loopy lou

lou || they/them || 19 || mdni || slow writer

[kuna-beefcake]

𓂃 berry basket

hihi hello, i'm lou. i’m mainly here for jjk stuff, even if i haven’t been active in the fandom in forever. i use they/them pronouns; however, i do mainly write fem readers and ocs because jjk as a series is lacking in that department.

𓂃 some things to know

• i'm too excited about anyone reading my stuff to remember to check if they're an ageless blog or a minor, so please just don't message me or send asks that are not anonymous if you're one of those.

• i am very much of the belief that people can write, draw, or ship whatever they want, regardless of how problematic or distasteful anyone thinks it is. the block button is a thing. use it instead of harassing people. me and the block button are very old acquaintances.

• i am a very slow writer, but engagement with my fics, especially reblogs and comments, really motivate me.

• i am also an artist; however, i have a main blog where i am known for my art. i don’t want the two blogs associated, so you can see my stuff via this carrd! (you should view it on mobile)

𓂃 masterlist

indefinite affections sukuna x toji x fem!reader

synopsis: as a favor for a mutual “friend,” you and sukuna take toji in as he finds himself in a tight spot. his arrival permanently shifts the peace in your apartment.

tags: slow burn, hurt/comfort, developing friendships and relationships, age gaps, eventual smut, reader&sukuna are roommates, former criminal!sukuna, underground fighter!toji, nurse!reader

♡ part 1 ♡ part 2 ♡ part 3

[sneaterrr]

my moon, my man

[lemxnns]

ATTENTION, PLEASE!

── synopsis .✦ although you're meant to be asleep, you can't help but seek a little bit of extra attention from your boyfriends: toji fushiguro and ryomen sukuna. unfortunately, it doesn't go according to plan, because they're both heavy sleepers. don't worry, though! you have your ways.

── contains .✦ threesome, p in v, somnophilia, double penetration, oral (m!recieving), soft sex, sleepy sex, needy!reader, afab!reader, praise kink, unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, size kink, strength kink, aftercare, little bit of fluff, perhaps a little self indulgent, mdni!

── word count .✦ 4k!

Night settles thick and velvety around the room, the kind of quiet that only exists when everyone else has surrendered to sleep. 

The blankets are heavy and warm, and you’re tucked right where you love to be - wedged between two oversized, overpowered men who somehow make the bed feel too small and impossibly safe at the same time.

Toji sleeps behind you like a furnace, one heavy arm draped around your waist, palm warm against your stomach. His chest rises and falls with long, deep breaths, each exhale brushing along the back of your neck. 

He smells familiar - warm skin, faint shampoo, something rough and comforting, like worn leather and quiet nights. His leg is thrown lazily over yours, anchoring you in place like he subconsciously refuses to let you drift away even in sleep.

Ryomen lies facing you, one hand lightly resting at the curve of your hip, thumb stone-still - but there. His breathing is quieter, restrained even in slumber, like he refuses to look vulnerable to unconsciousness. His face looks softer like this, lines of arrogance smoothed out by sleep. Both eyes closed, lips relaxed instead of curled in a smirk.

You shift minutely, pressing back against Toji's heat, shifting against Ryomen's solid stillness. The friction is a whisper, a tease. It ignites something low and desperate inside you. 

Your skin feels too tight, too sensitive under the blankets. The stillness grates; you need more. Need them awake, need them touching you properly. Need to be filled until this ache dissolves into something liquid and consuming.

Carefully, slowly, you slide Toji's arm off your waist, lifting his heavy thigh from yours. He grunts softly, shifting deeper into the pillows but doesn't wake. You twist silently onto your back, then push up onto your knees. The mattress dips. 

Before Toji can fully register the loss of your warmth, you straddle his hips, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his waist. His boxers are thin cotton; you feel the thick ridge of his erection instantly beneath you, hot and hard even through the fabric.

A needy little whimper escapes your lips as you settle your weight down fully, grinding your soaked, lacey panties against his thick bulge. The friction makes you mewl pathetically, and your legs - which barely bracket his hips - help you to weakly bounce and grind on his chub. You’re horny and impatient, cheeks flushed pink with desperation. 

You lean forward, pressing your palms flat against Toji’s bare chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath warm skin. He smells like sweat and sleep, and you can feel his heartbeat thumping steadily under your fingertips. You wiggle against him again, harder this time, the dampness between your legs soaking through your panties and onto his boxers.

You glance to the side at Ryomen’s sleeping form. He hasn’t moved an inch, still curled on his side with one hand resting near the pillow where your head was. His face is relaxed, peaceful even, but you know the moment he wakes, that arrogance will snap back into place. 

For now, though, he’s oblivious. 

You bite your lip, frustrated tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. *Why won’t they wake up?* You wiggle again, grinding down harder on Toji’s thickening length. His cock twitches beneath you, responding to the heat and pressure even in sleep, but he doesn’t stir beyond a low rumble in his chest.

Pouting, you hook your thumbs into the waistband of your panties and shimmy them down your thighs, kicking them off somewhere into the dark room. The cool air hits your wet slit, making you gasp softly. Then, shifting your hips higher on Toji’s stomach, you reach behind you. 

Your fingers tremble as you fumble beneath the thin fabric of his boxers, finding his cock hot and heavy, already half-hard and leaking at the tip. You wrap your fingers around him, and guide him towards your aching entrance. 

Your other hand spreads your pussy lips wide, slickness coating your fingers as you press the blunt head of him against your tiny, fluttering hole.

Slowly, agonisingly slowly, you sink down onto him. Your tight walls stretch around Toji’s thick cockhead, a choked whimper escaping your lips as the delicious burn steals your breath. Your thighs quiver with the effort, barely managing shallow, shuddering bounces that are more desperate wiggles than proper movement. Each tiny descent pulls another pathetic sound from your throat - high-pitched whines and breathy gasps - as you struggle to take more of him, your slick easing the way but your body protesting the overwhelming girth. 

Tears of frustration blur your vision; it feels so good yet nowhere near enough, leaving you trembling and achingly empty higher up.

Toji stirs beneath you. A low, rumbling groan vibrates deep in his chest, resonating against your palms still pressed flat on his pecs. His hips give an instinctive, sleepy thrust upwards, burying himself a fraction deeper inside your clenching heat and forcing a sharp, needy cry from you. 

His heavy eyelids flutter open, bleary eyes focusing slowly on your flushed, tear-streaked face hovering above him. Confusion flickers across his features for a split second before settling into a lazy, predatory awareness. 

A slow, rough smirk spreads across his lips as he feels your trembling thighs struggling to ride him, your soaking wetness coating him. 

“Couldn't wait, huh?” He grunts, his voice thick with sleep and amusement, one calloused hand sliding up to grip your hip firmly.

Pure, dizzying relief floods you at the sound of Toji’s gravelly voice.

 A choked sob escapes your lips, mixing with the desperate whimpers torn from your throat on each tiny, shallow bounce. Your movements are frantic but weak - barely lifting yourself an inch before gravity pulls you back down onto his girthy cock, your thighs trembling violently with the effort. Every desperate grind against the thick root of him sends sparks through your oversensitive clit, yet it’s maddeningly insufficient, leaving you clenching and weeping around his fat dick. 

Tears finally spill over, hot tracks down your cheeks as you whine, “N-Need you… please…”

Toji chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrates deliciously through your joined bodies. His grip tightens on your hip, fingers digging possessively into soft flesh. 

“Look at you.” He coos, voice thick with sleep and arousal, his gaze tracking the tremors running through your thighs. “Workin' yourself into a state all alone.”

He shifts subtly beneath you, lifting his hips just enough to meet your frantic little bounces, driving himself deeper into your clenching heat with a deliberate slowness that borders on cruel. The stretch burns beautifully, stealing your breath. 

“My cock's too much for you, ain't it?” He taunts softly, watching the tears spill faster down your cheeks. “Little thing like you swallows it up whole, still whinin' for more. Aren’t you, pretty?”

Your answering whine is pure desperation, high-pitched and ragged, muffled as you bury your face against his sweat-dampened chest. “Too much... s'too big.” You sob, the words hiccuping out between shallow breaths, your hips stuttering helplessly against him, unable to push deeper or pull away, pinned by his strength and your own aching need.

“Shh.” He soothes, though the smirk lingers. 

One rough thumb brushes away a tear track, the gesture surprisingly tender against the raw possessiveness in his eyes. “You're doin' so good, pretty baby. Takin' it like you were made for it.”

His praise coils hot and thick in your belly, mingling with the overwhelming stretch. 

“So fuckin' cute.” He breathes, dragging a calloused palm up your spine to cradle the back of your neck, forcing your tear-streaked face up to meet his gaze. "All weepy and needy for my cock." He punctuates the words with another deliberate upward thrust, grinding his pubic bone against your swollen clit.

The rhythmic creak of the bedframe and Toji's low grunts finally slice through the heavy silence surrounding Ryomen. His eyes snap open, instantly sharp and alert despite the remnants of sleep clinging to his posture. 

He takes in the scene beside him – you straddling Toji, trembling and slick, Toji's broad hands gripping your hips possessively – with undisguised disgust. 

“Ugh.” He rasps, voice thick with sleep but dripping with contempt. “Seriously? Fucking freaks. Middle of the goddamn night.” He rolls onto his back, rubbing a hand over his face, the disdain clear even in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

Toji's chuckle is dark and knowing, his gaze flicking pointedly down Ryomen's body. 

“Look who's talkin'. Got a decent tent pitchin' there yourself, princess.” He rumbles sarcastically, nodding towards the undeniable bulge straining against Ryomen's silk sleep pants. Your gaze follows, eyes widening as you take in the thick outline pressing against the thin fabric. 

A tiny, involuntary whimper escapes you, followed instantly by a flood of saliva you just barely manage to swallow. The sheer visual, Ryomen's hardness juxtaposed with his sneer, sends a fresh wave of dizzying want crashing through you.

Toji notices your reaction instantly – the slack-jawed hunger, the glistening drool you couldn't quite contain. His grip tightens on your hip. 

“That got you excited, doll?” He teases, voice dropping into that dangerously gentle rumble that always makes your knees weak. “Seein' him all stiff like that? You wanna taste him?” 

Your eyes dart frantically between Ryomen's sneering face and the thick promise tenting his pants. A drowsy, desperate nod, followed by an “Uh-huh.” is all you can manage before you're clumsily lifting yourself off Toji’s cock with a wet, obscene pop. 

You scramble onto all fours on the mattress, hips instinctively lifting high, presenting your dripping, swollen pussy towards Toji while your hungry gaze locks onto Ryomen's lap. 

A pleading, high-pitched whine tears from your throat, raw and shameless. “Ryo… please…”

Ryomen watches you crawl towards him, your movements clumsy with need, your small hands trembling as they land on his thigh. The disgust melts away, replaced by a familiar, exasperated affection that softens the sharp lines of his face.

“Pathetic.” he sighs, the insult lacking its usual bite, sounding almost fond. He shifts onto his back, propping himself up on his elbows as his hips lift slightly, granting you access. “Go on then, you greedy little slut. Do what you need to do.” 

His silk pants are pushed down just enough to free his flushed cock – thick, heavy, already leaking copious strings of translucent precum that glisten in the dim light. It springs up hot and hard, the swollen head nearly smacking against your cheekbone as he releases it. 

The sudden proximity, the sheer heat radiating from him combined with the salty-sweet scent hitting your nostrils, makes you gasp wetly. 

Your reaction – the wide-eyed awe, the choked moan, the way your tongue unconsciously darts out to wet your lips – sends a visible shudder through him. His hips jerk involuntarily, a thick rope of precum spurting onto your chin before you've even touched him. 

“Fuck.” He groans, the sound low and strained, his arrogant facade crumbling completely. “Look at you... look how much you want it.”

Your shaky fingers wrap around his base, feeling the thick vein pulsing beneath your touch as you lean in, tongue instinctively darting out to catch the sticky precum still glistening on his tip. The sharp, musky taste blooms across your tongue - salty, intimate, utterly consuming. 

