh?” You raise a brow at her. “Then you’re too stubborn.”

She snickers. “Where do you think I got that from?”

You shake your head. “You’re too much my daughter.”

“Hm, aren’t I?”

The world around you keeps moving as you both become silent. The students walk past, the hum of distant conversations, the rustling of trees as the wind weaves through them. You purse your lips, feeling the wind become rougher and colder. For a moment, you wish that spring could come and remove the cold of autumn winds from your life.

"We think it’s better if you leave him." She suddenly says, picking up the conversation again.

Your daughter has always been straightforward, unafraid to speak her mind. But hearing it from her, hearing that it was words that came from both of them….it feels different, feels too much like a crashing wave battering you in a typhoon.

You inhale sharply, your fingers curling into fists at your sides. “Keiko… I told you, that’s not something you and Kenshin should have to worry about.”

Her gaze doesn’t waver. “How could we not?” she asks, her voice gentle but firm. “You think we haven’t noticed? The way you look when you’re with him? The way you don’t look at him anymore?”

You don’t answer.

Because what is there to say?

She isn’t wrong.

Your breath catches, the words sinking in faster than you can process them. Keiko watches you carefully, her expression unreadable, but there’s something knowing in her gaze. Something that makes you feel exposed in a way you weren’t expecting.

You shake your head, trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. “That isn’t the point, Keiko.” you insist, your voice wavering just slightly. “Me and your father are in therapy. We’re still not making any decisions.”

Keiko doesn’t look convinced. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am sure.”

“You know for a fact that therapy just makes you even more angry at Dad.” she points out. “You come back from those sessions exhausted, and not in a good way.” She sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, a habit she’s had since childhood. “Really, I know you love him. But how is that enough to stay?”

“Look, I just—-”

She pauses, then adds, almost too casually, “You aren’t as smiley as when you’re with your new friends. Gojo–san and his group of friends, right?”

Your breath stutters. You want to argue. To tell her she’s wrong, that she doesn’t understand, that your marriage is complicated and layered and full of history she hasn’t lived through. But you can’t. Because she’s right.

With Kento, you feel like you’re drowning in old wounds, forced to relive them every time you try to mend something that might already be broken beyond repair. But with Gojo Satoru and his friends… Gojo, especially…..it’s different. 

The weight isn’t there. 

You can breathe. 

And maybe that’s what scares you the most.

Keiko tilts her head, studying you. “You like them, don’t you?” she states, as if confirming something she already knew. “Gojo–san, especially.”

“They’re just friends.” you say quickly, too quickly. “Gojo–san, exceptionally.”

“I didn’t say they weren’t.” Her lips twitch slightly. “But they make you happy. That’s all I’m saying.”

You don’t respond, your thoughts a tangled mess. Keiko doesn’t push, but she doesn’t look away either. Her silence is deliberate, patient—giving you space to deny it, to argue, to deflect. But you don’t. 

Because what is there to say? That she’s wrong? That Gojo Satoru and his friends are just a temporary distraction from your crumbling marriage? That you haven’t caught yourself laughing a little too easily when he teases you, or feeling lighter in his presence in a way you haven’t felt in years?

You swallow, glancing away, but Keiko hums knowingly. “See? You can’t even say I’m wrong.”

You sigh, rubbing a hand over your face. “Keiko, this isn’t about that.”

She shrugs. “Maybe not. But it matters.”

You exhale, trying to steady yourself. “I don’t even know what I want right now.”

Keiko’s expression softens. “You don’t have to.” She shifts closer, lowering her voice like she’s afraid of saying it too loudly. “But Mom… doesn’t it tell you something? That you feel happier with them than you do with Dad?”

Your chest tightens.

Because you know what it tells you.

You just don’t know if you’re ready to accept it.

YOU HAVEN’T BEEN TO A BAR IN NEARLY TWENTY YEARS. Well, at least by yourself. The amber glow of the bar lights cast a soft haze over the room, reflecting off polished wood and half-empty glasses. Low murmurs of conversation drifted through the space, but they barely registered in your mind.

All you could feel was the crushing weight of everything that has been happening in your life as of late. Your marriage, your children’s quiet acceptance of your inevitable decision, the unraveling of twenty-five years of your life right before your eyes.

So you did the only thing that made sense. You walked. Not toward anything in particular, not with any real destination in mind. Just away. Away from the conversation with Keiko, away from the heavy silence that had followed it, away from the empty hotel room waiting for you. And somehow, you ended up here. Alone.

The bar was dimly lit and upscale, but not the flashy kind. It was more of a quiet, intimate retreat for people who didn’t want to be seen, who came here to disappear into the background. It was perfect. You slid onto a barstool, resting your elbows on the counter, your head feeling too heavy for your shoulders.

"Whiskey neat, please." you muttered, barely sparing the bartender a glance.

The glass was placed in front of you moments later, golden liquid catching the light. You curled your fingers around it, but you didn’t drink. Not yet. Instead, you sat there, staring at the reflection of yourself in the mirrored wall behind the shelves of expensive liquor. 

The woman who looked back at you was someone you barely recognized. Tired eyes. Set jaw. A kind of sadness so deep it had settled into your bones. One that you could never imagine for yourself all those years ago. Where has that bright eyed young woman gone?

And then the thought came, sharp and undeniable—Fuck. This is it. This is the moment I finally drown.

The realization clawed at your chest, a quiet sort of devastation. You didn’t even hear him approach.

"…Didn’t think I’d find you here."

Your breath caught. You froze. Your head snapped up, and there he was. Gojo Satoru. Tall, sharp, annoyingly out of place in a bar like this, with his white hair and easy grin and the kind of presence that drew attention even when he wasn’t trying to. 

He wasn’t wearing his usual sunglasses, and his infamous blue eyes—too bright, too knowing was settled on you like he’d already figured out why you were here before you had even admitted it to yourself. You swallowed, gripping your glass a little tighter.

“What are you doing here, Satoru–kun?” you asked, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

Satoru tilted his head slightly, his grin lazy but his gaze sharper than usual. “Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing.”

Your fingers twitched against the glass. 

Of course, of all people, he would be the one to find you here.

You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to steady your grip on the glass. 

"I asked first, didn’t I?" You whispered back at him. “You can’t ask a question with another question. That’s just….stupid.”

Gojo Satoru couldn’t help but let out a low chuckle, stepping closer before sliding into the barstool beside you like he belonged there. Like he belonged in this moment, with you. Almost all too perfectly. You purse your lips into a flat line.

"Just passing through, like I always am." he said, casually resting his forearm on the counter. "Didn’t expect to see you here, though. I didn’t think you would be in Bunkyō.”

“Well, that’s a long story. No, actually I can summarize it. But not right now.” You hummed, noncommittal, taking a small sip of your drink. 

The burn was sharp, settling deep in your chest, but it didn’t ground you the way you’d hoped. And then you suddenly fell back into that silence, the silence you were trying to escape with the bounty of burning alcohol pushed down your throat and probably being drunk enough to dance to the beat of the music.

Satoru leaned in slightly, eyes flicking over your expression. "What’s wrong?"

You scoffed, shaking your head. "Do I really have to say more about it? I thought I’ve told you enough about it."

His grin softened, just a little. "Well, I wouldn’t mind repetitive stories."

“I have too many of those.”

“Hm, then tell me one.” He leans against the table, getting closer to you. “Go on. I’ll listen.”

You looked at him for a moment, suddenly mesmerized by the look on his face. That tender wonder. You gulped soundlessly as you saw the smile on his lips warmer than all the other times you’ve ever seen it. You drank another sip.

Then and there, tender silence settled between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Not like the suffocating stillness you had grown used to with Nanami Kento—this was different. It was… lighter. Easier. And that was dangerous in its own way.

"You’re drinking alone." Satoru pointed out eventually, his voice quieter now.

You let out a breathless laugh, swirling the liquid in your glass. "I guess I am."

"Didn’t seem like the type."

You glanced at him. "And what type is that?"

Satoru studied you for a moment before answering. "The type to drown alone."

The words hit you harder than you expected. Because that’s exactly what you had been thinking before he showed up. Before he sat down beside you, pulling you out of your own head without even trying.

You looked away, eyes tracing the rim of your glass. "Well….." you murmured. "Maybe I didn’t want to be found."

Satoru tilted his head, considering. Then, lightly, "Too bad. I found you already, didn’t I?"

You rolled your eyes, lips twitching slightly despite yourself. "You’re insufferable."

He grinned. "That’s what they all say."

Gojo Satoru didn’t look away. If anything, his bright eyed gaze felt heavier now. It was as if it was all too perceptive, all too knowing. You couldn’t help but shift in your seat, fingers tapping absently against your glass.

“Seriously, Satoru–kun.” you muttered. “Why are you here?”

Satoru smirked, leaning back against the bar. “What, I need a reason to drink?”

You gave him a flat look. “You don’t drink. Well, that I know of. Last time I made you drink tequila, you looked at me funny after just one shot.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy a good ambiance, or the sweetness, or the smell.” he quipped, gesturing vaguely to the dimly lit space around you. You snicker at his words. “Plus, I have a sixth sense for finding people who look like they’re about to make bad decisions.”

You huffed a small, tired laugh, shaking your head. “And you think that’s me?”

Satoru’s grin faded just slightly. “I think you look like someone who needed company but didn’t know how to ask for it.”

The words landed uncomfortably close to the truth. You turned your gaze back to your drink, the ice melting slowly, thinning the whiskey bit by bit. Had that been what you wanted? Company? A distraction?

“Frankly, I really don’t know what I need right now.” you admitted finally. The words tasted bitter.

Satoru watched you for a moment before calling over the bartender. “Two more, here.” he said smoothly, nodding at your glass. “Thank you.”

You frowned. “I didn’t say I wanted another.”

He shrugged. “Then you can watch me drink it.”

You sighed but didn’t argue, because some part of you. That stupid, brave, brutish, dangerous part of you didn’t actually mind his presence. Not in this way. Not in this closer, unimaginable way that you knew you shouldn’t be.

The bartender set down two fresh glasses, and Satoru lifted his own glass with a lazy smile. “To bad decisions, [name].” he said, raising it slightly.

You rolled your eyes. “That’s a terrible toast.”

“Fine, then you pick one.”

You hesitated, glancing at him, then at your untouched drink. After a long pause, you exhaled and murmured back at him. “To not drowning alone.”

Gojo Satoru stilled for just a fraction of a second before his smile returned—quieter this time, almost too genuine, almost too warm, almost too real and only for you. He clicked his glass against yours. 

“To that. And more.” he agreed.

The whiskey burned less the second time around. Or maybe you were just getting used to it. The way it settled deep in your chest, loosening something tight inside you. Gojo Satoru didn’t say much after your toast. 

He just sat there, nursing his drink, letting the silence stretch between you in a way that wasn’t suffocating. He had that kind of presence, you realized. One that filled spaces without making them feel crowded. It was unnerving.

You had spent so many years in a marriage where silence meant distance, where unspoken words festered like wounds. But this was different. This was easy. Dangerous in its own way. Too much and you know it would be far worse than dangerous. 

He called for a third round of whiskey and then a fourth and then a fifth. By the time you lifted your last, you didn’t remember how many he called for. You didn’t stop him at each call for a round. In some ways, you realize you needed this as much as he did. These bad decisions. 

Satoru tapped his fingers idly against the counter, glancing at you. "So, princess." he said finally, "What now?"

You blinked at him, surprised at his nickname for you. You felt your cheeks flushed, perhaps more than from the alcohol. "What do you mean?"

He tilted his head, studying you. "You’re in Tokyo, alone. Kids are off doing their own thing. Husband’s…well, not here. Obviously." He waved a hand, trailing off as if the rest of that sentence didn’t need to be said. "You’ve got time to figure out what you want."

You swallowed. "I don’t know what I want."

Satoru hummed, nodding like he understood something you didn’t. Then, he stood up, stretching lazily. "C’mon."

You frowned. "Where?"

He grinned, like it should’ve been obvious. "A walk."

You stared at him, unsure. Gojo Satoru wasn’t the kind of person who waited. He was the kind of person who decided things for you, who swept you up in his pace before you even realized you were moving.

And maybe that was why, when he held out his hand, not to take yours, just an invitation. Perhaps that’s why you quickly considered it. For the first time in years, you considered something that wasn’t dictated by your marriage, by your children, by duty or guilt or obligation.

You glanced down at your hand. At the simple gold band circling your ring finger, there was never an engagement ring. You after all got married in a haste. But at one point, it was everything to you. It had once meant something. A promise. A commitment. A life built together.

But now, it was a weight. A reminder of everything you had held onto for too long. You took a moment to look at it. You swallowed the bile down from your throat. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. You opened your eyes and let it slide off.

The cool metal felt foreign in your palm. Perhaps lighter than it should have been. You set it down on the polished wood of the bar, the sound small, but deafening in your ears. Gojo Satoru’s gaze flickered to it, his expression unreadable.

But he didn’t say anything.

He just smiled at you.

And when he turned to leave, you followed.

YOU SHOULD HAVE WORN SOMETHING WARMER. The night air was cold. You didn’t notice. Your body was moving, one foot in front of the other, step after step. But everything else felt distant, muted beneath the raw ache in your chest. 

Your breath came unsteady, uneven. Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms just to feel something. Anything to ground yourself at this moment. You knew you weren’t just trembling from the cold.

Your throat was raw from holding back everything that threatened to spill over. Your eyes were swollen, the evidence of too many emotions crashing into you all at once. Your soul felt like it had been ripped apart and yet, there was nothing left to do but keep walking.

Satoru walked beside you. His presence wasn’t loud, and wasn't intruding in a moment where you needed to comfort yourself for something you had done. He didn’t try to fill the silence with meaningless words or tell you it would be okay when you both knew it wouldn’t. Well, not yet.

He had simply draped his jacket over your shoulders without a word, the warmth of it seeping into your skin. Hands shoved into his pockets, his usual easy, relaxed gait unchanged.

It was like he wasn’t just walking beside a woman who had shattered right in front of him. Like he wasn’t carrying the weight of everything you had left behind.

Minutes passed. You weren’t sure how many. The city lights blurred together, neon signs and distant car horns blending into the background of your grief. And then, finally, he looks at you tenderly. "…You alright?"

His voice was quiet. Not teasing, not playful, just gentle. It almost broke you, how careful he was with you at everything and anything. It was crazy. It wasn’t something he had to do. And yet he does.

You let out a laugh, one that was harsh, bitter, something close to a sob. You didn’t know if it was the effects of alcohol or a broken heart. But you didn’t want to know.

“No.” you rasped. “Not even close.”

Gojo Satoru didn’t flinch at the sharpness of your voice. If anything, he looked like he expected it. Like he would have been more surprised if you had tried to lie. "Yeah." he murmured. "Didn’t think so."

You exhaled your breath shakily, tilting your head back to stare at the sky. The city lights drowned out most of the stars, leaving behind only a few faint specks of brightness in the distance. It just truly felt fitting.

"I don’t even know what I’m doing, not anymore." you admitted. The words felt heavy in your throat, like they had been waiting to be said for years. "I don’t know where to go. I don’t know what comes next."

Satoru hummed, tilting his head as if considering your words. "Does it matter right now?"

You turned to him, frowning. "What?"

"Does it matter?" he repeated simply, kicking a stray pebble along the sidewalk. "Knowing where you’re going? Knowing what’s next?" He shot you a sideways glance, something unreadable in his expression. "You already left the bar. That’s enough for now, isn’t it?"

You opened your mouth to argue, to tell him it wasn’t enough, that nothing about this was enough.  But you stopped. Because, wasn’t it? You had left. Not just the bar. Not just your ring. But the life you had convinced yourself you were trapped in. You did that.

And maybe you didn’t know what came next. 

Maybe the thought of facing it still made you sick with fear.

But for the first time in a long time, you did something for you.

Even if you didn’t know where you were going.

You let out a breath, slow and uncertain, and Satoru must have seen something shift in your expression because his grin returned on his beautiful lips. Though it was small, teasing, just a little softer than the usual he gives to others. In some ways, this smile somehow felt crafted only for you.

"See? You’re thinking too much again." he said, nudging your shoulder lightly. "Just walk with me for a little while, yeah?"

You swallowed. You nodded. "Yeah." you whispered. "Okay."

“Okay.” He whispers back, nodding at you.

Silence once again follows through both of you.

“…How old are you?” you finally croaked.

Satoru blinked. “…Thirty-five. Thirty-six this December.”

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Jesus Christ.” you muttered. “I’m twelve years older than you.”

Satoru grinned. “And?”

You stared at him. “And this means you should be hitting on girls your own age,” you deadpanned. “Not dragging miserable, middle-aged wives out of bars.”

Satoru just laughed. “I wasn’t hitting on you.” he said smoothly. “Well….not yet.”

You scoffed. “Right. Because asking a married woman out for walks around the park was totally innocent. And especially tonight, after getting her quite hammered.”

Satoru grinned. “Hey, in my defense, I didn’t see the ring.”

You snorted. “Bullshit.”

He shrugged, completely unfazed. “Okay.” he admitted. “I did know when I met you again. But in my defense those aren’t the first times we met. I didn’t know you were married then.”

And fuck. That hit like a sledgehammer. Your mouth parted, but no words came out. Your throat seized as something cold and sharp coiled around your chest. “…What?”

Satoru just smiled, slow and knowing. “I knew you from a long time ago. I told you that, didn’t I? That it was nice to meet you again.”

Your brows furrowed. “How?”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, as if to make sure you caught every word. “You remember when you visited the university? And you spoke to a student—”

Your breath stilled. A hazy memory surfaced. Years and years ago, standing in a lecture hall, speaking to a room full of eager, wide-eyed students. A boy in the back row, watching you with quiet intensity. And then later, conversed with you.

“That was you?” you whispered.

Satoru laughed, bright and unguarded. “I was also the student you saved. The one Yaga talked about. The one you gave your every savings for.”

The air seemed to shift, heavy with something you couldn’t quite name. “This is just…..”

Satoru’s voice softened, just slightly. “Because of you, my mom and I got through it. I got through it. I’m here because of you.”

A lump formed in your throat. 

You swallowed hard, unable to look away from him.

“I owe you a lot, you know?” he murmured.

And for the first time that night, you didn’t have a comeback.

The weight of his words settled in your chest like a stone, pressing against ribs already too tight from years of swallowing everything down—regrets, sacrifices.

All the quiet ache of knowing that your choices had never really been about yourself. You had convinced yourself a long time ago that what you did didn’t matter, that time swallowed up good deeds as easily as it did mistakes.

But now here he was. Living, breathing proof that something you did had meant something. That someone remembered.

You exhaled shakily, gripping the edge of the table as if it could anchor you.

“I—I didn’t think anyone remembered that,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Satoru tilted his head, watching you carefully. “Well, I did. And so did my mom.” His grin softened, losing its teasing edge. “She still talks about you, you know? Calls you an angel and she hasn’t even met you yet..”

A bitter laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. “An angel….” you repeated, shaking your head. “God, if only she knew.”

Satoru didn’t look away, didn’t flinch at the self-loathing curled around your words like a second skin. If anything, his expression darkened. Not with pity, but with something else. Something knowing. 

“You are an angel.”

You shook your head. “I am not.”

“She does know, as well as I do, that you are.” he said quietly. “She knows you saved me when no one else would.” His fingers drummed lightly against the wood of the table before he leaned in slightly, his voice lowering. “But I don’t think you ever saved yourself, did you?”

Your stomach twisted. “That’s not—” You stopped yourself, shaking your head. “That’s not how life works.”

Satoru didn’t move, didn’t blink. “No. But it could be. If…if you just let me help you too.”

A sharp breath escaped you, half a laugh, half something much more fragile. You weren’t sure if it was the alcohol or the weight of old regrets pressing down on you, but either way, you felt exposed. Raw in a way you hadn’t been in years.

You had spent so long being someone else’s something. A wife, a mother, a prized trophy on a shelf, a puppet on a string, a prisoner to something you never wanted. You had forgotten what it was like to be seen. Really be seen.

“I don’t know what you expect from me, Satoru–kun.” you said, voice quieter now, more uncertain.

Satoru was silent for a moment. Then, with an almost lazy motion, he reaches across from you and lets his fingers brush against yours. “I don’t expect anything, [name].” he said simply. “I just wanted you to know—you weren’t forgotten.”

Your breath caught in your throat. It was such a simple thing. A simple touch. A simple truth. And yet it cracked something deep inside of you, something you had been holding together with nothing but sheer force of will.

Before you could stop yourself, before you could think better of it, you turned your hand over, letting your fingers curl around his. Just for a moment.

Just long enough to remember what warmth felt like. Just long enough to wonder if maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t too late to be something more than a ghost of who you used to be.

The air between you shifted, charged with something fragile yet electric. A slow, inevitable pull. Your fingers were still wrapped around his, neither of you moving, neither of you daring to shatter the moment. But then you did.

You leaned in, just slightly, drawn to him by a force you couldn’t name. He mirrored you, his body tilting forward as if answering a call he had always known existed.

Satoru’s breath fanned against your lips, his gaze flickering down for a split second before finding your eyes again, an unreadable mix of longing and restraint simmering in his expression.

“I wanted to do well by you, everyday I breathed. Everyday I lived and did — I did because I wanted to be someone you could be proud of.” he murmured, his voice lower now, rougher. “All my life.”

Your breath hitched. “Satoru….”

“I just…” He exhaled shakily, his other hand coming to rest lightly on the table between you, as if he were grounding himself. “I just knew I wanted to be there for you. To… to love you in my own way. Even from afar.”

You felt your pulse in your throat, the weight of his words settling over you like something warm, something dangerous.  “When I met you, for the first time….I just…” he continued, his tone almost reverent. “All I could realize was when certain atoms collide, it’s instantaneous. And it’s inevitable.”

“Chemistry.” You whispered under your breath. 

“Yes.” He smiles at you. His fingers tightened ever so slightly around yours. “And that’s how I feel for you.”

You sucked in a breath, the confession settling deep inside your ribs, winding around your heart like something ancient and undeniable. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, slowly, you brought your free hand up, barely touching the fabric of his sleeve. Testing. Searching. 

You didn’t know if it was the alcohol. You didn’t know if it was the cold driving you mad or the full moon settling down below the two of you. But it was something. Something was driving you to this feverish madness.

“Satoru.” you murmured to him, meeting his eyes.

His name felt heavier in your mouth now, heavier than it had ever been. His grip on your fingers tightened. His lips parted as if to say something, but no words came. There was only the space between you. And the question of what came next.

One second, there was space that needed to be filled. It was charged, trembling, unbearable. But then all you knew next was that his lips were on yours. Soft at first, testing, teasing—then something broke.

Satoru exhaled sharply, his hand sliding into your hair, tilting your face to deepen the kiss. His mouth was warm, insistent, tasting of want and something older, something inevitable. You gasped against him, and he groaned, fingers tightening like he was afraid you’d slip away.

But you weren’t going anywhere. Not now. 

Not when he kissed you like this.

Not when you finally felt wanted.

YOU COULD ONLY MAKE IT TO THE HOTEL A COUPLE BLOCKS AWAY. It happened too fast. One moment, you were standing there, breathless, teetering on the edge of something dangerous. The next, your mouth collided with his. No thought. No hesitation. Just pure, burning, reckless agony. And fuck. Satoru didn’t stop you. He grabbed you.

Fingers twisting in your hair, an arm locking tight around your waist—hauling you against him like he’d been waiting, aching, starving for you to break all night. And god. You shattered. You melted into him, your lips frantic, your hands trembling, your body screaming for something you hadn’t felt in years.

