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❝'𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐛𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫, 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫.❞
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⋆˚࿔. sukuna rubbing his cock on your face MDNI
gulps first time in a while writing smut, please don’t hate…
“You’re doing so well. Fuck, keep your tongue out juuust like that.” Sukuna purred, looking down at you. You were planted on your knees, both hands placed innocently in your lap, gaze locked onto crimson eyes.
For the past hour, he had been teaching you how to give a good blowjob. You were totally fucked out, completely forgotten how you ended up in this situation—especially with a man who had a reputation for having girls running out of the room, bursting into tears.
But you didn’t care about that, and besides, you were getting the hang of it. At first, you didn’t even know what to do with your hands or mouth when his dick was right in front of your face. You wouldn’t admit it, but it scared you. Not because of anything bad, but because of how big it was.
It was as big as your face; it was at least eight inches or more, and you’ve never seen a cock this big- well, at least face to face. You may or may not have watched a bunch of videos of guys jerking off on Twitter, but seeing it in real life. You couldn’t deny that it made you nervous.
Sukuna bit his lip while a tattooed hand gripped your hair tightly; the other hand held the base of his cock, slapping the tip against your flattened tongue. His abs flexed at the sight. Your pupils were blown with lust, and drool was dripping down the side of your chin. You looked like a slut.
What made Sukuna even more turned on by this whole situation was that you were the shy, nerdy girl in his class, and when you first asked him to teach you how to give a blowjob, for the first time in his life, he was stunned.
No one would've thought you would ask something along those lines. But you wanted to learn, plus you also wanted to try it out for the first time. But with the way Sukuna was groaning your name like he was getting the best dick sucking of his life. It seems you may not need this teaching.
"Let's see how pretty you look with my cock on your face. Hm?" You nodded rapidly as your tongue slid back into your mouth. Sukuna smirked, watching as you closed your eyes when he dragged his cock around your face.
“Enjoying this?” You murmured, peeking one eye open to stare up at the pink-haired man. He shrugged, moving his length to the side of your nose.
“I don’t know, am I?” He teased, flashing pearly white teeth. The same grin you always saw when he was being egotistical—you tried your hardest not to roll your eyes.
“Seems like it…”
Sukuna doesn’t respond. Instead, He placed his hand flat around his cock while the other hand that was gripping your hair moved slowly down to your neck, holding onto it tightly. Not enough to cut your airway, but enough where you felt the rough pressure in his grip.
“Shh and be a good girl.” He began to thrust into his hand. It was slow in the beginning, his gaze heavily locked on you. As if he was admiring the way his cock looked, rubbing against your skin.
Sukuna couldn’t deny that this was the kinkiest shit he’s ever done with a girl. All the other times he had fucked someone, it was either too vanilla or the girls wouldn’t be into the stuff he was into. They’d either decline or think he was weird.
But now that he’s thinking about it, he may have found the one for him. Who knew the nerdy girl could be as kinky as he is?
You were completely cock drunk again—mind hazy, your thoughts tangled until they barely made sense anymore. Eyes fluttering shut, your mouth gapped open as you withdrew your tongue, slurping and licking the side of Sukuna's length that was right in front of your mouth.
His massive hand roamed all across your face as he continued to thrust faster against your face. His Eyebrows furrowed—lifting up- while his plump lips parted slightly.
You hollowed your cheeks, and the feeling alone could’ve made Sukuna cum in an instant. You whined against his cock, moving a hand up the front of his leg; the tip of your nails dug into his skin, making him hiss.
It was so messy. Spit all over your face, your hair sticking against the side of your cheek. The sound of him groaning, you slurping all over his dick and your muffled whimpers filled the room. It looked and sounded like something straight out of a porn film, or the kind of scene you’d only expect in a feverish dream.
“Who knew you were such a slut for cock.” He murmured, his voice raspy and filled with lust. You opened your eyes at his degradation. Peering through your lashes, your eyes caught onto his. You didn’t feel any sense of shame. If anything, you felt more turned on.
Without thinking, you moved your hand between your thighs, pushing your panties to the side, not long before you begin to rub slow circles around your clit, the sensation immediately made you whimper against him.
“Fuck, you're so hot,” Sukuna rasped, quickly moving his length from your face—which makes you whine in protest. Holy shit, you were cock drunk for him.
“Hey! Wha… What are you doing?” You questioned, as an eyebrow raised, flopping down both hands on your lap.
He chuckled at your neediness, pumping himself right in your face. Pre-cum spilled out from his pink tip, and you couldn’t help but want to clean up all the salty-sweet slick.
“You look pretty with my cock on your face.” His teeth sank into his swollen bottom lip. “Now I want to see how good you look with my cum on it.”
sixxels(deactivated) repost
R E S A R T ? J U J U S T U K A I S E N
mean!sukuna x shy!gf!reader
sukuna has always dated brats with bad attitudes, so when he had a shitty day at the gym and takes it out on his adorable girlfriend he expects to be yelled at back, but instead he's met with the thickest feeling of guilt imaginable.
(angst to fluff, yelling on sukuna's end, lowkey kinda toxic sukuna but he gets better in the end :p)
wc: 3k
total and utter brats is what sukuna was used to. girls with a big ego and an ever bigger attitude, but you? his new, adorably sweet girlfriend? you were quite literally the polar opposite of a brat, and he was about to figure that out real quick.
he stomps with heavy and angry footing into the apartment, he was pissed off, like, really pissed off. some ass fuck at the gym decided to get all up in his face over him accidentally leaving a few plates on the deadlift bar, (something he never usually did, his mind was just filled with other stressful life shit.) so he pulled a few punches and that was that.
that asshole figured out quite fast that sukuna's massive muscles weren't just for show.
he let out a groan of pure frustration and anger as he stepped further into the apartment dulling any sort of positivity that dare disturb his ridiculous state of mind.
you’re too occupied pottering around the tiny off campus apartment in your cute little socks and pretty sweater to notice his foul mood just yet. singing some beabadoobee song quietly to yourself while trying to plate up the dinner you'd made just for him.
kuna always comes home hungry after hitting the gym, especially arms, so you decide to give him something nice and warm for when he gets home, y'know, like the great and loving girl you are?
you're about to pour him a glass of ice water when you hear the door shut just a little too aggressively.
you can't help but flinch, not because you’re scared, but because you know that kind of sound. it’s the sound people makes when they're exhausted, frustrated, not very happy with the world. you were used to this energy from others, but you were yet to experience it from your boyfriend.
you peek your head around the corner.
“hey, ryo.” you say in that soft, dainty voice he still hasn’t fully gotten used to. the one that normally made him melt into a puddle of gooey love and adoration, but right now all it does is remind him he’s tired and really agitated. “i got dinner all ready for you, love.”
he grunts, that’s it. a grunt.
he chucks his duffle bag down on the couch, wipes his hand down his face and mutters something under his breath about 'fuckwits at the gym.' you try to ignore the obvious annoyance in his voice and shyly tiptoe back into the kitchen then bring him a pink plate full of dinner, holding it in both of your precious hands, offering it to him like a gift you'd made just to cheer him up.
and then he decides to turn into the biggest dick face on the planet, too frustrated to be civil, apparently.
with no sort of preparation or hesitancy, he sharpens his deep red eyes at you and crosses his biceps over his chest.
“th' fucks this supposed to be?”
you stiffen up a lil. “it's… your dinner?”
you watch as his eyes fall darker and his fists clench. “what? you know i don’t eat before i shower. you put the whole thing together just to let it get cold?”
you'd never been talked to this carelessly by sukuna before... your eyes get the tiniest bit glossy, but you try to fight it off as best you can. “i… i thought you’d want it now because you always say you’re starving when you get back…” you whisper.
“yeah? well, today i’m not fucking hungry.” his voice rises in a way it never has with you. a way he used to talk to girls who’d scream right back at him, get in his face, throw something at the wall. “god, do you ever listen?”
"i- i'm sorry... i just thought-"
"wow? thinking for once? didn't know your dumb little head was capable of that."
you could physically feel your throat pulling tight, it burned to breathe through his venomous insult..
“honestly, the last thing i need right now is some damn girl trying to play house with me after i've just worked my ass off all day, it's fucking annoying,” he shoots, beginning to pace, ignoring the way your face contorted into that adorable yet heart crushing pout.
'some damn girl?...' was that all you were to him?..
he’s not looking at you. he’s talking at you, like you’re just another outlet for whatever’s eating at him. this big, loud, overwhelming presence filling your little apartment with his booming voice rising and rising with each word, and you can’t even process half the things he’s saying because your brain is doing that fuzzy weird panicy thing. you don’t know whether to get up or stay still or just disappear on the spot forever..
you're silently listening, but he just keeeeps on going.
"you think i want you shoving shit in my face the second i get home?! let me take a damn break for once in my life, woman!”
behind your ribcage you can feel the crack, crack, crack, of your heart with each piece falling into your stomach and smouldering into a thick ash, like you were an insignificant bug that wasn't worth this man's time.
and it’s right there in the silence that something finally flickers in his stupidly ignorant brain.
because this is the part where someone should yell back, where someone should tell him to go fuck himself, or throw the plate down, or call him an asshole, or storm out. or anything!
you just stand there ever so sadly, you hold your arms around your body like they might save you from the stomach pains you'd suddenly gotten, the feeling of immense guilt for making him more angry than he already was.
you're stuck staring down at the floor, your eyes feel hot and so full of tears as you gently whisper out the softest and heartfelt apology sukuna thinks he's ever heard in his fucked up life..
ryo's ready to yell something completely unnecessary and rude because he’s still riding the high of adrenaline from lifting too much and dealing with that asshole at the gym today. he’s still acting like he’s dealing with someone who’ll fight him tooth and nail, not his pretty little girl who's easier to rattle than a maraca.
your lashes flutter with wet tears and your pouty lip wobbles, you set the plate down carefully on the counter before your hands can shake too hard and it smashes on the floor.
and then you look up at him.
you look at him like you’re scared you'd messed up big time, like you’re scared you hurt him or made him upset in any way. like you’re scared he might walk away, abandon you. like all of this was your fault.
this is about where sukuna starts to feels like his heart had just been flipped over and fucked in the ass by a 6"3 rugby champ.
he didn’t even know it was humanly possible for his chest to sink into the pits of fiery hell that fast. like, physically, his heart plummets to his feet.
“sweetheart,” he says, but it’s too late. he can already see the tears filling up your eyes as you wrap your arms around yourself tighter than before, so small and so nervous.
“i... i’m really sorry,” you whisper again, voice cracking in that heart stabbing kind of way. “i didn’t mean to make you mad, i was just trying trying to help, i thought you’d be hungry and.. i'm so sorry, it won't happen again."
your voice cuts off as you wipe at your cheeks, embarrassed at the tears that keep falling so freely down your flushed cheeks.
and then, before he can even take a step toward you to console, you beat him to it.
you walk right up to his big, stupid, irritated self and gently wrap your arms around his waist, like you’re apologizing to him even though you didn’t do anything wrong.
your cheek presses against his chest, soft and warm and trusting, yet still so small and scared..
all that rage and tension drains out so fast he actually gets lightheaded. he didn’t notice. god, he didn’t realise! he was yelling. at you. his pretty girl, his soft girl.
the only girl he’s ever dated who doesn’t treat every fucking conversation like a competition. the girl who holds his hand with two hands because his palm is so big. the girl who apologises when someone bumps into her. the girl who triple checks she's not burdening someone before she starts speaking. the girl who’d never raise her voice at him, even if he deserved it.
you huff and puff in uneven spouts against his chest, softly like you’re giving him space to push you off if he wants to. you whisper again in a smaller voice than before.
“i’m sorry. i’m really sorry, ryo. i didn’t mean to ruin your day.”
he feels something sting horribly behind his eyes and he hates it, because he never cries. never. not for breakups, not for fights, not for injuries. but this? this is different. this is you. and realising he scared you or hurt you, even in some tiny emotional way, is making him physically ache with the pain of a thousand knifes stabbing his chest over and over and over..
“baby, no. no, no, no, you didn’t do anything wrong. i’m the one who’s being a fucking idiot. i shouldn’t have yelled. i shouldn’t have even raised my voice at you, baby.. shit.”
you can feel his biceps crushing you tighter. he’s huge and so warm, yet trembling in the tiniest way, like he’s holding himself together with the sheer willpower of not letting you see him too broken.
you sniff against his pec, trying to steady yourself, because you’ve never heard him sound like this before, so guilty and worried.
his voice cracks, cracks as he tries to spew out another line of consolement, and when you blink up at him, there are salty tears at the corners of his eyes. massive, scary, ryomen sukuna falling apart while hugging you, a soft and quiet little thing.
you just shake your head against him, heavy little sobs shaking your shoulders. “i’m sorry i messed up. i’m sorry you had a bad day and i made it worse.”
oh he’s the worst man alive. actually the worst. he can feel it in his bones.
“baby…” his voice cracks again and he hates it but he can’t stop it. “you didn’t do anything wrong.”
you cling a little tighter, like you’re scared he’s gonna pull away. that alone almostmakes him sob hysterically on the spot.
your voice comes out all wobbly. “i just… i don’t want you to be mad at me.”
that’s the moment sukuna’s entire psyche caves in on itself and implodes indefinitely.
“god, y/n,” he whispers. “i’m so, so sorry.”
the apartment goes still and quiet for a good minute before you can whisper out, “it’s okay...”
“no,” he says immediately,“ no, it’s not. i shouldn’t have yelled at you like that, sweetheart. i shouldn’t have said any of that. i just… i had a shitty day and i was being a dick. that’s on me. you didn’t make anything worse.”
“but you seemed so upset…”
“oh my love, not at you.” he swallows “never at you, baby. i swear.”
your fingers contract into the back of his muscle shirt, holding on so gently it rips at his fragile soul, though, your tears have almost stopped.
he squeezes you harder, he’s not letting you go until he’s sure you're really okay.
“you’re… you’re really precious to me,” he whispers into your hair, the words tumbling out before he can stop them, way too honest for how he normally talks. “i don’t ever wanna scare you. i don’t ever wanna make you cry because of me.”
you move to peek up at him with those big watery eyes, and he absolutely breaks down for the fourth time that night. he feels the liquid in his own eyes and tries to blink it away, but nope. a tear slips down anyway.
your breath catches. “ryo…? d-did i make you upset?- i'm so sorry!”
he shakes his head quickly, gripping the back of your head as he tucks you back under his chin. “you didn't do anything, y/n. just don’t look at me right now,” he mutters. “just… let me hold you.”
you mumble a quick “okay.”
your gentle response calms him more than anything else ever has.
his arms slip under your thighs and your back in one careful swoop, lifting you off the floor like you weigh less than air, because to a colossal guy like kuna, you do.
you let out a noise of surprise and curl into his arms on instinct, holding onto his shirt as he carries you through the little apartment, the whole 9 yards of princess treatment.
“cmon angel,” he mumbles against your forehead in a sweet kiss, “let’s get you in bed.”
he pushes the bedroom door open with his foot and stands next to the bed, lowering you onto the mattress as gently as he possibly can. the second your back hits the sheets he reaches for the blanket and tucks it around you so fast and frantic you almost giggle. he’s acting like he's scared you’re gonna get cold or crumble into star dust if he doesn’t wrap you up right this second.
“stay here, sweetheart,” he says while brushing the pad of his thumb across your cheek. “i’m gonna eat your dinner real quick and shower and then i’m coming right back. don’t move.”
you nod with your body engulfed under the blankets, and he gives you one last kiss on the cheek before heading back out.
it’s almost funny how different the apartment sounds now, he’s trying to be quiet. him. the guy built like a tank who normally stomps around like godzilla. you hear the plate clink, hear the microwave door shut, hear him crushing to himself like he’s scolding his own reflection, which he should be. then you hear the shower switch on, and everything is chaotic as if he’s racing against some imaginary clock because you’re alone in the bed for more than five minutes and that simply will not do for sukuna.
you hear the bathroom door whip open.
he’s back in seconds with his salmon hair damp and a white tank top thrown on crooked, water still beaded on his fair skin because he didn’t even bother drying properly. he climbs onto the bed quickly, grabbing you like he needs to feel you to be happy and content with his life.
your back hits his chest as he pulls you right onto his lap and you can just tell he's feeling possessive and territorial.
“hey baby.. are you okay?”
you nod softly, but he shushes you anyway.
“it’s alright,” he smiles, kissing the side of your neck. “you don’t gotta say anything. i got you.”
his hand rubs little circles over your hip bones with the other sliding up to hold your jaw with this gentle care no one would ever believe he’s capable of, ever. your tears dried a long while ago, but he still treats you like you’re a precious gem. he rocks you a little in his lap, soothing you like it’s instinct.
“you’re so beautiful, yknow that?” he whispers suddenly, voice hushed like he’s telling you a secret not meant for the rest of the world. “so damn beautiful and sweet and good. you’re… y/n, you’re so perfect.”
you feel your cheeks heat up and he smiles against your skin, just barely.
“i mean it,” he says again, burying his face into your shoulder. “you’re precious to me, baby. so precious i don’t even know what to do with myself sometimes.”
you lean back into him a little more and your hands settle over his wrists. he squeezes you immediately like he’s scared he imagined the whole thing and he might be in some lucid dream still yelling at you.
his voice drops even lower, so soft you almost miss it.
“you’re it for me,” he murmurs. “you hear me? you’re it. i’m done with dating. i’m yours for the rest of my damn life.”
you blush deeply and hide your face in your hands at how bold he's being.
“i’m never talking to you like that again,” he says quietly. “never yelling. never making you cry. i’m not losing you because i don’t know how to deal with my dumbass moods. you’re too important to me.”
your fingers slide over his hand, giving it the cutest squeeze and he just melts behind you. melts completely with his chest going all gooey and soft.
“you’re my girl,” he whispers against the shell of your ear. “forever, or for as long as you’ll have me, baby."
he rocks you gently again, humming in his throat while his hands smooth and stroke over you like he’s memorising the shape of you.
he presses one last kiss to your cheek.
“sleep, angel,” he breathes. “i’m not going anywhere.”
sukuna was used to dating brats, the ones who threw tantrums and screamed like banshees in his face, but now he had you. and he knew in his heart that this whole time he was missing out on the pure bliss that was a calm and sweet relationship, with you.
never in his life had sukuna shed a tear over a girl, but tonight he did. he let a few slip because he couldn't handle the thought of making precious little you feel any sort of negative emotion, and he wasn't even trying to hide it. that how much you meant to sukuna, how soft you'd turned him.
and he was damn well never going back.
I am not the owner, all work belongs to sixxels(deactivated)
༅𖩩꙼ৡ࿔*༅ A R C H I V E
bf!sukuna didn’t hear the safe word
゛⸝⸝ ⋆ req ; mentioned use of safe word , hurt/comfort
the room was still heavy with heat and the faint scent of sweat when you finally pushed away from him, curling into yourself on the far side of the bed. your body ached in ways that felt raw now, not pleasurable like it usually was. sukuna’s chest rose and fell fast behind you, a low satisfied rumble still vibrating in his throat like he hadn’t quite come down yet as he collapsed onto the bed.
you stayed quiet. much too quiet. knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, lips pressed into a tight line. the pout sat heavy on your face, eyes fixed on the wall instead of turning to him like you normally would. every second that passed without him noticing made the knot in your chest tighter.
he shifted, one big hand reaching out to tug you back against his chest like always. you stiffened and shrugged it off.
“hey,” he muttered, voice still thick and lazy. “what’s with the silence?”
you didn’t answer, and pulled the sheet higher and kept pouting, the safe word still burning on your tongue even though you’d said it twice. but he hadn’t stopped, didn’t even slow down. the memory made your eyes sting.
sukuna exhaled sharply through his nose, propping himself up on one elbow. crimson eyes narrowed at the back of your head. “talk to me.”
silence.
he groaned, low and impatient, but there was a flicker of something else under it now—confusion, maybe the first thread of worry as he tried figuring out what he may have done wrong. his hand hovered, then settled gently on your shoulder this time, thumb brushing your skin. you flinched.
“what the fuck happened?” he demanded, sitting up fully. “you were fine two seconds ago.”
that did it.
you turned enough to look at him over your shoulder, eyes glassy and furious and tone small but sharp. “i said the word, kuna... i said it and you didn’t stop.”
his face changed instantly. the cocky smirk vanished. those sharp features softened with sudden realization, then tightened with regret. “shit.”
you turned away again, bottom lip trembling despite yourself. “it got too much and you just… kept going. like you didn’t hear me at all.”
he was quiet for a long beat. then the bed dipped as he moved closer, careful this time not to crowd you. one arm slid around your waist slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. you didn’t.
“i didn’t hear it, i swear,” he admitted, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “i was too far gone, but i know that’s no excuse. fuck, i’m sorry.”
you stayed stiff in his hold, still frowning, but the anger was already bleeding out into something smaller and sadder.
he pressed his forehead to the back of your neck, breathing you in. “won’t happen again. you say the word, i stop. even if i’m balls deep and seeing stars. promise, start beating the shit outta me if you have to.” his tone dropped, almost gentle for once. “c’mon… baby, don’t shut me out. hate seeing you like this.”
you sniffled, the pout softening just a fraction. “you scared me a little.”
“i know.” he kissed the spot just below your ear, slow and apologetic. “let me fix it. tell me what you need right now. bath? me on my knees begging for forgiveness like an idiot?”
a tiny, reluctant huff of laughter escaped you despite everything. you turned in his arms, burying your face in his chest. “just… hold me. and don’t be a dick about it.”
“i can do that,” his arms tightened around you, warm and steady this time.
you stayed tucked against him, the tension finally melting as his fingers traced soothing circles on your back. the hurt lingered a bit longer, but so did he— patient now, waiting and murmuring the sweetest things against your hair until you were ready to let it go completely.
a little rushed but trying to get a req or two or three posted before my inevitable demise this weekend wish me luck
anyways this is fiction duh pls don’t romanticise this, safe words exist for a reason :P
— my boyfriend, his stupid plants, and that bitch with the bangs
feat. nanami kento
summary. you don’t get jealous — people get jealous of you. so why are you crying in a cinema bathroom over nanami kento explaining photosynthesis to another girl? after an emotional meltdown worthy of an award, nanami steps up to prove you’re his priority—setting boundaries, choosing you loudly, and holding you through every tear and tantrum. slowly, painfully, beautifully, you relearn what it means to be loved without having to perform for it.
triggers/warnings. non-sorcerer au x college au, jealousy, emotional breakdown, crying in a public bathroom, mild emotional manipulation (unhinged brat behavior), swearing, threats of violence (mostly botanical-themed), possessiveness, and unhealthy coping mechanisms that eventually lead to healthy communication and comfort.
the day was offensively bright, the kind of sunlight that made glass buildings glitter like they were mocking anyone who couldn’t afford to exist beautifully, and you—obviously—were the exception; if the universe had taste, it would put a spotlight on you the moment you stepped out, and today felt like one of those days where the pavement should’ve rolled out a red carpet simply because your shoes touched it.
the campus was buzzing in that nauseatingly enthusiastic way students got after midterms, everyone acting like sun exposure and iced coffee was enough to cure the generational trauma of academia, and god, just breathing the same air as these people felt like charity work.
still, you strutted down the pathway leading to the campus café—miu miu cropped knit in a red so sinful it should’ve come with a warning label, the tiny matching buttons straining against the shape of your chest in a way you knew made nanami rub his forehead like he suddenly had a migraine from “dealing with you,” which translated directly to “you look too good and it stresses him out.” your black alaïa pleated mini skirt swayed with each unapologetically privileged step, wolford sheer tights hugging your legs like a second skin, white miu miu socks folded just right above your glossy chanel mary janes, each click of your heel on the pavement sounding like a verdict—everyone else was underdressed.
you held your iced latte—oat milk, two pumps of vanilla, and emotional superiority—raised delicately between manicured fingers as if the cup itself was beneath you, but unfortunately necessary for survival. the tiny vintage chanel handbag slung over your shoulder bounced against your rib as you walked, and you didn’t even bother pretending you were rushing because punctuality was for people with nothing better to do. truthfully? you didn’t even go to class today. like hell you were going to drag your soul out of your egyptian-cotton-bed cocoon before noon just to listen to some underpaid academic talk about things google could teach you in five minutes. but nanami didn’t need to know that. your boyfriend would give you that glare—the one that could make a country surrender—and you really weren’t in the mood to be lectured by the only man who could make discipline sound like intimacy.
you approached the café, a place plagued by the aesthetic curse of trying too hard to look indie and failing spectacularly. the outdoor seating was crowded with students who thought reading murakami made them profound, but your eyes zeroed in on the table by the glass wall—the round one far too small for six people, which was exactly why those idiots chose it. gojo’s white hair was like a flag of chaos even from a distance, geto lounged like the cult leader he could easily become, shoko looked chronically done with everyone including herself, and haibara radiated optimism like a deranged labrador. but none of them mattered the second you saw nanami’s back.
the black short-sleeved knit polo you picked for him stretched over his shoulders like the fabric was praying for mercy, the sleeves hugging his biceps tight enough that your teeth tingled with the urge to leave evidence. his arm rested on the table, forearm flexed casually, veins visible—disgustingly attractive. he sat so straight, so composed, like he personally invented posture and everyone else should pay him royalties. even from behind, you could sense that irritating calm aura of his—your own personal grounded planet you orbited, even if you’d rather die than admit it out loud.
you didn’t slow down. you didn’t greet them like a normal person. no, normalcy was too cheap for you.
your free hand slid onto nanami’s shoulder the moment you reached them, fingers pressing into the warm, firm muscle like you were checking if heaven was solid. you leaned forward just enough to cast your shadow across their conversation, smiling like a disney villain in silk gloves.
“afternoon, children,” you said, voice honeyed and teasing, because you knew how to command a room without even trying.
gojo looked up first, his grin instantaneous. “look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” he said. shoko muttered something you didn't bother to hear, but you were already sliding into place, which meant you didn’t have to answer.
nanami turned, eyes already giving away that quiet mix of exasperation and affection he reserved solely for you. you leaned down, pressed a kiss against his cheek like you were marking territory, murmuring, “hi, baby.”
he hummed low in his throat, one arm looping around your waist in automatic surrender. the other hand—warm, steady—rested on your thigh, thumb brushing over the sheer fabric of your tights like he was reminding you to behave, though you both knew that was a lost cause.
“you’re late,” he said quietly.
“i’m fashionable,” you corrected, twisting slightly so you could face the table, still perched neatly on his lap. “there’s a difference.”
gojo snorted into his drink. “yeah, about three hours’ worth.”
“you can count? proud of you, sugarcube.”
haibara laughed, bless his innocent heart, and geto just smiled behind his cup like he’d seen this play a hundred times before. nanami’s fingers tightened on your thigh, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you that the show had an audience.
you tilted your head, looking down at him. “you missed me?”
he didn’t look up, but the smallest smirk tugged at his mouth. “you were gone for four hours.”
“and that’s four hours too long,” you said, leaning in until your lips brushed his jaw. “don’t be shy, you can say it.”
his eyes flicked to you—sharp, restrained, golden under the café light. “behave,” he murmured, just for you.
you smiled sweetly. “no.”
shoko groaned. “if you two start making out, i’m leaving.”
“then leave,” gojo offered. “less witnesses.”
“you’re all disgusting,” shoko said flatly, sipping her drink anyway.
you grinned, cheek lean on nanami’s head. “we’re adorable.”
“you’re unbearable,” nanami corrected.
but his hand didn’t move from your thigh.
you basked in the warmth of him, the way his presence steadied you even as you tried to poke holes in it. he was too serious, too controlled, and you were everything he shouldn’t have fallen for—spoiled, dramatic, perpetually five minutes away from chaos. it wasn’t that you wanted to make him jealous or tired or undone. it’s just that you loved watching the cracks form in that composure. loved being the one person who could unmake him.
the conversation at the table moved around you—movie plans, class gossip, haibara’s endless optimism—but your focus stayed where it always did. the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you, the quiet flex of muscle under his sleeve, the pulse that beat steady against your thigh.
gojo squinted at you over the rim of his iced matcha like a nosy suburban aunt pretending to be subtle, which, obviously, he wasn’t. his sunglasses were perched unnecessarily on his head despite being indoors, because he had a disease called “attention-seeking,” and he leaned forward with that shit-eating grin that made you want to shove his face into the table.
“question,” he announced, finger pointed at you like a courtroom accusation, “why didn’t i see you anywhere on campus today? don’t tell me you skipped again.”
you didn’t react at first. you simply blinked, slow, turning your gaze towards him as if he had personally offended your bloodline. then, with the grace of a woman who knew silence was powerful, you dragged your eyes from gojo to nanami—very slowly—because if anyone was going to kill the mood, it was the tax-paying adult you were dating.
nanami’s profile was stoic, but his head turned just a fraction, not enough to be dramatic, just enough to say: i heard that. answer correctly if you value your life. his hand remained on your thigh, thumb frozen mid-stroke, waiting. he didn’t speak—nanami didn’t need to. his expectation sat in the air like a guillotine.
you shook your head quickly, too quickly, a little too eager to throw the lie forward before anyone could breathe. “no,” you said, voice falsely innocent, like a kid denying stealing cookies while covered in crumbs. “i did not skip class, actually. thanks for the concern, satoru, really. very touching.”
your friends reacted like you’d just given the worst performance in the history of lying. haibara tried to hide his laugh behind his hand, geto smirked into his drink, and shoko—who didn’t believe in sugarcoating unless it was on donuts—snorted so loud the table next to you turned.
“you definitely skipped,” shoko said flatly, deadpan as if stating the weather. “i was looking for you in lecture earlier and you were nowhere. not even in the bathroom pretending to cry so someone would comfort you.”
you gasped at the accusation and placed a hand on your chest, clutching invisible pearls because real pearls would’ve required more wardrobe planning this morning. “excuse me? i did fucking not skip.”
geto didn’t even look up. he just lifted a brow lazily. “yeah? then where were you?”
your mouth opened… and absolutely nothing came out. your brain went to file excuses and found the cabinet completely empty except for a metaphorical moth. you inhaled sharply, turned away from all the eyes staring at you, and reached for nanami’s drink like it was diplomatic immunity. you took a sip—an unnecessarily long sip—as if green tea could save your soul from the social execution happening around you.
nanami let you drink it, which should’ve been a red flag in itself. he only let you touch his drink when he was either (1) too tired to argue or (2) preparing to lecture you.
you placed the glass back, very gently, very slowly, the way one disarms a bomb, and then turned to face nanami with your sweetest, most weaponized smile—the one that got you out of legal consequences once.
“baby, listen—”
he didn’t raise his voice. nanami didn’t need theatrics. his disappointment alone could level civilizations.
“you skipped class.”
“i— no, i didn’t skip, i just… didn’t attend,” you argued, hands moving in useless little gestures as if rearranging air could make your excuse sound less idiotic. “there’s a difference.”
nanami blinked once. slowly. the way a man does when mentally calculating if prison is worth it. “and what,” he said, tone calm to the point of terrifying, “is the difference, sweetheart?”
gojo leaned in like a hyena. “yeah, educate us, princess.”
you shot satoru a look that could curdle milk. “the difference,” you said, straightening your back on nanami’s lap, as if delivering a thesis, “is that skipping sounds intentional and irresponsible. i simply chose peace and preserved my mental health by not exposing myself to academic distress. self-care. you should try it.”
shoko wheezed. geto covered his smile with his hand like a scandalized victorian woman in church. haibara actually clapped quietly, the traitor.
nanami stared. “you overslept.”
“i—” you lifted a finger, offended, “no. i rested.”
“until one in the afternoon,” nanami clarified, because of course he checked.
you clicked your tongue, rolling your eyes and looking away because you refused to be wrong in front of an audience. “god, you say that like it’s a crime.”
“it is when you’re paying for courses you don’t attend,” nanami replied, adjusting your position on his lap like he was grounding you into sanity. “do you intend to graduate, or do you plan to survive on generational wealth alone?”
gojo grinned. “i vote for generational wealth. it suits her.”
“shut up, satoru!” you snapped, smacking his arm across the table.
nanami caught your wrist mid-swing—gentle, firm, thumb pressing into your pulse like a warning. he leaned in, voice low enough that it curled down your spine like expensive silk. “behave.”
and your friends, the demons you called family, burst into laughter like they’d been waiting for that exact moment.
your face heated—not embarrassed, because you didn’t do embarrassment—just… strategically annoyed. “are you all done enjoying my suffering, or should i perform a tap dance too?”
geto raised his cup. “please do, bonus points if you fall.” you scowled, sinking further into nanami’s chest, arms crossed like a brat, mumbling, “you’re all mentally ill.” shoko took a drag from her vape and exhaled smoke right over your hair. “and yet, we go to class.”
six of you slipped back into conversation, the kind that required zero brain cells—mostly gojo lying, geto enabling it, haibara believing it, and shoko regretting her existence—but it was comfortable chaos, and nanami’s arm around your waist grounded you, thumb tracing slow circles on your thigh in that absent-minded you’re mine, don’t start way he did.
and then she appeared.
a girl materialized beside the table with the unwanted presence of an unsolicited ad popup. weird bangs—like she cut them during a psychotic episode or let a blindfolded toddler do it—long black hair, cardigan buttoned wrong like a cry for help. she beams at gojo first, all teeth, dimples, and misguided optimism.
“gojo-kun! hey!”
of course she knew him. everyone with bad decision-making skills did.
gojo lit up like a dumb golden retriever who just saw its leash. “ohhh, utahime! guys, this is utahime! she’s in my and nanamin’s major.”
you zoned out at the name because it sounded like a villain from a discount fairytale. irrelevant. what wasn’t irrelevant was gojo pulling out a chair for her—the chair right across from nanami.
oh. so this is the type of day we’re having.
“utahime, this is geto, shoko, haibara, and—” gojo gestured vaguely at you and nanami, “—nanami and his girlfriend.”
you lifted your hand with the grace of royalty blessing peasants. “hello.”
she glanced at you for half a millisecond, uttered a bland “hi,” then turned fully to nanami like you were an aesthetic prop that came with the table.