A ragged moan tears from your throat as you sink forward, hollowing your cheeks to take the swollen head past your lips. Above you, Ryomen’s breath hitches sharply, his hips lifting off the mattress to press deeper into your mouth. 

“That’s it.” He rasps, his voice stripped of contempt, now thick with drowsy reverence. One large hand settles possessively on the crown of your head, fingers tangling in your hair - not forcing, just holding - as his thumb strokes your temple. "Take it slow, sweetheart. Just like that..." His praise coils warm and liquid in your belly, making you whimper around his girth.

Behind you, Toji’s calloused hands slide up your trembling thighs, spreading them wider as he drags the slick, swollen head of his cock through your dripping folds. 

The sensation - hot, blunt, teasing - makes you jerk and moan around Ryomen’s length, saliva leaking down your chin. Toji chuckles darkly, his grip tightening as he presses forward in one smooth, lazy thrust, filling your aching pussy to the hilt. 

You arch violently, gagging around Ryomen as the overwhelming stretch ripples through you, tears springing fresh at the corners of your eyes. 

“Fuck, you’re tight.” Toji groans, his voice gravelly with sleep and pleasure, hips rolling in shallow, possessive circles that grind his pubic bone against your clit. “Squeezin’ me like you’d die without it…”

Ryomen watches you struggle - your teary eyes, the frantic bob of your throat as you suck him deeper, the way your hips rock back weakly onto Toji’s thick cock - and a soft, almost disbelieving sigh escapes him. 

“God, you’re a mess.” He groans, but his thumb brushes away a tear with startling tenderness. His other hand slides down to cradle your jaw, guiding you gently as you take him inch by inch, your nose pressing into the coarse hair at his base. 

Every choked slurp, every flutter of your lips, pulls another thick strand of precum from him, coating your tongue. 

“So good... taking us both like this—hnn.” The raw ache in his voice betrays him, his hips stuttering upward as you hollow your cheeks, drawing a guttural groan from his chest.

The room fills with the sounds of their pleasure: Ryomen’s fractured sighs, Toji’s low, rhythmic grunts, the slick slap of skin against skin - all underscored by your own muffled whimpers. 

Toji’s thrusts deepen, each powerful surge driving Ryomen deeper down your throat until your eyes roll back, overwhelmed and trembling between them. Ryomen’s hand tightens in your hair, not pulling, just holding you steady as his cockhead nudges the back of your throat. 

“Easy.” He breathes, watching tears stream freely down your cheeks. “Just breathe... we’ve got you.”

His thumb strokes your cheekbone, the gesture unbearably gentle as Toji’s palm splays across your lower back, pinning you in place between their heat, their strength, their ravenous, lazy claim.

Ryomen’s head tips back against the pillows, the tendons in his throat straining as he surrenders to the sensation. Moonlight catches the sweat-slicked lines of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes against his cheekbones - god, he looks devastatingly beautiful like this, arrogance unraveled into pure, raw need. 

A soft whimper escapes you as you pull off his cock with a wet gasp, lips swollen and glistening. You nuzzle against the flushed head instead, kitten-licking the slit teasingly, lapping up the salt-bitter precum you know drives him wild. 

His hips jerk sharply, a choked groan tearing free. “Fuck—yes, just like that.” He rasps, his voice cracking as his fingers tense in your hair, guiding you back to torture him slowly, deliberately.

Behind you, Toji shifts his grip, angling your hips higher as he rolls deep into you. It’s a subtle, possessive adjustment - a slow grind that seats the blunt crown of him impossibly deep, kissing your cervix in one smooth, devastating stroke. 

You cry out against Ryomen’s thigh, the sound strangled and high-pitched. The sudden stretch wrings a shuddering sob from you, your cunt clamping down hard around Toji’s thickness. 

He groans, low and satisfied, hips circling to savor the vice-tight grip of you. “Feel that, doll?” He murmurs, breath hot against your spine. “Taking me right where you need it…” 

Each shallow rock grinds that swollen tip against your deepest, most tender spot, leaving you boneless and shaking, tears soaking Ryomen’s skin as you suckle his cockhead desperately.

Ryomen watches you fall apart - your trembling surrender, the way your thighs quake as Toji owns your pussy - and something shifts in his eyes. 

The last shred of detachment melts away. 

“Look at her.” He coos, voice thick with awe, thumb brushing your tear-slicked chin. “So soft... so fucking perfect.” 

His hips lift, pressing insistently against your lips until you take him deeper again, your mouth working him with clumsy, worshipful hunger. Above the ragged sounds of your sucking, Ryomen’s breath catches, his gaze locking with Toji’s over your head.

“Enough.” Ryomen rasps suddenly, his voice low but commanding. 

He gently pulls his cock from your lips with a soft, wet pop, ignoring your desperate whimper. Simultaneously, Toji stills his delicious thrusts, sliding out of your clenching heat with agonizing slowness, leaving you shuddering and achingly empty. 

Before you can protest, Ryomen’s strong arms hook under your knees and around your waist. Effortlessly, he lifts you - your back instantly pressed flush against the solid warmth of his chest - and cradles you suspended against him, your legs splayed wide open. 

The thick, insistent heat of his erection presses firmly against the cleft of your ass, a silent, urgent promise. In front of you, Toji shifts forward on his knees between your trembling thighs, his calloused hands spreading you wider as he aligns himself with your dripping, twitching entrance.

Toji’s gaze locks onto yours, dark and predatory, as he pushes forward in one slow, relentless stroke, filling your needy pussy to the hilt again. 

The stretch burns beautifully, stealing your breath in a ragged gasp, but it’s Ryomen’s hand that tilts your head back against his shoulder. 

His lips brush your ear, voice rough and hypnotic. “Relax, sweetheart.” He murmurs, fingers splayed possessively across your stomach. Then, with aching tenderness, he presses the blunt, slick head of his cock against your tight, untouched rim. 

You stiffen instinctively. “Ryo—mh!” A sharp, startled inhale, but Ryomen’s other hand strokes soothingly down your thigh. 

“Shh, I’ve got you.” He breathes, the words vibrating against your skin as he pushes forward, just an inch, the stretch foreign and exquisite, forcing a trembling whine from your throat.

The dual invasion overwhelms: Toji’s thick cock pistoning deep into your cunt, Ryomen’s relentless pressure stretching your ass, and your body arches violently between them. 

A ragged moan tears free as Ryomen sinks deeper, the searing fullness stealing coherent thought. Your head falls back fully against his shoulder, tears spilling anew as his arm bands tighter around your waist, anchoring you. 

Between the slick sounds of Toji’s thrusts and your own choked cries, Ryomen groans, low and reverent, his teeth grazing your neck. 

“So tight—fuck— taking us so well…” His hips roll in shallow, deliberate circles, seating himself completely, the intimate burn blooming into a deep, throbbing ache that merges with the pounding pleasure radiating from your clit with every grind of Toji’s pelvis.

Toji’s calloused hands slide up your trembling thighs, thumbs digging possessively into the crease of your hips as he drives deep. His chest brushes against your swollen, sensitive nipples with each powerful thrust - a fleeting friction that draws sharp, whimpering gasps from you. 

Leaning forward, he nuzzles the sweat-dampened skin beneath your ear, teeth grazing the pulse point. 

“Listen to her.” He growls, voice thick and amused, aimed at Ryomen even as his gaze locks onto your tear-streaked face. "Whimpers like a fuckin’ kitten." His tongue soothes the bite mark he’s left, then dips lower to suck a bruise into your collarbone. You shudder wildly, pinned between Ryomen’s relentless fullness and Toji’s claiming mouth.

“Her ass is still pliant.” Ryomen points out, breath hot against your temple, his fingers tracing the rim where he’s buried deep. 

His voice holds a drowsy awe that contrasts sharply with his earlier disdain. “Soft ‘n’ open…” He punctuates each word with a slow, grinding roll of his hips that makes you sob. 

Toji chuckles, low and dark, his lips leaving your skin to glance up at Ryomen. “Told you she was made for it.” 

His large hand slides up your stomach, fingers skating over your ribs before palming your breast roughly. He squeezes, thumb flicking your pebbled nipple, and you jerk against Ryomen’s chest. 

“Feel how soft these tits are?” Toji rasps, his gaze locked on Ryomen’s over your shoulder. “Like fuckin’ silk... perfect for squeezin’ while she takes cock.” 

The vulgar tenderness - the raw admiration in Toji’s gravelly voice - collides with Ryomen’s answering groan of agreement. “God, yes. So soft…” Ryomen breathes, his hand joining Toji’s while you wrap your legs around Toji’s waist to steady yourself, both men fondling your breasts with possessive reverence as they fill you completely.

The overwhelming stretch, the possessive hands on your skin, and the shockingly sweet profanity spilling from their lips - "So soft…”, “Made for us.” - shatters your control. 

A choked scream rips from your throat as your orgasm consumes you, violent and sudden. Your cunt clamps down hard around Toji’s thrusting cock while your ass pulses around Ryomen’s thickness. Liquid heat gushes from you, soaking Toji’s abs in a weak, trembling squirt that leaves you gasping and shaking. 

“That’s it.” Ryomen rasps against your ear, his hips stuttering as he feels your convulsions. “Let go... shit, feel her…” 

Toji grunts, driving deeper, his rhythm faltering as your fluttering cunt milks his fat cock. “Such a good girl.” He manages, fingers tightening on your breast. “Takin’ us ‘n’ ruinin’ yourself…”

Ryomen comes first - a sharp, ragged groan torn from his chest as he buries himself to the hilt in your ass. His release is scalding-hot and thick, pulsing deep inside you, flooding that tight ring with sticky heat. You whimper weakly, still twitching from your own climax, as the sensation spreads - intimate, claiming. 

Toji follows seconds later, hips pistoning wildly as he slams home. He whines your name, low and rough, his cock swelling impossibly thicker before erupting deep in your womb. You feel the hot, heavy pulses flooding you, mixing with the sensation of Ryomen’s cum, filling you until you’re impossibly stretched and achingly full. 

Both men groan in unison, their bodies shuddering against yours as they pump you full, their grips bruisingly tight.

Slowly, carefully, Ryomen slides out of your ass with a slick, obscene sound that makes you flinch. Toji pulls free next, his softening cock dragging against your oversensitive walls, leaving you trembling and gaping, thighs slick with a mess of cum and squirt. 

Ryomen hooks his arms under your knees and waist, lifting you effortlessly against his chest as Toji shifts off the bed. Your head lolls weakly against Ryomen’s shoulder, your entire body feeling boneless and heavy. 

He carries you the few steps to the unmussed side of the bed, lowering you gently onto the cool sheets. You curl instinctively into the pillows, your small frame dwarfed by the mattress, trembling legs tucked close. The contrast is stark - your fragility against their sheer size, the rumpled sheets still radiating heat where they’d pinned you moments ago. Ryomen’s gaze softens as he brushes damp hair from your forehead. 

“So small.” He muses, almost to himself.

Toji sinks onto the edge of the bed beside you, his calloused hands surprisingly gentle as he turns you onto your stomach. “Gonna be sore tomorrow, doll.” He rumbles, thumbs already kneading the tense muscles of your lower back with firm, practiced pressure. 

You sigh shakily into the pillow, the ache in your spine easing under his touch. His palms move lower, working the trembling knots in your thighs, coaxing the tremors into submission. Each stroke is deliberate, grounding - a stark contrast to the bruising possession minutes before. 

Meanwhile, Ryomen pads silently to the adjoining bathroom. You hear the soft rush of water, then his return, a warm, damp towel in hand. He starts with you, wiping away the sticky mess between your thighs with unhurried tenderness, the heat soothing your raw skin.

He cleans Toji next, the rough swipe of the towel over sweat-slicked abs drawing a low grunt of approval. Finally, Ryomen tends to himself, the towel moving in efficient strokes before he tosses it aside. 

Without a word, he slides into bed behind you, his chest molding to your back, one arm draping heavily over your waist. Toji stretches out on your other side, his hand settling possessively on your hip, thumb stroking slow circles. The warmth of them surrounds you completely - Ryomen’s steady heartbeat against your spine, Toji’s breath ghosting over your shoulder. 