Because fuck, as much as you didn’t want his touch anymore, you wanted to be touched. You wanted to feel wanted. And for so long, Kento hadn’t touched you like this in so long. And it killed you. It killed you that it was Satoru making you feel this way.

But god.  You couldn’t stop. And you didn’t want to stop. 

His mouth was devouring yours. It was hard, fast, desperate. Like he was trying to drown himself in you. You let him do it in any way he wanted, in any way he saw fit. You let him consume you, ruin you, unmake you.

His massive hand slid down your back, fingers digging into your hip, grinding you against him like he couldn’t get enough, like nothing in the world could ever be enough. And fuck. It felt so wrong. It felt so good.

“Fuck, fuck….” you gasped against his mouth, nails biting into his shoulders. “We— we can’t—”

“I don’t care, darling.” Satoru growled, his lips crashing against yours again. “I don’t fucking care.”

You knew he broke you then. 

And fuck, you let him.

You kissed him harder, fingers twisting in his shirt, yanking him closer until there was nothing between you but heat and desperation. Because you needed this. You needed to feel something. You needed to feel something sharp, something real, something that burned away the ache you had been carrying for years.

Gojo Satoru was destroying you in the way you needed. He bit your lip, sucked your tongue, groaned against your mouth like he was coming undone. Like you were undoing him. It made you dizzy. It made you feel happy to be reckless.

Because fuck, Nanami Kento hadn’t touched you like this in so long, hadn’t made you feel like you were something worth breaking for. But Satoru was willing to ruin and undo you. And you let him. You let him take you. Let him grab you, manhandle you, drag you through the dim-lit bar like he had already decided you were his and he wasn’t letting go.

The cold wall met your back, shocking against the heat of his body pressing into yours, caging you in. His hands were rough and desperate and starving. They slowly slid over your waist, your hips, gripping, claiming. Like you were something he couldn’t survive without. Like he had waited for this. For you.

"Tell me to stop, darling." Satoru's voice was a raspy whisper, his breath hot against your ear.

His forehead pressed urgently against yours, his bright blue eyes burning with a fierce intensity against your own. You couldn't bring yourself to utter those words back at him.You didn't want him to stop. Not now. Not ever.

"Please." You breathed, your voice trembling with need. "Don't stop."

Those two whispered words were all the encouragement Gojo Satoru needed. He snapped, his control shattering like fragile glass. His mouth descended upon yours in a brutal, desperate kiss, his lips moving with a hunger that stole your breath away. 

His hands were everywhere, touching, claiming, possessing. They gripped your hips, your waist, your thighs, as if trying to memorize every curve of your body. Satoru's fingers tangled in your hair, tugging sharply as he angled your head to deepen the kiss.

Satoru's hands slid up your welcoming thighs, his every touch burning through the fabric of your dress. He gripped your waist firmly, his long fingers digging into your flesh as he yanked your hips into his. And then you felt it. The hard, throbbing evidence of his desire pressed against you, as if he was on the verge of losing all control.

"Fuck, fuck…." he growled, his teeth sinking into your neck. "I knew you'd feel like this—"

"Satoru!" you gasped, your head slamming against the wall as your entire body shook. He was everywhere, his touch overwhelming, his presence consuming.

"I don't care, darling." he rasped, his mouth trailing down your throat."I don’t care if it's wrong. I don't care if you're married to that bastard. I don’t care if people catch us. I don't fucking care. Please, please, please. Please let me have you. Please let me love you." 

You swallowed hard, your entire body trembling and shaking under the weight of his words, his touch, his need. His breath fanned hot against your exhilarated skin, and for a moment, the world seemed to still. Waiting, anticipating. Then, barely a whisper, but enough to shatter everything. 

"Yes." you breathed. “Yes, yes, yes. Take me, Satoru. Please.”

Satoru felt himself frozen at your words. His fingers twitched against your waist, his tender lips hovering just above yours, as if he needed to hear it again, needed to make sure he hadn’t imagined it.

"Say it again, darling." he rasped, his voice wrecked, desperate.

"Yes….yes…." you whimpered, your hands fisting his shirt, pulling him closer. "Yes, yes—"

That was all it took.

Gojo Satoru snapped.

A ragged curse tore from his throat as his mouth crashed into yours, swallowing your words, your hesitation, your everything. His hands gripped your hips, lifting you against the wall, his body pressing flush to yours, unrelenting.

"I knew it." he growled between frantic, feverish kisses. "I knew you wanted me."

And you did. God, you did. Nothing else mattered. Not the world outside, not the ring on your finger, not the promises made to another. Because right now, you were his. And he was going to ruin you for anyone else. 

Satoru was devouring you, his mouth hot and hungry on your skin. His hand slid up your dress, his fingers trailing dangerously close to where you were aching for him. And you were already soaking wet, your body betraying you, begging for his touch. 

Satoru groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder. "Fuck, darling." he rasped, his voice strained with need."I need you."

His fingers found your center, slipping easily into your wet heat. You gasped, your hips bucking against his hand. Satoru's thumb circled your clit, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. "So fucking wet." he murmured, his breath hot against your ear." So fucking good, aren’t you?”

You knew you shouldn’t. You knew you had a husband out there somewhere, wasting his life. You knew you had two kids somewhere in this city. You knew this was wrong. It had been twenty five years. Twenty five years of neglect. Twenty five years of loneliness. Twenty five years of loving someone who made you miserable.

Yet, it all seemed to fade away under the warm touches Satoru was gifting you tenderly. He was the only thing that mattered at this moment. His hands, his mouth, his body — they were the only reality you cared about right now.

His fingers moved inside you, stroking and curling, hitting spots that made your vision blur. Satoru's thumb pressed down on your clit, rubbing firm circles that had your legs shaking. You let out a mewl as you tried to keep up with him. 

"So fucking good, aren't you, precious girl?" he murmured, his voice a low, seductive purr. 

Satoru's fingers pumped faster, his thumb pressing harder, pushing you closer to the edge. "Come for me, pretty." he commanded, his voice rough with desire."Show me how good I make you feel."

Your body responded instinctively, your hips grinding against Satoru's hand as he brought you closer and closer to the brink. His fingers curled inside you, stroking that spot that made your toes curl, while his thumb circled your clit with expert precision.

"Come on, pretty." he urged, his breath hot against your ear. "Let it all go.I want to feel you fall apart in my arms."

And with a final, devastating thrust of his fingers, you did.Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing as pleasure consumed you. You cried out, Satoru's name falling from your lips like a prayer.

He held you through it, his arms wrapped tightly around you, his fingers buried deep inside you as he rode out your climax. When the waves finally subsided, you slumped against him, boneless and trembling. Satoru pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, his touch surprisingly tender.

"That's it, pretty girl." Satoru murmured, his voice soft and soothing. He withdrew his fingers slowly, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean. His eyes never left yours, watching your reaction as he tasted you. 

"Delicious, aren’t you?" he said, a smirk playing on his lips.He lifted you easily, carrying you to the nearby couch and laying you down gently. Satoru knelt between your legs, his hands sliding up your thighs, pushing your dress up to your waist. 

“You’re so….” You whimper at him, feeling the ecstasy of the pandemonium called pleasure. You look at him, your wet core getting wetter still. “I want more. Satoru, please. Give me more.”

"Don’t worry. I'm not done with you yet, darling." he said, his voice low and dangerous. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, tugging them down slowly. "I'm going to make you come apart again and again, until you can't remember your own name."

He leaned down, his breath hot against your core."Until the only name you know is mine."

“Then make me feel good.” You whisper to him. “Make me feel it hard and good.”

He smiled at you, pressing a tender kiss at your wet core before scooping you up in his arms, carrying you to the bedroom with a predatory grace. He laid you down on the bed gently, his eyes never leaving yours as he crawled over you. 

His hands slid up your thighs, pushing your dress up to your waist. Satoru's fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, tugging them down slowly. He tossed them aside carelessly, his gaze fixed on your exposed center.

Satoru leaned down, his breath hot against your core."I've had years of wanting for this, darling of mine. Like you." he murmured, his voice rough with desire. “I’ll make it feel good.”

And then his mouth was on you, his tongue parting your folds and delving deep. Gojo Satoru licked and sucked, his mouth moving with a hunger that stole your breath away. He found your clit, circling it with the tip of his tongue before sucking it between his lips.

Satoru's tongue flicked and circled your clit, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. He sucked gently, then harder, alternating between the two until you were writhing beneath him. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he feasted on you. 

Satoru's tongue dipped lower, thrusting into your entrance and fucking you with a relentless rhythm.Your hands flew to his hair, gripping the strands tightly as you held him against you. Satoru groaned, the vibrations adding to the intense sensations coursing through you.

He pulled back slightly, his breath hot against your core. "You taste even better than I imagined." he murmured, his voice strained with desire. 

Without warning, he buried his face between your legs again, his mouth moving with a renewed fervor. You felt Satoru's tongue plunged into you, curling and stroking, hitting spots that made your eyes roll back. You throw your head back hard, mewling like a little kitten.

"Oh god, Satoru!" you cried out, your hips bucking against his face. His tongue was relentless, plunging into you and curling in a way that made your toes curl. Satoru's hands gripped your thighs tighter, pulling you closer as he devoured you.

"Fuck, you're so wet." he murmured against your core, his voice muffled."I can't get enough of you." 

He sucked your clit between his lips, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bud. Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging sharply as the pleasure built inside you. "I'm going to come." you gasped, your body tensing. 

Satoru looked up at you, his eyes dark with desire. "Come for me, pretty." he commanded, his voice rough. "Come all over my face." 

And with a final thrust of his tongue, he sent you spiraling over the edge. Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing as pleasure consumed you. Satoru's tongue continued its relentless assault, drawing out your climax until you were a trembling, boneless mess. 

He drank in every drop of your release, his groans of satisfaction vibrating against your core. As the waves of pleasure finally subsided, Satoru kissed his way up your body, his lips trailing over your stomach, between your breasts, until he reached your mouth. 

He captured your lips in a searing kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue."You're mine now, aren’t you?" he murmured against your lips, his voice possessive."I'm never letting you go. Never.”

As you slowly came down from your high, Gojo Satoru's words echoed in your mind. You were his now, and he was never letting you go. The realization sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of fear and excitement coursing through you. Satoru's hands roamed your body, his touch gentle yet possessive. 

He kissed your bruising lips ever so deeply, his tongue exploring your mouth as if he was trying to memorize every inch of you. When he pulled back, his bright eyes searched for yours, filled with a fierce intensity.

"Tell me what you need, my darling. My pretty darling." he said, his voice low and commanding."Tell me how you want me."

You hesitated for a moment, your heart racing. But the desire burning in Satoru's eyes, his burning desire for you, was everything that was poisoning logic in your mind. You shudder with pleasure at the way his body pressed against yours, the memories of his touch. All of it all pushed you over the edge.

"I need you inside me, Satoru." you whispered, your voice trembling with need. "Need you to fill me whole, make me forget everything but you. Please, please. I need you to make me feel good.”

Satoru's bright blue gaze immediately darkened with desire at your words. He  captured your lips in a searing kiss once again, bruising them over and over with his affection, with his desire until he reached your jaw and then your neck. 

You feel his hands gripping your hips possessively. He moves to see your face once again. You looked at him as much as he looked at you. Like you were the only people that mattered in the world. That this was the only thing worth keeping in this world. Like this was the purest union made by the heavens above.

"I'm going to fuck you so hard, you'll forget your own name, pretty. Like you want me to." he growled against your jaw. He reached between your bodies, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants with hurried movements. Soon, Satoru freed his erection from every article of clothing. 

You could see the hard length pressing against your thigh. You could see how hard it was, how eager it was to desire you, to want you. To meet you closer. You purse your lips as you try to move as much as you could, trying to get Satoru closer to you.  

He smiled slyly as he positioned himself at your entrance, the tip teasing your wet folds. "Look at me, pretty." he commanded, his voice rough with need. 

You do as he pleases and meet his gaze, your breath hitching as you feel him slowly push inside you. Satoru's eyes never left yours as he filled you inch by inch, his thickness stretching you deliciously little by little. When he was fully seated, he paused, allowing you to adjust to his size.

"Fuck, you're so tight, my precious darling." he groaned, his forehead resting against yours.

"You’re so good already. So loving of me. So eager to let me build a home in you.”

Satoru began to move, his hips pulling back slowly before thrusting forward again. He set a steady rhythm, each stroke hitting deep inside you and sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you onto him as he drove into you. 

Everything about desiring someone was brutal. You could only let yourself scream and cry as he pushed deliciously in and out of you, like it was a game of push and pull. Sweat permeating through your skin, blending over and over like it was a battle between the two of you and the bed and the sheets. 

Your nails digging all too well at the small of his back, letting them dig and dig until you were sure you were drawing blood. His mouth opened widely as it moved towards  your neck, placing a sea of kisses in tune with his thrusts, before biting you, marking you. Almost as if a hunter to its prey. 

The room is filled with the sounds of your bodies coming together, your moans and Satoru's grunts and groans, and cries and tears. The sloppy sounds of the body getting louder and louder with every heightening of that cacophony of desire that only fools would have, fools who could find themselves caged in the wanton desire to love and to be loved.

It was better than what Gojo Satoru had imagined all his life. It was more than he could ask for. It was more than he could have hoped for. Your passion, your darkness, your affection, your body and soul and even your heart. It was all there for him to hold, to keep, to have. Because you had given it so freely. You had given it to him to keep safe and hold dear. 

You have been waiting for so long for someone who could keep your heart steady with the right tenderness, the right intentions, the right sense of love. And he knows it's too soon and he knows you haven’t said it yet. But you trust him enough to hold it, even if it was just for now. And he will do what he can to do it all. 

Because he believes in love.

He believes in being in love.

And he believes in loving you.

"You feel so fucking good, my precious baby." he panted, his breath hot against your ear. "I've dreamed of this for so long." 

He angled his hips, hitting a spot that made you see stars. Satoru's mouth found yours, swallowing your cries as he pounded into you with increasing urgency. His hands roamed your body, squeezing your breasts, teasing your nipples, as if he couldn't get enough of you.

"Come for me again, pretty." he demanded, his voice strained with his own impending release. “Let go for me like the good girl you are.”

Satoru's fingers found your clit, rubbing firm circles that pushed you closer to the edge.His thrusts became faster, harder, his hips slamming against yours with a force that shook the bed. You could feel your orgasm building, your body tensing as the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter inside you.

"That's it, pretty baby." Satoru urged, his voice low and gravelly. "Come all over my cock. Milk me dry."

His words, combined with the relentless assault on your senses, sent you crashing over the edge. Your orgasm hit you like a freight train, your body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you.

Satoru's movements became erratic, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself deep inside you and came, his release hot and thick as it filled you. He collapsed on top of you, his body trembling with the aftermath of his orgasm.

The room was thick with heat, the scent of sweat and sex clinging to the air like an unshakable truth. Satoru's weight pressed against you, his breath hot and uneven against your shoulder, his body still trembling in the aftermath.

For a moment, neither of you moved. 

Neither of you spoke.

Then, reality crept in.

You felt the damp sheets beneath you, the way your legs still shook, the lingering pulse of pleasure thrumming through your veins. But more than that, you felt the weight of what you'd just done pressing down on your chest, threatening to steal the air from your lungs.

Satoru shifted, pressing a lazy kiss to your collarbone. "God, you’re perfect, aren’t you?" he murmured, voice still husky, still lost in you. "I should’ve never let you go."

Your fingers twitched as they rested against his back, your mind screaming at you to move, to say something, to do anything other than just lie there, tangled in sheets that weren’t yours, with a man who wasn’t your husband.

"Satoru..." Your voice was barely a whisper, but he caught it. He always did.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his usual cocky grin absent, replaced by something raw, something real. "Don’t." he said, his thumb brushing over your cheek. "Don’t say you regret it. Not yet."

“I don’t.” You whispered to him, your tone a bit sore. 

“Okay.” He breathed.

“Okay.” You say, letting your eyes settle on his.

The weight of guilt never came and you didn’t expect yourself to feel it. The silence between you was thick, stretching out like the space between lightning and thunder. The kind that comes before a storm.

Satoru's arms were still wrapped around you, his breath warm against your skin, his grip possessive. Like he was afraid to let go. There was no ring on your finger anymore. No tether to a life that felt like a lie. Just this silence, just his peace, just you and him.

"You’re thinking again." he murmured, lips grazing your temple, voice hoarse from exhaustion. “Too loudly too.”

You exhaled slowly. “Shouldn’t I?”

He huffed a quiet laugh, but there was no amusement in it. Just something raw, something unsteady. “You always do.” he muttered. “Even when you don’t have to.”

You hesitated, your fingers twitching against his skin. “Satoru…”

“Stay.”

The word was barely above a whisper, but it felt heavier than anything he’d ever said before. Your heart slammed against your ribs. His grip on you tightened, his fingers pressing into your bare waist, his lips ghosting over your jaw. 

“Stay with me here. Even for a little while.” he murmured again, softer this time, like a prayer. “No more running. No more pretending.”

You swallowed hard. You should’ve hesitated. 

You should've thought about it. But you didn’t. 

“Okay.” you breathed in response to him.

Satoru stills as he looks at you and then smiles. His grip loosened for half a second. Like he couldn’t believe you’d actually said it. But then he was pulling you closer, his lips crashing into yours, his entire body trembling with something unspoken.

There was no more speaking after that.

Instead the world woke up and met the sun.

And both of you stayed asleep, in each other’s arms.

YOU HAD NO REGRETS WHEN YOU SAID WHAT YOU SAID. Kento didn’t even realize he was screaming. Didn’t realize his hands had curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. Didn’t realize the therapist had sprung from her chair, eyes wide, uncertain whether to intervene or let the storm run its course.

But he did realize one thing. Your hands were bare. No ring. No symbol of what you had built together. Nothing. You said that you left it in some bar in Bunkyō because you couldn’t bear the sight of it on your hand.

“Who the fuck was it?” His voice was rough, cracking at the edges. “I asked you, who the fuck was it?”

You didn’t answer, looking at him with a serene look. Perhaps it’s what’s making him even angrier. Just as much as over the years of you knowing that he had cheated and never saying a word and when you did, saying you could care less.

His jaw clenched. “Who was it?”

Silence once more blisters him.

And then Kento completely lost his mind.

“Was it Toji?” he spat, desperate for a name, a face, something tangible he could blame, something he could destroy. “Was it one of my co-stars? Some fucking fan? His manager? Who the fuck was it?”

You laughed at his words, as though they were the most ridiculous things you’ve ever heard. But there was nothing warm about it. It was empty. Hollow. Like something that had decayed a long time ago.

“It doesn’t matter, Kento.”

“The fuck it doesn’t.” he snarled. His breath came fast, shoulders tight, entire body brimming with fury. His world was splitting apart, cracking open like a wound, bleeding something ugly and raw. “You cheated on me, and you think it doesn’t matter?”

Another laugh. This one is even colder. “Did it matter when you did it?”

Kento froze. “Don’t you—”

You tilted your head, eyes sharp, waiting for him to lie. 

But he didn’t, he knew he couldn’t, he knew he couldn’t do it.

He was a worse monster than you, a far worse beast than you.

He can never come here and say that you were the bad one.

“Did it matter when you spent years fucking women who weren’t me?” Your voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of something deadly. “Did it matter when you looked me in the eye every night and still went to set and fucked someone else? Did it matter, Kento?”

His lips parted, the start of a denial forming on his face. “Don’t turn this on me—”

“It was always on you.” The words cut through the air like a blade. Kento flinched. “Toji’s wife wouldn’t cheat with you if she wasn’t so miserable being cheated on by Toji. I wouldn’t have looked fucking elsewhere, if I didn’t suffer twenty–fucking–five years of misery because of you!”

“Years, Kento. Years.” Your voice was shaking now, but not from grief. From something blistering. Something that had been burning inside you for too long.

"I did what I could to make everything work." Kento argues back, looking at you with a shattered look. "I worked and worked and lived with your hatred and your resentment—"

“But you cheated first. You cheated for years. And I sat there. I sat there and I waited for you to love me again. I cried myself to sleep, I tore myself apart, I bled myself dry trying to be someone you wanted.”

He inhaled sharply, but you weren’t finished. “You didn’t care. You never fucking cared. You just kept cheating. You just kept hating me. And I let it happen. Because I loved you.”

Silence. The therapist was motionless, her presence insignificant in the wreckage between you. Kento’s breath was unsteady. His hands trembled at his sides. You just looked at him. And for the first time, he saw it. Not anger. Not pain. Nothing.

The part of you that had once belonged to him was gone. And the worst part of it wasn’t because of what you had done. It was because of what he had done first. And he knew he had no excuse. He had no excuse to be angry, or to be jealous, or to feel wronged when he did worse than you  ever could.

Nanami Kento’s face was crumpling. Tears streamed down his face, unchecked, his body shaking under the weight of something unbearable. Regret. Shame. Pain. It was crushing him, hollowing him out from the inside, but you didn’t care. Not anymore.

“I loved you, Kento. I still do, some part of me still does. And I don't think that will go away. You were my first in everything, father of my children, I acknowledge that. ” you screamed, voice splitting, raw and wrecked. “But then, I loved you more than life itself. I gave you everything. And you threw me away like I was nothing. And I am exhausted of living like I can deal with it.”

Your breath hitched violently, hands trembling as the words ripped free from your throat, words that had been festering for years, rotting inside you like something diseased. You tried to get yourself in control.

“You made me hate myself.” Your voice cracked, and Kento’s body jerked like you had struck him. “You made me hate being a mother. You made me despise my own existence. And I still stayed. Because I thought…” your voice shattered, ragged and broken. “I thought you’d come back to me.”

Nanami Kento’s face collapsed, his breath stuttering as if your words had reached inside his chest and torn something vital from him. His lips parted, but no sound came, just a shuddering breath, just pain.

“I never stopped loving you.” he croaked, but his voice was so weak. So desperate.

You laughed. But it wasn’t humorous at all. There was nothing joyous about the laughter that comes from a broken soul. Instead, it was agony, twisted and sharp, curling around your ribs and bleeding out into the air between you.

“Yes, you did.” The words came like a death sentence, final and absolute. “Because you couldn’t do anything but hate me. Because I caged you in a life that made you just as miserable.”

Kento couldn’t help but flinch, and you felt it. You felt the way your words carved into him, felt the way his entire body recoiled, as if only now he was beginning to understand the damage he had done.

“You looked at me like I was nothing. Like I was some chore you had to come home to. Like I was a burden. Like I was the reason you were miserable.” Your breath caught, but you pushed through, letting the poison spill, letting the truth burn through the air between you. 

“You hated me, Kento. And I felt it. I felt it every single day. I felt it when you wouldn’t touch me. I felt it when you came home smelling like someone else. I felt it when you rolled over in bed and pretended I didn’t exist.”

Kento let out a ragged breath, but he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t argue. Couldn’t deny a single thing. Because it was all true. He had done this. And now, he was paying for it. He has to pay for it. That’s the only way he could ever make it all better.

“Baby, please—”

“Don’t call me that.”

Your voice was sharp, final, cutting through him like a blade. Kento froze. Because fuck. You meant it. You weren’t his baby anymore. Because you had decided it yourself. You can’t continue being miserable. Not when Satoru had shown you what joy could ever look like.

“…I didn’t mean to hurt you.” he rasped, voice wrecked, broken beyond repair. “I didn’t mean—”

“But you did.” you cut in, your voice rising, trembling with the sheer force of it. “You did, Kento.”

