Really new to writing, I've been on tumblr for 3 years. And my birthday is July8th :)
Things you should know about my page
I will not I repeat will not write anything that makes me uncomfortable (here’s the list for that) I don’t condone anyone that is/says any homophobic, sexist, racist, or any hatred of any kind on my page
Fav songs at the moment
🎧 Jim Screechie…by Spice
🎧 Bitch Track…by Ayesha Erotica
🎧 Devour…by Disturbed
🎧 Cemetery Girl…by Insane Clown Posse
Featured Tags
Bella's Masterlist 𖨆 (Find all my master lists)
Bella's Fluff Imagines ➹(Wholesome things I thought of)
Bella's Smut Imagines ☻(...)
Bella Talks ✿(I run my big mouth)
Bella writes ʕ•̫͡•ʔ( my writing)
Request are….OPEN
My masterlist
Dialogue Prompt List
Scenario Prompt List
Head Cannon Prompt List
Kinktober Masterlist
Shows I write for (might add more)
Jujutsu Kaisen
Attack On Titan
My Hero Academia
Haikyuu
One Piece
Tokyo Revengers
Chainsaw Man
What I write
Smut | Fluff | Angst with happy ending (unless you request not to have a happy ending) | Headcanons | Short Stories | Imagines | Oneshots | And i might do fics
✩ Tags: *Look at pfp to see who is who* MDNI,*Y/N’s race/ethnicity is not specified*, Social media AU, College AU, slow burn, jealousy, drinking, smoking, angst with happy ending, NSFW, sexual themes, everything found on Pinterest, TwiNote used for the fake Twitter, and the Instagram accounts are edited on procreate or you can use IBIS paint, comment to be added to taglist. **ARTIST IS NEVERISA ON INSTAGRAM**
✩ Synopsis: After being forced to a frat party by your best of friends, you don’t expect much—just loud music, cheap drinks, and a quick escape. You definitely don’t expect Ryomen Sukuna, the infamous frat boy everyone warns you about, to notice you.
✩ <<Pervious Part || Part IV || Next Part >>
You don’t see him at first, the campus feels the same as it did yesterday, students moving in every direction, voices overlapping, the usual rush between classes. You’re focused on your phone, half-reading something Yuki sent, half-walking on autopilot. It's a normal routine, predictable, exactly what you expect. “Walking and not paying attention again.”
A voice that sounds a little familiar cuts in right beside you.
You stop immediately, turning your head just enough to see him keeping pace like he’s been there the whole time. Ryomen Sukuna doesn’t even look at you right away, eyes forward, hands relaxed, like joining you mid-walk is the most natural thing in the world. You blink, “You just…appear now?”
“Noticed you were distracted,” he replies, finally glancing down at you. You huff lightly. “So your solution was to sneak up on me? Like a creep.”
“You didn’t notice me coming,” he says. “That’s on you.” You shake your head, but you don’t stop walking. And neither does he. “You always walk this route?” he asks, tone casual but eyes sharp. “It’s the path to my class,” you reply. “So…yeah.”
He hums like he expected that answer. “Figured.” You glance at him briefly. “You say that a lot too.”
“Because I’m usually right.”
“Or you just think you are.”
A small pause stretches between you, but it’s not awkward. If anything, it feels…intentional. “I like this version of you better,” he says. You frown slightly. “What version?”
“The one that doesn’t pretend she doesn’t want to be here.” You let out a short laugh. “I’m literally just walking to class.”
“With me,” he adds, like that’s the important part.
You don’t even process it like that. “Because you inserted yourself into my walk,” you shoot back. He tilts his head slightly, watching you closer now. “And you didn’t tell me to leave.” There's a sly smirk on his face as he glances at you. You shrug. “That would be rude.”
“So you’re polite with me.”
“That’s not special,” you say quickly. “It is,” he replies just as fast. You glance at him again, a little longer this time. “You say things like they mean more than they do.”
A chuckle leaves his lips before he speaks again, “They do mean more.” Cocking a brow at him, “Or you just don’t explain anything.” You sigh a million thoughts running through your head as you both continue to walk, “I don’t need to.” You roll your eyes. “You actually do.” He steps a little closer as the crowd shifts around you, not enough to bump into you, just enough that you notice.
“You look good.” He compliments, his steps coming to a halt as you stop walking and turn to look at him with confusion written on your face, “Excuse me?” Sukuna grins at you with a grin that looks almost teasing “You look good, and you looked good the other night too.” You scoff lightly. “Ok, thanks.”
His gaze lingers on you, slower this time. Almost like he can tell that your brain can’t wrap around what he just said, all you can think about is how the girl might’ve been right. Because who just compliments someone when they barely know each other's name?? (Everyone thats how compliments kinda work)
You shrug like it’s nothing. “You need to loosen up,” he says, like he’s correcting you. You laugh again, shaking your head. “You need to mind yours”
“What?”
“Acting like you know everything.”
“I know enough,” he replies.
You don’t answer right away, adjusting your bag on your shoulder as the building for your class comes into view. The conversation feels longer than it actually is, like it stretched in a way you didn’t expect. “You keep talking to me,” he adds. You glance at him. “You keep starting conversations.”
“And you keep continuing them.” You exhale through your nose, trying not to smile. “I’m just being normal.” All you can think about is how insufferable he kinda is “You don’t do things you don’t want to do,” he says again, steady, certain.
“There you go again.”
“And you’re still here.” You reach the steps to your building, finally slowing down. “I have class,” you say, shifting your weight slightly. He doesn’t move away. “Yeah,” he replies, like that doesn’t change anything. There’s a small pause. “You gonna follow me in too?” you ask, half-joking. “I could.” You blink. “That was not an invitation.”
“I didn’t say it was.” You shake your head, stepping back toward the entrance. “I’m gonna be late.” You’re not but he doesn’t know that, you’re actually 2 minutes early. “You’re not,” he says immediately. Ok maybe he does know that. You raise a brow. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
You stare at him for a second. Then shake your head again, turning toward the door. “You’re actually unbelievable.”
“And you’ll still talk to me later.” You don’t even turn back this time “Bye, Sukuna.”
“See you, Y/N” he replies.
You walk into the building without looking back. But your grip tightens slightly around your phone. And even as you sit down in class, trying to focus. Your mind drifts. Not to the lecture. Not to your notes. To him. And the way he talks like he already knows how this ends.
✩ Tags: *Look at pfp to see who is who* MDNI,*Y/N’s race/ethnicity is not specified*, Social media AU, College AU, slow burn, jealousy, drinking, smoking, angst with happy ending, NSFW, sexual themes, everything found on Pinterest, TwiNote used for the fake Twitter, and the Instagram accounts are edited on procreate or you can use IBIS paint, comment to be added to taglist.
✩ Synopsis: After being forced to a frat party by your best of friends, you don’t expect much—just loud music, cheap drinks, and a quick escape. You definitely don’t expect Ryomen Sukuna, the infamous frat boy everyone warns you about, to notice you.
✩ Tags: *Look at pfp to see who is who* MDNI,*Y/N’s race/ethnicity is not specified*, Social media AU, College AU, slow burn, jealousy, drinking, smoking, angst with happy ending, NSFW, sexual themes, everything found on Pinterest, TwiNote used for the fake Twitter, and the Instagram accounts are edited on procreate or you can use IBIS paint, comment to be added to taglist. **ARTIST IS NEVERISA ON INSTAGRAM**
✩ Synopsis: After being forced to a frat party by your best of friends, you don’t expect much—just loud music, cheap drinks, and a quick escape. You definitely don’t expect Ryomen Sukuna, the infamous frat boy everyone warns you about, to notice you.
✩ <<Pervious Part || Part II || Next Part >>
The line outside Alpha Zeta Lux stretches halfway down the block, music already blaring out from the house like it can’t be contained. People crowd the entrance, laughing too loud, dressed like they’ve been planning this all week. Yuki practically drags you forward, excitement written all over her face as she digs cash out of her bag.
“Five dollars, that’s it,” she says, handing it over like it’s nothing.
You pass your own bill to the guy at the door, stepping inside just as the bass hits harder, heavier, vibrating through your chest. The second you cross the threshold, it’s overwhelming, heat, bodies, movement, voices stacking on top of each other until it all blends into one chaotic rhythm. You barely have time to adjust before you’re pushed deeper into it, your group sticking together just enough not to lose each other.
Within fifteen minutes, Utahime is already over it. “This is exactly what I said it would be,” she complains, raising her voice over the music, her brows pulled tight as she looks around. “It’s too crowded, no one has spatial awareness, and—”
“Take a shot,” Yuki cuts in, already handing her one.
Utahime stares at it like it personally offended her. “No.”
“Take. The. Shot.”