Exhaustion crashes over you, thick and sweet, and your eyes drift shut as Ryomen presses a kiss to the nape of your neck. 

“Rest.” He whispers, the command softened by fatigue. You sink deeper into the pillows, cocooned between them, already drifting.

a/n: i need them both so bad bruh

huge thankyou to @sebnchosongetosowlett for helping me with the plot when i was in hysteria yesterday because of my writers block!!!

art by @/to00fu!

[kuna-beefcake]

ok so i saw somewhere on the internet (cant for the life of me find it) a clip of a trans guy realizing for the first time that his packer was massive because his friend asked him if he was hard or something and since we all love big dick yuta i thought hmm. im gonna be basic and write something along those lines except. i dont know if i should make yuta cis or trans djdhsj

[kuna-beefcake]

im gonna do trans and cis version cause i cant control myself

[gojosconsort]

⊹　 　 004. CHAPTER FOUR　　　⊹ 　 　 　worst muse ever　◞♡　and other problems

⌗　 GOJO SATORU　/　五条 悟 gojo satoru x f!reader　·　w.c: 5,300

◞　in which after you hear something you probably shouldn’t have and run off in a panic, you decide the only sane way to apologize is with cookies. that’s what a normal person would do, right? except normal doesn’t really exist around satoru anymore, and one wrong turn into his hallway is enough to make you rethink the whole plan.

◞　content + warnings 18+ only. minors do not interact. miscommunication, jealousy and insecurities, and a confession that doesn’t land right.

◞　author’s notes hi hi, back with a new chapter! if you thought that reader couldn’t be more clumsy with her actions you will get more of that now. anyway enjoy the disaster <3

⌗ links　masterlist　·　ao3

you lie in bed for a long time after you hang up the phone, just staring at the ceiling, replaying the whole morning over and over in your head like it’s stuck on a loop you can’t turn off.

the shower. the sound of the water. the groan of his voice echoing off the tiles. your name on his lips when he came—

you press your hands over your face again. okay. you need to stop thinking about that specific part. you need to think about something else, anything else, literally anything—

i wanted to tell you first.

nope. that’s worse. that’s so much worse.

you groan into your pillow and roll onto your side, curling up like that’ll somehow make the embarrassment smaller. because here’s the thing. here’s the actual problem. it’s not even really about the shower, or the sounds, or any of it. it’s the fact that satoru had the biggest moment of his entire life happen today, the thing he’s been working toward since before you even knew him, and his first thought was to come find you and tell you about it.

and you weren’t there.

you were halfway across campus, power walking like your life depended on it, because you’d seen something you weren’t supposed to see and panicked instead of just… waiting. like a normal person. like a good friend.

but the image keeps flashing behind your eyes no matter how hard you try to outrun it: him in the shower, water streaming down his back, one hand braced against the tile while the other worked his cock. your name on his lips and the way his head had tipped back, eyes squeezed shut. he was thinking about you. getting off to the thought of you.

that’s totally normal for friends, right? you tell yourself for the hundredth time. doesn’t mean anything. guys do that. it’s—biology or whatever.

but the heat between your legs says otherwise.

you shove that thought away. hard.

focus. the actual problem. you ran off on him after the best day of his athletic career, lied to him about why on the phone, and now you’re lying here feeling sorry for yourself when he’s the one who probably felt a little confused and hurt that you weren’t there when he came looking.

you sit up. okay. you need to fix this. you need to actually be a good friend about this instead of a walking anxiety spiral.

what do people do when they feel bad? what do normal people do?

you think about it for a second, and then it hits you. cookies. you should bake him cookies. it’s simple, it’s normal, it doesn’t require you to look him in the eye and explain why you left the athletics building at the speed of light. it’s just a nice, uncomplicated gesture. congratulations on the scouts thing, sorry i disappeared, here are some cookies, no further questions please.

it’s perfect.

you get up, pull your hair back, and head down to the shared kitchen on your floor. your roommate is at the table doing an assigment and glances up as you start pulling out flour and a bowl.

“what’s happening right now,” she asks.

“i’m baking cookies.”

“you don’t bake.”

“i’m baking today.”

she watches you for a second, taking in your slightly frazzled hair and the way you’re measuring flour like you’re terrified of getting it wrong. “who are they for.”

“nobody. just cookies.”

“uh huh.” she goes back to her assignment, clearly not buying it for a second.

you focus on the recipe, on the measuring and the mixing, because it gives your hands something to do and your brain something simple to focus onto besides showers and moans and the way his voice had sounded saying you’re my favorite cheerleader like it was nothing, like it wasn’t the kind of thing that would live in your head rent free for the rest of the week.

the cookies come out slightly uneven, a little golden at the edges, but they smell good, and that’s basically the whole point. you package a handful of them into a little container, the good one you actually own instead of borrow, and you sit there at the kitchen table staring at it for a second.

it’s not a big gesture. it’s cookies. it means congratulations, and i’m sorry, and i actually am proud of you, more than i said on the phone, and also please don’t ask me why i left the building today because i genuinely cannot explain that to you without dying on the spot.

you glance at the clock. it’s not too late to go over. you could just drop them off, say something quick, and leave—

“so are you bringing those somewhere or,” your roomates suddenly says, not looking up form her assignment.

“no.”

“no?”

“no. they’re just for me.” you pull the container a little closer to yourself, like that proves something. “i just wanted cookies. and i’ll eat them myself.”

“you never bake for yourself. you don’t even like doing dishes.”

“i’m trying new things.”

“uh huh.” she taps her pencil against her notebook. “and this sudden expansion of your hobbies happened randomly, today, right after you got back from satoru’s meet.”

“those two things are unrelated.”

“i didn’t say they were related.”

“you implied it.”

“i said one sentence.” she’s smiling now, not even trying to hide it. “you’re the one connecting the dots.”

“there are no dots. there’s no line. there is nothing here to connect.” you stand up, tucking the container against your side. “i’m going to our room.”

“with your personal cookies.”

“with my personal cookies, yes.”

“that you’re definitely not taking anywhere.”

“correct.” you’re already halfway out of the kitchen, walking a little faster than the situation calls for. “goodnight.”

“it’s four in the afternoon.”

“goodnight,” you say again, and disappear down the hallway before she can get another word in.

you get to your shared room and set the container down on your desk and just look at it for a solid minute.

okay. fine. maybe they’re not entirely for personal consumption. maybe there’s a small, very small, almost negligible chance that you’ll end up walking these across campus in the next hour. but that doesn’t mean anything. that’s just being a good friend. that’s just normal, uncomplicated, congratulations-and-also-sorry-i-ran-away cookie delivery, and there is absolutely nothing else going on underneath it.

you change your shirt twice before you leave, which you also decide means nothing.

︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵

the walk to his dorm building takes about ten minutes, and you spend all ten of them going back and forth on whether this is a good idea or possibly the worst idea you’ve had all week, right up there with walking into that locker room in the first place.

by the time you reach his hallway you’ve mostly talked yourself back into it. it’s cookies. it’s a nice, normal thing that nice, normal friends do for each other. you’re not going to overthink it.

you turn the corner into his corridor and stop dead.

satoru’s door is open, and he’s leaning against the frame in a t-shirt and sweatpants, damp hair pushed back like he showered, laughing at something. there’s a girl standing in front of him, close, one hand resting lightly on his arm. she says something and he laughs harder, head tipping back a little, the easy, warm laugh you know so well, the one that used to just be yours to notice.

you don’t recognize her. pretty, obviously, because they always are. she’s got her hair pulled over one shoulder and she’s looking up at him like he’s the only person on the floor, which, to be fair, he probably is right now.

you take one step back before you’ve even decided to.

your heart does something ugly and fast in your chest, dropping somewhere lower than it should for someone who is just here to deliver cookies as a nice, normal friend. you press yourself back against the wall at the corner of the hallway, out of sight, cookie container suddenly feeling very stupid and very heavy in your hands.

okay. this is fine. this is completely fine. he can talk to whoever he wants in his own hallway. you are not owed an explanation. you are not owed anything at all, actually, because nothing has actually been said between you two that would give you any right to feel like this, this hot, sick little knot in your heart.

you, obviously, he’d said. right there in the studio, lips at your ear, voice soft in a way you’d never heard from him before.

and now there’s a girl with her hand on his arm and he’s laughing like he doesn’t have a single other thought in his head.

you tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. people laugh with people. people stand in hallways. it is possible, extremely possible, that this girl is just someone from his floor, or his team, or literally anyone whose existence has nothing to do with you standing here overthinking an entire scenario you haven’t even seen the whole of.

you peek around the corner again.

she’s exactly the type you’d have pictured, if anyone had ever asked you to guess what satoru’s type would be, which nobody ever has, because why would they. easy. confident. the kind of girl who probably walks into a room and doesn’t spend the first four minutes searching for an exit.

you look down at yourself without meaning to, and something in you goes small and insignificant, and then you look back up at them again, watching him laugh at someone who is everything you very specifically are not.

your hands are cold around the plastic.

you look down at the cookies again, still faintly warm through the lid, and suddenly you feel so stupid for having made them at all. what were you even thinking. congratulations on your race, sorry i ran away from you in a panic, here are some cookies i baked while thinking about you the entire time, please ignore how insane that sounds.

you don’t wait around to find out if she goes into his room. you just turn and walk, fast, back the way you came, down the hallway and toward the stairwell.

you’re halfway across the ground floor lobby, blinking hard and telling yourself very firmly that you are not about to cry over cookies, when you nearly walk straight into suguru.

“whoa,” he says, catching your shoulder lightly so you don’t collide with him fully. “hey. you okay?”

“i’m fine,” you say, too fast, the way you always say it when you are extremely not fine.

he looks at you for a second, the calm kind of look he always gives people, like he’s used to being the reasonable one in every room he’s in. his eyes drop to the container in your hands. “what’s that?”

“cookies,” you say, and then, because your brain apparently has no better plan available right now, you just hold the container out to him. “for you. good work. or whatever.”

suguru blinks. “for me?”

“yeah.”

“good work on what.”

“just—” you wave a hand vaguely. “training. being a teammate. all of it. general good work.”

he takes the container slowly, like he’s not entirely sure this is real. “okay,” he says, clearly amused now. “i mean, thank you. this is very nice. very random, but nice.”

“you’re welcome.”

he glances toward the stairwell behind you, then back at you. “you sure you don’t want to bring these up to satoru instead? he’s back on his floor, i think he just finished up with—”

“no,” you say, quick enough that it comes out a little too sharp. “no, it’s fine. they’re for you. specifically you. i wasn’t going up there anyway.”

suguru raises an eyebrow slightly but doesn’t push it, which you’re grateful for, because you do not currently have the emotional bandwidth to explain any part of this to anyone, least of all satoru’s teammate who probably has a much clearer read on the whole situation than you’d like.

“cool,” he says finally, tucking the container against his side. “well. thanks. i’ll enjoy these very much on your behalf of, uh, general good work.”

“great.” you’re already stepping around him toward the door.

“hey, wait.” he shifts the container to one arm. “how’s your semester going, actually? you’re the art major, right? satoru mentioned it a while back.”

“oh. yeah. it’s—fine. busy.” you shift your weight, a little thrown by the sudden interest. “figure drawing unit right now. lots of studio hours.”

“figure drawing. that sounds like it could be interesting. or exhausting. probably both.”

“it’s a lot, yeah.”

“you’re good at it though? drawing?”

“i mean. i try to be.” you laugh a little, awkward, not sure where this is going or why he’s still standing here asking you questions instead of heading back upstairs. “why?”