He looked so small. So fragile.

But you didn’t stop at that.

Your anguish had been waiting for this.

“You killed me.” Your breath caught, your whole body trembling as the rage inside you cracked open. “And you just.....” A sob tore from your throat, your entire form crumpling. “You just watched it happen.”

Kento sucked in a sharp breath, shaking his head, but you weren’t finished. You don’t think you ever will be. You fix your composure once again, trying to ensure that you would not go off and break down in front of him.

“You watched me rot away. You watched me turn into nothing. And you didn’t stop. You just kept cheating. You just kept killing me. And I let it happen because I thought......” your voice cracked painfully. “I thought if I could just hold on, you’d love me again.”

Kento opened his mouth, but you didn’t let him speak.

“But you never did.” Your voice was barely above a whisper now, drained, defeated. “You never fucking did.”

Nanami Kento was sobbing. His entire body wracked with shudders, face buried in his hands like he could hide from the truth, like he could make it go away. He could never make any of this go away.

“I did love you—”

“You stopped loving me when you couldn’t have a wife and a mother for your children.” You whispered to him. “You stopped loving me when I couldn’t be the woman you thought I could be. We both knew that.”

The words were sharp, merciless. You were gone. Your voice was wrecked. Your body crumpled. Your face drenched in tears.

“I died, Kento.” you whispered, the words so quiet, yet they carried the weight of a decade’s worth of pain. “I died a thousand times. Every time you fucked someone else. Every time you looked at me like I was nothing. Every time you come home smelling like another woman. I died. And you didn’t care. You just let me rot.”

Kento’s whole body was trembling now, his hands in his hair, his face contorted with something close to agony.

“And now?” You laughed. And god, it was empty. “…Now you know how it feels.”

Kento collapsed. His whole body sank into his chair, breaking apart, sobbing like he was dying, like the weight of everything he had done was finally crushing him. And you didn’t even flinch. Because you were already dead, and now he wasn’t the one bringing you back to life. It was Satoru.

“…Who was it?” he choked, barely able to get the words out.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does.”

“No, it doesn’t, Kento.” Your voice was hollow. Shattered. Like there was nothing left inside you to give. “Because I’m not sorry.”

Kento screamed. Like he was burning alive. Like he was finally feeling the agony he had inflicted on you for over a decade. The therapist could only watch as you gathered your belongings and looked at your pathetic husband.

Kento Nanami finally knew how it felt.

And it was killing him over and over.

And perhaps that was your greatest revenge.

IT FELT SO DIFFERENT NOW THAT ALL OF THAT WAS OUT. Perhaps that’s why the drive home was silent. Yet it was not the peaceful kind. It was the suffocating kind, taking you over.

The kind that coiled around your throat and pressed into your chest, heavy and unbearable. And it will never be the same again. That was what the future held now. Nothing but misery for both of you.

Kento’s knuckles were bone-white on the steering wheel, his grip so tight it looked like he might snap it in half. His jaw was clenched, his breathing uneven, but he said nothing. You sat beside him, motionless, hands limp in your lap. 

There was nothing left to say. And if there was, you were too exhausted to even allow yourself to say anything. You can tell Kento was just the same. Perhaps that’s why you were sure there could be nothing that could ever be discussed like that again between you and Kento. 

Nothing would change the way you both had suffered in each other’s arms. And just as much, nothing that hasn't already been ripped out of you in that sterile therapy room, nothing that wouldn’t just reopen wounds that had long since festered. You would just be miserable.

When you finally pulled into the driveway, the house loomed in front of you. It was ever so silent, sickeningly empty. In this so-called home. Or at least, it used to be. Nothing of it was left to even be considered a home.

The weight of it settled between you as Kento stepped inside first, lingering just past the threshold like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to cross it anymore. His shoulders were rigid, his chest rising and falling in slow, shaky breaths.

He didn’t look at you when he finally spoke. “…We should talk about the divorce.”

His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. 

You laughed. Not because it was funny. Because it was pathetic.

“Like the therapist said?” you scoffed, your voice cold, edged with something bitter and exhausted.

Kento swallowed hard. His throat bobbed once, twice—like he was trying to force the words down. “…Yeah.”

Silence.

He still wouldn’t look at you. And when you finally met his gaze, you almost wished you hadn’t. He looked sick. He looked like he couldn’t talk about it without having to deal with the misery of it all again.

Your husband’s face was pale, drawn tight with something that looked dangerously close to grief. His eyes were sunken, rimmed with exhaustion, his entire body stiff like he was holding himself together through sheer force of will.

“…Do you want one?” you asked, your voice quieter now.

Kento’s breath hitched. His face twisted—like the question had physically hurt him. “…I don’t know,” he admitted, voice breaking.

Silence all over again. It stretched between you, hollow and endless. Kento exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers into his temples before dragging his hands down his face. He looked like a man unraveling.

“I don’t want to hurt you anymore, [name].” he said finally, voice wrecked. “I don’t want to trap you here. I don’t want to be the reason you hate your life.”

His breath wavered, thick with something desperate. “So if you…” He swallowed hard, looking at you now—really looking at you. “If you want to leave, I won’t stop you.”

“Kento—”

His voice cracked. “I swear to god, I won’t stop you.”

Your throat locked up. “…But do you want me to leave?”

Kento’s face was completely crumpled. His entire body folded in on itself, his breath stuttering, his eyes filling so fast it looked like the weight of the world had just crashed into him. He looks at you, the shell of the man he used to be.

“No.” he sobbed, his voice wrecked. “No, I don’t.”

There it was.There it fucking was. The ugly truth. The selfish desperation. Kento didn’t want you to leave. Even after everything. Even after the cheating. Even after all the ruin. He still wanted you. Even if you would both be miserable.

“…Then why are you saying this?”

Kento swallowed thickly, his hands trembling at his sides. “Because you hate me, [name].” he choked, his face completely destroyed. “I can’t keep making you miserable. I can’t keep being the reason you…” His voice cracked. “…You  keep being miserable and despise yourself.”

He exhaled sharply, a ragged, broken sound. “So if leaving me will make you happy again, then please. Please do it. Just….” His voice broke. “Just don’t stay here if it’s killing you.”

You just stared at him. The man who had spent years tearing you apart. The man who had crushed you into dust and expected you to survive it. The man who, even now, was finally ready to lose you just so you wouldn’t suffer anymore.

“…And what about you?”

Kento’s throat collapsed. “What?”

“What if I leave?” you croaked, your voice so small, so fragile. “What happens to you, Kento?”

Silence bellows the world all of the sudden.

Kento’s face completely crumbled. “…Then I die alone.” he finally admitted, his voice shattering. “I will never remarry. I will….I will continue with the misery of my own creation.”

You froze. “.....You don’t have to.”

“I deserve that.” Kento sobbed, his body wrecked. “I deserve to die alone. I deserve to rot in this house without you. I deserve to feel everything I put you through. So if you…” His voice cracked painfully. “If you want to leave, I won’t stop you. I swear to god, I won’t stop you.”

You couldn’t even breathe. You could see it. Kento’s despair, one he had made for himself. The way his body crumpled. The way his chest caved in. The way he was already mourning you, like he knew you were already gone. And it should’ve felt vindicating. It should’ve felt like justice. And yet, it just felt sickening.

“…I don’t know if I can do this anymore.” you finally croaked, your voice wrecked.

And Kento completely broke. “…I know.” he sobbed, his entire body collapsing.

Silence. Unforgiving. Endless.

“…I still love you.” Kento’s face obliterated.

“…I know.”

More silence in the utter destruction of twenty-five years.

“…Do you still love me?” you finally whispered.

Kento let out the most painful sound you’d ever heard. “…Yes,” he sobbed, his voice completely wrecked. “Yes, I do. I never stopped. I just—” 

His voice shattered. “I just didn’t know how to fix it. I didn’t know how to love you right. And I killed you. I destroyed you. And I don’t….” His voice broke apart, sharp and desperate. “I don’t deserve you anymore. Not like I used to.”

You couldn’t take it. You just turned and walked toward the bedroom. Because god, you couldn’t look at him. Not like this. Not when he was falling apart at the seams. Not when his face was wrecked with something so raw, so painful, that it made your chest tighten in a way you weren’t ready to face.

“…Where are you going?” Kento choked.

“To bed.” you rasped. “.....I’m exhausted.”

Silence was the commonality you both have more than any sort of love now. You went ahead and changed out of your clothes. Soon enough, Kento just followed, still dressed in his clothes. He didn’t say a word as he changed into something else. 

He stands there for a moment, unsure. When he did move, his footsteps were hesitant, barely there, like he was afraid to take up too much space. Afraid to breathe wrong. Afraid to do something, anything that would send you running out that door for good.

And when you climbed into bed, still completely distant, like you were already halfway gone, Nanami Kento stood there for only a second, hovering at the edge of the mattress like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to stay.

Then, slowly, hesitantly… he slid in beside you. It was so pathetic. The way his hand shook when he reached out to touch your waist. The way his face completely crumpled when you didn’t respond. The way his body broke apart when you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, like he wasn’t even there.

“…I’m sorry.” he croaked.

You didn’t answer.

“…I’m so fucking sorry.”

And still, you didn’t answer.

So Kento just continued to curl into your side. And you do not stop him. You do not stop him from trying to gain some warmth from your body, as though it was the last time. Like he was dying. Like he was trying to cling to your ghost.

He then starts sobbing. Not the quiet kind. The soul-shattering kind. Just gripping you, holding onto you like you’d disappear if he loosened his grip for even a second. It was as though someone had gone and died.

“Please don’t leave me.” he choked, his entire body trembling, caving in, coming undone. “Please don’t leave me. I’ll fix it. I’ll fix everything. I’ll do anything, baby, please. Just don’t leave me.”

You just stared at the ceiling. Completely empty from the thought. You were exhausted from loving him. Perhaps that is you were so certain of the truths you had long believed. You had long walked past that door and left.

Even if you still love him, you knew you couldn’t be with him like this. 

Not ever again. You deserve better than that. 

You deserve someone like Satoru.

"I THINK PEOPLE LIKE US IN MARRIAGES, especially ones like ours, were always meant to be indestructible. At least that’s what people want to think of it as." You said almost nonchalantly, a faint smile drawing on your face.

"People have had expectations about your story to be perfect, no?" The interviewerer leads, looking at you with intrigued eyes. "That was what was expected out of a marriage with someone living in fame."

You nodded, leaning forward to be more comfortable in your chair. " Correct. That's what people wanted. A grand love story, perfectly composed, enduring through all things. But love isn’t like that, is it? It’s not a script you can follow forever. It changes, it falters. And sometimes, it fades."

You sit back in the chair, hands folded in your lap. The interviewer watches you carefully, waiting for you to go on. You glance away for a moment, gathering your thoughts, before your voice softens.

"We started out well. He was... everything people assume he is. Steady. Thoughtful. Reliable. And in the beginning, that felt like safety. Like something I could hold onto. But over time, that steadiness began to feel like distance. Like a fortress I wasn’t allowed into."

“Does this mean you don’t blame him?” The interviewer asks, pen tightening in the hand. “I mean, I know you have not revealed everything and anything, Mrs. Nanami. But you don’t blame him for everything?”

"I didn’t blame him for anything until the cheating. I think that’s quite interesting, isn’t it?” You say in a soft whisper. “In some ways, I think there is no great villain in the story, no explosive fight that shattered everything at once.  Even with my sufferings in the marriage. Just a slow unraveling, with every message of sorry women. It’s intriguing and heartbreaking all at once.”

“You got messages from all the women?” The interviewer’s brow furrows. 

You smiled somberly. “One after the other. But not everyone. Some were not sorry. And I don’t blame them. But I’m grateful for that. They gave me a gradual realization that we were living beside each other, rather than with each other. Like we were both carrying the weight of this marriage but never quite meeting in the middle."

The interviewer tilts their head. "Did you feel lonely?"

You exhale, a sad smile tugging at your lips. "Yes. And the worst part is… so did he. I think he knew we hated each other and hated me. I could see it, even if he wouldn’t say it."

"Do you really believe your husband resents you, mam?" The interviewer quizzed you, frankly. "In the truest of senses?"

"Well, there wouldn't be more than three people in a marriage if it wasn't true." You mewled back to them, laughing softly. "The way he stayed out later, the way conversations became shorter. We were both retreating, both trying to pretend we weren’t. But silence is loud in a marriage. And ours was deafening. That made it obvious."

“You’re nicer than most wives, Mrs. Nanami.” The interviewer looks at you, a stunned look echoes. “Such a long time of your life was stolen from you, if this is the case. I mean, to stay silent about it for so long. It is a pandemonium of misery.” 

There’s a pause, the kind that hangs heavy in the air. “Hm. But that's only 'cause I've escaped it now. I have no more anger in my heart because I’ve released it all. My life isn’t over, well....at least I hope it still isn’t. Of course, I do not know where to begin. But I’m sure I’ll find everything little by little.”

The interviewer hesitates before asking, "Yet you’re still together?"

"For now. But sometimes, staying feels like waiting for something to break. And I think we both know… it already has." Your empty fingers trace the edge of where your wedding band was at one point. “That’s just what marriage is sometimes.”

"Twenty-five years is a long time, isn’t it? It sounds impressive when you say it out loud. A quarter of a century. Enough time to build a life, raise a family, grow old together. But do you know what twenty-five years is? It's quite a long time to be lonely."

You pause, fingers grazing the armrest of your chair, as if searching for something to anchor yourself to. The interviewer doesn’t interrupt. They wait, giving you space to find the words. Because how does one describe such a quarter of a human life?

"At first, I thought marriage was about endurance. That if you stayed, if you worked hard enough, if you were patient enough, everything would eventually be alright. I told myself that love was about sacrifice. About quiet suffering. And so I endured. All of it."

"I endured the nights spent waiting up, pretending not to hear the whispers that followed him. I endured the rumors, the looks of pity from people who knew before I did.” Your voice drops to something softer, something almost fragile. “And when did I find out? I endured that too. Because what else was I supposed to do? Walk away from twenty-five years? From everything we built, from the life we created together?"

You shake your head, almost laughing at the thought. "People think cheating is about passion, about reckless desire. But sometimes, it’s just... boredom. Resentment. Hatred. The slow, creeping realization that the person you married doesn’t make you feel alive anymore. Even if they gave everything in the marriage. And I think that’s what happened to him.”

The interviewer nodded back at you, sighing. “And how does that make you feel, Mrs. Nanami? That this was the case for almost all the years of your marriage and having to pretend that it wasn't? In some ways, you seem to be more veteran actor than most and you played well at it.”

“Somewhere along the way, I can only describe it as me becaming a part of the furniture." You retort, thinking of how to word this thought in your head. "You could say that I was comfortable. Definitely reliable."

"I see. It was like you didn't feel if you were even something beyond something so transparent and invisible."

"Yes, I guess you can say that. I was always there. But like most, he wanted something new. He gets bored." You say after letting yourself think for a while. You smiled. “And I was the stable. I wasn’t exciting for him to enjoy anymore. And he leads a glamorous life. You all know that. That’s what the life of the star is.”

There’s a sharp inhale from the interviewer. "And what did you do about it?"

Your gaze meets theirs, steady despite the weight of your words. "Nothing. I did nothing. I smiled for the cameras. I held his hand at premieres. I played the role of the devoted wife because that’s what was expected of me."

The interviewerer nodded. "Why did you feel like you had to keep playing that role over and over again? You always said the world has no place in your bed. But now that you are speaking on it.....How do you feel about it?"

"That's a good question." You nodded back at the interviewerer. "I think it's more or so because the world doesn’t want to hear that a marriage like ours, the kind that looks perfect on the outside, is built on silence and suffering. They want the illusion. And I gave it to them."

"I told myself it was for the children. For stability. For dignity. But really? It was because I didn’t know who I was without him.” You let out a slow breath, shaking your head. As though you were disappointed in yourself. “When you’ve spent your whole life being somebody’s wife, you start to forget who you were before that. And maybe that was the most miserable part of all. Realizing I had made myself so small just to keep this marriage alive."

The interviewer hesitates before asking, "Do you regret staying?"

Your lips pressed together, as if weighing the question carefully. Finally, you tell them an answer.  "I regret losing myself. I regret thinking that being chosen was the same as being loved. And most of all, I regret believing that staying silent made me strong. Because real strength isn’t in enduring misery, it’s in knowing when to walk away."

"People always say, ‘Why didn’t you leave?’ as if it’s that simple. As if walking away from twenty-five years, from a shared history, from a life built together, is as easy as packing a suitcase and closing the door behind you."

The interviewer continues to jots down what you say. You pause, folding your hands together, the weight of the past pressing down on your shoulders. They do not interrupt you. Thus, you continued.

"But leaving isn’t just a decision. It’s a destruction. It’s tearing apart everything you’ve known, everything you’ve built, and stepping into the unknown. And the unknown is terrifying, isn’t it? So instead, you convince yourself to stay. You tell yourself it’s not that bad. That it could be worse. That you’ll fix it."

"In some ways, it becomes quite the habit doesn't it? If you keep telling yourself this, it becomes something unescapable."

"That's right. That's why you can just go on one day and you wake up realizing that you’ve spent years, decades even living in a marriage that only exists in photographs and press statements. A fiction you created in yourhead. A marriage that is alive to the world, but dead behind closed doors."

The interviewer leans in, their voice careful. "When did you first know it was truly over?"

"I think I knew long before I admitted it to myself.” A humorless smile tugs at your lips. “Maybe it was the first time I caught him lying. Maybe it was the first time I looked at him and felt nothing at all. Or maybe it was the day I stopped waiting for him to come home."

“You must have wanted to have a way out.” 

"There were so many moments I could have left.” You admitted to them. “When I should have left. But I told myself I had a duty to this marriage. To our family. To our children. To the version of myself that once believed in forever."

The interviewer watches you carefully. "And now?"

You lift your head, eyes clearer than they’ve been in years. "Now, I realize that duty shouldn’t come at the cost of your own happiness. That silence isn’t dignity. That staying in a broken marriage doesn’t mean you fought harder—it just means you suffered longer."

"I think, in the end, I stayed because I wanted to believe that love could survive anything.” A pause. “That if I just held on a little longer, if I just endured a little more, we would find our way back to each other. But love shouldn’t be something you have to endure when it doesn’t work out, should it?"

The interviewer shakes their head. “No, not at all.”

"Right." You say softly. "It shouldn’t."

Interview leaned back, looking at you. Almost satisfied. “Then what do you plan to do now, Mrs. Kento?”

"Now, I leave." You smiled at him, a genuine one. “For good.”

The words land like a final act, like the closing of a book that the world thought would go on forever. But fairy tales always end, don’t they? Some with love, some with loss. And some like yours, with the quiet realization that the dream was never really yours to begin with.

The interviewer exhales, as if they too have been holding their breath, waiting for this moment. "That’s… final."

"Yes, of course." you say, nodding. "There is no going back."

"Does he know?"

"Oh, he knows. Maybe not in the way you’d expect.” You smile, slow and knowing. “There was no screaming, no dramatic confrontation. No shattered glass or slamming doors. We already finished that at therapy…..there was just silence when I moved out. That same silence that’s been lingering between us for years. And in that silence, he knew. We both did."

The interviewer studies you carefully, as if trying to place the expression on your face. "You don’t look angry anymore, I suppose. More joyous."

"Because I am." You laughed at the interviewer’s words. “I am happy about leaving. So, why feel hatred and anger again?”

"Not even after everything?"

You let out a soft breath, tilting your head. "Anger would mean I still care about what I spent twenty–five years suffering. That I still have something left to give to the marriage. But I don’t. Not anymore."

The weight of those words settles between you. The interviewer shifts slightly in their chair, adjusting their posture, as if bracing for what comes next. The interviewer is silent for a long moment. 

"What do you want now?" They asked you softly.

You smile, and this time, it’s real. The first real smile in a long time. "I want peace. I want mornings that aren’t heavy with unspoken words. I want a life that is mine, not just an extension of his. I want to wake up and not feel like I’m drowning in a marriage that’s already ended."

A pause. Then, a quiet, knowing laugh. "And I want a holiday. A long one. With a good whiskey on hand, of course."

The interviewer chuckles, but you see the way their expression softens. "Do you think you’ll find love again?"

"I think… I want to find myself first. I’ve spent twenty-five years being someone’s wife.” You tilt your head, considering it. Smiling to yourself, thinking about Satoru. “I think it’s time to find out who I am without him. But….It’s not out of the question."

The interviewer notices your smile and finds a twinkle in their eyes. But they do not ask further. They nodded at you. “Well, I hope that it all works out for you, Mrs. Nanami.”

“Thank you.” You shyly smiled at the interviewer. “But can I ask you a favor?”

“Anything, mam.”

“Call me [Last Name] [Name] when you type this all out. You know, for the world to read."

epilogue

Higuruma Hiromi sighed tiredly as he started to type the article that was set to go to print in just a few hours. His fingers moved methodically across the keyboard, the soft clicking, clacking of keys filling the quiet room. 

He inserted a picture into the document. It was a picture of Nanami [Name] and Nanami Kento in some photoshoot they did together. He carefully adjusted the placement before continuing his work. It had to be good or the printing department would kill him.

Just as he was about to refine the wording of the next paragraph, his phone buzzed against the desk. With an exasperated sigh, he reached for it, barely glancing at the caller ID before answering.

“Hello? This is Chief Editor of Tokyo Calling, Higurama.” he muttered, rubbing his temple.

On the other end, Satoru’s voice came through, light and easy, as if he weren’t calling at the worst possible time. “Hiromi–kun! Just wanted to say thanks for your hard work.”

Higuruma shook his head, already annoyed. “What do you want, Gojo?”

Satoru chuckled. “Come on, can’t I just call to express my appreciation?”

“You never call just to appreciate me.” Higuruma deadpanned, leaning back in his chair. “You want to ask about the article.”

“Bingo!” Satoru said cheerfully. “It’s coming out soon, right?”

Higuruma rolled his eyes, shifting his gaze back to the screen. “You already know that. You’re the one who gave me the information.”

Satoru laughed, entirely unbothered. “Still, thanks for your hard work.”

Higuruma exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he hung up. “Whatever.” he muttered, already reaching for his coffee cup as he prepared to get back to work.

Higuruma stood up, stretching his sore shoulders as his gaze drifted across his office. Papers were scattered across his desk. All the printed interviews, transcriptions, and photographs, all laid out in organized chaos. 

Among them were undeniable proofs: Nanami Kento’s alleged infidelity, the person he was with, and even more damning details that hadn’t yet been written into the article.

He walked over to the bulletin board on the wall, where a few key photographs were pinned up. There were quite a few Gojo Satoru seemed to keep tabs on. Nanami Kento in a dimly lit restaurant, seated across from someone who was most definitely not Nanami [Name]. 

Another picture captured a fleeting touch, hands brushing together in a way that seemed far too intimate to be innocent. Below it, neatly typed notes, detailed accounts from anonymous sources, whispers of meetings that shouldn't have happened, moments that had gone unnoticed until now.

Higuruma rubbed his temples, sighing. He wasn’t the kind of person who enjoyed digging into people’s personal lives, but a story was a story, and this one was already on its way to publication. It was big. It was scandalous. It would get attention. And Gojo Satoru was happy to provide it for him. 

Well, he did owe him a little bit of help. He can’t do anything about it. It was annoying, to be sure. But the idiot made up for it by making Higurama a lot of money. That made up for the troubles and they were now even.

His phone buzzed again, this time with a message. He picked it up and saw Satoru’s name flashing on the screen.