Shoko is already halfway through hers, barely reacting as she sets the empty cup down. You hesitate for a second, then shrug and follow, the burn hitting your throat before settling warm in your chest. Utahime sighs like she’s making a terrible decision then takes it anyway.
Five minutes later, she’s still complaining.
But she’s standing closer, talking a little more, not trying to leave.
Another round appears out of nowhere, then another, and suddenly the noise doesn’t feel as suffocating. Your shoulders loosen, your laugh comes easier, and even Utahime doesn’t look like she’s counting down the seconds until she escapes.
“See?” Yuki grins. “Not that bad.” Utahime exhales, rolling her eyes but she doesn’t argue this time.
– – – – – – – – – – – – –
You don’t notice them at first, but they notice you. “Well, look who finally showed up.”
The voice cuts through everything, familiar in a way that makes you turn before you even think about it. Satoru Gojo steps into your space like he belongs there, a lazy grin already forming like he’s been waiting for this moment. Next to him, Suguru Geto lingers quieter, his gaze sharper, more observant.
Yuki lights up immediately. “Gojo.”
“Missed me?” he shoots back, not even waiting for an answer. Shoko snorts under her breath, and Utahime visibly tenses like she already regrets staying. Gojo’s attention shifts, scanning over the group before landing on you. His head tilts slightly, curiosity flickering for half a second. “Not in the slightest,” Yuki and Utahime say at the same time.
Gojo rolls his eyes then his eyes fall onto you “Wait,” he says. “Who’re you? You new here?” You blink, caught off guard by how direct it is. “We’ve met before. One of your parties…like a month ago?”
He squints like he’s trying to place it. “Ohhh?” His face still held so much confusion. You nod slowly. “We sit next to each other in chem class.”
“Right, right,” he says, pointing at you like he’s solved something. “What was your name again?” You stare at him. “…seriously?”
“Hold on, I’ve got it,” he insists. “Jessica?”
“No.”
“Yana?”
“No.”
You cross your arms, unimpressed. “It’s Y/N.”
There’s a beat, then he grins like none of that just happened. “Right. I knew that.” All three girls stare at him in disbelief. Utahime looks like she might actually say something this time.
Shoko just shakes her head. “You’re unbelievable.” Geto lets out a quiet laugh beside him, clearly entertained, his eyes flicking toward you like he’s actually taking the time to remember.
The conversation lingers for a few more minutes, bouncing between jokes, complaints, and Gojo talking way too much. It’s easy to get pulled into it, easier than you expected, but eventually the heat and the noise catch up to you.
“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” you say, slipping out before anyone can stop you.
The hallway is quieter, not completely quiet but quieter.
You move through it quickly, pushing the bathroom door open and letting yourself breathe for a second. The mirror shows flushed cheeks, slightly messy hair, eyes brighter than before. You don’t look like someone who didn’t want to come tonight.
You stay just long enough to fix yourself up, then head back out, and right when you walk out you walk straight into someone. “Oh—sorry,” you say immediately, stepping back.
Your words catch when you look up. And of course you run into the one and only, Ryomen Sukuna. “It’s fine,” he says, voice low, steady. You nod, ready to move past him but he doesn’t move. His gaze lingers, dragging over your face like he’s placing you, like he already recognizes you even if you don’t understand why.
“You’ve been here before,” he says. It’s not a question, you hesitate. “Once.”
He hums, like that confirms something. “Didn’t stay long.” Your stomach tightens slightly. “How would you know that?” A small shift in his expression, something almost amused. “Seems like you didn’t.” The answer sits heavier than it should.
You don’t know what to say to that, not really, but you don’t leave either. The conversation stretches for a few minutes, slow, measured, like he’s not in a rush to end it. Like he doesn’t need to try to keep you there. Just as your about to open your mouth to continue the conversation you see a blonde run towards you.
“Y/N!”
Yuki’s voice cuts through everything before you can think too much about it. She appears out of nowhere, grabbing your arm like she always does. “There you are,” she says, barely acknowledging Sukuna as she pulls you back. “Come on, we’re dancing.” You glance back once, he’s still there still watching.
Then you’re gone again, pulled into the crowd, into the music, into the blur of the night.
– – – – – – – – – – – – – –
As you and girls dance together, you can feel eyes staring watching your every move. Looking around the room as you dance you see the big burley man you ran into by the bathrooms staring at you. His expression is unreadable, turning away from him heat rushing up to face you trying to shake off his gaze.
Every time you turn you see him staring his gaze strong and never leaving when you make eye contact. Choosing to ignore him you and the girls dance together. Snapping picture after picture together, after each song you feel looser, other then the amber almost red eyes staring at you.
– – – – – – – – – – – –
After about two hours Yuki turns to the group and shouts over the music, “Y’all ready to go.” just as Yuki finishes her sentence someone near you throws up on someone else’s shoes, “Oh god let’s go,” Shoko says, Utahime shakes her head as fast as she can before grabbing everyone and pushing everyone towards the door.
Your apartment feels quieter when you step back into it, shoes kicked off, bodies dropping onto couches and chairs like you all ran a marathon instead of just surviving a party.
Yuki exhales dramatically. “Okay…worth it.” Shoko nods in agreement, already reaching for water. Utahime sits down carefully, like she’s trying to process everything at once. “I still don’t like it.”
“But you didn’t hate it,” Yuki points out. Utahime doesn’t respond. Which is answer enough. There’s a shift after a minute, the energy softens, the noise settles, and the conversation turns. Shoko glances at you. “You talked to Sukuna.”
You look up. “For like two seconds before Yuki came over.”
“That’s two seconds too long,” Yuki says immediately.
You frown slightly. “I don’t even know him.”
“That’s the point,” Utahime adds, her tone more serious now. “He’s not…someone you want to get involved with.” You lean back against the couch. “I wasn’t getting involved. We just talked.” Yuki shakes her head. “Just—be careful, okay?”
There’s something in her voice that makes you pause.
But still—“It’s not that deep,” you say. “I’m not gonna see him again.”
Later, when everyone’s settling down, getting ready for bed, the apartment finally quiet— You grab your phone. A notification lights up your screen.
New follower on Instagram
Your thumb hovers for a second before you tap it open. The username is familiar, too familiar. Your chest tightens slightly as you click into it. Then another notification appears.
New follower on Twitter
You don’t have to check to know who it is. Still, you do. And when you look up from your phone, staring at nothing in particular you can’t help the small, uneasy thought that slips in.
✩ Tags: *Look at pfp to see who is who* MDNI,*Y/N’s race/ethnicity is not specified*, Social media AU, College AU, slow burn, jealousy, drinking, smoking, angst with happy ending, NSFW, sexual themes, everything found on Pinterest, TwiNote used for the fake Twitter, and the Instagram accounts are edited on procreate or you can use IBIS paint, comment to be added to taglist.
✩ Synopsis: After being forced to a frat party by your best of friends, you don’t expect much—just loud music, cheap drinks, and a quick escape. You definitely don’t expect Ryomen Sukuna, the infamous frat boy everyone warns you about, to notice you.
✩ Part I || Next part>>
After you send your last message you focus on the last bit of your homework. Finishing up your work you get up from your desk and start tidying up your apartment, before the girls arrive. Almost an hour later you hear a loud knock cut through the music you’ve been playing, “Open up Y/N.” You hear on the other side, the voice belongs to no one other than Yuki.
Swing the door open you come face to face with Yuki, Shoki and Utahime, who looks like she would rather be anywhere else but here.
Your apartment becomes louder than usual, as everyone piles in. Music hums from your speaker, something soft at first before Yuki inevitably takes over the playlist, switching it to something with more bass. Bags are dropped by the door, shoes kicked off without asking, voices overlapping until your small living room feels too full.
“Why is it so clean in here?” Yuki asks immediately, spinning once like she’s inspecting the place.
“Because I clean,” you deadpan. “Boring,” she mutters, already making herself at home. Behind her, Shoko walks in slower, carrying a small bag and a bottle she definitely didn’t mention bringing.
“You said we’re pregaming, right?” she says casually, holding it up.
You narrow your eyes. “I said nothing of the sort.”
“Good,” she replies. “Then I brought it for a reason.” You shoot Shoko a confused glance as she just shrugs at you. Utahime is the last to step in. She pauses at the doorway for half a second, taking in the noise, the mess that’s already starting, the energy that’s very much not hers. “This is already too much,” she sighs. “You literally just got here,” Yuki shoots back.
Utahime ignores her, slipping off her shoes neatly by the door of course she does and setting her bag down like she’s trying to keep at least one thing controlled.
Her eyes flick to you.“You’re actually going through with this?” You hesitate, then shrug your shoulders, because earlier, you meant it. You didn’t want to go. You knew exactly what the night would look like too loud, too crowded, too predictable.
But now? With them here, filling your space, laughing like they’ve already decided how the night ends… It feels different. “…I will only go for an hour,” you shrug. Yuki gasps dramatically. “Growth.”