“just curious.” he shrugs. “you’re always kind of around, you know? training, the meets. never really got to talk to you much. figured i should fix that.”

you blink at him.

this is—new. suguru’s never really talked to you beyond a passing hello at practice, a nod across the bleachers, the occasional five-word exchange when satoru drags you into a conversation with the team. and now he’s standing here in the lobby asking about your major and your drawing and looking at you with an expression that feels a little like interest, actual interest, the kind you don’t really know what to do with because it’s aimed at you.

you feel immediately, deeply off put by it, in a way you can’t totally explain. it’s not that suguru isn’t nice, or that there’s anything wrong with the conversation itself. it’s more that you don’t have a category for this. boys don’t really do this, not with you. you’re the one on the bleachers with a sketchbook. you’re the one people forget is there until they need someone to hold their water bottle. you are, very specifically, not the kind of girl that gets this kind of attention, and you know that about yourself the way you know your own name, so having it happen right now, out of nowhere, in a lobby, over a box of cookies meant for someone else, feels like being handed a script for a scene you’re not in.

“right,” you say, a little stiffly. “well. now you know i draw.”

“now i know you draw.” he’s smiling, and it’s a nice smile, easygoing, nothing pushy about it, which somehow makes it worse because you can’t even find a reason to be annoyed. “maybe you could show me sometime. what you’ve been working on.”

“i don’t really show people my sketchbook.”

“no?”

“no.” your eyes drift towards the door, toward the cold night air and the version of this evening where you’re already halfway home. “it’s mostly just practice stuff. not really interesting.”

“i have a hard time believing someone who bakes like this isn't good at drawing.”

“those are completely unrelated skills.”

he laughs at that, a real laugh, and you feel your face heat up a little despite yourself, which annoys you further because there is absolutely no reason for it, none, this is just a person being friendly and you are reading way too much into a five minute conversation in a dorm lobby.

“i should go,” you say, taking a step back toward the door. “it’s late. i’ve got an early class.”

“sure. yeah.” he nods, container still tucked under his arm. “thanks again for these. i mean it.”

“no problem.”

“see you around, sketchbook girl.”

you make a face at that on your way out the door, mostly to cover the fact that you don’t entirely hate it, and the early evening air hits you the second you step outside, cold enough to clear your head a little, though not quite enough to stop you thinking, the whole walk home, about how strange it is that the first boy to ever really flirt with you did it while holding cookies meant for somebody else.

︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵

a few days later, you’re in your usual spot in the library, sitting at the corner table near the windows, sketchbook open next to your laptop even though you haven’t actually drawn anything in the last twenty minutes. you’ve mostly just been staring at the same paragraph of your art history reading over and over without absorbing a single word of it.

and then the chair across from you scrapes back.

you don’t even need to look up to know who it is. you know the sound of him settling into a seat by now, the specific way he drops his bag on the floor like he can’t wait to throw it somewhere.

“hey,” satoru says. “haven’t seen you in a while.”

you glance up at him, and something in your chest tightens up immediately. “yeah,” you say, a little flat. “been busy.”

“busy,” he repeats.

“yeah. you know. classes. stuff.” you look back down at your laptop, scrolling through nothing in particular. “i’m sure you’ve been busy too, though. big race. probably a lot of people wanted to celebrate with you after.”

“celebrate with me how.”

“i don’t know, satoru. girls. probably girls wanted to celebrate with you. it’s fine, though. genuinely. it’s not my business.”

“what girls.”

“i don’t know! that’s the point!” your voice comes out sharper than you mean it to, a couple heads at nearby tables turning slightly. “i don’t need the details. i don’t want to know about it. it’s fine.”

“you don’t want to know about what? there’s nothing to know—”

“okay, sure.”

“you’re being weird.”

“i’m not weird.”

“you are.” he leans forward, and now he actually looks annoyed, which somehow makes you more annoyed. “what was up with the cookies, by the way? for suguru?”

“what?”

“the cookies. suguru told me you gave him cookies.”

“suguru told you that?”

“yeah, he mentioned it, like two days ago. so what was that about?”

heat crawls up your neck, and for a second you don’t say anything at all, because now you have to decide whether to actually admit any of it, and every single option available to you sounds humiliating out loud.

“nothing,” you say. “i just felt like baking.”

“you don’t bake.”

“i bake sometimes.”

“you’ve genuinely never baked in the three years i’ve known you.”

“well, i started.”

“and the first person you gave them to was suguru? do you like him?”

“what?”

“suguru. do you like him. is that what this is.”

“it’s just cookies—”

“ma’am.” the library lady is suddenly standing at the end of your table, arms crossed, giving you both a look over her glasses that could strip paint. “this is a library.”

“sorry,” you both say at almost the same time, and she gives one more pointed look before turning and walking back toward the front desk.

silence drops between you, both of you sitting there a little red in the face, refusing to look directly at each other. you fix your eyes on your laptop. he leans back in his chair, still watching you, clearly not done with this conversation but dialing the volume down.

“by the way,” satoru says, quieter now, “suguru asked me for your number.”

“oh, really?”

“yeah. should i give it to him?”

you look at him, and for a second you almost say no, the word right there, easy, obvious. but then you think about the girl in the hallway. about how he never seems to be alone for long, how there’s always someone looking at him like they want a piece of him. something sour turns over in your gut. if he gets to have people, you can have people too. even if the thought of suguru doesn’t do anything for you at all, even if the only person you actually want texting you is sitting right across the table.

“sure,” you say. “why not.”

his eyes drop to the table for a second before coming back up to you. “okay,” he says.

he picks his bag up off the floor, slinging it over one shoulder, and stands up from the table without another word. you watch him do it, your chest going tight and the satisfaction you thought you’d feel completely absent, replaced instead with the hollow feeling of having said the exact wrong thing.

“satoru—”

“i’ll tell him,” he says, already turning away, not looking back at you. “see you around.”

and then he’s walking off between the shelves, and you’re left sitting there with your laptop and your sketchbook and the certainty that you’re a real idiot.

︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵

the next drawing session is worse. you’d genuinely thought it couldn’t get worse than last week. apparently it could.

you get there earlier than you need to again, same as last time, trying to shake off some of the nerves before the session actually starts. the studio is mostly empty still, with just a few students already claiming the good easels, and you standing at yours doing absolutely nothing useful with your hands.

you haven’t seen him since the library. since sure, why not and his jaw going tight and him walking off between the shelves without looking back at you once. it’s been four days. you’d told yourself four days was plenty of time for things to go back to normal, whatever normal even means anymore, except you’d spent most of those four days checking your phone for a text that never came and feeling stupid about it every single time.

you think, suddenly and uselessly, of that joke people make about estranged parents—the phone works both ways—usually said about some resentful dad who cut off his kid and then complains nobody calls him. you’d always thought that joke was funny in an obvious way, like, yeah, obviously, pick up the phone yourself, genius. and now here you are, apparently the toxic parent in your own analogy.

this is not helpful, brain. stop that, you think.

you clip a fresh sheet to your board. you uncap a pencil you don’t need yet. you glance at the curtain at the back of the room, even though there’s nothing to see, even though he isn’t even here yet.

your classmates start filtering in around you, the same morning noise as last week, easels scraping, someone’s water bottle rolling off a table. maya sits down two spots over and gives you a knowing look that you try very hard to ignore.

you’re still staring at your blank page, holding your pencil too tightly as you run through everything you have to do in the next two hours, when your phone lights up with a text message.

hey, this is suguru. satoru gave me your number, hope that’s okay

morning btw. hope the studio thing today goes well

satoru mentioned you had another session

you stare at that for a second, saving the contact before you even think about it, typing his name in like it’s a completely normal thing to do. suguru texting you good morning is objectively a nice thing. he’s nice. genuinely, actually nice, in a way that doesn’t come with any confusing subtext attached to it.

hey! yeah that’s okay

thanks, should be fine

you stare at the screen for a second, your thumb hovering above the screen. it feels rude to leave it one-sided, especially when he’s the one who bothered to say good morning at all. so you type before you can think too hard about it.

what are you up to today?

you hit send and immediately regret it a little. why did you ask that. you don’t actually want to know what suguru’s up to today, you don’t want to know what suguru’s up to any day, there is no version of this where his schedule is information you need. but it’s out there now and there’s no unsending a question that friendly.

it’s not that you don’t like him. you do, in the uncomplicated, easy way you’d like everything to be. it’s just that being nice back feels like the only thing you know how to do when someone’s nice to you first, whether you mean anything by it or not, and apparently that reflex doesn’t care whether you actually want to keep the conversation going.

your phone lights up again almost immediately.

training this morning, then i’ve got a lecture i’m definitely going to fall asleep in.

you free after your classes today?

you stare at that for a second.

you read it again, like it’ll say something different the second time. you free after your classes today—that could mean anything, that could be a completely normal, friendly, hey-let’s-grab-coffee-as-two-people-who-know-each-other-now kind of question. except your pulse has other ideas, and you’re pretty sure normal friendly questions aren’t supposed to do that.

you’re still spiraling over how to text him back when the door at the back of the studio opens and professor lee walks in with satoru a half step behind her.

you shove your phone into your bag without answering.

you watch satoru cross the room toward the changing area, and he doesn’t even glance at you. not a nod, not the small eyebrow thing he usually does, nothing.

it shouldn’t hurt. it’s a stupid thing to hurt over, and yet it does anyway.

you should have never asked him to model in the first place. that’s the actual root of it, if you trace it all the way back—professor lee and her carrot on a stick about your portfolio, and you, too weak to say no to any of it, walking up to him after practice and saying i need you like it was nothing, like it wasn’t going to turn your comfortable friendship into whatever this is now.

the session gets underway the way it always does—gesture poses first, professor lee calling out the timing, satoru settling onto the platform looking completely unbothered by the twenty people about to stare at him for the next two hours.

you get your pencil moving on autopilot, shoulders, arms, hands, and then he shifts into the next pose and you are looking directly at his dick and your brain shorts out a little.

i cannot draw this right now, you think. you genuinely cannot. not today. not today, not with your head still this full of him. because all you can think about is how badly you want to kiss that stomach, lower, until your lips brush against the head of his cock. how badly you want to wrap your fingers around it, feel its weight and heat, lean in and lick—

you catch yourself and nearly snap your pencil in half.

jesus christ.

your face burns. you force your eyes back up to the safer territory of his chest, but it’s too late. your pulse is hammering between your legs, and the page in front of you remains embarrassingly blank where his hips should be.

get it together, you tell yourself. you have drawn this exact dick before. twice. you got an A. you are a professional. except last time you drew it there wasn’t a boy named suguru waiting on an answer in your bag, and there wasn’t a boy named satoru three feet away very pointedly looking at the window instead of at you, and you hadn’t yet had the horrifying realization that watching him ignore you for an hour felt worse than anything else that had happened to you all semester, dick included.

you look up to check the pose again. satoru’s eyes are on the middle distance. not on you. not once.

you look back down at your page.

︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵

by the time professor lee calls the last pose, your drawing looks like it lost a fight. everything above his waist is fleshed out and detailed, and looks quite good. but everywhere below his waist is just panicked lines, the hips smudged and redrawn so many times the paper’s gone grey with eraser dust.

it looks stupid. like someone’s little sister tried to draw a person after being told what a person is but not shown one. you stare at it for a second and think, that professor lee is going to have questions.

you don’t have it in you to care right now.

the class packs up around you, and you take your time again, unclipping your sheet slower than you need to, watching the curtain out of the corner of your eye.

you’re going to do it. you decide this somewhere between putting your pencils away and hearing the soft sounds of him getting dressed behind the curtain. you’re going to wait for him, and you’re going to say it, plain and simple, before you can talk yourself out of it or make an even bigger mess of things.

i like you.

that’s it. that’s the whole sentence. three words, nothing complicated about it. people say this to each other all the time. normal people, every day, in cafeterias and hallways and libraries, three words and then the world just keeps going.

you can do this.

you rehearse it once in your head while you zip your bag shut. i like you. simple. you’re not going to wait for the perfect moment, because you’ve had four days of perfect moments slip through your fingers already and look where that’s gotten you.

the curtain shifts. satoru steps out, tugging his shirt down, hair ruffled from getting dressed.

you open your mouth.

“suguru text you yet?” satoru says, before a single word makes it out.

“what?”

“suguru. did he text you. he said he was gonna.”

“…yeah. he did, actually.” you blink at him, still half caught in the sentence you were about to say, trying to catch up. “why?”