Satoru: So… Do you think this will hit big?

Higuruma narrowed his eyes, his grip tightening on the phone. He glanced back at the evidence, then at the half-finished article glowing on his computer screen. This wasn’t just a report. This was a revelation that would change everything.

After getting his cup of coffee, he continues to work on it. Higuruma Hiromi finished the report a little while later as twelve am strikes on the clock, his fingers hovering over the keyboard as he reread the final draft. His eyes flicked across the damning headline once more:

Nanami [Name] and Nanami Kento Are Separating!

A breath left him. One he hadn’t realized he was holding. He purses his lips softly and then nods. He was done. It had to get sent away. Carefully, he clicked Send, dispatching the article to the publishing department. There was no turning back now.

Minutes later, he stood by the printing machines, watching as the pages rolled out, each one carrying his words, his investigation, the weight of undeniable proof. The bold letters of the headline practically screamed from the front page, demanding attention.

This wasn’t just another article. 

It was going to cause a stir. 

A public unraveling of a seemingly perfect marriage.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, already expecting Gojo Satoru once more. His breath hitches as he reads the text. His lips pursed into a flat line. Isn't he a fool to love this much? To love to the point of destruction?

Higurama shakes his head and takes a deep breath, calming himself. He shouldn't go into a tangent about this. He did his job. He did his part. And now Satoru and him were even. He shouldn't question things he had no business about.

Satoru: Nice work~ My beloved darling is free, all thanks to you!

Higuruma Hiromi exhaled sharply, tucking his phone away. He had done his job.

Now, the storm was coming.

And no one can stop it now.

[thexmistress]

the good life ― masterlist.

“You can’t fix everything. You should know that.” you replied, your words trembling as they left your lips. “I don’t know if I can ever forget that.” He nodded slowly, his expression one of deep regret. “I know.” Silence grew once more between the two of you.  You could feel the tears pricking your eyes harshly. And you could tell that he was noticing as much as you.

> toxic till the end

> hugs and kisses

"Are you going to leave me?" He asks, his voice steady, but his eyes....those tired, weary eyes, they betray him. You snicker, shaking your head. "Do you really have to ask me that?" He exhales slowly, his fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides. "I suppose not." "I loved you, Kento." Your voice softens, but the weight of betrayal lingers between you. "And godforsakenly, I still do." His jaw tightens. "I never wanted to hurt you." You let out a hollow laugh. "Yeah? Funny how that's always the excuse." Silence. A moment too long. Then he nods. Once, twice—as if accepting a sentence he always knew was coming.

> hugs and kisses > wildflower > killing me softly (with his song, telling my whole life with his words) > start a war

Gojo Satoru steps closer, his usual arrogance stripped away, leaving only quiet desperation in its place. His voice is barely above a whisper. "I know I’m a younger man, but I just…" He trails off, searching your face for something. It felt like hope, maybe. You shake your head, your arms crossing tightly over your chest. "I’m married." The words taste bitter, laced with an exhaustion you can’t hide. Satoru exhales sharply, his jaw clenching. "To a man who hurts you." His voice is firmer now. "I would never hurt you." You scoff, letting out a hollow laugh. "Oh, really?" Your eyes meet his, and for a moment, the weight of everything threatens to crush you both. Satoru doesn’t flinch. "Really." he murmurs, his gaze steady, unwavering. "Let me prove it."

> killing me softly (with his song, telling my whole life with his words) > start a war

[thexmistress]

only fools fall for you (only fools) — fushiguro toji.

Toji let out a bitter laugh, low and humorless. "You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t see the way you choose this life over them? Over me?" "I’m doing this for them too, you bastard." you snapped, gripping the phone so tightly your fingers ached. "So they have something to hold onto. So they never have to struggle the way we did." "Bullshit." The word hit like a slap. “What do you mean by that?” "You’re doing this for you. Just like I do it for me." His voice wasn’t angry anymore. If anything, that made it worse. He just sounded tired.

GENRE: alternate universe - actor/s au!;

WARNING/S: afab! reader, nsfw, r-18, explicit smut, sexual intercourse, making out, kissing, rough sex, p-i-v sex, creampie, angst, romance, teasing, hurt/comfort, pet names (babe, etc....), age gap (reader is early 40s, toji mid 50s), marriage, long-term relationship, infidelity/cheating, toxic relationship, illness, drama, slice of life, married life, emotional repression, family life, children, distress, regret, longing, profanity, acting, actors, depictions of sexual acts, depiction of naked bodies, depiction of emotional repression, mention of sexual innuendo, depiction of illness, mention of sexual intercourse, mention of secrets, mention of toxic relationship, mention of illness, actor! toji, actor! nanami, actor! reader;

WORD COUNT: 16k words

NOTE: i realized that the more i expounded on this universe, the more there i had to alter things because if i dont they might become plot holes. i edited the ages here. toji's reader is much younger than he is. though its certain to say there was a power imbalance, even if they dated when she was like 19 to 20. all the more to say there's nothing to root for in this relationship.

they were together in the beginning of reader's career and now that she's much older too. she's maybe gojo's age. nanami's reader is in the same age ranger as toji and nanami. the kids though are around the same ages. though tsumiki is at least six years younger than keiko and kenshin is a year or two older than tsumiki. anyway, i love you all!!! enjoy the series~

masterlist

if you want to, tip!

the good life ― masterlist.

TODAY WAS EIGHTEEN YEARS OF MARRIAGE FOR THE TWO OF YOU. If you were being honest, you never thought you both would ever get here. Not because you didn’t love him. If anything, loving Toji was the one thing that had always come easy. It was just as easy as breathing, just as grievous as your eyes starting into the light of the blistering sun.

There was a lot that came together with such a marriage between people like you. It was everything that you didn’t think was hard before all the deliverance of parenthood. Everything you weren’t used to. Everything that just made it a little harder to leave. Everything that made it a little harder to stare at your husband in the eye. 

There was too much that could have gone on in those eighteen years. You could barely count it. You could barely recall it. It would not be enough to sit there and talk about it either. But that was just how it was. There will always be distance, sacrifices, and to make it even worse, that putrid stubborn pride that ran deep in both of you.

You were both actors, constantly chasing roles, dreams, and paychecks, all while being parents to your young children, Tsumiki and Megumi, who, more often than not, lived with nannies more than they lived with you or Toji, regrettably.

Yet you both tried to be there, as much as you could. There should, unfortunately, be great emphasis on trying, for you were only good at trying but not succeeding. There could only be so much you could do so well before you end up admitting defeat.

Everything was hectic. Chaotic. The kind of life people envied from the outside but had no idea was slowly eroding you from the inside. One year, it was you flying across the world for a project, kissing their sleepy faces goodbye while Toji stayed home. 

The next, it was him, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead as he whispered, “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Except it was never before you knew it.

It was long nights filled with blurry video calls, your kids’ faces pixelated as they recounted their days with excitement you struggled to keep up with. It was birthdays missed, watching Tsumiki blow out candles through a screen, clapping and smiling as if you didn’t feel like the worst mother alive. It was Megumi getting hurt at school, calling Toji first—not you.

There was a bitter realization that, at some point, you had fallen from first place in your children’s list of people to run to. And each time there was an incident like that, there were whispered arguments over the phone when the time difference meant you were half-asleep, his voice tight with frustration. You couldn't help it. You were a mother, who couldn’t be there. You were a bad mother, that’s what you think. Because you didn’t know how to help them.

“You said you’d be back last week.”

"Yeah, well, the shoot got extended. What do you want me to do, walk out?"

Your voice came out sharper than you intended, frustration laced in every syllable. You were exhausted, standing in the dim glow of your hotel room, the weight of the day pressing against your shoulders. 

The clock on your phone read 2:37 AM at the time. Back home, it was the middle of the afternoon. You were sure that Megumi’s soccer practice was probably ending, and Tsumiki was likely doing her homework at the dining table.

And your husband Toji, well he was at home. Or maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was at the gym, or out drinking, or somewhere else entirely. The fact that you didn’t know only made your irritation flare hotter than ever before. 

"For once in your goddamn life, just—just be here."

There was a beat of silence. Static crackled softly between you. Then, your husband Toji exhaled, rather long and slow, the way he always did when he was trying not to lose his temper. The way he had always been told at therapy.

"And what, you think I don’t want to be?" His voice was quieter now, but sharp, a blade dulled only at the edges. "You think I don’t want to be with them? With you?"

You scoffed, rubbing your temple. "If you wanted to be here, you would be."

"That’s rich, coming from you."

Your breath caught. Because he was right. He was always right about this. You left just as much as he did. You buried yourself in work, in scripts, in characters that weren’t you because it was easier than admitting that being at home, being a wife, being a mother….it was sometimes harder than anything a director could throw your way.

Toji let out a bitter laugh, low and humorless. "You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t see the way you choose this life over them? Over me?"

"I’m doing this for them too, you bastard." you snapped, gripping the phone so tightly your fingers ached. "So they have something to hold onto. So they never have to struggle the way we did."

"Bullshit."

The word hit like a slap. “What do you mean by that?”

"You’re doing this for you. Just like I do it for me." His voice wasn’t angry anymore. If anything, that made it worse. He just sounded tired.

And maybe that was the worst part of it all is that he knew you too well. That no matter how much you tried to justify it, no matter how many times you told yourself you were building a better future for your family, Toji saw right through it. He saw you. Just as much as you saw through him.

"You’re the one who told me we’d figure it out," he said after a long silence. "That we’d make it work. So tell me, sweetheart—when does that part start?"

You didn’t answer.

Because you didn’t know.

Toji had always hated fighting over the phone, always saying it was pointless when you couldn’t look each other in the eye. But that didn’t stop you. Not when resentment had been festering for years, not when every conversation started feeling like a negotiation instead of a moment to miss each other.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

It was never just him. It was never just you. It was the both of you, forever chasing something outside of each other, stretching ourselves too thin and expecting love to hold it all together. And yet, even when the walls closed in, even when the bitterness threatened to tip the scale, you both stayed. Even if staying only meant trying over and over again. Even when it was already beyond repair.

You couldn’t help yourself. You just couldn’t.

Because how could you be, without him?

There were times when you wished one of you had been strong enough to walk away. It would have been easier, wouldn’t it? To throw in the towel, sign the papers, make a clean break instead of dragging each other through years of exhaustion and unspoken wounds. It would have been merciful. 

But mercy had never been your strong suit. Neither had Fushiguro Toji’s. Instead, you stayed in this cycle of breaking and mending, pushing and pulling, making love and making war, until you couldn’t tell the difference between them anymore.

"Have you ever thought about leaving?"

You had asked him once, during one of those rare nights when you both found yourselves in the same bed, staring at the ceiling instead of sleeping. There were no cameras, no scripts, no rehearsed lines around you, nothing that could stop the truth from coming out of your lips.

It was just the two of you, tangled in silence, caught between the weight of everything you had built and everything you had broken. Toji didn’t answer right away. He just exhaled, long and heavy, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Yeah." The honesty of it stung, but not as much as his next words. “Multiple times.”

“Well, that’s the most honest you’ve been with me.”

“At least not while I’m drunk.” He says almost too quickly after you. Silence dwells for a moment after his breath. "But then I remember I don’t know what the fuck I’d do without you, babe. I really don’t."

You turned your head, searching for something in his profile. There was that familiar furrow in his strong brow, the line of his jaw, the way his fingers drummed a slow, absentminded rhythm against his well toned stomach.

"That’s not…….you know what I mean, Toji." 

He snorted, dry and humorless. "Never said it was.”

“But…..do you love me?”

“What sort of question is that?” He snickers back at you. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Those three words have become a taboo between the two of you. Only fools said those sorts of things to each other. It was too sacred, too honest, too passionate, too loving, too good. These were things you and Toji have long stopped being. 

A beat passed. A breath. And then, before you could stop yourself, before you could think about the consequences of asking, the words slipped out. "Not even when Tsumiki isn’t yours?"

This time, Toji didn’t hesitate at all with his response. He let out a sharp, cynical laugh, the kind that wasn’t really a laugh at all. You could see the way his muscle tenses each time the talk is brought up between the two of you—even in childish fights. You wanted to see each other hurt. You wanted to see each other burn.

And yet, this moment was real. It was tender. You meant it this time, to ask him about this. Not out of malice, not to exploit him where it hurts. Instead, you meant it with all your heart. You were finally being genuine.

"I cheated on you, and that’s the result." His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. 

No excuses, no justifications. The truth, laid out in the open between you. The one neither of you ever talked about, the one you had swallowed down for years, pretending it didn’t fester beneath the surface. He turned his head then, finally looking at you, dark eyes unreadable in the dim light of your bedroom.

"But that’s the past." His voice was quieter now, but firmer, like it was something he had told himself over and over again. Like it was something he needed to believe.

“Yes.” You whispered to him in reply, just as quietly. “It is.”

"She’s my daughter." His fingers clenched slightly against the sheets before he forced them to relax. "Not anyone else’s. Just mine.”

You swallowed. Because you knew Toji meant it. He had never treated Tsumiki any differently, never once let her believe she was anything other than his. He had tucked her into bed, taught her how to ride a bike, held her when she cried over scraped knees and schoolyard heartbreaks. 

And yet, you had wondered—selfishly, cruelly—if he had ever resented her.

 If he had ever looked at her and seen the biggest mistake of his life.

"Do you ever think about it?" you whispered, because you needed to know.

Toji exhaled sharply through his nose. "Every fucking day."

The admission settled between you like a bruise, dark and aching. “....I see.”

"But not the way you think." His hand found yours then, fingers slipping between yours, rough and warm, calloused from years of fights and work and holding on too tightly.

“What do you mean by that?”

"I don’t think about the way she got here." He squeezed your hand once. "I just think about what my life would look like if she wasn’t in it."

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. "And?"

Toji’s lips twitched, something softer flickering across his expression before it faded just as quickly. "And it’d be a hell of a lot worse."

You turned your head back to the ceiling, blinking against the tightness in your throat. "Yeah."

And just like that, the past. All the ugly, unspoken, unforgivable past seemed to settle back into silence. Where it always had been. Where it always would be. But he had reached for your hand, fingers tangling with yours, holding tight. And you had let him. 

Maybe that was all you had left now. It was not truthful love, not at all. It was not as bright. It was not that burning thing it had once been, but something else. Yet maybe that was for the best. You would not have lasted this long without it.

You were content with this, your little something. Something quieter. Something heavier. Something built from shared history, shared destruction, and the fear of a world where the other no longer existed in it. It wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t right. But it was yours. And for eighteen years, it had been enough.

You swirl the wine in your glass, watching how the deep red clings to the sides. It reminds you of the past, of nights spent drowning in resentment, of fights that left unseen wounds, of years where you weren’t sure whether you hated him or hated yourself more.

You glance at Toji. He looks the same as he always does. Still rough around the edges, too handsome for his own good, wearing that perpetual smirk like life has never been cruel to him. But you know better. You see the things no one else does. The guilt that still lingers on both your hearts, the weight of  endless mistakes that can’t ever be undone.

"I cheated on you, and that’s the result."

The words still echo in your head, not painful anymore. It was just a memory now, faded at the edges. Because you had made your mistakes, too. You had your own sins to answer for. But unlike him, you don’t feel guilty. At least, not anymore. Mrs. Kento freed you. As much as you had freed yourself. 

Maybe you should. Maybe you would have some shame. Maybe, in another life, you would have. But in this one, in this marriage that has been more war than love, you learned long ago that guilt was a luxury. It was for people who wanted to atone, people who wished things had gone differently.

You have no regrets now.

But Toji did. He always would.

You had forgiven him, after all.

Yet he knows you’ll never forget.

You see it now, in the way he glances at you between sips of his drink, like he’s waiting for something. Punishment? Forgiveness? You’re not sure. Maybe he’s not, either. But it��s too late to give one on your part. You were too exhausted with that game. And you were a fool. The best thing a woman like you could be. Well, at least that’s what you think.

"What?" you ask, tilting your head.

He exhales through his nose, a soft huff of laughter. "Nothing."

But it’s not nothing. You know him too well for that. "You look like you got something to say."

"I don’t."

"Liar."

He smirks at that, shaking his head. For a moment, the weight between you lifts, the bitterness dulling into something more tolerable. "Eighteen years, huh?" he says, leaning back in his chair. "Didn’t think we’d make it this far."

"Neither did I." You take a sip of your wine, letting it settle on your tongue before swallowing. "Yet here we are."

"Here we are." He clinks his glass against yours. "Still standing."

You arch a brow. "Barely."

He grins. "Still counts."

You shook your head, a small smile playing on your lips. Because maybe Toji was right. Maybe it did count.Maybe, despite all the years of hurt and betrayal and anger, despite everything you lost along the way, you both still tried. And maybe, just maybe — that was enough.

You kissed him, pouring all your pent-up emotions into it with that drunken spirit. Your lips moved against his with a desperate urgency, as if you were trying to make up for all the years you'd wasted apart. Toji’s hands were everywhere, roaming your body with a possessive hunger. He gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him as he deepened the kiss. 

You gasped for breath, consumed by him, by the feel of his lips, his hands, his body pressed against yours. In that moment, nothing else mattered. The past, the future, the world outside —  it all faded away, leaving only the two of you, lost in each other's arms.

Toji's massive hands gripped your hips painfully, his fingers digging into your flesh as he yanked you against him. His kiss was brutal, punishing, as if he were trying to devour you whole. They always were.

You gasped, the force of it knocking the breath from your lungs. Toji's tongue invaded your mouth, dominating, claiming, leaving no room for protest. His hands roamed your body possessively, squeezing and groping as if he owned every inch of you.

"We belong to each other, don’t we?" He growled against your lips, his voice laced with a toxic mix of bitterness and affection and desire."You've always been mine, and I'm never letting you go again."

Toji ripped your shirt open, buttons flying everywhere. He tore at your bra, freeing your breasts, and palmed them roughly. His touch was painful, bordering on cruel, but your body betrayed you, nipples hardening under his calloused hands.

Toji's mouth descended on your neck, his teeth sinking into your skin as he marked you. He sucked hard, intent on leaving a bruise, a visible claim of ownership. His hands slid down your body, popping the button on your skirt and yanking down the zipper. 

Toji hooked his fingers into the waistband, tugging both your skirt and underwear down in one brutal motion. He spun you around, bending you over the nearest surface, not caring what it was.

Toji kicked your legs apart, his hand coming down hard on your bare ass. The sharp sting made you cry out, but he ignored it, his fingers digging into your hips as he positioned himself behind you.

"Toji….please." you gasped, your voice a mix of pain and plea. 

But your husband wasn't listening. He was lost in his own twisted desire, driven by all these years that had come about this marriage. He was always like this when it comes to that.

You don’t blame him. You both were the worst people you knew. And he was desperate most of the time to pretend that the innocence of your love before this was still there.   

He drowned in you as he let his hips snapped forward, his cock plunging into you with a force that stole your breath. He set a punishing pace, each thrust designed to hurt, to claim, to dominate. Toji's hand came down on your ass again, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room. Tears streamed down your face, a mix of pain and unwanted pleasure coursing through your veins.

"You're mine, babe." Toji growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Say it. Say you're mine." His fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head back as he continued his brutal assault.

"I'm yours, I’m yours….." you whispered, your voice breaking. 

It was the only thing you could say, the only thing that would stop the pain. Toji's grip on your hair tightened, his hips slamming into you with renewed vigor. You mewled as he dug deeper with each and every move.

"Louder, babe." he demanded, his voice a snarl. "I want the whole fucking world to hear you."

You took a shuddering breath, forcing the words out. "I'm yours, Toji. I'm yours!"

The admission seemed to snap something inside him. Toji's movements became erratic, his thrusts losing their rhythm as he chased his release. He came with a roar, his cock pulsing inside you as he filled you with his seed.

But even as he emptied himself into you,  Fushiguro Toji didn't stop. He continued to thrust, his movements slower now but no less intense, as if he were trying to brand you with his touch, to imprint himself onto your very soul.

"Never forget it." Toji groaned brutishly, his breath hot against your ear. "You belong to me. Only me….I belong to you the same way. You know that, don’t you? You always have. You always will. This was just a reminder." 

His words sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of fear and something darker, something you refused to acknowledge. Toji's hand slid around your throat, his fingers wrapping around your neck possessively.

"I'll never let you go." Toji whispered, his voice a sinister promise. "I'll kill anyone who tries to take you away from me."

“Toji, fuck fuck…huh…ah—”

“You could fuck whoever you want, babe.” He says, choking in his pleasure. “But, fuck—only I have you. Only I do. You know that.”

“I….you’re—too good! Toji, deeper! Fuckkkkkk…….”

His grip tightened slightly, just enough to make you gasp for air. You could feel your husband's other hand snaked around your bruising hip, his long  fingers finding your clit and rubbing in rough, demanding circles.

"Come for me." he commanded, his voice low and dangerous."Come on my cock like the good little slut you are." His words, his touch, the lack of oxygen. It all combined to push you over the edge.

Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing as pleasure mixed with pain. Fushiguro Toji's fingers dug into your throat, his touch bordering on violent as he rode out your climax. He thrust into you erratically, brutishly, barbarically, feeling his own release building again.

"Fuck, yes, yes…..fucking fuckkkkkkk….." he growled, his hips slamming into yours with a bruising force. "Take it all. Baby, fuck, you feel so good. Take it. Every last drop."

Toji's body tensed, his cock pulsing inside you as he came a second time. He collapsed on top of you, sweat blending as his weight crushed you into the surface beneath you. You gasped for air, your lungs burning horribly, your body aching. Toji's hand slid from your throat, his fingers trailing down your chest possessively.

"Mine, mine…." he murmured, his voice slurred with satisfaction. "You're all mine."

Toji stayed buried inside you, his softening cock a constant reminder of what had just happened. He rolled onto his side, pulling you with him so that you were spooned against his chest.  His strong weary wrapped around your waist, holding you tightly against him.

You lay there, stunned and shaken, your mind reeling from the intensity of the encounter. Toji's breath was hot against your neck, his heartbeat steady and strong in your ear. He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his lips surprisingly gentle.

Toji chuckled, the sound low and mocking. "Happy anniversary, my dear wife.” he said, his fingers trailing down your arm in a parody of affection. "Another year of blissful married life."

You snorted, rolling your eyes. "Blissful? Is that what you call it? Or what the trends call it?" you retorted, poking him in the chest. "I seem to remember spending half the year sleeping on the couch."

Toji caught your hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss that was more teeth than tenderness. "Ah, but think of all the fun we had when I finally dragged you back to bed, babe." he smirked. "You know you can't resist me for long."

You laughed, shaking your head. "Arrogant bastard." 

You mutter those words and yet there was no heat behind the words. This was a dance you both knew well, a twisted game of push and pull that defined your marriage. You had been through this too many times before. 

Toji's grin widened, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, I'm not just a bastard, I'm your bastard, aren’t I?" he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "And you love me for it."

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "Or maybe you just love the way I fuck you when you're being a brat."

You gasped, your cheeks flushing at his crude words.But before you could retort, Fushiguro Toji's mouth was on yours, kissing you deeply, possessively. He bit your lip, hard enough to sting, before pulling back.

"Now, how about we celebrate our anniversary properly?" he suggested, his hand sliding down to squeeze your ass. "I'll even let you top this time, if you're feeling generous."

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't suppress the smirk tugging at your lips. "In your dreams, Fushiguro Toji." you said, pushing him away playfully. "I'm not that easy."

Toji laughed, the sound rich and warm. Your husband grabbed you around the waist, pulling you back against his chest. You started to laugh with him, shaking your head. You were sure that it was the mix of the wine, the pleasure and the ambiance that had put you into such a good mood. 