“Don’t start.”
— — — — — — — — —
Your bedroom quickly becomes the center of everything. Clothes are everywhere your clothes, their clothes, things being held up, thrown aside, reconsidered five minutes later. “Wear this,” Yuki insists, holding up something you definitely weren’t planning on wearing.
“That’s too much.”
“It’s literally not enough, actually,” she says, already tossing it onto your bed.
Shoko’s sitting on the floor, scrolling through her phone, occasionally glancing up just to add fuel to the chaos. “Wait, no—try the black one,” she adds. “You guys are not dressing me like I’m trying to impress anyone.”
“Who said that?” Yuki grins.
You pause.
“…you implied it, basically.”
She ignores that.
Utahime stays off to the side at first. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching the mess unfold like she’s not part of it. But slowly, she gets pulled in. “Utahime, you’re not wearing that,” Yuki says suddenly.
Utahime looks down at her outfit. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s…very my 50 year old mother,” Shoko says carefully.
“And that’s the problem,” Yuki finishes.
“I’m not changing.”
Five minutes later, she’s holding up a different top. “…does this look appropriate?” You and Shoko exchange a look.Yuki smirks.“See? Progress.” Utahime rolls her eyes but she doesn’t put the shirt down.
— — — — — — — —
At some point, the bottle gets opened.“Absolutely not,” you say as soon as Shoko starts pouring. “It’s just a little,” she shrugs.
“It’s never just a little with you.” Yuki takes the cup anyway. “To bad decisions.”
“I’m not drinking that.” Utahime says, staring at the shot glass like it’s poisoned “Girl, drink,” Yuki says, then turning to hand you one. You stare at it, then at them.
“To bad decisions.” You all say as you clink your shot glasses together, leaning your head back you down the shot, the alcohol leaving a burn down your throat. “Ugh yuck,” Utahime groans and gags as she downs the shot, you all let out a giggle as Utahime makes a disgusted face.
“Wait,” Shoko says suddenly, standing up. “We have to take pictures.”
“YES!!” Yuki shouts, grabbing her phone and digital camera, “To the bathroom.” You all head to the bathroom posing in front of the mirror Utahime looking a bit loose and not so tense, you finally feel at ease once you're all ready to go.
“Ok let’s get going,” Yuki announces, clapping her hands together. Heading for the door phone, handbag and keys all in hand you brace yourself for a wild night.
✩ Tags: *Look at pfp to see who is who* MDNI, Y/N’s race/ethnicity is not specified, Social media AU, College AU, slow burn, jealousy, drinking, smoking, angst with happy ending, NSFW, sexual themes, everything found on Pinterest, TwiNote used for the fake Twitter, and the Instagram accounts are edited on procreate or you can use IBIS paint, comment to be added to taglist **ARTIST IS NEVERISA ON INSTAGRAM**
✩ Synopsis: After being forced to a frat party by your best of friends, you don’t expect much—just loud music, cheap drinks, and a quick escape. You definitely don’t expect Ryomen Sukuna, the infamous frat boy everyone warns you about, to notice you.
✩ Tags: Fluff, overthinking, reader gets a kiss :P, mention of bruises, comment tot be added to taglist
✩ Synopsis: After agreeing to a second date with the boxer, you overthink for quite sometime before settling into the date, opening up to Sukuna and finally getting a long waited kiss
Ever since you agreed to this second date with Sukuna you've been overly nervous. You’ve thought about canceling a total of three times in the span of one hour. Now you stare at your phone like it personally offended you, thumb hovering over his name, rereading the last text he sent.
SUKUNA: 7. don’t be late. I already picked the place.
No emoji. No fluff. No “please.” Just… him. You exhale, dropping your head back against your pillow. You don’t cancel, you spend way too long getting ready. Not in a cute, effortless way either. In a this is ridiculous, why do I care this much way.
You change outfits three times.
Reject one because it’s “too much.”
Reject another because it’s “too casual.”
Reject the third because, you don’t even have a reason, you’re just spiraling now.
You pause in front of your mirror, hands on your hips. You stare at your outfit, a black cowl neck top with a long black skirt.
“This is just a date,” you tell your reflection. Your reflection does not believe you. “Second date,” you correct quietly. Which feels… different. Because the first one? The first one had tension, yeah. Heat. Curiosity. That electric pull that made your stomach flip every time he looked at you like you were something he wanted to figure out.
But now—Now you know what he’s like when he’s bleeding, now you know what he’s like when he’s angry, now you know what he’s like when he looks at you like you matter too much.
A loud car followed by an even louder honk pulls you from your thoughts, peeping out your window you see Sukuna’s car. You watch him get out of the car and stand by his passenger door waiting for you to come out.
— — — — — — — — — —
Sukuna leans against his 2026 black BMW 330i, like he’s part of the scenery—dark shirt, paired with black slacks, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed in that deceptive way that says he could move fast if he wanted to.
His face is better than last time, not healed. Never fully healed but better. The bruise under his eye has faded to a dull yellow. The cut on his lip is still there, thinner now, like a memory that refuses to leave.
He looks up when he hears you approach. His eyes widen just a bit, and then his mouth curves, slow and satisfied.
“Took you long enough,” he jokes. You glance at your phone. “I’m two minutes early.”
“Feels like ten minutes late.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“You’re late in spirit.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “You look good,” he adds casually. It lands heavier than it should. “You’ve seen me before.”
“Yeah.” He pushes off the car, stepping closer. “Still worth saying.”
Your heartbeat does something stupid. You clear your throat. “Are you going to open the door or just stand there being annoying?” He huffs a quiet laugh. “Bossy tonight.”
“Just get in the car.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
— — — — — — — — — — —
The drive is… easy. You expected tension. Awkwardness. That weird edge you had during the interview where every word felt like it could tip into something else.
Instead— He drives with one hand, the other resting loosely against the console, occasionally tapping to the rhythm of whatever’s playing low on the radio.
“You nervous?” he asks.
“No.”
“Liar.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“You changed outfits like five times.”
Your head snaps toward him. “How would you—”
“Your energy’s off.”
You stare.
“Did you just psychoanalyze me in ten seconds?”
“Didn’t take ten.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You’re predictable.”
You cross your arms, but there’s no heat in it.
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere you’ll like.”
“That’s vague.”
“Trust me.”
“That’s bold.”
He glances at you briefly, something softer flickering in his expression. “You showed up, didn’t you?” Your stomach flips. You look out the window. “…yeah.”
— — — — — — — — — — — — —
The restaurant isn’t too flashy. That’s the first thing you notice. It’s not loud or crowded or filled with people trying too hard. It’s warm. Dim lighting, soft conversations, the kind of place where you don’t feel like you have to perform.
You glance at him. “You picked this?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s… nice.”
“I know.”
You narrow your eyes. “You’re not going to ruin the moment with a cocky comment?”
“Thought about it.”
“And?”
He shrugs. “You looked like you needed a win.”
You blink. That catches you off guard. “Don’t get used to it,” he adds quickly. “I’m still an asshole.”
“There it is.”
“Missed me?” You huff. “A little.” He grins.
Dinner starts with small talk. Work. Schedules. The usual. But it doesn’t stay small for long. “You’ve been busy,” you say, stirring your drink. “Press hasn’t left you alone.”
“They never do.”
“This is different.”
“Because of you?”
You pause.
“Because of the situation.”
He studies you. “You still worried about that?”
“Yes.”
“Why.”
You set your glass down. “Because I don’t want to be part of the reason your career gets questioned.”
“It’s always questioned.”
“Not like this.”
He leans back in his seat, watching you carefully.
“You think I’m fragile?”
“I now think you’re… reactive.”
He smiles faintly.
“That’s a nice way of saying I hit people when I’m pissed.”
“You said it, not me.”
“You meant it.”
“I did.”
Silence settles between you, not awkward. Just… real. “I’m working on it,” he says finally. You blink. “You are?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s new.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I am surprised.”
He leans forward slightly.
“You think I don’t know how that looked?”
You hesitate.
“I think you didn’t care in the moment.”
“That’s true.”
“And now?”
He exhales.
“Now I care about how it affects you.”
That hits. Harder than it should.
You shift in your seat. “That’s not your responsibility.”
“Maybe not.” He shrugs. “Still matters.”
You don’t know what to do with that.
So you change the subject.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
By the time the food comes, something’s shifted, you’re laughing. Actually laughing. Not the polite kind, not the controlled kind. The real kind. “You did not say that in a press conference,” you gasp. “I did.”
“No way.”
“Swear.”
“What was the question?”
“Something about discipline.”
“And you answered—?”
“‘I’m disciplined enough to show up and win. That’s all that matters.’”
You stare at him.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And I was right.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It’s always the point.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re enjoying this.”
