timeoveritasconsumofigmentum

[timeoveritasconsumofigmentum]

Yandere!Professor X F!Reader

A/n: I offer all of you this small blurb as a token of appreciation for your patience on upcoming fic and my sudden absence from writing. Thank you so much for sticking around!! Btw he doesn’t have a name so uh i guess imagine your fav lmaoo. Not proofread♡

Check out my other works if you liked this one <3

📓✧˖°. 📓✧˖°. 📓✧˖°. 📓✧˖°. 📓✧˖°. 📓✧˖°. 📓✧˖°. 📓✧˖°.

She smiled innocently sat back in the chair. "What if I wanted you to hurt me? Hm? What then?"

The older male stared at her stunned, his oval frames sipping down his nose a bit. "I-, e-excuse me?"

F/n smoothed her hands on her thighs, pretending to not notice the professors eyes that followed her every movement. "I'm just joking around, jeez," she leaned forward resting her chin on her hand “loosen up."

(Insert name) licked his dry lips, watching closely how her glossed lips pronounced every syllable. "That's not very appropriate, ms.(I/n).” he stated mechanically voice rough, tearing his gaze away to stop his wandering eyes.

F/n let out a small laugh watching as the professor shifted in his chair. “I'm sorry, I'm just bored."

‘Bored?! She was bored while he was over here trying not to cream his pants like a teenager?!’ Subtly shifting the growing bulge in his pants, he clenched his jaw. "Well find a way to occupy yourself."

The young woman raised a brow at his snipped tone, an amused smile soon joining. “Find a way to occupy myself..? Hmmm," she uncrossed her legs slowly, her skirt shifting upwards. "I don't know...l finished my homework for my other periods, frankly no new books have caught my interest. So what should I do?" Her lips puckered up nearly singing the last syllable.

(Insert name) knew what was going on, he knew the second she waltzed in detention with that tiny-skirt and that tight top. That sly nymph, she tried so hard act so innocent but he could see right through her. The fake way she jumps up and down just to see her tits jiggle, the way she pouts her lips making sure to pull everyone's attention on that glossy mouth. "There's books in the back,ms (I/n)." he said slowly, shut eyes in faux annoyance imagining what lied underneath her clothes.

The young woman sighed dramatically, getting up dusting off the back of her skirt. "Fine fine, I'll keep myself busy."

(Insert name watched as she walked up to the book case, the slight sway in her hips... the soft clack of her shoes. 'Damn! Pull yourself together!' His brain hissed at himself as he scribbled a messy grade on his students assignments.

(F/n) smiled to herself as she headed over to back of classroom, of course she knew he was staring! She wasn’t blind, he had been staring at her like hungry animal for the past year. While she did find it odd at first, being the center of attention to person in his position. It began to light a fire in her belly with the taboo that revolved around the relations between student and teacher.

Granted she was in college but he was most likely a couple decades older than her. That didn't stop her from spending her late nights thinking of what he would do to her if she let him, what he thought she could take, if he would reward her for coming to him first. The thoughts making it all so deliciously forbidden.

So she decided that she wanted it to happen, she needed it to happen. By now her clothing had become somewhat shorter and tighter, and she always made sure to put some form of lip product on whenever he was watching her. Trailing breadcrumbs for him to follow, like the pervert she enjoyed.

The towering book shelf wrapped around the wall creating a small nook hidden from view. Tilting her head, her fingertips met a long velvet curtain before slowly pulled it back. A royal blue rug covered the wooden floor, with a leather loveseat squeezed into the corner of the hidden ‘room.’ Tiny fairy lights seemed to float down the ceiling barely skimming her head. "Wow." she whispered softly touching the white walls, the hidden space comfortable and cozy.

“What are you doing back here?" The familiar deep voice sent chills down her spine, a pulse beginning to thrum in her lower region. The tall older man stood at the closed curtained doorway, his stocky build looming over her.

“Nothing! I was just curious on what was back here," she looked up at him index finger curling around a stray piece of her hair, “..I didn't even know the bookshelf went in the wall." She muttered to herself bracing herself for more of his delicious yelling.

"You think you're so cute don't you?" He chuckled out, hand carding through his salt and pepper hair. Her (e/c) eyes widen, her mouth dropping open at his sardonic tone. "E-excuse me?"

“Oh don't act innocent," he scoffed slowly backing her against the wall, his muscled arms caging her in as his veiny hands rested beside her head. “Always trying to bat those pretty little eyes and thinking it’ll get you off the hook? Sorry to break it to you sweetheart, but it's gonna take a lot more to get out of detention." His ominous tone sent tingles to her aching core, her body begging her for relief.

“..What's it going to take?" She whispered looking up into his eyes, one hand creeping up to grasp his forearm the other resting on his muscled chest.

(Insert name) knew he shouldn't have followed her, but the nook was off limits to students! And she needed to follow the rules, at least that's what he told himself when he trailed after her. She looked so enchanted with the small space, the lights made her hair glitter while those damn glossy lips shaped themselves into a soft ‘O’ of wonder. It made him smile wider than he had in a while, he silently slid the curtain closed, simply observing the young woman. He knew no other teachers were on the 2nd floor, and the classroom was large enough for the door to be on the other side of the room. This would be a perfect opportunity, for them to get to know each other. It took him no time to encase her against her wall, the way her chest heaved with every breath. Her eyes looking at him swimming with surprise and desire. The warmth emitting from her body ensnared him, those soft hands placed themselves on his arm and chest. “What are will willing to do?" He found himself whispering breathlessly, meeting her eyes.

(F/n) squeezed her thighs together, staring into his lidded eyes. “Anything you want.” She whispered back.

📓✧˖°. 📓✧˖°. 📓✧˖°. 📓✧˖°. 📓✧˖°. 📓✧˖°. 📓✧˖°. 📓✧˖°.

[timeoveritasconsumofigmentum]

nerd!gojo always holds his hand over yours when you jerk him off. he guides your fist up and down on his cock like he's doing it himself and the whole point of your hand being there is null and void. he might as well be masturbating.

you get upset about it one day, sitting back on your heels and giving his cock a gentle squeeze so he slows down. he looks at you with wide, hazed eyes, glossy with lust and need and everything else that makes him so fucking pretty! "why'd you stop?"

"you could do this yourself," you nod down to where his larger hand wraps around your smaller one, still closed around his weeping cock. "you're doing all the work, toru."

you try to loosen your grip and pull back, maybe suggest some other way of getting him off together, when he tightens his grip and forces your hand to still on his cock. he's a little red in the cheeks, long lashes fluttering under his glasses as he musters up the words he needs.

"i like holding your hand, is all."