“nanami, right? i think i’ve seen you around in the literature department.”
you stared at her like she’d grown a second head. you were literally sitting on his lap and she still managed to mentally crop you out of the frame like a bad ex. the audacity smelled like drugstore perfume.
nanami nodded politely, because unfortunately he was raised with manners. “yes, we share a few lectures.”
she smiled at him. smiled. like she had teeth specifically for him. “i thought so. you always look very focused. it’s impressive.” your eyelid twitched. impressed? what was he, a circus act?
nanami, oblivious to your growing homicidal aura, replied with that calm, respectful tone that made professors love him. “i just prefer not to fall behind.”
gojo elbowed geto under the table, whispering loudly, “she’s so into him.”
geto hummed. “dead on arrival. she has no idea who she’s messing with.” shoko exhaled smoke into the shape of a middle finger. “she’s brave. or stupid. likely both.”
utahime didn’t hear—tragedy. she settled in, and somehow, like a cursed domino effect, the conversation shifted. you were mid-complaint to shoko about how leggings weren’t pants when you noticed nanami and utahime were… talking.
like, actually talking.
animated.
engaged.
she asked about some assignment or some book, and nanami—your nanami, the man who rationed his words like they were wartime supplies—responded with actual sentences.
you narrowed your eyes. suspicious.
you tuned back in when you heard utahime say, “you’re part of the campus horticulture and sustainable agriculture society, right?”
you blinked. the campus what?
nanami nodded. “yes. the horticulture and sustainable agriculture society—HSAS. we’re focusing on soil health improvement this semester. most students ignore the foundational care required for—”
“soil health,” you repeated blankly under your breath, like the words themselves gave you indigestion.
shoko chuckled. “oh look, your boyfriend’s having his plant ted talk.”
utahime leaned in, elbows on the table, chin in hands, like nanami was reciting poetry in italian. “that’s fascinating. i’ve been wanting to grow herbs in my apartment but everything i touch dies. what soil do you recommend for beginner plants?”
nanami actually warmed up. warmed up. his voice gained depth, like she just unlocked npc dialogue level two. “well, herbs require well-draining soil. most beginners overwater because they assume more water means faster growth, but it increases the risk of root rot—”
you stared. root rot? this man barely used more than five words with anyone and suddenly he was the david attenborough of basil plants?
gojo leaned toward you with a grin that deserved jail time. “look at nanamin go. bro’s flirting plant-style.”
you hissed, “one more sound and i will shove your matcha straw so far up your nose you’ll taste grass.”
haibara laughed nervously. “guys, be nice…”
geto sipped his drink, amused. “this is fantastic. i’ve never seen nanami talk so much to anyone who wasn’t her.” he tilted his head at you. “how does it feel to be replaced by fertilizer talk?”
you glared at him, jaw tightening. “i’m not bothered.”
you were absolutely bothered.
it was like watching your golden retriever boyfriend suddenly become conversational with a passing pigeon. who the fuck was she to get this much dialogue from him?
nanami continued, utterly unaware of the storm brewing on his lap. “if you’re new to plants, start with mint or rosemary. they’re resilient and don’t require much intervention.”
“wow,” utahime said softly, eyes big enough to irritate you on a spiritual level, “you know so much.”
you could feel your soul leave your body, hover above the table, and consider flipping it.
shoko leaned over and whispered, “you gonna let her herb-flirt with your man like that?”
“i’m unbothered,” you repeated, nails digging into nanami’s thigh hard enough to pierce through his soul. nanami’s hand tightened on your waist—not painfully, just enough to say behave without interrupting his fucking spinach seminar.
geto smirked. “you look seconds away from committing eco-friendly homicide.”
you whispered through a closed-teeth smile, maintaining your princess composure, “i swear to god if that girl asks him one more plant question, i’m ripping the rosemary out of her hypothetical garden and making her eat it.”
gojo cackled. “i will literally pay to see that.”
and nanami, sweet plant-talking, politely smiling nanami—was still answering her question about sunlight exposure like he wasn’t currently sitting under a girlfriend-shaped nuclear bomb.
you inhaled, slow, deliberate, eyes narrowing as utahime leaned closer to him again.
your grip on nanami’s thigh tightened, nails sinking in.
he paused mid-sentence, finally turning his head just enough to look at you, brow slightly raised—only a millimeter, but on nanami that equaled what are you plotting.
you smiled, all teeth.
if he didn’t stop this herbal bonding session soon, you were about to water that girl with holy water and bury her in “well-draining soil.”
as everyone left the café to walk toward the cinema, the situation deteriorated with the same speed as your patience. what was supposed to be your afternoon—your boyfriend, your friends, your post-class movie date—had now been hijacked by the bangs-gone-wrong herbal witch who somehow glued herself to nanami’s side like an unwanted sticker on a luxury bag.
you should’ve known gojo was capable of this level of treason. he was skipping ahead like a golden retriever who found a ball, proudly leading utahime into your circle as if he’d discovered fire. the bitch was now walking in front, beside nanami—beside your nanami—talking about plants. still. they were still talking about the horticulture club (you mentally renamed it the horti-culture-of-ruining-your-day-club), her voice full of curiosity and fake academic interest, while nanami nodded and responded like he was a responsible mentor in a children’s education program.
normally, nanami would hold your hand, walk beside you, adjust your pace like you were the center of his orbit. now? you were behind him. behind. like a side character. a background extra. a cautionary tale.
gojo slung an arm over your shoulder, grinning like he was waiting for popcorn to watch you combust. shoko walked on your other side, hands in her pocket, already scrolling her phone. behind you, geto and haibara chatted about something that wasn’t nearly as important as your personal crisis.
you crossed your arms over your chest, eyes drilling holes into the back of utahime’s skull. maybe if i stare hard enough, a giant plant pot will fall on her head from a cosmic balcony and she’ll go back to photosynthesis permanently. you were not wishing for her death—you were merely manifesting a gardening accident poetic enough to send her away.
gojo glanced down at you, smirk widening. “you look like you’re planning a homicide using fertilizer.”
“don’t tempt me,” you muttered, voice low, venom-dipped. “i’m one intrusive thought away from repotting her six feet under.”
shoko snorted without looking up. “you’re dramatic.”
you whipped your head toward her, offended. “i am realistic.”
gojo gasped in exaggerated betrayal. “so you’re jealous.”
you turned slowly, face blank, tone flat but dangerous. “jealous? of who? of that… bangs-with-a-personality-disorder? please. the only thing i envy is the delusion she has that she belongs here.”
geto actually choked on air behind you.
gojo wiggled his eyebrows. “she’s just talking to nanami. they’re bonding.”
“over fucking soil, satoru. soil.” you hissed, voice cracking like your sanity. “tell me why my boyfriend is suddenly the plant whisperer for an outsider? what is he, some kind of agricultural tinder? people swipe right and he waters their basil?”
shoko sighed. “you’re spiraling.”
“i’m descending,” you corrected, gesturing passionately with one hand while the other murderously clutched your chanel bag. “this is a free-fall.”
nanami glanced back briefly—just a fraction—to check if you were keeping up. normally that look would soften you, but today it made your rage glitter. he didn’t even offer his hand. he just turned back to the demon-spawn herb girl and resumed discussing mint infestations like he was the ceo of oregano.
you leaned in to your friends, voice dangerously polite. “look at them. walking together. talking. breathing the same oxygen. disgusting.”
haibara, sweet innocent soul, tried to reassure you. “i’m sure nanami is just being polite—”
“polite?” you snapped softly. “he is my boyfriend. the bare minimum is him being rude to other women. loyal men don’t discuss rosemary ratios with anyone except their girlfriend. i should be the only herb in his life.”
gojo wheezed. “you did not just call yourself a herb.”
“shut your mouth before i season you with salt and eat you alive.”
utahime laughed at something nanami said. oh, she laughed. she laughed like she understood him. like she had the right. your eye twitched so hard it could’ve powered a light bulb.
“i hope,” you said calmly, like a villain making a vow, “she tries to plant basil and it sprouts a fungus. i hope her rosemary wilts. i hope her soil becomes a cursed wasteland. and i hope nanami’s watering can leaks all over his shoes so he remembers this betrayal every time he walks.”
shoko stared at you. “…girl. therapy is right there.”
you ignored that. “and him.” you gestured toward nanami, voice rising an octave of offended royalty. “he should know better. he shouldn’t look at other women—”
“he’s not,” haibara pointed out gently, “he’s literally staring at the pavement while talking.”
“bare minimum!” you shriek-whispered. “he shouldn’t talk to other women either! silence is free!”
gojo hummed. “so you want nanami to be mute to everyone except you?”
“yes,” you said without hesitation. “and to plants, apparently, since that’s his thing now.”
geto laughed quietly. “you’re insane.”
“i’m in love,” you corrected, nose in the air. “there’s a difference. love makes you gracious and kind.”
shoko stared. “you literally manifested a potted-plant accident five minutes ago.”
you shrugged. “compassion has levels.”
ahead of you, utahime giggled again—at something plant-related—and nanami, sweet oblivious nanami, slightly nodded along like he was a guest speaker at a gardening conference. you inhaled sharply. “i’m about to photosynthesize rage.”
you kept walking, seething so loudly it was a miracle the concrete under your feet didn’t crack from the sheer force of your offended aura. the world should’ve stopped. the sky should’ve darkened. alarms should’ve gone off. your boyfriend was talking to another woman—and about botany, of all the unsexy, grandma-coded subjects—and everyone around you was acting like this wasn’t a catastrophic betrayal of romance, loyalty, and personal branding.
you sped up half a step so you could hear them better—because how dare he have a conversation you weren’t the main character of—and the words “nitrogen fixation” drifted back to you like a personal insult.
you gagged dramatically. “jesus christ, he’s talking about soil nutrients. does he want to get cheated on? because that’s how men get cheated on.”
gojo raised both brows, arm still lazily over your shoulder. “wow. plants are now infidelity?”
you turned to him, eyes wide with religious conviction. “plants are a gateway drug to emotional affairs, satoru. first it’s rosemary, then it’s sharing gardening tools, and next thing you know she’s repotting her heart into his hands.”
shoko made a noise that was half-laugh, half-choke. “you’re sick.”
you ignored her diagnosis.
up ahead, utahime tucked her limp tragic hair behind her ear, leaning a little too close to nanami as she asked something about photosynthesis like it wasn’t common knowledge taught to six-year-olds with crayons and carrot sticks. nanami answered with that calm, informative tone he used when guiding lost children or explaining tax forms to you so you wouldn’t cry.
he didn’t look at her—no eye contact, bare minimum, congratulations—but he responded. willingly. completely. as if she deserved personalized nanami tutoring services.
you stared at the back of his head like you were trying to set his hair on fire telepathically.
“i can’t believe this is happening,” you muttered, crossing your arms tighter, suffocating in betrayal and your own expensive perfume. “this was supposed to be our movie time. our date. our quality time with the background characters we call friends. and now?? now we’re the supporting cast in gojo’s charity show-and-tell featuring some stray cat with bangs.”
gojo snorted. “be nice, she’s new.”
“and she can stay new,” you shot back. “new and far away. new and outside the group. new as in return to sender.”
geto chimed in from behind, amused. “you realize she can’t hear you, right?”
you whipped around so fast your hair nearly slapped him. “trust me, if she could, she would compost herself on the spot.”
haibara, ever the sunshine idiot, tried to calm you. “maybe she just wants to make friends?”
“oh, please. look at her.” you gestured violently at utahime’s back, nearly elbowing gojo in the ribs. “she’s walking like she’s auditioning to become the new moral compass of this group. we don’t need a moral compass. we barely need a compass. we are lost and we like it.”
shoko raised a brow. “you? moral compass? please. you’d sell this group for a birkin bag.”
you blinked. “shoko. don’t be ridiculous.” you paused. “it would have to be a limited edition birkin. crocodile leather. gold hardware. preferably one-of-one.”
“see?” shoko mumbled.
you ignored the truth because it was inconvenient.
you focused on your boyfriend again—your gorgeous, infuriating, plant-talking boyfriend who should’ve been holding your hand, kissing your temple, ignoring every female organism in a 50-meter radius—and instead he was giving unsolicited gardening advice like some attractive greenhouse consultant.
you hissed under your breath, “he shouldn’t be talking to her. he shouldn’t be talking to anyone. he should be carrying me like a princess and stepping on rose petals while doing it.”
gojo actually laughed. “you want nanami to be your servant?”
“i want nanami to act like a man in love,” you snapped. “not a walking national geographic episode.”
geto added, “you could just walk next to him, you know.”
you gasped as if he suggested you lick hospital floor tiles. “i will not chase him. i am not a golden retriever. i am the ball. people chase me.”
shoko pinched the bridge of her nose. “you are not the ball.”
“i am the ball, the player, the coach, and the entire damn tournament. everyone attends because of me.”
you said this right as utahime laughed again at whatever nanami said and your blood pressure skyrocketed so hard you nearly astral projected.
“i hope,” you said with the serenity of a cursed prophet, “that she wakes up tomorrow and every plant she owns is dead. i hope the leaves turn black. i hope her basil commits suicide. i hope her fertilizer expires. i hope her watering can cracks. and i hope nanami—”
gojo perked up. “ooo, what do you hope happens to nanamin?”
you inhaled deeply. “i hope nanami’s plants grow mold. i hope his little gardening gloves shrink. i hope his stupid herb club—”
“horticulture society,” haibara corrected softly.
“—i hope his STUPID herb club,” you emphasized, “loses funding and they have to sell carrots on the street like failed vegetables.”
shoko stared at you, dead-eyed. “seek help.”
you ignored that. again.
“he should only discuss plants with me,” you muttered, wounded, betrayed, dramatically heartbroken. “i don’t even like plants. but he should only talk to me about them.”
and with that, you stared ahead, at the back of your boyfriend walking beside another woman, and you thought, in the most poetic, dostoevsky-meets-deranged-princess way possible:
if this is what love is, no wonder russian literature is full of suffering.
when you all reach the theatre entrance, the neon lights flickering like a cheap attempt at glamour, gojo’s arm is still slung over your shoulder, the weight of it both grounding and irritating because it wasn’t the arm you wanted. nanami was still walking beside utahime, still talking, still breathing the same air as her, and your eye twitched so violently you were convinced you developed a new facial tic.
gojo followed your burning stare, eyes darting from nanami to you, and with a dramatic sigh—like he was babysitting a rabid raccoon in couture—he tugged you toward the ticket counters. “come on, princess,” he muttered, steering you away, “let’s just forget about him. ignore him too.”
he didn’t even wait for your response, just dragged you away, and you let yourself be pulled only because your body had entered that numb, offended, heart-bruised autopilot that happened once every blue moon—specifically when nanami kento, the one man in the universe who never, ever, not even for one second, failed to give you attention—shifted it to someone who wasn’t you.
you looked over your shoulder at them, your steps slowing, just to witness nanami tilt his head slightly toward utahime as she spoke, his hands in his pockets, posture polite but relaxed—not intimate, not flirtatious, just… engaged. it wasn’t even what he was saying. it was the absence of what he usually did with you—glancing at you, checking if you were next to him, adjusting your bag strap, brushing your hair behind your ear, telling you to watch your step, holding your waist in crowded places.
those things didn’t exist right now.
you faced forward again, jaw locking. you tried not to care, truly, you tried to swallow it with the dignity of a queen who refused to crumble in public, but the petulant, deeply spoiled part of you—the part nanami privately adored and publicly tamed—was clawing at your ribs like how dare he.
nanami had never denied you. not attention, not affection, not his time. you were the center of his carefully organized galaxy and he orbited you with steady devotion. and now? one afternoon of neglect and you felt like the moon had been kicked out of the solar system.
and the worst part? beneath the rage, beneath the jealousy, beneath the desire to poison a plant so it symbolically represented your emotional suffering—there was something softer, uglier, something you hated admitting even to yourself: it hurt.
after gojo paid for the tickets—because you sure as hell weren’t taking out your card for anything under a thousand dollars—he pulled you toward the concession stand where shoko, haibara, and geto were gathering with popcorn and drinks.
the moment they saw you approach—quiet, stiff, lips pressed together—they exchanged glances like doctors diagnosing a terminally ill patient who still thought she had the flu. geto’s eyes flicked over your shoulder, confirming the sight of nanami still with utahime before his gaze returned to your face.
he leaned closer, voice low, non-judgmental but smug enough to rankle. “are you actually upset about them?”
you didn’t trust your voice, so you hummed—short, flat, unimpressed—lifting one shoulder like an attempt at nonchalance, but the tension in your jaw exposed you like a confession written in blood.
geto hummed back, almost sympathetic, handing you a drink like it was medication. “then talk to nanami. if you feel ignored, tell him.”
of course, gojo—diplomatic as a drunk pigeon—ruined the moment.
“oh please,” he scoffed, snatching a handful of popcorn with his free hand, “she feels ignored when a houseplant gets more sunlight than her. miss spotlight here needs constant admiration or she wilts.”
you elbowed him in the stomach, sharp and precise, making him grunt. “shut the fuck up, satoru, before i rearrange your ribs into modern art.”
shoko snorted into her drink, haibara coughed to hide a laugh, and geto smiled behind his cup like he was enjoying a theatre show that didn’t require tickets.
you inhaled sharply through your nose, lifted your chin, and let the dam break.
“he should give me attention,” you snapped, keeping your voice low enough not to cause a public scene but sharp enough to cut god, “he is my boyfriend. my boyfriend. i shouldn’t have to beg for it like some charity case. i shouldn’t have to tap him on the shoulder like a fucking waiter asking for the bill. attention is part of his job description. loving me includes looking at me.”
your words were venom-wrapped silk, but your fingers—clenching your straw, the slight tremble at the tips—betrayed the vulnerable thread under the rage.
geto exhaled through his nose, head tilting, his voice kinder this time, “it makes sense you feel that way. you’re used to him being… very present with you. he set that standard, so it’s normal you expect it.”
you blinked at him, thrown off for a second by the emotional validation that hit you like someone offering you a blanket mid-tantrum.
but geto wasn’t done.
“just… maybe give him a minute? she’s new, he’s trying to be polite—”
you scoffed instantly, an unhinged, offended laugh escaping. “polite? no. no. absolutely not. nanami does not get to be ‘polite.’ he is not a community library. he is not available for public use. if he wants to be polite he can hold the door, say thank you, and move the fuck on. conversation is intimacy and intimacy is mine.”
gojo burst out laughing, a hand slapping his knee. “oh my god. you sound like a medieval king guarding his royal concubine.”
you raised your cup and pointed the straw at gojo’s throat with threatening precision. “say one more word and i will introduce your face to the popcorn machine and butter you like a croissant.”
gojo, shaking with laughter, held his hands up in surrender. “fine, fine—jealousy looks adorable on you. like a chihuahua guarding a yacht.”
“i’m a rottweiler,” you growled.
“you’re a poodle with diamond fur,” he corrected.
you glared at him, then turned to geto, voice dropping, unfiltered, raw, but still dipped in drama.
“if my boyfriend wants to suddenly audition for earth’s next top botanist with bangs mcgee, he can enjoy watering plants alone in his dorm for the rest of his natural life. because i swear, if i have to tell my boyfriend to notice me? to look at me? to choose me? i would rather swallow fertilizer.”
shoko blinked slowly. “please don’t.”
you shrugged. “depends on how long they keep talking.”
and geto, annoyingly calm, annoyingly wise, annoyingly right, just corrected quietly, “you don’t have to ask him to choose you. he already does. every day. you just haven’t told him you feel ignored.”
you hated that logic.
you hated that he was right.
you hated most of all that it made your anger taste like sadness. and you crossed your arms, chin raised, choosing violence over vulnerability—for now.
the popcorn machine hummed behind you, the smell of butter thick in the air, sticking to your skin and your mood alike, and you stood there rigid, spine straight, arms crossed so tight across your chest your bracelets dug into your skin, like your body was trying to hold your ego together before it shattered on the sticky cinema floor. geto’s words lingered like a bitter aftertaste—annoyingly sensible, nauseatingly calm, the verbal equivalent of someone placing a warm blanket on you while you’re trying to commit arson.
you stared at him, lips curling, because if there was one thing you hated more than utahime’s haircut, it was being psychoanalyzed correctly.
“oh look at you,” you muttered, shifting your weight onto one leg, jutting your hip out, your manicured nails tapping sharply against your bicep, “dr. phil reincarnated with a man bun. how poetic. how wise. how about you diagnose my foot up someone’s ass too while you’re at it?”
geto didn’t flinch—he never did, which made him infinitely more punchable in moments like this. he held your gaze, eyes soft, voice level, his cup cradled loosely between his palms like he was warming his hands on the heat of your fury. “you’re allowed to feel ignored. anyone would be upset if their partner suddenly shifted attention. it’s valid.”
you scoffed, dramatic and sharp, head tossing back as if you’d been insulted by god personally. “oh great, thank you, priest suguru, for telling me my feelings are valid. how groundbreaking. next you’ll tell me water is wet and gojo is stupid.”
gojo, who was now sipping his drink like he was watching a romcom unfold, lifted a lazy hand. “both true.”
you ignored him and leaned closer to geto, your voice lowering into that venom-laced whisper reserved for emotional emergency or homicide, whichever came first. “validation doesn’t fix shit. i don’t want to feel better about being ignored. i want him to stop fucking ignoring me.”
you felt your throat tighten—not enough to show, never enough to show—but enough to force you to look away, down at your own fingers gripping your cup like it might explode if you loosened your hold. you repositioned your stance, shifting the weight of your body just slightly so you leaned against the counter, but even that wasn’t relaxed; it was defensive, closed off, chin tilted up in futile superiority.
geto exhaled through his nose, elbows resting on the counter, leaning a little closer so you couldn’t run from the truth he was about to drop like a boulder onto your fragile, dramatic ego. “you’re hurting because you expect the version of nanami who’s always glued to you. but he’s allowed to exist as his own person too. you want devotion, not a hostage.”
your brows flew up, disbelief etched across your face as you pointed your straw at him like a weapon. “first of all, how dare you speak logic to me when i’m actively spiraling. second, nanami being obsessed with me is not hostage behavior, it’s romance. third, don’t stand there with your jesus hair and tell me to be understanding. i’m rich. i don’t do understanding. i do receiving.”
gojo wheezed.
shoko pinched the bridge of her nose, already exhausted.
haibara looked like he was watching a car crash in slow motion.
geto, still impossibly calm, still infuriatingly kind, lifted a hand in surrender. “fine. you don’t have to understand. but talk to him. he doesn’t know you feel this way yet.”
you gave him a slow, sarcastic blink. “wow. brilliant. stunning. inspiring. what a fabulous idea. i should talk to my boyfriend. how revolutionary. no one in the history of existence has ever thought of communication before. should we hold a press conference? maybe write a thesis?”
geto raised a brow. “so you won’t talk to him.”
you inhaled sharply through your teeth. “of course i will not talk to him. talking requires vulnerability. vulnerability requires humility. i have neither.”
gojo cackled. “at least she’s self-aware.”
you snapped your head toward him, eyes blazing. “self-awareness is not the virtue you think it is. it’s the burden of the elite.”
geto sighed but the corner of his mouth twitched, because even when you were insufferable, you were entertaining. “he cares about you. deeply. you know that.”
you bit down a bitter laugh. your throat felt tight, your stomach twisting, nails scraping lightly against your arm through your sweater sleeve. “yeah? well he should show it. i shouldn’t have to perform emotional gymnastics to earn the attention he used to give freely. if i wanted to beg for scraps, i’d date a man who makes minimum wage.”
shoko actually choked on her drink this time, coughing. “jesus christ.”
geto stared at you. “you do realize nanami is allowed to have conversations with other women, right?”
your head snapped toward him so fast your hair whipped over your shoulder like a weapon. “and you do realize i don’t give a singular microscopic fuck about what men are ‘allowed’ to do, right? he is my boyfriend. my emotional support adult. my legally binding emotional investment. if he wants to discuss rosemary with another woman, that woman better be me in a wig.”
haibara blinked slowly. “why would you need a wig?”
you waved him off. “for dramatics, haibara, please keep up.”
and there it was—the truth sitting on your tongue, bitter and humiliating, but ready to spill because no amount of sarcasm could bury it forever.
you exhaled shakily, your voice dropping half an octave, quieter but no less sharp. “i just… i shouldn’t have to ask to be seen.”
and the silence that followed was loud—accompanied only by the violent popping of kernels in the machine behind you, like applause for the tragedy of your own making.
the waiting area outside the theatre was cramped and buzzing, the kind of space where the floor was sticky with decades of spilled soda and regret, circular tables placed close enough that strangers’ conversations bled into each other. all six of you crowded around one of those round tables, chairs stolen from nearby like barbarians claiming land. the digital screen above the hallway flickered with “screen 4 – seats cleaning, please wait”, and everyone settled into that pre-movie limbo — except you, who sat with your back painfully straight, pretending nanami wasn’t sitting right beside you with his hand on your thigh like he owned real estate there.
you tried to ignore him. ignore the warmth of his palm through the sheer wolford tights, ignore the weight of his fingers curving around the top of your thigh like you were his favorite page-turning novel, ignore the small absent-minded circles his thumb drew — gentle, steady, familiar — the exact type of touch that usually melted you, soothed you, tethered you to him.
but right now? it felt like salt on a wound.
because while his hand was on you, his attention wasn’t. nanami was still talking to utahime. still. like the universe hated you personally.
you stared at the table, chin tilted slightly away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing your eyes, while on your left, geto raised his brows at you, a silent talk to him written across his face. you shook your head once, small, stubborn, your lips tightening, and he sighed, leaning back like he was watching a predictable tragedy unfold.
nanami didn’t seem to notice your emotional apocalypse. his posture was relaxed, other hand resting on the table, his voice low and polite as utahime asked him something about club meetings or plant pots — you didn’t care, you refused to care, but it clawed at you anyway.
you snapped.
you slowly leaned in, one elbow on the table, your body turning toward nanami, your hair falling like a curtain over your shoulder, your voice dipped in honeyed poison. “what were you two talking about?”
nanami turned instantly — and god, you hated that your heart reacted before your brain could block it. his gaze softened the moment it met yours, that small, warm smile appearing — the one that was just for you, the one that made you feel chosen, the one that usually cured every storm inside you.
his knuckles brushed your cheekbone, tender, affectionate, familiar enough to make your inhale stutter. “just some things about the plants,” he dismissed gently, thumb brushing your skin like he was smoothing your irritation away. “utahime is thinking of joining the horticulture club.”
the club again. as if the word itself didn’t sound like an allergy.
you hummed, but your eyes didn’t soften, and your jaw was wired tight. “what things?” you asked, voice light to the untrained ear, but razor-edged if anyone listened with their soul. “tell me.”
it wasn’t a question. it was a command masked as a request. you wanted him to elaborate, to include you, to bring you into the conversation where you belonged — beside him, not outside of him.
nanami exhaled, a small barely-there laugh from his nose, the kind a man makes when he thinks you’re cute for being ridiculous. “you wouldn’t understand, sweetheart,” he murmured, tone meant to soothe, not belittle — yet it sliced through you cleanly anyway. “don’t stress your pretty head about it.”
and then — the fucking bastard — he turned his attention back to utahime as if you hadn’t just spoken. as if your opinion, your presence, didn’t demand the gravitational pull it always had.
you froze.
your frown carved in deeper, lips pressing so tightly together your lipstick nearly cracked. your chest hollowed in that humiliating, nauseating way pride bleeds when pricked. and from the corner of your eye, you caught it — the smallest twitch of utahime’s lips. not a smile. a smirk. subtle, fleeting, but you saw it. the kind of expression one makes when they think they’ve been chosen over someone else.
you bit the inside of your cheek so hard the metallic taste of blood bloomed on your tongue.
nanami kento had just dismissed you. in public. in front of people. for plant girl.
humiliation and fury tangled inside you like barbed wire.
you didn’t speak. you couldn’t — because to speak now would be to either cry (never allowed) or stab (socially frowned upon). your pride was a spoiled, overfed beast, raised in luxury, pampered with attention, never starved a day in its life — and suddenly nanami had fed someone else first. your ego didn’t know how to process deprivation. it was built on the unshakeable fact that you were the exception to rules, not subject to them.
nanami had always been one of those things placed into your palms without effort — not because he was easy, no, he was one of the only things you actually wanted badly enough to hold with care — but because he chose you endlessly, without hesitation, without question, making you believe his devotion was fixed, guaranteed, unshakable.
and now? now he had shifted his attention for a moment too long, and it felt like a throne had been pulled an inch from under you. not enough to fall — just enough to wobble, enough to threaten your crown.
your voice finally emerged, low, venom-soaked, each syllable enunciated like a curse. “you know,” you said, staring at the table because if you looked at him you’d either combust or kiss him and both would be humiliating, “i must be delusional to expect my boyfriend to act like he gives a shit when i’m sitting right next to him.”
nanami blinked, head turning slowly back toward you, brows gently knitting, confusion and concern surfacing in equal measure. “i do give a—”
you cut him off, a cold laugh escaping you, sharp enough to slice the air. “really? because you’re acting like i’m some decorative throw pillow you keep around for aesthetics. should i sit on the floor so you can focus better on your little garden club recruitment?”
geto sucked in a breath. shoko mumbled “oh, fuck.” gojo was already grinning like a hyena at a feast.
nanami’s hand on your thigh tightened, firm, grounding, not rough but authoritative enough to demand your gaze — so you turned, finally meeting his eyes, and god, you hated that the warmth there made your chest ache.
“i wasn’t ignoring you,” he said softly, calmly, trying to stay level-headed like he always did with you. “she asked questions. i answered. it wasn’t meant to make you feel left out.”
you tilted your head, smile slow and poisonous. “well congratulations, you failed. gold star. ten out of ten on the ‘make my girlfriend feel like a side character in her own life’ scale.”
nanami sighed — not annoyed, not angry — but patient, because of course he was patient. “i’m sorry you felt that way. but you know you’re important to me.”
your lips curled again, a mocking echo of sweetness. “important? i’m not asking to be important, nanami. i’m asking to be prioritized. you can’t treat me like the main course one day and a mint garnish the next. pick a menu.”
and even as you stabbed him with your words, your chest throbbed with something awful, something you didn’t allow to surface: you were scared. scared of being replaceable. scared of indifference. scared because nanami was the one person you didn’t know how to exist without winning.
he held your gaze, thumb rubbing soothing circles again — this time not absent-minded, but intentional. “i should’ve paid more attention to you,” he admitted quietly.
you wanted that to fix it.
it didn’t.
not yet.
and that line — “i should’ve paid more attention to you” — should’ve knocked the fury out of your bones, wrapped you in silk, lulled you into that soft spoiled-brat slumber where you win simply because nanami surrendered first. it should’ve been enough to stop the spiral dead in its tracks.
because nanami didn’t deny you, didn’t gaslight you, didn’t tell you you were “doing too much.” he validated you. he handed you the crown back with his own hands, kissed your ego gently and placed it on the throne again — no resistance, no argument, no double meaning. pure, steady sincerity.
but you?
you were a dramatic piece of shit.
your entire existence was built on ego the way temples were built on sacred ground — your pride wasn’t a personality trait, it was the spine you walked with. one microscopic moment of humiliation felt like being stripped naked in public. you weren’t wired to crumble gracefully. you were wired to explode, self-destruct, resurrect, and then deny it ever happened.
you prided yourself on being untouchable, above nonsense, above insecurities. you prided yourself on being that girl — the one who didn’t flinch, didn’t break, didn’t chase. the one who ignored gojo’s existence for an entire freshman year because he annoyed you and you refused to give his ego oxygen. you were a monument of indifference when you wanted to be.
so admitting something got to you? that a girl with tragic bangs shook your composure enough to make you feel?
fucking humiliating.
you were supposed to be the one people cried over — not the one hiding tears.
and the worst part was knowing utahime heard you argue, saw you demand attention, witnessed the crack in your armor. she should’ve been the one feeling threatened by you — not you feeling anything over her.
your chair scraped back sharply, the sound slicing through the table’s chatter. nanami’s hand instantly reached for your wrist, instinct kicking in, but you jerked your hand away like his touch burned. the shock that flickered across his face — brief, quiet, wounded — nearly broke something inside your ribcage, but you bit down on it, rose to your feet with your chin high, spine rigid, and walked away.
you didn’t look back.
you refused to give them the image of your eyes shining.
you could hear footsteps behind you — one pair, steady, controlled (nanami), another lighter and lazier (gojo), and a third too bored to hurry (shoko). you prayed it wasn’t nanami, because if he saw your eyes, saw the crack, saw the tear that fought to slip free, your pride would shatter so loudly the universe would hear it.
you pushed the bathroom door open with more force than necessary, the fluorescent lights too bright, mirrors too reflective for fragile emotions. it was empty — stalls open, silence echoing off the tiles — a sanctuary for humiliation to decompose in peace.
you braced your palms on the counter, head tilted up toward the ceiling like you were begging gravity to pull the tears back into your skull instead of down your face. you grabbed tissues, folding them like they were fine linen napkins, pressing them beneath your waterline carefully — because you would rather die than let mascara betray you. ugly crying on top of public humiliation? no. you had standards, even in breakdowns.
your shoulders trembled once — quickly — the way a spoiled princess shakes only in private, only for a second, only before putting the mask back on.
the door creaked open. shoko entered, leaning against the sink beside you, arms crossed, chewing her gum like she was watching a circus she didn’t buy tickets for.
“that was dramatic as hell,” she sighed, like this was episode twelve of a show she couldn’t stop watching. “even for you.”
you snapped your head toward her, eyes glossy but sharp, whisper-hissed so your voice wouldn’t crack, “shut the fuck up, shoko, unless you want to be the next victim in my emotional homicide spree.”
she raised both brows, unimpressed. “i’m just saying — storming off mid-conversation like a telenovela villain after her husband cheats with the maid? iconic, but dramatic.”
you glared, aggressively patting the tissue under your eyes with the precision of someone defusing a bomb. your voice was tight, vibrating with swallowed rage. “i am trying not to cry, okay? if uta-fucking-hime makes me cry just by breathing in the direction of my man, i’ll bury her in the community garden next to the fucking carrots.”
shoko huffed a laugh, shaking her head as she grabbed another tissue and handed it to you. “you’re insane.”
“i’m territorial,” you corrected sharply, dabbing at the corner of your eye, making sure your eyeliner stayed crisp. “and i refuse to let some no-name, middle-class herb girl with a discount shampoo routine see me cry. she will not get that satisfaction. i will set myself on fire first.”
shoko shrugged, leaning next to you in the mirror. “you know nanami didn’t mean to hurt you.”
you threw the tissue away like it offended you. “he dismissed me, shoko. me. in front of her. do you know how humiliating that is for someone with my upbringing? i grew up in a house where the sun rose when i woke up. i am not emotionally equipped to be treated like… like fucking background noise!”
shoko sighed, but there was something gentler in it this time. “you felt replaced for a second. it happens.”
you clenched the edges of the sink, knuckles white, nails digging into porcelain. “i don’t get replaced.”
your voice broke on that line — just slightly, enough that shoko’s gaze softened — and you sniffed, anger and vulnerability tangling in your throat like poison.