You open your mouth to deny it.
Pause.
“…a little.”
He leans back, satisfied.
“Knew it.”
You don’t realize how much you’ve relaxed until you catch yourself. Leaning forward. Talking with your hands. Teasing him without overthinking it. “You’re staring again,” he says. “I am not.”
“You are.”
“I’m thinking.” you say your eyes raking over his face once more. “About how good I look?” Sukuna teases, You roll your eyes once again. “About how your ego fits in this building.”
“Barely.”
“Tragic.”
“I know.”
He watches you for a second, quieter now. “You’re different tonight.” You freeze slightly, your brows scrunching together “Different how?”
“Less guarded.”
Your chest tightens. “Maybe I’m just comfortable.”
“With me?”
You meet his gaze. “…yeah.”
Something shifts in his expression. Warmer. He didn't joke that time.
— — — — — — — — — — — — —
The walk outside is slow. Neither of you rushes to the car. The night air is cool, grounding. “You still think this is a bad idea?” he asks. You glance at him. “I didn’t say that.” Coming to a full stop you turn to look at him. “You thought it.” He says looking at you. “Maybe.”
“And now?”
You hesitate. “I think…” You exhale. “I think I was overthinking.”
“Shocking.”
“Don’t push it.” turning away from him you begin walking towards the car again.
He smirks. “But I also think—” you continue, quieter now “—that this only works if we’re honest.”
“I am honest.”
“You deflect.”
“I flirt.”
“You deflect with flirting.”
“Works, doesn’t it?”
You give him a look.
“…sometimes.”
He opens your door this time without being asked.
The drive back is quieter, his hand rests on the console again, closer this time. Your knee brushes it once when the car turns. Neither of you pulls away.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — —
When he pulls up in front of your place, neither of you moves right away. “Well,” you say softly. “Yeah.” You unbuckle slowly. “Tonight was—”
“Good,” he cuts in. You smile faintly. “Yeah. It was.” You reach for the door. Pause. Because he says your name. You turn, he’s already looking at you. Closer than before.
Not physically. But something in the way he’s focused. “Don’t pull away again,” he says. Your breath catches. “I—”
“Just talk to me,” he adds, quieter now. “If something’s off. If you’re overthinking. Whatever. Don’t disappear.” You nod slowly. “I won’t.”
“Good.” There’s a pause. You should get out of the car, but you don’t. He leans in slightly. Giving you time, your heart is loud, you don’t move away.
So he closes the distance. His lips brush yours—slow, warm, careful in a way that doesn’t match the rest of him at all. It’s not aggressive. Not overwhelming, just… deliberate. Like he’s making sure you feel it. And god, you do.
Your hand lifts instinctively, fingers curling lightly into his shirt. He deepens it just slightly—just enough to make your stomach flip before he pulls back. Breath warm against your lips.
Eyes still on yours. “Second date,” he murmurs. You swallow. “…yeah.”
“Not a bad idea after all.” You shake your head faintly, breath still uneven. “Don’t ruin it.” He smirks. “Too late.”
You laugh softly. And this time, when you step out of the car—You don’t feel like you’re walking away from something uncertain. You feel like you just stepped into something you might not be able to walk away from at all.
ᓚᘏ𑄝 riding nanami kento till he’s bowing forward from the overstimulation. 18+
kento’s usually so composed.
even when he’s unraveling beneath you, there’s normally still that last thread of control he clings to — jaw tight, breaths measured, hands steady on your hips like he’s still the one guiding the rhythm.
not tonight.
tonight he’s a wreck.
sweat beads along his hairline, blond strands plastered to his forehead. his chest heaves in uneven, stuttering bursts. every roll of your hips drags a broken sound out of him— not quite a moan, not quite a sob, something caught and raw in between. his cock twitches hard inside you each time you sink back down, and the overstimulation has turned his usually velvet voice into something cracked and pleading.
you slow your pace just a fraction, mostly to catch your breath, but also because the way his entire body jerks makes something worried flicker in your chest.
“kento,” you murmur, palms sliding up to brace on his pecs. “hey. you okay?”
his eyes snap open, pupils blown, lashes wet. he looks almost startled, like he forgot you could speak.
“don’t,” he chokes out immediately. voice hoarse. “don’t stop. please.”
you hesitate. his hands are trembling where they clutch your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but the rest of him is shaking too. thighs twitching, abs jumping every time your walls flutter around him.
“you’re shaking so much,” you say softly, brushing damp hair off his forehead. “i thought maybe—”
“i know,” he cuts in, desperate. “i know i’m— fuck, i’m a mess. just— please. need you to keep going. need it so bad it hurts.”
the last word cracks.
you watch a tear slip free from the corner of his eye, track its path down his temple into his hair. he doesn’t even try to hide it. too far gone for shame.
your heart twists.
you lean down, kiss the wet streak, taste salt.
then you start moving again but slower this time, deliberate, grinding more than bouncing so every inch of him stays buried deep.
the sound he makes is concerning for the neighbors out. head tipping back, throat exposed, adam’s apple bobbing on a strangled whine. his hips jerk up involuntarily, chasing more even though he’s already so deep it has to be overwhelming.
“too much?” you whisper against his jaw.
“yes,” he gasps. “and not enough. god— don’t you dare stop.”
his arms wrap around your back, crushing you to his chest. you can feel every frantic beat of his heart against your ribs. he’s babbling now half-formed sentences, your name over and over, little broken please-please-pleases every time you lift even slightly.
you pick up the pace just enough.
his whole body locks up.
“fuck— oh fuck— waitwaitwait—”
but he doesn’t actually want you to wait. his heels dig into the mattress, hips snapping up to meet you, sloppy and uncoordinated. tears keep slipping down the sides of his face, catching in the light. he looks ruined. beautiful. yours.
“kento,” you breathe, cupping his face. “come for me. let go, baby. i’ve got you.”
that does it.
his mouth falls open on a silent cry first, then the sound catches up, wrecked and loud and completely undone. he comes so hard his whole body bows off the bed, cock pulsing inside you in long, helpless spurts. you feel it all. the heat, the twitch, the way he keeps bucking even after he’s spent, like his body can’t accept that it’s over.
he’s crying openly now. quiet, hiccuping sobs muffled against your neck as aftershocks roll through him.
you slow to a gentle rock, easing him through it, murmuring soft things against his temple until his grip on you finally loosens.
he doesn’t let go completely though.
just clings. shaky. sweaty. still trembling.
“sorry,” he mumbles eventually, voice thick. “lost it there.”
you kiss the corner of his mouth.
“don’t be. i liked seeing you like that.”
he huffs a watery laugh, embarrassed, but doesn’t argue.
just pulls you closer. buries his face in your shoulder. lets out one last shaky breath.
still inside you, still sensitive and still yours.
✩ Tags: fluff, mention of bruises and a beaten, Sukuna being cocky, flirting, mention of the fighting, comment to be added to Taglist
✩ Synopsis: Its been two days since the dirty boxing match between Sukuna and Naoya and today is your turn to finally get some answers on the fight, but its kinda hard to get answers when someone isn't cooperating with you
Bruises bloom on him the way medals hang on other men, deliberate, displayed, unapologetic. The purples along his cheekbone darken into indigo. A split lip carves a wicked crescent at the corner of his mouth. There is gauze at his ribs, visible beneath the low collar of his compression shirt, taped down like something feral barely contained.
The fight with Naoya had been dirty. Not technical. Not elegant. It had been knuckle dusters and elbows and rage pressed too close to the surface. And now you are here to ask him about it, two days later.
— — — — — — — — — —
The gym smells like iron and antiseptic. The ring is empty. Cameras are set. The lighting is harsh, too bright for the bruises, too honest. You adjust your mic. Check your notes. Professional. Controlled.
Sukuna watches you from across the ring.
He is leaning against the ropes, arms hooked over the top strand, shoulders broad and relaxed like he hasn’t been stitched up in three different places in the last forty-eight hours. He catches you looking at his mouth, he smiles wider, which pulls at the split on his lip.
You flinch.
He notices that too.
“Careful,” he says, voice low and amused. “You keep staring at me like that, people are gonna think this interview’s biased.” You roll your eyes, but your pulse betrays you. “It will only be biased,” you reply smoothly, “if you refuse to answer my questions.”
“Oh, I’ll answer,” he says. “Just not necessarily the ones you ask.” You fight the urge to smile. You fail.
— — — — — — — — —
The cameras roll. Your first interview you’ll be doing on camera, the red light blinks alive. You shift into reporter mode.
“Ryomen Sukuna,” you begin, voice steady. “Two nights ago your match against Naoya ended in what analysts are calling one of the most aggressive exchanges this season. Some have described it as ‘reckless.’ Others have said ‘personal.’ How would you describe it?”