[timeoveritasconsumofigmentum]

AHHHHH

mdni ୨୧.

choso loves when you play with his hair. whether you're simply brushing the strands that fall in front of his face, or you're tying his hair into his infamous ponytails, or he has his head on your lap while your fingers mindlessly comb through his dark locks — he loves it.

recently though he found out another way that he likes you to play with hair.

his head was buried in between your thighs, lapping at your folds, slurping on your sweet juices, making a mess all over his mouth. his hands were holding your thighs in place even when you tried to buck into him, his dark eyes staring at you with nothing but desire and lust.

your hands were tangled in his hair and this wasn't anything really new — you would stroke or pat his head as he ravaged on your sweet cunt, relishing the praise that you threw him as well. but this time you had done something that you hadn't before.

he had stuck his tongue inside you, dying to get more of you on his lips and to taste you even more. when he did, you gasped loudly, tugging on his hair tightly and practically shoved his face deeper into your pussy. "oh my gosh, cho! fuck yes! just like that!," you whined out, the grip you had on his locks growing stronger.

he let out a deep groan at not just the pretty, cute noises you were making but at the feeling of your hands pulling on his hair. it turned him on more than he would care to admit and it just fuelled his hunger for you tenfold, devouring you like a man starved for days.

as you reached your orgasm, your hold on his hair had loosened, but ever so slightly. your juices gushed over his mouth and just as you were about to pull away from him, his assault on your poor cunt didn't stop. he was feasting on you with a newfound fervour. you whined at him to stop, feeling too sensitive, and tugging on his hair again to try pry him off but that only had smirking as he ate you out. "attagirl," he growled into your pussy.

© dollcher. do not copy, repost, or translate any works.

[timeoveritasconsumofigmentum]

THIS WAS MOUTHWATERING RAWWWW🦅🦅🦅🦅

❥ ceo!nanami who was never really into porn, not until you

it’s not that he’s some raging virgin who’s never watched it. he’s a man — of course he has. but something about a lot of the videos rubs him the wrong way. maybe they’re too fake or have weird titles or overused tropes, like there’s a disconnect, one most ignore.

but for kento, it’s a complete turn-off. so, he doesn’t watch it, just uses his imagination and fucks his fist the traditional way. #realman!

that is, until he stumbles upon a clip of you reposted to twitter. no face, but that’s fine — he can see all that he needs to see: your trembling hand grips the flared base, flesh-toned dildo pumping in and out of your slick cunt.

your moans are soft, sweet, like you’re a little camera-shy, despite the steady flow of donations and the rapid-fire messages flooding the on-screen chat. they love you.

hell, he loves you, too.

for three nights straight, kento jerks off to that one minute clip, the black of his pupils practically engulfing the chocolate brown of his eyes as he watches you cum again, thick thighs squeezing together as you shudder and gasp.

tonight, though, he’s determined to attend one of your streams, glass of wine on his nightstand along with a bottle of lube.

god, he feels like a hormonal teenager again. he hasn’t jerked off this much in months, too swamped with work and other responsibilities to even allow himself a modicum of free time.

now, however? now kento is at it again, saliva pooling in his mouth as he watches you twist and writhe thanks to his generous donation while he pumps his rock-hard cock.

☆ $150 dono from @anonworkaholic: buy a new air fryer.

that vibrator is on max, the buzz loud enough to be caught clearly on camera along with the barely subtle squelches of your pussy, delicate folds glistening in the low, warm light of what he thinks is your bedroom.

kento is definitely above this — above donating money to a girl he doesn’t know, above furiously stroking his twitching, lubricated dick like some prepubescent, above being a part of the low-lives drooling over you in chat. he should stop. he should close the stream right now, finish rubbing one out in the shower, and then go to bed.

all that practically catapults itself out the window when you whimper out his weak username, a brief smile on your face before your maw goes slack again for another long moan.

no.

no, he is not above this, actually. he times his orgasm with yours, pearly whites sinking into his bottom lip as he tugs on that sensitive pink tip, waiting for your stuttered countdown to finish.

“o-one—!”

and when you cum, loud and wanton, back arching and pussy squirting, kento is right behind you, emptying his balls in stringy ropes of white all over his stomach.

...

nanami kento has hit a new low. he closes out the stream, ears burning and pink with shame, downs the rest of his wine, and takes a long, cold shower. he is never doing that again. ever.

god, his employees and investors would kill him if they knew this is what he spent his excess money on a camgirl like some parasocial bum. especially his pretty little assistant.

but, a few nights later, he does it again. and again. anddd again, until, eventually, kento is deemed a vip regular, username now gold in chat with a special badge beside it.

this is the lowest of lows.

now that he’s thinking about it, you and his assistant look alike. both gorgeous with similar face and body shapes, but not quite.

huh.

what a cruel coincidence, right?

[timeoveritasconsumofigmentum]

THIS WAS SO BEAUTIFUL

part one || part two || part three tw: mentions of death, suicide ideation, severe injury, slightly suggestive towards the end, etc. post shibuya arc au. a/n. here is the last part (can be read as a standalone). i'm so grateful to everyone who's read this <3

[10:46] . . .

malaysia is so much hotter than you thought it would be.

the heat clings to your skin like a second layer, oppressively wet, never letting up—not even at night, when the ceiling fan whirs uselessly above the bed. in the beginning, it made you irritable. the air felt heavy in your lungs, the water from the tap never cold, and everything—every corner of your new home—smelled like salt and heat and city dust. the first few months were awful.

you had to run the air-conditioning almost constantly, kept the curtains drawn just to keep the light from boiling the room alive. you’d panicked the first time kento had started sweating in his sleep, terrified it would irritate his skin, that the damp cotton would rub too hard against healing burns. you spent those nights wide awake, turning the air-conditioning on, carefully peeling the sheets away from his body, dabbing at the worst of the sweat with cool cloths, whispering apologies he never asked for.

and kento, sweet, maddening nanami kento, never once complained. not when the electricity bills climbed sky-high because you insisted on climate control, not when you micromanaged every step he took out of the house—checking three times for his meds, his sunscreen, his hat, the stupid scarf he never wanted to wear but let you wind around his neck anyway.

he endured it.

he endured everything with the kind of quiet patience that used to feel like strength to you. but lately—lately, it feels like something else. like self-punishment. like he’s trying to make up for something that isn’t his fault.

he nods whenever you say, “ken, did you take the skin cream?” even if you’ve asked him twice already, even if you’re halfway through preparing his pills. he lets your fingers skim over his jaw, checking for signs of sunburn or irritation. he lets you mother him.

and sometimes—sometimes, it makes you so angry you could cry. because he shouldn't have to put up with you.

it’s ten-something in the morning now. the sunlight outside is already too much, and you’re at the small kitchen table, legs curled under you, a mug of hot tea pressed to your lips even though it makes no sense to drink something hot in weather like this. the tiles are slightly chilled beneath your feet. your shirt sticks to the small of your back.

six months.

it’s been six months since you arrived here. six months since you left behind the cold, grey halls of jujutsu tech. six months since you said goodbye to the only life you’d ever known. six months since you packed up every shard of your broken world and carried it with you across oceans, just to follow him.

you sip your tea. you stare at the slow whir of the ceiling fan. outside, somewhere, kento is probably checking the mailbox or watering the balcony plants, moving slow in the heat, bones still aching from old injuries. you wonder if he took the skin cream. you wonder if he’s still pretending not to hurt. you wonder how long he’ll keep letting you love him like this—like he’s something fragile.

like he might disappear if you stop.