“i don’t get replaced,” you repeated, quieter, like you were reminding the universe. “especially not by basil-enthusiast barbie.”
shoko handed you another tissue, her tone flat but honest. “you won’t be. nanami’s obsessed with you. it’s gross.”
you swallowed hard, eyes lifting to your reflection — furious, wounded, beautiful, trembling. you whispered, voice shaking but trying so hard not to break, “then why did it feel like i was… optional?”
the door creaked again, interrupting the moment before your throat could fully tighten around the confession, and a voice—annoyingly recognizable, obnoxiously casual—floated in:
“you’re not optional.”
you closed your eyes like god was testing you personally. shoko didn’t even react—meaning she expected this circus act.
gojo stepped in, sunglasses pushed up on his head like a headband, hair a mess like he styled it with electricity. he took in the scene—your glossy eyes, shoko leaning like a bored therapist, tissues everywhere—and he sighed dramatically.
“jesus, you’re really in here having a main-character mental breakdown in a bathroom,” he muttered, walking closer. “and not even a luxury bathroom. this is tragic. i expected better from you.”
you glared at him, voice already cracking with rage and humiliation. “fuck off, satoru.”
he didn’t. he reached out, plucked the tissue from your hand with surprising gentleness, and guided your chin upward with two fingers so you were forced to look at him. his movements were slow, almost annoyingly tender, as he dabbed beneath your lashes to catch the tears before they could fall.
“nanamin is disgustingly obsessed with you,” he said, tone matter-of-fact, almost bored. “like, clinically. it’s gross. if he could lock you in a little glass display case so no one breathed the same air as you, he would. he’s feral about you.”
you scoffed, voice trembling not from disbelief but from how badly you wanted to believe him. “this is my fucking fault,” you muttered, shoulders curling inward as you snatched the tissue back just to shred it between your fingers. “all my fucking fault.”
gojo hummed. “yeah. kinda.”
shoko’s head whipped toward him. “satoru—”
but you raised a hand sharply to stop her, because weirdly, you needed the honesty, even if it sliced. “no. he’s right. it’s my fault because i let myself get… bothered.” the word felt dirty, like weakness, like rust on a crown. “i shouldn’t be this… affected. i shouldn’t fucking care. i’m me. i don’t do insecure. i don’t do threatened. but here i am—crying in a fucking cinema bathroom like a side character in a netflix teen drama.”
you gestured around wildly, voice rising again, hysteria bubbling because once you started, you couldn’t stop. “and not even a nice bathroom! do you see the tiles? this place looks like it was decorated by a depressed cockroach. if i have to emotionally collapse in public it should at least be inside a hotel restroom with marble counters and a couch.”
gojo nodded seriously. “you deserve chandeliers with your breakdowns.”
“exactly!” you snapped, pointing at him like he was the only person with IQ in the room. “i am too expensive for this kind of emotional scenery.”
shoko leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you unravel like yarn. “you’re spiraling.”
you shot her a glare through the mirror. “i am aware. now shut up and let me spiral with dignity.”
you turned back to gojo, eyes burning. “and it’s your fault too.”
gojo blinked. “my fault? how did i enter the chat?”
you jabbed a finger into his chest with the force of an entitled squirrel on caffeine. “you brought that farm-fresh disney side character into our group. you let her tag along. you encouraged her. and now i’m crying over miss herbal-essence-reject because she dared to breathe within ten inches of my boyfriend.”
gojo’s lips twitched. “okay, fair, i’ll take partial responsibility for releasing the eco-friendly demon into our circle.”
shoko snorted.
you ran both hands through your hair, pacing a small circle, your heels tapping aggressively against the tiles, movements sharp, emotional energy radiating like static. “i am so embarrassed. do you understand? embarrassed. i do not feel. i make other people feel. i do not chase, i get chased. i do not compete, i get worshipped. and suddenly i’m… this.” you gestured to yourself like you were a cursed portrait. “this pathetic puddle of emotional goo because my boyfriend decided to talk about fucking plants with someone who isn’t me.”
gojo placed a hand on his chest, tone solemn. “plants are disrespectful like that.”
you nearly laughed—almost—before the ache returned, tightening your throat.
“i hate that i care,” you whispered, eyes dropping again, thumb rubbing at the tissue in your hand like you could scrub the feeling away. “i hate that she got under my skin. i hate that he let her. i hate that she saw me crack.” you swallowed, voice thinning with raw embarrassment. “she’s not even on my level. i shouldn’t feel anything. she should feel inferior, insecure, irrelevant — not me.”
and there it was again—your truth, ugly and spoiled, but honest.
gojo’s voice softened just slightly, just enough to cut through your tantrum. “you care because he matters. that’s not pathetic. it’s just… love. the messy, vomit-inducing kind.”
you clenched your jaw, lip trembling despite your effort to kill it. “i don’t want love to make me look stupid.”
shoko spoke this time, voice dry but real. “yeah, well… that’s kind of the default package. love fries brain cells.”
you stared at your reflection. eyeliner still sharp. mascara intact. lipstick only slightly smudged. you looked angry and beautiful and fragile and terrifying all at once. you exhaled shakily, like forcing out poisoned air, “if loving someone means i cry in a public bathroom that smells like buttered trauma, then i want a refund.”
gojo stared at you for a moment, the playful glint in his eyes dimming just enough to reveal something almost… human. sympathy, guilt, the faint wrinkle of someone realizing oh shit, i accidentally kicked a puppy while trying to pet it. he let out a breath, long and uncharacteristically genuine, his hand settling briefly on your shoulder—not heavy, not mocking, just there.
“okay,” he said quietly, “i’m sorry. i didn’t think bringing her would… you know, make you feel like this. i didn’t mean to dump emotional compost on your royal garden of delusion.”
you sniffed, wiping the corner of your eye with a new tissue as if dabbing at expensive wine spilled on silk. “as you should be sorry.” your voice was hoarse but sharp. “you’re lucky i’m emotionally unstable right now or i’d be charging you for emotional damages. and trust me, my invoices come with interest.”
a small laugh puffed out of him, but he nodded. “i know. you come first. always. dramatic loyalty oath or whatever.”
you flicked your wrist like a queen accepting tribute. “good. as you should choose me first. imagine picking her.” you scoffed like the idea itself was beneath language. “ew.”
gojo leaned back against the sink next to shoko, crossing his arms, shoulders slumping, expression turning thoughtful in a way that made him look borderline competent. “you know,” he said, head tilting, “if i did actually like her—like like her—I’d be spiraling, too. probably worse than you.”
you gestured at him with the damp tissue. “exactly. you are the blueprint of being a dramatic clingy bitch in this friend group. i learned from the best.”
shoko snorted, arms crossed as she leaned beside him. “he’s dramatic, not psychotic. your issue is… more advanced.”
you didn’t hesitate. you threw the crumpled tissue at her face with perfect aim.
“shut the fuck up, shoko, or I’ll flush your vape down the toilet.”
she caught it mid-air, dropped it in the trash, and exhaled like dealing with you aged her in dog years.
you turned back to gojo, brows furrowing as you wiped under your eye again carefully, preserving the wing of your eyeliner like it was a fragile national treasure. “seriously, though. how are you not losing your shit? miss herbal shampoo is out there flirting with nanami in 4k, and you’re just… breathing. like normal. aren’t you supposed to be performing a one-man telenovela by now? throwing yourself dramatically over the concession counter? faking a fainting spell? something?”
gojo shrugged, pushing his sunglasses further into his hair as he examined his nails like he was filing his feelings away. “i mean, i don’t really care-care. she’s cute, but not ‘cry-in-a-bathroom’ level. the crush wasn’t crushing, you know?”
you gawked at him, scandalized. “so you brought a girl you didn’t even like like into our sacred circle of dysfunction? you contaminated the ecosystem for a lukewarm crush? are you deranged?”
he lifted both hands, palms out. “in my defense, my standards are confusing even to me.”
you threw your hands up. “so you emotionally derailed me for absolutely no fucking reason except your brain short-circuited and thought ‘hey let’s invite the human embodiment of a compostable tea bag to movie night’?”
he opened his mouth. closed it. then nodded. “yeah that sounds about right.”
you gasped, pressing a hand to your chest like a heart-broken victorian widow. “i swear to god, satoru, if i ever commit a felony, you will be the reason.”
shoko muttered under her breath, “you’ll commit a felony no matter what.”
you shot her a look. “not the point.”
you turned to the mirror again, tilting your head to assess your reflection—puffy waterline, makeup still salvageable, lashes intact, lip gloss slightly faded but fixable. good. you could still walk out there and look untouchable. but the humiliation? still boiling.
your voice softened—not weak, but the kind of softness anger uses when it starts eating itself.
“i just… i hate that someone like her got under my skin,” you admitted, picking at your thumbnail, your reflection looking back at you like a stranger you didn’t consent to be. “i hate that i cracked over something so… beneath me. she’s not even competition. i shouldn’t have felt anything.” your throat bobbed, your pride bleeding slowly. “i’m supposed to be the storm. not the one caught in it.”
gojo bumped your shoulder lightly with his. a rare, gentle gesture. “storms still get tired.”
you stared at him through the mirror, eyes narrowing as if evaluating whether to accept the comfort or set him on fire.
“i don’t get tired,” you muttered.
he arched a brow. “you’re literally crying next to a hand dryer.”
you inhaled sharply, scanning your reflection once more, lifting your chin a millimeter higher, as if that alone could glue your dignity back into place.
“fine,” you said, swallowing pride like poison. “maybe i got… temporarily… inconvenienced by emotion.”
shoko snorted. “inconvenienced? you sprinted out of there like nanami announced he was marrying utahime on wednesday.”
you pointed at her again. “keep talking and i will bite your face.”
but your reflection didn’t lie: you were shaken, cracked, and scrambling to rebuild the throne inside your chest before anyone else saw the fracture.
you weren’t done spiraling—but you were done being seen falling apart.
and just as you braced your palms on the sink to steady yourself, the bathroom door opened again.
this time, footsteps were steady. familiar. slow.
nanami.
the sound of those footsteps—measured, unhurried, familiar in their quiet certainty—slithered under the bathroom door crack and hit your spine before the door even opened. nanami’s footsteps always sounded like intention, like calm inevitability, like consequences arriving dressed in beige and self-restraint.
the door pushed open with a soft click. gojo and shoko both straightened, not out of respect but because nanami Kento entering a bathroom while you were mid-breakdown was the emotional equivalent of a nuclear inspector walking into a live warzone.
nanami stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him, his eyes scanning the room until they found you. his posture was composed, hands in his pockets, shoulders squared yet soft, like he was approaching a frightened animal he didn’t want to spook. his gaze moved from your blotchy waterline to the tissue shreds on the counter, and something in his expression shifted—pain, regret, a flicker of guilt tightening the muscles of his jaw.
gojo cleared his throat, stepping slightly in front of you like a bodyguard wearing clown shoes. “hey, we’re having a very important emotional meltdown here—private screening, by invitation only.”
nanami didn’t look away from you. “step aside, gojo.”
gojo opened his mouth to argue—then saw the look in nanami’s eyes and decided he valued his life. he lifted both hands in surrender. “roger that. therapist daddy mode activated, we’ll leave.” shoko followed him out, but not before patting your shoulder like she was petting a traumatized cat.
the door shut again. silence fell, thick and suffocating as expensive velvet.
nanami took one step closer. you instinctively straightened, lifted your chin, wiped the corner of your eye with a sharp swipe like erasing evidence. your arms crossed over your chest, your body angling away from him—not quite running, not quite ready to forgive, suspended in the ugly in-between of pride and pain.
he spoke first, voice low, steady, the kind that softened even when saying hard things. “you walked out. can we talk?”
you scoffed, avoiding his gaze in the mirror, fixing an imaginary smudge on your eyeliner. “wow, you noticed. truly a christmas miracle.”
he exhaled slowly, stepping closer but leaving enough space so you didn’t feel cornered. “i noticed the second you stood up.”
“congratulations,” you muttered, tossing the ruined tissue into the trash with surgical precision. “a little late though, don’t you think? maybe if you had noticed i existed five minutes earlier, we wouldn’t be starring in this bathroom drama.”
he ran a hand through his hair—once, a small tell he was gathering patience. “i wasn’t ignoring you.”
you spun around to face him fully, arms still crossed, heart still bleeding but covered in barbed wire. “you dismissed me, nanami. in front of her. i asked you to include me and you basically told me to go play with crayons because my stupid little brain couldn’t understand your plant science shit.”
nanami’s brows knit, genuinely pained. “that’s not what i meant. i wasn’t belittling you. i thought you were frustrated already and—”
“oh, so now i’m fragile? delicate? mentally allergic to academia?” your laugh was dark, humorless. “please, enlighten me, professor horticulture—explain how telling your girlfriend ‘don’t stress your pretty head’ while turning your back to her isn’t dismissive. i’ll wait.”
he closed the distance by half a step, hands lifting but not touching you yet, as if waiting for permission you would never verbally give. “i was trying to keep the conversation light, not make you feel inferior.”
your throat tightened. you hated how badly you wanted to believe him. how much you wanted him to fix the bruise he caused.
you turned away again, pacing a small line near the sinks, heels clicking like punctuation to your rant.
“do you have any idea how humiliating that was?” your voice cracked before you forced it steady again. “i don’t do… this.” you gestured angrily to the bathroom, your face, your reflection—your vulnerability. “i don’t get affected. i don’t compete. i don’t chase attention. i am the attention.”
nanami’s voice softened. “you are.”
you ignored the way that hit you. “and suddenly i’m crying in a public bathroom that smells like expired mops because some random girl dared to speak to my boyfriend like she—” your breath wavered, “like she was entitled to his time.”
nanami’s shoulders softened, and he stepped closer again, slow, deliberate. “you are not optional. you are not second to anyone.”
you snapped your gaze to him, eyes burning. “then why did i feel like a placeholder? like a side character sitting there while you entertained fan mail from some herb-obsessed homewrecker apprentice?”
nanami pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling, then met your eyes again—direct, unwavering. “i should have put my attention on you. i should have noticed you were upset. i got caught up in answering her questions and didn’t see how it affected you. i’m sorry.”
his apology wasn’t defensive. wasn’t performative. wasn’t sugar-coated.
it made it worse.
because now you had no villain to fight but your own fear.
you scoffed to keep from letting it soften you. “sorry doesn’t un-humiliate me. sorry doesn’t make her forget she saw me beg for attention like some common mortal.”
“you didn’t beg,” he said firmly. “you asked. because it mattered to you.”
you bit back the ache behind your teeth. “well, it shouldn’t have. i shouldn’t care this much. tears over plants? is this what i’ve become? an emotionally unstable salad?”
nanami’s lips twitched—not mocking, but like he wanted to smile at the sheer absurdity of you. “you care because you love me.”
you rolled your eyes so fast you saw heaven. “don’t say it like that. it makes me sound weak.”
“loving someone isn’t weakness.”
you scoffed, pacing again, resorting to sarcasm like armor. “easy for you to say. you weren’t the one crying next to the tampon dispenser.”
nanami took another step, closing the gap, his voice low. “i love you. i am allowed to talk to others, but you are the one I choose. always.”
you swallowed, hating how your pulse reacted to hearing him say it plainly.
you lifted your chin, clinging to the last shard of drama left. “you better. because if i have to keep sharing your attention with some botanical disney princess, i swear i will uproot her entire bloodline, replant them, and watch them wilt.”
nanami nodded, dead serious. “noted. i’ll make it clear to her that we won’t be having more one-on-one conversations.”
you blinked. “…oh.”
your ego perked up like a spoiled cat being offered caviar again.
his hand finally reached for yours—slow, giving you time to pull away if you wanted—but you didn’t. he held your fingers carefully, like they were something precious he almost dropped once and refused to lose again.
“you come first,” he said quietly. “if i made you feel anything else, i’ll fix it.”
and for once, you had no witty comeback ready.
your pride hated how good that felt.
and yet—because you were you—you sniffed, wiped under your eye again, and muttered, “you better, because i refuse to cry in a 2-star bathroom twice in one day. my reputation can survive one mental breakdown per quarter at most.”
but here’s the universal truth mothers should stitch into baby blankets so no girl grows up delusional: men are fucking liars. even the good ones. even the morally-upright, self–righteous, tax-paying, cardigan-wearing, philosopher-souled species of man. the ones who read books without pictures, the ones who sort their recycling, the ones who speak gently to old people and cats.
yes—even nanami kento.
your precious boyfriend, the man who lectured you about honesty like it was a religion and he was the last pope standing—turned out to be a man with a mouth capable of lies. small ones, yes, but lies nonetheless. lies sprinkled in moral salt. lies marinated in good intentions. but lies.
because after all that cinematic bathroom telenovela meltdown, after all the comforting, the forehead kisses, the “i’ll fix it,” the “you come first”…
utahime was still there.
not only there.
everywhere.
the bitch multiplied like mold in humidity.
somehow, she burrowed into nanami’s horticulture club like a tick with a dream. and because the club wasn’t just weekly—it was meetings, garden maintenance, farmer’s market volunteering, seed exchange events, greenhouse cleanup, weekend plant fairs—she was suddenly permanently glued to his schedule like ivy choking a wall.
every time you turned a corner on campus—she was there. carrying a watering can. laughing too loudly. holding seedling trays like they were newborns.
every time you looked out the window during class—you saw her walking with nanami to the greenhouse.
every time you checked instagram—someone posted a story of the club and guess who was standing too close to him?
every time you waited outside his lecture—she walked out with him, talking, giggling (yes, giggling—like you didn’t threaten to bury her under a basil farm).
she joined the same library study group.
she sat two rows behind him in lectures she didn’t even take.
she suddenly found “reasons” to be in the cafeteria when he got lunch.
the girl was haunting your life like a stalker ghost with bangs.
and worse? nanami didn’t shut her down like he promised he would.
so you did what any self-respecting spoiled princess with injured pride and an inflated sense of self-worth would do:
you ignored him.
full commitment. full silent-treatment olympics. gold medal performance.
you didn’t text first.
you didn’t sit next to him in class.
you left his messages on read and sometimes—just to inflict psychological warfare—delivered.
you walked past him in hallways with your chin up like a widow attending the funeral of a husband who died in dishonor.
and the audacity of nanami?
the man noticed and chased.
today, he cornered you outside the library, hand gently curling around your wrist—not forceful, just enough to halt your dramatic strut. his voice soft, tired, laced with concern.
“you’ve been ignoring me.”
you turned slowly, sunglasses on despite being in the shade, chewing gum like violence, your posture dripping with aristocratic disdain. arms crossed, hip popped, chin lifted—your entire body language declared: try me, peasant.
you took a long, theatrical breath. “ignore you? no, darling, i simply redirected my attention. i’m sure utahime is thrilled to receive the overflow.”
nanami’s jaw flexed—a tell. “you know it isn’t like that.”
you barked a dry laugh, head tilting with enough sarcasm to slice a man. “really? because from where i stand, it looks exactly like that. she’s glued to your side like you’re the last functioning brain cell on this campus.”
his brows knit, his hand loosening slightly on your wrist so he wouldn’t hold you if you pulled away. “she keeps approaching me. i’m not entertaining anything inappropriate. i’m just being courteous.”
you ripped your hand out of his hold, stepping back like his touch burned. “courteous? you were supposed to make it clear—your words, not mine—that there would be no one-on-one interactions. ring a bell or do you need me to write it on your forehead with permanent marker?”
nanami sighed through his nose, the way he did when he was trying so hard to remain patient with your unfiltered psychopath era. “i didn’t want to embarrass her in front of the club. she’s new. she hasn’t done anything wrong.”
your head snapped back as if slapped by the stupidity of that sentence. “not done anything wrong? existing near you is wrong enough for me. breathing your air is a felony in my book.”
“you’re being unreasonable,” he murmured gently.
your spine straightened, chin lifting a millimeter higher, eyes narrowing into slits of diamond-cut rage. “don’t you dare call me unreasonable. i am extremely reasonable for a woman who hasn’t committed aggravated assault yet.”
he stepped closer, voice lower. “i understand you’re upset. but i’m doing my best to handle this without causing unnecessary conflict.”
you scoffed, folding your arms tighter across your chest. “newsflash, nanami: conflict is necessary. humiliation isn’t. and you let me look like a clown that day. so now? i’m protecting my dignity.”
his expression softened in that maddeningly stable nanami-way. “you’re not a clown.”
you shrugged, indifferent mask slipping back on. “maybe not. but i felt like one. and you didn’t stop it.”
a beat of silence.
the truth sat between you like a wounded animal.
nanami’s voice came quieter, careful, the way a man sounds when stepping on emotional landmines. “i should’ve set boundaries more firmly. i thought I could handle it politely, but I see now that it hurt you. I’m sorry.”
and god, he made it so hard to stay angry when he did that—when he offered accountability instead of excuses.
but you weren’t done bleeding yet.
you clicked your tongue, looking him up and down like he was a disappointing purchase you were considering returning. “sorry isn’t enough this time. fix it. or i swear i will start a rumor that you and your plants are in a polyamorous relationship.”
nanami blinked. “that… doesn’t even make sense.”
you smirked coldly, leaning closer, voice dropping to a whisper of rich, spoiled poison. “watch me make it make sense.”
and then, because pride demanded a dramatic exit, you turned on your heel and walked away—leaving the scent of expensive perfume, ego, and emotional carnage in your wake.
but here’s the cruelty in the universe that no one warns you about because it would make little girls grow up violent: men will swear on their grandmother’s grave that they won’t do something… and then go do that exact thing with clean conscience and a student-discount coffee in hand.
and nanami kento — your nanami, the man built from ethics and moral consistency, the man who looked like he’d file a police report if he saw someone cut in line — turned out to be a man, too.
a man capable of promising and then failing.
after the cinema meltdown, after the bathroom breakdown, after nanami held your hand and said the equivalent of you’re my priority, after he placed metaphorical rose petals on your ego and vowed to do better…
utahime didn’t disappear.
no, the bitch multiplied.
like she was photosynthesizing off your rage.
and the worst part? she wasn’t just present. she was strategic.
she was everywhere nanami was — like she subscribed to his personal movement calendar.
everywhere, meaning: when you went to meet nanami after class? utahime was there, “coincidentally” packing her bag slower than a glacier melts. when nanami had club duty in the greenhouse? she was already inside with gloves on, hair clipped back all “i’m such a hardworking little plant fairy” aesthetic.
library study sessions? somehow she “didn’t understand the homework” and asked nanami for help. she sat next to him — next — not across, not diagonally. group lunch with your friends? she slithered in like a side character trying to make herself relevant, tray in hand, pretending she “just happened to be here too.”
and your friends saw it. gojo saw it first (and enjoyed it like live theatre). geto sighed like a disappointed parent. shoko made nicotine-laced commentary. haibara tried to “give her a chance” until you threatened to drown him in fertilizer.
you did what any self-respecting, pride-soaked, ego-driven, spoiled girlfriend with an image to protect would do: you went full cold war.
if nanami wanted politeness, he could enjoy silence instead. you ignored him with the elegance of a duchess excommunicating a traitor. and nanami noticed immediately because you didn’t just ignore — you withdrew.
you didn’t sit next to him in class — you sat between gojo and your bag like a chastity belt.
you didn’t touch him — no hand on his arm, no kiss on the cheek, not even a hair tuck.
you didn’t text first — and when he texted, your responses were so short they were practically Morse code:
him: are you free after class?
you: busy.
him: can i call you?
you: no.
him: are you upset with me?
you: ask your club member.
you left his “goodnight”s on read.
you left his “are you okay?” on delivered because read would be too generous.
in the group, it was worse — because nanami tried public damage control, which was humiliating for you and painful for him.
like earlier today, all of you were at your usual table in the campus café. you arrived last, sunglasses on, iced latte in hand, a picture of uninterested royalty. nanami pulled out the chair beside him for you — your usual seat — and you walked right past it and sat between shoko and geto instead, crossing your legs like a throne had been rolled under you.
nanami’s hand hesitated mid-air before lowering. everyone saw.
a muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing — at first.
then, after ten minutes of group chatter, he tried to join your space.
he leaned slightly toward your side of the table, voice low enough for you but audible to others, “you’re quiet today.”
you didn’t look at him. you sipped your drink, adjusting your sunglasses, and responded with a tone dry enough to produce drought:
“maybe i’m photosynthesizing.”
gojo choked on his muffin. shoko coughed to hide a laugh. geto stared into his drink like it was a portal to escape reality.
nanami inhaled, patient but cracking. “can we talk later?”
you smiled — cold, polite, corporate-HR-email kind of smile. “why? so you can politely ignore me again in favor of plant girl? i’m busy later. very, extremely, unprecedentedly busy.”
“you’re upset,” nanami said softly — and god, he sounded like he was trying not to touch a wild animal, “and I understand why, but i told you, i’m not entertaining anything. she’s new and i’m trying to be decent.”
you turned your head just enough to look at him over the rim of your sunglasses — only the lower half of your gaze visible, dripping with contempt and luxury.
one brow lifted. “decent? don’t use words you clearly don’t understand. decent would’ve been keeping your promise.”
geto winced. haibara whispered “oh no.” gojo grabbed popcorn like entertainment had begun.
nanami kept his voice steady, though his fingers tapped once against his cup — a tiny crack in composure. “i didn’t break the promise. i haven’t spoken to her alone outside of club responsibilities, and when she—”
you cut him off with a laugh — sharp, cruel, aristocratic. the kind a queen gives when a peasant offers excuses.
“club responsibilities,” you repeated, mockingly. “what a sexy phrase. truly. i’m so thrilled you found a morally sound loophole in your vow. maybe next you’ll say ‘we only breathed air in the same vicinity for charity reasons.’”
his brows pulled together — he was trying, really trying. “you’re twisting my words.”
“no,” you said, leaning back with one arm draped over the back of your chair, looking him dead in the eyes, “i’m repeating them. just slower. so they sound as stupid as they actually are.”
nanami exhaled, steady but strained, and the worst part? he still validated you because he loved you like it was a discipline. “i understand why you’re hurt. you’re right to feel neglected. i should’ve enforced stronger boundaries.”
you shrugged, inspecting your nails like the conversation bored you. “words, words, words. if i wanted rehearsed accountability, i’d date a politician. i wanted results.”
nanami’s voice dipped lower. “i’m trying to fix it.”
you stared at him, expression blank, voice sugar-poisoned, “try harder.” and after that, you went back to ignoring him — because you weren’t done punishing him yet. your pride demanded interest.
nanami kento, for all his monk-like patience and buddhist-level self-control, was still a man with limits, and you—blessed, cursed, loved, unbearable you—had been kicking those limits like a toddler on a sugar high. he missed you. painfully. he missed the chaos, the clinginess disguised as entitlement, the way you demanded affection like it was your birthright, how you’d climb into his lap without asking because why the fuck would you ask, the iced coffee orders you shoved into his hand when he picked you up, the kisses you gave like they were currency and he was the only bank that accepted them.
he missed you so much it made him irritable, and nanami kento being irritable was a rare supernatural event—like the northern lights or a government official being honest.
so he did the only logical thing: he showed up at your stupidly large house.
the house you didn’t call a mansion because “mansion sounds tacky” but where the staff wore uniforms and the ceiling height legally required a parachute. the kind of house that had wings—plural—as in east wing, west wing, wife’s-attitude-control wing.
the workers knew him by now. the butler gave a respectful nod. one of the maids greeted him by name. none of them questioned the expensive, tall, blond man walking through the front door like he paid the mortgage. nanami climbed the spiraling staircase—custom marble, cold under his palms when he used the railing—and walked the long hallway to your room at the far end, because of course the princess needed isolation and acoustics for dramatic exits.
your door was ajar just enough for him to push gently, and he entered quietly.
there you were.
sitting in the center of your ridiculous, king-plus sized bed like a pissed-off deity. silk pajamas clinging to your shoulders, the color soft and expensive, the kind of fabric that looked like it refused to touch poor people. your hair damp from a recent shower, strands falling around your face, lashes dark against your cheeks, skin still warm from steam. you looked soft enough to hold and sharp enough to stab—your default state.
you looked up, saw him, and rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle you didn’t see your brain. you didn’t say a word. not “why are you here,” not “go away,” not even “fuck off.” nothing. the silence itself was an insult.
nanami closed the door behind him with a quiet click that echoed in the large room, and walked further in, footsteps slow, gaze steady on your face—even if your expression screamed i hope you step on lego barefoot for eternity. he took a moment to just look at you, as if memorizing your resentment was better than not seeing you at all.
you snapped, voice sharp and flat: “what.”
nanami hummed, that infuriatingly calm, deep hum of his. “can we talk?”
you scoffed, leaning back on your palms, chin tilting with aristocratic disgust. “i don’t talk to pieces of shit. and you’re a big one. like, family-sized. extra value pack.”
nanami blinked once, head tilting a fraction, absorbing the insult without flinching. “i’m a piece of shit?” he repeated, tone so soft it made the words sting more.
you crossed your arms tight over your chest, silk rustling. “yes. obviously. congratulations on finally joining the rest of your gender.”
instead of defending himself like most men would—loudly, stupidly—nanami did something worse.
he accepted it.
he quietly dragged one of your chairs—one of those stupidly soft velvet ones meant for “decorative reading” you never actually used—across the floor and set it directly in front of you. he sat down, knees spread slightly, forearms resting gently on his thighs, posture straight but not intimidating. it was the posture of a man prepared to listen, not fight. which made your chest tighten and your temper spike—because you wanted to be angry, not understood.
he met your eyes, unwavering, voice low, even, heartbreaking in its steadiness.
“then tell me why,” he said. “why am i a piece of shit?”
and just like that, the floor was yours—your stage, your arena, your battlefield. and nanami kento sat there, ready to let you stab him with every word.
you stared at him for a long moment, the kind of stare that wasn’t silent—no, it was loud, screaming, accusing, trembling at the edges with wounded pride you refused to show. your jaw tightened, your fingers curled into the silk pooling around your thighs, and when you finally spoke, your voice came out low, cracked with disbelief and venom.
“do you ever think,” you began slowly, eyes narrowing at him, “how fucking humiliating it was for me to sit there—your girlfriend—fighting for your attention against nobody but uta-fucking-hime?”
nanami didn’t flinch, but his throat bobbed.
you continued, leaning forward, one finger stabbing the air at him like you were pointing at a suspect in court, “she’s not even competition. she’s a filler character, a background extra with tragic bangs and soil under her nails. i shouldn’t have to compete with that. i shouldn’t have to try. but there i was, reduced to fighting for scraps like some desperate peasant dog waiting for the king to drop crumbs from the fucking banquet table.”
nanami opened his mouth, but you kept going, steamrolling him because if he spoke now, you’d crumble, and weakness was not on tonight’s agenda.
you huffed a humorless laugh, sitting upright again, crossing your arms tight across your chest, chin lifting with aristocratic disgust. “do you understand how degrading it felt? i don’t fight for attention. i’m used to being the center of gravity. people orbit me. planets shift because of me. i don’t beg. i don’t chase. i don’t sit there like some forgotten decorative pillow while you—” your voice sharpened, “—politely entertain some herb-collecting homewrecker apprentice.”
nanami inhaled, eyes soft but steady. “i never expected you to fight for my attention. i’m sorry you felt you had to.”
you scoffed, rolling your eyes and looking away because his softness was a knife to your ribs. “yeah, well, congratulations, you put me in that position. so yes, you’re a piece of shit.”
you extended a hand toward him like you were listing charges in court, each finger flicking upward with another bullet of rage.
“one: you dismissed me. like i was some stupid little decoration on your arm. like i was a shiny accessory you forgot to polish that day.”
nanami sat straighter, hands clasping gently between his knees, voice calm. “i didn’t intend to dismiss you. i thought—”
“wrong,” you cut him off, glare sharp, “your intentions don’t fucking matter if the result still makes me want to drown myself in fertilizer.”
nanami pressed his lips together, accepting the hit.
you held up a second finger.
“two: you told me you would set boundaries. you said you’d stop the little one-on-one herb therapy sessions with her. and guess what? she’s still glued to you like mold on bread. if this is your definition of ‘boundaries,’ i fear what chaos your freedom must look like.”
nanami exhaled a long, controlled breath. “i did limit our interactions. i haven’t spoken to her outside the club and—”
you barked a laugh that was almost a choke. “oh, outside the club—wow. such discipline. such restraint. truly, a saint among idiots. i’m so touched. should i nominate you for boyfriend of the year or just frame your bullshit and hang it in a museum?”
his brows pulled together, a muscle flexing in his jaw—but he stayed calm, infuriatingly so. “i’m telling you the truth. i’m not entertaining her.”
you leaned closer, voice dropping to a slow, lethal whisper. “you don’t have to entertain her for it to still feel like betrayal. the bare minimum for a boyfriend is to make sure his girlfriend never questions whether she comes first. and you didn’t do that. you left space. you left opportunity. you left room—and she ran into it like a stray dog finding an open door.”
that one hit. nanami looked down for a second, breath steadying, his hands loosening on his thighs as if unclenching invisible tension. “you’re right. i shouldn’t have left any room for doubt.”
and god, the way he agreed so easily made your anger burn hotter—not colder—because part of you needed him to fight back so you could keep throwing knives. his accountability cornered you into feeling instead of yelling, and you hated it.
your voice wavered very slightly, and you looked away quickly to hide it. “and three,” you whispered, throat tight, “you made me feel small. and i don’t get to feel small. ever.”
nanami’s head lifted, eyes on you instantly, body leaning forward just enough to reach you if you needed grounding. “you’re never small to me. not for a second.”
you swallowed, back stiffening, legs crossing and uncrossing because the vulnerability made your skin itch. “well, that’s what it felt like. and feelings are facts now because mine are expensive.”
nanami nodded once, accepting your twisted logic as truth because to you, it was. “then i’m sorry. for every part of this that made you feel less.”
you blinked hard, jaw clenching, because his calm acceptance was suffocating in the most disarming way.
you wanted to stay angry. you wanted to scream. you wanted him to beg. but he just sat there—quiet, steady, unshaken—offering himself as the place for your rage to land, not deflecting it.
and that—somehow—was worse.
so instead of softening, you scoffed again, looking away with a shaky breath, because god forbid he sees the crack forming.