He tilts his head slightly, considers you instead of the question. “Efficient,” he says. “Efficient?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs carefully, one shoulder rolls smoother than the other. “He swung first.”
“After a verbal exchange.”
He smirks.
“You wanna quote it?”
“I don’t need to.”
“Shame,” he says. “You looked real good when you were angry.”
You hold your composure like a shield. “We’re not discussing me.”
“We should,” he counters. “Ratings would skyrocket.” You glance at his ribs. There’s a deep bruise spreading beneath the tape, dark and ugly. “You took significant body shots in round three,” you say, steering the conversation. “Did you feel compromised?”
“Compromised?” He laughs. It’s rough, a little broken at the edges. “You should see the other guy.”
“I have,” you reply dryly. “He required twelve stitches.”
Sukuna’s gaze sharpens.
“And?”
“And you required six.”
He leans closer to the camera. “Discount deal.” You exhale slowly. “You understand why some people are questioning your discipline.”
“Do they?” he asks lazily. “You deviated from your usual control. You engaged emotionally.” At that, his eyes flick back to you. There is something deliberate in the way he studies you. “Emotion isn’t weakness,” he says.
“It can be,” you answer.
“Not when it’s focused.” Your gaze drifts again, this time to the swelling beneath his left eye. It’s puffed, faintly yellowing at the edges. He notices, he always notices. He pushes off the ropes and walks toward you.
The movement is slow. Purposeful. You hold your ground. “You keep looking at my face like it’s tragic,” he says quietly, just outside the mic’s main pickup. “It’s flattering.”
“I’m assessing damage.”
“Mm.” He lifts his chin slightly. “Want a closer look?”
“Stand still.”
“You worried about me?” The question lands heavier than it should. “I’m doing my job.” He grins, winces faintly when the split lip pulls again. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “You are.”
— — — — — — — — — —
You pivot.
“Let’s talk about strategy. In round two, Naoya baited you into a corner exchange. That’s not typical for you.”
“He talks too much.”
“So you reacted.”
He shrugs.
“I adjusted.”
“You brawled.”
“I won.”
The simplicity of it frustrates you.
“You could have controlled the distance.”
“I preferred proximity.”
“Why.”
He doesn’t answer immediately, he watches your mouth form the word. Then he says, casually, “I wanted him close enough to hear me.” Your spine straightens. “And what did you say?” He smiles again slower this time. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
You press on. “There are rumors the altercation had less to do with competition and more to do with something said before the bell.” He folds his arms. “And if it did?”
“It would suggest you’re allowing outside influences to affect your performance.” He arches a brow. “Outside influences.” Your voice remains even. “Personal distractions.” The air between you tightens.
He steps closer again, not enough to break professionalism, but enough to shift the temperature. “You think you’re a distraction?” he asks softly. You don’t blink. “This isn’t about me.”
“It’s about you,” he says. “Everyone knows it’s about you.”
“Speculation.”
“Mm.” His gaze drags over your face slowly. “You’re real good at pretending.” You lift your clipboard slightly. “We’re discussing your discipline.”
“Okay.” He nods. “Ask something else.” You inhale. “Do you regret how the fight escalated?” He doesn’t hesitate. “No.” You pause.
“Not even slightly?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if someone disrespects what’s mine,” he says evenly, “I handle it.” The words drop heavy, the crew goes very still.You swallow. “I’m not—”
“I didn’t say you were,” he interrupts smoothly, amusement flickering. “You’re the one jumping to conclusions.” You narrow your eyes as your eye twitches. “You’re deflecting.”
“And you’re avoiding.”
“Professional boundaries exist for a reason.”
He grins.
“So break them.”
You look away first, you shift tone. “Your coach commented that you appeared… agitated during warm ups.”
“He worries too much.”
“He implied you weren’t fully present.”
Sukuna hums.
“You’re here,” he says. “I’m present.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s what I heard.”
The camera captures the way your jaw tightens. “Let’s discuss recovery,” you say briskly. “Your medical team has you on limited contact for the week.”
“Boring.”
“Necessary.”
“I’ll live.”
“You have hairline fractures in two knuckles.”
He lifts his taped hand, flexes it slowly.
“Still works.”
“You also have bruised ribs.”
“Breathing’s optional.”
You stare at him.
“Take this seriously.”
“I am.”
“You’re joking around.”
He steps even closer now, enough that the edge of your mic brushes his chest when he leans down. “I’m joking,” he says quietly, “because you look like you’re about to march me to the hospital yourself.”
“I might.”
He smiles — softer this time.
“You care.”
“It’s my responsibility to report accurately.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Your heart betrays you again. “Final question,” you say, forcing structure back into the chaos. “What would you say to critics who believe the Naoya fight marks the beginning of instability in your career?” He doesn’t look at the camera when he answers, he looks at you. “I’d say they don’t know me.”
“Explain?” You say as you grab your pen to start writing his response. “They think a bruise means damage.” His voice lowers, steadier now. “It doesn’t. It means someone tried.” Raising a brow at him, you look over his body once more, staring at all his bruises, “And succeeded.” He tilts his head. “You think I look worse?” You hesitate.
He notices. “C’mon,” he says lightly. “Be honest. Does it ruin my face?” Shaking your head you roll your eyes at him, “This isn’t about aesthetics.”
“Shame.” He winks at the lens. “Thought you liked this face.” Heat creeps up your neck. “Interview concluded,” you say firmly. The red light blinks off.
— — — — — — — — —
The crew disperses. Cables retract. Lights dim. Assistants murmur. Sukuna doesn’t move, he watches you unclip your mic. “You’re impossible,” you mutter. “You’re welcome.”
“That wasn’t—”
“I know.” He straightens, rolling his shoulders carefully. The movement reveals a deep purple spread across his side. It looks painful. Your expression shifts before you can stop it.
He catches that too. “What,” he asks.
“That looks bad.”
He glances down lazily.
“Looks dramatic.”
“It could’ve been worse.”
“It wasn’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“How.”
He steps closer again, voice dropping. “Because you were there.” Your breath falters. “That’s not how medicine works.”
“Good thing I don’t need medicine,” he says. “Just need you to stop looking at me like I’m about to fall apart.”
“I’m assessing risk.”
“You’re worried.”
You cross your arms.
“You’re deflecting again.”
He laughs softly.
“Okay. Fine. Serious face.”
He tries, he genuinely tries but the corner of his mouth twitches. You almost laugh. Almost. “You scared?” he asks suddenly. “Of what.”
“Of me.”
The question is quiet. Not teasing this time.
You meet his gaze.
“No.”
“Good.”
A beat passes.
Then he tilts his head.
“Go out with me again.”
You blink.
“That’s abrupt.”
“It’s efficient.”
“We’re at work.”
“Exactly.” He gestures vaguely around the emptying gym. “We only talk when there’s a camera pointed at us or when you’re questioning me about how I fight or how I'm gonna win a fight. I don’t like that.”
You hesitate.
“Sukuna—”
“Don’t give me a professional answer.”
“I need to maintain boundaries.”
“You maintained them,” he says. “You grilled me on national television.”
“That’s my job.”
“And you did it.” His voice softens slightly. “Now let me do mine.”
“And what’s that.”
“Taking you to dinner.”
You exhale through your nose.
“You’re injured.”
“I can chew.”
“You have bruised ribs.”
“I’ll sit carefully.”
“You just fought a dirty match.”
“And I won.”
“That’s not the point.” He steps closer, not invasive, not overwhelming. Just a present. “You think I only talk to you because of work?” he asks. You don’t answer. “Because I don’t,” he continues. “I like talking to you when you’re not holding a mic. I like when you roll your eyes at me. I like when you pretend you’re not worried.”
Your pulse stutters.
“That doesn’t mean—”
“It means I want to see you somewhere that doesn’t involve blood.”
Silence stretches, the gym is almost empty now. You look at the bruises again. The split lip. The tape around his knuckles. “Are you going to punch someone if they look at me wrong?” you ask quietly.
He studies you. “No.” The answer comes without humor.
“Are you going to lose control again?”
“I didn’t lose control.”
“You escalated.”
“I handled it.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
He considers that.
Then nods slightly.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I’ll handle it differently.”
You search his face for mockery, you don’t find it. “You can’t promise that.”
“I can promise I won’t embarrass you.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.” He steps even closer now close enough that you can see the faint gold flecks in his eyes. “You think I’d ruin myself over a comment?” he asks softly. You hesitate. “I think you care too much.” He smiles faintly. “Yeah.”
The admission is simple. Heavy. You swallow. “This is complicated.”
“Everything worth having is.”
“That’s a line.”
“It’s true.”
He reaches up not to touch you but to lightly tap your clipboard.
“You’re overthinking.”
“That’s my profession.”
“And this?” He gestures between you. “Isn’t your profession.”