you sigh, your fingers brushing against the edge of the countertop, lingering for a moment before you push yourself upright. the december air is bearable today—softer, quieter, tinged with salt and the kind of stillness that only arrives in the morning. the breeze carries in the breath of the sea, faint but unmistakable, and you can hear the low rush of the waves from the end of your street. from your house—this house that you bought with the very last of your savings, a house with too many windows and not enough insulation, perched just shy of the shore where the sand begins to give way to tide—you can hear everything.

it’s a sound that reminds you why you did it. why you left. why you dragged your tired body and your broken heart across countries just to come here.

to the place kento had once called peaceful. to the place he'd only ever mentioned once, in a passing conversation years ago. something about how mundane life could be beautiful. about how he didn’t want to die in the middle of a fight.

and you—fool that you are—you remembered.

so here you are. in this sun-warmed house with its peeling paint and its thankfully fast ceiling fans and its cracked tile on the upstairs bathroom floor. here, where you cook your own food and sweep your own porch and hang your laundry on a line strung across the kitchen window. here, where kento waters the plants and you learn the quiet names of herbs.

you rinse your teacup slowly, watching the water run from warm to cool to finally cold. it surprises you every time—when the cold sets in. this is the first winter you've had here, and it isn't like home. it isn’t biting or sharp. it doesn’t come with snow or breath that clouds in the air. but it’s cool enough for your hands to ache a little under the tap. cool enough to make you think maybe, just maybe, this season will be kinder to you than the last.

you turn off the tap, letting the silence settle again. and then you turn toward the staircase—and there he is.

kento.

he’s just reached the top of the stairs, the watering can hanging loosely from one bandaged hand. his shirt clings slightly to his back, damp from the exertion, and his shoulders are tired in a way that makes something twist behind your ribs. you watch him place the watering can on the shelf, slowly, deliberately, as if he's afraid he might drop it.

and something in you softens. something in you cracks.

“when’d you come downstairs?” you ask, quiet, the words almost carried away by the sea breeze curling in through the open windows.

“just now,” he murmurs, not turning around. “i watered the plants. the lemongrass was getting too big, so i cut some. basil’s looking good.”

you nod. even though he can’t see you, you nod, because you don’t know what else to do.

there’s a pit in your stomach now. familiar. ugly.

you don’t know why it’s growing. you don’t know why, even here—even in this house with all its salt-soaked peace and sleepy afternoons—there’s still a voice in your head whispering that you’re not doing enough.

that you're too much. that you fuss too much. that your love is heavy in ways it was never meant to be.

you’re here. beside him. you’ve given up everything. you’ve done everything. so why does it still feel like you’re failing?

"do you wanna go into town for dinner today?" kento asks, voice light and gentle, like he's been rehearsing the question all morning in his head. he's fluffing the collar of his old cotton button-up—the off-white one you’d once jokingly called a dad shirt, the one that has a faint yellow stain near the hem because neither of you ever figured out what it was. his fingers move slow and measured, smoothing it down before he reaches up and switches on the ceiling fan in the living room. the blades creak softly as they begin to turn, stirring the warm, salty air.

you nod, absentmindedly. your hand finds the glass and pours the water out of muscle memory. it’s not until he’s settling on the couch, shoulders sinking into the cushions, that you realize you’ve been holding your breath. you exhale as you hand him the glass, your fingers brushing against his for a fleeting second.

"we can do that," you say, and your voice comes out too flat. too practiced.

he doesn’t say anything. of course he doesn’t.

you know he knows. knows that your mind is fighting itself again. that there's something lodged in your chest like a stone, too stubborn to cough up, too painful to swallow down. kento always knows. he doesn’t pry. he never has. he watches you the way someone watches the sea during a storm—knowing that there’s no use in stopping the waves, but hoping anyway that they don’t crash too hard.

he tilts his head toward you.

that same tilt. the one he’s always done. the one he did the night you first kissed him, when he looked at you like you were a puzzle that he didn’t want to solve—just admire. his slightly overgrown hair falls into his eyes, soft and mussed. his lips are pursed, not in disapproval, but in something closer to concern disguised as patience.

and you—you look down.

because if you keep looking at him, you're going to break.

because you want nothing more than to climb into his lap and bury yourself in him. to press kisses along his jaw and into the crook of his neck, to feel his arms around you again like they used to be. to cry a little, maybe, and tell him that you’re scared. that every time you wake up and see the bands still wrapped around his arms, the scarred skin, your heart twists with something too sharp to name.

but would that be too much? would you be too much?

you’ve asked yourself this every day since he came home to you. since you washed his wounds for the first time, hands trembling as he winced through the pain but never pulled away.

is your love too loud? too heavy? too wrapped in routine and fuss and rules about when to apply which cream, which hat he should wear if the sun is too high, how long to stay out before the heat irritates the grafted skin?

you don't know. you only know this: you would do it all again. a thousand times. a thousand more. because he's here. because he came back.

and you love him. you love him so much it terrifies you. but you wonder—do you overlove him? is that a thing? is there such a thing as being too tender with the person who saved you just by staying alive?

and finally, finally, kento says, so softly it’s like the sea breeze carries it over to you: "you know. i think i'm going to change myself a little."

the words don’t register at first. they settle like dust in the air, floating around you until your mind finally catches up. you blink, snap out of your spiralling thoughts, all the self-deprecating noise quieting for just a second as you turn to him.

"what do you mean?" you ask, brows drawn together.

and kento, with those weathered, gentle hands that still tremble when he holds a fork for too long, reaches for you. he tugs at your wrist first, feather-light, and when you don’t resist—because when have you ever resisted him?—he pulls you closer. so close his breath kisses your stomach, so close your knees bump the sides of his thighs. and then, with that same infinite patience he’s always shown you, he pulls you onto his lap.

you're straddling him now, breath caught in your throat, and the panic kicks in like clockwork.

"wait—" you start, heart thudding hard against your ribs, "ken, your skin—your legs—what if—"

your voice fizzles out. you were going to say something about his scars. about his healing. about the pressure on his wounds. about hurting him.

but none of it matters, really. because you worry too much. you always have. and he’s always let you.

but right now, kento is looking at you like he wants to memorize every inch of your face. the light cuts through the curtains and lands across his cheekbones, outlining the tired lines of his face in soft gold. he cups your face, and his thumbs graze your cheek like you’re something delicate. like you’ve given too much of yourself and he’s only just realizing how much.

"i mean," he continues, voice low, slow, careful, "that i should stop staying quiet when i can clearly see that something is bothering you."

you feel your throat tighten again.

"i should ask," he says. "the way you always do."

his eyes soften. they always soften when he looks at you. even now, even when the scars have made him feel like less of a man, even when the mirror still makes him flinch on some mornings, he looks at you like you are the one who saved him.

