His_Y/N

｡: ⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ ̊.𐙚‎⋆彼らのY/N ⋆𐙚 ̊. ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹ :｡ Only for 18+ audience.

[hisinnocentyn69]

♥ Hello! I'm Y/N! ⟢ In my 20s. ⟢ She/her ⟢ I don't often write here, cause I don't always have time (Sorryyyyy). But I'll make sure to write at least one oneshot every week. ⟢ English is not my first language, so I'm not really good at it. So please, don't mind my mistakes. ♥ I'll try to make : ⟢SMAUs ⟢Head cannons ⟢Multi-chapetered ⟢Oneshots ⟢Any tutorials (If anyone asked) ♥Requests: Always Open. (Since no one's gonna request anyway, hehe) ♥Content: Smut and Fluff, cause I don't really know if I'm good at writing Angst, but I'll try.

[hisinnocentyn69]

When your husband is tired...

The heavy click of the front door echoing through the hallway tells you everything before you even see him. Satoru doesn't enter the house with his usual whirlwind of energy or the loud, playful greeting that usually bounces off the walls.

Instead, the air shifts, growing dense and electric, charged with a frustration that vibrates in the very floorboards beneath your bare feet. You stand in the kitchen, your fingers clutching the edge of the counter. When he rounds the corner, he hasn't even removed his blindfold. His shoulders are hunched, a rare sight for a man who usually carries the weight of the world as if it were a silk scarf. The line of his jaw is rigid, a small muscle jumping in his cheek.

"I swear, if those old fossils mention the word 'tradition' one more time, I might actually level the entire council chamber," Satoru says, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. You step toward him, your movements hesitant and soft. You reach out, your fingertips barely brushing the fabric of his dark jacket. "Was it that bad today?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper. He lets out a sharp, jagged laugh and finally pulls the blindfold down, letting it hang around his neck.

Those crystalline blue eyes are bloodshot, swirling with a mixture of exhaustion and simmering rage. He looks at you, and for a moment, the hardness in his gaze softens, but the tension remains coiled in his frame like a spring. "Bad? It was a circus. A tedious, bureaucratic circus where they spend four hours debating the ethics of a mission I finished in ten minutes. They treat me like a weapon they can't quite figure out how to lock in a cabinet."

You can see the stress etched into the corners of his eyes, the way he can't seem to settle. It hurts you to see him this way, stripped of his effortless confidence. "Do you want to talk about it?" you ask, tilting your head. "No," he groans, leaning his forehead against yours. "I don't want to hear their voices in my head anymore. I just want to stop thinking."

You slide your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek against his chest. You can hear his heart hammering—fast, erratic. He isn't just tired; he's overstimulated, his Six Eyes likely processing too much, his mind racing. You realize that words are only adding to the noise. He doesn't need a conversation. He needs a release.

Without saying a word, you pull back and look up at him. Your shyness usually keeps you reserved, but the sight of his distress sparks a quiet determination in your chest. You slowly sink to your knees on the hardwood floor. Satoru freezes, his breath hitching. He looks down at you, his eyebrows arching. "What are you doing, sweetheart?" You don't answer.

You reach for the belt of his trousers, your fingers trembling slightly but steady in their purpose. You undo the leather strap with a soft click and slide the zipper down. The sound is loud in the sudden silence of the room. Satoru lets out a low, shaky exhale, his hands coming up to rest on your shoulders. "You don't have to do this just because I'm grumpy," he murmurs, though his grip tightens, pulling you closer. You look up at him, your eyes wide and earnest, and simply shake your head.

You reach inside his briefs, your warm palm closing around the thick, pulsing length of him. He is already hard, a testament to the tension he's been carrying all day. He jumps slightly at the touch, a guttural sound vibrating in his throat.

You lean forward, your lips brushing against the velvet head of his cock. You taste the salty tang of pre-cum, a small drop clinging to the slit. You swirl your tongue around the tip, savoring the heat, before sliding your mouth over him. Satoru's head snaps back, his eyes closing tight. A loud, unrestrained moan escapes him, echoing through the kitchen. "Fuck, Y/N…" You take him deeper, your throat tightening as you accommodate his girth. You focus on the sensation, the way he fills you, the rhythmic slide of your lips against his skin.

You use your hand to stroke the base, your thumb rubbing over his heavy, tight balls. You hear the wet, shlicking sound of your saliva lubricating the friction, a squelching noise that fills the space between you. The stress seems to bleed out of him with every slide. His breathing becomes heavy, ragged. But as the pleasure builds, the softness of the moment shifts.

The vulnerability in his posture vanishes, replaced by a sudden, surge of energy. Satoru's hands move from your shoulders to your hair, his long fingers tangling in the strands. He doesn't pull hard, but his grip is firm, commanding. He tilts your head back, forcing you to look up at him while your mouth is still occupied.

"You like taking care of me, don't you?" he asks, his voice now a commanding rumble. You can only respond with a muffled hum, your eyes fluttering. "Look at me," he orders. You obey, staring up into those infinite blue eyes. They are no longer tired; they are burning with a predatory intensity. He shifts his hips, thrusting upward with a sudden, sharp force that sends him deep into your throat.

You gag slightly, the back of your throat hitting the head of his cock, but he doesn't pull back. He holds you there for a second, asserting his size, letting you feel every inch of him. "Take it all," he commands, his voice dropping an octave. "I want to feel how tight you are. I want you to swallow every bit of this stress."

He begins to move in earnest now, his thrusts becoming rhythmic and powerful. The sound of the interaction becomes more visceral—the wet slaps of his thighs against your cheeks, the squelching of saliva and pre-cum as he slides in and out of your mouth. You focus on the taste of him, the scent of expensive cologne and musk, the way his muscles ripple under your touch.

Satoru's breath is coming in short, sharp gasps. He increases the pace, his hand in your hair guiding you, pushing you further onto him. The friction is intense, the heat between your mouth and his skin reaching a boiling point. "Yes, just like that," he grunts, his hips snapping forward. "You're so perfect for me." The praise makes your heart race, a flush of heat spreading across your chest.

You wrap your arms around his thighs, pulling him closer, wanting to erase any gap between you. You use your tongue to tease the underside of his shaft, swirling around the frenulum, causing him to hiss through his teeth. "You're trying to kill me, aren't you?" Satoru laughs, though it sounds more like a growl. "You're trying to make me lose it right here in the kitchen." He thrusts harder, the movements becoming more frantic. You can feel the tension returning, but this time it isn't the stress of the higher-ups—it's the agonizing build-up of an orgasm.

He begins to tremble, his entire body vibrating with the effort of holding back. "I'm close," he gasps, his grip tightening in your hair. "I'm so fucking close, Y/N."

You don't stop. You accelerate your movements, your mouth working feverishly, sucking the head of his cock with a vacuum-like pressure. You hear the air being pushed out of the small space, a wet, popping sound every time he pulls back before plunging back in. Satoru lets out a loud, guttural shout, his hips locking forward one last time. He buries himself deep in your throat, his body stiffening as he releases.

You feel the first hot jet of semen hit the back of your throat, thick and salty. He pulses inside you, wave after wave of cum filling your mouth, spilling over your lips and dripping onto your chin. The intensity of it leaves you breathless, your eyes watering from the depth of his thrust. Satoru stays there for a long moment, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his breath coming in heavy, shuddering heaves. The silence that follows is heavy, but it is no longer charged with anger. It is a thick, honeyed silence of absolute contentment.

He slowly pulls out of your mouth with a wet, sliding sound. He looks down at you, seeing the stray streaks of white on your lips and the flushed glow of your cheeks. Satoru reaches down, hooking his arms under your armpits and lifting you effortlessly from the floor. He carries you toward the living room, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist.

"I think," he whispers, kissing the tip of your nose, "that I love you more than anything in this miserable world." You hide your face in the crook of his neck, your voice small and shy. "I just wanted you to feel better." He lets out a soft, genuine chuckle and settles onto the sofa, keeping you tucked firmly against his chest. He pulls a throw blanket over both of you, the warmth enveloping you like a cocoon.

"I feel incredible," he says, his voice drifting into a sleepy murmur. "The higher-ups can burn in hell for all I care. As long as I have this." You listen to the steady beat of his heart, now slow and rhythmic. The electric tension that had filled the house upon his arrival has vanished, replaced by a peaceful, domestic hum. You press a kiss to his collarbone, smelling the lingering scent of sex and salt.

"Will you stay here for a while?" you ask. "I'm not moving for a week," he replies, tightening his hold on you. "Unless you want to do that again." You giggle, the sound light and airy, and cuddle closer into his warmth. Satoru closes his eyes, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips as he finally finds the silence he was searching for.

Dividers by: @mieluno

[hisinnocentyn69]

The Status Quo...

The administrative work at the Jujutsu High Tokyo branch was soul-crushing, but Nanami prided himself on being a man of absolute routine and logic. Lately, however, his highly analytical mind had been forced to reallocate significant processing power to a new, unpredictable variable in his life:

Your hair accessories.

It had started a week ago. You had apparently raided a vintage shop or fallen down an internet rabbit hole, because you suddenly possessed a massive hoard of those pastel, plastic Y2K star-shaped snap clips. But you weren't just wearing them for fashion. As Nanami quickly deduced, you were using them as an external, color-coded emotional barometer.

You hadn't told him the code. He was just expected to figure it out.

On a rainy Tuesday evening, Nanami stepped into the apartment, loosening his necktie with a weary sigh. He prepared himself to ask how your day was, but as you turned around from the kitchen counter, the greeting caught in his throat.

Snapped aggressively into your bangs were two bright, neon red star clips.

You didn't say a word. You just handed him a grocery bag full of unchopped vegetables and glared.

Nanami blinked behind his spotted glasses. Red. Primary color. High visibility. Associated with danger, stop signs, and combustion.

"The supermarket line was long?" he guessed carefully, taking the bag.

"Forty minutes," you clipped out, your voice tight. "And the person in front of me tried to pay for a single avocado with a check."

Nanami silently walked over to the counter, washed his hands, and took over the dinner prep without a single complaint. He chopped the onions with cursed-technique precision, ensuring you didn't have to lift a finger. Within twenty minutes, the red clips were removed, replaced by two soothing, mint green stars.

Green, Nanami noted internally, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Calm. Photosynthesis. Status quo restored. He allowed himself a small, rare smile, continuing to stir the soup.

The system worked remarkably well, until Thursday morning.

Nanami was sitting at the dining table, sipping his black coffee and reviewing a report on a recent grade-2 curse sighting. You walked into the room, still half-asleep, wearing an oversized sweater. pinned near your temple was a solitary, bright yellow star.

He watched you over the rim of his mug. You attempted to pour milk into your cereal, missed the bowl entirely, and splashed it onto the counter. You stared at the puddle, unmoving, looking utterly defeated.

"Yellow," Nanami muttered to himself, analyzing the data. Caution? Cowardice? No, context clues suggest low battery.

"I forgot to buy the good coffee beans," you mumbled, staring at the spilled milk as if it were a personal betrayal.

Nanami closed his laptop with a soft thud. He stood up, gently guided you away from the mess, and pushed you back toward the bedroom. "Go lie down for ten more minutes. I will clean this and brew a proper cup."

When you emerged ten minutes later, smelling the freshly ground beans, the yellow clip was gone. In its place was a soft, sky blue one. You sat on his lap, burying your face into his shoulder, murmuring about how grateful you were.

Blue. Affectionate. Relaxed. Or perhaps slightly needy, he amended as you refused to let go of his waist, hindering his ability to reach his toast. He didn't mind. He simply adjusted his posture so you were comfortable, typing out an email to Gojo with his one free hand while resting the other on your back.

By Saturday, Nanami felt like an absolute expert. He had cracked the code. He was a master of interpersonal psychology. He was the ultimate husband.

Then came Saturday night.

You had gone out to dinner, and upon returning home, you disappeared into the bathroom to change into your pajamas. When you walked out, Nanami was already in bed, reading a book. He looked up, expecting the standard mint green or perhaps the sleepy blue.

Instead, your hair was adorned with three shimmering, glittery purple star clips.

Nanami paused. He adjusted his reading glasses. Purple. Royalty? Bruising? The combination of blue and red—which would mean... angry affection? An oxymoron.

You walked over to the bed, but instead of lying down on your side, you crawled directly over him, straddling his lap. You took his book, closed it firmly, and tossed it onto the nightstand. You leaned down, your lips brushing against his jawline, your fingers tracing the collar of his shirt.

Nanami’s throat went dry. His stoic facade cracked just a fraction, a prominent blush creeping up his neck.

"Y/N," he said, his voice dropping an octave, though he maintained his usual structured tone. "I am currently trying to analyze the data. Am I to understand that purple signifies... romance?"

You laughed against his skin, the little plastic stars shifting against his cheek. "It took you all night to figure that out?"

"The data pool was limited," Nanami defended himself, his hands intuitively finding their place at your waist, holding you close. "And your previous categorization lacked a distinct baseline for romantic intent. I had to eliminate several hypotheses first."

"You are such a nerd," you teased, kissing the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then finally pressing your lips to his in a slow, lingering kiss that completely derailed whatever logical thoughts were left in his brain.

Nanami sighed into the kiss, yielding completely. He decided, in that moment, that overtime wasn't always a bad thing—especially when it involved decoding you.

The next morning, Nanami woke up early, as he always did. He looked over at you, still deeply asleep, snoring softly into the pillow. The purple clips had fallen out during the night, scattered across the nightstand.

Quietly, Nanami picked one up. He looked at the ridiculous, glittering little plastic star, then looked at your peaceful face. With an incredibly serious, concentrated expression, the formidable grade-1 sorcerer carefully pinned the purple star clip into his own blonde hair.

When you finally woke up an hour later, you blinked sleepily at your husband, who was sitting up in bed, calmly reading the morning newspaper with a shiny purple star clipped perfectly into his side-part.

You burst out laughing, hiding your face in your hands. "Kento, what are you doing?"

Nanami didn't look up from his paper, though the tips of his ears were slightly pink. "I am broadcasting my current mood, as per the established household protocol."

"And what mood is that?" you giggled, leaning over to kiss his shoulder.