You look at him, really look at him beneath the bruises, beneath the bravado. He doesn’t look unstable. He doesn’t look reckless. He looks… invested. That might be more dangerous. “You’re going to flirt your way through every serious conversation, aren’t you,” you say.
“Probably.”
You shake your head.
“Incurable.”
“Persistent.”
There’s a difference, he waits. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t corner. Just stands there battered and warm and stubborn. “Dinner,” he repeats. “No cameras. No mics. No idiots named Naoya.” You almost laugh. “Public place.”
“Obviously.”
“And if someone says something—”
“I’ll ignore it.”
“Completely.”
He sighs dramatically. “Yes.”
You study him another second.
Then, “Fine.” The word is quiet but it lands like a bell. His smile spreads slowly and satisfied. “See,” he murmurs. “Wasn’t that hard.”
“It was.”
“For you.”
“Yes.”
He leans back slightly, giving you space again.
“Tomorrow night,” he says. “Seven.”
“You’re assuming I’m free.”
“You are.”
You glare, “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re going on a date with me anyway.”
You turn to leave before he can see your smile fully form. Behind you, he calls out, “Try not to stare at my bruises too much.” You don’t look back. “I’m assessing damage,” you reply over your shoulder. His laugh follows you out of the gym.
✩ Tags: Angst, Divorce, Nanami is not really present in reader and their kids life, mention of child, mention of divorce, comment to be added to taglist🤗
✩ Synopsis: The reason why you and Nanami divorced
No one ever accused Nanami Kento of being careless. He was careful with money. Careful with schedules. Careful with responsibility. What he was never careful with… was time. At first, you told yourself it was temporary.
When Lola was born, Nanami promised it would be temporary. He kissed your forehead in the hospital room, thumb brushing over your knuckles as your daughter slept between you, impossibly small and warm.
“Just for a while,” he’d said. “I need to make sure you’re both secure.”
You believed him.
You wanted to.
The first year passed in exhaustion and midnight feedings, soft laughter, Nanami pacing the living room with Lola tucked against his chest while you finally slept. He was tired, yes, but present. He learned how to change diapers with military precision. Learned how to warm bottles without burning them. Learned the way Lola liked to be rocked slow, steady, and patient.
Then the overtime started. At first it was just once or twice a week.
“I’ll be late,” he’d text.
“I’ll make it up to you.” He said when you called to see where he was.
“Next weekend.” he’d text again.
You told yourself this was what good husbands did. Good fathers. They worked harder when the family grew. But overtime became normal. Nights without him stretched longer. Dinners went cold. Lola’s first steps happened while Nanami was still at work.
By the time Lola turned three, she had learned a question you hated answering.
“Where’s Daddy?”
Sometimes she asked it casually. Sometimes she asked it sleepy. Sometimes she asked it while clutching her stuffed bear and staring at the door like she expected it to open if she waited long enough.
You always answered gently.
“Daddy’s working, baby.”
One night, she frowned and asked, “Does Daddy live at work?” You laughed then. Quietly. Because if you didn’t, you might have cried.
— — — — — — — —
It was almost midnight when you heard the front door unlock. You didn’t look up from the table. Nanami’s footsteps were familiar, measured, heavy with exhaustion. He loosened his tie as he stepped inside, briefcase set down carefully like always. He smelled like rain and coffee and the faint bite of stress.
“You’re still up,” he said, surprised. You slid the envelope across the table.“I was waiting.” Nanami frowned. “What’s this?”
“Sit down,” you said. He hesitated, then obeyed. You watched him open the envelope. Watched the crease form between his brows as he read the first page. Then the second. Silence filled the room. “You’re joking,” he said finally. You shook your head. “I’m not.”His voice sharpened not angry, but stunned. “You filed for divorce?"
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Today.”
Nanami stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. “Why would you do this without talking to me?” You laughed once, bitter. “Talk? This feels like the first conversation I had with you in three years.” He ran a hand through his hair, pacing. “Th-this is sudden.”
“It’s really not.”
“I work,” he said, frustration seeping into his calm. “I work for you. For Lola. For this family.”
“And while you’re doing that,” you replied quietly, “you’re never here.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s the truth.”
Nanami stopped pacing. “I’m exhausted because I’m trying to give you everything.”
“And I’m exhausted,” you snapped, standing now, “because I’m doing everything.” The words hung heavy between you. “I eat dinner alone,” you continued. “I put her to bed alone. I answer her when she asks where you are. I wake up alone. I make decisions alone. I parent alone. You’re not even a father to our child” He opened his mouth. You didn’t let him speak.
“I don’t have a husband,” you said, voice trembling. “I have a paycheck with a wedding ring.” Nanami flinched. “That’s cruel,” he said quietly.
“So is promising you’ll be home and never showing up.” Silence again. You swallowed. “Lola asked tonight if you live somewhere else.” Nanami’s shoulders sagged. “I’m doing this for you,” he said again, softer now. “For her."
“And that’s the problem,” you replied. “You think being present is optional as long as the bills are paid.” He looked at you then really looked and something in his expression cracked. “You should’ve told me it was this bad.”
“I did,” you said. “You just weren’t home to hear it.” That was the moment. Not the papers. Not the argument. That sentence. Nanami stared at the envelope like it might explode. Then slowly, painfully, he sat back down. “I don’t want this,” he admitted. Your throat tightened. “Neither did I.”
He picked up a pen. “I’ll do anything to prove to you that I’ll be there.” You hum as you watch him hold the pen in his hand. The sound of it clicking open felt too loud. Nanami signed.
Each stroke was deliberate. Controlled. Like everything he did. When he finished, he slid the papers back toward you. “If you think you’re better off without me,” he said, voice low, “then I won’t fight you.” Tears burned your eyes. “I don’t want to be without you.”
“Then why—”
“Because being with you feels exactly the same.”
He nodded once. Acceptance. Painfully earned.
“I’ll still be her father,” he said.
“I know.”
“I’ll still be around.”
You almost laughed. Almost cried.
“I hope so,” you whispered.
Nanami stood, picked up his briefcase, and paused at the doorway.
“I really do love you,” he said.
You closed your eyes.
“I know,” you answered. “That’s why this hurts.”
The door shut behind him. And for the first time in years, you were actually alone.
✩ Tags: Fluff, Last post of 2025 :P, slight grumpy toji, HAPPY NEW YEARS EVE, comment to be added to Taglist
✩ Synopsis: After overhearing someones conversation you find out that today is Toji's birthday and you wouldn't be a perfect situationship if you didn't celebrate it
The bar was loud in that end-of-year kind of way, boots scuffing against wood, country music buzzing low under the chatter. You sat on a stool with your legs crossed, the city girl in you making you stand out quite a bit. Glitter eyeliner, a leopard print dress paired with a sexy fur coat, your phone sitting warm in your hand, your mind thinking about Toji since over hearing some guy talk about how today is his birthday. So you dialed his number.
“Toji,” you said when he picked up, voice smooth. “Come see me.” There was a pause, the faint sound of wind on the other end. “Where?”
“Lucky Spur. Bar on Main.”
Another beat. “Why?”
You smiled to yourself. “I overheard a little birdie say it’s your birthday.”
He scoffed. “Don’t care. It’s just another day.”
“That so?” You leaned back, watching the bartender polish a glass. “Still. Come anyway. I’m sitting by myself while looking hot. And it's New Year's eve who am I supposed to kiss when the ball drops.”
Silence stretched then a low, resigned exhale. “I’ll be there.”
When Toji Fushiguro walked in, all cowboy grit and quiet presence, the room seemed to tilt toward him. Hat low, shoulders broad, denim worn like it’d been lived in. He spotted you instantly.
“You look outta place, sweetheart.” He muttered, sliding onto the stool beside you. “And you look like you need a drink,” you shot back. You flagged the bartender. “Something sweet,” you said, then lowered your voice. “And a candle.”
Toji raised a brow. “Don’t.”
Too late.
The bartender set down a short glass of smooth bourbon with a tiny candle flickering out of it like a secret. The music dipped just enough.
You turned toward him, grin softening. “Happy birthday to you…” His jaw tightened, but his eyes; those dark, tired eyes did something strange. They warmed. “…happy birthday to you…”
By the time you finished, the bar had gone quiet, a few patrons chuckling, someone clapping. You blew out the candle for him before he could protest. “Make a wish,” you teased. He leaned closer instead, voice low. “I don’t make wishes.”
The countdown started somewhere behind you—ten… nine… Fireworks cracked outside. Toji’s hand settled at your waist, rough and sure.
Three… two… one—
You kissed him right at midnight. Sweet bourbon and smoke and something steady, something grounding. For just a moment, Toji let himself have it, the birthday, the new year, you.
When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. “…Maybe this day ain’t so bad,” he admitted. You smiled. “Told you.”