"Oh, you're easy, babe." he teased, nipping at your neck. "You're just playing hard to get."

You giggled, squirming in his arms. "Prove it to me. Right now." you challenged, your eyes sparkling with mirth. 

Toji groaned, his hands roaming your body. "Fine, I'll prove it. But first, I need more wine." 

You slyly smiled. “That’s more like it. Go on and get it.”

He released you, heading towards the kitchen. "Red or white?" he called over his shoulder. "And don't you dare say 'surprise me', or I'll choose the cheapest bottle we have."

You laughed, settling back onto the couch. "Red." you shouted back. "And make it a good one, or I'll make you sleep on the couch tonight."

“So demanding you are.”

“Hm, that’s what you still need to learn after eighteen years.”

“We’ve been together longer than that.”

You laughed. “That’s why we’re fools, aren’t we?”

“Hm.” He mumbles as he leans in, kissing you as he holds the wine in his hands. “True enough.”

YOU AND TOJI TAKE LONGER BREAKS NOW. And that was perhaps for the best now that the kids are getting older. You’ve decided this a long time ago, but it was only now that it was a reality. With Toji and you being under your own management, there was more ability to say no to projects more often. 

Now that you and Toji are finally able to be a little less busy, you find yourselves grasping at the time that once slipped so easily through your fingers. It’s a strange thing, this newfound stillness. 

After years of living out of suitcases, jumping from set to set, and calling home through glitchy video calls, the quiet should be a relief. But in truth, it’s unsettling. Because now, without the distraction of work, you’re forced to face the spaces you left behind.

You try as much as you can. You really put everything in trying and succeeding to spend more time with your kids, to be present in ways you couldn’t be before. But parenting, when you’ve spent so long being absent, is a careful balance of patience and guilt. 

You’re stepping into lives that have learned how to function without you, and no matter how much they love you, no matter how many dinners you cook or movie nights you organize, there’s no undoing the years of distance.

Seventeen year old Fushiguro Tsumiki is about to take her entrance exams for college, a milestone that you can hardly believe is already here. You remember the day she first came into your life, all wide eyes and soft smiles, and now she’s filling out applications, weighing her options, making plans for a future that doesn’t depend on you or Toji.

Tsumiki sat at the kitchen table, hunched over her laptop, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she typed out her application essay. The soft glow of the screen illuminated her face, highlighting the furrow in her brow, the quiet determination in her eyes.

Toji leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her with an unreadable expression. You could tell he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how to say it without making it sound like an argument.

"Are you sure about this school?" he finally asked, his voice casual, though you knew better. "Could be a bit too far from us, don’t you think?"

Tsumiki barely spared him a glance, too focused on the words forming on her screen. "Yeah, I’m going to be fine at this school, dad."

There was a slight exasperation in her tone, but it wasn’t angry. Instead, it was that was her tender firmness, like she had already decided, like this was something she had put real thought into. At times, you like to think she got that from Toji.

"It’s got the best program for what I want to do."

Toji scratched his jaw, pretending like he didn’t already know the answer to the question he was about to ask. "And what’s that again?"

Tsumiki rolled her eyes, a soft huff escaping her lips as she finally looked up at him. "I’ve told you a hundred times, dad."

Toji shrugged, pushing off the counter. "Yeah, well, tell me again."

You expected her to be annoyed, to say something sharp about how he never listened, about how he always asked the same things but never really heard her. But instead, she sighed and sat back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest.

"It’s got the best program for child psychology, Kyoto University." she said, her voice softer now. "It’s one of the top schools for it. The research they do there, the opportunities… it’s what I need if I want to do this seriously."

“Okay, I see.”

She paused, studying her father, then added. "And it’s not like I’m moving across the world. It’s a few hours away."

Fushiguro Toji took a moment and exhaled slowly, leaning against the chair across from her, running a hand down his face. He nodded, though he didn’t say anything right away. It wasn’t about the school. Not really.

It was about her—about how she was growing up, about how she wasn’t a little girl anymore. About how, one day soon, she would leave, and there wouldn’t be application essays sprawled across the kitchen table or late-night snacks stolen from the fridge when she thought no one was looking.

And maybe Fushiguro Tsumiki understood that.

Because instead of snapping at him for forgetting, for questioning her choices, she met him where he was, speaking to him with patience and grace. As if she could see past his words, straight into the unspoken fear buried beneath them. Because at the end of the day, her dad was just concerned for her and wanted her around.

As if she knew he wasn’t really asking about the school.

He was asking if she was really ready to go.

And she was, she was a grown young woman ready to go.

You just sat there, listening to them, watching the way Toji asked questions he already knew the answers to, the way Tsumiki answered with more patience than he probably deserved. It was such a small thing, a simple conversation between a father and his daughter, but it lodged itself deep in your chest, heavy with a kind of warmth you hadn’t felt in years.

For all your shortcomings, for all the missed birthdays, the forgotten recitals, the times you had been nothing more than voices through a speaker or fleeting figures in the doorway—Tsumiki still let you in.

She still sat at this table with you. She still spoke to you both with openness, as if she had never once resented the distance, as if she had never longed for different parents, ones who had always been there. She could have turned away. She could have built walls so high neither of you could have reached her.

But instead, she waited to open that letter in front of you. Instead, she still explained her dreams, still let you be part of them, even after all the years you had spent missing pieces of her life. And that was what broke you the most.

Not the guilt, not the regret—but the grace.

You swallowed against the lump in your throat, gripping the edge of your seat as if grounding yourself would somehow make this moment last longer. It wasn’t often that the past allowed itself to be forgiven, and yet, here was Tsumiki, still offering it to you freely, without expectation, without resentment.

Toji exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face, the weight of it all pressing down on him in real time. "Well, guess that means I better start looking at housing prices out there."

Tsumiki blinked, caught between amusement and exasperation. "Dad—"

"What?" he shot back, crossing his arms. "You think I’m gonna let you live in some shitty dorm with mold in the walls? Not a chance."

"Dorms aren’t that bad—"

"Have you seen those places? I’d rather pay for you to live somewhere that won’t give you some disease." Toji says to her, shaking his head. “What daughter of mine will live in some shithole? Your mother and I make more than enough to get you some good apartment, you know that.”

You shook your head, pressing your lips together to hide the smile threatening to form. "Toji, let her breathe. She hasn’t even left yet, and you’re already planning to follow her."

He scoffed. "Damn right I am. What kind of dad would I be if I didn’t at least check out the area? Make sure she’s not living next to some creep?"

Tsumiki groaned, dropping her face into her hands, but you caught the small smile tugging at her lips before she did. "Oh my god, you two are impossible."

"You love us, admit it, sweetie." Toji said easily, smirking.

And she didn’t argue. She just shook her head, laughing softly, before turning her attention back to her laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard once more with the eager zealousness she had always had.

You sat back, watching them bicker, watching the way the warmth filled the space between you all, and something inside you settled. Because after everything, after the misgivings, the years spent apart, the quiet fractures that once seemed irreparable. 

She was still here. She still let you be her parents And maybe you hadn’t always been good at it. Maybe you had spent too many years failing, too many years missing the moments that mattered. But somehow, she still lets you try.

Then there’s your son Megumi. Your youngest, but never really your baby. He has always been too sharp, too self-sufficient, always moving through life like he already knows how it ends. And you didn’t know how you could have been a better mother than he already was to himself.

Fushiguro Megumi never hated acting. That much you knew. If anything, he was good at it. He was just that talent that comes once in a lifetime. He was so good, in fact, that it was almost frustrating. 

Some people spent their whole lives fighting for a place in the industry, scraping for every opportunity, but for Megumi, it came easy. Natural. Directors liked him, critics praised him, and his face had become familiar in the industry, even if he never really tried to be.

But you saw it. In the way his shoulders tensed at red carpet events, the way his polite smiles never quite reached his eyes. In the way he flipped through scripts like they were another chore on his to-do list rather than a dream waiting to be realized.

"There’s too much damn dialogue in this thing." he muttered one night, stretching across the couch, script in one hand, a book in the other. “I’m not like Yuuji who can do this all the time!”

You looked up from your own book, raising a brow. "Too much dialogue? That’s the whole point, Megumi. It’s called acting."

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbled, flipping a page lazily before tossing the script onto the coffee table with a sigh. "It’s just… too much talking. Too much over-explaining. Sometimes a look is enough, you know? A pause. A beat. You don’t need a five-minute monologue about life and its fleeting purpose to get that across."

You smirked. "Try telling that to the writers."

"Believe me, I have." he deadpanned, tilting his head toward you. "They don’t listen."

You hummed, watching him. The way his fingers skimmed the worn spine of his book, the way he traced over the inked words as if they carried more weight than any script ever could.

"Why don’t you quit, then?" you asked after a beat, catching him off guard. “I’m sure whatever you do, me and your dad will support you.”

Megumi blinked at you, his lips parting slightly before pressing into something unreadable. For a moment, you thought he might actually consider it, might admit something he hadn’t before. But instead, his mouth curled into a small, knowing smirk.

"I don’t hate it," he said simply, shrugging as he leaned back against the couch.

"No?" you challenged, tilting your head.

"No." He looked down at his book, flipping a page with deliberate ease. "I just like something else more."

You nodded, letting his words settle between you. "Literature?" you guessed.

He exhaled, glancing at you briefly before returning to his book. "Stories."

Something about the way he said it, quiet but certain, stuck with you. You and Toji had spent your whole lives chasing the next big role, the next big paycheck, the next big thing. You had built your careers on the idea that passion and success were the same, that you could never have one without the other. 

But Megumi, he just knew exactly where his love lay. And more importantly, he wasn’t afraid to say it. You watched him for a while, the way his gaze lingered on the words before him, how relaxed he looked in that moment, lost in a world of his own choosing.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt something settle inside you. Maybe he wouldn’t chase the same dreams you did. Maybe he wouldn’t take every job, every opportunity, every chance to stay relevant in an industry that never let anyone rest. 

"We should have dinner together, shouldn’t we?" you said, glancing between Megumi and Toji, who were both still lounging in the living room. "It’s been a while since we actually sat down as a family, and I don’t mean takeout at the kitchen counter."

Toji stretched, cracking his neck as he glanced over at you. "Yeah, that’s a good idea. We can go somewhere nice. Anywhere you guys want."

Megumi just grunted in response, still nose-deep in his book, which you took as his usual version of agreement. “I guess.”

But then Tsumiki, who had been sitting at the dining table with her laptop open, perked up slightly. "Can Kenshin come?"

You paused, your brows furrowing. "Nanami Kenshin?"

She nodded, twirling her pen between her fingers. "Yeah. He’s been kind of… going through it."

You exchanged a glance with Toji before settling your gaze back on her. "What’s wrong?"

Tsumiki sighed, closing her laptop and leaning forward on her elbows. "You know about his dad, right? The cheating rumors?"

You exhaled sharply, feeling the air punctured from your lungs. "Yeah. It’s been everywhere."

Nanami Kento’s scandal had taken over the news cycle for weeks. The once-stoic, well-respected actor had been photographed leaving a hotel with someone who was not his wife, and from there, the speculation spiraled. 

Every single day, there were headlines, opinion pieces, talk shows dissecting his every move, paparazzi following not just him, but his family. Kenshin, being his only son, was getting dragged into it whether he wanted to or not.

In some ways, you were lucky that you never got caught. But it was just that he was good at hiding his tracks more when you both worked together. And you worked together more than twice in two years.

Yet it had to end, once you gave birth to Tsumiki. And then when you were pregnant with Megumi. It wasn’t fair to your children. It never was and it never will. That’s why you broke it off. 

"He’s not handling it well." Tsumiki admitted, biting the inside of her cheek. "You know how private he is. And now he can’t even go outside without a camera in his face. He barely eats, barely sleeps. He’s just… stressed, and I figured maybe having dinner with us would help."

You sighed, rubbing your temple. You’d known Kenshin since he was a kid—he and Tsumiki had been close for years, practically growing up together. He had always been serious, quiet like his father, preferring to stay out of the limelight even though his last name made that impossible.

"Of course he can come." you said finally, softening. "We’ll make sure he eats something."

Tsumiki smiled, relieved, as she reached for her phone.

Toji, who had been silent this whole time, finally huffed. "Tch. If that dumbass father of his had half a brain, he’d have kept his shit together."

You shot him a look. "Not the time, Toji."

He grumbled under his breath but didn’t argue. You watched as Tsumiki typed out a message to Kenshin, and something in your chest ached. Because for all the ways you had failed as parents over the years, Tsumiki had grown into someone who noticed when others were hurting.

And that had to mean something.

As you looked at your husband, he knew.

This was a hurt your daughter should never know.

IT WAS EERIE THAT EVERYTHING WAS THIS PEACEFUL. After being in the limelight for so long, you were just used to being surrounded by many people. People who were watching you eat, have a glass of wine, and have a conversation. Tonight was a whole other thing.

The restaurant was quiet, a dimly lit private dining space meant to shield its patrons from the outside world. It was the kind of place you and Toji had grown accustomed to over the years, where deals were made, secrets were kept, and appearances were carefully crafted under the warm glow of candlelight.

But as you slid into your seat across from Nanami Kenshin, no amount of careful curation could settle the knot in your stomach. You had spent your whole life perfecting the art of deception. On screen, in interviews, even at home. You could lie with your face, with your voice, with the ease of someone who had done it for far too long.

But now, as you watched Kenshin unfold his napkin with quiet precision, his brows drawn together in that familiar, contemplative way, you felt something unravel inside you. Because he looked just like his father. Too much just like him.

It had been easier when they were children, when Kenshin and Tsumiki were nothing more than two kids bonding over burnt pastries and mismatched spices in their middle school culinary club. Back then, your fears had been different and rather miniscule, smaller than dust. 

You had only worried about whether Tsumiki would get along with the other students, or whether she would find a friend in the reserved, sharp-eyed boy who always seemed to prefer the background. Back then, Tsumiki didn’t look like Kento.

But as the years passed, something shifted. It was in the little things at first. It was the way her patience stretched longer, the way her silences began carrying weight, the way she observed before speaking, before acting.

Then it was in the eyes. His caramel eyes. And now, sitting across from Kenshin, you felt it again. That gnawing weight in your chest. You couldn’t help but feel your lips dry up. You immediately lift your wine glass up to your lips and drank swiftly.

"You okay?" Toji’s voice was low, his hand settling against your thigh under the table, a gentle squeeze meant to keep you tethered.

You forced a nod, fingers curling around the stem of your wine glass, though the drink did nothing to soothe you. Because it wasn’t about regret. It had never been about regret. You had made your choices long ago, and you had lived with them.

But guilt? Well, the guilt here was different. And it was something you promised you would never feel again. But you couldn’t help it. Not in front of him. You owe it to him to feel a little bit guilty, even if it was all years ago. You were complicit. You were just as guilty.

You continued to let your eyes linger. You could see it. Your own guilt. Guilt was staring at the dark circles under Kenshin’s eyes, at the way he barely touched his menu, exhaustion weighing him down in ways that had nothing to do with the long day he must have had.

Guilt was watching him flinch slightly when Toji made an offhand remark about the press. Guilt was knowing that he didn’t deserve any of this. Guilt was making him stay here with the woman that his father slept with.

And yet, he bore the brunt of it all—the whispers, the cameras, the endless speculation. The price of being born into a home that no longer felt like one. The home you helped ruin. And he would never even know.

Tsumiki was the one to break the silence.

"You should eat, Kenshin." Her voice was soft but firm, the kind of tone she only ever used when she was worried.

Kenshin barely looked up from the menu, his fingers resting against the edges of the pages, but he hadn’t turned them once. "I’m not really that hungry."

You watched as Tsumiki frowned, her brows knitting together in quiet concern.

"You still need to eat, you idiot." she pressed, nudging his foot under the table. "I didn’t invite you just so you could sit here and mope, you know."

Kenshin exhaled sharply through his nose, something close to amusement flickering across his face, but it was faint. He closed the menu and leaned back against his chair, tilting his head slightly in her direction. "You invited me?"

"Of course I did." she said easily, like it wasn’t even a question. “Didn’t you answer me on the phone earlier? At least act interested! My parents are paying!”

Kenshin didn’t respond right away. He stared at her for a long moment, eyes flickering with something you couldn’t quite place—hesitation, gratitude, maybe even exhaustion. And then, slowly, he picked up the menu again, actually looking at it this time.

"Fine. But you’re ordering for me."

Tsumiki smiled, triumphant. "Obviously."

Toji, who had been silent this whole time, huffed a small chuckle before glancing at you. "They remind you of anyone?"

You knew what he was implying. You and him, all those years ago. It was before the fights, before the resentment, before the weight of your mistakes began pressing into every crack of your marriage. But you couldn’t even force a smile. Not with Kenshin sitting there, unknowingly reminding you of everything you had spent years trying to forget.

"So, Kenshin–senpai." Megumi spoke up, finally tearing himself away from his book. He turned to Kenshin, arching a brow. "How’s your mom doing?"

The question was casual enough, but you stiffened, your fingers tightening around your wine glass. Kenshin sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "She’s… dealing with it. I don’t know. It’s been rough." He let out a short, humorless laugh. "She’s handling it better than I am, though."

You swallowed. Because how could he not be struggling? How could he not be going through it? His whole life had been dragged into the spotlight, his father’s name turned into nothing more than a headline, a scandal, a spectacle.

“Your sister must be just as distraught too.” Tsumiki murmured under her breath, looking with empathy at her best friend. “I hope she’s alright.”

“She’s in Kyoto right now, that’s where she’s prepping for her licensing exams.” Kenshin sighed. “Honestly, I know it’s best for her. But I worry about her. I know that she gets really bad when she’s upset.”

You forced yourself to speak, voice even. "If she ever needs anything, let her know she can call me. I’m sure we can do something for your sister too.”

Kenshin nodded, but his gaze remained unreadable. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Fushiguro. I appreciate it. Really.”

Toji watched you closely, his fingers tapping against his glass, but he said nothing. And as the conversation moved forward, shifting into lighter topics. Now onto university plans, upcoming projects, the best dish on the menu. In that time, you forced yourself to push the guilt down.

Because Kenshin still didn’t know.

And you told yourself that was all that mattered.

That was for his own good.

At least that's what you believed.

TOJI THINKS HE SHOULD WIN AN AWARD FOR HIS ACTING LATELY. Of course, he wasn’t talking about his jobs. He’s not filmed anything in the past year and a half. But there was something else that could give him some sort of award winning accolade. And it’s because Fushiguro Toji had been hiding something for a little while now.

Lymphoma.

It was strange, how the word hadn’t shaken him the way it probably should have. The doctor had said it gently, cautiously, like he was waiting for the weight of it to sink in. But Toji had simply sat there, one leg bouncing impatiently, as if he were waiting for something more pressing to be said.

"It’s treatable." the doctor had assured him, voice steady, professional. "But we need to start soon."

And maybe that was why it hadn’t rattled him. Maybe it was the way the doctor had framed it. It was like a problem with a solution, a challenge to be dealt with rather than a death sentence. Or maybe it was because Fushiguro Toji had lived his whole life expecting something to take him out eventually. But not today. Not yet.

"You have any questions?" the doctor had asked.

Toji had thought about it, had considered asking what the worst-case scenario looked like, and had considered asking how much time he had if treatment didn’t work. But in the end, all he had done was shake his head and stand up.

"Alright. I’ll be in touch."

And that was that.

So far, no one has noticed.

Which was a good thing.

He didn’t want anyone to be concerned.

Not his wife, who had enough to think about. It was a lot of balancing work, their marriage, their kids, all while carrying the kind of history that still bled into their present. If you knew, you would surely drop everything. You’d hover him like he was a pitiful creature. She’d watch him like he was a ticking bomb, and Toji didn’t have it in him to be the reason for that kind of worry.

Not Tsumiki, who had spent her whole damn life caring for people, who had already learned to read between the lines too well. If she knew, she’d put herself on hold. Toji had spent too many years trying to teach her not to do that, to live for herself, to stop putting the world on her shoulders.

And definitely not Megumi. Not his quiet, unreadable, sharp-eyed kid who already carried more weight than he should, who had learned too young what disappointment felt like, what distance felt like, what it meant to survive rather than simply live.

No. If Megumi knew, he’d take it on himself, the same way he always did.  And Toji couldn’t let that happen, not when his kids are doing something for themselves for once. Not when they were at the prime of their lives.

So, he hid it. 

Not when the fatigue settled in his bones, making every movement feel like dragging himself through sand.

Not when the weight slipped from him, slow but steady, his clothes fitting just a little looser, his rings spinning just a little too easily on his fingers.

Not even when the pain dug into his chest late at night, deep and relentless, the kind that kept him awake even on the nights when he was too exhausted to keep his eyes open.

Because what good would telling them do?

What good would putting that burden on them accomplish?

So, he forced himself to keep up. Forced himself to eat, even when the nausea made it difficult. Forced himself to be present, even when his body begged him to rest. Forced himself to be himself at least until he couldn’t anymore. And for now, at least, he was doing a damn good job of it.

But the thing about hiding something this big was that Toji had to be careful. It wasn’t enough to just act normal. He had to be convincing. Like he usually was. He had to keep up routines, make sure there were no suspicious gaps in his behavior.

He couldn’t afford to look tired, couldn’t hesitate when lifting the groceries or shut his eyes too long when rubbing at the ache in his chest. So far, he’d managed. Tsumiki and Megumi hadn’t noticed a thing. And you—his wife—hadn’t either. Or at least, if you had, you hadn’t said anything.

But Toji knew it was only a matter of time. Because the thing about secrets was that they always crept up, slipping through the cracks when you least expected them to. And for all his effort, for all the control he tried to maintain over his body, his body had a way of betraying him.

The first real crack came on a random Tuesday.

He had just stepped out of the shower when you entered the bedroom, flipping through something on your phone, mumbling about dinner plans. His towel hung around his shoulders, water still dripping from his hair, steam clinging to his skin.

You hadn’t been paying much attention at first, distracted, focused on something else entirely. And then you froze. Your husband Toji didn’t understand why at first—then he followed your gaze.

To his ribs.To the way his skin clung too closely to his bones, to the ghastly and rather sharp hollows that hadn’t been there before, to the proof of what he had been keeping from you all this time.

He saw the way your lips parted, how something flickered in your eyes. It was that realization he knew he never wanted to see in your face in any life time. You purse your lips into a line and then a little later, let it slip open.

"Toji." You said his name like a question. Like you were trying to confirm something you already knew.

He exhaled, reaching for his shirt, acting like it was nothing. "Yeah?"

"Have you… been eating?"

A scoff. A forced chuckle. "What kind of question is that? I eat everything that you give me, babe. I’m fine."

"You’ve lost weight."

"I’m busy with the entertainment company. And I produce too, you know. Maybe it’s that. Don't worry too much." He pulled the shirt over his head, voice easy, practiced. "It’s not like I have a home-cooked meal waiting for me every day."

You didn’t respond right away. And that was worse. Because Fushiguro Toji knew you. Knew how your mind worked, how you saw through bullshit faster than anyone else. You did not believe him one second.

You stepped closer, fingertips ghosting over his ribs through the fabric, and he had to fight the urge to step back. Your eyes were sharp, scanning him, searching for something. "You’ve been tired too, aren’t you? That’s why we took a break, didn’t we?"

"I’m getting older, too. Don’t forget that side effect."

"And you’ve been—"

"Drop it." His voice came out rougher than he meant it to. “Babe, seriously. I’m fine. Look…I’m sorry.”