"so," he says, and he tilts his head just slightly, the way he always does when he’s being serious, "tell me."

and just like that—just like always—he gives you a place to land. a soft, sturdy place to fall.

you stay quiet.

his hands are still on your face—steady, grounding, reverent, sacred—and his hazel eyes are still searching yours like he’s afraid to miss a single flicker of emotion. like this moment, this breath between you two, is something sacred. something he doesn’t want to rush. something he would wait lifetimes for.

he looks at you like that. like your silence is a gift, not a burden. like your stillness is something holy.

and then, finally, your voice emerges, small and cracked and unsure: “am i too much?”

it’s so soft it barely makes it across the short space between your mouths, but it does. and you see it—feel it—the way his expression shifts in real time. the slow inhale. the almost imperceptible widening of his eyes. and then, he smiles.

he smiles.

and you frown instantly. your heart twists. your voice sharpens. ��why are you smiling?”

and then, kento laughs. soft at first. small and breathy. like something long-lost and unfamiliar breaking its way out of him.

you stare. you can’t breathe. because it’s that laugh—the one you used to hear before the war. the one he’d let out when you burnt dinner by accident or when gojo said something dumb, or when you tripped in the hallway and tried to style it out.

it’s that laugh. the one you would’ve given anything to hear again. and here it is—after months of ointments and bloodstains, of careful bandaging and sleepless nights, of biting down on your own sobs and holding him while he couldn’t move. here it is.

a return. a sound that feels like the sun rising inside your chest. he chuckles again, thumb tracing the edge of your cheekbone like he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

"it's just..." he begins, voice full of something like wonder, "you can never be too much."

your brow furrows deeper. “huh? what do you mean?”

and now he’s tugging you in—arm curling around your back, palm pressing to the base of your neck—and your foreheads are touching. your noses brush. you can feel the warmth of his breath against your lips.

"everything you do," he murmurs, as if the truth should be said slowly, carefully, the way you would unwrap something fragile, "is for me. every morning, every night. you check my meds. you chase the sun out of the bedroom when i’m hurting. you fuss. and you fuss so much."

his voice drops, tender and low. “but it's never too much.”

you open your mouth, ready to argue. to insist, “but that’s literally my job,” because it is. you signed up for this. if it had been you in that hospital bed, you know he would’ve burned the whole world down just to ease your pain. you mumble it anyway, soft as a sigh, “we’re married. this is how it works. you would've done the same.”

and kento—sweet, careful, ruined kento—shakes his head. his thumb brushes under your eye, as if you’d cried even though you haven’t. not yet.

"you didn’t have to stay,” he says. “you could’ve left, and i would’ve understood. it’s been hell, i know. watching me like this. taking care of me like i’m made of glass.”

you shake your head. you want to tell him he’s wrong. that he’s not fragile. not to you.

but he keeps going. his voice is thick now, but steady. “you put your life on hold for me. you left the country for me. you gave everything up, just to live in this stupid humid town by the sea because—because i said once, once, that i wanted to retire here. you remembered. you remembered that.”

you’re crying now. you don’t even notice when the tears start. but his fingers are already catching them.

“you’re practically the dream,” he says, and it sounds like a vow. you swallow. your voice is a broken hush. “i’m just me.”

“exactly,” he says, smiling. “and that’s all i’ve ever needed.”

and god—god—you kiss him.

you kiss him because there’s nothing else left to say. you kiss him because his hands are warm on your waist and his scars are healing and his love is infinite and patient and here. you kiss him like you mean it, because you do.

because kento is yours. and you are his. too much and just enough. forever.

his grip tightens just a little around your waist—stronger than you remember, steadier than it's been in months. his hands are big and warm and trembling slightly, but they're there, and they’re holding you. one anchors itself at the small of your back, the other pressing gently to your hip as if to make sure you don’t float away.

“stay like this,” he says again, voice low, hoarse with something aching and holy. “stay on top of me. until i can lift you like i used to. until i can carry you to the bed just to hear you squeal. until i’m strong enough to have you pinned beneath me without worrying about the pressure. until i’m me again.”

he pauses, breathing heavily. “just… stay.”

and you do. you do. you’re already melting into him before he finishes speaking. you lean down, your hands on his chest, fingers curled into the soft cotton of his button-up. you press your lips to his again—slowly, deeply, almost desperately—and it’s like inhaling sunlight.

his mouth parts beneath yours, and his breath hitches when you deepen the kiss, arms tightening around your waist. it’s messy and aching and utterly, utterly tender. you can feel the way his body responds to you, how he sighs softly into your mouth, how his thumbs stroke your waist like he’s trying to memorize every curve again.

and when you pull back for just a second to look at him, he’s watching you with a softness that threatens to undo you entirely.

“i could never leave,” you whisper, breathless and trembling and everything in between, your forehead pressed against his. “i would never go anywhere where you aren’t there.”

his eyes flutter shut for a moment. you feel his breath catch in his throat, and then he’s whispering back, “then you’re everything.”

the words are a confession. a promise. a vow.

“i hope that answers your question,” he murmurs, brushing your hair behind your ear with a touch so careful it makes your heart squeeze.

you blink, still breathless, and your smile is shaky and aching and filled with something that could only be love. “it does,” you say.

but you don’t stop.

you lean down again, lips brushing his cheek first, then his jaw, then the spot just under his ear that always made him shiver. he lets out a soft noise—almost a groan, almost a sigh—and tilts his head to give you more access.

“i missed this,” you murmur, lips ghosting over his pulse. “i missed you.”

“i’ve always been here,” he says, and the way he says it makes you want to cry again, “even when i wasn’t all the way… me. even when you weren't you.”

you hum against his throat, then kiss him again, firmer this time. your hands slide up his chest, feeling the way his muscles shift beneath your palms, the faint hitch in his breath as you grind down just slightly on his lap. not enough to hurt him—never that—but enough to remind you both that he’s alive. that he’s here. that he’s yours.

he groans, hands sliding up your sides, slipping under the hem of your shirt just to feel your skin. his fingers are warm and rough and reverent, tracing the familiar dips and curves of your body like he’s rediscovering home. like you are the one piece of earth he can still stand on without falling apart.

your lips part again, and his tongue meets yours with slow, languid purpose. it’s not hurried. it’s not frantic. it’s deep. intimate. kento's kiss says things neither of you have dared to put into words. his kiss says thank you, and don’t go, and i love you so much i don’t know where to put it all.

your hips roll again, involuntarily this time, and he groans into your mouth, the sound low and helpless. you smile, breaking the kiss just long enough to breathe against his lips.

“you okay?” you murmur.

he nods, chest rising and falling quickly. “never better,” he whispers, eyes glazed, smile lazy. “god, i missed kissing you like this.”

you press your forehead to his again, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. “well, i’m not going anywhere.”

“good,” he breathes. “because i think i’m gonna need you to stay right here. at least until i figure out how to stand up with you in my arms again.”

you grin, letting your fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently until he groans again.

“i’m not heavy, nanami.”

“you’re everything,” he repeats, voice rough with emotion. “and i’m never letting you go.”

and then he’s kissing you again, and again, and again—like he’s relearning how to live. and you kiss him back like it’s the easiest thing you’ve ever done.

because it is.

© all works belong to admiringlove on tumblr. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[timeoveritasconsumofigmentum]

logan fucking you from behind while having you in a headlock.

you’re both on your knees on the bed, your back is flush to his chest and his bicep is around your neck. he has you completely immobilized and all you can do is let him manhandle you.

the muscle is hard and warm and it cushions your chin and he ruts into you. the squeeze isn’t tight enough to cut off any air supply, but it makes you feel a little fuzzy.

his other hand grabs possesively at your hips and ass, gripping you wherever he can. he’s muttering filthy shit into your ear and nipping at your neck where skin is exposed. you’re so close to him and it feels like he’s everywhere and his presence is all-encompassing.