✩ Tags: Fluff, MERRYY CHRISTMASSS❄️, shanks is 40 and reader is 22, comment to be added to Taglist😛
✩ Synopsis: You finally got something for Shanks that you'll know he'll love but youre so inpatient that you have to save the gift in his hands for him to open it
✩ OlderSugarDaddy!Shanks M.List | One Piece M.List
Christmas morning in Shanks’ penthouse felt unreal.
The city below was dusted with snow, lights glittering between skyscrapers like a thousand tiny stars. The massive Christmas tree stood near the windows, tall and full, decorated in gold, red, and soft white lights that reflected off the glass. Wrapped presents were scattered beneath it—most of them suspiciously large and undeniably expensive.
And yet the one gift you were most excited about was the smallest.
You sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the tree, bouncing slightly as Shanks poured himself a cup of coffee from the kitchen. He looked unfairly good for someone who had stayed up late with you watching Christmas movies—hair a little messy, sleeves pushed up, that familiar lazy smile playing at his lips.
“You’re vibrating, sweetheart,” he said, amused. “What’s got you so worked up this early?”
You hugged the small, neatly wrapped box to your chest, grinning. “I want you to open yours. Now.” Shanks lifted an eyebrow. “Mine?” He glanced at the mountain of gifts with your name on them. “I thought I spoiled you enough already.”
“That’s not the point,” you insisted, standing and tugging him toward the tree. “Sit. Please.” There was something in your voice, bright, eager, almost nervous that made his expression soften. He set his coffee down and sat on the couch, legs spread comfortably, eyes fixed on you with quiet attention.
“Alright,” he said gently. “Come here.”
You stepped between his knees and handed him the gift, your fingers brushing his. “I know it’s not… like, what you usually get,” you said quickly. “But I really wanted—”
Shanks chuckled softly, taking the box. “Hey.” He reached out and squeezed your wrist lightly. “I don’t care how much it costs. If it’s from you, it matters.” Your chest warmed instantly. He unwrapped it slowly, not teasing, not dragging it out, just careful. Inside was a leather bracelet, dark and simple, with a subtle metal accent engraved on the inside.
Shanks went quiet.
You held your breath as he turned it over in his hands, thumb brushing the engraving. Your stomach fluttered nervously. “Well?” you asked softly. He looked up at you, something unreadable in his eyes—then smiled, slow and genuine.
“You remembered,” he said. You nodded. “You said once you liked things you could wear every day. Things that don’t scream money.” His smile widened, touched with something warmer, deeper. “You listen,” he murmured. He slipped the bracelet on, adjusting it around his wrist, then held his arm out like he was testing the weight of it.
“Looks good on you,” you said, relieved. Shanks reached out, hooked a finger into the belt loop of your pajama pants, and tugged you gently closer until you were standing right against him. “Sweetheart,” he said quietly, “this is perfect.” Your heart skipped. “Really?”
“Really.” His thumb brushed your hip absentmindedly. “I buy myself whatever I want. But this?” He lifted his wrist slightly. “This means something.” Your eyes stung a little. “I wanted you to have something that reminded you of me. Even when I’m not here.”
He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your stomach through your sweater. Soft. Lingering. “Oh, I don’t forget you,” he murmured. “Ever.” You laughed softly, flustered. “Okay, okay—your turn is over. Now it’s my turn.” His eyes glinted. “Oh, I know.”
Shanks stood and reached beneath the tree, grabbing one of the largest boxes with your name on it. Then another. And another. You stared. “Shanks.” He shrugged casually. “Christmas.”
The first box held a thick, cozy coat you’d been eyeing for weeks but refused to buy. The second—a sleek bag you’d mentioned in passing months ago. Jewelry. Books. Little things he’d remembered without you realizing.
Each gift made you smile wider, your excitement obvious, your joy unfiltered. Shanks watched you the entire time, leaning against the couch, clearly enjoying your reactions more than the gifts themselves.
When you finally looked up at him, overwhelmed and glowing, you whispered, “You didn’t have to do all this.” He stepped closer, hands sliding easily to your waist. “I wanted to.” Then, a softer “I like seeing you happy.”
You leaned into him instinctively. “I like making you happy too.”His arms wrapped around you fully this time, pulling you into his chest. He kissed the top of your head, breathing you in.
“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” he murmured. You smiled against him. “Merry Christmas, old man.” Shanks smirks down at you pulling you in for a tighter hug and kissing your forehead. “Watch it, this old man still has a lot of energy.” He winks kissing you once more as you giggle into his chest.
Outside, the city glittered. Inside, wrapped in warmth and soft laughter and the steady comfort of his arms, everything felt exactly right.
✩ Clingy&Obsessed!RichBoys!Gojo Satoru & Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader
✩ Word Count: 1.1K
✩ Tags: Fluff, MERRY CHRISTMASSS 🎅🏻, reader is spoiled, reader gets a little embarrassed, poly relationship, comment to be added to taglist🫦
✩ Synopsis: Spending christmas with your boyfriends is great but since they are very rich and love to spoil you, you seem to be a little overwhelmed with the gifts you got thinking they might hate it
You wake up warm. Not just blankets-warm people-warm. Gojo is sprawled half on top of you, long limbs everywhere, one arm slung securely around your waist like you might disappear if he loosens his grip. Geto is pressed against your back, steady and solid, breath slow and even against your shoulder. For a moment, you just stay there.
No classes.
No deadlines.
No alarms.
Winter break. Gojo stirs first, face squishing into your hair. “Morning,” he mumbles. “Merry Christmas to me.” You snort softly. “That’s not how that works.” He lifts his head, blue eyes bright even through sleep. “Sure it is. I wake up next to you? Automatic win.” Behind you, Geto hums awake, voice low and warm. “He’s right. Statistically speaking.” You smile despite yourself. Then you remember. Your stomach drops.
The gifts.
— — — — — — — — — — — —
Gojo and Geto's apartment looks like a luxury Christmas ad exploded. The tree is massive, real, of course, decorated in white lights and tasteful blue and white ornaments. Wrapped boxes sit underneath it in perfect rows, each one with your name on it, some with Gojo and Geto presents they got each other. Different sizes. Different ribbons. Too many.
You stop in your tracks. “…You didn’t,” you say slowly. Gojo grins. “Oh, we absolutely did.” Geto slips an arm around your waist, guiding you closer. “We may have gotten carried away.” You stare at the pile. “This is excessive.” Gojo gasps. “That’s such a hurtful word.” Your chest tightens, excitement tangling uncomfortably with guilt. You glance at the much smaller bag you brought four neatly wrapped gifts inside. Thoughtful, yes. Expensive? Not compared to this.
“Okay,” you say, forcing a smile. “You didn’t have to—”
“We wanted to,” Geto says simply.
Gojo plops down on the floor and pats the spot between his legs. “Sit. It’s Christmas. Let us spoil our girlfriend.” You hesitate, then sit back against Gojo’s chest, Geto settling in front of you. They hand you gift after gift, clothes that fit perfectly, jewelry you’d admired in passing months ago, books you’d mentioned once in a late-night conversation.
They remembered everything. By the time you’re laughing breathlessly, surrounded by wrapping paper, the guilt presses harder. “Okay,” you say softly. “My turn.” You reach for your bag, hands suddenly clumsy.
Gojo notices immediately. “Hey. What’s that face?” You swallow. “I just… I know it’s not much.” Geto tilts his head, eyes attentive. “It doesn’t have to be.” You hand Gojo his gift first, something small but personal, chosen carefully. Then Geto’s. You don’t look at them as they unwrap. You don’t want to see disappointment. Instead, you feel it, Gojo’s arms tightening around you, Geto going very still.
“You’re kidding,” Gojo says softly. You glance up. He’s smiling not his usual cocky grin, but something gentler. Real. “You remembered,” Geto adds quietly, holding his gift like it matters. “You listened.” Your throat tightens. “I know it’s not—” Gojo turns your face toward him. “Hey. Stop.” Geto leans in, resting his forehead against yours. “You didn’t buy these because you felt like you had to.”
“You bought them because you know us,” Gojo says. “That’s everything.” You blink rapidly. “You’re not just saying that?” Geto presses a slow, reassuring kiss to your temple. “Never.” Gojo follows, kissing your cheek, then your lips soft, unhurried. “You’re the best gift we got.” You laugh shakily. “That’s such a line.”
“Yeah,” Gojo admits. “But it’s true.” They pull you closer, kisses shared between the three of you until the embarrassment fades into warmth.
— — — — — — — — — —
That night, snow drifts quietly outside the windows. You’re wrapped in one of Gojo’s hoodies, feet tucked under a blanket as you all sit on the couch, a movie playing softly in the background. Geto’s arm is around your shoulders. Gojo’s fingers are laced with yours.