“you should be sorry,” you muttered, voice smaller than you meant, “because if i ever have to feel that kind of humiliation again, i’m burning down the greenhouse with you both inside. i’m not joking, nanami. i will commit arson in the name of love.”
you weren’t done—oh no, your rage had chapters, footnotes, an appendix, and a director’s cut. and nanami sitting there so calmly, giving you space to unravel, only fed the fire.
you pushed off the mattress and sat up straighter, the silk of your pajama shirt sliding against your skin as you hugged your knees loosely to your chest, posture defensive but regal, like a dethroned princess still wearing the crown out of spite. your fingers dug into the soft duvet, knuckles whitening as the words clawed up your throat.
“and another thing,” you snapped, pointing at him again, your voice shaking—not with fear, but with insulted pride, “you made me look fucking stupid.”
nanami’s brows drew in, but he didn’t speak—he knew better than to interrupt when you were winding up.
“do you have any idea how that felt?” you continued, your tone rising in waves, “you made me sound like some brain-dead bimbo who couldn’t comprehend the basic concept of sunlight and leaves. like i’m incapable of understanding the most entry-level plant shit. me. you treated me like i’m stupid.”
nanami shook his head, voice quiet, “that wasn’t my intention.”
“but that’s what you did,” you shot back immediately, not letting softness leak in. “i asked what you two were talking about at the cinema—my boyfriend, talking to another girl—and you dismissed me. like i was some annoying toddler interrupting grown-ups having a cultured conversation. like i couldn’t hold a single fucking sentence about your club.”
your voice cracked, and you hated that it did.
your fingers curled tighter into the blanket, nails sinking into the velvet fabric.
“before,” you went on, quieter for a second, “when i asked about your club, when i tried to show interest in the nerd shit you like, you’d tell me things. short things, but still things. and i listened. i tried.”
nanami opened his mouth slightly, and you saw the apology forming, but you didn’t let it land—you surged forward, fueled by humiliation you hadn’t digested yet.
“but the moment uta-fucking-hime bats her dollar store lashes and asks you something?” your voice rose again, bitter, sarcastic, acidic, “suddenly you’re hosting a fucking TED Talk on soil acidity and root trauma. suddenly you’re plant Jesus delivering parables. suddenly you found the fucking words you never bothered using with me.”
nanami’s chest expanded with a slow inhale, his elbows resting lightly on his knees, fingers intertwined—not defensive, not reacting, just listening, which somehow made it worse.
you dragged a hand through your damp hair, pushing it back sharply, pacing a few steps in front of him like your body couldn’t contain the indignation.
“do you know how fucking humiliating that was?” your voice trembled as you paced, silk pajamas swaying with every sharp turn. “you didn’t just ignore me. you made me feel like i wasn’t smart enough to be included. like i didn’t belong in your world when i’m the one who’s supposed to be in it the most.”
nanami finally spoke, tone soft but steady, “i didn’t share more with her because she’s special. i did it because she asked specific questions, and i—”
you spun on him, eyes burning. “so when i ask, what? my questions aren’t specific enough? sorry for not speaking fluent Plant Nerdish. should i learn latin and photosynthesis formulas to earn basic politeness?”
he shook his head immediately, “that’s not what I—”
“because it sure as hell felt like it,” you spit out, arms crossing again, hugging yourself without wanting to look like you needed comfort. “felt like i wasn’t worth the same energy. like you didn’t think i’d care. like you assumed i’m too shallow to understand anything that isn’t shopping, lipstick, or chaos.”
nanami’s eyes softened further—the exact softness you avoid because it disarms you. “i never thought that of you. i know you can understand anything you want to. i just didn’t want to bore you or overwhelm you when you already seemed upset.”
you stared at him, chest rising and falling quickly, the fight still trembling inside you like a caged animal.
he continued gently, “with utahime… i wasn’t thinking about you in that moment the way i should have. i should’ve noticed how it made you feel and prioritized you instead. i’m sorry.”
and because your pride was a skyscraper—tall, expensive, reinforced with ego—you refused to let his sincerity dissolve your anger.
you scoffed, wiping under your eye with the back of your hand before the tear could fall. “you better be sorry. because if i ever have to watch you give some other girl a powerpoint presentation while i get the toddler-version explanation again, i’ll personally make sure your precious rosemary never sees sunlight again.”
nanami actually huffed a quiet breath—half a sigh, half a disbelieving laugh.
you leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing like a warning blade, voice low and lethal:
“try me, kento. i’ll turn your little greenhouse into a botanical graveyard.”
he stared at you gently, the smallest curve at the corner of his lips—not mocking, but full of something unbearably tender.
“i believe you,” he said.
and for a split second, the room pulsed with something that wasn’t anger—but you shoved it back into its cage before it could soften you.
you sat down on the very edge of the bed, like the mattress might swallow you whole if you dared to sit properly, silk pajamas pooling around your thighs, your spine stiff and your hands gripping the duvet so tightly the fabric bunched under your fingers. your legs were tense, knees angled inward, like you were holding yourself together through sheer ego alone. your chin trembled—not enough to expose you, just enough to betray the strain of holding everything in.
your eyes burned, lashes wet, vision blurring in that humiliating way that felt like defeat. you blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall because crying in front of him felt like handing over your crown—but your voice betrayed you, coming out raw, cracked, furious.
“do i have to learn fucking plants now?” you snapped, glaring at the floor because looking at him would break you. “is that it? i have to memorize soil pH and fucking photosynthesis just so you don’t have to talk to uta-fucking-hime?”
nanami inhaled, slow, steady, as if bracing himself to not crumble at the sight of you unraveling. “no,” he said gently, “you don’t—”
you cut him off with an unhinged laugh, bitter and broken at the edges. “because apparently that’s what it takes to get your attention these days. maybe i should start growing basil out of my ass too. will that help?”
nanami’s eyes widened a fraction—not at your vulgarity (he was used to that) but at the complete sincerity under the sarcasm. he took a slow breath, leaning slightly forward in the chair, hands clasping together, his voice careful. “you don’t need to learn any of that. i don’t want you to change. you don’t have to pretend to care about something just because I do.”
your head snapped up at that, eyes flashing, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. “aren’t i already pretending?” your voice wavered, then steadied through force. “i sat there, listening to you talk about leaves and soil and mint like it was the fucking cure to cancer, trying so goddamn hard to look interested, to support you—because it mattered to you, so i made myself care.”
nanami’s face softened, guilt pooling in the lines of his expression, but you continued before he could speak.
“and the one time—ONE TIME—I ask to be included, to be part of your little plant world, you shut me out like i’m some airheaded idiot you have to protect from botany knowledge.” your hand flew to your chest, pressing there like the pressure could keep your heart from cracking open. “what is that? what do you think i am?”
nanami’s voice dropped, quiet but urgent, “i didn’t shut you out because i think you’re stupid—”
“no?” you snapped, leaning forward, your anger trembling with hurt. “then why did you treat me like i’d break a nail if you explained what fucking soil is? why did she get the encyclopedia version while i got the kindergarten summary with sparkles and crayons?”
his brows pulled together, jaw tightening, but his voice stayed gentle—too gentle. “i thought I was making it easier for you. i didn’t want to overwhelm you with details when you were already upset.”
you scoffed again, wiping under your eye aggressively with the heel of your hand, smudging nothing because your skincare was too expensive to budge. “then you should’ve shut up, not dumb it down. i don’t need you to simplify the world for me like i’m some fragile porcelain doll who’ll shatter if exposed to big words.”
your throat tightened painfully, words spilling before pride could stop them.
“i’m not broken,” you whispered, then louder, sharper, “i’m NOT stupid.”
nanami’s face softened entirely, his voice warm and low and infuriatingly tender. “i know you’re not.”
your lips trembled, but you forced them still.
he tried to reach for your hand, slow and deliberate, giving you time to pull away—but you did, snatching your hand back to your lap, your body curling slightly inward, shoulders tightening, like you were trying to shrink away from the hurt without letting him see the wound.
“i don’t want to learn about plants,” you spat, voice thick with tears you refused to let fall. “i don’t want to join your stupid club. i don’t want to talk about soil or herbs or whatever the fuck rosemary trauma you deal with. i just…” your breath shook, “i just want you. and i shouldn’t have to study for the role of being your girlfriend.”
nanami’s eyes softened further—dangerously, heartbreakingly so—and he leaned forward just a little, elbows on his knees, voice steady in a way that threatened to unravel you completely.
“you already have me.”
you laughed—ugly, shaky, self-mocking. “do i? because it sure as hell didn’t feel like it when you were looking everywhere but at me.”
the tear finally escaped.
you swiped it away so fast it barely had time to fall.
he saw that tear—just one, microscopic, fast—but nanami was the kind of man who could feel an earthquake from a single tremor. his expression shifted, softened, his breath leaving him in something almost pained as he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped loosely like he was holding the weight of this carefully, terrified of crushing it.
“i’m sorry,” he said quietly, voice low, raw, without any of the neat composure he’d tried to maintain. “i hurt you. i shouldn’t have dismissed you, and i shouldn’t have allowed room for you to feel replaced or lesser. that was my failure.”
you scoffed instantly, curling further away from his sincerity like it burned. “oh, wow. an apology. revolutionary. should i clap? maybe roll out a red carpet? you want a medal for saying sorry like a big boy?”
nanami accepted the jab without flinching. “i’m not asking for praise. i’m telling you the truth—i’m sorry.”
“yeah, well,” you muttered, sniffing harshly as you dragged the sleeve of your silk pajama top across the corner of your eye before the next tear could betray you, “sorry doesn’t erase the fact that i looked like a fucking clown.”
nanami’s brows pinched at the word, but his voice stayed steady. “you didn’t look like a clown.”
you laughed—sharp, bitter. “don’t lie to me now. i humiliated myself for a man—you, unfortunately—and she watched. that’s worse than death. i should fake my own disappearance and move to monaco under a new name at this point.”
he shook his head, leaning closer on instinct, like his body couldn’t stand the space between you. “you reacted because you care about us. there’s nothing humiliating about caring.”
you snapped your gaze to him again, fury flaring through the heartbreak. “stop saying caring like it’s cute. it’s pathetic. i don’t do pathetic. i’ve never been pathetic. i don’t cry over boys. boys cry over me. that’s the natural order of the universe.”
nanami’s voice softened even more—a tone you hated because it saw right through you. “you’re not pathetic. you’re hurt. because I made you feel like you weren’t valued. that’s on me.”
you shook your head fiercely, hair falling forward, fingers tugging at the silk on your thigh like you needed something to anchor you. “you made me feel like some… irrelevant, dumb, useless accessory. and i know i’m spoiled and dramatic and ridiculous but—” your breath broke again, “but i shouldn’t have to beg to matter to the one person who’s supposed to love me most.”
nanami swallowed hard, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter, thicker. “you never have to beg for that. you never should have felt you did.”
you scoffed again, but weaker, because his sincerity was cracking your armor. “well, congratulations, you made me feel exactly that. you can add it to your achievement list: hurt your spoiled girlfriend enough to make her almost learn about basil.” you sniffed deeply, then glared at him like it was his fault oxygen existed. “do you know how low that is? i almost googled plants for idiots. that’s rock bottom.”
nanami blinked, then exhaled a breath that was almost—almost—an amused disbelief, but he restrained it because he knew laughing now was equivalent to suicide. “you don’t need to learn anything for me. i don’t want you to pretend interest for my sake.”
“but she asked,” you hissed, leaning forward, hands dropping to the mattress, gripping the edge as if the bed would levitate otherwise, “and you gave her the whole encyclopedia of plant shit like you were teaching a masterclass. meanwhile, when i ask, i get don’t stress your pretty head. do you hear how insulting that is?”
nanami closed his eyes briefly—guilt flickering across his features like a shadow—and when he opened them, he held your gaze firmly. “you’re right. that was condescending. i thought i was protecting you from stress, but i see now that it sounded like I was belittling you. that wasn’t my intention, but it doesn’t change how it made you feel.”
you stared at him, breath shaky, throat tight, and your voice dropped into something almost small—but still edged with venom because you refused to hand him the pure version of your pain.
“i don’t need protection from information. if i don’t understand, i’ll ask. i’m not fragile.”
nanami leaned forward more, hands loosening, as if fighting the urge to reach for you but respecting the invisible wall you kept between you. “i know you’re not. you’re strong, sharper than anyone I know. i should’ve respected that instead of trying to soften things for you.”
the compliment, the acknowledgment, the correction—it hit somewhere deep you didn’t want him to reach, so you snapped, defensive:
“you should have. because now? now i look like the stupid girlfriend who can’t keep up, while miss horticulture homewrecker gets the professor edition.”
“you’re not stupid,” nanami repeated, firm enough to anchor the air around you.
you looked away again, jaw clenching, your voice barely above a whisper: “but you made me feel like i was.”
he inhaled deeply, voice steady but pained. “then i failed you. and i’m sorry.”
this time, the apology didn’t feel like words— it felt like weight. and your pride, your last line of defense, forced your chin up, even as your voice cracked, “you should be. because if you ever make me feel like that again, i’m ending us both. emotionally, socially, and possibly legally.”
he apologized again—soft, steady, without flinching—and you opened your mouth, ready to snap back with one of your signature lines that would absolutely emotionally assassinate him and then ruin your life five seconds later, but he lifted a hand ever so slightly.
not commanding.
not silencing.
asking.
“can you… listen to me first?” he said, voice low, gentle, the kind that didn’t demand obedience but somehow earned it.
you hated that tone.
because for all your unhinged chaos, you weren’t heartless—you weren’t immune to the way nanami spoke when he genuinely needed you to hear him. his voice dipped lower, his posture leaned in—not towering, not intimidating, not challenging—just close enough to show sincerity, far enough to give you space to breathe.
you clenched your jaw, eyes narrowing, but you nodded once—sharp, reluctant—like you were granting an audience to a criminal on trial.
your body language screamed i’m listening against my will, but you stayed quiet, arms still folded, nails digging into your silk sleeves, your chin tilted up just a fraction as if to remind him you were still pissed, still wounded, still royalty on her throne of spite.
nanami exhaled, relieved you didn’t storm out or throw a pillow at his head.
his voice stayed calm, steady—because he was talking to a hurricane, not a person, and he knew it.
“i didn’t handle things correctly,” he began, his tone soft but anchored. his hands rested on his thighs, fingers relaxed now, not clasped tight like before. “i thought I was doing the considerate thing. you were upset that day, and I didn’t want to overwhelm you with details or make you feel out of your depth. i thought simplifying things would help. i see now it came across as dismissive and condescending.”
your lips twitched—because yes, that’s exactly what it was—but you held yourself back, biting your tongue, letting him continue because you agreed to listen and your pride wouldn’t let you break your own rule.
he kept going, breathing slow, every word careful:
“with utahime, I didn’t realize how it looked. she kept asking questions, and I answered because I thought I was being polite, not because I found her more deserving of my time.”
he swallowed once, eyes softening as they held yours. “but intention doesn’t erase impact. and the impact was that you felt second. that’s on me.”
the words hung in the room like incense—heavy, honest, impossible to ignore.
you shifted on the bed, uncrossing your arms just to cross them again tighter, because your heart tried to soften and your pride screamed no, not yet. your foot tapped once against the floor—restless, emotional energy leaking out in movement because sitting still with feelings was dangerous territory.
nanami continued, leaning in a little—not invading, just closer, grounding:
“you felt replaced. dismissed. stupid. and that’s the last thing I ever wanted you to feel. you’re the person I respect most. you’re the person whose attention I cherish, not hers. you matter to me more than anyone else does.”
your throat tightened. you looked away, staring at the edge of your vanity table, anywhere but at him, because if you looked directly at the warmth in his eyes you would break.
he let the silence settle a moment—not awkward, not rushed—just enough for his words to land, to breathe, to reach the place in you that still cared through all the rage.
“i should’ve shut the conversation down sooner,” he admitted quietly. “i thought staying polite would avoid unnecessary tension, but it cost you peace instead. and that isn’t worth it to me.”
your hands loosened just a little in your sleeves—barely—but enough for him to notice.
nanami breathed out, voice softer:
“I’ll fix it. properly this time. not just with words, but with action. I won’t let you feel sidelined again.”
you sat there in silence for a few seconds, your heart pounding against your ribs like a prisoner demanding release, your pride fencing every emotion like a guard dog on steroids.
and because you can never sit in vulnerability without throwing a knife to feel balanced, you finally muttered, voice low, biting, but thinner around the edges:
“if you start defending her, i swear to god i’ll shove your plants up your ass root-first.”
nanami blinked, then nodded, dead serious, as if you hadn’t just threatened him with horticultural assault. “i’m not defending her. i’m explaining myself to you, because you deserve that.”
your jaw clenched again, and though the rage was still there, the ice around it had begun—just barely—to crack.
you sighed, dramatic, exhausted, wiping at your lower lash line with your thumb like the tears were dust you could remove and pretend never existed.
“okay,” you muttered, still refusing to fully face him. “go on. i’m listening. finish the monologue before i change my mind and kick you out.”
and nanami—ever patient, ever steady—continued. and the more he spoke, the harder it became to keep your armor intact. his voice wasn’t trembling or begging, he wasn’t groveling or panicking — no, that would’ve been easier to reject. instead, he spoke in that devastatingly calm, steady, nanami way, the way that slipped past your defenses because he wasn’t trying to win, he was trying to understand you.
“you don’t deserve to share space with doubt,” he said, tone low, warm, maddeningly sincere. “you don’t deserve to question your place in my life. you are the person i choose, every day, in every room. i should’ve made that impossible to doubt — especially for you.”
you swallowed, your throat clicking, jaw locked so tightly that your teeth ached. you looked everywhere but at him: the chandelier reflection in your mirror, your perfume bottles arranged like a shrine to your vanity, your silk pillowcases, the edge of your nail on your thumb — anything that wasn’t his eyes because you knew one direct second of eye contact would flatten you.
nanami didn’t move closer, didn’t reach out, didn’t try to touch you before you allowed it — and that alone made your chest twist painfully. he knew pressure would make you bolt, so he simply sat there, giving you space to break at your own pace.
“i love you,” he continued, voice smoothing out like velvet pulled taut, “and i don’t expect you to hide your feelings or pretend you’re unaffected. you feel deeply — loudly — and it’s overwhelming sometimes, yes, but it’s also one of the things i adore most about you. you love in color. in flame. in extremes. i would never want to dim that.”
your lip trembled — actually trembled — and you pressed your teeth into it to physically punish the weakness.
nanami’s voice gentled even more, if that was somehow possible. “i will make sure you never feel like a second option again. i will be clearer. firmer. i will not leave room for anyone to assume my attention is available. i’m yours. you don’t need to fight for that.”
you breathed out — a fragile, uneven sound that almost wasn’t a breath at all. something in your ribcage shifted.
your shoulders sank an inch.
your fists loosened.
your vision clouded.
you hated it.
you hated how easily he could peel your rage back and expose the soft, shaking thing beneath. hated how his calm didn’t belittle your chaos — it held it. hated how he didn’t match your fire with ice or irritation, but with something worse: understanding.
you blinked, and a second tear slipped — traitorous, slow, warm against your skin. you swiped it away angrily, like it offended you. “fuck you,” you muttered — not hateful, not sharp — just broken. “fuck you for talking like that. i can’t stay mad when you talk like that.”
nanami’s gaze softened so achingly you had to glance away again. “i don’t want you to stay mad. i just want you to feel safe with me.”
your breath hitched — actually hitched — and suddenly the space between you felt unbearable. the absence of his touch felt like a scream against your skin.
you slid forward on the bed — once, hesitantly, like pride was clinging to your ankles — then again, knees brushing his, breath shaky, silk whispering across your thighs. nanami didn’t move, didn’t reach first, didn’t break the fragile consent of your approach — he waited, letting you choose him.
you moved that final inch — your knees between his legs, your hands trembling as they reached for his shoulders — and then you climbed into his lap, settling with your legs curled around him, your forehead pressing into the warm column of his neck like you were hiding in him, not hugging him.
the moment you made contact, nanami’s arms came up — slow, careful, then firm — wrapping around your waist with the kind of hold that said i’m not letting you go unless you ask me to. one hand cradled the back of your head, fingers sinking into your damp hair, the other anchored at your spine, steady, grounding, warm.
the first sob was silent — a sharp inhale into his shirt, your nails clutching at his shoulders like you were falling and he was the only surface left on earth. the second made a sound, a small broken one, like a wineglass cracking.
nanami tightened his arms around you, one thumb stroking the back of your head, his lips brushing your temple, voice low against your skin. “i’ve got you. i’m here.”
you hated how safe it felt — hated how quickly you melted — hated that after all your swearing and threatening arson and botanically themed murder monologues… you were crying in his lap anyway.
you sniffed against his neck, voice muffled, angry even through tears: “you’re still a piece of shit.”
nanami nodded into your hair. “i know.”
you curled tighter into him, your pride bleeding into his shirt, your voice cracking, “but you’re my piece of shit.”
his hand stroked your back, slow, intentional — the kind of touch that rebuilt things quietly. “always.”
and just like that, the storm inside you finally collapsed — not because he forced it to, but because he sat in it with you until you could breathe again.
it took a while—long enough for your breathing to steady, long enough for your fists to unclench in the fabric of his shirt, long enough for the heat behind your eyes to settle into a dull throb instead of a storm. you stayed in his lap even after the crying slowed, face tucked into the warm crook of his neck, your weight fully resting on him now like your body had finally surrendered to the truth that you felt safest with the same man you threatened to bury alive with his plants.
his palm stroked your back in slow, absent circles, the kind that weren’t meant to hush you but to anchor you. it was disgusting how much it worked.
after a long stretch of quiet—your kind of quiet, the heavy kind where pride is still limping around the room—you exhaled against his skin, voice rough, reluctant, and grudgingly soft.
“…i shouldn’t have… lost my shit like that.”
nanami didn’t speak, just hummed, a subtle vibration against your cheek that meant i’m listening.
you shifted slightly on his lap so you could look at him, but you didn’t move far—you stayed close enough to breathe the same air, your fingers still curled lightly over his shoulder, your forehead almost touching his. your voice stayed low, as if it would break if you raised it.
“i was fucking mean,” you muttered, eyes darting away because eye contact made honesty more painful, “i insulted your hobby like it’s stupid and i know it’s not stupid. it makes you happy. it gives you peace or whatever. and i shit all over it like a bitch having a tantrum.”
nanami cupped your jaw with one hand—not forcing you to look at him, just holding you gently, thumb brushing your cheek with steady warmth. “you were hurt. you reacted from that place. i don’t take it personally.”
you rolled your eyes with a watery scoff, wiping your face with the sleeve of your silk top, smearing your expensive moisturizer but not caring for once. “you should take it personally. i called you soil jesus. who even says that? what the fuck is wrong with me?”
the corner of his mouth twitched—the ghost of a smile—but he kept it small, respectful of your fragile dignity. “you’re passionate. and dramatic. it’s part of who you are.”
you glared half-heartedly. “that’s a diplomatic way to say i’m a fucking menace.”
“you are,” he agreed evenly, brushing a strand of hair away from your face and tucking it behind your ear with maddening tenderness. “but you’re my menace.”
you inhaled sharply, offended at how easily that softened you again. “stop saying things like that. it makes it hard to stay mad and i deserve to be mad for at least another six business days.”
nanami leaned in just enough that his forehead almost touched yours, his voice dipping lower, sincere in a way that stripped you bare. “you don’t need to punish yourself for feeling jealous. or threatened. you’re human.”
you clicked your tongue. “i don’t want to be human. i want to be a god. untouchable.”
nanami’s thumb stroked your cheek again, slow, grounding, annoyingly gentle. “i don’t want an untouchable goddess. i want you. spoiled, dramatic, sharp-tongued, mean when you’re hurt, soft when you think no one is watching—you.”
your chest tightened again, but this time it wasn’t painful, it was warm and terrifying.
you sniffed once, shifting again in his lap to hide the growing softness in your features. “i’m still sorry for being… like that. insulting your club. your plants didn’t deserve that verbal abuse.”
“no,” nanami said calmly, “they didn’t.”
you glared, offended that he agreed so easily. “you’re supposed to say ‘no, baby, you were totally valid in threatening my rosemary.’”
nanami’s lips curved slightly. “you weren’t valid in threatening my rosemary.”
“fuck you,” you muttered, but it had no heat. “i’ll poison your basil first.”
he nodded, indulgent. “i know.”
you sighed—heavy, dramatic, collapsing your full weight against his chest like the universe exhausted you. your fingers fisted lightly in his shirt for stability as you mumbled into his collarbone, voice muffled:
“i am such a bitch sometimes.”
nanami’s hand slid up your back, resting at the nape of your neck, his thumb rubbing small, rhythmic circles there that made your muscles melt one by one. “yes,” he said softly, honestly. “you can be… very mean.”
you jerked back just enough to glare at him, eyes still glossy, mouth open in disbelief. “you’re supposed to disagree, you emotionally constipated goldfish!”
nanami held your glare without flinching. “you asked me to listen and be honest.”
you blinked at him, then let out a short, incredulous laugh. “…i hate that you’re right.”
“i know,” he repeated, with infuriating calm.
you stared at him a second longer, lips parted, then shook your head slowly, your voice lowering into something almost vulnerable, almost small.
“and you still want me? like this? spoiled, mean, psychotic gremlin behavior and all?”
nanami didn’t hesitate. not even a breath.
“i like my girl spoiled and mean,” he said, voice warm and sure, eyes steady on yours. “i love you exactly as you are.”
something inside you cracked again—but this time it didn’t shatter into sharp pieces.
it softened. melted.
you swallowed, heat burning behind your eyes again, but you didn’t fight it this time as you leaned forward and rested your forehead against his, your voice breaking in a whisper, “you’re still a piece of shit.” nanami smiled—small, real, adoring—and whispered back, “i know.”
you end up horizontal without even remembering the transition — one moment you were sitting on his lap falling apart like a wet cupcake in the sun, the next nanami was lying beside you on your absurdly large bed, both of you under the soft weight of your overpriced duvet. the room was dim now, only the soft bedside lamp on, throwing a warm gold across his cheekbone and making him look disgustingly gentle, the kind of gentle that made your chest ache in that embarrassing, sentimental way you would sooner die than admit in daylight.
you were curled against him, your head on his chest, your leg thrown over his like you owned every square inch of him (you did), and his hand was in your hair — fingers combing through the damp strands slowly, over and over, like he was memorizing the texture of you. his other arm was wrapped around your waist, palm splayed over your back, thumb tracing slow circles beneath the silk that made your skin warm.
your voice came out small, muffled against his shirt, “are you staying tonight?”
you hated how you sounded — soft, almost shy, like a child asking if the thunder would stop — but nanami didn’t tease, didn’t smirk, didn’t make you regret vulnerability. he tightened his arm around you, his nose brushing your hair as he answered, voice low enough to settle into your bones,
“yes. i’m not going anywhere.”
you exhaled, long and slow, your fingers fisting lightly in the fabric at his chest, not in anger this time but in that instinctive don’t leave yet way that made your throat squeeze. “good. because if you left after all that emotional nonsense i’d actually pull a juliet and poison myself.”
he huffed a laugh against your forehead — quiet, warm, fond — and pressed a soft kiss there, his lips lingering like he was sealing the promise into your skin. “please don’t poison yourself. it would ruin the sheets.”
you swatted his chest weakly, raising your head to glare at him with no heat left in your body. “i hate you.”
he tipped his head slightly, eyes half-lidded, soft in the lamplight as his thumb brushed your cheekbone. “you love me.”
your lips twitched. “tragically.”
he smiled — a real one, warm and a little tired from the emotional hurricane you put him through — and he pulled you closer, tucking you just under his chin so he could speak against your hair. “i love you more than i know how to say. more than anything.”
his fingers traced lazy patterns along your back, not stopping for even a moment, like he needed the contact as much as you did. you let yourself melt into him fully now, all the claws retracted, all the sharpness dimmed. it was embarrassing how good it felt to be held like this — safe, wanted, adored — and you hated how much your body relaxed because of him.
“i missed you,” you murmured into the fabric of his shirt, and this time your voice didn’t come out defensive or dramatic — just honest, soft in a way only nanami ever got to hear. “i was so pissed at you and i still missed you the whole time.”
he angled his head down, his lips brushing your temple again, then your hairline, then the corner of your forehead — as if he was following a map of where to place comfort. “i missed you too. more than i expected. i didn’t like the distance. not from you.”
you shifted up just enough so that your face hovered near his, your nose brushing his jaw, your fingers moving to lightly trace the line of his throat — slow, absent, intimate. “you better never do that again,” you whispered, soft threat with no teeth left behind it. “i can’t handle missing you and being mad at you at the same time. it’s emotionally exhausting. i could’ve died.”
nanami smiled into your hair, one hand sliding down from your back to your hip, resting there with a protective weight that made your heart turn into warm pudding. “i won’t. i’ll do better. i promise.”
you sniffed, leaning up to press a tiny, barely-there kiss at the corner of his jaw — feather light, like your lips were shy now that they weren’t arguing. “good. because you’re mine. and i’m yours. and i don’t share.”
his grip tightened at your hip, gentle but firm, like the words hit him somewhere deep. “i know. and i don’t want you to.”
you hummed, content now, your body molded against him like you were crafted to fit there. his hand drifted up again, sliding into your hair, fingers massaging your scalp slowly, like he wasn’t even thinking about it — just needed to touch you in some way, any way, constantly.
“you’re very clingy,” you whispered, eyes growing heavy.
he kissed the top of your head again — slow, deliberate, warm.
“only with you.”
you smiled — soft, sleepy, safe — and buried your face in his chest again, breathing him in like warmth, like home. for once, you didn’t feel like you had to perform, or prove, or defend, or win. you just existed in his arms, and he held you like that was enough.
it turned out nanami wasn’t just a man who talked pretty—he actually followed through, which was infinitely more dangerous for your heart because now you couldn’t even stay mad at him for fun. the very next day, when you showed up at the greenhouse after class — not because you suddenly cared about plants, but because you needed to see his promise in action — he proved himself in 4k HD.
you arrived looking like sin among seedlings: hair perfect, lip gloss expensive, outfit curated to silently declare “i own the man in charge here”. the greenhouse smelled like damp soil and mint and academic overachievement. nanami was inside, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing while watering something green you didn’t know the name of but decided to internally call “future pesto.”
he noticed you instantly — his entire posture softened, jaw unclenching like you were oxygen. he put the watering can down and walked straight to you, one hand sliding around your waist with a confidence that made your pride purr. he pressed a brief kiss to your temple in greeting, low enough for only you to hear when he murmured, “hi, sweetheart.”
and then—she appeared.
utahime and her tragic bangs, holding a notebook like she was auditioning for a role in “botany for people with no charisma.” she approached, clearing her throat, and launched into yet another question, voice way too chipper for a woman who should’ve learned fear by now.
“nanami, can you explain again why the rosemary is wilting even though i watered it twice? i think i’m still doing something wrong—”
nanami didn’t even let her finish.
he turned slightly, keeping you tucked to his side, his hand on your waist tightening possessively — polite, but unmistakably boundary-marking — and said in a level, courteous tone that somehow carried a scalpel:
“i’ve explained that twice already. i’m spending time with my girlfriend now — you can ask one of the senior members for help.”
the silence that followed was delicious, like a gourmet dessert made of karma.
utahime blinked, startled, clearly not expecting the polite brick wall. “oh, i— right. sorry, i didn’t mean to—”
you smiled sweetly, leaning your head onto nanami’s shoulder, nails tracing along his forearm as you added, voice dripping with honeyed poison:
“maybe try listening next time. watering every time you feel emotional isn’t how plants work, babe.”
utahime stiffened. nanami squeezed your waist — warning, but gentle — though you could feel him trying not to laugh. she retreated toward some other helpless club member, and nanami turned his face into your hair for a second, exhaling like he was holding back amusement.
“be nice,” he murmured.
you scoffed, pulling back to look at him. “i was educationally constructive. i’m contributing to the learning environment.”
he kissed your cheek. “you’re impossible.”
you smirked, looping your arms around his neck. “and you like it.”
later that week, the friend group witnessed Proof #2: nanami’s boundary olympics.
you were all at your usual table — coffee, snacks, gossip, geto reading something philosophical he didn’t understand. you sat on nanami’s lap, his arm around your waist like a permanent seatbelt, your legs draped over his like you owned the throne and the king.
utahime walked into the café — of course — and spotted you all. either god hated you or you were starring in a sitcom. she approached, smiling like she wasn’t the antagonist in your personal novella.
“oh! i didn’t know you guys were here. do you mind if i join?”
already pulling a chair. already delusional.
before you could unsheathe your verbal knives, nanami beat you to it — politely, gently, firmly.
“we’re having quality time with our friend group right now,” he said, voice almost warm but with an iron spine. “maybe another time.”
shoko, sipping her iced coffee, didn’t miss a beat. “yeah, we’re trauma-bonding. it’s exclusive.”
gojo grinned with all teeth, draping himself over the back of his chair. “also we’re at maximum capacity for straight-laced energy. one more person with no sense of humor and we’ll combust.”
geto added thoughtfully, “we reached our quota of new people three years ago.”
haibara waved apologetically, “maybe next time! like… next century.”
utahime froze, blinked, and did the walk of shame back to the counter.
you leaned in, whispering into nanami’s ear with prideful satisfaction, “i could kiss you right now.”
nanami didn’t hesitate — he turned and kissed you softly in front of everyone.
gojo gagged loudly. “okay but i didn’t mean in front of me, have some respect for my single trauma.”
you flipped him off without looking.
and the thing is — nanami didn’t just do it once for show.
he kept doing it.
day after day, little actions stacking like bricks rebuilding trust. when utahime approached him during club, he redirected her to literally anyone else. he kept you close — hand at your back, fingers intertwined, lips brushing your hair, gentle touches that said mine without needing to say it
he included you deliberately in plant conversations, explaining things properly — not simplified, not dismissive. he sent you photos of his plants with captions like “this is thriving. like us.”. when people asked about his schedule, he said, “i’m with my girlfriend,” like it was a valid unbreakable appointment (it was). he texted you good morning and goodnight like rituals of devotion. he left club early to walk you to class, iced coffee in hand, your order memorized down to ice quantity and foam thickness
and slowly — painfully, annoyingly, wonderfully — your anger had nothing left to feed on. nanami didn’t leave space for doubt anymore. he made it obvious — to you, to your friends, to utahime, to the plants, to the universe — that you were his priority.
one evening, as you curled into his side again, your voice barely above a whisper, you muttered, “…you’re still a piece of shit.”
nanami kissed your forehead, fingers tracing your spine.