Nanami finally lowered the paper, his gaze soft, warm, and entirely devoted. "I believe the data indicates I am incredibly fond of my wife. Now, what would you like for breakfast?"

[hisinnocentyn69]

Golden Hour Reading...

Kento sat on the plush sofa, dressed in a comfortable cream-colored knit sweater and dark trousers. His usual sharp, tailored suit was put away in the closet, a physical manifestation of him letting his guard down. Perched on the bridge of his nose were his reading glasses, and in his hands was a thick historical biography he’d been meaning to finish for weeks. A steaming mug of black coffee rested on the side table, sending a faint, comforting aroma into the air.

He took a slow sip, enjoying the absolute stillness of the house.

Then, the floorboards creaked.

Kento didn’t look up from his book, but a soft, barely perceptible tug pulled at the corner of his lips. He knew that stride anywhere. Within seconds, the cushion beside him dipped, and a familiar warmth pressed against his left side.

You leaned heavily against his shoulder, peering over at the pages of his book. You had just finished your morning skincare routine and were currently holding a tube of high-shine, strawberry-scented lip gloss.

"Good morning," you murmured, your voice still thick with sleep.

"Good morning," Kento replied, his deep, rumbling voice vibrating against your shoulder. He turned a page. "Did you sleep well?"

"Mm-hmm. But I missed you." You uncapped the lip gloss. It was a brand new tube, extra glossy, extra sticky, and smelling intensely of sweet fruit. You applied a generous layer to your lips. Then, looking at your husband's perfectly serious, intensely focused profile, a sudden wave of affection—and mischief—washed over you. You squeezed the tube a little harder, slicking on a comically thick, heavy layer of the shiny gloss until your lips practically shimmered.

Kento, completely unaware of the trap being set, adjusted his glasses and kept reading. "I was only gone for an hour. I wanted to let you rest."

"An hour too long," you declared.

Before he could process the statement, you shifted your weight, crawling into his lap. Kento’s instincts kicked in smoothly; his large hand automatically came up to rest on your waist to steady you, while his other hand lifted the book higher to keep it out of harm's way. He looked down at you through his glasses, his expression a mix of fondness and mild resignation.

"Can I help you?" he asked, his tone dry but inherently gentle.

"Yes. You're working too hard on your day off. Your brain needs a break."

"I am reading a biography, sweetheart. It is hardly strenuous labor."

"Doesn't matter. External distraction required," you announced cheerfully.

And then, you attacked.

You leaned forward and planted a firm, loud kiss right in the center of his left cheek. When you pulled back, a glaring, glossy, sticky circle remained on his flawless skin.

Kento blinked, his brow furrowing slightly as he felt the heavy, wet residue. "What on earth...?"

You didn't give him time to finish. You pressed another kiss to his right cheek. Then one to his chin. Then one directly on his jawline. You moved with enthusiastic speed, peppering his entire face with affection.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

"You—" Smack. "—are—" Smack. "—not allowed—" Smack. "—to read right now."

"Darling, wait," Kento rumbled, his chest vibrating with a suppressed chuckle. He tried to tilt his head back, but you gripped his shoulders, leaning in to plant a massive, glossy kiss right dead center on his forehead.

By the time you paused to admire your handiwork, Kento’s face was practically glowing under the living room lights. He looked like he had been lightly shellacked. There were sticky, strawberry-scented patches on his forehead, his cheeks, his chin, and a particularly shiny streak right along his nose. Even his reading glasses had a tiny smudge of gloss on the frame.

Kento sat perfectly still, holding his book aloft like a sacred text he was trying to protect from a natural disaster. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, inhaling the overwhelming scent of artificial strawberries, and let out a long, slow sigh.

"Is this a new tactical interrogation technique?" he asked, opening his eyes to look at you.

"It's called love, Kento. Look it up," you giggled, resting your forearms on his broad shoulders. You reached out and gently slid his reading glasses off his face, setting them safely on the coffee table. "You look beautiful, by the way. Very radiant."

"I feel sticky," he corrected deadpan, though the softness in his eyes completely betrayed his stern tone. He carefully set his book down next to his coffee. "And I smell like a confectionery shop."

"Do you hate it?" You tilted your head, giving him your best wide-eyed, innocent look.

Kento looked at your glossy, smiling face. He looked at the absolute peace surrounding the two of you—no danger, no deadlines, just a quiet Sunday with the person who held his entire heart. A genuine, breathless smile finally broke through his defenses, lighting up his face in a way that always made your heart skip a beat.

"No," he admitted softly, his large hand moving from your waist up to the back of your neck, his thumb gently caressing your nape. "I don't hate it at all. But..."

He paused, a glint of rare, playful mischief entering his warm eyes.

"...if I have to suffer through being sticky, I believe in equal distribution of assets."

Before you could squeal and try to escape, Kento’s grip tightened securely around you. He pulled you flush against his chest. He didn't mind the gloss anymore. He leaned forward and rubbed his cheek directly against yours, effectively transferring a massive amount of the strawberry gloss right back onto your skin.

"Kento! No! Stop, it's so sticky!" you laughed, twisting in his arms, but it was useless. He was laughing too, a low, rich sound that filled the room as he nuzzled his forehead against yours, sharing the glossy wealth.

"This is proper corporate restructuring," Kento murmured against your skin, his lips brushing your cheek. "An even distribution of resources."

When he finally pulled back, both of your faces were covered in a shiny, sweet-smelling sheen. Your hair was a little messy, your lungs ached from laughing, and Kento’s arms were wrapped securely around you, holding you close to his chest.

He reached over to the tissue box on the side table, pulling a few out. Carefully, with the utmost patience and gentleness, he began to wipe the excess gloss from your face first, making sure he didn't scratch your skin. Only when you were clean did he start wiping down his own face, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle.

"You are a menace," he murmured, throwing the tissues into the small bin nearby.

"But I'm your menace," you countered, resting your head over his heart, listening to its steady, calming beat.

Kento wrapped his arms back around you, resting his chin on top of your head. He didn't pick his book back up. The biography could wait. The rest of the world could wait. Right here, in the quiet warmth of their home, he had everything he ever wanted.

"Yes," Kento whispered, kissing the top of your head. "You are."

[hisinnocentyn69]

Wrapped in Your Smile...

The morning light filters through the linen curtains, casting a pale gold glow across the rumpled sheets. You shift, the warmth of the duvet trapping a cozy heat around your limbs. A heavy weight anchors you to the mattress, a familiar presence that smells of expensive laundry detergent and a hint of mint. A sudden, damp warmth presses against the crook of your arm. Satoru buries his face deep into your armpit, his nose nudging your skin with a rhythmic, insistent curiosity.

"Satoru!"

You shriek, your body jerking in a reflexive jump. The sensation sends a jolt of electricity through your nerves, sparking a fit of uncontrollable giggles. "Morning, sunshine." His voice vibrates against your skin, muffled and thick with sleep. He doesn't pull away. Instead, he nuzzles deeper, his white hair tickling your side.

"Stop it! That tickles!"

"Does it? I can't tell. It's very cozy in here." He lets out a contented hum, his breath warm against you. You try to push him away, but your arms feel like lead, weighted down by the lingering haze of sleep. You end up just patting his head, your fingers tangling in the snowy strands. "You're a menace." "I'm your favorite menace." He pulls back just enough to look at you. His blindfold is gone, replaced by the raw, striking brilliance of his blue eyes. They shimmer with a playful light, mirroring the morning sun. He beams, a wide, toothy grin that makes his cheeks bunch up. "Why are you looking at me like that?" "Like what?" "Like you're planning something." Satoru chuckles, the sound a low rumble in his chest. He shifts his weight, pinning you more firmly against the pillows. "Maybe I am. Maybe I've been planning this since three in the morning." "You've been awake since three?" "Hard to sleep when you're hogging all the blankets." "I am not hogging them!" "You are. You've created a cocoon. I'm just a castaway trying to find land." You laugh, the sound bright and airy. You reach up, poking his cheek. "You're just lazy. Admit it." "Guilty as charged." He leans in, his nose brushing yours. The playfulness lingers, but a sudden, soft tenderness settles over his features. He lingers there, the space between your lips a mere breath. "I love your morning face." "My morning face is a disaster. My hair is a nest." "A very cute nest." He kisses the tip of your nose, then your forehead, then each eyelid with a precision that makes your heart flutter. "Can we stay like this for an hour?" "We have things to do, Satoru." He dives back down, targeting your side this time. You scream again, curling into a ball as he hunts for your most ticklish spots. "No! Satoru, please!" "Say it." "Say what?" "Say that I'm the best boyfriend in the entire world." "You're an ego-maniac!" "Not good enough." You squirm, your laughter turning into breathless gasps. The sheets tangle around your legs as you fight for dominance in the soft chaos of the bed. "Fine! You're the best! Just stop!" He stopped, a look of smug satisfaction crossing his face. He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with a triumphant glint in his eyes. "See? Was that so hard?" "I hate you." "Liar." ________________________________________________________________ The battle for the blankets has ceased, leaving you both breathless and flushed. You lie on your back, chest heaving, staring up at the ceiling. Satoru is draped across you, his head resting on your shoulder, his long limbs sprawling haphazardly. "I'm hungry," he announces.

"You were just talking about coffee."

"Coffee is a drink. I want food. Pancakes. With way too much syrup."

"You'll have a sugar crash by noon."

"That's a risk I'm willing to take."

He shifts, sliding down your body until his head is level with your waist. You see the mischief return to his eyes. You instinctively pull your shirt down, but it's too late. He's already targeted the soft curve of your stomach.

Pffft!

The sound of a loud, wet raspberry echoes through the quiet room. You bolt upright, a loud shriek escaping your throat.

"Satoru! Stop!"

"Too late!"

Pffft!

He hits your ribs this time, the vibration sending a wave of laughter through your entire frame. You kick your legs, trying to scramble away, but he's too quick. He follows your movement, his lips finding the sensitive skin of your sides.

"Mercy! I beg for mercy!"

"The court of Satoru does not grant mercy for those who call him an ego-maniac."

"I didn't mean it! I love your ego!"

"Better. But not quite there yet."

He plants another raspberry right on your belly button. You collapse back onto the mattress, shaking with laughter, your hands gripping his shoulders to keep him from escaping.

"You are the worst!"

"I'm the best. We established this."

He lifts his head, resting his chin on your stomach. He looks up at you, his expression softening. The teasing fades, replaced by a quiet, humming affection. He reaches up, tracing the line of your jaw with his thumb.

"You're so soft."

"I'm not."

"You are. Like a cloud. Or a marshmallow."

"Stop comparing me to food."

"But you're the best kind of food. Sweet."

You feel the heat rise in your cheeks. Even after all this time, his bluntness catches you off guard. You run your fingers through his hair, tugging gently.

He nuzzles his cheek against your stomach, a slow, lingering movement. The room is quiet now, the only sound the synchronized rhythm of your breathing. You feel a profound sense of peace, a warmth that has nothing to do with the blankets.

"Satoru?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

He freezes for a second, then looks up. His eyes are wide, shimmering with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. He doesn't say it back immediately. Instead, he leans up and presses a slow, deep kiss to your breast, right over your heart. "I love you more. And I'm better at it."

"Of course you are."

"Exactly."

He rolls over, pinning you again, his face inches from yours. "Now, about those pancakes."

"You're not getting them unless you let me go."

"Negotiable. What are you offering in exchange for my release?"

"A kiss?"

"Too cheap. I'm a high-value man."

"Two kisses?"

"Getting warmer. How about a kiss and you admit that I'm the cutest person you've ever seen?"

You roll your eyes, but you can't hide the smile. "Fine. You're the cutest. Now let me up!"

He lets out a triumphant laugh and rolls off you, bouncing toward the edge of the bed with an energy that seems impossible for this hour of the morning. ________________________________________________________________ The bathroom is a sanctuary of white tile and frosted glass. Steam clings to the mirror in thick, opaque sheets, turning the room into a warm, humid cocoon. The roar of the shower fills the space, a steady drumbeat that drowns out the rest of the world.

You stand under the spray, the hot water cascading over your shoulders, easing the last remnants of sleep from your muscles. Then, a pair of long, strong arms wrap around your waist from behind. Satoru pulls you back against his chest, his skin slick and warm. He rests his chin on your shoulder, his breath hot against your ear.

"The water is perfect."

"You're taking up all the space."

"I'm a big guy. You just have to optimize the layout."

He reaches for the sponge, lathering it with a generous amount of vanilla-scented soap. He starts with your shoulders, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone so chaotic. He moves in slow, circular motions, the soap creating a thick, white foam against your skin. "You're being very quiet," you murmur, leaning back into him.

"I'm appreciating the view."

"We're in a shower, Satoru. What view?"

"The view of my favorite person. Plus, the soap bubbles make you look like a little bubble-monster."

You turn around in his arms, splashing a bit of water toward his face. "A bubble-monster?" He blinks, water dripping from his long lashes. He looks like a drowned cat, but a very handsome one. He grins, his eyes flashing. "Oh, it's a war."

He grabs the showerhead, diverting the spray directly toward your face. You shriek, shielding your eyes with your arms, laughing as you try to dodge the stream.

"Satoru! Stop it!"

"Surrender!"

"Never!"

You lung forward, grabbing the soap and smearing a handful of foam across his chest and stomach. He lets out a dramatic gasp, clutching his heart as if he's been mortally wounded.

"Betrayal! In my own shower!"

"You started it!"

He laughs, a loud, boisterous sound that echoes off the tiles. He catches you in a hug, pulling you flush against him. The water pours over both of you, blurring the lines where one body ends and the other begins. He holds you tight, the playfulness shifting back into that heavy, grounding intimacy.

"You're getting soap in my eyes."

"I can't see. I'm blind. Help me, Y/N!"

You giggle, reaching up to wipe the foam from his brow. Your fingers linger there, tracing the bridge of his nose. He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch. The roar of the water seems to fade, leaving only the sound of your hearts beating in unison.

"You're actually really sweet, you know."

"Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold."

"Your secret is safe with me."

He opens his eyes, the blue depths searching yours. He leans in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that tastes of vanilla and warm water. It's a slow, lingering kiss, one that speaks of promises and quiet mornings and a love that doesn't need words. When he pulls back, he has that lopsided, tender smile on his face. "I think we've spent enough time in here."