[timeoveritasconsumofigmentum]

𝜗𝜚 bakugou katsuki | bad operation

❕smut mdni, prohero!katsuki, rough sex.

“k-katsu…s-slow- ah! down!” your boyfriend prohero bakugou katsuki only tightened his grip on your waist as you cried out helplessly. an operation had failed today and, oh no… the explosive dynamight was going to fuck you for hours without getting tired.

“s-suki! please! mphhg-” his big hands gripped the sides of your waist tightly, his spiky hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. the moment he got home, he had only taken off his gloves and large pieces of his costume, and now with his black top clinging to his arm muscles, damn it, he was nothing short of a perfect sight. he was always hard, and always too much for you. even though his big cock had entered your pussy countless times, it gave you a new taste every time.

your moans grew louder as katsuki fucked you hard without speaking. you even thought your voice would break. “fucking idiots…” a few small raspy whispers. oh, he was so, so angry. huh, goddamned prohero katsuki bakugou, he knew how you liked it when he was fucking your pussy hard and seeing stars.

with his red eyes as bright as flames, he will watch with great pleasure how you get destroyed while he fucks you in missionary position. what could be better than destroying your ruined pussy instead of lashing out in anger?

“say it, who is destroying you right now?” and yeah he knew he was in heaven as the tip of his big cock touched your womb and pressed hard against the tiny bulge forming in your belly.

how many times have you cum so far? three, four?

“i’m gonna cum in that fucking pussy of yours until i’m sure you’re seeing stars, you hear me?”

© itoshhi 2025 {do not copy, translate, steal, modify without permission.}

[timeoveritasconsumofigmentum]

Riding this ovulation wave hard

୨୧ — "Tooojiii~", you chime, skipping up to him before wrapping your arms around one of his massive biceps. The sheer size difference making you look even smaller.

He arches an eyebrow, that smirk you adore so much playing at his lips, "what're you plotting?"

"Nothing at all," you say sweetly, your finger tracing the defined muscles of his arm, "Juuuust taking in the view~."

He snorts, but there's amusement in those sharp Zenin eyes, "The view, huh? Sure it's not just an excuse to cop a feel?"

"M’nope! I was just admiring how the sunrise today makes you look extra dangerous~"

"Dangerous, huh?" The big bad Toji Zenin grins, amused by how you can make even that sound like a compliment, "Most people don't say that while grinning like they've found a puppy."

"Well, I'm not most people," you giggle while pressing your cheek against the warmth of his arm, "And your arms are way better than any puppy. Now up, please ~!" you can’t stop the dumb grin on your face when he flexes his bicep deliberately under your grip.

"Tch. You're worse than a kid." He grumbles as he effortlessly hoists you up with his arm, your feet dangling. Toji huffs, but there's no hiding the flush creeping up his neck, "And flattery will get you nowhere."

Despite his gruff demeanor, you know he secretly loves how you get all stary eyed at his strength.

You grin cheekily, "i dunno, I think it’s gotten me pretty fa-."

"Papa! UP!" A tiny voice suddenly demands. You both look down to see little Megumi- the very proof of how far your flattery has gotten you with Toji Zenin. Your sons arms were stretched high above his head in a perfect mirror of your earlier pose.

Toji's expression softens gradually as he looks at his son. Without putting you down, he easily scoops up Megumi with his free arm, holding both of you aloft like you weigh nothing.

"Great… now I've got two clingy brats," he complains, but his eyes are warm as Megumi squeals in delight, tiny hands patting his father's muscled shoulder.

"Strong papa!" Megumi declares proudly, making Toji's ears turn slightly pink.

You catch this and grin, "That’s right sweetie, daddy’s the strongest," you agree, pressing a kiss to his bicep that makes him roll his eyes.

"And you’re my biggest brat," he mutters, but he doesn't put either of you down, secretly basking in the adoration from his two favorite people.

[timeoveritasconsumofigmentum]

thinking about drunk husband!nanami and how handsy and needy he’d get with you- i’m not well. 18+ mdni.

cw; p in v (unprotected), creampie, mentions of alcohol, use of "sir"

wc; 1.7k

-

you’d be sending satoru an angry text later.

your husband was never a drinker. the man could hold his liquor, but it often went past that line of playfully tipsy and into drunk whenever he went out with satoru.

normally, you wouldn’t mind. you adored your husband. he’s always been a toucher, always needing to have some form of contact with you. maybe it’s a simple hand on your thigh, or twirling a strand of hair around his finger, or ever just standing close to you, shoulder to shoulder - he just needed to be with you. and when he gets drunk, that need is intensified tenfold.

you loved it when he got like this. your big, strong, doting husband reduced into a lovesick puddle when he’s drunk and around you. like a puppy needing attention.

except it’s 1am, he just got home, and he has an important event he needs to attend-

“that’s a problem for future kento,” he muttered into your neck, hands gripping helplessly at your sleep shirt. “you smell so good. ‘ve missed you,”

“ken-“

he tugged on your shirt, pulling you impossibly closer. his hands started to roam, now at the small of your back, pulling you still into him. “honey,” he whispered against the skin of your neck, his lips brushing against it. still at the front door, he hasn’t even taken his shoes off yet.

“mmh,” you hummed, tilting your head back to let him have more access.

he took the opportunity to start kissing you, soft, simple pecks, up your neck to your ears. “my wife,” he breathed, hot breath smelling like whiskey and gin. “my beautiful, sweet, amazing wife,”

“ken,” you giggled as he moved to kiss your cheek. his hands moved up to cup your face, and yours instantly came to rest on top of his. one of his thumbs brushed against your bottom lip, his eyes staring into your own.

he leaned down, placing a kiss on your forehead, and then one on your lips. it was sweet, he poured all of his love for you into it.

you looked down, “you haven’t taken your shoes off yet,”

he whined like a child in response. begrudgingly, he let his hands fall from your body as he leaned down to untie the laces of his boots, slipping out of them, before standing up again an immediately placing his hands your waist.

he stepped towards your bedroom, matching bedroom eyes to go with it. he pouted ever so slightly, looking down at his wife.

and god you’d let him do whatever he wanted. kento was a fucking good-looking man - there’s never any denying it. but right now, his his hair all sweaty and sticking to his forehead, his face flushed a dusty pink, lips parted and eyes begging, how could you ever say no to that?

“wan’ show my wife how much i love her,” he practically purred, pulling on your shirt again to pull you towards him. you stumbled towards your husband, you hands falling into his broad chest.

you could feel his abs under the thin material of his button up. normally, he was so proper, ironed shirt fully done up with a tie around his neck. but now, he looked and smelled of sex - the top three buttons of his shirt undone, wrinkled fabric, tie hanging loosely around his neck. you grabbed his tie and tugged on it, bringing his face towards yours.

“you have that thing tomorrow,” you tried to stand your ground, “you’ll be hungover, too.”

“don’t care,”

“you will tomorrow.”