“i know,” he murmured, “but i’m yours.”
and this time, you didn’t argue.
“My lord.”
Sukuna hated how sharp your tone got whenever you were upset with him. It was obvious too and you were the only one in the estate who could be as petty. he clears his throat before speaking, his gaze avoiding yours, “Wife.”
The first time the two of you crossed paths in two days and you looked at him as if you wanted nothing to do with him. The maids couldn’t even cut a grape with how tense the air was. Him avoiding your eyes only made you click your tongue and bow.
Moving to walk past him, he turns around just as quickly, frantically grabbing your wrist, “WAIT!”
Eyes widened, breaths were caught, and you were annoyed.
clearing his throat once more, he lowers his voice immediately, “wait. please.”
now you’re sitting in his chambers, on his large bed, your hands rested in your lap gracefully. your gaze sharp enough to make the room feel smaller, he stands before you nervously looking everywhere but at you.
“I’m sorry.” he lets out quietly, opening his mouth to continue, “I shouldn’t have shouted at you like that. when you clearly worried.”
he glances at you in between words, feeling like a puddle under the weight of your gaze, sweat beads at the corner of his temples, worried you would dismiss him, he continues. “I was frustrated and took it out on you.”
He looks up from your feet, a falter of your expression no where to be seen, he kneels in front of you, gently taking the back of your hands into his palms, “I may not deserve your forgiveness,”
his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your wrists, “But I would love it if you found it in your heart to forgive a fool like me once more.”
he dips his head into the palms of the hands smaller than his, his eyes closed, eyelashes kissing the middle of your hands as he pressed himself there, awaiting for your forgiveness.
a small huff leaves you, followed by a defeated sigh. your fingers curl into his face, cupping gently. you lift up his chin, his ruby red eyes meeting yours as they looked at you with such longing.
you find yourself leaning down to press a soft kiss to the corner of his eye, a small sign of your grace.
The corners of his mouth couldn’t help but tug at the feeling, leaning into the palm of your hand while he melts into your touch.
a/n: ok wrote this on a whim i miss him sm.
as soon as satoru comes home, you can tell that something’s troubling him.
he greets the three of you quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and telling you to start dinner without him.
when he turns away, you quickly catch his hand. “you haven’t eaten since lunch. just have a little—”
“i’m not hungry,” he excuses quickly, offering you a weak smile. “i’m just going to lie down for a bit.”
he gently pulls his hand from your grasp, heading toward the bedroom without another word.
“something’s wrong with him,” tsumiki murmurs, picking up her chopsticks as you and megumi watch him go.
“he’s just tired,” you assure her. “he’ll be okay.”
you hope they don’t notice the worry behind your easy expression. you know that satoru is strong and that he’s powerful beyond measure, but strength means nothing when you give someone a piece of your heart. the worry just never goes away.
he doesn’t get out of bed for the rest of the evening, and you don’t make him. after dinner’s been cleaned up and the kids are winding down for bed, you tiptoe into the bedroom to check on him.
the lights are off and the curtain is drawn, with satoru’s uniform dropped carelessly onto the floor. you quietly shut the door behind you, and once your eyes adjust to the dark, you see him laying in bed, staring up at the ceiling.
“hey,” you whisper, laying next to him. you scoot closer, pressing a kiss to his shoulder and gently slotting yourself against him. “what’s going on?”
his answer comes quietly, so soft you almost miss it. “some stuff came up when i was talking to yaga today. about…suguru.”
you want him to say more, to elaborate, but the far away look in his eyes tells you that now’s not the time. it also tells you that there’s nothing you can say, because words don’t mean much when you miss someone.
so the two of you lay in silence. a comfortable one, where the need to talk just to fill space isn’t necessary when you’re close to someone.
“i was supposed to take tsumiki out to buy a gift for her friend,” he sighs lolling his head to the side to look at you. “but i…i just need a day.”
“it’s okay,” you nod, tracing mindless patterns across his chest. “i’ll take her.”
“thank you,” he murmurs, taking your hand and placing a kiss on each of your knuckles.
“don’t thank me yet,” you say, tapping the tip of his nose. “because that means you’re staying home with a moody preteen.”
_____
“mom says i’m not supposed to bother you.”
satoru peels one eye open to see megumi leaning over him, a blank look on the kid’s face.
“so what’s wrong with you?”
“nothing,” he grunts, sliding his sunglasses over his eyes to resume his wallowing. “go do your homework or something.”
megumi, naturally, doesn’t listen. instead, he grabs satoru’s ankles, shoving them off the couch so he can sit.
“hey!” he protests, sitting up. “what gives?”
“tsumiki says it’s good to talk about things,” he says matter-of-factly.
satoru shakes his head, blowing out a harsh breath. “not now, alright? i don’t want to talk about it.”
megumi looks over at him with an inquisitive expression, tapping his fingertips against the arm of the couch before tentatively saying,
“mom said you lost someone.”
sometimes he forgets that you and megumi talk.
“kind of,” he answers vaguely.
“did your friend die?”
sometimes he thinks suguru might as well have. “no, he didn’t. he left and…i guess he just doesn’t want to be found.”
megumi leans back into the couch with a sigh. “my dad is like that. he left a long time ago, and i guess he doesn’t want to be found either.”
there’s a lump in satoru’s throat, guilt weighing heavy on his shoulders. he can’t have this conversation. not now, not without tsumiki, and especially not without you.
he clears his throat, leaning forward to ruffle the kid’s hair. “well, i’m here.”
megumi swats at his hand, wrinkling his nose as he tries to fix the mess on his head. “yeah, i know.”
then, in a move that seems to take both of them by surprise, megumi closes the distance between them and wraps him in a hug.
satoru definitely does not tear up.
late phone call
(A bit old 🙈)
18+ big beefy older bf!toji loves making u squirt
toji’s thick arms were always the safest place in the whole world, especially on nights like this when the rain pattered soft against the windows and your little apartment smelled like the takeout he’d brought home just for you.
except now the food was long gone and his thick, calloused fingers were knuckle-deep in your fluttering cunt, carving you open with that lazy, practiced curl that always made your toes curl up in your socks.
you’d already cum three times for him— once on his tongue, twice on those beefy digits—but the he wasn’t done playing with his favorite toy. not even close. his free hand pinned your squirmy hips down to the sheets, soaked mostly with sweat, keeping you right where he wanted you while his thumb circled your swollen clit like he owned it.
which, as far as he was concerned, he did.
“open your eyes, baby,” he rumbled low, voice all gravel and smoke, lips curled in that smug smirk that made your tummy flutter as he leaned down to kiss sloppily all around your heat. “made ya cum three times already and you’re still clenching around my fingers like you need more. pretty girl wants it real bad tonight, huh?”
you whimpered, all soft and broken, thighs twitching helplessly around his thick wrist. your thin nightgown was bunched up around your waist, tits spilling out the top where he tugged the straps down, nipples pebbled and shiny from where he’d sucked them raw earlier.
his frame loomed over you when he sat up—broad shoulders flexing and muscles rippling and glistening with a light sheen of sweat, that black hair falling messy over his sharp green eyes.
“p-please, toji,” you hiccuped, voice all high and shaky, hips trying to chase the pressure building deeeep in your belly.
your puffy lips glistened, slick dripping down to your ass and puddling beneath you, but he just kept pumping, scissoring, rubbing that spongy spot inside you over and over until your eyes rolled back.
“i— ‘s too much i-i can’t—”
“shhh, easy, dollface,” he cooed, deceptively sweet, but his fingers never slowed.
he leaned down, hot breath fanning over your clit as he spat right onto it, rubbing it in with his thumb. “you’re gonna gush for me like a good girl, yeah? uh huh, just like we’ve been practicing all this time. make a mess of these sheets so i can lick it up after.”
your back arched clean off the bed when he added a third finger, stretching you until you cried out again. the wet, obscene squelch of your messy hole filled the room, syncing with the creak of the bedframe under his weight as he shifted to sit back on his heels.
his free hand slid up your tummy, pressing down firmly right below your belly button, and oh god— that pressure, squeezing the orgasm right out of you.
“a-ah, it’s.. ’m gonna—” your voice cracked into a squeak, that deep, bladder-tight ache making it difficult to stay still. your thighs spasmed, little tremors racing up your spine and making you jolt.
“that’s it, babygirl. let it happen. squirt for this old man like the pretty little fountain you are,” he bit back a groan, fingers curling harder, faster, thumb flicking your clit in tight, mean circles, eyes locked onto where his hand was working eagerly.
“c’mon, baby, soak me. i know you can, just give it to me.”
you tried to hold it, wanting to prolong the feeling of being on the edge, but toji knew your body better than you did. he pressed down on your tummy again, leaned in to suck your clit between his lips with a wet pop, teeth grazing, and that was all it took.
your whole body seized up, vision whiting out as the orgasm ripped out of you.
you squirted hard, hot, clear liquid gushing out around his fingers in pulsing spurts. it sprayed across his forearm and jaw as he pulled his face away to watch, soaked the sheets in a big shiny puddle, somehow even splashed up onto his scarred chest.
the sound was so lewd, wet and messy, your pussy fluttering and gushing endlessly like it was trying to push his hand out and pull it back in all at once.
“fuuuuck yeah, there she is,” toji groaned, not stopping, just slowing his fingers to milk every last drop from you.
“look at my messy baby makin’ such a big, pretty puddle. good girl, such a good fuckin’ girl—keep squirting, doll, ‘m not done yet.”
you were crying by now, soft little sobs mixing with moans as the aftershocks rolled through you, each one forcing another weak spurt of slick from your overworked cunt. your legs were jelly, spread wide and trembling, and it wasn’t until your hips started pulling away from overstimulation that toji finally eased his fingers out with a wet pop, bringing them to his mouth to lick them clean like he was tasting the sweetest candy.
“mmh. taste like candy, baby,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded with pure satisfaction.
he crawled up your body, that massive, beefy frame caging you in, breathing you in.
“three orgasms, one big squirt.. and you’re still looking at me with those big, sad eyes? you want more, don’tcha?”
he kissed your forehead, deceptively gentle, then nipped at your bottom lip with a grin.
“don’t worry, baby. i’m just getting started. think you could do it again? wanna feel her squirt around my cock.”
idk tbh i just want that cookie.
— pink mist ℘
18+ ❤︎ . . . when a mission with him goes terribly wrong and ends with him deep in your guts...
satoru gojo ℘ fem!sorcerer!reader . . . aphrodisiac ( reader affected ) : reader is kind of mean but he's into it, canon-universe — explicit smut !! oral (fem rec.), fingering, p in v, slight overstim, cock drunk reader, messy confessions, mutual pining, slight brat taming, cocky gojo, reader cries during sex, orgasm denial ( in a way.. ), slight after care, cutetiful ending ♡ w.c 8.2k
you and satoru gojo were partners. best friends even.
in his eyes at least.
no matter how many times you swore you hated him whenever he pissed you off, he was somehow insanely persistent in trying to get you to like him. it was as if riling you up was his love language.
not that you didn’t like him — you did. more than you should. you just didn’t show it very well, per se..
you were kind of like a black cat girlfriend to him, while he was your golden retriever boyfriend. and he knew it. always did. even when he insisted on asking you the stupidest questions:
“so! if i got bit by a snake on my dick, would you suck the venom out to save my life?” ... “what the fuck is wrong with you?”
yeah…
so even if he was the strongest sorcerer alive, he still insisted on tagging along on your missions whenever he could. not because you needed protection—you were perfectly capable of handling yourself—but simply because, according to him, you were his favorite person.
“and you are here again because..?” you hummed, stepping through the warped entrance of the abandoned inn where the special grade cursed object was rumored to be hidden, floorboards creaking softly beneath your feet.
behind you, gojo followed without a shred of caution, hands tucked behind his head like some sort of casual stroll instead of a mission for grade one and above.
he chuckled. “why can’t i? i just wanna spend time with my favorite girl.” his voice tilted into a teasing sing-song. “don’t act like you hate it~”
you stopped and turned to face him.
“im not acting. and since you’re here,” you began flatly, crossing your arms, “why don’t you ... go find whatever it is we’re looking for.”
he gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “i came all this way and yet you decide to dismiss me? i guess they were right…” he sighed, shaking his head. “you truly are a cruel woman.”
your eyes widened and you slapped his chest. “what? whose they?!”
he let out that stupid familiar giggle of his before turning and dashing off in the opposite direction, disappearing down the dark hallway.
“stupid idiot…” you huffed under your breath.
you wandered through the inn for a while, your flashlight sweeping slowly across warped walls and half opened doors as the old hallways creaked with every careful step.
the place smelled like dust and rotting wood, the kind of quiet that made every little noise feel louder than it should be.
you walked endlessly, the hours blurring together as every room you entered stood just as the last—dusty, abandoned, and hollow.
and despite knowing satoru was somewhere nearby, you couldn’t help the small tension settling in your shoulders.
“satoru?” you called once, mostly out of habit.
no response.
rolling your eyes, you continued down the hall, pushing another door open with your foot and flashing the light around the empty room before stepping back into the corridor—only for a voice to suddenly appear right behind you.
“boo.”
you yelped. the sound tore out of you before you could stop it, your flashlight jerking wildly as you spun around to find gojo standing there, already laughing.
god you just wanted to slap that infuriating smirk off his face. or kiss it off. you weren’t exactly sure of anything whenever it came to him…
“satoru!” you snapped, slapping his chest again, warmth spreading in your face from embarrassment. your punches and hits always landed easily, because, for reasons you’d never quite questioned, satoru gojo never kept his infinity up around you.
you dusted yourself off, ignoring the crippling wave of embarrassment that washed over you. “have you seen anything?”
even behind the fabric of his blindfold, it felt like his gaze hadn’t left you. it was always so heavy, unwavering, like he could you and pin you in place with his eyes alone if he really wanted to.
“nope!”
“gosh.. you are seriously useless.” you muttered, walking toward one of the last rooms in the hallway. one where the cursed energy felt strongest.
“well you could try to be nicer to me instead of mouthing off to me all the time, maybe i’d be nicer to you.” he pouted, following right behind you.
“really? be nice? how old are you again???”
in the center of the room sat an old incense box, the wood darkened with age and wrapped loosely in forgotten talismans. you knelt down beside it while gojo leaned against the doorway behind you.
“seriously…?” you murmured, opening the box. a faint pink mist drifted upward, slow and almost pretty in the dim light.
“this is our cursed object? they couldn’t have sent one of the second years? ridiculous.”
the scent that followed was surprisingly sweet and warm, something soft and calming that made you pause for a second longer than you meant to.
you took a breath.
“uh..” gojo spoke suddenly from the doorway, his voice losing some of its usual laziness. “i don't think you should go around sniffing random cursed objects princess.”
you huffed, rolling your eyes. “whatever.. besides, what did i tell you about the pet names?”
“well, i think they're cute.” he hummed, taking the box from your hands, slender, cool fingers brushing briefly against yours before he snapped the box shut with a quiet thud. the sudden shift in his energy left you slightly confused, but he only gave you a reassuring smile like nothing had happened.
“i’ll call ijichi and we’ll be on our way, yeah?”
you nodded slowly, thinking nothing of it.
the two of you waited outside the inn with your arms crossed against the cool night air while gojo paced in loose circles nearby, talking loudly enough into the phone that you could hear half the conversation even from where you stood.
when he finally finished, he stuffed the cursed object into his pocket.
“good news!” he announced. “ijichi said it’ll be handled. bad news is he thinks it’s some weird—”
oh.
satoru's voice softened slightly. “hey.. you okay?”
you blinked at him slowly.
there was a warmth spreading in your stomach that wasn’t there before, a heavy, unfamiliar sensation making your thoughts feel a little slower, a little foggier around the edges. you pushed yourself straighter against the street pole, trying to ignore how your face felt slightly warmer than it should.
especially around gojo out of all people.
“m’fine…” voice small in a way he’d never heard before.
that’s when he noticed it properly.
you, who never slipped. you, who never needed anything from everybody, especially not from him. the weariness and hesitance in your eyes.
“you don’t look very okay..”
he frowned slightly, stepping closer, his hand rested lightly on your arm as he spoke. “you sure? you look sick. if you want i can get us to shoko and—”
and the warmth in your stomach sharpened, more intense than before.
“—no!” you blurted suddenly, louder than you meant to.
gojo blinked.
“sorry,” you said quickly, already turning away from him. “no. i- i’m gonna go home, you can wrap this up.” you huffed, breath more shaky and worn out than you’d like it to be.
the night air clung to your skin, biting and sharp, a stark contrast to the warmth still lingering in your body. the moment hung quiet, too quiet, before gojo shifted closer, spinning you back around gently.
his free hand lifted, cool fingers brushing your cheek as he gently angled your face toward him. the chill of his touch seeped into your warmth, but this time there was nothing casual about it. his movements slowed, more deliberate as he studied you.
his thumb hovered near your cheekbone, lightly turning your face side to side checking for any physical markings as for what was making you act so strange.
“how can you even go home like this? i'm serious, let me.” he muttered under his breath, the usual teasing edge in his voice replaced with worry.
a soft whine slipped from your lips, more reflex than intentional, and you immediately swatted his hand away—half protest, half instinct—breaking the contact as you huffed in quiet defiance.
“i’m serious too.” annoyance bubbled in your chest, turning on your heel and storming off into the night, leaving behind a very confused satoru.
+ ❤︎ ℘
as soon as you got home, you showered.
once.
then twice.
letting the cold water run over your skin until your fingers went slightly numb and your breathing felt slower under the steady hiss of the faucet. the warmth in your stomach didn’t leave. it only sat there stubbornly, dull and heavy like something pressing quietly beneath your thoughts.
you turned the water colder, leaning your forehead briefly against the tiled wall, trying to focus on anything else — the sound of water hitting the floor, the faint echo of your own breathing in the empty bathroom — but every time you closed your eyes you kept remembering the way he had touched your arm earlier, light and warm and far too distracting to shake off.
fuck.
it felt like your body couldn’t settle no matter what you tried, you changed into the lightest, thinnest clothes you had, hoping the strange heat under your skin would ease even a little bit.
but it didn’t.
satoru had been pacing the emptied out office ever since you went home, anxiety slowly gnawing at the back of his mind. it had been hours—no call, no text, nothing at all—and even though he told himself you were probably just resting.
the silence felt wrong.
so when his phone finally lit up with your name and his favorite photo of the two of you: where you had fallen asleep and slumped against his shoulder on the train back home, cheek squishing against his chest — his heart fluttered with a pang of hope before he answered.
“hey, i was just thinking of you,” he said when he picked up, voice instantly softening. “did you get home safely?”
he frowned when you didn’t answer right away. “uh, helloooo?”
on the other end of the line, you were clutching your phone tightly, his voice alone making the strange warmth in your chest feel sharper, harder to ignore.
“satoru—” you called, practically moaning out his name, breath uneven. body burning in embarrassment and taut with need as you buried your face into the arm of your couch, the scratchy fabric pressing against your sweaty forehead.
“i’ve tried everything. my fingers, my fucking shower head, my vibrator–” you whined, voice strained as you couldn’t stop yourself from blubbering everything out to him.
“i just— s’no use.” you wailed in defeat. the way your top brushed against your overly sensitive nipples each time you moved, the way your panties rubbed against your throbbing clit — it was all so overbearing, you couldn’t even think properly.
poor satoru couldn’t help but feel like a pervert.
the image of your legs spread, cunt swollen and fluttering around nothing, desperate to relieve the ache... just front and center in his mind, making his chest flutter. and well..
his dick throb in his trousers.
“hey, hey,” he said quickly, doing his best to ignore the slow strain against fabric. “it’s alright. what do you need me to do?”
“can you come over? please.”
the words were quiet, but they carried a weight he understood immediately.
not just any “come over.”
that kind of “come over.”
“be there in ten.”
“no.” you said immediately, voice stubborn and a little whiny. “five.”
he huffed quietly on the other end of the line.
“…fine. i’ll be there in three.”
you could’ve swore you heard the man smirking as he spoke.
truthfully, satoru wasn’t sure he had ever moved this fast in his life. he made a quick stop at a 24 hour convenience store on the way to yours.
if whatever this shit was had you asking for his help and using your manners???? it had to have been serious.
he avoided eye contact with the elderly lady at the register while she scanned his items, a faint beep cutting through the silence.
his items of choice?
a container of your favorite flavored mochi’s.
for you! post sex..
and a box of xl condoms.
also.. for you.. during sex.. if the two of you were to have sex that is.
soon enough, satoru was standing at your front door in just about two minutes, thanks to his inhuman abilities of course.
he was also a man who, annoyingly enough, did stick to his word.
he knocked once.
no answer.
he was about to knock again when the door suddenly swung open, revealing you standing there. a soft sheen of sweat on your skin, eyebrows knitted together in irritation—or arousal—lips stubbornly pouting while your body was enveloped by one of his worn out shirts with some faded digimon print on it—the same one he had left at your house last time he was there.
worn because you likely wanted to hide the fact you only had panties on under there.
“you said three minutes,” you said, frowning up at him
“yes. and i got here in two princess.” his tone was light, but his gaze dipped briefly below your chest, taking in the scene in front of him.
normally, his pet names pissed you off. so what the hell was this? why were you getting lightheaded??
“…is that my shirt?” he hummed, unable to fully hide the amusement threading through his voice, a grin already tugging at his lips, “—where exactly are your pants?”
you let out a groan, already regretting calling him in the first place. “it’s too hot for anything else.” you muttered, pulling the fabric of the shirt down a little.
as if that would make a difference…
you glanced down at the bag in his hand, raising an eyebrow, ignoring the way your pussy throbbed maddeningly at the sight and faint smell of him.
he noticed the shift.
of course he did.
his head tilted just slightly, quietly piecing together a thought he didn’t bother to say out loud, the corner of his mouth tugging up in quiet amusement.
“it’s stuff for you, don’t worry about it,” he spoke with a small, reassuring smile.
he stepped inside fully, the door clicking shut behind him as he locked it without a second thought.
“you’re gonna listen to me for a bit, yeah?”
his voice was light. easy. infuriatingly so.
his hand came up anyway, despite the fact you usually punched him if he tried, tilting your chin just enough to make sure you were looking at him.
his touch softened, less insistent now, more reassuring than anything.
“don’t get shy on me now,” he murmured, voice dipping just enough to make your breath catch.. “what is it you want?”
your breath hitched. “i… i wanna see you. please.” you mewled, embarrassed at how such a low level curse made your libido and sex drive skyrocket – to a point beyond your control.
he caught on right away.
slowly, he lifted his blindfold and unraveled it, the fabric falling away in one smooth motion. his blue eyes were clearer now without the barrier, sharp but unusually soft when they settled on you, the loose strands of his hair framing his face in a way that made your chest tighten.
you didn’t think about what was to come next. couldn’t, really.
the words died somewhere between your thoughts and your tongue, and before your mind caught up, you grabbed him by the collar, pulling him closer on pure instinct, locking your lips with his in a bruising kiss.
one large hand shot up instinctively, steadying you, while his eyes fluttered shut for a split second. he leaned down, meeting your eager lips.
he caught himself with ease, grip on you firm but controlled. satoru had always been ready for anything… just not that.
as you clung to his jacket, satoru tossed the bag aside—quick, almost careless in its urgency.
with his blindfold gone, his sharp gaze met yours without anything in the way. one hand settled on your hip, firm enough to steady you, but gentle in its hold—quietly letting you take the lead, giving you exactly what you needed.
you pushed him back until the couch hit the back of his knees, forcing him to drop down onto it with a soft thud, instantly following him down, settling on top of him.
a soft grunt slipped from him as you crashed into him, your whole body shuddering before you buried your face into the crook of his neck, trying to regain some form of self control.
you let out an embarrassingly loud moan as you slotted yourself right over his clothed cock, warmth seeping through the point of contact and spreading throughout your body.
“fuck… m'sorry toru,” you groaned, your face burning with embarrassment, frustration, and something you couldn’t name.
his breath hitched. toru…? well that was new.
he blinked, caught off guard, a grin threatening to slip past his composure. fingers tightening just enough on your hip, not to control, just… to keep you upright.
“…toru, huh?” his voice was low, teasing, but there was something raw beneath it, something he barely recognized in himself.
his smile dropped slightly when you didn’t indulge in his teasing.
“hey… look at me,” he hummed, gently tilting your head up, his finger resting lightly under your chin as he guided your face toward his. “don’t apologize, okay? aphrodisiacs aren’t that bad… you just need a bit of help is all.”
his hands settled at your waist to steady you, thumb brushing lightly against your sides as he met your gaze.
your eyes kept avoiding his, unable to settle. he noticed, gently tilting your chin up once more to meet him halfway.
“nuh uh—eyes on me, princess,” he murmured. “i’ll only do anything you want,” he hummed, booping your nose, making you blink abruptly.
“now tell me,” his teasing tone returned, though his gaze remained attentive. “this you or that cursed thing talkin'?”
you scanned his face rapidly, heat pooling in your stomach, growing heavier the closer he leaned. his large hands molded against your curves with ease, and his scent—soft, yet intoxicating—made it impossible to think straight.
“i—” you tried, but the word caught uselessly in your throat.
he cocked his head to the side, gaze sharp behind the faintest smirk. “don’t tell me you’ve gone all shy on me...” he murmured, his thumb pressing soft, steady strokes against your hip. “you were just mouthing off to me a couple of seconds ago.”
your grip on his shirt tightened immediately.
“yes—fuck, it’s me talking, satoru!”
his gaze lingered on you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “yeah… i know,” he murmured softly. “that’s my girl. we’ll go at your pace.”
you groaned, still visibly annoyed, though the edge in your voice gave you away. “you don't need to coddle me satoru…” you muttered, pout lingering.
he let out a quiet breath, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “sorry for trying to play nice,” he murmured, though there was no real bite to it. “don’t wanna break you sweetheart... now c’mere.”
his hand slipped to the back of your head, steadying you as he kissed you first. slow, deliberate, giving you time to change your mind.
a chance to back out.
you let out a sigh as his lips met yours again, hands gripping at his jacket, entire body on fire as your hips moved on their own, gently grinding against him.
a purr of delight rumbled inside his throat as your hands hiked up underneath his shirt, tongues brushing against each other in tandem. you moaned into his mouth as his hands found your hips, rolling you against him, firmer than you had been doing — an attempt to ease the raging pool of arousal in you.
and only after a long, quiet moment did he pull back just enough to breathe, eventually (and regrettably) pulling from your lips, a string of saliva bridging the gap between you two. his forehead still hovered near yours, close enough to feel every shallow inhale you took.
“please… toru,” you whispered, voice small, urgent, almost trembling. “i need it…” grinding down on him once more, a spark of warmth building up and throughout your nerves.
he let out a quiet, breathy chuckle, tilting his head at you.
“mouth or fingers then?”
…
“w-what?”
you fumbled over your words, the need coiling tight in your chest, twisting sharper with every second he kept teasing.
if anything, it only made you wetter.
“w-w-what?” he echoed, a quiet laugh slipping out. “you heard me. mouth or fingers—pick.”
“now’s not the time to be fucking around, you dickhead,” you bit out, your voice tighter than you meant it to be.
you hated it—hated how he was still trying to be playful when you felt like you were falling apart inside.
he always knew exactly which buttons to push.
and somehow, you always reacted anyway.
“fucking around? i just want to be thorough.” his voice low but not unkind.
…
“h-hands…” you muttered, barely getting the word out, eyes refusing to meet his.
he let out a soft chuckle, clearly entertained, canines catching in the dim moonlight that creeped in through the cracked curtains. “there it is,” he murmured. “see? that wasn’t so hard.”
he hummed, a faint smile playing at his lips, canines catching the dim light.
“though, i was hoping you’d aim higher.” — making you roll your eyes with a heavy scoff.
normally, you’d tell him off. tell the six-eyed freak to go fuck himself.
but not tonight.
tonight was different.
he shifted slightly, guiding you with careful, deliberate movements until your back rested against the arm of the couch, lowering himself to his knees in front of you.
your thighs pressed together instinctively, a small whimper slipping out as if you could hide from him—hide how badly you really wanted it.
“c’mon… what'd i say about getting shy?” he murmured.
“can’t help you if you’re hiding from me pretty.” his grip shifted, and with an almost unfair ease, he used just the span of his hand—thumb and pinky guiding your legs apart, your slick having already soaked through the thin cotton of your panties.
if you knew satoru gojo was going to be fingering you until you came all over his hands tonight… then you definitely would’ve worn something a lot cuter.
maybe something silky, with lace around the edges, something easy to slip off.
but it’s not like he minded.
his breath caught in his throat. “…fuck,” whispering under his breath. and for a brief moment, his usual composure slipped. his gaze lingering just a second longer than before..
he was just so fucking obsessed with you.
with one slender digit, he hooked your panties, knuckle slightly grazing your entrance, collecting some of your slick along his knuckle. he pushed your panties aside with a slow, careful motion. exposing your sopping cunt to the cool night air.
after about a minute of tense silence, he hadn’t even realized he’d been gawking at your pussy. he couldn’t help himself. the way it was practically leaking, every curve, every clench.
so fucking pretty…
“satoru!”
he blinked, dragged back to the moment, and after a brief pause, finally looked up at you, a faint chuckle escaping.
“heh… sorry.” his voice steadied again. “just tell me if it feels good, okay?”
and with that, he inserted two of his slender digits past your wet folds, your juices coating his fingers entirely as he slipped in and out of you. a loud, sinful ‘shlick’ shattering the quiet of your living room.
your jaw went slack and your eyelids fluttered shut instantly with a loud moan as he angled them deep inside you, occasionally curling up and reaching spots you couldn’t even dream of reaching yourself—whining each time he did so.
you reached for the nearest couch cushion and pulled it over your face, attempting to muffle your moans, but you just couldn’t help yourself.
you weren’t normally vocal in bed. you had no reason to be, not with others or when you got off on your own.
you couldn’t tell if it was satoru’s effect on you… or just the curse wearing you down. everything felt contradictory, like it shouldn't make sense.
and yet… it did.
it felt wrong and right all at once, as if somehow, he was the only one meant to see you like this.
it just felt so good. so perfect.
you bit your lip, holding back a sob, trying to ignore the aching in your tummy temporarily ceased to make way to utter bliss as waves of pleasure wash over you.
his free hand lifted, fingers catching the edge of the cushion. he didn’t yank it away.. instead, he tugged it down slowly, giving you a chance to stop him.
but you didn't.
“you’re doing a terrible job of hiding from me, you know that?” he hummed, tossing the cushion somewhere behind him.
“such a messy girl..” he added, adoration oozing through his voice. the way your cunt refused to let go of his fingers was almost hypnotizing, his knuckles glistening in whatever light came through the curtains, covered in your wetness.
“better than your own?” he hummed.
though it may have come across as condescending in practice, there was a hint of concern underneath it. his tone softened just enough to reveal something more genuine beneath the usual teasing edge.
“t-toru… fuck,” you whined, tears already brimming at the corners of your eyes. “yes! somuchbetter.” mewling as he continued to work your pussy open.
his smirk widened, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“you mean that?” he asked, tone playful, cocky, as if daring you to take it back.
he wasn’t going to let you live that down.
not ever.
“hmm… that good, huh?” he murmured, leaning just a little closer, thumbs brushing at your waist, letting you feel him, letting you know he knew exactly what he was doing.
“you sound way too easy to please, princess.”
“please. just. shut. up— hngh–!”
your complaints died in your throat, as an unexpected stretch pulled at you, sharp and delicious, and you couldn’t help the gasp that escaped.
satoru had added another digit.
“gojo—” you choked. “toru! w-wait—” writhing against his grip, mind going fuzzy.
without a second thought, his other arm wrapped around your thigh, hand slithering down with deliberate ease, thumb circling your clit with a quick light hand, making you arch into the couch. moans getting louder with each press and swipe.
“i take it you like it?” hummed, curling all three his fingers up against you, his fingers grazing a perfect spot inside you, vision going hazy as your pussy clenching desperately around his digits, refusing to let go.
“hah… easy…” he hummed, watching the way your body tensed under him.
there weren’t enough words in any dictionary to capture how overwhelming it all felt.
too urgent, yet the perfect pace.
like it had been building far longer than you’d like to admit. everything amplified beyond reason, leaving you breathless and overwhelmed.
you needed this. needed him.
but still… it wasn’t enough. the aphrodisiac clawed at your senses, twisting every nerve into ache and frustration rather than pleasure.
“toru… please… i can’t—” you gasped, desperation lacing every word, trembling against him.
huh…
normally, this would have anyone else gasping and cumming in seconds, he was satoru gojo afterall.
this shit really was taking a number on you.
not that it mattered to gojo. he could keep up just fine.
“yeah… yeah.. of course you cant” he murmured underneath his breath. “you always this hard to handle?”
“j-just stop talking. so fucking—annoying.”
“annoying??” he huffed, warm breath ghosting your cunt.
“i’m hurt. thought you’d have something better for me than that princess.” a low purr escaped him as he brought his fingers to his mouth, savoring the evidence of you as his lips glided over them, tongue insistently circling around his digits, all while making eye contact with you.
every nerve in his body ached. he’d waited for this moment for so long. too long.
his thighs clenched underneath his slacks, his dick pressing up against his zipper, a painfully obvious bulge in his pants.
but he ignored it, for you.
the only thing on his mind was making you feel good. he could handle himself later; right now?
it was all about you.
the couch groaned beneath him as he leaned in, arms snaking around your thighs, yanking you down to his waiting face.
and without a second thought his plush lips latched onto your cunt. his tongue lapped up your juices, slipping in between your folds, eagerly exploring your velvet walls. “oh– satoru!”, you moaned, voice coming out cracked and quiet, eyes snapping shut in pleasure.
you choked on a sob as his tongue dipped lower, teasing your hole, completely drunk on how sweet you tasted. he fought back a smile as he practically made out with your pussy, working you open with his tongue before dragging upwards, tongue pressing flat onto your clit.
you sobbed again, hands flinging down to his messy white strands while he tucked his arms under your thighs.
tighter.
harder.
as if you were trying to run.
well… maybe because you were.
he lifted your hips to meet his mouth. your thighs trembled as your small whimpers filled up the room.
he was good at this. too fucking good.
you gasped, arching against him, brain melting into pure chaos.
tears brimmed at your water line as your body trembled, betraying just how far gone you were.
you tugged on his hair, some sort of signal that you were close. or so you thought.
your pussy pulsed under his tongue as he continued to lap at your hole. tongue swirling faster. the occasional digit plunging inside you over, and over, and over, juices coating his entire hand.
his cock achingly hard, pressing into the couch — the small friction relieving the ache in his pants.
you were certainly going to have a talk with him. about where the hell he learned all this, how he always gets it right, and why it feels like he knows your body better than you do…
you were so out of it, you hadn’t even realized he’d been speaking until a low, humming vibration shot through your body.