"Really? You're the one who wanted to stay."

"True. But I'm starting to prune. I don't want to look like a raisin when I make those pancakes."

"You're already a raisin in the head."

He feigns offense, pulling you back in for one last, tight squeeze. "Rude. Absolutely rude. I'm revoking your syrup privileges."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me."

He lets go, stepping out of the shower and grabbing a towel. He wraps it around his waist, then holds out his hand to you, his expression soft and inviting.

"Come on, bubble-monster. Let's go eat." You take his hand, your fingers interlocking. As you step out into the cool air of the bathroom, you look at him—this towering, ridiculous, brilliant man—and you know there is nowhere else you'd rather be.

"Satoru?"

"Yeah?"

"I want extra blueberries on my pancakes."

He beams, pulling you close for a quick, peck on your cheek. "Anything for my favorite person." ________________________________________________________________

[hisinnocentyn69]

A Taste of You...

The tiles on the floor is smooth against your thigh as you suck his cock.

Gojo is leaning back against the wall with his massive cock already out and heavy in your tiny hand, his jeans somewhat pulled down. He is larger than you could have dreamed; his pale shaft is flushed a rich pink at the tip. His thickness is so great that your fingers don't touch when you wrap them around the base.

Thick, ridged veins protrude beneath the skin and pulse with a tentative squeeze. Every time your thumb passes over a fat vein that runs straight along the underside, the vein's pulse intensifies.

With one large hand cupping the back of your head, Gojo murmurs, "You know, your classmates are gonna be sooo confused about you, that how can such an innocent girl suck her professor's cock." His shirt sleeves are pulled up to his elbows, his tie is still perfectly knotted, and he appears calm save from the way his cock twitches in your grasp and the bead of precum that is already dripping from the slit.

You gaze up at him with those large, naive eyes that he has destroyed a hundred times in his mind before today. You dart your tongue out to lap up the salty drip and mumble, "Just... Don't tell anyone" He lets out a hiss through his teeth.

"Fuck," He guides your head forward after giving your cheek a gentle, almost compassionate massage with his thumb. "Baby, open up more."

He slides in slowly as you part your lips, allowing your jaw to extend every inch. Thick and hot on your tongue, the head explodes beyond your lips with a moist sound. You taste him, skin, and salt—clean soap combined with that pungent desire that causes your thighs to tighten. As he presses forward, the pink tip of his cock vanish into the moist heat of your mouth and the veins drag over the flat of your tongue.

He hasn't yet thrust. simply keeps you there until you get used to the sheer girth that splits your lips and leaves your cheeks empty. Drool is already trickling down your chin from the corners of your mouth.

"Look at you," he says in a rougher voice. "Choking on your Professor's cock."

He groans as you complain around him, your voice muted and pitiful. At last, his hips begin to slide forward shallowly, giving you more till the head presses against the back of your throat. Your lashes clump and your eyes moisten instantaneously, yet you don't move away. With tears streaming down your face, you simply look up at him and beg.

"Good girl, go deeper. show me how bad you want to be ruined.”

Then he begins to fuck your mouth seriously, using slow, deliberate movements that allow you to feel every vein and ridge as they move across your tongue. With each pullback, the head brush your lips. As he uses your throat as if it were his own, your hands clutch his thighs, your fingernails sinking into the pricey material of his slacks as you attempt to balance yourself.

Spit soaks the front of your little tank top as it flows down your chin in thick strings. With dark eyes, he observes everything while wiping a tear from your cheek with his thumb and then smearing it on your swollen lips that are stretched around his circumference.

His tempo quickens and his hips snap a bit more forcefully as he yells, "Want me to cum down this virgin throat?" He whispered, "Gonna mark you from the inside so you taste me every time you swallow."

Your throat flutters when you groan brokenly around him, and that's what causes it. He buries himself deep, his cock pulsating, hot, thick spurts filling your mouth to the brim and seeping out of the corners as you attempt to take it all.

Panting, his fingers entangled in your hair, he holds you there through it. Your lips are connected to his still-twitching cock by ropes of saliva and sperm as he finally pulls out. He pushes the mixture back into your mouth by swiping his thumb over your lower lip. "Swallow it," he murmurs. You act slowly and deliberately. His gaze never left his. Gojo exhales, tucks himself away with quivering hands, then hauls you up by the arms. He gives you a passionate kiss and tastes himself on your tongue before whispering in your ear. "Go tidy up, sweetie. Next class's mine, remember?"

[hisinnocentyn69]

Wrapped in Your Smile...

The morning light filters through the linen curtains, casting a pale gold glow across the rumpled sheets. You shift, the warmth of the duvet trapping a cozy heat around your limbs. A heavy weight anchors you to the mattress, a familiar presence that smells of expensive laundry detergent and a hint of mint. A sudden, damp warmth presses against the crook of your arm. Satoru buries his face deep into your armpit, his nose nudging your skin with a rhythmic, insistent curiosity.

"Satoru!"

You shriek, your body jerking in a reflexive jump. The sensation sends a jolt of electricity through your nerves, sparking a fit of uncontrollable giggles. "Morning, sunshine." His voice vibrates against your skin, muffled and thick with sleep. He doesn't pull away. Instead, he nuzzles deeper, his white hair tickling your side.

"Stop it! That tickles!"

"Does it? I can't tell. It's very cozy in here." He lets out a contented hum, his breath warm against you. You try to push him away, but your arms feel like lead, weighted down by the lingering haze of sleep. You end up just patting his head, your fingers tangling in the snowy strands. "You're a menace." "I'm your favorite menace." He pulls back just enough to look at you. His blindfold is gone, replaced by the raw, striking brilliance of his blue eyes. They shimmer with a playful light, mirroring the morning sun. He beams, a wide, toothy grin that makes his cheeks bunch up. "Why are you looking at me like that?" "Like what?" "Like you're planning something." Satoru chuckles, the sound a low rumble in his chest. He shifts his weight, pinning you more firmly against the pillows. "Maybe I am. Maybe I've been planning this since three in the morning." "You've been awake since three?" "Hard to sleep when you're hogging all the blankets." "I am not hogging them!" "You are. You've created a cocoon. I'm just a castaway trying to find land." You laugh, the sound bright and airy. You reach up, poking his cheek. "You're just lazy. Admit it." "Guilty as charged." He leans in, his nose brushing yours. The playfulness lingers, but a sudden, soft tenderness settles over his features. He lingers there, the space between your lips a mere breath. "I love your morning face." "My morning face is a disaster. My hair is a nest." "A very cute nest." He kisses the tip of your nose, then your forehead, then each eyelid with a precision that makes your heart flutter. "Can we stay like this for an hour?" "We have things to do, Satoru." He dives back down, targeting your side this time. You scream again, curling into a ball as he hunts for your most ticklish spots. "No! Satoru, please!" "Say it." "Say what?" "Say that I'm the best boyfriend in the entire world." "You're an ego-maniac!" "Not good enough." You squirm, your laughter turning into breathless gasps. The sheets tangle around your legs as you fight for dominance in the soft chaos of the bed. "Fine! You're the best! Just stop!" He stopped, a look of smug satisfaction crossing his face. He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with a triumphant glint in his eyes. "See? Was that so hard?" "I hate you." "Liar." ________________________________________________________________ The battle for the blankets has ceased, leaving you both breathless and flushed. You lie on your back, chest heaving, staring up at the ceiling. Satoru is draped across you, his head resting on your shoulder, his long limbs sprawling haphazardly. "I'm hungry," he announces.

"You were just talking about coffee."

"Coffee is a drink. I want food. Pancakes. With way too much syrup."

"You'll have a sugar crash by noon."

"That's a risk I'm willing to take."

He shifts, sliding down your body until his head is level with your waist. You see the mischief return to his eyes. You instinctively pull your shirt down, but it's too late. He's already targeted the soft curve of your stomach.

Pffft!

The sound of a loud, wet raspberry echoes through the quiet room. You bolt upright, a loud shriek escaping your throat.

"Satoru! Stop!"

"Too late!"

Pffft!

He hits your ribs this time, the vibration sending a wave of laughter through your entire frame. You kick your legs, trying to scramble away, but he's too quick. He follows your movement, his lips finding the sensitive skin of your sides.

"Mercy! I beg for mercy!"

"The court of Satoru does not grant mercy for those who call him an ego-maniac."

"I didn't mean it! I love your ego!"

"Better. But not quite there yet."

He plants another raspberry right on your belly button. You collapse back onto the mattress, shaking with laughter, your hands gripping his shoulders to keep him from escaping.

"You are the worst!"

"I'm the best. We established this."

He lifts his head, resting his chin on your stomach. He looks up at you, his expression softening. The teasing fades, replaced by a quiet, humming affection. He reaches up, tracing the line of your jaw with his thumb.

"You're so soft."

"I'm not."

"You are. Like a cloud. Or a marshmallow."

"Stop comparing me to food."

"But you're the best kind of food. Sweet."

You feel the heat rise in your cheeks. Even after all this time, his bluntness catches you off guard. You run your fingers through his hair, tugging gently.

He nuzzles his cheek against your stomach, a slow, lingering movement. The room is quiet now, the only sound the synchronized rhythm of your breathing. You feel a profound sense of peace, a warmth that has nothing to do with the blankets.

"Satoru?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

He freezes for a second, then looks up. His eyes are wide, shimmering with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. He doesn't say it back immediately. Instead, he leans up and presses a slow, deep kiss to your breast, right over your heart. "I love you more. And I'm better at it."

"Of course you are."

"Exactly."

He rolls over, pinning you again, his face inches from yours. "Now, about those pancakes."

"You're not getting them unless you let me go."

"Negotiable. What are you offering in exchange for my release?"

"A kiss?"

"Too cheap. I'm a high-value man."

"Two kisses?"

"Getting warmer. How about a kiss and you admit that I'm the cutest person you've ever seen?"

You roll your eyes, but you can't hide the smile. "Fine. You're the cutest. Now let me up!"

He lets out a triumphant laugh and rolls off you, bouncing toward the edge of the bed with an energy that seems impossible for this hour of the morning. ________________________________________________________________ The bathroom is a sanctuary of white tile and frosted glass. Steam clings to the mirror in thick, opaque sheets, turning the room into a warm, humid cocoon. The roar of the shower fills the space, a steady drumbeat that drowns out the rest of the world.

You stand under the spray, the hot water cascading over your shoulders, easing the last remnants of sleep from your muscles. Then, a pair of long, strong arms wrap around your waist from behind. Satoru pulls you back against his chest, his skin slick and warm. He rests his chin on your shoulder, his breath hot against your ear.

"The water is perfect."

"You're taking up all the space."

"I'm a big guy. You just have to optimize the layout."

He reaches for the sponge, lathering it with a generous amount of vanilla-scented soap. He starts with your shoulders, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone so chaotic. He moves in slow, circular motions, the soap creating a thick, white foam against your skin. "You're being very quiet," you murmur, leaning back into him.

"I'm appreciating the view."

"We're in a shower, Satoru. What view?"

"The view of my favorite person. Plus, the soap bubbles make you look like a little bubble-monster."

You turn around in his arms, splashing a bit of water toward his face. "A bubble-monster?" He blinks, water dripping from his long lashes. He looks like a drowned cat, but a very handsome one. He grins, his eyes flashing. "Oh, it's a war."

He grabs the showerhead, diverting the spray directly toward your face. You shriek, shielding your eyes with your arms, laughing as you try to dodge the stream.

"Satoru! Stop it!"

"Surrender!"

"Never!"

You lung forward, grabbing the soap and smearing a handful of foam across his chest and stomach. He lets out a dramatic gasp, clutching his heart as if he's been mortally wounded.

"Betrayal! In my own shower!"

"You started it!"

He laughs, a loud, boisterous sound that echoes off the tiles. He catches you in a hug, pulling you flush against him. The water pours over both of you, blurring the lines where one body ends and the other begins. He holds you tight, the playfulness shifting back into that heavy, grounding intimacy.

"You're getting soap in my eyes."

"I can't see. I'm blind. Help me, Y/N!"

You giggle, reaching up to wipe the foam from his brow. Your fingers linger there, tracing the bridge of his nose. He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch. The roar of the water seems to fade, leaving only the sound of your hearts beating in unison.

"You're actually really sweet, you know."

"Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold."

"Your secret is safe with me."

He opens his eyes, the blue depths searching yours. He leans in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that tastes of vanilla and warm water. It's a slow, lingering kiss, one that speaks of promises and quiet mornings and a love that doesn't need words. When he pulls back, he has that lopsided, tender smile on his face. "I think we've spent enough time in here."

"Really? You're the one who wanted to stay."

"True. But I'm starting to prune. I don't want to look like a raisin when I make those pancakes."

"You're already a raisin in the head."

He feigns offense, pulling you back in for one last, tight squeeze. "Rude. Absolutely rude. I'm revoking your syrup privileges."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me."

He lets go, stepping out of the shower and grabbing a towel. He wraps it around his waist, then holds out his hand to you, his expression soft and inviting.

"Come on, bubble-monster. Let's go eat." You take his hand, your fingers interlocking. As you step out into the cool air of the bathroom, you look at him—this towering, ridiculous, brilliant man—and you know there is nowhere else you'd rather be.

"Satoru?"

"Yeah?"

"I want extra blueberries on my pancakes."

He beams, pulling you close for a quick, peck on your cheek. "Anything for my favorite person." ________________________________________________________________

[hisinnocentyn69]

A Soft Stroke of Midnight...

The common room of the Jujutsu High dorms is unusually quiet for a Saturday afternoon. Nobara is out shopping in Ginza, likely dragging a miserable Yuji along to carry her bags, and Gojo is off on some mission he definitely could have finished three hours ago if he hadn’t stopped for limited-edition sweets.

Which leaves just you and Megumi.

You sit cross-legged on the tatami mat, your back resting against the edge of the low table. Megumi is sitting right next to you, a heavy volume of curse theory propped open on his lap. He looks perfectly content in the silence, his dark hair messy as always, his long fingers mindfully turning a page.

You, however, are bored. Well, bored and deeply, hopelessly in love.