“there’s that movie. the one that just came out, the space one, i think you mentioned wanting to see it a while back. i wanna go see it this weekend. figured i’d bring a girl, make it a whole thing.”

“okay,” you say slowly, still not following.

“you and suguru should come too.” he says it so lightly, so completely without weight, like he’s suggesting you all grab lunch sometime. “make it a group thing. double date, whatever. you like him, right? seems like a good excuse to hang out.”

the words press down on you all at once, until even drawing a breath feels like work, and for a second you can’t say anything at all.

i like you. that’s the sentence you had ready, three words you’d rehearsed the whole walk over here, and instead he’s standing in front of you planning a double date, pairing you off with suguru like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like he’s doing you a favor.

“a double date,” you repeat.

“yeah. it’ll be fun.” he’s already checking his phone, thumbing through something. “you free saturday?”

you should say no. you should say actually, satoru, i need to tell you something, and finish the sentence you started, the one that’s still sitting right there behind your teeth. you should say anything other than what actually comes out of your mouth, which is:

“yeah,” you hear yourself say, small and a little stunned. “saturday works.”

“cool.” he grins, easy as anything, like he hasn’t just rearranged your entire heart in the same five seconds. “i’ll tell suguru.”

and then he’s turning toward the door, bag over one shoulder, already texting someone—suguru, probably, or the girl he’s bringing—and you’re left standing there next to your ruined drawing with the words i like you dissolving uselessly on your tongue, wondering how you managed to walk into this conversation so sure of yourself and walk out of it with a date.

with the wrong person.

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◞　author’s notes know, i know. she said yes to the wrong thing again lmao. let her cook (pun intended). thank you for reading, comments and reblogs always appreciated, see you in the next chapter 🥰🥰

© gojosconsort. do not repost, copy, translate, or claim as your own.

[osarina]

THAT BOY IS CORRUPT!

FEATURING: naoya zenin x fem!reader

SUMMARY: being naobito zenin's wife is not quite as horrible as you expect, considering the man wants nothing to do with you. except, there's one small issue: his sons are assholes, and his youngest is the worst of them all.

WARNINGS: cheating technically (altho naobito don’t want anything to do with you anyway), stepson!naoya, semi-public, fingering, naoya is his own warning & he has a filthy mouth, very controversial age gap w her and naobito LOL, naoya calls her ‘okaasan’ mockingly & then also tries to get her to call him nii-chan LOLL, a bit dubcon in the beginning, zenin typical misogyny (WC: 3.1k) 

AUTHOR'S NOTES: this is not going to be the last we see of stepson naoya i fear .......... KAIHDFUIASHDFUSADUHFSDUFH this boy drives me insane

Being Zenin Naobito’s second wife is easier than you expect.

He wants nothing to do with you for the most part. You’d been upset with your father for selling you off to a man who was nearly twice his age, and part of a clan that tends to treat women as servants at best and objects at worst. You’d braced yourself for a life of cruelty and abuse, counting down the days until the old man croaked before you even met him once, but instead, you are met with absence. 

Naobito doesn’t seek you out often. You have separate bedrooms in the same wing of the estate, but he rarely crosses the threshold of yours. The first night, you sit awake long after the servants leave for the night, back straight, listening for footsteps that never come. The next morning, his servants wake you for tea and bring you to his quarters, where he is already seated by the open shoji, morning light cutting clean lines across the tatami. He doesn’t look at you for a long while, reading through a stack of papers, so you kneel where indicated, proper distance, proper angle, eyes lowered. 

“Sleep well?” he asks.

It almost catches you off guard. You answer carefully, “Yes, Zenin-sama. Thank you.”

He hums, neither pleased nor displeased, still not looking at you. “Good.”

And that is all, and that is how it stays. Some mornings you are summoned, some mornings you are not. When you are, he asks you something small. Did you sleep well? Are the attendants sufficient? Do you need warmer clothes for the winter? You answer, he nods, and the conversation dissolves. For the most part, Naobito pretends you don’t exist, and you prefer it this way, until you start to realize his indifference is beginning to cause problems.

He does not visit your bedroom at night—not once, and everyone knows it. The servants know, the elders know, the whole clan knows, but most importantly, your father knows. Letters begin arriving before the first frost fully settles, written in his stiff, formal hand. Polite inquiries at first about whether you’ve adjusted well, and if the clan is treating you properly, and if the clan head has expressed satisfaction.

You know what he’s really asking: Are you pregnant yet?

Your father did not sell you off simply to place you in a prestigious clan. He sold you to secure blood—to tie his lineage to the Zenins permanently. A grandson with the Zenin name and your clan’s blood would have cemented alliances and ensured influence over Jujutsu society for decades, but Naobito makes no move toward that outcome, and the longer he doesn’t, the louder the silence becomes. 

Eventually, the rest of the clan starts to whisper.

“Too young to understand the weight of this household.”

“Younger than all of his sons.”

“A child in silk playing wife of the clan head.”

You try not to let yourself be bothered. You’re not a child, you’re an adult, and you have spent years learning everything you possibly could about the Zenin clan in preparation for an eventual marriage into the main branch. Learning is not the same as living, but you have been quick to adapt to their everyday life. And yet, it’s still not enough for them—your hands are too smooth, your face too unlined, you have not learned to carry yourself with the practiced balance of demurity and authority the way the rest of the women of the clan have learned through years and years of experience. 

You think that if Naobito had taken you to bed immediately, if rumors of pregnancy had begun circulating within the first month, your youth would have been framed as fertility or strategy, at the very least. Then, maybe, there wouldn’t be so much doubt. Instead, you remain untouched, and untouched means unnecessary. 

Unnecessary means can be annulled.

The clan begins testing you in quieter ways, trying to find reasons to bring this sham of a marriage to an end, so the Zenins are not tied to a lesser clan through a useless girl. An aunt questions your knowledge of clan history during a meal, voice sweet as poison. A cousin asks about your cursed technique with faintly mocking curiosity. An elder’s wife comments on your “inexperience” with a veiled jab. It infuriates you, but all you can do is smile and let it slide off your shoulders, because anything else would be a display of weakness that you can’t afford to show in front of these hyenas.

His sons are the worst. Eight of them—even the youngest is almost five years older than you are. They make no effort to hide their disdain. 

The eldest barely acknowledges you at all, offering the bare minimum of courtesy required by etiquette. He bows shallowly and addresses you formally when necessary, never lingering around too long. 

The middle sons are more blatant—they test you the same way the elders do. One asks for tea and critiques the temperature, another corrects your tone and phrasing in front of clan elders, voice mild but eyes bright with anticipation. They ask you questions they already know the answers to, questions that you shouldn’t know the answers to, waiting for you to slip up, but you don’t. You kneel properly, answer evenly, and when corrected, you thank them, even if the words taste bitter on your tongue. You’re only able to take joy in the fact that it infuriates them that they can't seem to force you into making a mistake.

It’s the youngest who is the issue. Naoya. Golden-eyed and sharp-mouthed, all pride and casual cruelty. He looks at you the same way one looks at a new toy, grinning easily, standing far closer than propriety demands. It makes you livid—he’s the only one of the eight who manages to get under your skin—and you think he knows it from the way his eyes glitter every time he approaches you.

“Good morning, okaasan,” he says lightly, tilting his head in a mockery of filial respect. He and his brothers never get along, but two of them snort at his words now. Clearly, they’re only united when it comes to their disdain for you.

“Good morning, Naoya-kun,” you answer with a thin smile, inclining your head just the right amount. If he’s going to drop the formality, you can as well without it being considered improper. His gaze flickers briefly with irritation, but it smooths out too quickly into that lazy, infuriating smile. 

He steps closer, reaching out to trace the inside of your underlayer, knuckle brushing against your bare collarbone. Your breath hitches, eyes widening slightly as your gaze snaps up to his face. It’s an intimate gesture, wildly improper, but there’s nowhere for you to back away. His finger slides lower, lower, dangerously close to skimming the swell of your breast.

“You’re wearing it too high,” he finally says, gaze flicking up to meet yours. “It makes ya look younger. You’ll never be taken seriously if ya present yourself like a child… Or is that the point? Should be more careful who ya let around ya, okaasan. Not everyone wants what's best for you like I do, y’know?”

You don’t answer, trying not to swallow the lump that suddenly forms in your throat as you look up at him. Your gaze shifts over to your attendants, who stand a short distance away, heads bowed just a little too deeply. One avoids your gaze entirely, and the other shifts her weight, nervous. You look back at Naoya, and his lips curve up into a satisfied smile when he realizes you understood what he was getting at. He steps away, finally putting proper distance between the two of you

“Adjust your collar,” he adds casually over his shoulder as he walks away. “You’re a wife, not a daughter.”

After that, he becomes relentless.

He calls from the training yard, “Okaasan, will ya watch me train today?” when he sees you passing by on the engawa, eyes lidded, lip curling up into a smug smile when he sees the way your gaze drifts down to his bare torso as he lifts his shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow. You continue on to where you were going without letting your attention linger too long, and if you find yourself exceptionally frustrated that night—well, that’s no one’s business but your own.

When his father is in earshot, he asks, “Am I gonna have a younger brother soon, okaasan? I’m so bored of being the youngest, y’know?” He ignores the side-eye that Naobito casts in his direction, raising his eyebrows at you as he waits for a response. You don’t give him one—you know better than to speak when in your husband’s presence. If there’s something for you to say, then he will say it for you. He does not say anything, which only serves to worsen your standing in the clan. Naoya knows this from the way his lips curl up into a smug smirk. 

“Okaasan, does the old man visit ya often?” he asks you now, standing much too close to you. You can feel his chest brushing your back, his fingers grazing your hips as he leans in. His lips press against your ear, and you shiver slightly when he purposely lets his breath drag hot and slow against the shell of it. “Y’must get so lonely, okaasan. I can keep ya company, if ya want.”

Your eyes widen, gaze flicking around to make sure that no one can see the two of you, but you’d gone out to the garden to watch the sunset alone. This stretch of the garden is deliberately secluded, bordered by high stone walls and thick clusters of camellia. At this hour, the servants have withdrawn to prepare the evening meal, and the training yard is distant enough that not even the sound of sparring carries. You are alone—sans Naoya—and you know that it is intentional.

Naoya hums lightly, undeterred by your silence. He lowers his face, pressing his nose into the crook of your neck before he inhales deeply. “Y’smell different today,” he murmurs. “Rose?”

“This is inappropriate,” you say stiffly, but your breath catches when he presses his lips against your pulse point, tongue dragging across it as though trying to lap up the oil you’re wearing. “Naoya—”

He exhales through his nose, huffing out a quiet laugh. “Inappropriate,” he echoes, and your lips part in shock when he kisses slowly up your neck. “Okaasan, you’re lonely. Everyone knows it. The old man don’t touch ya. I’m just tryna help.”

Naoya’s mouth drags across your skin, wet, open kisses that set your skin ablaze. Your head feels dizzy, and you’re not sure if you’re breathing properly, suddenly very aware of how shallow each inhale is—you’ve never been touched like this before. Every brush of his mouth is unfamiliar and overwhelming. The warmth of it, the pressure against your skin, the way his tongue drags against you and his teeth graze your skin. Your knees feel unsteady beneath you.

You should push him away. 

You know how this ends if you’re caught in the garden with someone other than your husband like this—with Naobito’s youngest son, nonetheless. The marriage will be annulled, you will be shamed, cast out from Jujutsu society, and disinherited by your father for humiliating the clan and insulting the Zenins.

You don’t.

“You’re wasted,” he murmurs. “All dressed up, all quiet, all proper. And he ain’t even look at ya. Y’know what I would do if I got ya as my wife?”

You exhale, lashes fluttering when you feel his palm slide from your hip to flatten against your abdomen, pulling your back flush to his chest. You feel something hard pressing against your ass, and Naoya lets out a low moan into your skin, and your breath catches when he drags his palm down your body, slipping his fingers into your kimono. You need to stop this, you think desperately, but your head falls back against his shoulder, eyes wide, heart racing as his fingers slide against your panties, hips instinctively rocking against him.