“good?” he murmured, muffled by your puffed up folds, reinforced by the soft slurp of him drinking you up.
when you finally forced your eyes open, satoru was already staring straight into you—bright blue eyes cutting through the dim room like he’d been waiting for this exact moment the entire time.
normally. such a sight would've made you cum immediately.
you had the strongest sorcerer on his knees… for you. every movement, every sound he drew from you, made your chest tighten, and your mind screamed at you: how the hell is this happening?
but the loudest thought pounding through your dazed brain was simple.
more.
your thighs began to quiver, hot tears of frustration spilling down your cheeks before you slapped your hands over your face—and out of his hair—letting out a frustrated groan.
your body didn’t wanna let you come.
it was the same thing over and over again: the pleasure built, warmth spreading, but no peak. it was never enough.
normally, crying in front of someone didn’t faze you—no one would believe them if they tried to say otherwise. so why did it feel different with satoru?
he noticed immediately, a wet pop breaking the quiet as he paused, wiping his face with his sleeve, leaving a dark mark on the navy fabric. his eyes met yours as he rose to his knees, eyebrows furrowed as he took in your flushed, trembling body.
“fuck… was it too much? i—”
“fuck me.”
he froze, eyes wide. “what?”
you sat up on your elbows, cheeks wet with tears, lips red from biting down on them so much.
it was so incredibly sexy.
“need your cock— toru. fuck me.”
he blinked once, them twice. “well, that escalated real fast..” he murmured. “you sure about that angel? or are you just talking all big again?”
“do it.”
“bold,” he chuckled under his breath. “but i didn’t hear a ‘please’,” a faint smirk forming. “try again, sweetheart.”
you groaned, hands gripping into the couch, brows furrowing.
“please.” you deadpanned.
“pretty please with a—”
“satoru!!”
he broke into a quiet laugh, clearly entertained, shoulders easing as he looked at you again. “alright, alright,” he murmured, still smiling. “you don’t have to shout.”
“where do you want it? here or—”
“—bed. now please.”
without another word, he scooped you up in his arms, carrying you effortlessly and placing you gently onto the mattress.
he leaned over you, slotting himself in between your legs caging you in completely, capturing your lips in a messy bruising kiss.
he pulled away from you, leaving you panting, that maddening, insufferable flutter in your stomach returning tenfold.
in one swift motion, he stripped off his uniform, tossing it somewhere across your room, revealing a chest and arms sculpted like they’d been carved from stone.
every muscle was defined, taut and powerful, a perfect balance of strength and sleekness. his shoulders were broad, his biceps solid yet flexible, his torso a masterclass in controlled power.
even the faint line of his abs beneath the pale skin hinted at raw endurance.
underneath all those fabrics, satoru gojo was full muscle. a sleeper build if you’d ever seen one.
he couldn’t help but let out a low, amused chuckle as you shamelessly ogled him, eyes wide and stomach twisting.
his gaze lingered on you as he exhaled a quiet chuckle.
“go ahead, princess. it’s all yours.”
you let out a small whimper, pushing yourself up onto your knees, hands instinctively finding his waistband.
your hands trembled slightly as you gripped the waistband, tugging slowly, deliberately. every motion was careful, teasingly slow, letting satoru see exactly how desperate you were, every second stretching out, electric with tension.
his eyes stayed locked on you, bright and sharp, a small smile tugging at his lips. the way he watched you… it made your pulse race even faster, stomach fluttering with anticipation.
after a shaky moment, you finally succeeded, the last piece sliding free under your fingers. you froze mid-motion.
“hello kitty… boxers…?”
your eyes widened, staring up at him.
“what? i have class.” he said, utterly unfazed.
you couldn’t believe you were about to fuck this idiot.
he hummed, interrupting your thought process. “hold on, let me go get something.”
you shot up instantly, grabbing his wrist. “what could you possibly need right now??”
“err… condoms?” he hummed, tilting his head innocently.
condoms.
“satoru. are you fucking serious?” you barked, frustrated and need overriding all rational thought.
“well… yes!” he huffed. “gotta be safe, princess.”
with a sharp tug on the waistband of his boxers, you pulled him forward, and suddenly he was hovering over you again, chest just above yours, a flash of surprise in his bright eyes.
“i’m on the pill,” you murmured, eyes glinting with unadulterated lust. “don’t worry about it.”
he paused for a moment, letting out a low hum. “god… you really are something.” he spoke, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.
then, with a soft, deliberate movement, he pulled back slightly, settling on his knees and locking eyes with you—cocky, amused, and just a little surprised by how bold you were.
he dipped his thumbs into the corners of his boxers, tugging them down completely, his hardened cock coming up with a ‘thwack’ to his stomach.
it looked borderline painful… his tip was a crimson red, clear rivulets of precum dangling off, threatening to hit the sheets beneath.
the weight of it was unmistakable. large, thick, and traced with faint veins that made him feel even more…
big.
it was almost impossible to ignore—you couldn’t help but stare, eyes tracing every twitch, pulse, and everything in between. unsure if you should laugh at the absurdity or flat out cry...
he dipped back down over you, close enough that you could feel his breath fan across your skin, his cock sliding in between your folds, the tip occasionally nudging against your clit, a small squish each time he made contact.
“say the word,” he murmured. “and we stop.”
you shook your head almost immediately, breath uneven.
“does it look like i wanna stop?” wrapping your arms around his neck for support.
his brows lifted slightly, then relaxed as a small smile tugged at his lips.
“fair point. didn’t think you’d be this eager.” he murmured. “…but you tell me if that changes, alright?”
and with that, he lined himself up with your entrance, making your breath hitch in your throat. he tilts your chin up slightly, just enough to meet his gaze, eyes sharp with focus.
“eyes on me pretty.. it's a big stretch.”
he slowly pushes in, inch after inch, your pussy swallowing him entirely, the two of you choking up in unison as he bottomed out inside you.
he filled you up entirely. cunt already spasming around him, nails digging into his back leaving small red crescents.
he was so close you could feel every exhale, every uneven beat of his heart—like it was syncing with yours. and he felt it too.
“fuck—” he choked, voice rougher than before. “are you okay? can i move?”
“satoru.”
“alright, alright…” he huffed, a breath of a laugh slipping through. his forehead dipped closer to yours, lips brushing the air between you.
“so bratty…” he murmured. “maybe i should stop going easy on you.”
“oh please, like you—mmph!”
he silenced you with a hard thrust, knocking the wind out of you.
then another.
and another...
they started coming back to back, all perfectly timed.
and for a minute, neither of you said anything.
the only sounds were the occasional whine from you, a groan from him, and the soft smacks of his sack against the curve of your ass as he gradually sped up finding his rhythm, a white ring already forming around the base of his cock.
lewd thwaps bounced off the walls, filling up the room, his eyes locked onto yours, sharp and unblinking, lips a breath away from your own.
a faint smirk tugged at his lips as he tilted his head, his hand finding the flesh of your hip, voice low and teasing, tickling the shell of your ear.
“this what you needed?” he hummed, lengthy cock stirring up your insides. “hm? some dick—hah—just to make this pretty pussy feel better?”
“satoru—” a pathetic whine ripped through your throat as his mushroom tip grazed one of your sweet spots, picking up his pace, your tits bouncing upwards with each slam, digimon shirt covered in sweat and the smell of sex.
“shh, m’gonna take care of you baby, gonna take care of this pretty pussy, gonna feel so nice..” he hummed, teeth grazing your pulse point.
and unfortunately, you couldn’t deny it.
you felt every inch of him, every movement, and it was impossible to ignore. you always felt this way with him—like the world had narrowed down to nothing but heat and sparks. your vision danced, stars bursting behind your eyes, heart racing, completely undone.
he always made you feel good.
this time it was just with his dick.
your sopping cunt squeezed down on his cock, as if trying to milk him, simply refusing to let go each time he pulled back away from you.
he choked on a laugh, eyes flicking down at you, lips twitching with amusement. “s-so needy…” he murmured.
you tugged him down, just enough to bury your face in the crook of his neck.
he fucked you so good. almost too good.
you weren’t surprised, he was satoru gojo after all. your arms curled around him, clinging tighter, while your body pressed closer, desperate for every inch of contact you could get.
“been thinking about you for so fucking long.” he grunted, the slaps of his hips knocking into you, the force sending waves of shock throughout the meat of your ass. “always wanted you on my cock, to be mine—”
your legs wrapped around his waist, pressing into him instinctively, pushing him deeper inside you. every small movement pressed your bodies together, your arms clinging tight as you let out soft huffs of breathless laughter, face buried in the crook of his neck.
he let out a soft, almost pathetic whimper, chest rising rapidly. “fuck… feel what you do to me baby?” he hummed, pressing a large hand over your tummy, pressing down so that he could feel his cock inside you, drawing out pathetic syrupy moans from you.
his voice was rough. strained.
and just low enough to send shivers down your spine.
satoru was in heaven. the way you clamped down on him refusing to let go of him. the way his cock slid in an’ out of you with ease — a loud wet squelch echoing each time, length completely covered in your juices, the soft sheen of his cock blinding him every time he pulled out of you, just to slam back into you once more.
so wet… and so… nasty.
and all for him.
your mouth went slack, drool pooling at the corner, threatening to spill over. he couldn't help but let out a sharp laugh.
who knew that all you needed was a little bit of dick to act right?
every touch sent shivers down your spine, every stroke of his cock made your pussy flutter helplessly, the way his cock filled you up was so… perfect. his tip grazed every nook and cranny of your walls, a white froth coating your folds and dripping down his sack as they slammed into you.
it was all too much. your folds were puffy from hours of torture pleasure: his slender digits working you open, his tongue lapping up at your cunt like a man starved. and now. this. fucking you so good as if he was trying to imprint himself into every part of you.
you couldn’t even form a proper sentence, just blubbering and whining about how good he felt, how big he was. he pressed down on you further, pressing you into the mattress as he slammed into you, curving up right into your sweet spot.
“such a good girl.. so perfect for me…” he breathed out, eyes locked on you
“ngh!— satoru– pleaseplease–” you whined helplessly, lips finding his flesh, biting down softly to muffle your moans and cries.
“look at youuu…” he murmured, pressing a small kiss to your sweaty forehead.
“so fuckin’ cute. gonna cum all over my cock like the pretty little princess you are?” crooning, as if he wasn't drunk off you and you alone.
he let out an absurd laugh, sharp and breathless, like he couldn’t believe how much he was unraveling under you. “m’close already.. you’re giving me a bad rep here..”
he looked down at you, expecting some sort of answer—only to be met by a small glare, or at least what you were trying to manage. your eyes were hazy, brows scrunched up, and it was laughably pathetic, but in the best way.
he let out a soft huff of laughter.
“right… sorry,” he murmured, smirk tugging at his lips at the fact his dick rendered you speechless.
“f-fuck— toru, m’close—” you whined, burying your face into him, squeezing your eyes shut.
he pulled back just enough to get a good look at your face, taking in the tremble of your lips, the warmth radiating from your cheeks, the sweat glistening off your skin…
so fucking pretty.
“don’t hide that pretty face from me, angel… i wanna see you,” he murmured, placing sloppy kisses along your neck and jaw.
you couldn’t help it—breath coming in short, uneven huffs, eyes locking onto his as if begging for more. your hands curled around his shoulders, clutching him tightly, legs instinctively wrapping closer, pushing him deeper into you.
he chuckled low and absurdly, leaning in so your faces were inches apart, breath mingling. “there you are… see? wanna see your face when you cum all over my cock.”
small, desperate whines escaped your lips, soft and almost helpless, and every tiny movement pressed you harder into him, “satoru—”
before you could react, he cut you off with a bruising kiss, noses knocking together, lips pressing hard and claiming, stealing your breath. your hands fisted against him, pulling him closer, while your legs instinctively curled around his waist, clinging like you couldn’t get enough.
he dragged his tongue from your bottom lip, down to your chin, before placing a sloppy kiss right below it. his hand slid down from your hip, his thumb carelessly found your clit — pressing hard firm circles making you cry out, his hips stuttering and becoming sloppy.
“…fuck… i love you, so perfect f'me” he gasped, voice raw and trembling, eyes locked on yours like he couldn’t look away.
the warmth in your stomach multiplied tenfold, spreading through every nerve and pulse.
“w-what?” you choked dumbly, voice trembling, before your body betrayed you and locked up, every muscle tightening as if it couldn’t handle him.
your orgasm had snuck up on you, hitting you like a truck.
your pussy spasmed helplessly as your lips pressed into a thin line, eyes crossing into each other as all the air got knocked into your lungs, toes curling uselessly in the air.
“that’s ittt...” he purred, smirk tugging at his lips as he watched you shiver, rolling his hips against yours.
soon enough, his own orgasm came rushing up on him, choking on a soft gasp as thick hot rivulets of his seed spilled out inside you.
rocking his hips back and forth, slow and controlled, pubic bone crushing down on you, burying his cock as deep as it can go.
his body locked up over you, thick white ropes still spilling out inside you, his balls clenching until they completely emptied out inside of you.
you slowly regained your senses, breath heaving, the warmth in your tummy slowly dying.
for a quiet moment, the two of you just stayed there, hearts racing in unison. he pulled out of you slowly, thick warmth slowly rolling out from your cunt.
he practically collapsed on top of you for a brief second before rolling onto his back, pulling you with him as he leaned back against the headboard, instinctively settling you on top of him. your head resting on his bare chest, listening to the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath you..
his hand reached for a nearby throw blanket, careful not to move you too much, dragging it up and over the two of you, covering you both as he settled you against his side.
as your chest rose and fell against his, his touch lingering in your hair, soft and grounding
he let out a small cough.
“did it work?” brow quirking as he glanced down at you.
“uh-huhh,” you croaked out, chest still rising and falling fast, eyes still hazy and utterly exhausted.
another quiet minute passed, him absently stroking your face and tracing lazy patterns along your back.
“i got you mochi,” he spoke softly, his gentle caresses not ceasing.
you lifted your head from his chest like a newborn just learning how to use their motor skills for the first time.
“you did…?”
“mhm… thought it'd make you feel better.. though it might have melted. you didn’t give me a chance to put it in the freezer.” he added with a small chuckle.
“i hate you…” you groaned, plopping your head back onto his chest.
“don’t think you’re off the hook, satoru.” you slurred, poking his cheek lightly.
“wouldn’t dream of it, princess,” he murmured, smirk tugging at his lips, thumb idly tracing along your arm.
“soooo..” he began, brimming with way too much energy for what he just put you through, practically vibrating on the spot. “this means you'll go on a date with me right?”
you blinked up at him, lazy and teasing, then simply patted his cheek.
“don't make it weird.” you hummed, a small smile tugging at your lips.
“i didn't even get to say anything weird..” he pouted incredulously.
“don't have to.”
“date me. please.”
“you seriously are so annoying.”
“considering we just had sex, i can't possibly be that annoying.”
...
with a roll of your eyes, you pressed a small, fleeting kiss to his cheek. the soft press of your lips lingered longer than you intended.
despite your gruff exterior, your heart was pounding in your chest, betraying just how flustered you actually were.
“fine. only one,” you muttered, trying to sound indifferent, though it was clearly a lie.
he blinked, smirk tugging at his lips, eyes glinting with amusement. “hm… i’ll take it,” he said, voice low and playful, tugging you a little closer as if to savor the moment.
he leaned in close, whispering conspiratorially, “you know, one of these days, i’m gonna get you to confess your undying love for me.”
your breath choked up — “dont get greedy.” you huffed before laying back down against him, your cheek squishing against his bare chest.
he pulled you closer, fingers lazily tickling your back.
you were perfect.
absolutely perfect.
❤︎ inspired by this tweet . . . more from me ! likes && reblogs appreciated ໒꒰ྀི っ ⸝⸝ ˂ ꒱ྀིა !
format inspo !
Nanami Kento, who enjoys it when you tug on his tie, forcing his mouth back to yours as you bounce frantically on his lap, chasing your high.
The same man who's impressive girth makes you feel utterly stuffed, stretching you to your absolute limits.
"That's it, my love," he always whispers, "Ride me just like that."
Nanami Kento, who can be gentle one minute, and the next, will throw you on your shared bed and fuck you senseless.
The same man whose hands grip your ass- spreading your cheeks as his tongue licks up and down your slit. That man who has his head between your legs for hours, making you cum so many times that your thighs shake and your toes curl- his mouth the perfect wet heat.
Nanami Kento, the one whose lips will be red and swollen when he emerges from between your legs, the same man who kisses you- the taste of your juices lingering on his tongue as he holds your face in his hands, the one whose fingers will caress your cheeks and whisper how much he loves the taste of you, "... Just like honey."
The same man who will fuck you until the sun rises- the one who will never stop until you cum so many times you pass out against his chest, his name the only word on your lips even as you slumber.
Nanami Kento, who without fail, always wakes up before you just so he can watch you sleep for a few moments before getting out of bed.
The same man who is still amazed that you're still here with him despite his dangerous occupation.
Nanami Kento, who makes you the perfect cup of coffee every morning. He spent weeks secretly learning your exact preference.
The same man who's frame curls protectively around you, his arms wrapping around your waist as he leans against the counter while you sip on your cup.
Nanami Kento, who keeps a small photo of you in his wallet. The same photo he takes out at times when he's in a mission, when he needs to ground himself and remember why he has to come back alive.
The same man whose eyes will always find yours, even in a crowd- the one who will always know when you need him and where.
Nanami Kento, who would give up everything he's built for himself just to live on a beach somewhere- anywhere- with you, his wife.
mine, eventually. ~ r. sukuna
fratboy!sukuna x bestfriend!reader
wc: 11k || art creds: @/winterrbluess || 18+
he’s your slutty frat-boy-best-friend and you’re his sweet, bubbly angel* who has no idea that he’s been in love with you for months. he hasn’t fucked a single soul since he realized his feelings, not one. pretending he’s fine while you curl up into his chest at parties like it means nothing is slowly driving him insane. CW: suggestive, mentions of sexual activity
!!disclaimer!! best friends to lovers, soft slow-burn, mutual pining, best friends who don’t know how to talk, and a love that’s been there the whole time! angst!!!! comfort!
you get to the party and wow, its chaotic.
someone’s shitty bluetooth speaker is blasting throwbacks in the living room, half the frat’s gathered around a beer pong table like it’s the olympics, and the air smells like weed and overpriced tequila. classic friday night.
you don’t even bother knocking. just push open the front door, step over a passed out freshman in a toga, and make a move for the couch you always end up on.
and sure enough, he’s already there.
sukuna’s got one arm hung across the backrest, a red cup balanced on his knee, and the cockiest smirk you’ve ever seen stretched across his face. his hair’s a mess, his shirt’s riding up slightly at the hem, and his rings glint every time he lifts the cup to his mouth.
you roll your eyes and collapse beside him anyway.
“took you long enough,” he says, nudging your knee with his own. “i was about to send nanami on a little 'find y/n' errand”
“maybe i didn’t wanna see your ugly face tonight.”
he grins. “liar.”
and you are. but you don’t tell him that.
this is your ritual, your thing. it doesn’t matter whose party it is, which frat’s throwing it, or how many people are packed into the house, you and sukuna always end up on a couch with the same kind of banter. same rhythm that’s been beating between the two of you since freshman year.
you lean back, pulling your legs up to sit cross legged beside him. his thigh is warm where it brushes yours, and you try not to notice it.
“how many girls have you hit on tonight?” you ask, reaching for his drink and taking a sip without asking.
he hums thoughtfully. “define hit on.”
you raise a brow. “sukuna.”
“what?” he says with mock innocence dripping from his tone. “i’m just being friendly.”
you scoff. “you’re incapable of being 'just friendly'.”
“wow, you wound me.”
you shove his shoulder and he laughs, head tipping back, throat exposed and for a tick your brain stops thinking straight.
because sukuna’s hot. like, really hot. the kind of hot that should come with a big fat warning tag. he's got thick tattoos and a smile that pairs well with his sleepy bedroom eyes. he looks like every hot villan in those shitty old mtv cartoons.
and he’s your best friend.
your completely infuriating, manwhore of a best friend.
he’s the guy who once had a threesome during finals week and then showed up to study group with glitter in his hair. the one who keeps condoms in every coat pocket and probably knows the names of every bouncer on campus. the same guy who used to text you from girls’ beds, complaining about how their playlists sucked.
and somehow, despite all of that, you adore him.
maybe because he listens when you talk too much, because he knows all your dumb fixations and lets you rant about them for hours. because no matter how many people he flirts with, he always ends up back here, next to you.
“you thinking about me?” he says suddenly, smirking when you blink at him.
“i was thinking about how many diseases you’ve probably caught.” you deadpan.
he throws his head back again and laughs, loud and unbothered.
“god, you’re mean.”
“whatever, you like it.”
“unfortunately.”
you nudge his leg with yours again, more gentle this time. the party rages around you, but this little bubble, this spot on the couch where it’s just the two of you feels untouchable.
you’ve known sukuna for almost three years now. met him during your first week at university, at some wild frat party you barely remember. you were tipsy and rambling to someone about your favorite childhood tv show and he cut in just to mock your taste. and never left you alone after that.
he’s been a part of your life ever since. movie nights, drunk phone calls to your exe's. he’s there, always.
and somewhere along the way, you started telling him everything. even the stupid shit. especially the stupid shit. like how you spent two hours last night trying to get your cat to do a trick. or how you’re pretty sure your TA is in love with the guy who sits next to you.
you talk, and sukuna listens.
sometimes he teases. sometimes he gets this soft look like he doesn’t even realise he’s staring, but then it’s gone. back to smirks and really unfunny sarcasm.
you’ve tried not to think too hard about it.
you’re practically tangled up on the couch, like limbs and laughter and shared space all wrapped into one. sukuna’s arm is fallen over your shoulders and your head is tucked just beneath his chin, warm against his chest. his heartbeat is steady, slow, something grounding beneath your ear that feels like a secret only the two of you know.
it’s not flashy or dramatic. it’s the quiet kind of intimacy that’s grown over late nights and early mornings, over inside jokes and too many half remembered conversations. it’s the softness behind his usual rashness the way his hand casually rests on your arm as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
you reach up and thread your fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck. he tenses for a moment, then relaxes, the tiniest smile tugging at his lips. “you’re such an annoying pest,” he mutters, voice low and rough, but you catch the warmth underneath like a whispered promise.
“you love it,” you say softly, you don’t want to break the moment.
the party moves around you, loud, messy, chaotic, but it all fades into white noise. out here, pressed close to him, none of that matters. no flashing lights, no drunken shouts, no prying eyes.
just you and sukuna.
even after all the teasing and the bickering and the ridiculous banter, this is where the real stuff lives. in the easy silence. in the way your fingers find his hand without thinking. in the quiet understanding that you’re both exactly where you want to be, even if you don’t say it out loud.
it’s the kind of closeness that’s almost too much and not enough all at once, like your hearts are so tangled up they might burst, but you don’t have to do anything about it. not yet.
because this is your truth. your safe place. the quiet love that’s been hiding behind all the noise from the very start.
“you see who maki came with?” he asks, breaking the silence.
“nah,” you say, glancing around. “who?”
“some guy named dan. total finance bro. talks like one of those alpha male podcasters.”
you snort. “holy fuck that's gross.”
“yeah tell me about it.”
you hum in agreement, stealing another sip of his drink.
“what about you?” you ask. “eyeing anyone tonight?”
it’s a casual question. one you’ve asked a hundred times. but this time, he pauses.
“nah,” he says finally. “not really feelin’ it.”
you frown. “you? not in the mood to fuck? is the world ending?”
he shrugs, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder.
“maybe i’m growing up.”
you snort. “you literally mooned someone from a moving car last weekend.”
he grins. “growing up gradually.”
you laugh, and he looks at you again. and this time… he doesn’t look away.
“you know,” he says slowly, “you’re kind of the only reason i come to these things anymore.”
your heart skips.
you try to play it off. “because i’m the only one who tolerates you?”
“because you’re the only one who gets me,” he says, voice low. quieter than before. “like… actually gets me.”
you blink. your stomach flips.
but before you can respond, someone calls his name across the room.
he sighs and leans back, rubbing a hand over his face.
“hold that thought,” he says, standing. “gotta go break up whatever stupid shit gojo’s doing.”
you watch him disappear into the crowd, smiling as you watch his back muscles flex with each swing of his arms, you understood the appeal, he was a sexy man. in his own little fashion, he thought of you the exact same way, a drop dead gorgeous girl with a heart of gold, but you’d never even guessed he thought of you as such, after all, what would give you any sort of sign that he was into you when the latest rumour was that he was sleeping around with hot sorority chicks every weekend?
~
the party’s died down hours ago. the house is trashed, half-lit, and still pulsing faintly with leftover bass through the walls. the beer pong table’s been abandoned, someone’s hoodie is hanging from the ceiling fan, and there’s a questionable stain on the rug no one’s talking about.
geto’s sitting cross-legged on the floor with a half-empty bottle of tequila, choso’s sprawled on the loveseat looking like he’s already halfway to sleep, and gojo’s perched on the arm of the couch with a wine glass he definitely didn’t bring himself.
sukuna’s nursing a beer. slouched in a worn-out recliner with his head tilted back, eyes closed, shoulders loose in that i’m relaxed but still kind of pissed way he always gets when he’s overthinking.
he hasn’t said much since reader left.
“sukuna, man,” gojo starts, words slurring a little, “are you going fucking celibate? you haven’t fucked a chick in damn near two months.”
geto snorts, tilting his bottle toward sukuna. “what, you give it up for lent or something?”
“maybe he got neutered,” choso mumbles into a throw pillow.
gojo gasps. “don’t say that, that’s so sad. think of all the women out there missing out.”
sukuna doesn’t open his eyes. just raises his middle finger in their general direction and takes a slow pull from his drink.
“i’m serious,” gojo continues. “you used to be the first one out the door with some girl pressed up against the wall. now you’re… what, sitting on a couch all night with your weird little bestie and dodging blowjobs like they’re the plague.”
geto leans back, watching sukuna over the lip of his drink. “she’s not just some bestie though, huh?”
that gets sukuna’s attention. his eyes crack open, dark and unreadable. “don’t start.”
“not starting anything,” geto says, smirking. “just saying. you used to be all about the sorority chicks with fake lashes and daddy issues. now you’re glued to sunshine incarnate.”
gojo lets out a bark of laughter. “please. she’s too sweet for him. sukuna’d ruin her. he needs someone who can keep up with the slut energy.”
sukuna’s jaw ticks.
choso blinks at the ceiling. “she did bring cupcakes to the last pregame.”
“exactly,” gojo says, dramatic as ever. “she’s, like, wife-coded. sukuna doesn’t do wife-coded.”
“maybe he’s bored,” geto says. “maybe he’s finally fucked so many girls that his dick gave up and retired.”
that gets a laugh from the others, loud and easy.
sukuna doesn’t laugh.
he doesn’t say a word.
he just sits there, beer forgotten in his hand, staring into the dim space between the couch and the coffee table, jaw clenched, heart beating a little too loud in his chest.
because they don’t get it. they don’t know.
they don’t know how it feels to sit beside someone who trusts you with everything and have to pretend you don’t want to kiss them every time they smile.
they don’t know what it’s like to want something real for once. something soft. something that doesn’t taste like regret the morning after.
they don’t know how long it’s been since he’s touched anyone else. how the thought of it makes his stomach turn. how no one else even registers anymore. how she ruined him for all of it without even trying.
and he’s not gonna tell them.
because they wouldn’t believe him anyway.
so he just shifts in his chair, downs the rest of his drink, and says, flat and final, “maybe i’m just waiting for the right girl.”
it shuts them up for a second.
then gojo laughs again and geto raises his brows like he’s not sure whether he’s joking, and choso mutters something about being too high for this conversation.
but sukuna’s not joking.
not even a little.
the teasing eventually fades, replaced by the quiet clink of bottles and the hum of low music someone forgot to turn off. choso’s officially half-asleep, sprawled sideways across the loveseat with a blanket someone definitely didn’t offer him. geto’s back to nursing the tequila bottle like it personally wronged him, and gojo’s now laying upside down on the couch, legs dangling off the back like he’s trying to cause a scene with gravity.
“so,” choso mumbles, voice thick and lazy. “that mixer next weekend still on?”
“yeah,” gojo says without moving. “gamma’s throwing it with phi sig. should be decent. free drinks and better music than last time. they’re renting actual speakers this time, not just hijacking someone’s spotify on a jbl.”
“can i bring shiu?” choso asks, blinking slow like it takes effort.
“yeah,” gojo says, waving his hand. “he’s in delta nu, right?”
choso hums something that might be a yes or might be the sound of sleep taking him.
sukuna sits up slightly, beer bottle still hanging from his fingers. “can i bring y/n?”
gojo doesn’t even hesitate.
“nah.”
sukuna’s jaw clenches. “why not?”
“you know why not,” gojo says, finally flipping over to sit upright. “it’s a greek-only mixer. she’s not in a frat or a sorority.”
“she’s basically in this frat,” sukuna says, a little sharper than he means to. “she’s at every party. she knows everyone. she’s closer to you assholes than half the pledges.”
geto sighs, not looking up. “that’s not the point. the chapters are paying for the event. they want it to stay within the system. it’s political.”
“it’s bullshit,” sukuna mutters.
“you think i don’t agree?” gojo says, more gently now. “i love her. she’s our friend. but if one non-greek shows up, it opens the door for more, and then it’s a whole thing. alumni get pissy. mixers stop happening. and for what? a night where she already has better places to be?”
sukuna’s quiet for a second.
the air goes still.
because yeah, maybe you do have better places to be. you’re always buzzing around campus, always getting invited to every little thing. somehow you’ve charmed everyone without even trying. the girl who bakes cookies for your friends and brings tupperware to parties. the girl who’ll sit and talk with a drunk freshman for forty-five minutes just to make sure she gets home safe. the one everyone trusts, everyone likes.
but you’re not one of them.
not on paper.
not enough to be invited.
and it stings in a way sukuna can’t explain without sounding like he cares too much.
“she wouldn’t even care,” geto says after a beat. “she probably wouldn’t wanna go anyway.”
sukuna shakes his head slowly. “she would. not for the party. just to be around us.”
“then invite her to the after,” gojo says, too casually. “she can come once the official stuff’s over. like always.”
and that’s what gets under his skin.
like always.
like you’re some shadow they keep waiting in the wings. welcome, but not official. close, but not close enough. always there, always giving, and never asking for anything back.
but sukuna knows you.
knows you’d never say it hurts. never ask for an invite. never press your nose against the glass and say you want in. because you’re sweet. because you don’t want to make a scene. because you think you’re lucky just to be included at all.
and maybe that’s what kills him most.
sukuna doesn’t respond right away. just rolls the bottle between his hands and nods once, like it doesn’t bother him. like it’s fine.
but it does bother him.
because you've been at every party, every hangout, every busted-up couch gathering like this one. you're as much a part of this group as any of them, maybe more. you're the glue, the heart. the one person who always shows up and always makes it better just by being there.
and suddenly you're not allowed?
he gets it. he does. house rules. dumb frat politics. whatever. but still.
he’s never wanted to bring someone to one of these before. never even thought about it. but the second it came up, your name was already halfway out of his mouth.
and now it’s stuck there, burning.
gojo reaches over, clinks his glass against sukuna’s bottle. “next time, yeah?”
sukuna forces a tight smile and tips his drink back.
“yeah,” he lies. “next time.”
~
the next night.
it’s late when you hear the knock.
past eleven. campus is quiet outside your window, the kind of stillness that only happens after a long day of classes and too much caffeine. your desk light’s still on, laptop humming, a playlist playing low as you scribble in the margins of your notes with a pink pen you definitely didn’t borrow from sukuna and never give back.
you blink up at the sound, confused, and push back from your chair just as the front door swings open without waiting for you.
sukuna steps in, keys jingling between his fingers, sweat clinging to the collar of his black t-shirt.
“jesus,” you say, raising your brows. “you ever heard of knocking?”
he shrugs, already kicking off his sneakers. “you gave me a key.”
“for emergencies. or bringing me food. this is trespassing.”
“it’s not trespassing if i live here part-time.”
“you don’t.”
“i do, emotionally.”
you narrow your eyes, watching as he kicks the door shut behind him and rakes a hand through his sweat-damp hair. he looks irritated. flushed. like he’s been fighting someone or about to.
“you coming from a girl’s place or something?” you ask, trying to sound casual, but the words slip out a little more bitter than you mean.
he pauses, one foot halfway out of his sock.
“something like that,” he mutters.
it wasn't something like that. he'd been running, something he'd been doing a lot lately instead of his nightly rendezvous with his copious amounts of side chicks. after he went non intentionally celibate, he'd started putting the excess energy he wasn't using in basketball to do laps around campus.
but he couldn't tell you that. couldn't just say, 'yeah, i've been running marathons lately because my dick goes limp at the thought of even touching another women.' so he just chalked it up to whatever your mind was thinking.
you blink, surprised he didn’t throw a joke at you or roll his eyes. didn’t make a crack about what kind of position she had him in or if he should shower before sitting on your bed.
instead he just pulls off his shirt and flops down face-first into your comforter like he’s lived here forever.
you stare for a second at the smooth line of his back, the tribal tattoos, the way he exhales like your room is the first place he’s been able to breathe all day.
“…you okay?” you ask, stepping toward the bed.
he grunts.
“great conversation,” you mutter, crawling up onto the mattress and poking him between the shoulder blades. “what’s with the dramatics, need to talk?”
he rolls onto his side, arm flung over his eyes, voice muffled. “i’m not allowed to bring you to the mixer.”
you blink. “hm?”
you knew of the mixer and you knew you weren't going, you weren't in a sorority.
“they said no,” he says, finally lowering his arm just enough to squint at you. “strictly greek. no exceptions. even though choso’s dragging that freak shiu and he’s barely greek. and even though you’ve been at more of our events than half the guys actually in the frat.”
you go try not to giggle at his display.
“i see,” you say. “it’s fine ryo. i didn’t expect to go anyway.”