You peer over his shoulder, tracking the movement of his eyes across the kanji. Your hand reaches into the small makeup pouch you brought downstairs, your fingers brushing against the sleek, cylindrical shape of a waterproof liquid eyeliner. A spark of mischief—and an overwhelming wave of affection—hits you all at once.

"Megumi?" you murmur, your voice naturally quiet.

"Yeah?" he replies, not looking up from his book, though his thumb lightly strokes the back of your knee where your leg rests against his.

"Can I try something?"

He pauses, sensing the subtle shift in your tone. Megumi is hyper-aware of you at all times—a byproduct of his sorcerer instincts combined with the fact that you’ve been dating for four months, and he has memorized every single one of your tells. He closes his book, keeping a finger between the pages, and turns his dark blue eyes toward you.

"What is it?"

You hold up the little black tube, offering him a shy, hopeful smile. "Can I put eyeliner on you? Just a little bit. I think it would look really pretty on your eyes."

Megumi stares at the plastic tube as if it’s a grade-one cursed object. His eyebrows twitch, and he immediately shakes his head, leaning back a fraction of an inch.

"No."

"Please?" you ask softly, the heat rising to your cheeks. Even though he’s your boyfriend, and he’s held you through nightmares and kissed you until you were breathless, you still get flustered when you ask him for things. "Just a tiny wing. You already have such long eyelashes, Megumi. It would look amazing."

"Absolutely not," he says, his voice flat, though there's no real heat behind it. He reopens his book, trying to look resolute. "Go find Kugisaki if you want to play with makeup. She'd probably let you draw a whole canvas on her face."

"But Nobara isn't here," you point out, moving a little closer so your shoulder brushes his. You look down at your lap, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious, your fingers twisting around the eyeliner tube. "And... I wanted to do it to you. I just think it would be nice. Just a quiet moment for us."

Megumi stops reading. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, taking in the slight pout on your lips, the soft blush dusting your cheeks, and the way you’re suddenly looking anywhere but at him. He lets out a long, heavy sigh—the universal sound of Megumi Fushiguro losing a battle he never stood a chance of winning.

He sets his book down on the table with a soft thud.

"Does it stain?" he asks, his tone begrudgingly resigned.

Your eyes snap up, lighting up instantly. "No! Well, it’s waterproof, but I brought micellar water to take it off right after. I swear!"

"Fine," he mumbles, though the tips of his ears are turning a faint shade of pink. He shifts his body so he’s facing you fully, crossing his legs and resting his hands on his knees. "But if Gojo walks in and takes a picture, I’m exorcising him."

You let out a soft, breathy laugh that makes his expression soften entirely. "Deal."

You move closer, shifting until your knees are practically touching his. The sudden proximity makes your heart do a little flutter. Megumi takes a deep breath, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second before meeting your eyes.

"What do I do?" he asks, his voice dropping an octave.

"Just stay still. And close your eyes when I tell you to," you whisper. You unscrew the cap of the eyeliner, wiping the excess product against the rim of the tube just like you’ve seen in countless tutorials. Your hands are shaking just a little bit.

"Are you nervous?" Megumi asks, a faint, rare smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You're the one who begged to do this."

"Shut up," you murmur, your face burning. "You're just... really close."

"I can move back—"

"No!" you say quickly, perhaps a bit too loudly for your usual quiet demeanor. You clear your throat, swallowing hard. "No, stay right there. I need you close."

Megumi’s smirk fades into something infinitely warmer. He doesn't say another word. Instead, he reaches out and gently cups your waist with one hand, anchoring you to him, steadying your nerves with his touch. The warmth of his palm seeps through your shirt, grounding you.

"Okay," you breathe, lifting your left hand to gently rest against his cheekbones. His skin is smooth, his jawline sharp underneath your fingertips. "Close your eyes."

Megumi shuts his eyes. Without his sharp, intense gaze pinning you in place, you take a moment to just look at him. His eyelashes really are ridiculously long and thick—completely unfair for someone who spends his days fighting curses.

You lean in, your breath fanning across his cheek. You press your thumb lightly against his brow bone to tauten the skin of his eyelid.

"Keep them still," you whisper.

"I am," he murmurs back, his lips barely moving.

Carefully, meticulously, you bring the fine felt-tip brush down to his lash line. You hold your breath, dragging the tip from the inner corner of his eye outward. Megumi flinches slightly at the cold, damp sensation, his eyelashes fluttering against your thumb.

"Don't move," you plead softly, your face mere inches from his.

"It tickles," he grumbles, but he forces himself to relax.

You trace the line smoothly, adding a small, sharp flick at the outer corner that perfectly follows the natural slant of his eyes. It looks incredibly striking against his pale skin. Satisfied with the first eye, you lean back slightly to admire your handiwork.

"Wow," you breathe out, genuinely struck by how good it looks.

"Is it terrible?"

"No, it's perfect. Keep them closed, I have to do the other one so you match."

You shift your weight, your fingers moving to the other side of his face. This side goes even smoother. You’ve found your rhythm, your initial shyness melting away into pure focus. Your thumb strokes his cheek affectionately as you finish the second wing.

"All done," you announce softly, but you don't move away. You stay right there, tangled up in his space, your hands still cradling his face. "You can open them."

Megumi opens his eyes, blinking a few times to adjust to the light. He looks directly at you, his dark blue eyes framed by the sharp, dramatic black ink. It gives him an entirely different, almost ethereal edge. It accentuates the intensity he always carries, making him look devastatingly handsome.

You stare at him, completely captivated, your lips parting slightly.

"What?" Megumi asks, looking a little self-conscious now under your intense gaze. He raises a hand to rub the back of his neck. "Do I look ridiculous?"

"No," you whisper, your voice full of awe. "You look beautiful, Megumi. Really."

A heavy crimson flush spreads rapidly across his cheeks, running down to his neck. He looks away, clearing his throat roughly. "You're exaggerating."

"I'm not," you insist, leaning in closer until your foreheads are almost touching. "Look at me."

He turns his head back, his dark eyes melting as they lock onto yours. The hand on your waist tightens slightly, pulling you flush against his chest. The book on the table is entirely forgotten. The rest of the world doesn't exist.

"You're too good for me," he mutters, his voice thick with a sudden rush of emotion.

"Megumi—"

Before you can protest, he leans forward and closes the distance between you.

The kiss is soft at first, a gentle press of his lips against yours that tastes like the green tea he was drinking earlier. It’s hesitant, as if he’s giving you the chance to pull away. But you don't. You whimper softly into the kiss, your hands sliding up from his cheeks to tangle into the messy, dark strands of his hair.

That little sound ruins whatever restraint Megumi had left.

He groans softly, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. His lips part yours, demanding and tender all at once. The hand at your waist slides up your back, pressing you impossibly closer, while his other hand comes up to cup the back of your head, holding you steady as he kisses you thoroughly.

Your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You melt into him, completely pliant under his touch. Every time he kisses you, it feels like the first time—overwhelming, breathless, and dizzying.

When he finally pulls back, just a fraction of an inch, his breath is coming out in short, ragged gasps. His lips are dark and flushed, and the eyeliner you worked so hard on is perfectly intact, making his darkened gaze look even more intense.

He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed. "I love you," he whispers, the words raw and honest. He doesn't say it often, but when he does, it carries the weight of the universe. "Even when you make me do stupid things."

You giggle, peppering a few sweet, lingering kisses across his jawline, his cheek, and finally right on the tip of his nose.

"I love you too, Megumi," you say softly, your eyes shining with happiness. "Thank you for letting me do it."

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters, though a genuine, breathtaking smile breaks across his face. He pulls you down so your head is resting against his chest, his arms wrapping securely around you. "Just... don't tell Kugisaki. I'll never hear the end of it."

"Your secret is safe with me," you promise, closing your eyes and listening to the steady, comforting beat of his heart.

[hisinnocentyn69]

Four's a Crowd, Five's a Plot...

The air in your dorm room hung heavy with the scent of vanilla candles and the saltier, muskier aroma of arousal. Dim amber light cast long, dancing shadows across the walls, blurring the edges of the furniture until the only thing that felt real was the heat of the three bodies pressed against yours.

You lay back against the tangled sheets, your breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches. You were the center of their world tonight, a soft point of gravity that pulled Yuji, Nobara, and Megumi into a frantic, loving orbit. Yuji was a furnace behind you, his broad chest heaving against your spine. His strong arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against the hard ridge of his cock, which pulsed rhythmically against your backside. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, leaving wet, searing kisses along your collarbone.

"You are so sweet, Y/N," Yuji whispered, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your skin. "I can feel your heart racing. Do you like this?" You could only moan in response, a high, thin sound that seemed to trigger something in Nobara. She was positioned between your legs, her golden-brown eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made your toes curl. Her fingers were slick, diving deep inside your soaking wet pussy while her thumb maintained a relentless, circling pressure on your clit. She didn't just touch you; she claimed you, her movements precise and demanding.

"Look at her," Nobara smirked, her voice dripping with a playful sort of cruelty. "She is practically melting into the mattress. I bet you have never felt this much at once, have you, sweetheart?"

Megumi sat beside you, his usual stoicism cracked by a hunger that mirrored the others. He didn't say much, but his actions spoke in a language of desperate longing. He held your hands pinned gently above your head, his fingers interlaced with yours. He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a ghostly rasp. "Just breathe, Y/N. Let it happen."

The overstimulation began to peak. Nobara increased the speed of her fingers, the shlicking sound of her hand sliding in and out of your tight walls filling the quiet room. At the same time, Yuji began to grind his hips, the friction of his denim against your skin creating a searing heat. You were caught in a crossfire of sensation, your nerves firing in every direction. Your hips bucked instinctively, seeking a release that felt just out of reach.

"P-Please," you whimpered, your voice trembling. Nobara chuckled, a throaty sound. "Please what? Tell me exactly what you want."

"I want… I need…" you gasped, your back arching as Nobara hit a particularly sensitive spot.

Megumi shifted, his hand leaving yours to slide down your side, his palm grazing your breast. He squeezed the soft mound, his thumb flicking over your hardened nipple. The sudden addition of a new point of contact sent a jolt of electricity through you, pushing you closer to the edge. "You are so sensitive tonight," Megumi murmured, his eyes darkening. It is almost unfair. The room felt like it was shrinking, the air thickening until it was almost impossible to inhale. Just as you felt the first wave of an orgasm beginning to crash over you, the space in the center of the room rippled.

With a sudden, sharp pop of displaced air, a tall figure appeared. Satoru Gojo stood there, his blindfold pushed up slightly to reveal one shimmering, crystalline blue eye. He held a stack of papers in one hand, and a bag of sweets in other, probably your favorite one he bought for you too. But his gaze immediately swept over the scene: Yuji's clinging form, Nobara's hand buried in your heat, and Megumi's possessive grip on your chest. A heavy silence fell over the room.

Yuji froze, his breath hitching. Nobara stopped her movements, though she didn't pull her hand out of you. Megumi looked away, a faint flush creeping up his neck. You lay there, exposed and trembling, your chest heaving. "My, my," Gojo said, his voice humming with amusement.

"I came by to drop off the updated mission reports and Y/N's favorite pastry, but it seems I walked into a far more interesting seminar." Yuji scrambled to sit up, though he didn't let go of your waist. "Sensei! We… we didn't think you were coming by tonight."

Gojo let the papers flutter to the floor, the sheets of parchment scattering like fallen leaves. He stepped closer, his presence filling the room, radiating a power that felt like a physical weight. He looked down at you, his lips curving into a slow, predatory smile. "And here I thought you three were practicing your teamwork," he teased, his tone light but his eyes burning. "It looks like you forgot the most important part of the lesson: the teacher's guidance."

Nobara rolled her eyes, though she didn't move to cover herself. "You are always such a show-off, Gojo-sensei." Gojo laughed, a rich, melodic sound. "I cannot help it if I am the strongest. And right now, I feel a very strong urge to help Y/N reach that peak you all are teasing her with."

He didn't wait for an invitation. In a blur of motion, he was on the bed. The mattress groaned under his weight. He moved with a grace that was almost supernatural, sliding behind you and displacing Yuji, who moved to your side with a happy, eager expression.

Gojo's large, warm hand slid over your stomach, his fingers splaying wide. "You look absolutely ruined, Y/N," Gojo whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "Let us see if we can make it official." The dynamic shifted instantly.

With four of them surrounding you, the sensory input became an avalanche. Nobara returned to her work, her tongue now replacing her fingers, licking and sucking at your clit with a rhythmic intensity that made you scream. Gojo's hand moved down, his long fingers joining Nobara's, stretching you open, prepping you for something larger. Yuji leaned over, capturing your lips in a deep, searching kiss. His tongue slid against yours, tasting of mint and desire, swapping saliva in a messy, passionate exchange. He sucked on your tongue, pulling it into his mouth as if he wanted to consume you entirely.

Meanwhile, Megumi had moved to your other side, his mouth finding the slope of your breast. He sucked your nipple hard, his teeth grazing the peak, creating a sharp contrast to the softness of Yuji's kiss. You were floating, your mind fracturing under the onslaught. You felt Gojo's hand move, and then the sudden, blunt pressure of his cock pressing against your entrance. He was massive, a thick, pulsing heat that made your eyes widen. "Ready, sweetheart?" Gojo asked, his voice dropping an octave. He pushed inside in one smooth, powerful thrust.

You let out a choked cry, your internal muscles clamping tight around him. He filled you completely, stretching your walls to their limit. The sensation was overwhelming, a feeling of being utterly occupied. Gojo didn't move for a moment, allowing you to adjust to his size. He groaned, a low, guttural sound of satisfaction. "You are so tight. It is like you were made specifically for me."

Then he began to move. He pulled back almost entirely, the head of his cock nearly slipping out of your slick channel, before slamming back in with a wet, heavy thud.

The sound of his pelvis slapping against your backside echoed in the room, a rhythmic squelching that signaled the sheer amount of lubrication produced by your body. Yuji couldn't take it anymore. He shifted, positioning himself in front of you. He guided his own cock, glistening with pre-cum, to your lips. You opened for him, taking him inside your mouth. The taste was salty and masculine, and you worked him with your tongue, swirling around the head of his member while Gojo hammered into you from behind. You were a bridge of pleasure, connected to all of them.