“You staying over?” Gojo asks casually. Geto squeezes your shoulder. “You don’t have to go anywhere.” You smile, heart full. “I was hoping you’d say that.” Gojo beams. “Good. Because I already moved your stuff.” You laugh. “Of course you did.”
Later, curled up between them again, you feel safe in a way that’s quiet and sure. Not because they spoiled you. But because they loved you openly, intentionally, without hesitation. And this Christmas? You’re exactly where you belong.
— — — — — — — — — —
The apartment is quiet in that late-night way that only happens on holidays. The city outside the windows is dusted with snow, lights glowing softly below, but in here it’s warm, too warm bodies tangled together beneath thick blankets. You’re pressed between them again.
Gojo lounges against the headboard, long arms wrapped around you like you’re something precious he doesn’t want slipping away. Geto lies on your other side, one hand resting at your waist, thumb tracing idle patterns through the fabric of your shirt. You’re still a little overwhelmed.
By the gifts. By the affection. By the way they look at you like Christmas didn’t start until you walked through their door. “You okay?” Geto asks quietly, voice low and steady. You nod, then shake your head. “Just… a lot.” Gojo hums behind you, chin resting on your shoulder. “Good ‘a lot’ or bad ‘a lot’?”
You smile softly. “Good.” He kisses the side of your neck slowly, unhurried, more comfort than heat. “Good.” Geto shifts closer, brushing his nose against your cheek. “You don’t have to do anything tonight,” he murmurs. “Just be here.” Your chest tightens a little. “I want to be.” That’s all it takes.
Gojo’s hands slide more deliberately now, warm palms smoothing over your sides, grounding you. Geto’s touch follows a lighter, teasing fingertips tracing the curve of your hip like he’s memorizing it. They don’t rush.
They never do when it matters. Gojo kisses you again, softer this time, lips lingering like he’s savoring the moment. When you turn your head, Geto’s already there, mouth brushing yours in a way that feels intimate without trying to be overwhelming.
You sigh quietly, melting between them. “See?” Gojo whispers. “Right where you belong.” Normally you’d tease him for that. Tonight, you just relax into his hold. Geto’s forehead rests against yours, breath warm. “You don’t ever have to compete with us,” he says softly. “We don’t measure love in price tags.”
Your eyes sting a little. “I know. I just—” Gojo kisses your temple. “Hey. Shh. We know.” Geto presses a kiss to your knuckles, slow and deliberate. “And we love what you give us. Always.” The reassurance settles deep in your chest. Their touches grow warmer, more affectionate hands slipping under fabric, kisses deepening just enough to make your breath hitch. Nothing frantic. Nothing demanding. Just closeness. Just heat.
Just them making sure you feel wanted, cherished, safe. At some point, Gojo’s laughter fades into quiet sighs. Geto’s steady presence becomes an anchor at your back. The world narrows down to warmth, soft sounds, shared breath. Eventually, the lights are turned off. Eventually, the blankets are pulled higher. Eventually, the night fades into something private and slow — meant only for the three of you.
And when you fall asleep between them, wrapped in arms that refuse to let you go, you realize. This is the best gift you got this Christmas.
✩ Tags: Fluff, MERRY CHRISTMASSSS🎄, reader and Nanami have a 5 year old daughter named Lola, reader being annoyed with Nanami but in a loving way, comment to be added to the Taglist😝
✩ Synopsis: Its christmas morning and Nanami invited himself over like he always does and gives you a special gift
The first thing you noticed Christmas morning was the sound of boots you knew didn’t belong to you. You groaned softly into your pillow, blinking at the early light filtering through the curtains. Snow dusted the windows, the world outside quiet and white and yet, unmistakably, there was movement in your kitchen.
“Of course,” you muttered. “He’s early.” As if summoned by your irritation, a familiar voice drifted down the hall. “She’s still asleep,” Nanami Kento said calmly, followed by the clink of a mug. “Five-year-olds are unpredictable, but she’s never been a morning person. Takes after you.”
You rolled your eyes, already smiling despite yourself.
By the time you padded into the living room, wrapped in your robe, Nanami was standing near the tree like he’d always belonged there, coat off, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, tie loosened and draped over the back of a chair. He held your mug. The one you hadn’t offered him.
“Good morning,” he said smoothly, glancing up from his phone. “Coffee’s fresh. I took the liberty.”
“You always take the liberty,” you replied dryly. He smiled slowly, confident, and just smug enough to be annoying. “You never stop me.” That earned him another eye roll, which he took as a victory.
The house looked fuller with him in it. Warmer. Nanami had a habit of showing up whenever he pleased, dropping Lola off late, picking her up early, staying for dinner “by accident.” At some point, you’d stopped fighting it. He knew where everything was. Knew which cabinet held the cocoa mix. Knew how to fix the heater when it rattled.
And worst of all he looked comfortable.
“You know,” you said, crossing your arms, “most ex-husbands knock.” He took a sip of coffee, unbothered. “Most ex-wives change their locks.” You scowled. “I trust you with our daughter.”
“And your spare key,” he added lightly. You turned away before he could see the smile tugging at your lips.
— — — — — — — — — — — —
Lola woke up ten minutes later, barreling into the living room in mismatched pajamas and socked feet. “Daddy!” she squealed. Nanami dropped to one knee immediately, arms open. She collided with him, wrapping herself around his neck.
“Merry Christmas, angel,” he murmured, kissing her hair. You leaned against the doorway, watching them. Nanami had always been like this with her, present, gentle, completely devoted. It was impossible not to soften. “Mommy!” Lola turned, eyes bright. “Santa came already!”
“I see that,” you said with a smile on your lips. “And daddy came,” she says with a bright smile, “Yea he did,” you said pointedly. Nanami rose, brushing imaginary dust from his slacks. “I was invited.”
“You invited yourself.”
“Semantics.”
More eye rolling. He definitely noticed. “Can I open presents now?” Lola says her voice high and full of energy. “Of course baby,” both you and nanami say at the same time as he lets go of Lola. She runs over to her presents choosing which one to open first.
— — — — — — — — — — —
Presents followed, wrapping paper everywhere, Lola gasping dramatically at each gift. Nanami sat cross-legged on the floor, helping assemble toys with precise efficiency, pretending not to enjoy the way Lola kept crawling into his lap.
At one point, you caught him watching you over the edge of a gift box, expression softer than his usual composed calm. “What?” you asked. “Nothing,” he said. “Just… you look good.” Your eyes rolled hard. “It’s eight in the morning.”
“And yet,” he replied easily, “still beautiful.”
“Nanami.”
“Yes?”
“Stop flirting.”
“I’m not flirting,” he said, deadpan. “I’m observing.”
You huffed and turned back to the kitchen.
— — — — — — — — — — — — —
By late morning, Lola was distracted by a new toy, humming to herself as she played nearby. The tree lights glowed softly, snow still falling outside. Nanami stood by the window, hands in his pockets. “There’s something,” he said. Your shoulders tensed. “That sentence never ends well.” He reached into his coat, which you swore you hadn’t seen him grab and pulled out a small, elegant box.
Your heart skipped. Then frowned. “No,” you said immediately. He raised a brow. “You haven’t even seen it.”
“I don’t need to.” He stepped closer, opening the box anyway. Inside rested a delicate diamond necklace simple, timeless, catching the light just enough to steal your breath.
“N-no,” you repeated, shaking your head. “Nanami, you can’t—”
“Kento,” he corrected. “..It’s Christmas,” he continued, calmly. “And I wanted to give you something.”
“I’m not your wife.”
“I’m aware,” he replied, voice smooth but firm. “I was there for the divorce.” You glared. “Then why?” His gaze softened, just a little. “Because you’re the mother of my child,” he said. “Because you’ve done more than you realize. Because I wanted to.” You folded your arms. “It’s too much.”
“It’s a necklace.”
“It’s a diamond necklace.”
“I did well this year.”
You scoffed. “That’s not the point.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Then what is?” You hesitated. “I don’t want it to mean something.” Nanami studied you for a long moment, then smiled, cocky, gentle, devastating. “It doesn’t have to,” he said. “Unless you want it to.” Your eyes rolled on instinct. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he murmured, lifting the necklace slightly, “you haven’t walked away.” He reached behind you, giving you time—real time—to say no. You didn’t. The cool weight of the necklace settled against your collarbone. His fingers brushed your skin as he fastened it, lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch. “There,” he said quietly. “It suits you.” You swallowed. “Kento….”
“Merry Christmas,” he added, stepping back, satisfied. You touched the necklace, conflicted, flustered and entirely too aware of how close he still stood. From across the room, Lola gasped. “Mommy! It’s shiny!” Nanami smirked. “See? Approved.” You shot him a look. “Don’t get smug.”
“Too late.”
But as the snow fell and the lights glowed, you didn’t take the necklace off. And Nanami is far too comfortable in your house.