“yeah, tomorrow. not right now.”

he pulled you into your shared bedroom, easily throwing you onto the bed and crawling towards you. “right now,” he started, licking his lips as he leaned in close, “i want my wife,” his hands came up to your shirt again, grabbing fistfuls at the hem. he pulled the shirt up and over your head, discarding it on the floor before he leaned into you, lips attaching to yours.

“wanna show her how good i can make her feel,” his lips trailed down your neck, then collarbone, “gonna show her how much i love her,” his hand came up to squeeze a tit, his eyes flicking to yours as he placed a kiss on your hardened nipple, “how much i missed her,” he continued his trail downward, hand slipping onto your waist as he kissed your stomach, light and feathery.

before you knew it, you shorts and underwear was discarded onto the floor. your legs were thrown over his shoulders and you hand buried itself into his golden locks.

k-e-n-t-o, he spelt his name with his tongue in your clit, flicking and suckling on the poor bud. your back arched off the pillows, your thighs threatening to squeeze shut around his head.

“h-ahh, kentooo,” you dragged, lolling your head to the side as your eyes screwed shut.

his hands were on your thighs, forcing them to stay open, flat against the bed. “so, so sweet,” his voice was muffled by your cunt. sticky, sweet wetness coating his face. “absolutely delicious, mrs. nanami.”

n-a-n-a-m-i, his tongue spelt your shared last name, something that drove him mad. of course you recognized when he spelt something with that tongue of his.

“kento you filthy man-“

“but you love it.”

your giggles turned into moans once more when he interested a finger. long and thick, he pumped it in and out of you before adding a second and curling it against that spongy spot in your walls.

“nngh,” you couldn’t speak coherently anymore. your hand fisted the pillow behind your head, the other one still grabbing his hair, dragging his face into your cunt. his mouth attached to your clit, sucking like his life depended on it as his fingers curled and uncurled inside you.

married life treated you good.

“k-ken, gonna come!” you mewled, and he bucked his hips into the mattress.

his groan was muffled, but you heard it nonetheless. “gonna come, pretty girl?” his words slurred, he was still drunk. “i can feel it.”

your walls clenched around his fingers. you legs were shaking, toes curled and back arched as your breathed through your mouth. an endless string of noises and babbles left you, voice high pitched and airy.

and then he stopped. stopped sucking your clit and pulled his fingers out of you with a stupid grin on his face. “not yet, m’love,” he rushed to unbuckle his belt, getting out of his slacks.

you didn’t even have time to complain. he leaned down, hungrily kissing you, shoving his tongue into your mouth. you could taste yourself on him. sweet, just like he said.

he pulled back and stopped the kiss and quickly as it started. one hand went to his cock, idly pumping it as he looked down at you. “so pretty f’me,” he cooed, his free hand now flipping you over.

face in the pillows and ass in the air, kento’s hand traced a line from your neck to your waist.

smack! his hand landed a spank against your bum, immediately massaging the area and cooing. “so perfect, mrs. nanami. my beautiful wife.”

he dragged the mushroom head of his cock through your folds, gathering up the mixture of your slick and his spit.

“ken, ken please,” you attempted to push you ass back, wanting him in you already.

“greedy slut,” he spat, laughing at your futile attempt. another smack before he continued to drag hiimself between your folds. “i guess i can’t refuse my wife, can i? gotta give her what she wants,” he lined himself up with your entrance. “gotta make her happy,” and he pushed himself in, hard and fast, hitting your cervix already.

“oh!” you shriek was dampened by the pillow.

he didn’t give you a moment to adjust like he usually did. he started going right at it, hips snapping against yours like his life depended on it. “that’s it, take- hah, take it like a good girl. nngh, like the whore you are,”

your tried to push yourself onto your elbows, wanting to peak behind you to take a look, but Kento quickly put a stop to that. he reached forward, shoving your face back into the pillow as his hips continued their assault.

“mm-hmm, ken,”

another smack!

“sir!”

kento bit his lip as he watched your hips move back, matching his rhythm, a grin spreading across his face. his hands moved to grab them, pulling you back onto him, helping you move.

“that’s it, there you go,”

his sweet talking made your head spin.

“taking me so well, little slut.”

your walls fluttered around his dick. squeezing and clenching, a thick white ring forming at the bass of his shaft. balls smacking against your clit with each thrust, he made your see stars.

you snaked a dainty hand down between your legs, middle finger desperately rubbing circles against your swollen clit.

“wanna come, m’love?” he asked so sweetly, watching your hand work. he grabbed a fist full your hair and pulled you up, your back against his broad chest. “gonna come around my cock?”

“a-aah, ken, nngh!” you couldn’t even form a full sentence with how well he was ramming into you. this new position let him go even further in you, his entire length disappearing into you.

you leaned your head back onto his shoulder, tits bouncing as he helped you up and down.

“what’d the matter sweetheart? is this too much for you?” he cooed into your ear, his delicate tone a stark contrast from the way he abused your cunt.

you were almost tempted to nod, but he laughed instead. “you can take it.” his hand replaced yours on your clit, his other one on your hips, helping you up and down.

“you’re close,” he commented, voice breathless. “i- hahh, i can feel it. you squeezing so good ‘round me.”

one, two three more thrusts and you were coming. you body shook and spasmed, a cry of your husband’s name leaving your lips.

four, five, six more thrusts and he was spilling into you. he came with a pretty moan of your name, all breathy and high pitched. white, hot seed filled your cunt, into your womb as he stilled, collapsing forward onto to the bed as you were trapped under him.

he didn’t let go of you, didn’t pull out as he placed a kiss onto your shoulder.

“ken-“

“ah ah,” he thrusted.

“sir,” you panted, whimpers and whines still leaving you. “you need to rest,”

kento groaned, his hand rubbing a singular, lazy circle on your clit.

“kento, ‘m sensitive!”

“that was only the beginning, sweetheart.”

[timeoveritasconsumofigmentum]

Detective Reader: So, I found a tracking device under my car.

Himbo Officer: Oh my God! It’s probably the government, or the Illuminati. I told you the construction sign we passed by was actually an inverted I!

Detective Reader, rubbing their temples: Listen, pal, I don’t know how to tell you this gently, but…if you’re going to stalk someone, you have to remove the stuff out of its packaging first. You left your receipt inside. Name and everything.

Himbo Officer: …

Himbo Officer: I just wanted to make sure you aren’t going to nice places without me.

[timeoveritasconsumofigmentum]

boxer!gojo who loves seeing his sports therapist bent over the chair in his locker room just before a match. he says it’s just something to do, a way to calm his nerves, but the way he’s gripping your hips, pressing your cheek against the cool leather, tells a different story.

"look at you, taking me so well," he murmurs, voice dripping with satisfaction, watching the way your body trembles with every deep thrust. "so fucking good for me—knew you would be."

his bandaged fingers dig into your hips, pulling you back onto him. "but you like this too, don’t you?" he chuckles, low and rough. "needy little thing, always so tight around me—like your pretty body knows who it belongs to."

you whimper when he presses in deeper, stretching you, leaving no room to breathe. he groans at the sight, rolling his hips just to hear you gasp. "fuck, you’re clenching—squeezing me like you don’t want me to leave. that desperate to keep me inside, huh?"

boxer!gojo who doesn’t stop even when they call his name over the speakers. "five more minutes," he calls out, voice steady, completely unbothered. as if his cock isn’t buried deep inside you, making a mess of you right before he’s supposed to step into the ring.

he leans down, breath hot against your ear, hips rolling just to tease. "be good for me, baby—let me feel you cum, yeah?"

you nod, whimpering, and he groans at the way you squeeze around him, the way your body obeys him so perfectly.