Nobara's fingers returned to your clit, rubbing in circles that synchronized with Gojo's thrusts. "Yes, just like that," Nobara urged, her voice strained. "Look at how she takes him. She is such a good girl." The friction was becoming unbearable in the best way. Gojo's pace increased, his movements becoming more frantic. He was no longer the composed teacher; he was a man driven by raw lust.

He gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your skin, leaving faint red marks. The sound of the interaction was a symphony of filth: the shlicking of Gojo's cock, the wet slaps of skin, the heavy breathing of four people, and your own incoherent moans. At one point, Gojo's thrust was so overzealous that he slipped out completely, the air pushing out of your pussy with a soft pop before he plunged back in, deeper than before, hitting your cervix. You shrieked, your body convulsing. The impact triggered something deep inside you, a spark that ignited the tinder of overstimulation.

"I am… I am going to…" you gasped, pulling away from Yuji's cock. Gojo felt the contractions of your walls. He let out a low growl, his pace becoming a blur of motion. He didn't slow down; he pushed you harder, driving you toward the cliff.

"Come for us, Y/N," he commanded, his voice booming. "Give it all to us." The orgasm hit you like a tidal wave. Your vision went white, and your entire body stiffened, your toes curling and your fingers clutching at the sheets. You felt the internal ripples of your pussy squeezing Gojo's cock with rhythmic intensity. A loud, prolonged moan tore from your throat, echoing through the dorm. The sight of your release broke the last of their restraint.

Gojo let out a loud groan, his body shuddering as he pumped a massive load of hot cum, filling you to overflowing. He collapsed against you, his chest heaving. Yuji and Megumi followed suit. Yuji gripped himself, stroking rapidly as he watched you shake, his cum splashing across your stomach and breasts in thick, white ropes. Megumi groaned, his release coming in powerful spurts that coated your thighs, his eyes closed in a moment of pure ecstasy.

Nobara leaned back, breathing hard, her face flushed. She reached down. "You were incredible," she whispered, kissing your cheek. For a long time, no one moved. The only sounds were the synchronized beats of five hearts and the slow return of steady breathing. The room felt different now—warmer, more intimate. The tension had vanished, replaced by a profound sense of belonging. Gojo slowly withdrew, the sound of his exit a wet, sliding squelch. He didn't move away, though. He pulled you back into his arms, wrapping his long limbs around you like a protective cocoon.

Yuji and Megumi cuddled in close, their bodies forming a warm perimeter around you, while Nobara rested her head on your shoulder. You felt small and cherished, a delicate flower protected by the strongest sorcerers of the age.

"I think," Gojo murmured, his voice returning to its playful, sing-song quality, "that we should make this a weekly seminar. For educational purposes, of course." You giggled, a soft, tired sound, and closed your eyes, drifting off to sleep in the middle of the people who loved you the most you most.

[hisinnocentyn69]

The Softest Storm...

The digital clock on Yuji’s nightstand glows a soft, muted green, casting just enough light to illuminate the sharp angles of his room. It’s 11:42 PM. You are sitting cross-legged on the edge of his mattress, your fingers tightly interlaced, pulling at the oversized hem of one of his hoodies. It smells like him—a comforting blend of laundry detergent, a faint hint of cedar, and that distinct, warm scent that belongs entirely to Yuji Itadori.

You’ve been dating for months, but tonight is different. Tonight is the first time you’re sharing a bed.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way. A sudden storm had rolled over the jujutsu dorms, knocking out the power in your building and triggering a minor leak right over your own bed. When you had knocked on Yuji’s door, shivering and holding a pillow, he had instantly thrown it open with that bright, unbothered grin of his, ushering you inside before you could even finish apologizing.

But now that the logistics are settled, the reality of the situation is crashing down on you. Your heart is doing double-time against your ribs. You are, by nature, a quiet person. You wrap your thoughts in layers of hesitation, hiding behind soft smiles and downcast eyes. Yuji, on the other hand, lives out loud. He is a sunbeam in human form, loud and unapologetic and endlessly kind. Yet, right now, even he seems to have caught a bit of your quietness.

"Hey," Yuji says softly, breaking the silence.

You look up. He’s standing by the closet, wearing gray sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt. His pink hair is a messy, uncombed halo around his face. He scratches the back of his neck, a nervous habit you’ve come to recognize. For all his bravado in battle, he can be surprisingly gentle—and surprisingly shy—when it comes to you.

"You look like you're about to face a Special Grade curse," he teases, though his voice is incredibly tender. He walks over, the floorboards creaking slightly under his weight, and sits down next to you. The mattress dips, tilting you slightly toward him. "You okay? We don't have to do this if you're uncomfortable. I can totally sleep on the floor. I'll just grab a bunch of blankets and—"

"No!" you interrupt, your voice a little louder than intended. You feel the heat instantly rush to your cheeks, and you duck your head, tucking your chin into the collar of his hoodie. "No, please don't sleep on the floor. It's your bed. I don't want to kick you out of it."

Yuji blinks, surprised, and then a warm, lopsided smile spreads across his face. The sight of it makes your chest ache in the best possible way. "Alright. But only if you're sure."

"I'm sure," you whisper.

With a cautious nod, Yuji reaches over and pulls back the heavy comforter. He climbs in first, sliding his large frame under the sheets and propping himself up on one elbow. He looks up at you, his golden-brown eyes full of an unspoken, patient invitation.

Taking a deep, trembling breath, you slip under the covers beside him.

The immediate contrast is overwhelming. You are naturally cold, but Yuji is like a human radiator. Heat radiates off him in waves. You pull the blanket up to your nose, lying flat on your back, staring rigidly at the ceiling. You are hyper-aware of every single detail: the sound of his steady breathing, the expanse of his shoulders, the fact that your shoulders are only a few inches apart.

Minutes tick by. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, but not altogether unpleasant. It's charged with an electricity that has nothing to do with the storm outside.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah?" you murmur into the blanket.

"You're shaking a little."

You close your eyes, mortified. "I'm just... a little cold. And a little nervous."

You hear a soft chuckle, deep and rumbling from his chest. Before you can process it, Yuji shifts. He rolls over onto his side, facing you. Slowly, deliberately, giving you all the time in the world to pull away if you want to, he reaches out. His large, calloused hand—marred with the scars of a sorcerer but incredibly gentle—finds yours beneath the covers.

His fingers slide between yours, locking your hands together. His palm is so warm, engulfing your smaller hand completely.

"Better?" he asks, his voice dropping to a low, soothing register.

"Better," you admit, turning your head to look at him.

Now that you're looking at him, you can't take your eyes off him. In the dim green light, the sharp lines of his face seem softer. The fierce lines beneath his eyes—the marks of Sukuna's presence—are quiet right now, dormant. There is nothing dangerous about the boy in front of you. He is just Yuji. Your Yuji.

"I get nervous too, you know," he confesses, his thumb tracing soothing circles over the back of your hand.

You blink in surprise. "You do?"

"Of course I do," he laughs, a bit sheepishly. He uses his free hand to pull the blanket down from your face, exposing your flushed cheeks. "You're my girlfriend, Y/N. I care about you a lot. Like, a lot a lot. Whenever I'm close to you, my heart starts racing, and I get worried I'm gonna say something stupid or make you uncomfortable."

Hearing him admit that melts away the last remnants of your anxiety. It’s hard to stay paralyzed by shyness when the boy you love is being so transparently vulnerable with you.

"You don't make me uncomfortable," you say, your voice gaining a fraction of confidence. You squeeze his hand back. "Never."

Yuji’s eyes brightens a bit with an emotion so intense it takes your breath away. He edges a little closer, closing the distance between your bodies until your knees touch under the fabric of the quilt. The heat radiating from him is intoxicating.

"Can I come closer?" he asks. It’s a whisper, a sacred request.

You don't trust your voice, so you just nod.

Yuji lets go of your hand only to wrap his arm around your waist. With a gentle tug, he pulls you flush against him. Your face rests right against his chest, right over his heart. Thump-thump, thump-thump. It’s beating fast, just as he promised. It matches the rhythm of your own. You bury your face into his chest, inhaling deeply, feeling completely safe. The storm outside could tear the roof off the building, and you wouldn't care, not as long as you were anchored in his arms.

He rests his chin on the top of your head, his chest rising and falling in deep, contented sighs. One of his large hands rests on the small of your back, holding you securely, while his other hand gently tangles into your hair, stroking the strands with a tenderness that makes your eyes sting with happy tears.

For a long time, neither of you speaks. You just exist together, adapting to the rhythm of each other's bodies, letting the shared warmth lull you into a state of deep comfort. Your shyness hasn't vanished entirely—your cheeks are still burning—but it has transformed from fear into a beautiful, breathless anticipation.

Eventually, you shift your head, looking up at him from his chest.

Yuji is already looking down at you. His eyes are soft, filled with a profound devotion that makes you feel like the only person in the universe.

"Yuji?" you whisper.

"Yeah, beautiful?"

The compliment makes your heart skip a beat. You swallow hard, gathering every ounce of courage you possess. You don't want to hide behind your shyness anymore. Not tonight. Not from him.

Slowly, carefully, you slide your hands up his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt, until your fingers rest against his shoulders. You push yourself up just a fraction, tilting your chin upward. Your eyes flick down to his lips, then back to his eyes. It’s a silent invitation, a mirror of the one he gave you earlier.

Yuji’s breath hitches. The playful boy completely vanishes, replaced by a fierce, focused intensity. "Y/N... can I kiss you?"

"Yes," you breathe.

He doesn't rush. He moves with a agonizingly beautiful slowness, giving you time to change your mind, but you only lean in closer. When his lips finally touch yours, a soft sigh escapes you.

The kiss is gentle at first, a sweet, tentative pressing of lips that tastes like warmth and comfort. Yuji’s hand moves from your hair to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone, anchoring you to him. But as you relax into the kiss, parting your lips slightly, the depth of the kiss changes.

Yuji groans softly, a low sound in the back of his throat that sends a shiver straight down your spine. His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you so close there is no space left between you. The kiss becomes deeper, hungrier, filled with all the unspoken words and intense feelings he’s been holding back. It’s passionate, but never forceful. He guides you, his lips moving against yours with a rhythm that leaves you completely breathless and weak in his arms.

When he finally pulls back, just an inch or two, both of you are breathless. Yuji rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his chest heaving. A brilliant, breathless smile breaks across his face.

"Wow," he whispers, his voice thick and rough. "You're gonna be the death of me, Y/N."

You hide your burning face back in his neck, giggling softly. The shyness is back, but this time, it’s wrapped in pure joy. You wrap your arms tightly around his neck, holding on for dear life.

"Goodnight, Yuji," you mumble into his skin.

Yuji wraps his arms around you, locking you into a tight, protective embrace that you never want to leave. He kisses the top of your head one last time.

"Goodnight, my girl. Sweet dreams."

I'm Runnin' out of ideas, guys 🥲😭

[hisinnocentyn69]

Gilded Grey and Softest White...

By noon, the sky over Tokyo had turned a deep, heavy purple, and by three o'clock, a downpour had begun. Your plans for the botanical garden—and the lovely sundress you had chosen—were swept away in a torrent of gray. After spending twenty minutes gazing out the window, your bottom lip tucked under your teeth in a quiet, pouty protest, restlessness set in. If the outside world was going to be dreary, you would create a perfect little haven indoors.

By the time Kento's key clicked in the lock at six PM, the living room had transformed into a cozy textile maze. You had used the heavy velvet curtains, the cashmere throws he had bought for winter, and every decorative pillow from the guest suite.

Kento stepped into the foyer, his trench coat damp and his mind still weighed down by the office's stagnant bureaucracy. He halted in his tracks. Instead of the usual entrance to the living room, he found a barricade of plush silk cushions and a draped pashmina "curtain."

"I… see," he murmured to the quiet space.

He didn’t ask you to tidy up or even sigh in frustration. Instead, he hung up his coat, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned his cuffs. With the practiced grace of someone who handles chaos regularly, he knelt and pushed aside the silk flap.

You were sitting cross-legged in the center of the "Great Hall," bathed in the soft, warm glow of several battery-operated fairy lights. When he crawled in, his large frame seemed to fill almost all the available space, like a giant in a dollhouse. He settled with his back against a pile of cushions, his long legs drawn up awkwardly, and his expensive dress shirt slightly straining across his broad shoulders.

Without saying a word, you leaned over and handed him a small juice box—strawberry, his favorite—with the straw already poked in.

He glanced at the tiny box and then at you, his gaze steady, hiding the weariness that usually lingered in his eyes. "Thank you," he said softly.

"Rule one," you whispered, finally finding your voice while keeping your eyes on your lap. "No talking about spreadsheets in the fortress. Rule two… you have to stay until the thunder stops."

Kento took a sip of the juice, its sweetness a sharp contrast to his usual bitter black coffee. He watched you, noticing how you seemed to vibrate with a mix of shyness and pride. A sudden ache filled his chest—a realization of just how much he needed this particular kind of nonsense.

"I think I can manage those rules," he replied. He reached out, his large, warm hand covering yours where it rested on the blanket, his thumb tracing a slow, soothing circle over your knuckles. The fortress was small, and he was far too big for it, but as the rain lashed against the windows, he knew he had no intention of leaving your side. ________________________________________________________________ The kitchen looked like a snowstorm had swept through, but instead of snow, it was high-grade ‘00’ flour with a splash of marinara here and there. You had aimed to be the "perfect" wife today—the one who welcomed her hardworking husband with a five-course meal. Instead, you found yourself sitting on the linoleum, a streak of flour on your nose, staring at a pile of tangled, doughy ribbons that were meant to be tagliatelle.

You heard the door open, followed by the steady, heavy footsteps of his oxfords. You didn’t look up; you couldn’t. You felt small and overwhelmed by the mess and the ticking clock.

Kento appeared in the doorway, taking in the scorched pot, the scattered herbs, and finally, you—looking defeated amidst the dinner disaster. He didn’t ask what had gone wrong or lecture you about the cost of the ingredients or the state of the floor.

He moved with quiet efficiency. He draped his blazer over a chair, rolled his sleeves up to his elbows—showing off the strong forearms that always made your heart race—and washed his hands.