“yeah, well, i wanted you to,” he snaps, sharper than he means to. he cleared his throat abit embarrassed before continuing. “was kind of the only reason i was looking forward to it.”
you stare at him, taken aback.
he groans and throws an arm over his face again. “god. it’s so fucking stupid. i don’t even wanna go if you’re not gonna be there.”
you sit beside him, folding your legs under yourself. "hey don't say that, i'm sure you'll get your entertainments worth with what're dumb thing gojos bound to do there."
he rolls his eyes but a smirk pulls at his lips.
“you have to though, right?” you ask quietly. “frat rules?”
he grunts again, bitter. “mandatory attendance. gotta show face, shake hands, do shots with people i fucking hate. can’t just hang out with you like a normal person. it’s bullshit.”
you watch him for a second, hes clearly very upset on your behalf and it tugs at your heart to see him so sad for you.
the frustration in his shoulders. the tension still in his jaw. how tired he looks even though he won’t admit it. and how different he’s been lately, even if he tries to hide it.
it’s been weeks since you’ve seen him leave a party with someone. months since you’ve gotten a dumb flirty text from him at two in the morning about some girl with lip gloss and a sorority pin. instead it’s been this, late nights of cooking and movies at your place, quiet mornings where he'd crash on the couch, showing up sweaty and worn out without explaining why.
you don’t know what’s going on with him.
and you don’t ask.
because he’s still your best friend, he’s still sukuna, you never know what's going on with men like him. not really.
even if you wish sometimes he’d let you see past all the noise and into whatever he’s keeping buried under his skin.
“you could skip,” you offer after a long pause. “say you’re sick.”
he lifts his arm just enough to peek at you. “and miss out on disappointing every alumni watching the insta stories? unthinkable.”
you laugh.
and he smiles, barely.
then closes his eyes again, and says, quieter this time, “just wish it wasn’t like this.”
you don’t ask what he means.
you don’t have to.
you watch him stew for another minute, sprawled on your bed like a kicked dog, jaw tense and brows furrowed. you can tell he’s stuck in his head again, spiraling over something he can’t fix, so you do what you always do when sukuna gets like this.
you get up and go to the fridge.
“what are you doing?” he calls after you, but there’s already the tiniest lilt of curiosity in his voice.
you peek back over your shoulder, smiling shyly. “making you un-grumpy.”
you return with a container of the cookies you baked the night before, still soft from the fridge, the chocolate chips slightly hardened but perfect for biting into. you plop back down beside him and wiggle the container in front of his face.
“i come bearing peace offerings.”
he raises a brow. “what are they laced with?”
“love and all things happy and awesome,” you say sweetly. “now shut up and open.”
you settle onto his knee, the position so familiar it doesn’t even register as odd anymore. you’re perched sideways, comfortably pressed against him as you hold up a cookie to his mouth like you’ve done a thousand times before with different snacks, different moods, different nights.
he sighs like he’s being tortured, but opens his mouth and lets you push a bite past his lips.
and then he goes still.
you try to hide your smirk. “good, right?”
he chews slowly, then nods once, eyes flicking down to the cookie still in your hand. “fuck,” he mutters. “why are these better than the last ones?”
“because i added cinnamon this time,” you say proudly. “i’m a genius. a visionary. a baker ahead of my time. no need to lay it all on me at once.”
“you’re a menace,” he says, reaching for the container and grabbing one for himself. he takes another bite, then leans his head back with a groan. “jesus christ.”
you beam, satisfied. “mood improved?”
he glances down at you, his arm sliding a little more securely around your waist, holding you in place like it’s just instinct. “a little.”
you twist to face him more fully, still sitting across one of his legs, knees bent and shoulder pressing into his chest. “well, i accept your gratitude. payment accepted in the form of continued affection and possibly letting me pick the movie tonight.”
“you say that like you weren’t going to pick it anyway,” he says, but his voice has gone soft.
you don’t move, just rest your cheek lightly against his shoulder. it’s quiet again, in that comfortable, lived-in way. his fingers drift absentmindedly along the hem of your shirt, not even thinking about it, and you feel the shift before it happens.
he sets the cookie down and wraps both arms around you, pulling you fully into his chest.
you blink in surprise as your face smushes into his neck, but your arms slip around his waist anyway, your cheek settling against his skin with a tiny, surprised smile.
this… isn’t unheard of.
but it’s not common either.
not like this.
not this long, not this full-bodied, not this quiet. not this careful.
he doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. just breathe in sync, slow and even, held together in the kind of closeness that feels like it means something more than either of you are ready to admit. it doesn’t feel playful. it doesn’t feel casual.
it feels like everything unsaid is pressing in between the space of your bodies.
and still, you don’t pull away.
you stay wrapped around each other, soft and steady in the glow of your little kitchen light. the rest of the world fades out. no frat politics, no mixers, no rules. just your warmth against his chest, the scent of cookies on the air, and his heartbeat pressed right against your cheek.
you smile against him, a little giddy, a little shy, and squeeze your arms around him just a little tighter.
he squeezes back.
"such a softie."
"shut up."
~
friday night, gamma.
the music’s already shaking the walls by the time sukuna and gojo pull up to the house.
the lights are low, the windows are glowing purple, and there’s a line of girls on the front lawn taking pictures against the greek letters like they’re on the fucking red carpet. half of them are laughing too loud, the other half are posing like they’re about to sell flat tummy tea. it’s a mess.
gojo whistles low under his breath. “god damn. they went all out tonight.”
sukuna says nothing, just shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and follows gojo toward the front door, already wishing he’d stayed in.
inside, it’s worse.
the house smells like weed, body spray, and some kind of mango-flavored vodka someone definitely spilled on the carpet. the bass is pounding. the lights are cycling through seizure-inducing colors. and the living room is filled wall to wall with girls in the tiniest outfits he’s ever seen.
crop tops so small they’re practically bras, skirts that could pass for belts, dresses that ride up with every step. legs, boobs, glitter, perfume. like a scene out of a movie, only louder and stickier.
gojo grins, elbowing him in the side. “this is what i’m talking about, man these chicks are drooling.”
“mhm,” sukuna mutters, eyes skimming the crowd without interest.
gojo keeps going, clearly amped. “look at her, jesus. i could write a poem about that ass. might get it tattooed.”
sukuna hums, tuning him out. lets the words wash over him without meaning. he’s good at that now. nodding, smirking, pretending to be the guy they all think he is.
“oh my god,” gojo says again, eyes glued to another girl passing by in a see-through mesh top. “this one’s not even wearing a bra. she’s doing the lord’s work.”
“praise be,” sukuna deadpans.
gojo laughs, already drifting toward the drinks table like a moth to flame, eyes darting everywhere.
sukuna doesn’t follow.
he stands near the door, shoulder against the wall, letting the party swirl around him. girls brush past him on the way to the kitchen, one of them flashing a smile he doesn’t return. he watches two of them grind against each other like they’re auditioning for attention, and someone tugs on his hoodie in passing, trying to get his attention.
he doesn’t even blink.
because all he can think about is how quiet your apartment was last night.
how your laugh sounded when he tried to talk with his mouth full of cookie. how you looked sitting on his knee, eyes crinkling, fingers brushing crumbs from his shirt.
how easy it was.
how real.
and this? this feels like a joke.
he used to love this shit. the noise, the chaos, the attention. he used to thrive in it. let it fill him up, drown out all the parts of himself that didn’t make sense.
but now it just feels loud.
pointless.
empty.
he pulls his phone from his pocket and checks it without thinking.
no texts.
you’re probably curled up on your couch right now with a mug of tea and some documentary about weird animals. maybe wearing one of your oversized sweaters. maybe thinking about him. maybe not.
he sighs, leans his head back against the wall, and closes his eyes for a second.
wishing, more than anything, that he was with you instead.
meanwhile...
your dorm was quiet tonight.
just the low hum of your mini fridge, the soft whir of the fan you’ve wedged into the corner by the window, and the occasional clatter of your own movements as you putter around your tiny kitchen.
you’re barefoot on the tile, hoodie sleeves rolled up to your elbows, your hair pulled back haphazardly. the playlist you always turn on while baking is playing softly, the comfort stuff, the songs you don’t have to think about. your body moves automatically, reaching for ingredients, measuring out flour and sugar like muscle memory.
but your mind’s somewhere else entirely.
you keep thinking about last night. about the way sukuna looked when he walked through your door, sweaty and annoyed and tired, like the world was grating against him. and how he softened when you sat on his lap and fed him cookies. how he looked at you like you were the only thing anchoring him to earth.
that long hug.
you can still feel it.
his arms wrapped around you, your cheek against his chest, the quiet warmth of his body pressed fully into yours like he didn’t want to let go. it wasn’t playful. it wasn’t some joke. it felt like something else. something deeper. something you’re too scared to name.
you missed him the second he left.
you always do.
but tonight, it aches a little more. hell, it aches a hell of a lot.
because you know where he is right now. or, at least, where he’s supposed to be — at that mixer with gojo and the rest of the guys. shoulder to shoulder with every sorority girl on campus. probably surrounded by glitter and perfume and girls in backless dresses.
you try not to picture it.
you try not to imagine him pressed up against someone in a dark corner, hands on her hips, whispering something smooth into her ear. it’s what he used to do, after all. it’s what everyone still thinks he does.
you’ve never asked.
but it’s easier to believe he’s still out there being sukuna, your charming, cocky, slightly feral best friend who fucks around and never gets attached. it’s easier than hoping for something more.
you sigh and lean your hands on the edge of the sink, staring out the window for a moment before pushing off again and turning back to the counter.
if he is out there right now, tangled up with some girl, then so be it. it’s not your business. he’s your friend. he’s always been your friend. and that’s enough.
you shake away the little ache curling up in your chest and reach for the eggs.
he likes custard tarts.
you remember him mentioning it months ago, offhanded, when you were watching some cooking show together and he snorted at a pastry challenge. 'that shit’s easy,' he’d said, and then casually added, 'my grandma used to make those all the time. i could eat like five in one sitting.'
so you’re going to make him some.
you don’t know if he’ll even come by tomorrow, but if he does, it’ll be waiting for him. warm, golden, sweet. something quiet to show him you were thinking about him, even if you won’t say it out loud.
you dust your hands with flour and start rolling out the pastry crust, humming under your breath, praying this suffocating guilt in your chest will soon subside.
back with the man of the hour.
the kitchen is hotter than hell.
bodies packed in tight, music thudding through the walls, the floor sticky with spilled drinks and god-knows-what. it smells like tequila, sweat, and cologne, like every mixer always does. sukuna’s perched at the corner of the counter with a half-empty shot glass in his hand, the burn of whatever cheap liquor they’re using tonight still clinging to his throat.
he’s a few drinks in, not drunk, but warm. loose. not enough to forget, just enough to blur the edges.
“yo,” someone says, slapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. “you still out here slaying or what?
it’s ino, one of the phi sig guys. bleach-blond, grinning like a golden retriever, drunk enough that his words are dragging a little.
sukuna doesn’t answer right away.
he can feel the pause stretching. can feel the weight of it. because he knows exactly where this is going.
“what?” ino says, laughing. “don’t tell me the infamous sukuna went soft on us.”
he’s joking. mostly.
but nearby, sukuna catches gojo’s eyes.
he’s leaning against the wall with a drink in one hand, watching the conversation like a hawk. and when their gazes meet, gojo raises one brow, just slightly. the look is clear.
'just lie to them.'
gojo doesn’t say it out loud, but he doesn’t need to.
because sukuna’s got a reputation. one the frat’s leaned on for years, their golden weapon. their sexed-up, reckless, untouchable president’s right-hand menace. the one who sets the tone at parties, the one who doesn’t hesitate to bang anyone, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t change.
and if word gets out that ryomen sukuna hasn’t laid a hand on anyone in months, that he’s been skipping hookups to hang out with you in your tiny dorm room, baking cookies and trading sleepy smiles? well.
it wouldn’t look good.
not for him. not for the frat. not for the image.
so he swallows the sick twist in his gut and flashes a grin that feels so disgustingly wrong on his face.
“you know how it is,” he says smoothly, rolling his neck like he’s already bored of the conversation. “been busy. but yeah. still getting mine.”
ino laughs and passes him another shot, already leaning in. “anyone good?”
“couple girls from chi o,” sukuna says, shrugging one shoulder. “blonde one — i forget her name. maybe claire? she was loud. pretty sure half the floor heard us.”
ino hollers and claps him on the back, and someone nearby chimes in with a “my fucking guy.”
sukuna downs the shot.
he keeps going.
“hooked up with that junior from zeta last week too. the one with the snake tattoo.”
“mia?” ino gasps.
“yeah,” sukuna half lies, licking his teeth. “she’s got this thing where she likes being choked. like, full hand, no hesitation. freaky as fuck, but she took it like a champ.”
there’s laughter. back slaps. someone throws him another beer.
and sukuna plays along.
he leans into the scumbag act. tells them about how he made her beg. how he didn’t even bother texting her after. throws in some bullshit about how she kept whining for round three and he just left.
and it’s easy, this was how he used to be after all.
his voice is smooth, confident, practiced. he says the words like he’s proud of them. like they don’t taste like ash and piss in his mouth. like they aren’t killing him from the inside out.
because the truth is, he hasn’t touched anyone since he realized he was in love with you.
sure he's fucked those girl before, just not as of late.
no blonde named claire. no snake tattoo. no begging, no choking, no careless sex with strangers who mean nothing.
just you.
just the way you looked at him the other night, eyes wide and sweet while you perched on his knee. just the way you made him feel full with nothing but a bite of cookie and a laugh. just the way your arms wrapped around him without hesitation. like he was someone worth holding onto.
but he can’t say that here.
he can’t be that guy.
so he keeps lying. keeps playing the role. keeps smiling through the noise and the heat and the taste of someone else’s expectations on his tongue.
and all the while, in the back of his mind, he’s wondering what you’re doing right now. if your oven’s still on. if your hands are covered in flour. if you’re thinking about him too.
god, he hopes you are. safe away from this performative monster he's so carefully curated.
later.
things have gone off the rails.
the house is sweltering now, bodies packed in so tight you can barely breathe. music’s still blasting, bass heavy enough to make your ribs shake, lights flickering red and blue and green over swaying heads. sweat slicks the walls, the floors are sticky with god-knows-what, and the air smells like beer, weed, and perfume way too sweet to be expensive.
sukuna’s sunk low into the couch in the middle of the living room, a drink sweating in his hand, head tilted back. his shirt sticks to his skin, his legs are spread, and his eyes are half-lidded, glazed over. he’s a few drinks deep, but not enough to be drunk, just enough to dull the headache that’s been building since he walked in.
choso’s next to him, nursing a blunt, and shiu’s perched on the armrest, scrolling through his phone with dead eyes.
“this party fucking blows,” shiu mutters, not looking up.
“wasn’t it your idea to come?” choso says.
“yeah, and i was wrong. fuck me.”
“everyone’s just trying to fuck each other,” choso says flatly. “like aggressively. it’s like a brothel in here.”
“with worse lighting,” shiu adds.
sukuna doesn’t say anything. just watches the way two girls are sloppily grinding against each other on the floor, their drinks spilling down their arms, mascara already halfway down their cheeks. somewhere across the room, someone’s moaning against the wall like they’re getting railed in public, which, honestly, they probably are.
he’s halfway through zoning out again when it happens.
a blonde drops into his lap like a stone.
he barely registers her until she’s already straddling him, arms looped around his neck, tits pushed up and glittering under the party lights.
“found you,” she purrs, loud in his ear. her voice is syrupy sweet, her lips glossed thick and shiny. she presses a wet kiss to his cheek without waiting for permission, then trails her mouth down to his neck.
his body locks up. 'ew.'
she smells like candy and sweat. her lashes are so fake they look heavy. her nails scrape his shoulder through his shirt like she’s trying to get a grip.
“you’re sukuna, right?” she asks, already moving her hips in his lap. “heard you’re fun.”
he wants to shove her off.
wants to grab her wrists and tell her to get the fuck off him, now. because nothing about this feels good. nothing about this feels right. she’s too close, too loud, too much. and all he can think is 'this isn’t you.'
but then he glances up.
and he sees them.
those same frat guys he took shots with earlier, ino and the rest. watching him from across the room with wide eyes and cocky grins. waiting. expecting. this was what they wanted, wasn’t it? the infamous sukuna he had bragged about not even an hour earlier. the legend. the sex god. they’re watching like they’re about to take notes.
and across the room, posted near the kitchen with a drink in hand, gojo is watching too.
his eyes lock with sukuna’s. one raised brow. jaw tight. a warning in his expression.
'don’t fuck this up. just pretend.' he mouths.
this is his job, after all. the frat’s bad boy, their wild card, the one who never slows down. his reputation isn’t just his anymore — it’s tied to the frat’s image, to the hierarchy, to the ego of every guy in this house who needs him to be that guy.
so sukuna doesn’t shove her off.
he lets her kiss his jaw. lets her whisper something slutty in his ear, lets her press her tits into his chest and grind against him like they’re already alone.
he lets her act like she owns him.
his hands rest loose on her waist. one slides down to her thigh, just for show. not tight. not real. just enough to make it look like he’s into it.
his skin crawls.
he doesn’t smile. doesn’t speak. he just sits there, dead behind the eyes, playing the part.
choso side-eyes him, a brow lifting. shiu’s halfway through another drink, watching the scene with a quiet kind of judgment.
sukuna doesn’t flinch.
but inside, he’s somewhere else entirely.
he’s thinking about you.
your dorm. your stupid cozy couch. your face lighting up when he told you your cookies were perfect. your hands brushing against his. your warmth.
the way you held him like you knew.
and now he’s here.
pretending.
surrounded by noise and bodies and fake gold glitter. kissing strangers in front of an audience, playing the role of someone he hasn’t been in a long time.
and all he wants is to be home.
with you.
the girl’s hands are everywhere.
on his chest, sliding under his shirt. in his hair, tugging hard like it’s supposed to be sexy. her mouth is hot and wet on his neck, and she keeps saying shit in his ear he can’t even hear over the bass rumbling through the floor.
he doesn’t want this.
hasn’t wanted this from the second she crawled into his lap.
but now she’s pulling him up off the couch, dragging him by the hand through the throng of sweaty bodies. she’s laughing, shrieking something about going upstairs, or maybe back to her place, either way, her grip is iron and her intentions are clear. and people are watching.
he can feel the eyes on him.
guys slapping him on the back as he passes, grinning, nodding, giving him looks that say that’s our guy.the same ones who were cheering earlier when she straddled him like a chair in the middle of the party. girls whispering, side-eyes thrown like confetti.
and gojo.
gojo’s standing near the bottom of the stairs now, cup in hand, watching sukuna get dragged toward the front door like some kind of prize.
they lock eyes.
sukuna hesitates for a beat.
gojo steps forward and claps a hand on his arm, grip tight for a second. he leans in, expression unusually serious beneath the usual shine of his grin.
“sorry, man,” he murmurs under the music. “i shouldn’t have made you do all that shit.”
sukuna doesn’t say anything. just nods once, jaw clenched.
“you’re a good soldier,” gojo adds, half-joking, half-sincere. “but you don’t gotta burn yourself out for the frat.”
sukuna’s too tired to respond. the girl’s tugging on his arm again, fingers clawed around his wrist like she thinks he’ll vanish if she lets go.
they step out the front door into the night.
the air outside is colder than it should be, sharp against his sweaty skin. it hits his lungs too fast. makes him dizzy.
she turns to him immediately, mouth already open. “so i live, like, five minutes away. unless you wanna go to yours? my roommate’s out, so—”
her hands are on his chest again. fumbling with the hem of his shirt, nails dragging over his stomach like she’s mapping him out with zero permission. she presses herself into him, mouth seeking his again, clumsy and insistent.
and that’s when it hits.
the disgust.
the wrongness.
the way it makes his skin crawl, makes his stomach twist. not because she’s unattractive, not because she’s done anything “wrong” by frat party standards — but because she’s not you.
and this? this isn’t him.
he jerks away from her touch as she snakes her hand over the bulge in his jeans.
“stop.”
she blinks, confused. tries to laugh it off, like maybe he’s teasing. “what?”
“i said stop,” he snaps, stepping back. “jesus fucking christ.”
her face falls.
“you can’t just—” she starts, but he’s already shaking his head.
“go." he almost yells. "go home,” he says sharply. “alone.”
her jaw drops like she’s about to protest again, but he’s not listening. he turns, already walking, the cold air slicing through his clothes, his breath fogging up in the dark.
he doesn’t look back.
the sounds of the party are muffled now, swallowed up by the night. but they still echo in his head. the music, the laughter, the voices cheering him on like he’s some kind of fucking mascot. the fake moans and the fake smiles and the way it felt to be watched like he owed everyone a show.
he lights a cigarette with shaking hands.
his stomach still feels sick.
and all he can think about, as the taste of cherry lip gloss lingers like poison, is how right it felt to be on your couch. how warm your kitchen was. how soft your hands were when you brushed his hair back from his forehead like he was something worth caring for.
he walks faster.
because if he doesn’t get away from all this now, he’s not sure he ever will.
his footsteps echo off the pavement, sharp in the emptiness, and his lungs burn with every breath. the cigarette is still between his fingers, barely smoked, the ember flickering weakly in the dark.
he can’t stop shaking.
his skin feels wrong. like something’s still crawling on it. like her hands are still there. he rubs his neck with the heel of his palm, hard, like he can wipe it off. the gloss, the heat, the fakeness of it all.
his stomach lurches.
he stops walking and bends forward instinctively, one hand on his knee, the other bracing against the cold brick wall of the nearest building. he spits once onto the sidewalk, tastes bile and tequila and something rotten.
he breathes through his nose.
in, out, in, out.
think of something else.
think of anything else.
but all he can think about is you.
the way you'd light up when you'd spot him on campus, how you'd always gravitate towards him at parties and hang outs. your stupid soft hoodie sleeves pushed up to your elbows, hands covered in flour, smiling like he was your favorite part of your day.
and god, all he wanted to was erase his entire past to start a clean, virgin slate with you.
he almost let some stranger girl touch him in a way he wishes only you would. he let her sit on him, kiss him, grab at him, and he didn’t stop it. didn’t stop it until it was nearly too late.
and for what?
some frat reputation?
gojo’s approval?
a bunch of guys who only know his name because of the stories he used to make up?
he could fucking vomit.
he dry heaves once, hard, and his whole body folds in. he grips the edge of a trash bin like it’ll keep him upright, knuckles going white. but nothing comes up. just air and guilt and the way your name sits on his tongue like a bruise.
'you’re not even mine.'
he reminds himself of that again and again. you’re not his. you’ve never kissed. never fucked. never even admitted how you feel.
you’re just friends. best friends, maybe. roommates in a different life. partners in crime when things are light.
but he knows what this is. knows what’s happening to him.
you’ve ruined him.
your gentleness. your kindness. the way you hold his face when you’re teasing him and don’t even realize it. the way you hug him like he’s worth something. like you see him, all of him, and still choose to stay.
and now he’s here. shaking and fucked-up in the street, gagging over the ghost of a girl who doesn’t matter, while you're sitting at home in your dorm when you could of been here with him, that way, he'd never of let another girl get close, he's speaks the night sitting on the porch, with you.
he sinks down onto the curb, elbows braced on his knees, cigarette hanging limp from his fingers. his vision swims, hot and sharp, his head tipping back to stare at the stars he can’t even see through the city haze.
he should’ve stayed with you.
he should’ve just stayed home, with you.
his hands are trembling when he reaches into his pocket. he fishes blindly past his lighter, crumpled receipts, a folded-up flyer someone handed him earlier, until his fingers close around metal.
your dorm keys.
he pulls them out slowly.
they sit in his palm, warm from his body heat. a pink little charm you’d added dangles from the ring, a squishy cartoon animal he never bothered to learn the name of, even though you told him three times. it jiggles as he stares down at it, breath catching in his throat.
he clenches his fist around them.
tight.
like it’ll keep him grounded. like it’ll make you real again.
the night presses in around him. too quiet, too still. but that ache in his chest, the sour twist in his gut, it all starts to blur the second he stands up and starts walking.
~
your apartment smells like vanilla and nutmeg.
you pull the tray from the oven with slow, tired movements, fingers twitching slightly through the worn edges of your oven mitts. you place it carefully on the cooling rack, your shoulders drooping.
they turned out perfect.
golden brown, smooth custard centers with just the right shimmer. they look like something out of a recipe book. the kind of thing you’d proudly serve someone you care about.
someone who promised he’d come over this weekend.
someone who’s probably in a stranger’s bed right now.
you press your lips together and exhale through your nose, eyes fluttering shut.
that ache in your chest still hasn’t gone away. it’s not sharp anymore, not like earlier, when you imagined his hands on someone else, but it’s still there. dull. tight. like a bruise that refuses to fade.
you try to distract yourself. start wiping down the counter. humming softly. pretending.
and then—
bang.
a clatter at the door. a commotion, keys fumbling against the lock. your head snaps up, heart slamming into your ribs.
before you can move, the door bursts open.
a heaving sukuna stumbles inside.
he’s wild-eyed, flushed, sweaty, like he’s run the whole way here. his shirt’s wrinkled, his jacket half-zipped, one sleeve rolled up and the other down. his hair’s a mess. his knuckles are scraped.
he looks terrible.
and he looks right at you.
for one beat, just one, everything stops.
your eyes meet, and it’s like all the oxygen rushes back into the room. the ache in your chest disappears, the weight behind his eyes fades, the tension that was tearing both of you apart evaporates the second you’re locked into each other’s gaze.
you smile first. a smile he so dearly loved to see.
small. instinctive. like it slips out before you can stop it.
and that’s all it takes.
sukuna moves fast, like something in him finally gives out, and suddenly he’s in front of you, arms wrapping around your body like he needs you to breathe. his chest crashes into yours, hard, and his arms hook tight around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.
your hands flutter up, half-startled, and you steady yourself against his shoulders.
he’s holding you like he’s drowning.
“jesus,” you laugh softly, trying to ease the weight, “what, some girl give you blue balls or something—”
you don’t finish the sentence.
because his grip tightens.
his arms squeeze harder, fingers fisting into the back of your hoodie like he’s trying to climb inside of you.
his face buries into your neck. and then you hear it.
a sniffle.
not a dramatic one, not obvious, not loud, but small and choked off, like he’s trying not to let it out at all.
your breath catches.
his body trembles once, a subtle shiver that passes through him like a quake, and suddenly your joke feels cruel, your smile falters, and your heart lodges somewhere in your throat.
your voice drops, softer than you’ve ever used with him.
“ryo…”
you pull back just enough to see his face.
his eyes are glassy. rimmed red. lashes damp like he’s been holding it in for a while. and when he blinks, slow and heavy, a single tear finally falls, trailing down the sharp angle of his cheek.
your heart cracks clean in two.
like your body just knows, like it feels his pain before you can even register it, your own eyes burn immediately. you try to hold it in, but it stings anyway. wells up fast, like your chest doesn’t know how to hold all the ache that’s suddenly there.
he sees it.
his lips twitch, and he forces out a quiet, watery chuckle. “of course you're that kinda person” he murmurs, voice thick. “the type to cry when someone else cries. like it’s a reflex or something.”
you swallow around the lump in your throat. “i've only done it for you.”
that makes him go still.
your hand lifts to his cheek, thumb brushing just under his eye, and your voice trembles with the weight of it all. “because i care about you, ryo. so much. more than i can even explain.”
his breath stutters.
and for a second, he doesn’t say anything.
he just looks at you, like you’re something he’s been waiting for his whole life. and then he smiles, soft and small and cracked open, and leans forward until his forehead is pressed to yours again.
you close your eyes.
you fall into each other like instinct.
your arms wrap around his neck again, and his circle your waist. tighter this time. not desperate. just sure.
you still don’t know why he’s crying.
he hasn’t told you anything. hasn’t explained the bloodshot eyes or the tremble in his hands or the way he stumbled through your door like you were home.
but none of that matters.
because he’s sad.
and that makes you sad.
so you hold him. and he holds you back.
"y/n. i love you."
you freeze.
like your whole body forgets how to move.
his voice is quiet, broken at the edges, low and raw like it got scraped out of his chest just for you. you feel it before you even fully process it. like the words ripple through your bloodstream faster than they hit your ears.
you pull back just slightly, eyes wide, breath caught somewhere in your throat.
“h-huh…?”
his gaze is already on you. steady. not flinching. his brows are pinched like he’s terrified, like he’s bracing for the worst, but his hands never leave you. they stay right where they’ve been, one at the small of your back, the other cradling your side like he’s holding something fragile.
“i love you,” he says again, firmer this time. “i think i’ve loved you since the first time you told me about some weird show you liked and forgot to breathe because you were talking too fast. i didn’t know it then, but—fuck, y/n. it’s you. it’s always been you.”
your eyes sting.
you’re not sure if you’re breathing.
his thumb rubs absent circles at your hip. his voice is shaking.
“i haven’t touched anyone since i figured it out. haven’t even looked at anyone like that. i tried to pretend it wasn’t a big deal. i told myself i could just be around you like normal and it’d pass. but it didn’t. it just got worse. everything felt worse without you.”
you press your lips together, hard.
your chest is aching so sweetly it almost feels like pain.
“you don’t have to say anything,” he adds quickly, eyes flicking over your face. “i know this is a lot. i just—i couldn’t keep lying. not after tonight.”
you open your mouth, then close it again.
you’re not even sure what expression’s on your face, shock? relief? some impossible mixture of everything you’ve ever felt for him suddenly rising to the surface all at once.
but eventually, finally, your voice comes out.
quiet.
“say it again.”
his brows lift.
you lean in closer, eyes shining. “please. just say it one more time.”
he swallows.
and then he breathes it like a vow.
“i love you.”
you surge forward, arms around his neck, and kiss him like it’s the only thing you’ve been trying not to do for months.
and this time, he doesn’t tremble.
he melts.
like he’s been waiting his whole life just for this.
your lips part from his just enough to breathe.
his eyes are still closed, like he’s trying to memorize the way you taste, the way your fingers feel curled into the back of his neck. and you watch him for a second — the way his lashes tremble, the way his chest rises and falls like he’s never been kissed before.
and then you say it.
soft.
barely more than a whisper.
“i love you too.”
his eyes open slow.
like he needs to see your face to make sure it’s real.
and when he does, when he sees the truth of it in your eyes, your smile, the way your hand lingers over his heart like it belongs there, he laughs.
it’s small at first. breathless. disbelieving.
then you start laughing too.
and it bubbles out of both of you, giddy and bright, like it’s been waiting there under the surface all this time, the kind of laughter that spills into kisses, that makes your foreheads knock together, that leaves you smiling so wide your cheeks ache.
you’re both a little teary still. a little overwhelmed.
but it doesn’t matter.
because when he kisses you again, deeper this time, fuller, with both hands cupping your face like he’s never going to let you go, it’s not heavy. it’s not hard. it’s not desperate.
it’s just good.
it’s just right.
like the floodgates have finally opened, and everything you’ve both been holding back comes pouring out in warmth and wonder and wonder and wonder.
you’re still holding the edges of each other when he pulls back just enough to whisper against your lips.
“you’re it for me.”
and you smile.
because he’s it for you too.
you’re both still smiling, flushed and warm and tangled up in each other, when he suddenly sniffs the air.
his nose scrunches. he blinks. then his head slowly turns toward the counter behind you.
“…wait.”
you already know what’s coming.
he sniffs again, exaggerated and dramatic, eyebrows lifting higher with every inhale. “is that—?” he gasps, stepping around you to look.
“your favourite?” you finish, barely holding back your grin.
his eyes go wide. cartoonishly wide.
“you made them?”
you nod, biting your bottom lip, and gesture toward the cooling tray like you’re unveiling the secret ingredient in a baking show. “fresh from the oven. made them for you, actually. figured you might come by after—”
you don’t even finish the sentence before he lets out the softest noise, like a choked gasp of joy, (very uncharacteristically cute for him.) and practically tackles you in a hug.
“you’re so cute,” he says, spinning you around like it’s instinct, like you’re weightless. you squeal, laughing into his shoulder, clinging to him as he twirls you once in a giddy circle. “you made me custard tarts? i could eat you up right here, i swear to god.”
“ahh i see, so you're gonna eat me and the tarts? someone's getting greedy.”
“absolutely.”
you laugh breathlessly, hands braced against his chest as he sets you back down. “god you perv, did you have to ruin it?”
“sorry, sorry,” he mutters, grinning like an idiot.
he leans in and kisses you again, soft and sweet, then cups your cheeks like you’re something precious and kisses you again, deeper, like he can’t help it, like you’re his favorite dessert.
“always wanted to thank you like this,” he murmurs against your lips. “for all the stuff you do for me. the baking, the hugs, the late-night pep talks. all of it. i just never had the guts.”
you giggle, your hands sliding up his arms as you melt into him again.
and as he dips you backward like he’s about to marry you right there in your tiny kitchen, you decide the tarts can wait just a little longer.
my 2k special i hope you liked it 😎
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.
I'm fixing it before Gege decides to 👍🏼
....
Please do not repost!
Thanks!!
isanayoruho on twitter
. ･｡･ right where you left me ࿐gojo satoru.
── ◜ ⪩⪨ ◞ content : angst, fluff, dad!gojo (reader ‘n’ gojo have a daughter), set in 2018 and 2023, reunion, beach trips, established relationship ! f!reader. ･｡･ w.c. 3.7k & not proofread.
── ◜ ⪩⪨ ◞ synopsis : time remains the one enemy gojo can’t defeat. ໒꒰ྀི ´ ꒳ ` ꒱ྀིა notes: ik there’s a gazillion reunion fics but this has been sitting in my drafts since oct n i suddenly felt like finishing n sharing so i hope u enjoy <333 ‘m gna go cry over this fic now ;u;
satoru is having a damn good day.
it’s suspicious, it feels like a fever dream, and he can’t really pinpoint where the dubiousness comes from. maybe it’s because he feels as if he doesn’t deserve it, like if he allows himself to relax like this something terrible will happen while he slacks off. or maybe, it’s because he’s only ever had those truly good days in his youth when he was devil may care and his concerns for the wellbeing of the world slid off his shoulders weightlessly, like sheets of rain on a rooftop. a wild and selfish kind of happiness that begun in spring and ended too quickly in winter.
but today is a good day. he forgot to charge his phone last night, he is in the best mood he’s been in all year, and he can’t stop fucking smiling. gojo satoru is thriving, on top of the world, a little bit of that nostalgic, adolescent joy warming up his chest.
and it’s all because it’s a sunny day, the water is cool, and he’s on the beach with you and his baby girl.
the three of you decided to steal away on a spontaneous trip to okinawa that forced him out of his work uniform and into swim trunks with a bare chest, simply because you burst into his office with big droplets of tears in your eyes declaring yourself a terrible mother because you realized that your daughter was already three years old and she had never seen the ocean before.
it had taken him ten minutes to book three first class tickets and secure the private family villa for the weekend, fifteen to get packed, and twenty to board after hearing that.
he would do anything to please his girls, after all.