“Lookit ya,” he breathes out. “Fuckin’ drenched, and I ain’t even barely touch ya. It’s fucked up, him takin’ ya all for himself when the old fuck ain’t even know what to do with ya anymore. When’s the last time y’got yourself off, okaasan? Bet you’re so pent up. Lemme help ya. I’ll make ya feel real good.”

“Don’t—don’t call me that,” you spit out, flustered, hand dropping down to wrap around his wrist, but you don’t yank his hand away the way you should. You feel Naoya smile crudely against your skin, his other arm coming up to snake around your chest, holding you close to him. You’re letting this go way too far. “Naoya, we—”

“You’re right,” he agrees, kissing up your neck, and you bite down hard when he rolls your earlobe between his teeth, hand groping at your chest, thumb rolling over your clothed nipple. “Betcha hate when I call ya that. You’re young enough to be my little sister. Hah, bet you’d like that, wouldn’t ya? Callin’ me nii-chan instead of me callin’ ya okaasan.” 

“What?” you gasp, head all foggy, not even fully sure what he’s rambling about anymore with his hands and lips all over your body. This is so dangerous, you think, tears stinging at your eyes, but you can’t bring yourself to push him away or even tell him to stop. It’s like your body has a mind of its own, hips rocking against his hand, head lolled back against his shoulder. Your tongue feels heavy as you force out, “We—we can’t do this. Naoya, you need to—”

“Quit whinin’,” he mutters, and you’re barely able to bite back a pitched noise when he slips his fingers beneath your panties, dragging them between your wet folds. Your heart is pounding, and your ears are ringing—your whole body prickles as heat curdles low in your stomach. “We both know I’m only given’ ya what ya want. See the way ya be lookin’ at me when ya think no one’s payin’ attention. How many nights have ya gone to bed with your hand between your thighs, princess?”

None, you want to snap, just to be spiteful, even if it is a lie, but your breath hitches into something small and helpless when he stops moving his fingers. You rock your hips instead, desperate for friction, and he huffs out a laugh against your skin, dragging his tongue up the curve of your neck before sucking at the underside of your jaw.

“See?” he murmurs. “You’re the one movin’, okaasan.”

Tears blur your vision, breath ragged, shame and desire twisting together until you can’t separate them. This is wrong, you think desperately, this is ruin. If anyone sees, if anyone hears… Your father’s face flashes through your mind, the elders, the servants, your husband—Naoya’s father. You can’t afford this, you can’t, and yet, your hips rock again, and you can barely bite back a whine when the tip of his finger presses against your cunt, circling your hole but not pushing in.

“He ain’t ever gonna touch ya like this,” he continues, nipping at your pulse. “He ain’t even look at ya, but I do. I look at ya. Every day. He don’t know how good he got it. If ya were my wife, I’d have you spread open and stuffed full of cock every night. This pretty little head of yours ain’t have to worry ‘bout anything but keepin’ your cunt wet and ready for me.”

He sinks two fingers into you, and you choke over a relieved sob—that awful, humiliating relief of being wanted so openly it leaves no room for doubt. God, you’ve been craving this for months. All the time you spent dreading having to share your bed with his father, bracing yourself for duty and obligation—you hadn’t realized how much worse neglect would feel like. The ache between your legs that your fingers could never ease, the emptiness of not being wanted by the man who calls himself your husband, and the mortification of everyone knowing. When Naoya moves inside you now, the relief is so intense that it almost feels like pain for a split second.

“That’s it.” You hear him coo, hand sliding up to cover your mouth, muffling the lewd sounds that spill from your lips as he fucks his fingers deep inside of you, thumb circling your clit as his fingers plunge in and out of you. “C’mon, okaasan, sing for me.”

Your thighs are shaking so badly that you can’t even hold yourself up—one of his legs slides between yours to keep you standing, weight heavy in his arms. You can’t breathe, you can’t even think. This is so messed up, it’s so—

Your eyes roll back when Naoya’s fingers drag against that spongy spot deep inside you, body tensing before you cum hard on his fingers with a muffled whine of his name. There are tears streaming down your cheeks, a prickly sensation spreading through your limbs. Your lungs burn, shallow breaths hardly reaching them, and your nails drag weakly against Naoya’s wrist, desperate for leverage. 

You feel him laughing against your neck as he slows the thrusts of his fingers, letting you ride out your high. It takes you a moment to regain the strength to stand without him holding you up, heartbeat slowing, and the reality of what you’ve just done slowly begins to hit you.

Did you just—

“Y’know,” he says slowly, circling until he stands in front of you again, forcing you to face him. The smile on his lips is smug, and the look in his eyes is crude as his gaze drags over your body. He lifts his hand to tilt your head up, making you look him in the eye, and he swipes the two fingers he had deep inside of you against your bottom lip. “If you’re worried about being annulled… there are ways to fix that.”

Your lips part as you stare up at him.

What the hell did you just do?

He winks at you. “Make sure to fix yourself up before ya leave, okaasan. Wouldn’t want anyone to start askin’ questions,” he says over his shoulder as he walks away, lifting his fingers to his mouth to suck your cum off of them lewdly. “I’ll come visit ya later tonight.”

[alizha]

As it was

featuring: naoya zenin x fem!reader

synopsis: a chronicle of your betrothal to naoya zen'in, from the start of your new life at the zen'in estate to the present.

CONTENTS (full work): N/SFW, canon compliant, 2nd person pov, no use of y/n, arranged marriage, manga spoilers, mutual emotional manipulation, depictions of abuse, non-sexual grooming by the zen'in clan, unhealthy relationship dynamics, possessive behavior, controlling behavior, suggestive themes, eventual smut, childhood friends to lovers, misogyny, injury and canon-typical violence, verbal threat of sexual violence, main character death, reader insert has a family and personality

⤷ read it on ao3 | full masterlist

Chapter 2 // Misguidance

word count: 5.9k

Naoya felt slightly startled at the thought. You were always going to marry—yes, that was true. But he’d always pictured it as something far-off, not urgent. He was young and strong, and there would be time for such things way down the line. And it was guaranteed.His own papa had lived to be an old geezer, and he had plenty of heirs. What was the rush?

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chapter 1 << [ chapter 2 ] >> chapter 3

It’d been weeks since Naoya had been alone with you. Whenever he spotted you, you would vanish through a doorway or slip easily into conversation with someone nearby. Avoiding him. The burning heat he felt low in his chest still flared every time you caught his eye. He hadn’t expected it to last beyond a day or two. He’d thought you would sulk, maybe apologize for overstepping, and then things would return to usual. That was how it worked. That was how it had always worked.

Instead, you had gone quiet. He could have forced you to face him, of course. A word to an attendant, a summons delivered without explanation, and you would have come. But the idea of summoning you like that left a sour taste in his mouth. As if that would prove something he wasn’t ready to admit.

“Again.”

Naoya moved before the command could echo through the training hall. Naoji lunged, blade raised, but Naoya sidestepped with ease and struck his fist to his brother’s side, driving him into the tatami. Naoya didn’t offer a hand up.

“Too slow,” he said. “That’s what you get for fighting with a weapon.”

Naoji pushed himself up, scowling. “It’s not fair if you’re using your technique.”

“I don’t need to.”

A few of the onlookers exchanged glances as they reset. Naoji came again, this time with a feint. It was better, but not good enough. Naoya swept his leg and sent him down with a thud for a second time.

“Oi,” Naosuke called with a half-laugh, taunting. “What’s got into you?”

“Nothin’,” Naoya snapped back.

He rolled his shoulders and flexed his fingers. His knuckles rang with the aftershocks of his strike. If he was irritable, it was because no one here was a worthy opponent to spar with, not because he couldn’t rid himself of the thoughts of you. He was unused to being distracted and unsettled that anyone could cause such instability in him.

But you were right; you did know him. You had spent years knowing him, seeing him in ways he kept from everyone else, in ways no one else bothered to. Naoya had thought he liked being seen by you, but now he found he did not enjoy it at all. At least, not like this. It felt like being flayed wide open, vulnerable and weak. Yet, he couldn’t help poking at the wound, the urge as tempting and painful as pressing on a toothache.

You should have known better. You’d grown up here and understood the rules. So, why had you stepped in? Why had you spoken to him the way you did? And more importantly, why couldn’t he just leave it alone until you came crawling back?

“You’re in a mood,” Naoji said sourly, rubbing at the base of his spine.

Naoya responded with a scathing look.

The instructor cleared his throat. “Control is part of strength, Naoya.”

Naoya scoffed. Control. He had control. If you thought otherwise, then you were mistaken. You’d been annoying, cutting his fun short like that. He didn’t think you were the type of woman to ruin his fun. That was why it bothered him. Not because when you stood that close, he had become acutely aware of the space between your bodies. Certainly not because he could still picture the hue and shape of your lips when he closed his eyes.

He stepped back onto the mat. “Again.”

Naoji attacked, and Naoya met him head-on. He didn’t bother with the flourishes. Just drove him down and held him there, shoving his forearm against his brother’s collarbone. For a split second, he imagined pinning someone else like this—finer wrists, softer eyes, a spill of hair spread over the mats—

The thought jolted hot through him, and he released Naoji abruptly and stood.

“Enough,” the instructor said.

Naoya exhaled slowly through his nose. He wasn’t distracted, he told himself. He was irritated.

He left the training hall without waiting to be dismissed, sliding the door behind him with a snap that startled a passing attendant. The walk through the gardens did nothing to cool his temper. He didn’t want to see anyone. Least of all, you. Or maybe that was a lie; maybe that was exactly what kept grinding at him.

It pissed him off.

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That week, the estate hosted guests. Not important ones—just a minor family from Osaka hoping to curry favor—but enough to require formality. The visitors gathered in the long reception room overlooking the inner courtyard, where the doors stood open to let in the late-summer light. Trays of sweets were arranged with meticulous care, and tea steamed gently in ornate porcelain cups.

Naoya had come only because Papa had told him to show his face. Appearances mattered, and a future clan head couldn’t appear aloof.

The women’s heads dipped as he entered. He vaguely recognized some of the faces, girls in shades of blue, green, and plum, all watching him demurely out of the corners of their eyes. Boring.

He absorbed the attention, keeping his face blank enough to make it clear he was above them all, then let his gaze slide to you, where you knelt among the others. Even dressed like that, in the plainest kimono, with your hair arranged neatly and unremarkably, you stood out. You weren’t even trying, and you stood out to him. Naoya felt his attention prickle.

You didn’t look at him right away. You were busy pouring tea, offering a polite word to the visiting family’s eldest daughter. But all Naoya could focus on was how much you had changed over the past year alone. In fact, he had already noticed that you were not a child anymore. That much had been impossible for him to ignore. Now, a new realization crept up on him: that others might start to notice, too.

You glanced up and, noticing him, bowed properly. Naoya felt a flicker of satisfaction. You remembered, even now, after your little act, after all your avoidance. You still knew your place and deferred to him before anyone else. He crossed the room unhurriedly and took his place beside you, close enough that the sleeve of his kimono brushed the back of your shoulder as he sat. Close enough that anyone watching would understand the arrangement without being told.

“She’s been taking good care of you?” he asked the men lightly, offering a toothy smile.

The patriarch laughed. “Very refined. You are fortunate.”

The Osaka women giggled behind their sleeves. Naoya let himself be amused by their obviousness, by the way their eyes darted between him and you. He almost smirked. He had never minded that you were competent. He had never expected you to rival him. Women did not need to. That wasn’t their place. And besides, things had already been settled between you, for years now. You were his, and that certainty was a balm.

You turned your head to look at him, drawing attention to the clean, unadorned line of your neck. “Naoya,” you said softly, offering him a cup of tea.

The angle of the cup was adjusted so it faced him perfectly. Naoya let his eyes linger on the fine sheen of sweat collecting at the base of your throat. He accepted the tea, his fingers brushing yours, and caught the tiniest shift in your breath.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” you said, quietly enough so only he could hear.