"that’s it," he praises, fingers digging into your skin as he fucks you through it. "so goddamn perfect when you listen to me."

boxer!gojo who pulls out at the last second, groaning as he spills over your back, fingers smearing the mess just to watch you squirm. "fuck, look at you." his voice is thick with admiration and possession—like he loves seeing you like this, ruined by him.

he grins, breathless, tapping your ass. "clean up before they see you like this, yeah? unless you want them to know how well i fucked you." and just like that, he’s gone, stepping into the ring with a cocky smirk—knuckles taped, muscles loose, completely at ease.

because really, what better way other than this to warm up?

[timeoveritasconsumofigmentum]

Tbf tho jiraiya would need 30 minutes between each round cause he is just an old man

[timeoveritasconsumofigmentum]

katsuki is the type of boyfriend to have his hand on you in some sort of way. it doesn’t matter where you are or what you’re doing— you’ll feel his warm and calloused hand on your lower back standing beside each other or on your knee absentmindedly tracing shapes as he uses his phone. sometimes you’ll feel him lightly massaging your upper back since he knows how tense you can get. (“shit— why didn’t you tell me?” he’d mutter mutter pressing his fingers.)

katsuki is the type of boyfriend who notices and knows everything about you. yes he did take note that you didn’t kiss him to greet him. yes he knows your comfort meal and cooks it for you without asking. yes he knows you only know how to tie your shoes the bunny ear method.

katsuki is the type of boyfriend to simultaneously be your best friend. he gives you that sassy look when he knows you both are thinking the same thing and judging someone’s annoying behavior. the type to have stupid inside jokes with you and fail to hide the dimples on his face whenever he is reminded of so. he will take your side in an argument.

katsuki is the type of boyfriend to have zero shame when it comes to you and being in a relationship with you. he only retorts (albeit poorly. because he is hopeless) back whenever someone like denki or mina comment about his lockscreen being a picture of you or his bag has a beaded charm dangling from it that you made for him. he’d probably just mention how they’re the one still single. “at least I have a relationship dumbass”

katsuki is the type of boyfriend who subtly flexes when he notices you watching him when he’s training or exercising. he takes full pride and advantage of it. he’ll shoot you a dumb grin when you’re looking and be like “what’re you being all weird for…”. also, you know that meme where it’s like “when he’s copying your snap so I pull this” and they send a picture of a flexed bicep? that’s what I think of with him. hehehe.

katsuki is the type of boyfriend to be the “let me do it” kind of guy. except it comes off painfully judgmental... in an endearing way. when you’re cozy in bed but complain because you forgot to grab your water— he’ll put an arm over you before you can get up and he’ll do it himself. he practically glares at you if you try bringing your card out to pay. he makes sure to open doors for you and always walk on the side of the sidewalk closest to traffic.

[timeoveritasconsumofigmentum]

When you're reading a fanfic and suddenly the reader has a name

[timeoveritasconsumofigmentum]

YESSSSS I LOVE ME SO ANGST

Your relationship with Sukuna was on its last legs. You tried to make things work, but he was as difficult as it could get, and mean. After a particularly terrible fight, the two of you made up, and you began to hope again. Later that night, his friends called, inviting him to the club. You told him you weren’t comfortable with it. He agreed to stay, even tucking you into bed.

But once you fell asleep, he snuck out.

Things went downhill from there.

Sukuna and his friends drank heavily, and soon he was caught up in the chaos—laughing, dancing, and losing control. While you slept, his friends began posting videos online: Sukuna receiving a lap dance, drunk and kissing another girl, clearly high and out of his mind.

When you woke up, you reached over to find his side of the bed cold and empty. You thought he had left early for work. But then your phone started blowing up with messages from friends and strangers alike. Your heart pounded as you unlocked it and opened Instagram, only to see the posts.

One after another, each post felt like a knife to your chest—Sukuna smiling lazily, his hands on another woman, his lips brushing hers. You could see the flashing lights, hear the blaring music, and feel the sting of betrayal in every picture and clip. Your fingers trembled, and your vision blurred with tears as you watched in disbelief.

The room felt like it was spinning. You tried to steady yourself, but the weight of it all was crushing. How could he do this to you, especially after you had been so open, so vulnerable about your feelings? After he had promised to stay?

You had told him, in the heat of making up, that this was his last chance. You were clear: if he messed up again, you were packing your things and going back to the States. He had looked you in the eyes and promised. And yet, he still went and did this.

Meanwhile, Sukuna was still sleeping, his head pounding and the room spinning. He didn’t remember a damned thing the night before. He remembered sneaking out, thinking he’d make it back before sunrise, slip back into bed, and act like nothing happened. You were just being too dramatic, he thought. You’d told him how you didn’t like his friends, that they hated you and were trying to break the two of you up. He’d laughed it off as paranoia. Crazy talk.

He vaguely remembered drinking a shot—just one—and after that, things got hazy. He didn’t believe for a second that his friends would spike his drink.

No, they’d never do that… right?

But now, as he blinked his eyes open, he realized something was very wrong. Next to him was a woman he didn’t recognize, definitely not you. The sunlight was streaming through the window, and panic shot through his body like a jolt of electricity. His heart raced as he sat up, the events of the night before still a foggy blur.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered under his breath, his mind starting to piece together the fragments. You two had just made up—how could he have been so reckless?

Sukuna fumbled for his phone, his hands shaking. The screen lit up, showing the time: 12:46. His heart sank even further. He really had messed up this time. The battery was about to die, a thin red line warning him he had little time left. He glanced around, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar room.

What confused him most was that he was still in his clothes from the night before. A small relief—at least he hadn’t slept with the woman next to him. But that didn’t matter much, did it? He was still in bed with another woman, a stranger, and that alone was enough to shatter whatever trust you had left in him.

His head throbbed with a dull, pounding pain, a mix of alcohol and regret. He desperately needed water, but his feet felt glued to the floor. As he forced himself to sit up, the room seemed to spin around him. He rubbed his temples, trying to shake off the fog of the hangover, but his mind remained a jumbled mess.

He checked his phone again, scrolling through the flood of messages, but your name wasn’t among them. No missed calls, no texts, no messages. Just silence.

It took you two hours to get yourself to function properly. When something traumatic happened, you had this tendency to just shut down. No crying, no shouting—just silence. You couldn’t even talk right now. You sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the wall, your mind numb. The pain was so immense that it felt like nothing at all, a hollow void where your heart should be.

Slowly, you got up, moving like you were underwater, every step heavy and disjointed. You made your way to the bedroom closet and grabbed a suitcase, your hands moving on autopilot. You began packing everything you owned in this place, methodically folding clothes, stacking books, gathering small, personal items that had once made this space feel like home. Now, every object felt like a weight dragging you down.