Your lips pressed together, and for a split second, Toji thought he saw something flicker there. Hurt. He exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose before dragging a hand down his face. He forced his voice softer. 

"I’m serious about it. I’m fine. Just been working too much."

A long pause.

Then you nodded.

He saw your eyes.

But your eyes told him you weren’t convinced. And Toji didn’t like that look.  Because it meant you were starting to notice. And if you noticed, it was only a matter of time before the kids did too.

So, he needed to do better. He needed to get it together. He needed to be more careful. Needed to keep it hidden just a little longer. This was his problem. He had to solve it his way. Because he wasn’t ready for you or the kids to know. Not yet.

A LOT HAS HAPPENED OVER THE PAST FEW MONTHS. It was a few months later when Fushiguro Tsumiki got accepted into Kyoto University. And everything about it has been a splendid triumph for the Fushiguro family for quite a while. Most especially from you and Toji.

The house had been buzzing with excitement, with you crying happy tears while Megumi offered his usual quiet but sincere congratulations. Even Toji, who had never been the most expressive, had pulled her into a side hug, murmuring a gruff “Knew you’d get in.”

And now, here you were—moving her into her dorm.

Toji had insisted on helping, despite you knowing that he got tired more easily these days. He played it off well, cracking jokes about how dorm mattresses were probably just wooden planks covered in fabric and how campus food was going to be the worst thing she’d ever eat. 

But you saw it very clearly. You were watching your husband all through the steps with eyes like a hawk. You could see the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot, the way he rolled his shoulders like he was working through some ache he wasn’t talking about.

But you said nothing. Not yet.

You didn’t want to push him.

You didn’t want to make him upset.

Not today of all days, when he’s happy.

The drive there had been mostly filled with Tsumiki’s excited chatter. She kept talking about how she had already connected with her dorm mate online, how she planned to join a few clubs, how she wanted to explore the city more now that she’d be living in it.

By the time you reached the dorm, the sun was high, and the campus buzzed with students moving in, parents saying tearful goodbyes. Toji carried most of her heavier boxes despite your protests, only shooting you a look when you tried to take one from him.

Inside her dorm, it felt real. She was really going to be here. She was really moving on to this next part of her life. She’s no longer a little girl. She’s a growing young woman and there was nothing you could do to stop it. 

All the sudden you felt choked up. “I’m going to get us some beverages.”

Your husband nods at you, watching you leave the room with your forlorn look. He knew you were overwhelmed. He sighed. He moved towards the edge of the room. After setting down the last box, Toji stretched, exhaling deeply. Then he glanced around the small space, nodding as if approving it. 

“Not bad. Still think you could’ve picked something closer, though.”

Tsumiki turned from where she was unpacking her books, rolling her eyes. “Dad, it’s not even that far. It’s just Kyoto. The Shinkansen can take me home in a couple of hours.”

"Far enough." He folded his arms over his chest, leaning against the wall. "Before, if you needed anything, we were just down the hall. Now, what? Gotta call ahead and book an appointment just to see you?"

Tsumiki sighed, but there was a fondness in her expression. “You know it’s not like that.”

Toji shrugged, looking around the room before settling his gaze back on her. "You're growing up too fast. Soon, you won’t need me or your mom anymore."

Tsumiki’s hands stilled as she placed a book on her desk. Then she turned fully, brows furrowing. “That’s not true.”

"Isn’t it?" Toji smirked, but there was something else underneath it. Something unreadable. "What do you need me for anymore, huh? I don’t gotta drive you anywhere, don’t gotta pick you up from school, don’t gotta make sure your dumbass classmates aren’t getting too close to you—"

“Dad—”

"What? You think I don’t know you’re too nice to tell some loser to back off? Don’t make me show up on campus, ‘miki."

Tsumiki groaned, shoving him lightly, and Toji let himself stumble back a little, laughing. “Dad, you’re being silly again.”

Then, after a moment, his expression softened, and his voice dropped just a bit. "You’ll still be my little girl, though?"

Tsumiki tilted her head, smiling. “Yes.”

Toji let out a breath, then grinned. "Good. ‘Cause I wasn’t gonna accept any other answer."

And for a moment, it was just the two of them. They were still father and daughter, standing in the middle of a dorm that felt too empty, too new. Tsumiki looked at him like she had always looked at him. There was warmth, with trust, with the kind of affection that Toji never thought he deserved.

And for just a second, he forgot about everything else. The fatigue. The pain. The weight of a secret that felt heavier than any of the boxes he had carried up those stairs. Because right now, his little girl was starting the next chapter of her life. And he would do whatever it took to be there for as long as he could.

As the afternoon light filtered through the dorm window, Fushiguro Toji sat on the edge of Tsumiki’s bed, watching her arrange the last of her things. For a moment, he just observed. He couldn’t help but take in how grown she looked, how far she had come. 

It was strange how time worked. One day, she was just a kid clinging to his arm, asking him to carry her on his shoulders. Now, she was standing on her own, stepping into a new life, one he wouldn’t be a daily part of anymore. His chest ached, but he ignored it.

Instead, he leaned back on his hands, voice light when he spoke. “So. What do you think of your mom?”

Tsumiki blinked, caught off guard. “What kind of question is that?”

Toji shrugged. “Just wondering.”

She stared at him for a moment, then sighed, turning back to her desk, fidgeting with the edge of a notebook. “I love her.” she said, voice softer. “Of course, I do. She’s my mom.”

Toji hummed. “But?”

Tsumiki hesitated. Then, finally, she admitted. “I feel like there’s always been some kind of distance between us.”

Toji watched as she ran a hand over the cover of a textbook, not meeting his gaze. “I know she loves me a lot, I do. She’s taken care of me, she’s been there—but it’s just… it’s not the same as with you.”

His brows lifted slightly. “Oh?”

Tsumiki turned to him, looking guilty, as if saying it out loud made her feel like a bad daughter. “I don’t mean it in a bad way. I just—” She sighed. “With you, it’s easy. It always has been. I don’t have to think about what to say, or wonder if I’m bothering you. I just… talk. And you listen. And you tease me.” A small smile tugged at her lips. “It’s just different with Mom. It always has been. And I think she knows it too.”

Toji exhaled through his nose, tilting his head. “And Megumi?”

Tsumiki let out a small chuckle. “They have an easier relationship. They understand each other better.” She shrugged. “Maybe because he’s more like her. Or maybe it’s because he’s actually hers.”

Toji frowned at that. “You really don’t think that, do you?”

“Dad, it’s just….” She looked crestfallen, but she smiled. “It’s just complicated.”

"Tsumiki." His voice was firm, but not harsh. She looked at him, and he reached out, tapping her forehead lightly with his fingers. “You’re her daughter. That’s all that matters.”

She gave a small nod but didn’t say anything.

For a while, silence stretched between them.

Toji could remember how he was with his mother too.

Blood or not, Tsumiki was more like him than he could bear.

Then, Toji smirked, leaning back again. “So? What are you gonna do about it?”

Tsumiki frowned. “What do you mean?”

"You want things to be different with her? Then go to her. Talk to her. You’re a big girl now, right? Not scared of your own mom, are ya?"

Tsumiki huffed, shoving his shoulder lightly. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

Toji chuckled, then shook his head, his voice turning a little more serious. “Look, your mom—she’s not always the best at showing things. But she does care. She’s still….dealing with a lot. But she cares. Probably more than she knows how to say. So, if you feel a distance, don’t just sit with it. Close it.”

Tsumiki bit her lip, thinking. Then, after a moment, she nodded. “Yeah… Yeah, okay.”

Toji grinned. “Good. Now, are you gonna make me sit here all day, or are you gonna feed your old man before he drives back home?”

Tsumiki laughed, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

"Damn right I am."

And as they headed out for a meal together, Fushiguro Toji hoped—really hoped—that she would take his advice. Because no matter how messy this family was, no matter how much distance had crept in over the years, he knew one thing for sure.

You loved Tsumiki.

And she deserved to know it.

And he doesn’t want you to be alone.

YOU DIDN’T REALIZE HOW MUCH YOUR DAUGHTER ACTUALLY OWNED UNTIL NOW. The afternoon sun painted the dorm room in soft gold, dust particles catching the light as they floated lazily through the air.

The room smelled faintly of cardboard and new beginnings, the scent of fresh linens and wood polish mixing with the comfortable warmth of Tsumiki’s presence.

You and your husband Toji had been helping her unpack for the past hour, moving in a steady rhythm. You watched him carrying the heavier boxes to a storage room while you focused on putting her things away neatly. 

Tsumiki worked between the both of you, arranging her books, tucking away clothes, occasionally stopping to pull out something sentimental. It was her favorite childhood trinkets, an old photograph, a gift from Megumi she hadn’t had the heart to leave behind.

For the most part, the move-in had been filled with light chatter, your husband Toji’s occasional grumbling about “kids these days” and the ridiculous amount of stuff she had brought. You could only laugh and shake your heat at his little banters.  

But then, as you folded the last of her sweaters, Tsumiki spoke. "Mom?"

You paused, fingers brushing over the soft fabric before looking at her. "Yeah?"

She hesitated, her hands fidgeting with the hem of a well-worn t-shirt. Something flickered across her face. It was something unsure, something fragile. “I….”

You smiled softly at her. “Darling, you can tell me anything. What’s on your mind?”

"I wanted to say something to you." She exhaled slowly. "And I don’t—I don’t want you to take it the wrong way, but I think I need to say it."

Beside you, Toji stilled, his gaze shifting from the shelf he was setting up to the both of you. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t intervene. Just let her speak. He turns his back, focusing deeply on the cleaning he was doing.

"I love you." Tsumiki’s voice was soft, but steady. "I love you so much. But I—sometimes, I feel like we don’t really know each other. Not in the way I know Dad. Or even in the way Megumi knows you."

Your chest tightened. “‘miki….”

"And I know you love me, too." She rushed to add. "I do. But there’s always been this… this distance. And I guess I just… I just wish I knew why."

The silence that followed was thick. Toji was watching you now, his expression unreadable, but you could feel the weight of his presence. He wasn’t going to step in. This was between you and Tsumiki. You exhaled, pressing your hands together before finally meeting her gaze.

"Tsumiki, none of that is your fault."

Her brows pulled together slightly, the smallest hint of hurt flashing in her eyes. "Then whose is it?"

You swallowed hard, feeling the words press against the back of your throat like something heavy, something unbearable. "Mine, darling." you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "All of it."

Tsumiki’s lips parted, but no words came out. You glanced at Toji, at the way he watched you—calm, waiting. He knew this conversation had been long overdue. You both talked about how it would work one day. But even now you felt unprepared and scared. Perhaps more than you thought you would ever be.

"I was scared." The confession fell from your lips before you could stop it. "From the very beginning, I was so scared of failing you. Of not being the mother you deserved. I thought that if I didn’t do everything perfectly, I would hurt you. So I tried to be everything all at once. A mother, an actress, a wife. But somewhere along the way, I started thinking that as long as I was there, as long as I provided for you, that was enough. And it wasn’t."

Tsumiki’s fingers curled around the hem of her shirt, gripping it tightly. “Mom….”

You reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. “I was at fault. My suffering doesn’t mean I should have done wrong by you. I should have done better.”

“You did your best, mom.” Tsumiki softly shakes her head. “I love you. Thank you for letting me in, even if it’s just a little bit.”

"I love you more than anything in this world, Tsumiki." Your voice wavered, but you held her gaze. "More than I’ve ever been able to show you. And I am so, so sorry if I ever made you feel like that love was anything less than unconditional."

She sucked in a shaky breath, blinking rapidly. “Thank you, mom. For everything.”

You shake  your head. "You shouldn't be thanked for taking accountability. I need to do better by  you. I never wanted you to feel like you had to reach for me, sweetheart. You’ve always had me from now on, okay?”

For a long moment, she didn’t move. And then, without hesitation, she surged forward, wrapping her arms around you, pressing her face into your shoulder. It was like when she was a kid again, when she was coming to your bed when she was afraid of thunderstorms. You let her warmth engulf you whole. 

"I love you, mom." she whispered, voice muffled against your sweater.

Your arms tightened around her, pressing a firm kiss to her temple. "I love you too, baby."

Toji, still standing in the corner, let out a slow breath. You caught the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips before he turned away, busying himself with something on her desk, as if to give you both the space you needed.

And as you held your daughter in that small dorm room, feeling her warmth, her presence, you realized something. It was something you had been too scared to admit before. You had spent years afraid of being a mother the wrong way. But Tsumiki had never once doubted that you were her mother. And for the first time, that fear finally loosened its grip.

Toji had been watching the moment unfold quietly, leaning against the desk with his arms crossed. His usual smirk had softened into something more content, something more at peace.

"‘Bout time,” he murmured, shaking his head with a chuckle as he turned to grab one of the last unopened boxes. “Should’ve had this conversation years ago, huh?”

You shot him a look, wiping at the damp corner of your eye. “Shut up, Toji.”

Tsumiki giggled, the tension between you both easing into something warmer. She pulled away just enough to look at you, a lingering smile on her lips. “Thanks, mom.”

Toji scoffed but grinned as he ruffled Tsumiki’s hair. “Alright, enough sappy shit. Do you need us to put anything else together before we head out?”

Tsumiki rolled her eyes but smiled. “No, dad. Don’t worry about that. You did so much for me already. I think I got it from here.”

He let out an exaggerated sigh, stretching his arms. “Good. I was starting to think I’d be here all damn day.”

But then, something shifted. Fushiguro Toji swayed slightly where he stood, a slow blink overtaking his features. His hand shot out to the desk all of the sudden, gripping it like he needed to ground himself. 

"Toji?" You straightened immediately, the warmth from before evaporating into worry.

Tsumiki stepped closer, brows furrowing. “Dad?”

Toji tried to shake it off, forcing out a chuckle. “I—”

And then, before he could finish, his knees buckled. It happened too fast. Like a sudden blow of the wind, you watched as your husband went down, his large frame crumpling to the floor before you or Tsumiki could catch him. His head barely missed the corner of the desk as he slumped over, unconscious.

"Dad!" Tsumiki’s voice cracked, panic laced in her tone as she dropped down beside him.

Your own breath hitched, heart lurching to your throat as you knelt beside him, hands pressing against his face, his chest. "Toji—Toji, wake up!"

He didn’t. His breathing was shallow. Too shallow. The world felt like it had tilted, like the air in the room had been sucked out completely. Your hands shook as you patted his face, voice trembling. You could feel the tears pricking your eyes. 

“Toji, open your eyes. Please.”

Tsumiki’s hands were gripping his arm, her eyes wide and glassy. “Mom, what—what’s happening? Is he okay?”

"C–call… call the ambulance now, ‘Miki! Go!”

Your frantic voice came out sharper than you intended, edged with panic you couldn’t suppress. Tsumiki jumped but nodded quickly, her fingers fumbling to unlock her phone. Her breath was shaky as she pressed the emergency number, bringing the phone to her ear with trembling hands.

You turned your attention back to your husband Toji, hands pressing against his face, his chest, anywhere you could reach. His skin was clammy, damp with sweat, but he was still warm. That was good, right? That had to be good. It can only be good. Warm flesh means there’s life.

"Toji, wake up! You gotta wake up." Your voice wavered, but you didn’t stop, didn’t let yourself break.

His eyelids twitched, the barest movement, but he didn’t fully stir. His lips parted, a low, incoherent mumble slipping out. At first, you couldn’t make it out. It was just a string of fragmented words, barely above a whisper.

"Tsumiki?" Your stomach twisted. His voice was slurred, disoriented, almost childlike in the way it fumbled over the syllables. “....’miki….”

"I….I’m here, dad. Don’t worry." Tsumiki choked out, clutching his hand even as she kept the phone to her ear. "Just hang on, okay? The ambulance is coming."

But he didn’t respond. His strong brow furrowed, another murmured whisper tumbling from his lips. You leaned in closer, your pulse pounding so hard you thought your ribs might crack under the pressure of it all.

"—don’t...go yet— ‘m not—"

Your breath caught. His fingers twitched weakly against yours. "Toji?"

Still, he wouldn’t fully wake. His words became softer, less tangible, slipping through your grasp like sand. It wasn’t like him. Toji Fushiguro had always been loud, solid, and unwavering. Even in your worst fights, even in the coldest moments of your marriage, he had always been there.

But right now—right now, he was slipping. 

"Mom—" Tsumiki’s voice broke, and you turned to see her eyes shining with tears, her grip on her phone tight.

"They’re on their way, mom." she said, her voice trembling. "But they—they said it could take a few minutes."

A few minutes.

That was too long.

"Come on, baby, stay with me, please." you whispered, brushing his damp hair back, your voice barely above a plea. “Stay awake.”

His lips parted again, another breathy mumble escaping. This time, it was almost too soft for you to hear. But you knew you heard it. And your heart clenched so hard it physically hurt about how it made you feel.

"‘M sorry…"

You swallowed thickly, fingers tightening against his. "You don’t—You don’t get to say that, Toji. Not now."

But he didn’t respond.

And for the first time in years, the weight of unspoken words that came and went. All the years of love, of resentment, of mistakes and trying and failing and trying again seemed to settle so heavily in your chest, you felt like you might break under it.

You just needed him to hold on.

Just for a few more minutes.

You just needed a few more minutes.

All the sudden, you found yourself praying.

That was all you could do now, truly.

YOU’VE ALWAYS HATED HOSPITALS. They were so devoid of everything that makes life what it is. And you hated it. It’s why you always bring the doctor to you rather than going yourself.

You were too afraid, so disgusted by it. Disturbed by the essence of it being so terribly empty. But right now, you really had no choice. This was the only place you could bring Toji to safety.

The hospital was cold. Too cold. Even though the air-conditioning wasn’t particularly strong, the sterile white walls and the harsh fluorescent lighting made everything feel distant. Clinical. Like this was happening to someone else, in some other reality, and not you.

"Fushiguro Toji?" a doctor finally approached, her face too neutral, too practiced. "Are you his family?"

"Yes, I’m his wife." you answered immediately, your voice coming out steadier than you felt. Tsumiki nodded beside you, her hand still gripping yours tightly. “This is our daughter.”

The doctor sighed, glancing down at the clipboard in her hands. "We managed to stabilize him, but… there’s something we need to discuss."

You hated that pause. Hated the way doctors always did this. Even when you were doing things like this at work in all those massive sets and their dramatic music. Everything was about framing bad news like it needed cushioning, as if it would hurt less if they eased you into it. And to know that it's happening to you in real life, it made you feel so ill.

"What is it?" you asked, throat dry.

"Mr. Fushiguro’s condition is… progressing faster than we initially anticipated." she said carefully. "The lymphoma has advanced significantly, and—"

The rest of her words blurred as she continued to speak right in front of you. The state of shock perhaps will never go away. Everything felt like it was wrong, like it was eager to crash down on you a thousand times. Your breath caught in your throat. Tsumiki stiffened beside you, her fingers digging into your arm.

"What do you mean?" you finally managed, voice barely above a whisper.

The doctor sighed. "I mean that his body isn’t responding to treatment the way we had hoped. The disease is advancing aggressively, and at this stage…" She hesitated, choosing her words. "We need to have a serious discussion about long-term care options."

"Long-term care?" Tsumiki’s voice cracked. "You mean—like, hospice?"

The doctor didn’t answer right away, but her silence was an answer in itself. Tsumiki let out a shaky breath, her other hand covering her mouth as she turned away, shoulders trembling.

You felt like the ground had been ripped out from under you. Like you were standing in the middle of a collapsing building, bricks of reality crumbling all around you. And you hated it. You hated it more than anything. You didn't want this. Never in a lifetime did you want this.

"No, no." you said, shaking your head, as if denial could make this go away. "No, that—there has to be something else. There has to be more treatment, right?"

The doctor gave you a look. It was not unkind, but firm. It had to be, when she has to tell you something as heavy as this. This was her job. Perhaps that's why you weren't screaming in her face. She didn't deserve it. She was just doing what she could. They all were.

"We will do everything we can to make him comfortable."

Comfortable.

The word felt like a death sentence.

You think you were feeling sick.

"How long?" you forced yourself to ask, because if you didn’t, the question would eat you alive.

Another hesitation. "If the progression continues at this rate… months. Maybe less."

A sharp, strangled sound escaped from your daughter Tsumiki. You turned just in time to see her back hitting the wall as she slid down, arms wrapping around herself. She looked miserable, near to tears as she tried to process it all.

You wanted to move, to hold her, to tell her something that would make this better but there was nothing. Because nothing was going to make this better. You were just as much as devastated as your own daughter.

"There has to be something else." The words spilled out of you before you could stop them, sharp and desperate.

The doctor hesitated, her expression unreadable but not unkind. “We understand this is difficult, but—”

"No." You shook your head, taking a step forward as if that would somehow make a difference. "You’re talking like this is already over, doctor. But you know it’s not. There has to be something—anything. More treatment, another hospital, a specialist. We are willing to do everything. My husband can’t….He can’t…."

"Mom….." Tsumiki’s voice was small, raw, but you couldn’t stop now.

"He’s strong. People know that." you insisted, clinging to that fact because Toji had survived everything. He was stubborn, unrelenting. He wasn’t the kind of man who just gave up. "There has to be more options."

The doctor let out a slow breath, her hands tightening around the clipboard. “Mr. Fushiguro has already undergone chemotherapy, months ago. But the cancer is aggressive. We can discuss alternative treatments, Mrs. Fushiguro. However, given the stage of progression, I want to be honest with you—none of them come without risks.”

"I don’t care about the risks. If there’s something, anything, we’ll do it."

Tsumiki reached for your arm, her grip shaky. "Mom… what if—what if dad doesn’t want more treatment?"

Your stomach twisted, the words hitting deeper than they should have. Because it was possible, wasn’t it? Fushiguro Toji had made his peace with this. That he had chosen not to fight this battle any longer. Not because he didn’t care, but because he had already been fighting it alone for longer than you even knew.

You didn’t know what was worse: the idea of losing him or the thought that he had been expecting to leave. “I’m not letting him die on me. On us. Not yet. This is not....We have to try.”

The doctor studied you carefully before speaking again. “We can explore clinical trials. There are experimental treatments available. There are ones that have worked for some patients with similar diagnoses. I can help you attain some access. But it’s important to understand that there are no guarantees.”

"I don't need a guarantee. I just need a chance." You whispered to her. "I just need some chances for my husband's life."

She gave a small nod. “Then we’ll go over the options with him. He should be the one to decide how he wants to proceed.”

You sniffed. “That would be fine. Please make the arrangements as soon as necessary. I want my husband to come home safe and sound.”

"Would you like to see him?" the doctor asked softly. “I think he’s conscious enough to receive visitors.”

Your throat tightened.

Yes.

Of course.

But at the same time… you weren’t ready. You weren’t ready for what came next. And for the first time in a long time, you had no idea what the hell you were supposed to do. How are you going to do all of this?

The walls felt like they were closing in. Even as the doctor stood there, waiting for your response, the air around you felt suffocating. Everything about it just felt thick with the weight of something irreversible. Something that was never going to change.

"Would you like to see him?"

The words barely registered.

How could they ever do so?

Toji was here. He was still breathing. Still alive. But now, you were being told that it wouldn’t be for much longer. Months. Maybe less. A life measured in maybes. Your body felt heavy, the kind of weight that came from grief that hadn't even settled in yet, but you knew it was there, waiting, coiling itself in your ribs like a sickness.

Tsumiki made a sound. It was a sharp, choked sob before she clamped a hand over her mouth, as if she could swallow it down. But she couldn't. You both couldn't. "Mom…" she whispered, her voice breaking apart.