He didn’t look at you. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“The Akashi. I’ve been permitted to join.” You paused, and he could feel your gaze on him, searching. “Two years of petitions, and suddenly, I’m approved. They said someone vouched for me.”

Naoya lifted the cup to take a sip, hardly tasting the tea itself. “That so?”

He kept his tone flat and uninterested. Of course, the elders had resisted making that decision. Zen’in women didn’t belong in the Akashi; you were just too stubborn or too clueless to give up. He’d figured he might as well intervene. Stop wasting your time like that, circling the same refusals and waiting on men who had already made up their minds. A well-placed word had been all it took.

Not that he would admit it. Admitting meant inviting you to ask more questions. To ask him why. And if you did, Naoya feared he wouldn’t have an answer for you. Not one that didn’t hurt his pride. Yet, at the same time, he felt a quiet satisfaction that you had noticed. That you had traced it back to him.

“It was you,” you said again, this time more decisive.

He set the cup down slowly. “Hm. Dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”

A small smile formed on your lips before you could hide it, dipping your head and letting out a soft hum of amusement. “Sure, you don’t,” you said. “Thank you, Naoya.”

He clicked his tongue softly. “Don’t thank me for things I didn’t do.”

“Of course.”

The conversation at the reception table moved on, but neither of you paid it much mind. You poured for the rest of the guests, and Naoya sat at your side, shifting his hand to let it rest lightly at the small of your back whenever he reached out to take his cup. And when one of the Osaka women asked how long you had been promised to him, you smiled faintly and answered since childhood.

///

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Naoya could barely recall a time when he could not count on you to be there. As children, you would trail behind him and listen to his every word, rarely questioning and always attentive. The memory of it was oddly comforting, a reminder that there were still constants in this house where everything else seemed determined to test him.

Yet now, when he glanced at you, Naoya found himself arrested by something new: an awareness that attention could shift, that you could look away, that the certainty of your deference was not fixed but something that might have to be claimed again and again.

He didn’t like it. He didn’t like that you could unsettle him with the tilt of your chin or the softness in your voice. Or that, in a room full of people, his eyes found you so easily it felt less like choice and more like need.

Voices drifted around him, laughter and formalities piling up in neat, predictable layers. Naoya couldn’t care less about what the geezers were discussing, but he would have preferred their tiresomeness over the contradictions growing and already beginning to fester within him. No childhood closeness could account for the fact that you had started pushing back. Nor could it explain why instead of rejecting it entirely, he felt pulled toward it.

“My little brother’s fiancée is a beauty, isn’t she?” Naosuke announced loudly to the tittering guests before fixing his gaze on Naoya. “This is the first time I’ve seen you two talk in a while, Nao-chan. Aren’t you taking her a bit for granted? Geez, even if I were as busy as you, I’d still try to make time for such a lovely creature.”

The laughter from the other guests swelled. Naoya’s lips curved in a cold, knowing smile. He looked directly at Naosuke. “Your own betrothed is a lucky woman, Onii-chan. Oh, wait—you ain’t got one. Odd that you’re older but no one’s bothered makin’ arrangements,” he drawled. “Why is that?”

Naosuke’s jaw tensed, a flicker of something mean passing through his eyes, but he recovered, spreading his hands in mock surrender. “Maybe I’m just too much for any one woman to handle. Or maybe the clan’s got other plans.” He let the words hang, savoring the undercurrent, eyes drifting to you as if you might be included in those other plans if you didn’t perform well enough.

The tension slid through the room, muffled by polite laughter, but Naoya watched his brother with a lazy smile. He didn’t have to say more. Everyone present understood the point had been made.

///

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“You shouldn’t provoke him,” you said to him afterward. It was late, the last of the guests had departed, and your eyes kept moving past him down the length of the hall, as if you were waiting for the shadows to come to life.

Naoya followed your gaze briefly, saw nothing, and looked back at you. “Provoke him?” he echoed, faintly amused. “You think that was provoking?”

Your eyes returned to him. “You didn’t need to say anything.”

A small scoff left him. “And let him run his mouth like that?” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re the one who stepped in the other day. Thought you didn’t like it when people went unchecked.”

“That’s not the same.”

“It’s exactly the same.”

“No,” you said, more firmly now. “It isn’t.”

He watched you for a moment. There was something in your tone that was cut with a new kind of clarity, a thread of conviction that he recognized from your quarrel in the garden. He bristled at it even as it fascinated him. “Explain it, then,” he said. “What’s different?”

You didn’t look away. “You did it in public, Naoya. In front of the guests, your family. You could have ignored him. Instead, you made it clear there’s something to fight over.” You hesitated, then added, “You made it about me.”

He felt a flare of annoyance at the suggestion that you understood how to handle Naosuke better than he did. “He wasn’t talking about you,” he said. “Not really. He was trying to get at me.” His mouth curved slightly. “And he failed.”

Your gaze flicked past him again.

“You’ve been doing that all night,” he said, frowning. “What are you looking for?”

“Nothing,” you replied quickly, eyes snapping back to his.

Naoya huffed. “Liar,” he said, almost affectionately. He watched you purse your lips, roll around a response behind your teeth, then swallow it.

“Will you walk me to my room?” you asked instead of whatever it was you were going to say.

He studied you in the half-light, searching for any sign you were playing him. “Scared of ghosts all of a sudden?” he said, and when you didn’t say anything, he sighed. Didn’t you know you were safe here? The clan took security insanely seriously. Plus, he was here. He couldn’t think of a safer place for you. “C’mon, then.”

///

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A week later, you had put aside your kimono in favor of modern clothes. The assignment had been a minor one, just a low-grade curse up north. The elders had agreed to send one of their own to accompany the two-man team sent from Tokyo Jujutsu High. When you volunteered, there was nothing really to object to. You were officially a sorcerer in the eyes of the clan, and one thoroughly trained in its expectations. If anything, your presence reflected well on the Zen’in.

You were gone two days. News traveled back quickly that things had gone well. It was Naosuke who inevitably introduced the first unnecessary detail.

“She’s working with a couple third-years,” he’d remarked idly. “Tokyo’s different, ya know? Bet those boys’re already calling her by her name.”

Naoya ignored him and pretended to be unbothered. But he couldn’t help chastising himself for getting you elevated to the Akashi. His mind conjured up the image unbidden of some uniformed boy grinning at you, saying your name without honorific, as if he had the right. Tokyo students. He had met some of them before. They were usually loud and less disciplined. The only one worth anything as a jujutsu sorcerer was Satoru Gojo, and he wouldn’t be involved. They wouldn’t know how to address you properly, and that irritated him.

The day the car returned to drop you off, Naoya was there to greet you, just as you did when he came back from his assignments. You seemed pleasantly surprised to see him as you stepped out, the corners of your mouth lifting in a subtle smile.

“Naoya?” you said while the car pulled away. “What are you doing out here?”

He wanted, badly, to answer your question with his own. Had the Tokyo boys bothered you? Did they overstep in their familiarity? Did they address you informally? But all his questions stank of wretched self-doubt without any basis of evidence. He would not let himself be so pathetic.

“What else?” he said instead, doing his best to affect casual dismissiveness.

Your smile widened slightly in fond recognition. For some reason, it made Naoya’s heart give a single, clumsy thump. He had the sudden absurd urge to gather you into him, the way he imagined husbands did with their wives after they’d been apart. Not that he really knew; he had never seen such things in person.

“C’mon,” he said, taking you neatly by the elbow. “Papa’ll wanna hear from you.”

///

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///

That night, you were sitting together at the edge of the engawa again, feeling the cool mountain air prick at your skin. Naoya sat with his back against a pillar, long legs bent and sprawled lazily and his arms loosely folded. He watched your profile, the curve of your cheek in the moonlight. You were back in your usual traditional clothes again.

“So,” he said. “This is how you act after a mission? You don’t even tell me how it went?”

Your lips quirked. “There’s not much to tell. It went as expected. The curse was weak. I barely had to do anything.”

He snorted, unconvinced. “You’re saying you did all the work, but you ain’t bragging about it.”

“The Tokyo students handled most of it,” you said with a shrug. “They were fast. Impulsive.” You glanced at him sidelong. “But they get results.”

Naoya stared at your lips. He’d been thinking about them all day, since the moment you stepped out of the car. About how husbands kissed their wives. About what a girlish and stupid thing to think about and how he wanted you to be the one who thought about kissing him. But at the same time, how furious he would be if you just came right out and did it by surprise, because what woman made the first move?

He waited, half-expecting you to fluster or look away, but you only regarded him with that steady attention you reserved for unraveling the meaning behind every word out of his mouth. The silences between you were never really empty; they had always been a tangle of questions you were too polite to ask and confessions Naoya would never, ever offer.

“You’re sulking,” you finally observed, leaning forward to rest your elbows atop your knees. “I didn’t mean to make you jealous.”

Naoya clenched his jaw. He didn’t think the word applied to him, but it stung to have you read him so easily. “Why would I be jealous?” he shot back.

“I don’t know,” you replied, kicking your feet where they dangled above the path. “I just thought—”

You trailed off as the press of his body made itself known. Naoya had scooted in close behind you, wrapping his arms gingerly around your waist. “Don’t turn around,” he said when you tried to look. He couldn’t stand it if you looked at him now. He slotted his chin against your shoulder.

He felt your body tense against his chest, just for a moment. It was a delicate kind of tension, not resistance but surprise—a response he recognized, and one that satisfied him. The tips of your hair brushed his cheek, cool to the touch. He let himself breathe you in, then pressed his mouth close to your ear.

“Was it fun? Being out there,” he murmured. “You said you didn’t mean to make me jealous. Why would you think I was?”

You went very still, as if you could stifle the shiver that threatened to betray you. A hot pulse of satisfaction flickered through him, almost enough to drown out the restlessness that had gnawed at him for weeks. He could sense you gathering yourself, your hands knotting together in your lap.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you said. “Only that you seemed upset.”

“I’m not upset,” Naoya said. He squeezed you gently. “We both know you belong here. With me.”

He waited for you to say something clever or stubborn at that. Instead, your limbs seemed to loosen, and the muscles of your back melted slightly against his chest, as if in agreement. Naoya permitted himself a low, near-silent hum of satisfaction. This was right. You were always going to marry. That was what all these weeks of confusion had truly amounted to. You knew it, too, even if you needed to be reminded.

Outside, the garden was quiet and silvered. He nuzzled into the line of your neck and felt your breath hitch, your fingers pressing closed around his forearm. Your pulse fluttered beneath his cheek. Naoya wondered if you could feel the thump of his own heart against your back. You didn’t try to move away. Maybe you’d finally gotten the message. Or maybe you liked it.

That thought sent a warm, smug ripple through his chest, more addictive than any praise he’d ever wrung from the clan. He let his palm settle over the silk of your obi. The little movements you made—a slow exhale, a shift of your shoulder, the way your hands relaxed just so—were proof that you were paying attention to him and only him. He was careful not to squeeze too hard, though a part of him wanted to test the strength of your ribs, to see just how much of you he could hold.

The position fleetingly made him imagine a husband touching the belly of his pregnant wife, and Naoya felt slightly startled at the thought. You were always going to marry—yes, that was true. But he’d always pictured it as something far-off, not urgent. He was young and strong, and there would be time for such things way down the line. And it was guaranteed.

His own papa had lived to be an old geezer, and he had plenty of heirs. What was the rush?

He’d also imagined marriage as something very, very political. Naoya made himself loosen his hold, just a little. The need to grip onto the things he wanted was a hard habit to shake. But he remembered what the elders said about control. Everything was transactional, and women were chosen and traded for what they brought in children. Personal feelings had no place in the Zen’in way.

Lately, though, it didn’t feel political when it came to you. Naoya had never felt that way before, and he’d never admit such things. Not once had he entertained the idea that he might want something in a way that made him reckless or foolish. Not even the urges of adolescence managed to affect him this way. He let himself look at women. He’d seen them plenty, scantily-clad or even nude in the pages of his brothers’ dirty magazines. He was a man, after all.