“‘anna go into the bathtub, mama!” your baby whines impatiently from the embrace of your arms, squirming and squiggling for you to let her down as she points towards the rolling ocean waves behind you. ever since she learned how to walk, she’s lost all patience for her doting parents carrying her around— especially when something catches the attention of those big, pretty blue eyes. it didn’t take long for her to become enamored with the sea, wanting nothing more than to get out of your hold and toddle towards the shallows.
“it’s called an ‘ocean’, cupcake,” you correct her, voice full of amusement and affection as you crane your head forward to kiss the soft skin of her chubby cheek, bouncing the toddler in your arms. “too bad we’re being held hostage by dada right now.”
“i heard that,” satoru mumbles with a pout, his third melon popsicle of the day hanging from one side of his mouth. droplets of green slush drips onto the broad planes of his chest in a sticky mess as it melts but he’s wholly focused on the two of you, one summer blue eye winked closed as the other peers through the lens of the polaroid camera looped around his neck. “but wait, just one more photo of my two favorite girls!”
“you’ve been taking photos for the last twenty minutes, satoru,” you huff. “we aren’t going anywhere, you know. you don’t have to take so many.”
“our baby needs to see what the three of us looked like in our prime, before we grow old and gray together.”
“you’re so ridiculous, gojo satoru.”
but despite your exasperation, you remain put. it’s hard not to feel the same way he does on a perfect day like this— contentment, light in the heart and full of love because of this little trip. the camera focuses in on you and your daughter before the shutter clicks, each snap immortalizing the sight of you and your baby girl illuminated by the lazy autumn sun.
“and done!” he cheers, catching the polaroid in his palm as it slides from the slot. it wobbles between two of his fingers as it develops, but he can already see that it’s a perfect picture. he feels his heart sink in his chest, melting into a syrupy sweet puddle of happiness that makes him lightheaded and anxious.
oh, you’ve never looked as pretty as you do right now. like a dream, a forever kind of love he never plans to let go of. wearing that cute little swimsuit he likes so much with his sunnies perched on top of your head and his baby propped up on your supple hip. the two of you are beaming, cheeks squished together, your daughter’s hand cupping your face fondly.
it’s the kind of picture that others would coo at and fawn over if he framed it in a museum, but satoru retrieves his wallet from the pocket of his swim trunks, tucking the polaroid safely in the trifold for his own selfish keeping.
“i think she really likes the beach,” you tell him, squatting to set your daughter on her feet. she waves to you and satoru before waddling toward the shallow surf, her little legs stumbling in the thick body of sand. “this was good of you, satoru.”
“what? you think i’d miss the opportunity to spend time with my best girls?” he asks you, a hand on his chest with an affronted look on his face. you resist the urge to snort as the two of you follow closely behind your stumbling toddler, rushing towards her every time she gets distracted and attempts to eat the sand or chase one of the seagulls.
“you’ve been busy lately, that’s all,” is how you respond, the accusation washed out of your tone for the gentle words instead. you don’t bring up how many milestones, how many little memories he’s already missed, just by being who he is— that no matter what, he’ll always belong to his duty first and his family second. no, you’ve always shown patience and understanding. never complaining when his side of the bed is empty before morning or your girl requests for her father to read a bedtime story in that animated, comical way you can never replicate for her. making her settle for your offkey, wobbly lullabies instead.
“i know,” he says quietly, suddenly serious— keeping one eye on your baby girl who is currently splashing her hands around in the sand and water. “one of my first year’s a vessel so the curses are getting more pesky. i don’t think that’s a coincidence.”
“you think something’s about to happen?” you ask, looking up at him, but he presses a kiss to your temple and you wrinkle your nose at the sticky feeling of his lips.
“nah,” he replies, and you almost roll your eyes because you know he’s lying. even though satoru has done his best to keep you hidden from his world, you’re no fool. you already know why he rarely comes home at night, why he was absent for christmas last year, why your daughter has never met her paternal grandparents. you know that with the reappearance of several ancient cursed objects, there is thunder crackling among the clouds. “don’t worry your pretty little head about that.”
satoru turns up the volume on the waterproof boombox half-buried in the sand next to your belongings. he can’t stand your choice of music, finds it noise most of the time, but it’s the distraction the atmosphere needs to throw off your questioning. he pulls you to sit down between his legs, your back pressed against his chest and his arms wrapped around your body.
ocean foam splashes against the tips of your toes as the two of you sit at the surf of the tide in peaceful silence, time getting away from you both in the warm sun as your baby girl plays, her energy endless— waddling around and squealing at the different curiosities and wonders the beach has to offer.
whatever will happen, satoru won’t allow it to be today.
“satoru,” you call after a long quiet, craning your neck to look up at him. “if you—”
“what, you think i’m gonna croak sometime soon?” he shoots back, already knowing where the conversation is heading. so he holds you tighter, his strong arms a protective cage around your body as his shades slide down the attractive slope of his nose. he cracks a grin at you, another obvious deflection because he knows you can’t resist when he looks at you that way. not with his hair mussed from humidity, a strip of sunscreen on his nose as he chews on that damn wooden stick from his ice pop earlier.
“i know what you’re doing,” you shake your head. “and it’s not working. i’m just worried, i’m allowed to, as your wife. you think you’re invincible but if something happens to you that’ll… it’ll—” it will break us.
satoru’s smile fades, but he thankfully doesn’t need to reply because your daughter is waddling up to the both of you now, her sand-caked hands full of seashells and stones that glimmer in the sunlight. he wants to scoff because if anyone understands the consequences of failing those you love, it’s him— it’s all he’s ever known.
“what ya got there, princess?”
“fish—!” she cries in her sweet, babyish voice. some of the shells tumble from her hands, and you watch as her expression switches from happiness to dismay to finally confusion. you have to bite your lip to hold back laughter when instead of picking them back up, she dumps the rest of the seashells in your lap. “now i don’t have any fish.”
“i think those are seashells, princess,” gojo says with a grin, picking up a shell that rests on top of your thigh and holding it up to the sunlight. “this shell looks like it belongs to a hermit crab, like your megumi-nii.”
“you’re a terrible influence on our daughter, you know.”
“i’m just setting up future dynamics, angel face,” he grins.
“look look look!” your daughter gasps, bringing your attentions back to her. “this swee-shell looks like dada—!” she squeals excitedly, her new finding held delicately in her little sand-covered palm. she stands up on your thighs to reach her father sitting behind you, holding an iridescent blue seashell next to gojo’s eyes, her tiny mind comparing the colors in wonder. meanwhile, satoru wears a smile that burns so wide it hurts his cheeks.
“it looks like you too, princess,” he boops her nose, gently taking the seashell and holding it to her eyes next. her answering giggles sound like a sweet bell calling him home to heaven, but he can’t answer it because there are two people on this earth who laugh and smile at him like he hung the moon and painted the stars. “if you put it in your pocket now, the ocean won’t call the cops on you for stealing it.”
“no, this one ‘s for dada,” she insists, shoving the pretty blue seashell back into his hand.
“thank you, my mini angel,” he ruffles her hair, and you smile softly at the little exchange because though she may be enamored with her new discoveries at the beach, her father will always be one of her favorite wonders of the world.
“i ‘anna go find one for mama now!” she announces, and you wonder how she hasn’t run out of energy yet, but you nod and stand to your feet, dusting the sand away from the bottom of your swimsuit. your baby’s entire hand curls around your pointer finger, and she pulls you along with great effort.
you glance back at satoru and find that he’s watching the two of you head closer to the water, that uncharacteristically genuine smile still on his face, and you part your lips to call him to your side— where he’s always supposed to be.
“you didn’t think we’d let you slack off, did you? finding seashells is serious business, satoru!” you tease, pretty eyes crinkling with unbridled happiness, haloed by the waning sun and the orange dreamsicle sky that holds it. “hurry up!”
“wait for me just a little while, i’m coming to you,” he calls back, a lopsided grin spreading across his mouth before he raises the polaroid camera to his face, snapping one last candid photo of the two of you before he jogs towards his little piece of heaven.
but he doesn’t think he’s imagining things when the distance between heaven and earth keeps growing further and further apart—
“satoru, you can’t stand outside forever,” your voice is gentle as it speaks behind him, your hand laid delicately on his back in comfort; breaking the sorcerer out of deep reverie, the edges of the old memory fading, replaced by the pink paint of his daughter’s bedroom door that he’s been standing in front of for the last thirty minutes. his thumb brushes over the polaroid in his hand, the one that had been his salvation and his undoing in the prison realm. he’d taken it out without knowing, his eyes reading over the date written in his handwriting.
october 30, 2018
the picture of you with your daughter on your hip that he took at the beach all those years ago— that had been the last time he’d seen her.
four, no, five years?
his feet are nailed to the floor because change makes satoru shut down, and everything has changed since then.
while time was immeasurable and immovable inside of the prison realm for him, the clock had ticked on outside of it and just like that, his little girl is no longer three years old, giving him seashells that matches his eyes or hitting the back of his ankles with her big wheel or—
“you can’t keep doing this to yourself,” you sigh. “you’ve been unsealed for months. you’re her father, no matter what.”
“i’m a stranger to her,” and to you, but he doesn’t say it. you had waited for him, in every aspect of the word. held out on hope and faith in his strength that he would return to your side, where he’s always supposed to be.
“you’re n—” but you’re cut off when the door opens to reveal your daughter standing on the other side. the child standing before him is almost unrecognizable. she’s much taller and older, wearing track pants underneath her school dress with ribbons in unruly waves of white hair. the last time he’d seen his daughter, she had been three years old and still learning things like colors and sight words and that feeding megumi’s demon dogs her vegetable purée was against the rules. now, gojo satoru was the father of an eight year old and he’d missed everything because of a mista—
“you can come in,” she says, blinking up at satoru with an expression void of emotion. “but i’m not finished with my homework so if you stay too long, you’ll bug me.”
“how did you know i was outside?” he whistles nonchalantly, unbothered by the attitude that she gives him. it fills him with bitter satisfaction that she isn’t excited to see him, that someone is angry that he failed, regardless if he won in the end. he can handle bratty children who hate him and only look at him as a tool for their success, he can’t handle a daughter who cried herself to sleep every night waiting for him while he was losing his sanity away in a cube.
or at least, that’s what he tells himself.
“i could see you and mama through the door, duh,” she replies, hip cocked to the side in an amount of sass she had to pick up from you. “mama says i have your eyesight. i don’t really get it, but it makes it easy to cheat on tests.”
he could see it in the bright blue of her eyes, even if she hadn’t confirmed it. plain as daylight, she’s exactly like he was at that age. easily irritable and bratty, cocky and spoiled rotten. suffering from the weight of being an uncontested heir to an ancient dynasty at the age of elementary.
“i used six eyes to cheat on tests too,” he relates with pride, and then he bends down to her height, waving his palm. “sooo you probably got some questions about where i was—”
“not really. grandfather said you were sealed because you’re foolish and let weakness distract you.”
“you shouldn’t say things like that,” you scold, “apologize.”
“why? i don’t want to.”
your daughter turns, disappearing back into her room after that and seeming like she doesn’t care if satoru follows or not. your hand travels up the long expanse of satoru’s back in a soothing circle as you step closer.
“huh, that’s new.”
“sorry, she’s… i don’t know if acting out is the right term,” you say, pain in your voice. “she doesn’t really understand why she’s so different, or why you were … gone for so long. i know you didn’t want her around your family so i kept her away as best i could, but she started to have crippling migraines because she didn’t know how to use her ability and well… they were the only ones who knew how to help. filled her head with foolishness every time she visited the estate, though and it’s changed her.”
“huh,” is all he says, a broken record, tongue running across his inner lip in thought.
“do you need me?”
“what, you think i can’t handle her?”
“well, you were outside the door for a half hour, ‘toru.”
he shoots you a lopsided grin before he’s stepping into his daughter’s bedroom, glancing around at the unfamiliarity of it all. you follow close behind, watching with a heavy heart as he takes in the difference eight years can make.
her tiny baby crib has been traded for a poster bed decorated with a sanrio duvet and various stuffed animals where a laptop and study papers lay scattered on top. the angel themed decorations, along with her first ultrasound photo you and satoru had hung up in her nursery had been replaced by pink paint and pictures of her with a group of friends from school and a photo of her on a volleyball team.
he has to rip his gaze away.
“so,” he starts, standing in the center of the room and trying not to feel like an intruder, desperate for something to say— something to relate to her with. “how many episodes did i miss? did aya-chan ever get married?”
“i’m too old to play with dolls now, father,” she huffs, scrunching up her nose, and though satoru expected that exact answer, it doesn’t stop his heart from shattering into a million pieces. he feels that familiar itch, anger welling in his body until it burns at his fingertips because this is no one’s fault but his own. “don’t you know anything about me?”
“my bad, you’re a big kid now,” he snorts, even as his chest aches. he sits on the edge of her bed, flipping up one edge of the coloring book laying next to her laptop. “maybe you should start paying taxes.”
“i’m also too young to pay taxes. you really don’t know anything about me anymore,” she snaps, and she’s right— he doesn’t and it burns like saltwater on a wound. now he knows why you asked if he needed you; he’d hide behind you if he could, but he settles for flickering his eyes up to you helplessly.
you realize that neither of you can be upset with her for being angry that one of her favorite people vanished out of thin air. that while he was sealed, his clan had taken advantage of his absence and your powerlessness against them, and had begun spoiling your child rotten, teaching her how to use her ability— plumping her up for the inevitable day that she becomes her father’s successor, turning her against him.
“i think,” you say softly, leaning against the frame of the door. “that your dada— your father— would like to learn, though. he’s missed a lot, baby.”
she considers this for a long while, then she heaves a great sigh, hackles lowering. she scoots off the bed and before satoru can feel the hurt of figuring she doesn’t want to be near him, she does something unexpected. she moves one of her trophies out of the way to open her closet door, rummaging around for the longest before she yanks out a cardboard box you had labeled ‘donate one day since my snotty kid is a hag now’— it’s a box full of old dolls, covered in dust. she sits on her knees in front of the box, peering inside.
“aya-chan didn’t get married, but hinata-chan did,” she explains with an exasperated sigh and a roll of her eyes, taking out the dolls one by one and setting them on the floor in front of satoru’s feet.
“to the mailman that lived in your ugliest dollhouse?”
“you remember,” her eyes widen a little in surprise before her expression shutters again, smoothing out the doll’s colorful polyester dress before reaching back into the box and retrieving a brush covered in synthetic hairs. she looks at it for a while before extending her arm and offering the brush to her father. “aya-chan decided to be independent and explore the world. she’s planning to go on a trip soon so she needs to get ready. do y’wanna brush her hair?”
satoru is sliding off the bed and sitting cross-legged on the floor before he knows it, barely wanting to breathe because he doesn’t want to shatter the fragility of the moment between them. he takes the brush, and seconds later she hands him one of the dolls that had once upon a time been her favorite one that no one was allowed to touch. you would giggle at the delicate way he brushes the doll’s hair with utmost care and precision if you weren’t about to cry at the scene instead. “oh, and where’s she headed?”
“okinawa.”
“ponytail or messy bun then?” you don’t think you’re imagining the wobble in his voice. “to compliment her swimsuit.”
a tiny, hopeful smile twinkles over your lips at the two of them on the floor, babbling away to each other about the outlandish stories they’ve created together with her dolls. how many times had you offered to play with her, only for her to burst into tears because it wasn’t the same? you know that this won’t bridge the gap between the years that have been lost, but it’s a start. just hearing the soft murmurs of their conversation, the sound of your little girl giggling for the first time in ages, makes your heart swell.
time may be an undefeated opponent, and with it comes change that no one can control, but something tells you that as long as the three of you are together— everything will be okay.
you tiptoe out of the room, because they need time to catch up and apologize and reconnect, to learn one another once more, but before you close the door, you don’t think you’re mistaken when you hear, “can we go back to the beach too, dada?”
𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧!𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢 𝐱 𝐬𝐡𝐲!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
nanami yells at his poor girlfriend for something that wasn't even her fault :( (angst to comfort!)
wc: 4k || ac: @/thatsallitcheif || based on this req !
nanami was pissed the fuck off.
not the boring kind of snappy attitude he got whenever he was forced to deal with gojo or yuji, no. he was properly upset, his anger evident in the way his temples look ten times as tense as he swings the door to your shared apartment open.
today was... rough, to say the least.
some idiot in his business class had been assigned as his partner, a group project that was supposed to show just how much attention you'd been paying to the course. y'know, something he actually gave a shit about?
and that partner, god if he wasn't a useless prick. he skipped meetings, turned in half-assed work at the checkpoints, and acted like nanami would just fix it. like this seriously didn’t matter.
and then the feedback today? oh god.
it definitely wasn't stellar, definitely not the standard nanami holds himself to. his lecturer was pointing out gaps, weak cohesion, a lack of balance. just stupid little bullshit things that weren't even his fault.
nanami had sat there, his jaw close to exploding from the way he was clenching it so tight, knowing he couldn’t say a word without sounding weird and defensive.
so yeah, he came home with bucket loads of irritation and absolutely nowhere to put it. well, yet.
he wipes a veiny hand down his face as he scuffs his shoes off at the door, praying to god that nothing else goes wrong tonight or he might actually kill someone.
as he tracks inside, what other than the kamisama kiss intro starts blaring in his ears, the happy upbeat tune dragging against his eardrums, he realllly didn't need this right now.
he peers over to the couch and spots you sitting cross legged fully engrossed in the shower.
you were cute, but to be honest, he just wanted to go to bed. so, when you whip your head around and spot that he's finally home, he braces for the impact he knows is coming.
you hop up and dart into his arms with the biggest little smile on your pretty face, you clasp your hands together behind his back and pull him in close.
"ken! i missed you." you muffle into his chest, relived to see your boyfriend after a long day of free periods at home.
he sighs through clenched teeth, then half heartedly wraps an arm around your waist before letting it drop back down and slipping from your tight grasp.
“hey,” he mumbles, already tracking halfway down the hallway, leaving his poor, pouty girlfriend standing there all confused.
he doesn't notice though, the door to the bedroom is already in his sight and he looks at it like a finish line.
you stay cemented to the wooden floor, watching with a small frown as he pads down to the bedroom.
you tell yourself not to read into it. i mean, c'mon! he probably had a long lecture, he looks exhausted, and everyone has off days, after all. even your perfect boyfriend.
you smooth it over in your head before you overthink it to the point of tears.
you turn and follow him down the hall, keeping your steps feather light as to not irritate him further. "hey, baby? i made sushi earlier,” you say softly. “it’s in the fridge. i thought you might want some when you got home?"
he stops just short of the bedroom door. not to turn to you, not to soften up and cut the foul attitude, nuh uh. just to answer dully.
“i’ll have it for lunch tomorrow,” he sighs. “m' not hungry.”
the door handle clicks open under his hand, and your chest gets all tight and uncomfortably achy. he never turns down the food you make. never. even when he’s exhausted, he always eats at least a little. he always thanks you and asks how long it took to make, then tells you it tastes good even when the rice is overcooked.
you nod even though he isn’t looking and force a brighter tone of voice. “oh, okay! that’s alright.”
he stays silent, and an old habit of filling up conversation space before it turns awkward twists around in your gut..
“um,” you start, then stop. your fingers rub together nervously as you look away from him shyly. “there’s.. uh, something else i gotta tell you.”
he turns his head slowly to face you, his expression oozing with irritation as he answers curtly, “what.”
your thoughts jump backwards to earlier that morning. you were ironing one of his more expensive shirts after it had been crinkled on the clothes line. the setting might've been too high, because the unfamiliar scent of burnt fabric started wafting into your nostrils... your heart dropped when you saw the mark.
you swallow. “i’m really sorry. i was ironing your shirt. the one you wear to class sometimes? and i didn’t realise the heat was too high and i… i messed it up.”
his expression doesn’t change yet, but you can tell some cogs are stalling and jamming in that big head of his.
“i ordered you a new one,” you rush on. “it's the same cut, the same color. it should be here in a couple of days... gosh– i'm so sorry honey, i– i know it won’t be exactly the same but i–"
“you did what.”
your words freeze up in your mouth.
“you burnt my shirt?" he spits lowly, “i told you not to iron my clothes, [name].”
your shoulders pull in. “i know. i just thought i could help. i didn’t think–"
“–clearly.”
oh.
he steps closer. not into your space, but near enough that you feel the heat and anger pulsating off of him. “do you have any idea how expensive that shirt was?"
you nod, feeling the anxiety crawl up your back and down your throat. "yes, baby... that’s why i replaced it.”
“oh, but you didn’t replace it,” he says. “you bought a different one. that's not the same thing.”
“i'm sorry,” you say quietly. “i didn't know where–”
“you never know,” he cuts in. his voice is getting louder now, he's no longer being careful with his volume. “that’s the problem, [name]. you never know, and you still insist on getting involved in all of my important shit.”
you ears begin to ring a deafening hum. this isn’t how he talks to you. not ever. he corrects you sometimes, sure. maybe he gets semi-annoyed, but even then it's very rare. but this tone, this anger? it feels so horribly wrong on him..
“I was trying to do something nice,” you mumble out softly, the nervousness you were sure you'd shaken since meeting him curling around your head and trapping you in that shy vice once more. “i.. i’m sorry i ruined your shirt, kento..”
“yeah? well sorry doesn’t fix it,” he snaps. “sorry doesn’t mean anything when you keep doing the same thing over and over.”
your lips are getting wobbly but you manage to choke out a small reply. “but.. i don’t?"
he lets out a curt, poisonous laugh. “don’t lie. you mess things up constantly. the chores, my things, the schedules. i spend half my time fixing what you fuck up.”
okay, wow. that hurt like a motherfucker. you'd always been a little insecure about the way you weren't always the best at house work, but you were trying. you were trying for him.
“I clean,” you plea. “i cook. i try to–”
“no! you try, then you do it badly,” he snaps. his voice is close to shouting now. “half the time i redo your shit because i don’t trust you to do it right the first time. i’ve told you this before, if you don’t know what you’re doing, stay out of it!"
all of this over a shirt?.. your poor mind was reeling with what ifs. what if this was him finally throwing the cat out of the bag and telling you he wanted to break up? what if this was his way of telling you he'd be better off with a girl who was more capable? what if this was all a big lead up to him telling you you were never good enough to be with such an upstanding man like him?
each cruel word from his mouth only acts as a catalyst to these thoughts. you were incompetent, useless, untrustworthy. he doesn’t say them outright, but he might as well with the way he's berating you.
you feel so small now, your clammy hands curl into themselves until your nails are leaving little moons in your skin. you don’t raise your voice at him, you don’t interrupt at all, and you most definitely don't even think of arguing back. you’ve never been good at fighting with people, especially not with him. especially not when he looks at you like you’re an obstacle he needs to kick out of the way.
“just leave everything to me, why don't you?” he continues. “obviously i don't do enough. it would be easier that way since you clearly can’t handle basic tasks without ruining shit.”
your eyes sting. you blink hard, but it doesn’t help, like, at all. the hot streaks down your flustered face is evidence of that...
this doesn’t feel real. nanami is kind, nanami is patient, nanami listens, nanami's kind. the man in front of you is mean and cruel and doesn’t seem to see you as his loving girlfriend at all.
“I didn’t mean to make things harder for you,” you whisper.
he only scoffs. “intent doesn’t matter. results do. and your results are always a fucking problem.”
you want to dissolve into a puddle on the floor, you want to curl up somewhere and hide away from this monster disguised as your once living boyfriend. you don’t defend yourself, you don’t tell him how much effort you try to put in, how careful you try to be. you don’t remind him of the mornings you wake early just to make his day smoother, you don’t point out that he never used to talk to you like this.
you just stand there, and you take it. this was so unbelievable, so new, you didn't know how else to handle it.
and he just keeps on going. every frustration from his day pours out, redirected and sharpened, pointed straight at you. the partner who didn’t pull his weight, the criticism he didn’t deserve, the sense of being judged for things outside his control. it all lands on you instead, because you’re here, because you won’t fight back, because you look like you can carry it.
and you do. for a while.
your eyes go all blurry from the way tears prick at your lids, your gaze plummets to the floor and your hands start to shake. you hate how badly you're taking this, how he can obviously see that you're terrified but he just won't stop.
after it feels like he's gotten it all outta his system, he finally stops talking. the words dry up, leaving a thick silence behind in both his throat and the air. his chest is heaving as the anger drains out, replaced by a horrible, innate awareness.
what did he just do?
his head shoots up to look at your face wet with tears, then to your hands and the way they shake, to your eyes as they dart anywhere but him. his girlfriend, his gentle girl, looking like she'd just been battered, standing there all scared..
because of him.
fuck.
he opens his mouth to say your name, to apologise, to explain, but he never gets the chance.
because you push him away before he can, your hands come up and push against his chest, not hard, but forceful enough that he gets the memo.
“don’t,” you say. your voice cracks pathetically. “just.. just leave me alone.."
then you turn and dart the rest of the way down the hall.
the bedroom door closes behind you with a soft, careful sound, like you don’t want to make anything worse, even now, after he'd just rebuilt every wall you'd managed to break down with him when it came to you opening up.
~
“my sweet girl… please open the door…”
you'd been locked away in the bed room for a little over an hour now, hiding from him.
his voice comes through the wood much softer than of the foul shit you’d heard from him tonight. he sounds worn down and stripped bare of all the angst he'd been harbouring beforehand. you sit on the edge of the bed with your knees pulled up to your chest, staring at the door with a forlorn expression.
you don’t move and you most certainly don’t answer.
from the other side of the barrier, nanami stands with his forehead pressed to the wood, feeling like every bad person in the world all at once.
“i know you don’t wanna see me,” he says quietly. “i get that. i deserve it.” he sighs softly. “but please… just listen. you don’t have to say anything. just… let me say this, sweetheart.”
you don't reply once more, the apartment feels too big and roomy without you in it, even though you’re only a few steps away.
“i’m sorry,” he huffs out quietly, his soft spoken self coming back out into the open. “i’m so fucking sorry. i should have never spoken to you like that. not ever. i don’t care how bad my day was, i don’t care how angry i felt, none of it excuses what i said to you.”
he gulps down the stinging in his lungs and persists.
“what i said was so cruel. it was disgustingly wrong. it was aimed to hurt you, and i knew that while i was doing it. and that’s the part that makes me feel sick to my stomach.”
you stay silent, but your ears are definitely pricked.
“i took everything i was feeling and i threw it at you because you were there. because you wouldn't yell back. and that’s disgusting of me.” his voice dips. “i made you feel small. i made you feel useless. i made you feel like a burden in your own home.”
you press your face into your knees. your eyes start to sting all over again.
“but baby, you are none of those things,” he says a tad louder because he needs you to hear this part clearly. “not even close. i don’t know how i let that shit come out of my mouth when the truth is the complete opposite.”
he exhales slowly, gathering himself just to let go again.
“today's class was rough. just stupid thing after another, more stupider thing.” a pause. “and i came home already angry, already looking for somewhere to drill it.”
his voice breaks a little. “and i took it out on you.”
another fill of quiet and you still don’t make a sound nor open the door.
“i love you,” he mumbles desperately. “i love you so much it seriously scares me. im not usually one for relationships, but i told myself i'd try my best with you, because you mean more to me than anyone else..." his voice cracks like he might cry. "and tonight... i acted like someone who doesn’t deserve you at all."
his forehead stays against the door and his shoulders sink.
“everything i said about you not doing enough… about you ruining things… i don’t believe any of it. not for a second. i was lashing out, i was trying to hurt something because i was hurt.”
he lets out a strangled sound that might of been a laugh if it didn’t flatline only a second after sounding.
“you cook for me every single day. you make food that reminds me to slow down and actually eat instead of skipping meals like an idiot. you clean even when i tell you not to worry about it. you organise my class notes when i forget. you remember my deadlines better than i do. you wake up early just to see me off with a smile like i’m the best part of your morning.”
your fingers shake into the blanket beneath you.
“you ironed that shirt because you wanted to help me,” he continues. “because you thought about me while i wasn’t even home. and i stood there and tore you apart for it.”
his voice drops lower. “i’m appalled by myself. truly. i never wanted to be the kind of man who raises his voice at you. i never wanted to be the reason you look scared in your own house.”
he shifts on the floor outside, the faint sound of him sitting down against the door.
“you do so much for me,” he says softly. “you do more than i made it out to look. you make this place feel like a home, you make me feel so steady when everything else is a chaotic mess. and i stood there and told you that what you do doesn't matter..."
his hand lifts and presses flat again to the door, right where your back would be if you were standing there.
“i am so, so sorry my love."
his apology pours through the door and it feels earnest and aching, but it doesn’t erase what’s already been said. the words he used still sit under your skin, sharp and lodged deep in your pumping arteries.
outside, nanami closes his eyes with a deep breath, he knows there’s no guarantee you’ll forgive him. he knows apologies don’t rewind time, and he knows he might have undone months, maybe years, of trust he'd built between the two of you, especially with such a shy girl, in a single night.
his throbbing head drifts softly to the first time he met you. you were timid, you spoke softly and avoided all of his eye contact, you were careful with everything you did. he remembers promising himself he’d never be another voice that made you shrink away like a snail into its shell.
yet tonight, he was 10x worse than that.
he stays there, back against the door, replaying every sentence he'd spat down at you. every moment he could have stopped and didn’t. every chance he had to walk away instead of cutting you down.
“i’ll wait,” he says quietly, not sure if you’re still listening. “as long as you need. i’m not going anywhere.”
...
the door clicks, then slides open gently leaving nanami's back without a rest.
"baby?" he flicks his head around, now looking up at a very sad, yet very pretty girl.
he practically jumps to his feet, flattening down his shirt and running a hand through his hair.
“are you okay?” he asks quietly like he’s afraid the question alone might do some more irreversible damage.
you can't muster up and answer, you don't try to tell him something you're not even sure of yourself, so you stay quiet looking up into his solemn eyes.
he spots a dried track of salt running down your cheek and his arm reaches up instinctively to wipe it away. after, you gently push his arm away, but too keen on him thinking he can touch you just yet.
“i’m fine,” you say. your voice is steady, even if it doesn’t quite match how you feel. “really.”
he nods, even though it’s obvious he doesn’t believe you, not one bit. he drops his hand back to his side like he’s been reminded of his place.
“i’m sorry,” he chirps again. “i know i already said it. i just… i need you to know i mean it.”
the way nanami looked right now would send your past self into a coma. he was shrunk into himself, his eyes were hollow from stressing out over you, and his voice was shaken and impossibly weak. still. even if he was sorry, the fact that he'd done what he did still remained.
“i don’t forgive you,” you say honestly.
he flinches, just a little. but he doesn’t interrupt.
“not yet,” you add. “but i don’t want to shut you out either. i just… i need some space from what you said.”
he lets out a big exhale with relief and guilt all tangled together. “that’s more than okay,” he says. “i understand, honey. completely.”
he steps forward then, giving you time to move away if you want to. when you don’t, his big, grounding arms slither around your shoulders and hold you tenderly against his chest.
you let yourself melt into him, after this hell of a night you needed some tlc, even if it was from the very root of your discomfort.
“i’m taking tomorrow off,” he says softly, chin resting near your hair. “no class, or homework, nothing. m' gonna spoil you, baby. i promise you."
you pull away to look up at him. “ken., you don’t have to do that.”
he gives a small shake of his head. “i know. this isn’t about getting back on your good side.” his mouth curves into something gentle. “i just want to. i want to spend the day with you. i want to make it a good one after all of the pain i just put you through.”
you shyly mumble, “you don’t need to spoil me.”
“yes, but i want to,” he replies simply. “please, let me.”
his hands come up to frame your face, the pass of his thumbs resting along your cheeks as he strokes lines down where your tears would of fallen.
“i hate that i made your pretty little face look like this,” he murmurs. “i hate that i put that look in your eyes. you deserve softness, my love...not that..”
your lips inch upwards into a small smile despite the situation, and you look him in the eye for half a second.
he notices right away and of course, his own smile follows gently.
“there it is,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your flushed cheem. “that smile. i love that smile.”
he leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek, his stubble tickling your chin.
“i’m sorry,” he whispers again, another kiss following. “i’m so sorry.”
he guides you back toward the bedroom with a hand at your back, he helps you sit on the bed, then gently encourages you to lie back. his movements are nice and kind, so attentive, he’s really making sure every step feels safe and familiar.
he leans his big muscular body over yours as he peppers small kisses over your delicate skin.
“i’ll never talk to you like that again, okay?” he says quietly between kisses. “never. i don’t care what kind of day i’ve had, you are not where my anger belongs, and i am so sorry for ever getting that mixed up."
you look up at him with shiny eyes. “you.. you really scared me,” you admit.
his expression softens further, if that’s even possible at this point. “i know. and i hate that. i swear to you, i will spend every day making sure you never feel like that with me ever again.”
he presses his forehead to yours, “you’re not a burden,” he insists. “you’re not useless. you’re the best part of my life, [name]. and i am so grateful you didn’t walk away from me tonight even though you had every right to. hell, you still do."
you reach up, fingers curling lightly into his shirt. “i just… need time.”
he nods. “take all of it. anything you need. i’ll be right here.”
pulling you into his side after rolling over, his arm rests tightly around you in such a way that feels protective without being overwhelming and possessive.
“tomorrow, i’ll take you wherever you want. we’ll eat whatever you want. we’ll do whatever you want, we'll do nothing if that’s what you need.” he assures you, sighing contently into your neck.
you let go of a small "mhm." in response, your sore, puffy eyes finally starting to close.
“thank you,” you whisper.
he kisses your hair. “always.”
he might of been an asshole who misplaced his anger, and he might of been the single most asshole-ish guy in the universe tonight, but when a man like nanami makes a mistake? you best belive he never, ever makes it again.
that's why you stay curled up in his arms as he strokes your back gently. you could tell he meant every word of the apology, and you knew that this was a one time thing.
nanami wasn't the prefect boyfriend, but after that night, he promised himself he'd be the closest thing to it. for you, his sweet, gentle girl.
A/N first request done, 9 to go ! mean nanami is so yum i lava him 🤞🏼