And suddenly, you were moving towards your little girl, your hands reaching for her, pulling her into your arms before she crumbled completely. She didn't resist. She just collapsed against you, shaking so hard it hurt to feel.

"He can't….He can’t just go, mom." she gasped against your shoulder, her fingers digging into your back. "He can't just leave. Not yet."

You squeezed your eyes shut, swallowing the lump in your throat. "I know, baby. I know."

It wasn’t fair. None of it was. You should have known something was wrong. You should have seen it, should have paid closer attention instead of getting caught up in the relief of finally having more time together. 

You had spent so long chasing each other through the chaos of your lives, waiting for a moment to just be and now that moment had arrived, only for it to be stolen before it even truly began. After all you had been through, suffering through and this is the reward of that steadfast spirit?

"He knew."

The thought was sudden. Sharp. You pulled away just enough to look at Tsumiki’s face, her red-rimmed eyes full of the same realization. She looked ever so devastated as her eyes narrowed towards the room door.

"He knew about it and we didn’t, mom." she repeated, her voice steadier this time. "He’s known for a while, hasn’t he?"

And just like that, everything clicked into place. The fatigue that lingered in his eyes even on the good days. The way he had been more present, more patient, more aware of the moments he had with you and the kids. The way he had laughed a little softer, held on a little longer.

He had been preparing for this.

And he hadn’t said a damn thing.

He didn’t feel like doing that at all.

You felt a flash of something—anger, maybe. But it was weak, lost under the sheer force of heartbreak. "I need to see him." Your voice barely sounded like your own, but it was firm. "Now."

Tsumiki nodded, wiping at her face, trying to collect herself even as the tears kept coming. The doctor said something, something about leading the way, about making sure you had time with him but you barely heard it. You didn’t care.

Because all you could think about was how the man you had spent eighteen years fighting for, fighting with, had been fighting this alone. And you weren’t sure whether you could forgive him for that. But you knew, without a doubt, that you weren’t going to let him do it alone anymore.

The moment you stepped into the room, Fushiguro Toji looked up. His face was pale, his skin pulled taut with exhaustion, but his lips curled into something wry, something casual. It was like he wasn’t hooked up to an IV, like he wasn’t the one lying in a hospital bed with death looming over him.

"Well, shit. I must really look bad if you’re already crying."

That was it. That was all it took for something inside you to snap. "Don’t you dare." Your voice trembled, but it was loud, sharp. "Don’t you fucking dare sit there and joke about this!"

Toji blinked, taken aback for the first time. "Hey—"

"No! No ‘hey’!" The dam had broken, and you couldn’t stop it now. "You knew! You knew for how long, Toji? How long have you been keeping this from me? From us?"

His lips parted, but no excuse came. No reassurance.

"You—" you let out a shaky breath, your body trembling. "You let me believe everything was finally okay. As much as there's so much wrong we can't avoid, hat we were finally settled down. You let us believe that we had time…..that we finally had time to just be and now you're telling me you're dying? That we only have months?"

Tsumiki stood beside you, her hands clasped in front of her, lips pressed together like she was forcing herself to stay strong. "Mom, please…." she tried, but you were past the point of stopping.

"How could you do this to us? I haven’t even told Megumi and I just…." The words cracked as they left your mouth. "How could you do this to me? What do I do, Toji?"

Toji sighed, running a hand down his face. "I didn’t want this."

"You didn’t want this?" A bitter laugh bubbled up from your throat. "Like I did? Like Tsumiki did? Like Megumi did? Like we wouldn’t have wanted to be there for you?"

His fingers curled into the hospital blanket. “I’m sorry….”

"You should’ve told me, you idiot." you whispered, voice raw, broken. “You could have died for good. And I wouldn’t have known. And I just….”

"And then what?" His voice was quiet, careful.

"And then we would’ve fought for you."

Toji’s eyes flickered, something almost imperceptible passing through them before he looked away. That was when the tears truly came. You shook your head, wiping furiously at your face, but it didn’t stop the ache in your chest, the way your whole body felt like it was collapsing under the weight of grief that hadn’t even fully arrived yet.

"You were going to let me find out like this? How could you?”

Toji exhaled, a long, slow breath. "I just… I didn’t want this to be what our life became. I didn’t want to see you look at me like you’re looking at me now."

You let out a sharp breath, stepping forward, reaching for his hand despite everything. His fingers twitched under yours, hesitant, but he didn’t pull away. He didn't want to. Not when you were this upset.

"And what about me, Toji?" you whispered. "What about how I was supposed to look at you when you were gone?"

Silence.

For the first time in years, he had nothing to say.

And that was what scared you the most.

Your grip on his hand tightened, desperate and unrelenting.

"You're not leaving me." The words came out ragged, almost broken, but they were firm. A demand, not a plea. "You're not leaving us."

Toji said nothing.

His silence only made the panic rise in your chest, your breath hitching as fresh tears slipped down your face. "We'll find something else. Another way. There has to be something."

Still, he stayed quiet, his jaw clenched, his blue-green gaze flickering with something unreadable. "Toji." Your voice cracked. "Say something."

He exhaled, slow and measured, before giving a small nod. Not a word. Not a promise. Just a nod. It wasn't enough. But it was all you had. And that was when you finally broke ever so harshly, like a wave crashing against a cliff. 

The sob tore through you as you collapsed into his arms, gripping onto him like you could hold him here, like if you just held tight enough, time would stop. His arms wrapped around you, slow at first, then firm. Strong. Steady.

He could see Tsumiki trying to hold it together just behind you from the peripheral of his eye, his heart breaking even more at the sight. He hated seeing her so upset. It was harder when it came to the kids. That's why knew he wasn't prepared to see his son's reaction.

"You're not leaving me, goddamn it." you whispered again, your voice muffled against his hospital gown. "I won't let you."

His chest rose and fell beneath you, and you felt it when he pressed his lips to the top of your head, warm and lingering. "I know."

It was a lie.

You both knew it.

But right now, you need to believe it.

epilogue

Fushiguro Tsumiki had never been one to hesitate when it came to family. So when her father Fushiguro Toji started looking smaller in his hospital bed, nothing like the strong, energetic man he used to be, when the weight he had always carried with ease now dragged his shoulders down, when the exhaustion in his face became permanent.

She knew she had to do something.

She had to save her dad.

She wasn't ready to let him go just yet.

She still needed him.

"I want to donate blood to my dad." The words were firm when she said them to the nurse, standing at the reception desk with unwavering resolve.

The nurse blinked at her, startled. "Oh—well, that’s very kind of you, but we’d have to check if you’re a match first."

"I am, I know I am." Tsumiki answered quickly. "I’m AB negative, just like my dad."

The nurse nodded but still reached for a form. "That’s good to hear, but we’ll need to confirm your blood type. It won’t take long, just a quick sample, okay?"

Tsumiki nodded, rolling up her sleeve without hesitation. “Alright. Go drain me.”

Fushiguro Tsumiki hated needles. She always had. She still remembered being a kid, clutching Toji’s hand as the doctor readied the syringe for her booster shots, his deep chuckle rumbling beside her. 

“C’mon, ‘Miki, don’t tell me you’re scared of a tiny–ass needle.”

She had been. But she wasn’t scared now. She can't afford to be that right now. She had to be strong. She can't be weak. Not when Fushiguro Toji looked weaker every day, when his skin lost its color, when his voice, her father’s voice wasn’t as strong as it used to be.

And she hated it.

She needed his strength back.

She needed him back.

So she sat there in the hospital chair, rolling up her sleeve without hesitation, ignoring the way her pulse quickened as the nurse tied a band around her arm. "Just a little pinch, alright?" the nurse said with a small smile.

Tsumiki nodded and looked away. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” She smiled at you. “Thank you for doing this for your dad. You’re such a sweet young lady.”

“I’ll do anything for my dad.” Tsumiki smiled at her. 

The nurse smiles wider. “I know you would.”

The sting barely registered.

This was for Toji.

This was nothing.

She flexed her fingers as the vial filled with dark crimson, her lifeblood. His lifeblood. The moment it was over, she pressed a cotton swab against the small puncture, thanked the nurse, and stepped out into the hallway.

And then she waited. The minutes ticked by slowly, her knee bouncing with impatience. It would be fine. It had to be fine. She was AB negative, just like him. Just like her dad. The shuffle of footsteps pulled her out of her thoughts.

Tsumiki looked up just as the nurse approached, holding a clipboard to her chest, her expression unreadable. For some reason, the sight of it made something heavy settle in Tsumiki’s gut. And she didn’t like that feeling.

"Miss Fushiguro?"

"Yeah?"

The nurse hesitated for a beat before glancing at the file again. "I just wanted to clarify something—you said you had type AB negative blood, correct?"

"Yeah." Tsumiki frowned. "I mean, I always thought I did. My dad is AB negative, so I should be, too, right?"

The nurse pursed her lips. "Well… your results just came back, and you’re actually O positive."

Tsumiki blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

"That… that can’t be right."

O positive? That wasn’t right. That wasn’t possible.

"I’m sorry, dear, but the results are accurate." The nurse’s voice was gentle. "You’re an O positive blood. Which means you’re not a match for your father’s blood type."

The world tilted beneath her feet. "No, no." she said quietly to herself. "No, there’s….there’s been a mistake. My dad is AB negative. He has to be my dad."

The words died in her throat. Because suddenly, memories started surfacing. Her father’s teasing voice: "You’re still my little girl, yeah?" 

The way her mother had hesitated that night when she poured her heart out. The way Nanami Kenshin had always looked at her with something unreadable in his bright eyes. The blood drained from her face.

"I… I need to go."

She turned on her heel before the nurse could say anything else.

Because suddenly, her father’s illness wasn’t the only thing breaking her heart.

And she hated how this was the beginning of the never ending break.

[thexmistress]

the good life ― masterlist.

“You can’t fix everything. You should know that.” you replied, your words trembling as they left your lips. “I don’t know if I can ever forget that.” He nodded slowly, his expression one of deep regret. “I know.” Silence grew once more between the two of you.  You could feel the tears pricking your eyes harshly. And you could tell that he was noticing as much as you.

> toxic till the end

> hugs and kisses

"Are you going to leave me?" He asks, his voice steady, but his eyes....those tired, weary eyes, they betray him. You snicker, shaking your head. "Do you really have to ask me that?" He exhales slowly, his fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides. "I suppose not." "I loved you, Kento." Your voice softens, but the weight of betrayal lingers between you. "And godforsakenly, I still do." His jaw tightens. "I never wanted to hurt you." You let out a hollow laugh. "Yeah? Funny how that's always the excuse." Silence. A moment too long. Then he nods. Once, twice—as if accepting a sentence he always knew was coming.

> hugs and kisses

> wildflower > killing me softly (with his song, telling my whole life with his words) < COMING SOON >

Gojo Satoru steps closer, his usual arrogance stripped away, leaving only quiet desperation in its place. His voice is barely above a whisper. "I know I’m a younger man, but I just…" He trails off, searching your face for something. It felt like hope, maybe. You shake your head, your arms crossing tightly over your chest. "I’m married." The words taste bitter, laced with an exhaustion you can’t hide. Satoru exhales sharply, his jaw clenching. "To a man who hurts you." His voice is firmer now. "I would never hurt you." You scoff, letting out a hollow laugh. "Oh, really?" Your eyes meet his, and for a moment, the weight of everything threatens to crush you both. Satoru doesn’t flinch. "Really." he murmurs, his gaze steady, unwavering. "Let me prove it."

> killing me softly (with his song, telling my whole life with his words) < COMING SOON >

[thexmistress]

A new version of Eren I’m imagining right now.

[thexmistress]

This is an appreciation post for the fanfic authors who aren’t included on rec lists

For the fanfic authors who don’t get art of their fics

For the fanfic authors who can’t get to 1000/500/100 hits

For the fanfic authors who don’t get comments/reviews

For the fanfic authors who write for small fandoms

For the fanfic authors who write rarepairs or gen fics

For the fanfic authors who get hate for the ships/characters/fandoms they write

For the fanfic authors who write in English despite it not being their first language

For the fanfic authors who don’t write in English

For the fanfic authors who don’t think anyone reads or likes their work

For the fanfic authors who aren’t big name fans

For the fanfic authors who don’t get requests in their inboxes

For the fanfic authors who can’t write stories that are more than a thousand words

For the fanfic authors who only write one ship

For the fanfic authors who are just starting

For the fanfic authors who have been writing fic for years

For the fanfic authors who use fanfic to practice writing

For the fanfic authors who write self-insert fics

For the fanfic authors who write about their OCs

For the fanfic authors who write to vent or cope

For the fanfic authors who are just waiting for their big break

Keep creating, I love you ❤️

[thexmistress]

I DON’T WANT SMUT I WANT FLUFF OR SOME GOOD ASS ANGST GOD DAMN IT

[thexmistress]

Okay I kinda ate with this one 🤪

𝕾𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖉 𝖇𝖔𝖓𝖉𝖘

She/her. Gojo x Reader x Sukuna

🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮

“Satoru Gojo has been severely injured in his fight with Sukuna. Report to the scene immediately. Backup will come shortly after……..protect Gojo at all cost.” - click’

🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮

Y/N stepped into the dimly lit battlefield, the oppressive atmosphere pressing down like a weight. This was inevitable. She knew it. She should’ve cherished the time she had but she fell victim to ’living in the moment’ and now for the first time she feels regret for not savoring the cuddles, the kisses, the laughter, the love making, and his eyes. As quick as that regretful feeling came it left as soon as she laid eyes on Gojo laying unconscious, blood trickling from a deep wound.

She clenched her fists, determination and fear warring within her. Across the clearing stood Sukuna, his malevolent aura filling the space. His eyes lit up with recognition and something darker when he saw her. His inner will resisting the urge his body is giving him. It wants to feel her.

It wants to succumb to her caresses.

It wants to bathe in her pleasure.

His eyebrows twitch and he grimaced, but he won’t allow it.

“So, you’ve come,” Sukuna sneered, his voice a blend of mockery and nostalgia. “Y/N, it’s been a while.”

Memories of a past life flashed through Y/N’s mind: stolen moments, shared whispers, and forbidden love. He was her first love, her first everything, and she can’t help but to feel a lingering longing for him while being in his presence. If it wasn’t for him being in her presence she would probably be crying right now once the realization kicks in that this is the end.

What a cruel fate that was given to her. To think she would face her demise by the hands of the one man she truly gave her heart to. The only man that constantly walked over her heart and was still able to reside in it. But that was then. Now, she was committed to Gojo, the man who had shown her what true love and loyalty meant. The man that helped her rebuild herself into the woman that she is now. He will always be the one for her no matter the history between her and Sukuna.

“I won’t let you hurt him,” Y/N said, her voice steady but her heart pounding. She remembered the warmth of Gojo’s smile, the way his presence made her feel safe. She couldn’t lose him.

Sukuna’s laugh was cold and sharp, but there was a fleeting softness in his eyes, a glimmer of the man she once loved. “Always so defiant. Let’s see if you can back it up.”

Without warning, he lunged. Y/N dodged, her body moving with practiced grace. She countered with a swift kick, but Sukuna blocked it effortlessly, his strength evident. They exchanged blows, each one resonating with the force of their past and the intensity of the present.

“You’re still as fierce as ever,” Sukuna taunted, his eyes never leaving hers, a strange mixture of pride and sorrow in his gaze.

“And you’re still as arrogant,” Y/N retorted, summoning her cursed energy. She unleashed a barrage of attacks, each one pushing Sukuna back a step. But he recovered quickly, his smirk never faltering.

“You know, we could have ruled together,” Sukuna said, his tone almost wistful as he deflected her strikes. “But you chose him.”

Y/N’s eyes blazed with anger and a touch of sadness. “I chose a future. I chose love.”

Their fight raged on, the ground beneath them cracking from the force of their clashes. Y/N’s strength was waning, but she refused to back down. She had to protect Gojo, even if it meant sacrificing herself.

With a final, desperate surge of power, Y/N launched herself at Sukuna. He met her head-on, their energies colliding in a blinding explosion. When the dust settled, Y/N lay on the ground, her body broken but her spirit unyielding.

Sukuna stood over her, breathing heavily, a mix of frustration, admiration, and regret in his eyes. He knelt down, brushing a strand of hair from her face, his touch surprisingly gentle. “You were always too stubborn for your own good.”

As the first rays of dawn broke over the horizon, Gojo stirred. His vision was blurred, but he could make out a figure standing over another. His heart raced as recognition set in.

“No…” Gojo whispered, pushing himself up despite the pain. “Y/N!”

He stumbled towards them, his blue eyes widening in horror as he saw Y/N’s lifeless body beneath Sukuna’s shadow. Anger and sorrow twisted his features as he unleashed his cursed energy, ready to attack.

Sukuna turned, meeting Gojo’s gaze with a chilling calm, but there was a flicker of regret in his eyes. “She fought well,” he said simply, stepping back. “But she couldn’t defeat me.”

Gojo fell to his knees beside Y/N, his hands trembling as he cradled her face. “Y/N… why?” Tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with the dirt and blood. He looked up at Sukuna, his eyes blazing with fury and heartbreak. “I’ll make you pay for this.”

Sukuna smiled, but it was tinged with sadness. “I’ll be waiting,” he said before disappearing into the shadows, leaving Gojo to grieve.

Gojo held Y/N’s body close, his heart breaking with each passing moment. The woman he loved, the one who had given him hope and strength, was gone. But her sacrifice would not be in vain. He would honor her memory by ensuring that Sukuna would never hurt anyone else again. The fight was far from over, and Gojo was ready to see it through to the end.

🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮

Requests are opennnnnn! ♡´･ᴗ･`♡ ⁱ ᵈᵒⁿᵗ ᵈᵒ ˢᵐᵘᵗ ᵗʰᵒᵘᵍʰʰʰ

[thexmistress]

Imagine hating on me but i spend my free time maladaptive daydreaming about getting raw dogged by fictional men

[thexmistress]

To the end (Chapter 2)

The end of the world as you knew it began with the virus spreading in your dorm. Six months later, you are once again on the run. By your side is Sukuna, the bad boy of your camp, the most unlikely companion you expected. But maybe this is exactly as it should be because sometimes hope comes in the form of a smug smirk and a tattooed pair of sword-yielding arms.

Masterpost ++ Chapter 1

Pairing: Sukuna x Reader (female) Genre: Zombie Apocalypse AU, horror, smut and some fluff Playlist: Zombie Apocalypse Word Count: 6k Warnings: 18+, violence, gore, angst, smut, rough sex, cum-eating, squirting, zombies, fighting, knives, blood, mentions of several side characters' deaths, alcohol, cigarettes, suicidal thoughts. This AU is based on The Walking Dead, so imagine a world like this. It's cruel and hopeless at times, but there is also a love story :) All characters are of age. This story is 18+. Minors don't interact.

You wake up with a start. You don't know where you are, and your body reacts instinctively, making you jump out of bed, ready to flee or fight or do both. But you only get a few steps before you run into a solid chest and hear an amused laugh.

"Easy there, princess. Don't knock yourself out."

You blink up at the owner of that chest. And finally, your mind catches up with what is going on. The zombie attack last night. Your unexpected savior. His katana cutting through undead bodies as he slayed through them with all his anger and strength. Pink hair and red and black blood.

Sukuna.

You take a step back, feeling relieved and intimidated at the same time. Sunlight is streaming in through the small window of the hut, mercilessly showing all the reminders of last night's fight on your new companion's skin and clothes.

He still looks as gory as last night, with all the dried blood and dirt splattered all over his face and clothes. The tank top he's wearing looks stiff from all the filth. 

Unbidden, a memory comes to your mind. You overheard several women in the camp say that Sukuna only wears that tank top because it shows off his muscular arms and pecs. They always giggled when saying it, their eyes traveling across the camp to where Sukuna was standing, letting their hungry gazes trail shamelessly over his body.

Your lip twitches.

You know that Sukuna had a certain reputation in your camp. The bad boy, with a short temper and an intimidating aura, but who is also a big flirt. He is a guy who knows how hot he is and enjoys using this to his advantage.

At least three girls in your camp claimed to have slept with Sukuna, and at one point, two of them got into a dramatic argument because they were jealous of each other. They fought over him while Sukuna leaned back in his camping chair and watched them with an amused smirk on his handsome face, enjoying the show way too much. In the end, they both screamed at him to pick his fave, and he just shook his head and told them he didn't do favorites.

If you're honest, it had been quite entertaining. Like watching some trashy reality tv-show. A little normality in the middle of the apocalypse.

Right now, the muscular arms in question are filthy with dried blood, and the stench of death and decay clings to them. But you know that you aren't in any better state. Your clothes feel disgusting where they cling to your skin, sticky with gore and sweat. And you don't even want to know what your hair and skin must look like after all the blood raining down on you last night.

There's a change of clothes in your backpack, but it would be a waste to change into them while you are still so dirty yourself.

Sukuna seems to think the same thing because he informs you:

"Now that you're awake, we can go check in which direction the creek is. I think we shouldn't be too far away. Are you ok to go?"

You nod and try a small smile, though you are sure it fails miserably. Your muscles are sore from the fighting and running last night, and the emotional fatigue is even worse.

Your friend comes to your mind again. Over and over, the same horrible image of her body getting buried under the zombies. Their hands and teeth tearing at her flesh. You feel bile rising in your throat and have to press a hand over your mouth.

Sukuna lifts an eyebrow, giving you a skeptical look before he clicks his tongue.

"Look, since you and I are in this together now, I have some rules, and the first rule is that you don't lie to me. So I'm asking you again, are you ok?"

"I...yeah...I..."

He rolls his eyes dramatically, crossing his muscular arms in front of his chest and looking down at you with a mocking expression on his face.

"Oooh, how convincing. Try again."

His tone is too mocking, his gaze too infuriatingly smug. Something in you snaps. All the anger and frustration and fear you bottled up explodes out of you as you glare at him and spit out angrily:

"Of course, I'm not ok! Are you ok? I don't think so! No one in this world is ok! I am tired of all this fighting. I lost my friend last night! I have no idea what to do or where to go. How am I supposed to be ok? But I am thirsty and covered in dirt and blood and other disgusting things, and I just want to get clean and drink something and maybe feel a tiny bit more comfortable! So can we please go find that creek?! If I have a breakdown on the way, just leave me there to die! I won't be a burden to you!"

Your eyes meet a pair of amused maroon ones. The owner of those eyes grins at you with that typical rude smirk, and his tongue is sticking out between his teeth, making him look so inappropriate somehow. Sukuna always has such an infuriating way of looking at people! It drives you up the wall!

His eyes sparkle when he cocks his head and tells you in an overly fake sweet voice:

"Aww, see, that's the truth. I knew you could do it. Wasn't that hard, was it? So, from now on, you will always be this honest with me, ok?"

You glare at him. Asshole! But his smug smirk grows even wider.

"And the second rule is that you always do as I tell you. Now follow me, brat."

You can't stop yourself from muttering under your breath, "The only brat here is you."

Sukuna's gaze snaps to yours, his eyes fixing you with an unreadable expression. For a second, you are sure you have gone too far, but then Sukuna laughs.

"If being a brat keeps me alive in this fucked up world, then I think it's a good thing. Maybe being a bit fucked up myself helps."

He straps his katana across his back before leaning down to grab your backpack and shoving it against your chest.

"Get whatever you need for a little excursion."

Sukuna pushes the heavy cupboard away from the door as if it weighs nothing, making you think that, as insufferable as he is, he was probably the best person you could run into last night.