"The dough is a bit too wet," he noted, his voice calm and understanding. He crouched down beside you, his presence steady and comforting. "It happens to the best of us. Shall we fix it together?"

He didn’t pull you up; he waited for you to reach for him. When you finally placed your floury hand in his, he squeezed it gently before helping you to your feet. He guided you back to the counter, standing behind you so your back was against his chest. His height created a protective barrier, isolating the rest of the messy kitchen until it was just the two of you and the cutting board.

"Hold the knife like this," he whispered, covering your hand to steady the blade. He was a master of precision, his movements calm and rhythmic. Under his guidance, the chaos began to take shape. He handled the heavy lifting—the kneading and sautéing—but left the important parts for you.

"Garnish this with the basil, please," he said, stepping back to let you finish the plate. "Your plating is always more beautiful than mine."

As you carefully placed the leaves, the sting of your earlier frustration began to fade. He leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his breath warm against your hair.

"It’s going to be delicious, I’m sure," he said, even though the food wasn’t finished yet. "But honestly, I’m just happy to be home with you. The rest is just… details." ________________________________________________________________ Shopping with Kento was always a well-organized affair. He had his list, knew the store layout like the back of his hand, and preferred not to spend more time than necessary in the bright lights of the supermarket. But there was one unpredictable element: you.

As Kento contemplated two different brands of sourdough, his brow furrowed as if he were making a crucial business decision. "Do you think we need the—"

He turned to find the space beside him empty. He let out a soft sigh, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. This was the third time in twenty minutes.

He didn’t worry. Instead, he pushed the cart toward the back of the store, passing the electronics and seasonal decorations, until he reached the toy aisle. There you were, a small figure surrounded by a sea of colorful plastic, completely captivated by a large, round plush seal with a hilariously goofy expression.

You were so absorbed in thought that you didn’t notice him approach, pondering whether the seal would fit in with the other stuffed animals at home.

Kento paused for a moment, his shadow enveloping yours. He glanced at the seal, then at the soft expression on your face. Reaching over your shoulder—his arm nearly as long as your entire torso—he picked up the seal and placed it in the cart on top of the kale and chicken breasts.

You startled a bit, looking up at him with wide eyes. "Kento! I… I was just looking."

"It seemed lonely," he replied, his face a picture of calm determination. "And we’re behind schedule."

This time, he didn’t let go of you. He gently tugged the hem of your oversized sweater sleeve, drawing you closer. For the rest of the shopping trip, he kept you securely by his side, his hand resting on the small of your back or holding your sleeve lightly.

To anyone watching, he appeared to be a serious man focused on his tasks. But you could feel the warmth of his hand through the fabric, and you noticed how he shielded you from a stray cart with his body. He claimed it was all about "efficiency," but as he checked out, he made sure the seal was carefully placed at the top of the bag so its face wouldn’t get squished. He took care of the things you loved because he genuinely cared for you. ________________________________________________________________ The apartment was filled with a heavy silence, only interrupted by the rapid clacking of Kento’s mechanical keyboard. He was in his "overtime" zone—shoulders squared, glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, and his eyes focused on a screen full of data.

You missed him. Although he was just thirty feet away in the den, his professional vibe felt like a barrier. You lingered in the hallway, peeking around the door frame to watch him work. You wanted to join him, but didn’t want to be a bother. You stepped back, then returned, only to retreat again.

Eventually, the loneliness took over. You quietly entered the room and crawled under the mahogany desk instead of saying anything. You sat by his feet, hugging your knees, with your head resting against the side of his fancy ergonomic chair.

The typing stopped immediately. The silence was almost overwhelming.

Kento leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight. He looked down into the shadows of the desk and saw you looking up at him like a shy little creature. He closed his eyes for a moment, took off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"I have just twenty minutes left to work," he said, his voice a bit rough from not being used.

You felt a twinge of guilt. "I can go," you whispered, starting to crawl out.

"No." His hand reached down to gently catch your shoulder, providing a firm, comforting weight. "Stay. But my legs are cramping. Come here."

He pulled his chair back and patted his lap. Your face flushed a deep red, but you complied, climbing up and settling sideways across his thighs. Compared to him, you felt so small; your head barely reached his chin, and his frame enveloped you completely.

He didn’t start typing right away. Instead, he wrapped one arm around your waist, pulling you close against his chest, resting his chin on the top of your head. He took a deep, calming breath, the scent of your shampoo soothing his frazzled nerves.

"You’re quite the persistent distraction," he murmured into your hair, a genuine smile breaking through.

He finished the report with one hand, the other still around you, his thumb tracing gentle patterns on your hip. The stress of the market and his bosses felt worlds away. As long as he had you nestled close, the rest of the world could wait. ________________________________________________________________ The clock on the wall struck midnight as Kento entered the dimly lit apartment, feeling a deep weariness that went beyond just being tired. He disliked coming home late; the thought of you waiting in silence made it even harder.

He found you in the living room, peacefully asleep on the sofa. A half-finished bag of pretzels sat on the coffee table, and your handheld game console was still loosely held in your hand. You were curled up tightly, your cheek resting against a throw pillow, looking so small against the large furniture.

Kento paused for a moment, watching the gentle rise and fall of your shoulders. The cynicism he had carried all day began to fade away.

He set his briefcase down and approached the sofa. With care, he took the game console from your fingers and placed it aside, then gently slid one arm under your knees and the other behind your back. He lifted you effortlessly, feeling as though you were a delicate weight he could carry forever.

As he walked down the hallway, you stirred, your head nestling into the crook of his neck. "Kento?" you mumbled sleepily.

"I'm here," he whispered, his voice soft and warm. "Just go back to sleep."

He laid you down on the cool sheets of your bed, but as he started to pull away, your hand shot out, gripping his dress shirt. Without opening your eyes, you held on tightly, silently asking him not to slip back into the world of suits and shadows.

Kento stayed. He perched on the edge of the mattress, the bed sinking slightly under his weight. For a long while, he gently brushed the stray hairs from your forehead, his large, calloused fingers moving with careful tenderness.

He reflected on the harshness of his job, the dullness of the city, and the constant demands on his time. Then he looked at you—so innocent and trusting, tucked snugly under the covers he had pulled up to your chin.

Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to your temple, remaining there until your breathing settled into the deep rhythm of peaceful sleep. Though he was a man of logic and reality, in this room with you, he embraced the role of protector. He would work every hour the world required, as long as it meant returning to this serene moment.

[hisinnocentyn69]

The Marginalia of Us...

You find yourself nestled in the furthest corner of the stacks, specifically in the "English Classics – Overseas Translations" section. In your hands, you hold a Japanese translation of The Great Gatsby from the 1980s. It’s a stunning edition, yet the foreword—authored by a young scholar named Kento Nanami—contains a perspective you take issue with.

He posited that Gatsby’s downfall stemmed from a lack of pragmatism. You believe that view is too harsh. Gatsby’s tragedy lies in his overwhelming hope.

You retrieve a pale blue sticky note from your pocket. "The pragmatism you propose would have turned him into a survivor, but it would have stripped him of the very 'heightened sensitivity to the promises of life' that renders the story a tragedy. To be practical is to be forgettable."

You extend your hand to place the note on the inside cover.

Out of nowhere, the book shifts. A hand—large, with long, graceful fingers and a silver watch peeking from a neatly pressed shirt cuff—emerges from the opposite side of the double-sided shelf. He seizes the spine just as your fingers touch the page.

Your skin makes contact with his. It’s a fleeting, electric jolt of warmth.

You gasp, retracting your hand so quickly that you bump your elbow against the shelf. Through the narrow space between Gatsby and Tender is the Night, you catch a glimpse of a face. A sharp jawline, gold-rimmed glasses, and an expression of deep surprise.

It’s him. Professor Nanami.

You hold your breath. You hastily retreat into the shadows of the next aisle, your heart pounding. You hear him take the book from the shelf. You hear the soft rustle of the sticky note.

You escape before you can hear him utter a single word. ________________________________________________________________

The following Tuesday, you find yourself in the seminar, gazing at your desk. Nanami is delivering a lecture on the disillusionment of the Jazz Age. He appears just as he always does—perfectly attired in a three-piece suit, his voice a deep, steady rumble that feels like velvet over gravel.

"Some critics claim Gatsby was a fool," Nanami states, his eyes wandering to the back of the room. "But recently, I was reminded that there is a certain… dignity in his lack of sense."

You quickly lift your head. Although he isn’t looking directly at you, he’s smiling. Just a hint of a smile.

After class, you nearly dash to the library. You locate the same book. With trembling fingers, you open it. Your blue note is still there, but now, a yellow square has been added beneath it.

"A fair point. However, hope without a foundation is merely a slow-motion car crash. If he had been 'forgettable,' he might have lived. Is survival not the ultimate pragmatism? — K.N."

Your breath hitches. He responded. He didn’t just notice it; he engaged with it.

You take your pen. "But he was already dead inside without the dream. Survival isn't living; it’s just not dying. There is a difference."

You slam the note down and conceal it.

The next day, a response awaits you.

"You possess a romantic soul. It is a perilous thing to bring into a library. Tell me, what do you think of his choice of shirts? Was it wealth, or was it merely a costume?"

And thus, it begins.

________________________________________________________________

For three weeks, the library becomes your sanctuary. The notes grow. The blue and yellow squares begin to overlap, creating a mosaic of intellectual sparring. You talk about Hemingway’s brevity, Woolf’s streams of consciousness, and eventually, things that aren't in books at all.

One evening, you find a note that makes your hands shake.

“I find myself looking for these notes more than I look at my own research. It is a strange comfort to know someone sees the world through the same ink as I do. I wish you would speak these words instead of hiding them. Your mind is too bright for the shadows.”

You feel a pang of guilt. If he knew it was you—the student who can’t even say "present" during roll call without stuttering—would he be disappointed?

You write back: “In the shadows, I can be anyone. On paper, I am brave. In person, I am just a quiet girl who is afraid of being wrong.”

The next day, you find his reply. It’s shorter than usual.

“The third row is not as invisible as you think. And being wrong is simply the first draft of being right. Don't be afraid. I’m listening.”

Your heart stops. The third row? Does he know? No, it’s a coincidence. There are fifty students in that hall. He’s just using a metaphor.

________________________________________________________________

As the semester draws to a close, the library fills with anxious students, yet your little corner remains a sanctuary. You choose to take a chance. You’ve been delving into a rare set of Akutagawa's letters, and you leave a note expressing the weight of expectations.

You wait by the shelf, concealed two aisles away, peering through the gaps.

Nanami shows up. He appears weary. His tie is loosened, and his hair is a bit tousled—a rare glimpse of vulnerability in his otherwise flawless demeanor. He locates the book, reads your note, and a soft, sincere laugh escapes him. It’s a lovely sound.

He reaches into his pocket, takes out a pen, and writes something down. He places it inside the book, hesitating for a moment as if he wishes you would reveal yourself, then he walks away.

You hurry to the book.

“I’m tired of conversing with a ghost. Let’s meet at the café across from the library tomorrow at five. I’ll be the one with the first edition of 'Gatsby' and two coffees. You don’t even have to say a word. We can simply write to one another.”

The boldness of it frightens you. But the idea of never receiving another yellow note terrifies you even more.

________________________________________________________________

At 5:00 PM, the cafe buzzes with the sounds of milk frothers and rain tapping against the glass. You stand by the entrance, holding your bag tightly.

In a corner booth, Kento Nanami is seated. He appears different outside the lecture hall—less like a professor and more like a regular man. Two large lattes sit on the table beside a well-worn book.

You make your way over, your legs feeling heavy. As you approach the table, he looks up, his eyes widening behind his glasses. The recognition is immediate.

"The third row," he whispers.

You struggle to find your voice, feeling a familiar panic rise as if sand is filling your throat. Quickly, you reach into your bag, pull out a blue sticky note and a pen, and jot something down. You slide it across the table.

"I told you I was shy."

Nanami glances at the note, then back at you. A slow, warm smile spreads across his face—the first genuine smile you’ve ever witnessed from him. He picks up his pen and writes on a yellow note, sliding it back to you.

"And I told you I was listening."

He gestures to the seat opposite him. "Please. Sit. We have many books to get through."

You take a seat. You remain silent, but for the first time in your life, the quiet isn’t confining. It feels like a conversation. You grab your pen, lean over the table, and start to write.

________________________________________________________________

As the cafe starts to close, the table is adorned with blue and yellow squares.

You’ve talked about the conclusion of The Sun Also Rises, your mutual distaste for cheap espresso, and how the light falls on the library at 4:00 PM. Nanami hasn’t once pushed you to speak. He’s handled the quiet exchange with a grace that makes your heart ache.

When you both rise to leave, he hesitates. He glances at the pile of notes, then gently tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch feels just as warm as it did through the bookshelf.

"Next Tuesday," he says softly, his voice low and intimate. "Don’t hide in the third row. Come to the front. I’d love to see you while I lecture."

You nod, your cheeks turning red. Then, taking a deep breath, you muster a tiny spark of the courage you usually reserve for the paper.

"I’ll… I’ll be there," you whisper.

It’s small. It’s shaky. But it’s yours.

Nanami smiles brightly, a look of pure triumph in his eyes. He collects the sticky notes, carefully placing them inside his book like treasured bookmarks.

"I look forward to it," he says.

You step out into the cool evening air, no longer a ghost among the stacks, but a woman with a story that’s finally being told.

[hisinnocentyn69]

Sandalwood and Raindrops...

The apartment was filled with the rich scent of sandalwood, mingling with the subtle, lingering fragrance of the tea he had prepared for you earlier. Suguru was a man of meticulous routines, a calming presence that seemed to anchor the very structure of the home you both inhabited. At the age of twenty-six, he carried himself with a quiet confidence, a gentle weight that made you feel like a small bird nestled safely in the crook of a sturdy branch.

Currently, he was seated on the sofa, a book resting against his thigh, but his attention was not on the text. It was on you. You were sprawled out on the rug at his feet, surrounded by vibrant ribbons and scraps of lace, attempting to attach a bow to a plush bear.