You didn’t remember much from those moments, only flashes of despair and confusion. Your mind was clouded, a fog of grief settling over you. All you knew was that you wanted to disappear, to somehow escape the unbearable ache in your chest.

How could this happen? Why? The questions repeated in your mind, over and over, like a broken record. Were you not enough? Was he cheating this whole time?

Your thoughts spiraled into a dark place, each one more suffocating than the last. The silence of the room pressed in around you, amplifying every doubt, every fear. You felt lost in a sea of uncertainty, desperately searching for something to hold onto, but finding nothing but emptiness.

You paused for a moment, standing still in the middle of the room, clutching a shirt to your chest. You wanted to scream, to cry, to do anything, but no sound came out. All that filled you was a deep, aching void that left you feeling more alone than ever before.

Just as you finished packing, the door opened, but you didn't flinch. Your fingers continued scrolling through your phone, searching for flight tickets. You didn’t care where it would take you—anywhere but here.

Sukuna stepped inside, his expression a mix of confusion and panic. You didn’t look up. Your face remained calm, almost eerily so, as if you were in a trance. You kept scrolling, your focus entirely on the screen, like it was the only thing anchoring you to reality.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his voice tight with panic. But you said nothing.

Your face was expressionless, your eyes fixed on your phone. He moved closer, desperate now. “Please,” he continued, “can’t we just… talk?”

Finally, you paused, letting out a slow, controlled breath. But you didn’t look at him. Your silence was deafening, more unnerving than any yelling or screaming could have been.

He swallowed hard, sensing the change, feeling the weight of your silence pressing down on him. “I… I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he tried again. "I don’t even remember what happened. I think I was drugged or something..." His voice grew softer, almost pleading now.

You continued to tap the screen, the sound of your fingers the only noise in the room. You found a flight and pressed "book," moving methodically, as if this was just another task on a list. Your calmness was unnerving, like the quiet before a storm.

“Y/N… please,” Sukuna whispered, taking another step forward, but your detachment made him falter.

You finally glanced up at him, your expression unreadable, your voice steady and calm. “I'm leaving,” you said quietly, as if stating a simple fact.

He blinked, stunned by the flatness of your tone. There was no anger, no emotion—just a cold, stark finality. “But… we can work this out,” he stammered, “right?”

You looked back at your phone, as if he were no longer even there. You were done listening, done hoping, done believing. His words were just noise now, meaningless in the face of everything he had broken.

Sukuna was a big man, another reason you had fallen in love with him. Being with him had made you feel so safe, so happy. But when you reached for your suitcase, he finally broke.

He snatched it out of your hand. "No, no, you're not leaving me," he insisted, his voice frantic. "Look, please just listen. I know I lied to you and snuck out, but I swear I would never cheat on you."

You stood still, watching him, his large frame towering over you, his eyes wide with fear and desperation. But your heart felt like ice. You could see the panic in his eyes, hear the tremor in his voice, but it didn’t matter. Not anymore.

His hands gripped the suitcase so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "Please," he begged again, "just… don’t go."

For a moment, you almost felt something—a flicker of the love you used to feel. But it was gone as quickly as it came. “Let go,” your voice is calm and steady.

“No, look, I would do anything,” he blurted out, his voice rising with desperation. “Okay, I see now why you don’t like my friends. I’ll cut them out. I won’t ever talk to another girl again. Just… anything. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. Please.”

He was a mess, still hungover, his head pounding, his hands trembling. His breath came in ragged gasps as he struggled to keep it together, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. He looked so close to breaking down completely.

Why did he make this mistake? Why did he let himself slip up so badly? You had given him a chance, and he had blown it in mere hours. The realization seemed to dawn on him, his face twisting with guilt and regret. His shoulders sagged, and his voice broke. "I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, his tone raw with fear.

But it didn’t matter anymore. Whatever he was offering now felt hollow, too little, too late. Your heart felt heavy, but your mind was made up.

"Let go," you repeated, firmer this time, your eyes locking onto his.

Sukuna's hand fell away from the suitcase as if it weighed a ton, his breath hitching. He wanted to fight, to argue, but the defeat in your eyes left him lost. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, his voice almost inaudible, choking on his own words.

But all you did was nod, a small, almost imperceptible nod, and turn toward the door.

He stood there, his whole world crumbling, as you walked away.

[timeoveritasconsumofigmentum]

“What do I feel like to you?” You mumble, tracing little flowers with your index finger on farmer!sukuna’s pec, cheek smushed into his chest. He’s still warm after the shower he just took, after a long and tiring day under the sun, in the fields of your small property. Every rough day ends like this: you two standing close on your way-too-little couch, basking in each other’s presence. He hums.

“Why are you asking me?” He tells you, taking your left hand and fidgeting with the ring on your finger. You shrug, and he sighs, exasperated. “Always with these dumb fuckin’ questions.” You nudge him, burrowing your face impossibly closer to him, and he sighs again.

“D’ya know when last week ya came inside with your hands dirty as fuck from planting the flowers I bought ya?” His rough voice grates near your ear. You stop your movements, furrowing your eyebrows. You try to raise your head, but he gets one of his hands on the back of it, keeping you in place.

“Then you washed yo’ hands with your too-sweet soap and saw all the grime leave your fingers. You cleaned under your nails and put your sticky fuckin’ cream on to make your hands softer,” he pauses, kissing the crown of your head. You smile.

“Y’ feel like when you draw dumb things on me with your cute freshly cleaned hands.”

He takes your left hand with his, hearing your ring clink with his. You smirk, appreciative.

“Want me to put some cream on your hands, husband?”

“Hell fucking no, brat.”

[timeoveritasconsumofigmentum]

Dragon Kyojuro cries when he holding your baby for the first time, the little horns that you constantly complained about feeling, even though they were dull the uncomfortable pushing as she seemed to headbutt your belly button irritated you. His hands run over the ridges that her wings will grow from, now just soft lumps. He admires her scales, though she has less than he does, more skin than scales he's in awe of the fusion of you two. He's looking at her like she had built the world for him, she was his world. You both were. He grasped your hand with his free one, words failing to come to him as he finally looked away from her sleeping form, barely an hour old and already exhausted. You were no better, exhausted but glowing. You had been cleaned and changed, the many midwives and Ruka had worked hard to make you comfortable in the nest of pillows and blankets Kyojuro has made in your spare room, which had come in handy as your pregnancy came to an end. You had grown increasingly uncomfortable sharing a bed with him, your body aching in every way until you were cradled in fluff and satin.

"is everything okay?" You noted his silent cries, not mentioning it but his lack of words has worried you as he stared at your daughter again. He looked up at you, waterlogged eyes locking with your own before he nodded.

"perfect. You have worked so hard and been through so much pain to bring her into this world. I am in awe of her. Of you. Your strength, your resilience. Now I may have you in my bed again and she may join us as well." You gave a half nod, too tired for more.

"will you lay with me? And her too? I am tired but I want time with you" there wasn't time for a full breath before Kyojuro was making room for the two of them. Using his free arm to maneuver your aching body so he was cradling you and your daughter. You sighed in content, sinking into the heat of his body as you listened to the soft breath of your daughter.