He and his brother always were the strongest in your camp. The Itadori twins who chopped more wood in an hour than anyone else. They taught others how to fight and were always the first ones in line when an attack happened.

The difference is that Yuuji is friendly and all smiles and warm words, helpful and ready to sacrifice himself for others in a heartbeat. A hero straight out of a fairytale. The knight in shining armor.

Sukuna, on the other hand, is a bit of an asshole. Arrogant, rude, and ready to fight anyone over petty stuff. Allergic to people telling him what to do. Infamous for his snide remarks.

He once dragged two teenagers who had tried to sneak away back to the camp and snapped at them that he wouldn't die for idiots like them and that if he ever catches them again doing stuff that puts everyone else in danger, he would make sure to feed them to the zombies himself. Everyone in your camp had believed him.

So if Yuuji is the hero, then Sukuna is probably the anti-hero.

You would feel more comfortable with Yuuji here, but you know you shouldn't be complaining about getting the wrong twin. After all, Sukuna is the one who saved your life last night. And if you want to keep living for a while longer, he is your best bet.

And so you quickly put on your backpack, grab your knife, and follow your new zombie apocalypse partner out of the hut and into the forest.

Sukuna is good at this, you realize.

It's the first time you have joined him on an excursion. You always assumed he was just good at fighting. A strong, tall guy who used to be the star player of some sport team in college and now is valuable to the camp because of his brute strength and ability to fight.

But to your surprise, he is also adept at navigating expertly through the forest.

When he catches you watching him, he answers your questioning looks with a short explanation about how to use nature's clues for navigation. He points out markings on the tree barks and tells you what to learn from animal tracks on the ground.

"And all that tells me that the creek should be in this direction."

You follow him, genuinely impressed by his skills.

"So, did you learn all that after the virus, or did you know it before?"

"I knew it before. My grandpa used to take my brother and me hiking and camping almost every weekend when we were kids. Explained all kinds of survival stuff to us. He said those are the truly important things a man needs to know. I guess he was right after all."

Sukuna laughs softly, sounding a lot less intimidating than he usually does to you. His maroon eyes light up when you look at him, and a smile blooms on his face, making him look weirdly pretty despite the blood on his face.

He points a long finger towards a small opening between the trees, and when you follow his gaze, you see something glittering in the distance. Sunlight reflecting on water, you realize.

You smile too, feeling some tension leave your body at the prospect of being able to clean up and get something to drink.

"You did it, Sukuna!"

The rest of the walk goes by without any disturbances. Finally, you reach the small creek and fill your water bottles and wash your faces and arms.

Sukuna shoves the last water bottle into his backpack and jerks his chin in the direction the water flows.

"I want to follow it downhill. Maybe there's a pond down there where we can bath."

He is right. In the nearby valley lies a small pond. The water is peaceful and clear, undisturbed by any undead creatures.

You want to inquire who should get into the water first, but when you turn to Sukuna, he is already grabbing the hem of his filthy tank top and pulling it over his head. It happens so fast that you don't even have time to process what he's doing. You blink at his naked torso, the defined muscles of his pecs and abs, the black tattoed lines inked into his tan skin.

Your mind is barely processing this when Sukuna's long fingers are already wandering to his belt and undoing it before they proceed to open the button and zipper of his black jeans.

You are still staring at him speechlessly when his fingers hook in the hem of his jeans and the black boxer briefs he's wearing underneath and start to push them down.

That's when you finally get out of your momentary daze, and a strangled sound escapes your mouth. You quickly look away, pressing your hands in front of your eyes as you feel your face get hot.

"Hey! What are you doing!?"

Sukuna's low voice sounds amused when he says:

"Aww, do I make you nervous, princess? This is literally the end of the world, and you think I lack decency when I want to get out of my filthy clothes? Just turn around if seeing a naked guy bothers you so much. You are missing out, though."

You roll your eyes at his teasing comment but turn around so your back is to him, heart beating up to your throat.

He is right. There is no need to be so flustered about this. It's no big deal. You are trying to survive out here in this crazy apocalyptic world, so a bit of naked skin shouldn't make you spin out of control. And it's not like Sukuna would be the first guy you see nude.

But if you are honest, Sukuna really makes you nervous. He is hot. He looks and acts like one of those popular jocks at your old college. But not like one of the golden boy types or the team captains. Sukuna looks like one of the troublemakers who would have already gotten kicked out of the team if they weren't so damn talented. 

It makes you nervous to be stuck here with someone like him. Especially since he is so confident, bordering on arrogant. He knows the effect he has on people, and he uses it with far too much glee and smugness.

You wait until he announces in that low, lazy drawl that he is decent again.

"Hey, brat! Your turn."

Your gaze lands on a dripping-wet Sukuna who has his back to you and is currently drying his pink hair with a ratty towel. He is far from decent with the way he looks, clad only in a snug pair of black boxer briefs. But at least he's not entirely naked.

You can't stop yourself from checking out the muscles on his back. They ripple enticingly with every movement of Sukuna's strong arms. And then your gaze gets inevitably drawn to his firm ass and muscular thighs.

You gulp hard. You weren't aware that Sukuna also has those black rings tattoed so far up his thighs. They look scandalous, for lack of a better word. Too sexy.

You are relieved when Sukuna finally puts on a pair of cargo pants a moment later and covers up those tempting markings on his skin.

The cargo pants sit low on his hips, though, showing his defined v-line when he turns around. And the new black tank top Sukuna puts on now doesn't do much to hide his athletic figure either. Maybe the girls in the camp were right, and he really likes to wear things that show off his muscles. Idiot.

You school your expression into an unimpressed blank gaze, but Sukuna's eyes sparkle knowingly at you, and the smirk on his pretty face is far too smug. He knows. He knows that you watched him, that your eyes were glued to his gorgeous body just a minute ago.

Sukuna nods towards the pond.

"Hurry up, princess! I won't look, I promise. Tell me when you're finished."

You hurriedly get undressed and walk into the water, scrubbing off all the grime and blood.

It feels good to be clean again, to see your skin unstained by gore. And Sukuna is surprisingly tame and polite, standing with his back to you, keeping watch of your surroundings as you get out of the water and hastily dry yourself with a spare t-shirt before slipping into your clean change of clothes.

"I want to go back to the camp. Maybe my brother went back too and is waiting for me there."

You nod where you are walking next to Sukuna,

"Yeah, that sounds likely. I hope you'll find him there."

But Yuuji isn't in the camp.

No one is there anymore. At least no one with a beating heart. You feel nauseous when you see one of the girls who fought over Sukuna a few weeks ago slowly dragging her feet across the burnt grass, gurgling noises coming out of her mouth, eyes dead and milky.

This is the true horror of this virus. Seeing familiar faces stripped off anything that made them the person they used to be. Just a blank shell. Only driven by the instinct to eat.

And it's not just the ones who got bitten by a zombie. Everyone who dies comes back as these soulless creatures. The dead only stay dead if you destroy their brain.

You watch Sukuna walk over to the zombie who was once a girl he had fun with. His katana stays in its sheath on his back. Instead, Sukuna pulls a short knife out of one of his pant pockets.

His hand tangles in long hair as he pulls the zombie's head back and then rams a knife into the side of its skull. The gurgling noises die, and the fingers trying to claw at Sukuna finally stop their struggle.

It's over.

Sukuna lowers the dead body to the ground in an oddly gentle way. You can see his lips moving, whispering a last farewell, maybe.

His gaze meets yours as he straightens up again. There's a shadow ghosting over his handsome face. He isn't as unaffected by this as you assumed. It's comforting somehow. As ruthless as Sukuna is when slaying the zombies, his heart doesn't seem to be made out of stone after all when it is someone he used to know.

But he recovers quickly and puts the knife away, and finally pulls his katana out of its sheath as he strides over to the makeshift kitchen of your old camp, where a little group of zombies is gathered.

"Search the remaining trailers for food and other useful stuff, brat. I'll take care of the vermin!"

You watch in grim fascination as Sukuna lifts his katana above his head before bringing the blade down on two undead creatures coming towards him, slicing effortlessly through their necks and severing their heads with one powerful move.

As soon as they hit the ground, Sukuna pushes skillfully between the remaining group of zombies. You hear him laugh gleefully as he makes a pinwheel in their midst, beheading four of them with one spin.

He looks so graceful while killing. It should be repulsive, but it isn't, not after all those months. In this crazy world, you can appreciate the strength and elegance Sukuna has. You can openly admire his fighting skills and his talent when it comes to the kill.

An hour later, you are on your way back to the hut. Sukuna got rid of all the remaining zombies in your old camp, and you collected all the food you could find, plus some more knives and clothes.

You fall in step beside Sukuna, walking at a leisurely pace. It feels almost like a stroll in the woods before the world went into chaos. The sun is warm on your back, bathing the forest in a pretty green light. You are clean and in fresh clothes, and your stomach is filled with water and some leftover stew you found in the camp.

For the first time since last night, you feel at ease.

But unfortunately, peace never lasts long in this new world.

You turn left at the next fork in the forest path, and without a prior warning, you step into the middle of a clearing filled with a herd of zombies.

It's a large group, too fast and too many. They probably got drawn here by the sounds of fighting last night.

Sukuna's hand grabs your arm, and he pulls you against his side, head jerking from left to right as he looks for the best escape route. But you can see that there is no escape.

You are already cut off from escaping to the sides.

"Shit! Hold on to me. We have to go back."

But as soon as you turn around to run back to where you came from, you realize with horror that the group got joined by another coming from the other side. And now you are trapped in the middle of a sea of zombies, which is slowly but gradually closing in on you.

Sukuna pulls you with him. Your eyes dart around hectically, searching for a way out. But the zombies are everywhere.

You are clutching your knife, ready to fight, even though you know that there are too many enemies. It's hopeless. 

But then Sukuna tugs sharply on your arm, and you get pushed against a large tree trunk. At least that's what you think for a second, but then you stumble backwards as the tree gives in.

What you thought was a solid trunk is just a curtain of ivy hanging down over a large opening in the tree trunk. A cavity big enough to fit a person inside. Or two.

Sukuna joins you in the narrow space, pressing his tall body against you so both of you can fit inside. He hastily readjusts the curtain of ivy, hiding you away from the zombies. It barely covers the entrance. You can see the walkers rushing by just about a meter away from your hiding space.

Your heart is hammering painfully in your chest. Too close...they are too close! They will find you! You are trapped here with no means to escape!

Your breath is coming too fast, making you dizzy. Your panicked gaze meets Sukuna's.

"Wh..what are you doing?! We can't stay here. They are everywhere!! We have to move on, Sukuna!"

You whisper-scream at him as you try to leap towards the exit in your blind urge to run. But Sukuna's strong hands dart out, pushing you back against the back of the tree trunk and trapping you there with his tall, muscular body. His fingers tighten around your wrists painfully, holding you in an unrelenting grip.

His voice is soft but harsh, 

"Stop it, brat! There is no escape route. This here is our only chance. We have to wait until they have passed through. Shut the fuck up, or they will find us!"

His eyes are burning into yours, pupils blown wide, face uncharacteristically pale. You can feel his chest heaving against you from his heavy breathing. He is terrified too, you realize.

Your wrists throb where Sukuna's fingers pin them to the tree trunk beside your face. Adrenaline is coursing through your veins, making your head spin. His words register, and you feel more panic well up. No escape? You have to stay here? Barely hidden from view in the middle of a whole crowd of the undead?

You don't want to make a sound, but a sob comes unbidden as the gravity of the situation crashes over you. Your body is trembling uncontrollably. Panic is threatening to drown you and make you do something stupid.

"I...Sukuna, please ...I'm ...I'm so scared...help me, please.."

You are sure you will lose your mind and tumble into another panic attack where your stupid body will betray you and make you scream or cry or do something else that will give your hiding place away.

Sukuna's maroon eyes dart from your eyes down to your mouth and back up again, and then right when you are about to break down, his lips crash into yours, muffling your scream with his mouth.

You are too stunned to do anything. Your breath hitches and your eyes widen even further. But Sukuna's mouth presses hard against yours, lips moving over yours in a savage, desperate kiss.

Your vision is filled with a pair of tattoed eyes staring at you from Sukuna's skin. His real eyes are closed, eyelids fluttering slightly while he kisses you.

You catch yourself thinking that he has really pretty eyelashes, and you stare at them as if the zombies out there will disappear if you just focus enough on the long black lashes and the filigree tattoed lines adorning Sukuna's cheekbones.

But then Sukuna's mouth opens against yours, and his tongue flicks over your lips, making you gasp softly. That's all it takes. Sukuna pushes his tongue between your lips, prying your mouth open, swallowing every sound you could make.

And suddenly, you are kissing him back, licking against his tongue just as desperately and hungrily as he is licking against yours. He is pressing you against the tree trunk, kissing you hungrily until all you can hear and feel and taste is him.

It's your lifeline. Something you can cling to. If Sukuna just keeps kissing you, you can drown out the horror of the world out there.

Your eyes squeeze shut, and you open your mouth further to kiss and lick and bite at Sukuna's lips. It's a wet, messy kiss. Tongues licking against each other desperately. Lips meeting with a bruising force here in the middle of a sea of zombies. Your teeth catch on Sukuna's bottom lip, and you bite it hard.

Sukuna's hands are still pinning your wrists against the tree trunk. He's caging you in with his strong body. Shielding you from everything else but him. There's only Sukuna and his lips and his body pressed against yours.

So alive. So human. So comforting.

You make it back to the hut unscathed.

The group of zombies moved on, probably wandering to your old camp. And Sukuna and you could step out of the tree trunk and continue your journey back to your temporary new shelter.

Not a single word is spoken on the walk back. A tension-filled silence settles between the two of you.

You don't know what to say. Thank you for kissing me out of a panic attack? It feels weird to even think about it. And it doesn't help that your lips are still swollen from the kiss. That you still feel your wrists throb where Sukuna held them so tightly.

Anytime you try to catch Sukuna's eyes, he just stares straight ahead, checking your surroundings for more walkers, focused on survival, or just unwilling to talk about what has happened in that tree trunk.

But the moment you step into the hut and the door closes behind you, Sukuna's maroon gaze fixes you with an intense look.

"Ok, now that we made it back in one piece, you can be mad at me all you want. In my defense, I saved our asses with that little action I pulled in the tree trunk. I'm not going to apologize for that. But punch me if you want. Here, have a swing at me!"

He points to his cheek, looking at you with a challenging twinkle in his eyes.

You stare at him for a long moment, flustered by his directness. It sounds tempting to punch him, to wipe that annoying smirk off his far too-pretty face.

But the thing is, you don't want to punch him. You want to feel the way you felt in those delirious minutes inside that tree trunk again when your head was spinning from Sukuna's kiss. You want to forget about the zombies and the apocalypse, if only for a little while.

Before you can stop yourself, your fingers already tangle in the front of Sukuna's stupid tank top, and you pull him into another kiss.

You catch him off guard, making this tall, muscular guy stumble into you so your bodies end up pressed tightly against each other again. But this time, Sukuna's strong arms wrap around you, firm hands grasping your waist and pulling you against him before his lips close over yours.

He is kissing you just as hard as in the tree trunk. Passionate and with a hunger that makes your head spin. A desperate-sounding whine escapes your mouth. You feel ashamed by how needy you sound, so full of longing.

And Sukuna laughs lowly against your lips in between those heated, breathless kisses, pulling away just enough to ask smugly:

"So, I take it you don't want to punch me, huh?"

"That was a...um, a thank you kiss."

"Yeah? Well, I'm glad we're alive too."

His voice is low, a seductive whisper against the side of your lip, and then that warm mouth moves to your neck, leaving a trail of hot kisses. You gasp, but it turns into a moan when Sukuna's teeth graze over your sensitive skin.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, marveling for a moment at how surprisingly soft it feels, and then Sukuna starts sucking on your pulse point, and you answer him by tugging on that soft pink hair and moaning his name.

And suddenly, there is no stopping the both of you anymore.

Your lips capture each other again in another heated kiss, sloppy and wet. Teeth are clashing, and tongues lick eagerly at each other. Your hands are frantically tearing at each other's clothes in their need for more skin contact.

You don't even make it over to the bed. Instead, you find yourself on the wooden floor of the hut, naked with a needy wet throbbing between your legs, hands tangled in pink hair as you pull an equally naked and riled-up Sukuna on top of you.

You are kissing hungrily, devouring each other like in the tree trunk. Needy and desperate. Hands and lips greedily moving over each other's bodies, needing more. More friction, more body heat, more human touch.

Sukuna fucks you right there on the dirty floor. Makes both of you hiss loudly when he pushes into you for the first time. There's no time to prepare you. Both of you are too horny, too desperate to wait any longer.

Sukuna stretches your pussy open around his fat mushroom head and then rams his whole hard length into you without hesitation, driven by the same feral need you feel too, to forget the hell this world is now and just lose himself in the feeling of your hot wet pussy.

He fucks you like no one else has ever fucked you. Hard and deep, making you gasp and moan and see stars because you think you will fall apart under him.

He is heavy on top of you, fucking you with savage hard thrusts. But you need it like that. Need to get fucked hard. You clutch desperately at Sukuna, pulling him closer, your nails digging into the muscles on his back, legs wrapped tightly around his narrow hips.

The small hut is filled with the sounds of sex, low grunts, harsh panting, and the filthy smacking sound of Sukuna's cock pounding your overly wet pussy and his heavy balls slapping forcefully against your slick skin.

He pulls out almost completely before he snaps his hips again to slam his thick girth back into you. Over and over again. The way Sukuna fucks you is urgent, hungry, almost brutal, knocking the air out of you.

Every hard thrust makes your ass and back slide over the rough wooden floor. But you can't bring yourself to care about the sting. You don't want him to slow down. You want him to fuck you even harder. Fuck away all your fear.

Please don't leave, please don't stop, please just keep my mind off all the bad things!

You moan Sukuna's name, and it comes out as a sob, desperate and needy, followed by a cadence of pleas.

"Sukuna...ah...yes harder, please fuck me harder...need you... I need you please!"

You are answered by a feral-sounding growl coming from Sukuna, and his mouth is on your neck, teeth closing around your sensitive skin, biting you as his pace becomes even more savage, making you gasp and cling to him tightly as your sweet spot gets tortured with hard, precise hits of his thick cockhead.

It's rough, it's dirty. Fucking on the floor with an animalistic, primal urge, void of any restraint.

A broken cry finds its way out of your mouth when the pressure gets overwhelming, and your body arches up against Sukuna's firm muscles.

Your pussy is spasming around his cock, and your nails leave deep scratches on Sukuna's back as an orgasm is fucked out of you that is so intense that you only see white for a moment.

You sob Sukuna's name, feeling tears run down your face as you squirt on his cock, messy and hot, unable to hold back as he keeps pounding your pussy with his unrelenting, brutal thrusts.

"Fuck!"

Sukuna groans loudly against your neck, which is wet from his spit and hot breath. And then he pushes himself off your body, sitting up and rolling his hips a few times more, watching as his slick cock sinks into your wet swollen pussy, stretching you open around his girth before he pulls out of you with a low groan.

You watch in rapt fascination as he wraps a hand around his thick, wet cock, pumping it in his fist with fast strokes while he kneels between your spread legs. He cums all over your stomach, covering your skin with his hot milky seed in several thick spurts.

Sukuna sounds hot when he cums, with low groans and heavy breathing.

Your gaze takes him in, staring at him as he kneels between your legs in all his glory, tall and muscular, black lines adorning his lean muscles, accentuating them beautifully. Abs flexed tightly, pecs taut with the strain of fucking you so hard. His long thick cock is still twitching with the aftershocks of his orgasm, his flushed dark pink tip glistening wetly from your slick and his cum.

He is a picture of perfection in this ugly and cruel world, like a dark angel fallen from heaven to come here and unleash his anger on those vile creatures. Brought here to keep you safe and give you hope.

Sukuna's gaze meets yours, maroon eyes glittering so enticingly with that burning passion as he leans over you.

You shudder in pleasure when he runs two fingers through the trail of his hot cum on your skin and then brings them to your lips and pushes them inside. His pretty eyes never leave your face while you suck the cum off his fingers.

When his fingers finally slip out of your mouth again, they leave a wet trail of spit on your lips and chin. A thin thread of cum and saliva still connects your lips to Sukuna's fingers for a short moment, and you stare at it in fascination until it tears.

The typical smirk is back on Sukuna's face as he sits back on his heels and runs a hand through his pink hair, smoothing the stray strands that fell into his forehead when leaning over you back out of his handsome face.

Your hazy mind is starting to catch up with what just happened and what you did, and you suddenly feel shy. You avert your gaze and try to close your legs. Your arms come up to cross in front of your naked breasts, trying to hide from Sukuna's gaze.

A soft chuckle is heard. Followed by one of Sukuna's large hands landing on your thigh and patting it. He tells you in a low, amused voice:

"No need to act shy now. We fucked on the floor. You ate my cum. My cock is still wet from your pussy. It's fine, trust me. We are in the middle of the apocalypse. This is the end of the world. There's no time to be ashamed. We should fuck a lot more and enjoy our last days. And it helped, didn't it? You feel better, don't you? Getting fucked your brains out helps, hm?"

"Do you have to say all this weird stuff, Sukuna?"

"What else should I call it? Was this a thank you-fuck? Like that kiss you gave me?"

"Maybe it was an I'm-glad-you're-here-with-me-because-I-would-be-scared-out-of-my-mind-if-I-had-to-go-through-all-this-alone-and-also-I-just-wanted-to-forget-all-this-crap-and-just-feel-good-for-a-few-minutes-fuck?"

Sukuna shrugs at your words, and there's an amused glint in his eyes. He looks softer, more relaxed, more like the college jock he is supposed to be. Who he would be if it weren't for this virus spreading through the world and turning everything upside down.

"Well, that's basically what I said. Fuck the apocalypse away for a little while."

He grins at you, looking boyish and charming when your gaze meets his. And when he winks at you, you suddenly struggle to keep the laughter in.

The same amusement is mirrored in Sukuna's eyes, and before you know it, he starts laughing.

A genuine heartfelt laugh. He sounds younger when he laughs like that, more like his brother somehow, less intimidating. You catch yourself joining in, breaking down in giggles, rolling onto your side, and holding your belly from laughing so hard.

You can't even say why you are laughing so much. You know you should stop. You know it's stupid and delusional. And yet it feels so good. It feels so good to let go for a few minutes. To just fuck and laugh and feel like a normal human being.

When your laughter has finally died down, you smile at Sukuna,

"You can have the bed tonight if you want."

But he shakes his head.

"You can sleep first, princess. I'll wake you up in a few hours so you can take over the watch."

His gaze travels over to the bed, and suddenly his eyes widen, and he crawls over, pushing a long muscular arm under the bed. And when Sukuna pulls back, he's holding up an axe.

A big triumphant grin spreads over his face.

"And tomorrow, I'll build us a fence!"

Thank you so much for reading chapter 2!! I used to call the characters in TWD stupid when they had risky sex in that fucked up world, but writing this story made me understand. I am sure getting dicked down by Kuna really helps a lot to take your mind off all that crazy stuff :)

The tree trunk scene was inspired by a scene in TWD where Carl and Enid were hiding from zombies in a large tree too. They didn't kiss in the show, but I thought it would be the perfect opportunity for Sukuna to shut reader up with desperate measures. I think he did great. Thank you for all your hard work, Sukuna! You are the best!

I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Please let me know what you think! Comments and reblogs make me happy!

Chapter 3

[thexmistress]

me when I reach the angst part of the angsty fic that I specifically chose for the angst