"You’re frowning, little one," he said softly, his voice a smooth baritone that resonated in his chest.

You puffed out your lower lip in frustration. "It won’t stay straight. It’s being mean to me."

Suguru chuckled softly, a melodic sound. He set his book aside and leaned forward, his long, dark hair cascading over his shoulder. With effortless grace, he reached down and lifted you from the floor as if you were weightless. He positioned you securely in his lap, your back against his chest and your head nestled under his chin.

"Let me help," he whispered, his large, calloused hands encircling you to take the ribbon. You watched in awe as his long fingers—usually so strong—worked with delicate care. He tied a perfect bow and then placed a lingering kiss on the top of your head.

"Is that better?"

You turned in his embrace, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in the crook of his shoulder. "Much better."

He hummed in contentment, his arms encircling your waist to pull you close against him. He was always like this—assertive in his space, a natural protector who took charge of every situation, yet completely gentle the moment you expressed a desire. If you wished for the moon, he would likely spend the evening calculating the trajectory to bring it to you. For the time being, he opted to shower you with gentle, peppery kisses on your forehead and temples, softly whispering how valuable you were until you found yourself giggling and wriggling in his embrace. ________________________________________________________________

The moon hung high in the sky when the cravings struck. It was well past midnight, that time of night when the world seemed to be wrapped in silence and mystery. You quietly slipped out of the bedroom, your silk nightgown softly brushing against your legs, moving barefoot and soundlessly. Suguru was a light sleeper, yet you were resolute.

In the kitchen, you discovered the hidden treasure. It was a premium dark chocolate bar, the type Suguru typically divided into neat, orderly squares. However, tonight, you were not in a disciplined mood.

Perched on the kitchen counter, you swung your legs and ripped open the foil. The chocolate was rich, melty, and absolutely divine. You didn’t even bother with a napkin; you were simply indulging in your sugary rebellion.

"I thought I heard a mouse in the pantry."

The voice startled you, almost causing you to drop the chocolate. Suguru stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his silk robe draping loosely over his broad shoulders, his eyes still heavy with sleep yet sparkling with mischief.

"I… it’s just a snack," you stammered, your cheeks flushing.

He approached slowly, his footsteps heavy and purposeful. He didn’t scold you. He didn’t say it was too late for sweets. Instead, he positioned himself between your knees, pinning you against the counter. His gaze fell to your mouth as he looked down at you.

"You’re a mess," he said softly. There was chocolate smeared on your bottom lip and a little smudge on your thumb.

"Sorry," you murmured, feeling like a child caught in the act.

"Don’t be sorry. Be mine."

He reached out, his thumb brushing the smudge on your lip. But rather than wiping it away with a cloth, he leaned in, his nose grazing yours. He licked the chocolate from your lip with a slow, agonizingly sweet stroke of his tongue. Your breath caught in your throat. He savored the sweetness, then moved to your thumb, his eyes locked on yours as he cleaned the mess with a teasing, gentle suction.

"Sweet," he whispered against your skin. "But not as sweet as you." He lifted you up then, leaving the half-eaten chocolate behind on the counter. He brought you back to bed, holding you close to his chest, not allowing your feet to touch the chilly floor for even a moment.

______________________________________________________________

The following afternoon, the sky opened up. It wasn't a storm, but rather a warm, heavy summer rain that transformed the garden into a misty green haven. While most people would have sought shelter, you stood by the French doors, pressing your nose against the glass, observing the ripples forming in the puddles.

"You want to go out there, don't you?"

Suguru appeared behind you, his hands gliding over your shoulders. He could sense your moods even before you voiced them. You turned in his embrace, your eyes bright and full of hope.

"Can we? Just for a minute?"

He glanced at your delicate floral dress and then at the pouring rain. A sensible man would have declined. A man of his caliber should have remained dry. Yet, seeing the way your face lit up, he simply sighed with a fond smile.

"Come here."

He guided you onto the patio. The instant the rain touched your skin, you gasped, the coolness a stark contrast to the humid air. Suguru held onto your hand tightly. He stepped into the middle of the grass, his expensive shirt quickly becoming drenched, clinging to the strong lines of his shoulders and chest.

He extended a hand to you, bowing slightly in the rain. "May I have this dance?"

You laughed, stepping closer to him. He placed one hand securely on the small of your back, while the other held yours. There was no music except for the rhythmic patter of the rain on the leaves, yet he moved as if a grand symphony was playing.

He twirled you around, your skirt billowing out and heavy with water. He towered over you, his strength guiding your movements with a steady, commanding elegance. Each time you slipped on the slick grass, his grip tightened just enough to keep you steady, pulling you back into the warmth of his embrace.

"You're shivering," he observed, though he didn’t stop. He drew you closer, tucking your head against his chest as you swayed.

"I'm happy," you replied, glancing up at him. The rain matted his hair to his forehead, making him look younger, less like the formidable man the world saw and more like the man who only existed for you. He leaned down, his lips meeting yours in a deep, wet, lingering kiss that tasted of rainwater and devotion.

He lifted you up, spinning you one last time while you laughed into the grey sky, your joy echoing against the thunder.

______________________________________________________________

Hours later, the house fell silent once more. The rain had diminished to a light drizzle, and the aroma of wet earth drifted through the open windows. Suguru had insisted you take a hot bath right away, hovering nearby with a fluffy towel and a hairdryer, ensuring you didn’t catch even the slightest chill.

Now, you found yourself wrapped in one of his oversized sweaters, the hem reaching your mid-thighs, while the sleeves engulfed your hands. You were curled up in the window seat, watching the last remnants of daylight disappear.

Suguru came over with two mugs of cocoa. He placed them down and then settled behind you, pulling you back so you could lean against him. He started to braid your hair, his movements slow and deliberate.

"You’re very quiet," he remarked, his voice a low rumble against your back.

"Just thinking," you replied softly, tilting your head back to meet his gaze. "About how you always let me have my way. Even when it’s silly. Even when we get soaked."

He paused, his fingers gently tangling in your damp hair. Leaning closer, his face was just inches from yours. The intensity in his dark eyes made your heart race.

"It’s not about 'letting' you, sweetheart," he corrected gently. "It’s that your happiness is the only thing that makes sense to me. If you want to dance in the rain, I will be your umbrella. If you want to eat sweets in the dark, I’ll be the one to clean your face."

He pressed a firm, possessive kiss to your jawline, his hands sliding down to rest over yours.

"I am the master of my world," he murmured, "but in this house, I am merely yours."

You turned around in his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck and squeezing him tightly. You were young, sometimes whimsical, and definitely prone to messes, but in this man’s embrace, you felt like a queen.

He returned the embrace, his large hand cradling the back of your head, holding you as if you were the most delicate, precious thing he had ever held. He didn’t need to say anything; the way he inhaled your scent, the way he adjusted his entire world to accommodate your desires, spoke volumes. "I love you, Suguru," you murmured softly against his neck.

He leaned back slightly to meet your gaze, a rare, sincere smirk dancing on his lips—the one he reserved just for you. "I know you do. Now, finish your cocoa before I decide you've had your fill of sugar for the night and whisk you off to bed."

"Is that a threat?" you joked, poking his chest playfully.

"A promise," he replied with a playful growl, teasingly nibbling at your earlobe before drawing you back into a warm, quiet embrace that felt like home.

[hisinnocentyn69]

The Demon King's Doll...

The air in the Infinity Castle was always still, smelling of aged wood and the faint, metallic tang of something ancient. For you, this place was a beautiful, terrifying maze—a playground built of shadows where the laws of gravity were merely suggestions.

You clutched the hem of your pale pink kimono, your breath coming in small, soft puffs. You were small, a gentle soul caught in a world of monsters, and today, you were feeling particularly playful—or perhaps just desperate to see a crack in the cold porcelain mask of the man who owned this realm.

"You can't catch me, Muzan-sama!" you chirped, your voice high and sweet, echoing through the shifting corridors.

Behind you, the rhythmic thud of his dress shoes on the polished wood was slow and deliberate. Muzan didn't run. He didn't need to. He walked with the predatory grace of a king who knew that time was entirely on his side.

"You are making a great deal of noise for someone so small," he said, his voice a deep, silken vibration that made your skin prickle with a mix of fear and adoration.

You squealed softly and took off, your white tabi socks sliding slightly on the floor. You rounded a corner, your eyes wide and bright, expecting to find a long hallway to lose yourself in. But just as your foot hit the threshold, a haunting, singular note of a biwa rang out.

Twanng.

The world tilted. The wall you were heading toward dissolved into a ceiling, and the floor slid away. You stumbled, disoriented, only to find yourself running straight toward the very man you were fleeing. Muzan stood just a few yards away, his crimson eyes glowing with a dark, amused embers.

"Oh!" You gasped, skidding to a stop, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You spun on your heel, your childish instincts taking over, and dashed in the opposite direction. "Nakime-san, that’s cheating!"

From her hidden perch, the Upper Moon remained silent, but the castle groaned in response. Every time you thought you had found an exit, every time you reached a dead end and prepared to hide in a corner, the biwa would strike again. Rooms flipped. Shōji doors slid open to reveal pits of endless darkness or upside-down staircases.

No matter which way you turned, the castle conspired to deliver you back to him.

You were getting tired, your legs feeling heavy under the weight of your silk layers. You were soft and unaccustomed to such exertion, your quiet nature usually keeping you tucked away in the library or the gardens. Your vision blurred slightly with exhaustion, and as you attempted to make one final, desperate turn away from the approaching shadow of the Demon King, your foot caught on the long, decorative hem of your kimono.

"Ah—!"

The floor beneath you vanished just as you began to tip forward. You braced for a hard impact, your eyes squeezing shut in terror. But Nakime was precise. With one final, resonating note, the room shifted a full ninety degrees.

Instead of hitting the floor, you fell into something firm, cold, and impossibly strong.

The scent of expensive cologne and old power enveloped you. You opened one eye, then the other, to find yourself cradled against Muzan’s chest. His arms were locked securely around your waist and shoulders, holding you as if you were a fragile glass doll he had no intention of breaking.

"Have you finished your exercise?" he asked, peering down at you. His gaze was intense, enough to make a lesser being wither, but for you, there was a trace of terrifying tenderness.

"I... I almost had you," you whispered, your voice trembling. You were scared of him, yes—everyone was—but you were also drawn to him like a moth to a funeral pyre. You reached out, your small, gentle hand resting timidly against his lapel.

Muzan tilted his head, watching the way your chest heaved with exertion. You were so quiet, so innocent, a flicker of light in his eternal darkness. It pleased him to see you breathless because of him.

"You had nowhere to go," he murmured, leaning down until his cold breath brushed your ear. "Every inch of this fortress obeys me. Just as you do."

He didn't wait for an answer. He tilted your chin up with a pale finger, forcing you to meet that crimson stare. Then, he leaned in, pressing his lips to yours. The kiss wasn't soft; it was possessive and demanding, tasting of power and ancient hunger. You let out a tiny, muffled whimper, your fingers curling into his suit jacket as you melted against him.

When he pulled back, he didn't let go. He simply tucked your head under his chin, his hand stroking your hair with a gentleness that was perhaps his greatest cruelty.

"Stay still now," he commanded softly. "I have you."

[hisinnocentyn69]

Your fics are so good i love how you write 🥹🥹

Ohh my gawd!!!! Tysm for the vibes! Sending so much love! 🫶✨🔥

[hisinnocentyn69]

Gentle Storm Embrace

The rain pattered steadily against the window of the dorm room, a soft, relentless rhythm that filled the quiet space. It was late, the kind of night where the world outside blurred into a hazy gray, and the only light came from the dim lamp on the desk. You sat cross-legged on Megumi's bed, your textbook open in your lap, but your eyes had long since wandered from the pages. He was across from you, his larger frame leaning against the headboard, one arm draped casually over his knee as he flipped through his own notes. The air felt thick with unspoken tension, the kind that had been building all evening.

Megumi glanced up, his dark eyes catching yours for a moment longer than necessary. He was bigger than you in every way—taller, broader, his presence filling the small room without effort. It made you feel small, protected, but also a little nervous, your cheeks warming under his gaze. You ducked your head, pretending to focus on the book again, but your heart thudded softly in your chest.

"It's really coming down out there," he said quietly, his voice low and even, breaking the silence. He set his notes aside and shifted closer, the mattress dipping under his weight. You nodded, biting your lip, unsure what to say. Words always seemed to tangle in your throat around him, especially on nights like this when the rain made everything feel more intimate.

He reached out, his hand brushing yours as he adjusted the blanket over your legs. The touch was light, almost accidental, but it sent a shiver through you. You looked up, meeting his eyes again, and this time he didn't look away. Instead, he leaned in slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull back if you wanted. But you didn't. Your breath caught as his face drew nearer, his features softened by the lamplight.

His lips met yours gently, a tentative press that was more question than statement. You froze for a second, your shyness bubbling up, but then you leaned into it, your eyes fluttering closed. His mouth was warm, soft against yours, and he kissed you with a careful restraint, like he was afraid of overwhelming you. One of his hands cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing a light circle on your skin, while the other rested on your knee, steady and grounding.

The kiss deepened just a fraction, his lips parting yours slightly, inviting you to respond. You did, hesitantly at first, your tongue brushing his in a shy exploration. A soft hum escaped him, vibrating against your mouth, and it made your stomach flutter. The rain outside seemed to match the rhythm of your breaths, steady and soothing, as you melted into the moment.

Megumi pulled back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours. "You okay?" he murmured, his voice roughened by the closeness. You nodded, your face burning, but you managed a small smile. He smiled back faintly, that rare expression that always made your heart skip, and then he kissed you again, slower this time, savoring the connection.

His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading gently into your hair. He tilted your head, angling the kiss deeper, but still so tender, his lips moving in unhurried strokes. You reached up, your smaller hands pressing against his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him through his shirt. He was so much bigger, his body enveloping yours as he shifted, pulling you closer until you were half in his lap.

The textbook slipped from your grasp, forgotten on the bed, as you focused entirely on the feel of him. His kisses trailed lightly to the corner of your mouth, then back to center, each one building a quiet heat between you. Your shyness made you hesitate, your touches light and uncertain, but he guided you with patience, his larger hand covering yours on his chest, encouraging you to explore.

"You taste sweet," he whispered against your lips, the words making you blush even deeper. You hid your face in his shoulder for a moment, embarrassed by the intimacy of it, but he chuckled softly, low and reassuring. "Hey, don't hide." He lifted your chin with a finger, drawing you back to him, and kissed you again, this time with a bit more insistence, his tongue slipping past your lips to dance with yours.

The rain drummed harder now, a backdrop to the soft sounds you made—quiet sighs, the faint smack of lips meeting. His free hand moved to your waist, fingers splaying across your side, pulling you fully into his lap. You straddled him awkwardly at first, your smaller frame fitting against his broader one, but he adjusted you with ease, his hands steady on your hips.

Emboldened by his gentleness, you let your fingers trail up to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt. The kiss broke for air, and in that pause, his eyes searched yours, dark and intent. "Can I…?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, gesturing vaguely to your clothes. Your heart raced, innocence warring with curiosity, but you nodded, trusting him completely.

He started with your shirt, his fingers finding the hem and lifting it slowly, giving you time to stop him. You raised your arms, letting him peel it off, the cool air of the room raising goosebumps on your skin. Underneath, your bra was simple, white lace that clung to your curves. He paused, his gaze lingering, appreciative but not demanding. "Beautiful," he breathed, and you ducked your head again, shy under the compliment.

His hands returned to your bare skin, tracing the line of your spine lightly, making you arch into his touch. You tugged at his shirt in response, your movements tentative. He helped, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion, revealing the toned planes of his chest and abdomen. He was built strong, muscles shifting under your exploring fingers as you touched him hesitantly, feeling the warmth of his skin.

Now both in undergarments, the intimacy felt heightened, vulnerable. The rain lashed against the window, but inside, it was just the two of you, bodies close and breaths mingling. He kissed you again, deeper now, his hands roaming your back, thumbs brushing the edges of your bra straps. You pressed closer, your chest against his, the thin fabric between you doing little to hide the growing warmth.

His lips left yours to trail soft kisses along your jaw, down to your neck, where he nipped gently, not enough to hurt, just to elicit a soft gasp from you. You tilted your head back, giving him access, your hands clutching his shoulders. He was so careful, his bigger body cradling yours, making you feel safe even as desire stirred quietly within.

"You feel so good," he murmured against your collarbone, his breath hot on your skin. Your response was a shy whimper, your innocence shining through in the way you trembled under his attention. He pulled back to kiss your lips once more, slow and thorough, tongues tangling in a rhythm that matched the rain's steady fall.

Time seemed to stretch, the make out session unfolding in languid waves. His hands slipped lower, cupping your hips through your underwear, thumbs circling the fabric's edge without pushing further. You mirrored him, your smaller hands sliding down his chest to his waistband, feeling the hard lines of his muscles. The size difference was evident—your touch barely spanned his width—but it only made the moment feel more encompassing, like he was wrapping you in his world.

A particularly loud rumble of thunder rolled outside, making you startle slightly, and he tightened his hold, kissing your forehead reassuringly. "Just the storm," he said softly, then captured your lips again, distracting you with the gentle press of his mouth. You relaxed into him, the shyness easing into a quiet comfort, your bodies moving together in subtle shifts.

He leaned back against the headboard, pulling you with him so you were fully supported against his chest. From this angle, his hands could reach more of you, one sliding up to unhook your bra with a deft motion—after a questioning look that you answered with a nod. The straps slipped down your shoulders, and you let it fall away, exposing your breasts to the cool air. His eyes darkened, but he didn't rush; instead, he cupped one gently, thumb brushing over the peak, drawing a soft moan from your lips.

Emboldened, you reached for his boxers, fingers hooking into the waistband, but he caught your hand, kissing your palm. 'Slow,' he whispered, his voice laced with restraint. You nodded, content to follow his lead, and returned to kissing him, your bare skin against his, the friction building a slow heat.

The rain continued its serenade, muffling the world beyond the dorm room. Inside, the air grew warmer, charged with the scent of him—clean soap and faint rain from earlier—and the subtle musk of arousal. His kisses grew a touch more urgent, lips sucking lightly on your lower one, but he always pulled back to check on you, his larger frame a steady anchor.

You lost track of time, the make out blending into a haze of touches and whispers. His hand traced patterns on your thigh, inching toward the edge of your panties but stopping short, respecting the shy boundary you both navigated. You nuzzled into his neck, planting tentative kisses there, feeling his pulse quicken under your lips.

Eventually, he eased you down onto the pillows beside him, bodies aligned side by side, his arm draped over your waist. He kissed you lazily now, foreheads touching, breaths syncing. "I could do this all night," he said, a hint of a smile in his voice. You blushed, hiding against his chest, but your hand stayed on his back, holding him close.

The storm raged on, but in the quiet intimacy of the room, it felt distant. Wrapped in his embrace, partially undressed and utterly content, you let the moment linger, shy heart opening just a little more with each gentle kiss.

[hisinnocentyn69]

A Softness in the Storm...

The humidity of Tokyo’s early summer clung to the mossy stone walls of Jujutsu High, but for you, the heat was the least of your concerns. You adjusted the strap of your bag, your knuckles white as you gripped the leather. Being Satoru’s fourth student—a last-minute transfer from abroad—felt like being a small bird dropped into a storm.

You stood in the courtyard, watching the clouds, until a heavy weight suddenly hit your back.

"Found you!" Yuji’s voice boomed right next to your ear. Before you could even squeak in surprise, his arms were wrapped firmly around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his spiky hair tickling your cheek. "You’re always hiding in the shadows, let’s go get ice cream."

"Yuji... people are looking," you whispered, your face heating up instantly. You didn't pull away, though. In a world of curses and blood, Yuji’s warmth was the only thing that felt safe.

"Let them look," Yuji laughed, turning his head to plant a loud, wet kiss on your cheek. To your horror, he didn't stop there; he gave your cheek a playful, affectionate lick, making you scrunch up your face. "You taste like that strawberry candy you’re always eating."

"Cut it out, Itadori. You’re hovering again."

The voice was cool, like a shadow stretching over the pavement. Megumi walked toward you both, his hands buried deep in his pockets. His dark eyes flickered to where Yuji’s hands were clasped over your stomach, then up to your face, which was currently a shade of crimson that rivaled a sunset.

"Megumi! Don't be jealous," Yuji teased, finally letting go of your waist only to grab your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours. "You want a kiss too?"

Megumi’s expression didn't change, but his gaze lingered on your joined hands for a second too long. "I want you to stop acting like a golden retriever. We have training."

"Five more minutes," Yuji pleaded, pulling you into a tight side-hug and kissing your forehead. You leaned into him, your smaller frame almost disappearing against his uniform. You looked over at Megumi, hoping for some sort of direction, but he simply turned on his heel.

"The training grounds. Now," Megumi said, his voice clipped.

________________________________________________________________

Training was grueling. Gojo had decided that today was the day for "interpersonal combat drills," which mostly meant he sat on a bench with a bag of sweets while the four of you tried to hit each other.

You were currently paired with Megumi. You were a head shorter than him, and your movements were hesitant. Every time you swung a wooden practice sword, you looked at his face first, gauging if you were swinging too hard or if you were disappointing him.

"Focus on the blade, not me," Megumi muttered. He parried your strike with effortless grace. "If you’re worried about hurting me, you’re going to get yourself killed."

"I'm sorry," you breathed, your voice barely audible. You took a step back, your heart hammering against your ribs. You hated the idea of causing him any discomfort. You hated the idea of him thinking you were a burden.

Suddenly, Gojo clapped his hands. "Break time! My favorite student needs a sugar boost!" He appeared out of thin air, draping a long arm over your shoulders and nearly knocking you over. "How’s my little international star doing? Megumi isn't being too mean, is he?"

"No, Sensei, he’s... he’s fine," you said, looking at your feet.

"He’s being a total grouch," Nobara chimed in, wiping sweat from her brow as she walked over. She reached out and pinched your cheek. "Honestly, how do you put up with these three? You’re way too soft for this school. It’s cute, really."

Megumi watched as Nobara and Yuji converged on you. Yuji immediately took your hand again, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles to soothe the friction from the sword. You looked so small between them, a fragile thing surrounded by giants and chaos.

"She’s doing fine," Megumi said suddenly, his voice cutting through Satoru’s rambling. Everyone went quiet. Megumi didn't look at them; he looked straight at you. "Her footwork is improving. She just needs to stop overthinking what everyone else thinks of her."

The praise was blunt and factual, but coming from Megumi, it felt like a spotlight. You felt your throat tighten. You wanted to say thank you, but the words felt too big for your mouth.

________________________________________________________________

The sun had begun to dip below the horizon, painting the school in shades of violet and deep orange. You were sitting on the steps of the dormitory, staring at a small scratch on your palm from earlier.

The door creaked open, and Megumi stepped out. He paused when he saw you, then took a seat two steps above you. For a long time, neither of you spoke. The cicadas provided the only soundtrack to the evening.

"Itadori is loud," Megumi said eventually.

You blinked, surprised by the sudden observation. "He is. But he’s kind."

"He’s too much," Megumi countered, though there was no malice in it. "He doesn't understand personal space. The way he... clings to you. Doesn't it bother you?"

You looked down at your hands. "I... I don't mind it. It makes me feel like I’m actually here. Like I belong. Sometimes I feel like if people don't touch me, I might just float away or disappear."

Megumi was silent. From your lower vantage point, you could see his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones. He looked untouchable, a stark contrast to Yuji’s messy, tactile affection.

"You won't disappear," Megumi said. His voice was lower now, barely a murmur. "Even if he wasn't constantly hanging off you. I’d still see you."

Your breath hitched. You risked a glance up at him, and for a fleeting second, his guard was down. There was a softness there, a quiet intensity that made your stomach flip.

"Megumi?"

"Go inside," he said, the walls sliding back up as he stood. "It’s getting cold."

________________________________________________________________

A few nights later, the mission had gone sideways. It was supposed to be a simple Grade 2 exorcism, but the curse had hidden reinforcements. You had spent the last hour running through a derelict shopping mall, trying to keep your cursed energy suppressed while looking for the others.

When you finally found Megumi, he was leaning against a pillar, blood dripping from a cut on his forehead.

"Megumi!" You scrambled toward him, your heart in your throat. You didn't think; you just acted. You reached out, your small hands trembling as you cupped his face to inspect the wound. "You’re bleeding. Oh no, it’s deep. We need to find Gojo Sensei, or Shoko—"

"I'm fine," he grunted, but he didn't pull away. In fact, he leaned into your touch just a fraction.

Your fingers were cold, but your palms were warm against his skin. You were so close you could smell the ozone of his technique and the metallic tang of blood. You pulled a handkerchief from your pocket and pressed it gently to his brow.

"I was so scared," you whispered, your eyes welling up. "I thought... I thought I lost you guys."

"You worry too much," he said, but his hand came up to rest over yours, holding the cloth in place. His fingers were much larger than yours, calloused and steady. He looked down at you, his gaze sweeping over your small frame, checking for injuries. "Are you hurt?"

"No. Just... just scared."

"Don't be," he said. He reached out with his free hand and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His touch was nothing like Yuji’s. Where Yuji was a bonfire, Megumi was the steady warmth of a hearth. He didn't lick your cheek or pull you into a crushing hug; he just held your hand against his face, his eyes searching yours.

"I'd notice if you were gone," he said softly. "The shadows would feel different."

It was the closest thing to a confession you had ever heard from him. It wasn't loud or demanding; it was a quiet admission of your place in his world.

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The aftermath of the mission was a blur of reports and Shoko’s healing office. By the time you were cleared to go back to the dorms, it was late. You were walking through the quiet hallway when you saw Megumi standing by the window, looking out at the moon.

He heard you coming—he always did. He turned, his expression unreadable.

"Hey," you said softly.

"You should be sleeping," he replied.

"I couldn't. I wanted to... make sure you were okay."

You walked up to him, stopping just a few inches away. You felt so small standing in front of him, having to tilt your head back just to meet his eyes. The silence between you wasn't heavy anymore; it was comfortable, filled with the things neither of you felt brave enough to say out loud.

"Megumi?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For what you said earlier. About the shadows."

He looked away, a faint tinge of pink dusting his ears. "It was just a fact."

You smiled, a genuine, shy curve of your lips. You stepped closer, invading that personal space he usually guarded so fiercely. You reached out and took his hand, his long fingers curling instinctively around yours.

"I like your shadows," you whispered.

He looked back at you, his eyes dark and swirling with something you couldn't quite name. He squeezed your hand, and for a moment, the world felt very small—just the two of you in a quiet hallway.

"I..." he started, but his voice trailed off. He didn't need to finish. He leaned down, his face closing the distance until his forehead rested against yours.

You felt a surge of boldness. You went up on your tiptoes, your hand sliding from his to rest on his shoulder for balance. You leaned in and pressed a very soft, very brief kiss to the corner of his mouth. It was barely a touch, as light as a butterfly’s wing.

Megumi froze, his breath hitching. His hand moved to your waist, pulling you an inch closer, his thumb grazing the fabric of your shirt.

"Megumi! Y/N! There you are!"

The voice of Yuji shattered the moment like glass. You jumped back, your face exploding in heat, nearly tripping over your own feet.

Yuji came jogging down the hall, looking energized despite the late hour. "Gojo Sensei is ordering pizza! He says we have to celebrate not dying! Come on!"

Yuji reached you first, immediately slinging an arm around your neck and kissing the top of your head. "You look like you've seen a ghost! Come on, I’m starving!" He grabbed your hand and started pulling you toward the common room.

You looked back over your shoulder at Megumi. He was still standing by the window, one hand slowly coming up to touch the corner of his mouth where your lips had been.

He didn't follow immediately. He just watched you being led away by Yuji’s boisterous energy. But as you turned the corner, you saw the smallest, rarest ghost of a smile pull at his lips.

"I'm coming," Megumi called out, his voice steadier than it had been a moment ago.

You let Yuji pull you along, your heart dancing a rhythm you finally understood. You were the fourth student, the small foreigner who was afraid of her own shadow, but in this strange, dangerous school, you had found a place where you were seen—even in the dark.