There was nothing unfamiliar or shameful about wanting a woman; he knew every man in the compound did. He’d overheard the jokes, the late-night talk that filtered through half-open shoji, the way the older men compared mistresses or boasted about the prettiest girls in neighboring families. But none of that had ever mattered to him. Even when he flipped through those magazines, he’d only felt bored. Detached. The women there all looked the same, all of them deliberately arranged for display. He could admire them, sure, but didn’t want a woman like that.

Naoya wasn’t blind to your appearance. But with you, it wasn’t really about what you looked like. It was how you looked at him. Did that mean he… loved you? Naoya felt his body rail at the suggestion, his stomach already curling violently against it.

No. That was just another trap, wasn’t it? Some sentimental thing women talked about, or that men lied about in order to get what they wanted. Naoya didn’t “love” anyone. He wanted you, and you belonged to him. That was all. You might need it, might even be quietly hoping for it, but he refused. If he loved you, it meant you could take something from him. It meant giving up ground.

He swallowed and let his hand slide safely away from your waist, easing away just enough to mask the sudden discomfort in his chest. You glanced off toward the corner of the house, as if you had heard something.

“I should get back before someone notices,” you said. Your voice was soft, but your eyes were suddenly alert.

Naoya exhaled a huff. You were ready to slip away again before he said you could. “Nobody’s gonna care,” he said. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

You rose, and he found his hands fell away easily without resistance. “They’ll gossip,” you said. “I don’t mind, but you might.”

So, you were thinking of him, even now. Naoya made a quiet, childish sound of annoyance as you smoothed your kimono and stepped carefully around him.

“Good night, Naoya,” you said before turning away.

///

///

///

It had been his turn to leave the estate again. He’d started working alone that year, but sometimes they still insisted he go accompanied. Just one or two members of the Kurukuru unit, typically.

The building was closed for years. From the outside, it looked like any other squat resident of the commercial block, with its windows papered over from the inside. Inside, the air was stale with rot and dust. Naoya stormed past the rows of pachinko machines, all of them old and quiet now, their bright plastic shells muted beneath a coat of grime. Places like this had soaked up too much from its patrons—people who wasted hours convincing themselves the next round would fix everything.

The curse had grown fat on debt and anger, causing the overhead lights to flicker and buzz like trapped insects, but they were silent now. With a disgruntled sound, he kicked aside one of the machines that had fallen over into his path during the fight. The cabinet scraped shrilly across the floor and crashed into the wall with a loud bang. One of the Kurukuru members—Takumi—who had been sent with him cowered on the floor at the sound.

Naoya started calmly. “Didn’t I say to stay out of the way?” He shouted the last few words and sent another one of the faded cabinets crashing to the ground.

Takumi kept his eyes fixed somewhere near Naoya’s feet. A thin scrape along his cheek oozed crimson. He was lucky. If Naoya had been off by a single frame, Takumi would have been a stain on the tiles.

“I-I thought I saw an opening. It looked like it was—”

Naoya felt a familiar surge rising in him. It was hot and sharply satisfying. He could already hear the words forming quick on his tongue as he stepped forward, waraji crunching softly on broken glass. The man cut himself off, shrinking instinctively. It would have been easy to lean into that fear. Easier than anything. One cutting remark, one reminder of rank and talent, the simple math of who had nearly died for forgetting their place. The mission was finished, and the curse was gone. Nothing stood between Naoya and the clean satisfaction of putting someone back where they belonged to make an example.

Yet, something held him back. Much to his irritation. The man in front of him wasn’t going to forget this moment; his hands were still trembling. Any other day, Naoya probably would have stalked past Takumi and given him a kick for good measure. Instead, he said, coolly, “You nearly got yourself killed and complicated a simple exorcism. Don’t let it happen again.”

Takumi’s brow tapped the filthy parlor floor. “Yes, sir. I—yes. It won’t happen again.”

Naoya exhaled through his nose and turned away. He flexed his fingers once, hearing Takumi scrambling to his feet behind him. The other followed at a respectful distance as Naoya shoved his way out into the cool evening air. His first thought was that you would have approved of how he handled things.

Tch. Naoya scowled at nothing in particular as he walked to the car. Why the hell was it so hard lately to just do things the way he’d always done them? Normally, if someone pissed him off, he made damn sure they didn’t dare do it again. He slid into the backseat, ignoring the way Takumi hovered by the door in the hope of being dismissed or thanked. Naoya said nothing. The driver took the hint and pulled out.

Pathetic. Why had he held back? The answer hung in his mind, heavy as a curse. Because it would have been pointless. Because the idiot was already crushed. Because… what, you would have been disappointed to see it? You weren’t even there, and yet the ghost of your measuring gaze lingered. Had he gotten so soft that he was worrying about how a girl would look at him for teaching someone a lesson?

He leaned his jaw hard against his knuckles and let his eyes drift to the window. City lights spilled and flickered in the glass, catching his reflection for a moment. His face was set tight with annoyance. Damn it all. It was you. You made him think. You made him consider. You hated unnecessary cruelty, and you would have argued that a wasted outburst would’ve solved nothing in the moment. Takumi had learned, and the mission was complete. Simple practicality.

And you were right. It was more efficient this way. Anything more would have been merely a vehicle for his own self-indulgence. There was nothing else to gain from it. Naoya closed his eyes, let the hum of the engine fill his head, and forced the muscles at the back of his neck to relax. He was supposed to be the future clan head; there was no reason to squander energy on fools. It wasn’t weakness. He wouldn’t let himself believe that. If anything, it was the opposite.

Control.

That was what made you the right choice of wife for him. You were disturbing, yes. Interesting, and as a result, truly striking. You made him think about things, like the names of the men sent on missions with him. Things he thought were beneath him.

The drive wound through the outskirts, and as Naoya closed his eyes, the snow started to fall.

///

///

///

The snow had moved in from the mountains, and it was beginning to come down harder. Perhaps, Naoya wouldn’t be returning that evening, after all. The flakes came thick and soft, painting the edges of the courtyard in a haze until the stone lanterns looked like ghosts in the dark. You stood just inside the engawa, arms folded into your sleeves, watching the white gather in soft layers. Everything was so much quieter in the snow, doubly so here, in this place that seemed to exist outside the bounds of the modern world.

You had been told Naoya’s mission would be a day’s work, no more. He had left that morning with his usual impatience, and now, you were waiting as you always did, breath blooming in the cold. A betrothed woman who didn’t mark her man’s comings and goings would be judged as inattentive and ungrateful.

Weeks ago, you might have dreaded his return in this mood. But something had shifted between you. Now, when your eyes met across a room, something secret and electric passed between you before one of you looked away. You had carried those moments like trinkets, turning them over in your mind when you should have been studying or sleeping.

It frustrated you, how much you wanted to understand that look. You thought you had always understood Naoya. Even at his most confusing, growing up in this house, you knew what it was that had made him this way. His pride, the power he carried effortlessly through every room he occupied, the roots of it were so obvious, tangled right into the foundation of the Zen’in clan. You understood how panic could hide behind pride, how anger could be the armor for loneliness. What you didn’t understand was why you kept returning to the memory of his arms closing around you on the engawa, the quiet steadiness of his chest at your back as the world faded into blue dusk.

Perhaps, it was foolish to want so much from him, but that knowledge didn’t make you immune to him.

A gust of wind sent snow spiraling into the courtyard. You shivered and tucked your hands deeper into your sleeves. A man like Naoya didn’t bend because he was asked to. He bent when he chose to. And even then, he would never call it bending. But you couldn’t shake the sense that something was coming to a head, gathering like a storm. The air had been changing, the way it changed just before the first heavy fall of snow.

You heard a shout come faintly from beyond the wall. It was followed by the clatter of the gate. Naoya was back. You felt the transient flicker of relief, quickly chased away by the hammering of your heart. The nondescript black sedan pulled into the drive, and the back door swung open.

He stepped out, eyes detachedly lowered. It wasn’t that he was apathetic to your presence at the entrance, merely that he hadn’t noticed you there yet. When he did, he paused for the briefest moment, lips parting, then shut the door with a thud and strode through the snow toward you.

“Welcome back, Nao—” you started, but he had scooped you up in his arms without a word, cutting you off, and pressed his lips clumsily to yours.

You let out a muffled sound of surprise. It was a rough, graceless kiss. His teeth knocked against yours as he turned you and crowded you into the shadow of the house. For a beat, your mind was blank, your body gone weightless in the shock of being seized so suddenly. The cold of the night dissolved into the solid heat of Naoya’s arms pinning you back against the wall just inside the shelter of the engawa.

His lips tasted first of snow, clean and metallic, then the more familiar salt and warmth of him melting it away. His mouth crashed against yours hungrily, as if he’d been holding this in for years rather than letting it build only these last weeks. Then, quite suddenly, he pulled away to observe you for only a second before cupping your face gently in his hands and leaning in again. This time, he kissed you slowly, soft but insistent, and your hands came up without thinking to rest at his forearms.

“I’m back,” Naoya said in a low, matter-of-fact intonation, as if that explained everything.

He brushed his chin against your temple and exhaled. Your thoughts struggled to catch up. Your lips burned, the warmth of the kiss spreading outward and settling somewhere deep in your chest.

“I’m glad you’re back,” you said.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “‘Course you are.”

It was arrogance, on the surface. It always was. But it was half-hearted. There was an undercurrent of sincerity. You knew him, knew the difference between his cockiness and his shield. This was the latter, and he meant for you to see through it.

The snow swirled around behind him. Somewhere inside the house, a door slid closed with a soft whisper. But here, in the shade of the frosted eaves, you were hidden away in your own little corner of the world.

tags: @alebrasil0101 @hhighkey @ilovethemarias @malaccah @dabishou @unf0rgiv3nsposts @night-sky16

[alizha]

As it was

featuring: naoya zenin x fem!reader

synopsis: a chronicle of your betrothal to naoya zen'in, from the start of your new life at the zen'in estate to the present. can you trust your feelings for him, or were they always a product of your circumstances?

CONTENTS (full work): N/SFW, canon compliant, 2nd person pov, no use of y/n, arranged marriage, manga spoilers, mutual emotional manipulation, depictions of abuse, non-sexual grooming by the zen'in clan, unhealthy relationship dynamics, possessive/controlling behavior, suggestive themes, eventual smut, childhood friends to lovers, misogyny, injury and canon-typical violence, verbal threat of sexual violence, main character death, reader insert has a family and personality

⤷ read it on ao3 | full masterlist

Chapter 1 // Inheritance

word count: 6.4k

You hadn’t questioned it when he said he’d be clan head one day, and now, it seemed just as obvious to you, too. In the years to come, you would wonder what kind of person Naoya might have become if he had struggled, even just a little. If praise had come more sparingly. If effort had ever failed to be rewarded. He might have turned out an entirely different man than the one he grew into. But you couldn’t imagine him in any other way. It was as if he had come already fully formed, and all it took was the normal course of his life for that to reveal itself.

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[ chapter 1 ] >> chapter 2

At twelve, you had been old enough to understand why you were being taken in by the Zen’in. The adults called it fostering, which sounded old-fashioned and scary. The Zen’in clan required girls like you from time to time. Girls with potential, who came from families that were respectable enough but not too powerful to create competing authorities or leverage, and young enough to be shaped.

When the proposal came, your parents accepted immediately.

The Zen’in estate sprawled outside of the bounds of the city, a place where the modern world seemed to thin away. You understood as you passed through the gates that you were now leaving childhood behind. From now on, you would be educated by the Zen’in, live on their land, be prepared to their standards. And someday—no one bothered to specify when—you would marry into the main family. To Naobito Zen’in’s youngest son, specifically.

Naoya Zen’in watched you approach from the engawa. He was thirteen and not very tall, but already broadening through the shoulders as if his body had to prove that it excelled at growing on top of everything else. His hair was dark then, his eyes sharp and curious as you bowed before him.

You’d been told to bow. You’d been told a lot of things, like to behave and not to speak unless spoken to. The Zen’in were a prestigious, conservative family, and you knew that if you failed here and things went poorly, it wouldn’t be so simple as being sent back home. Your family’s honor was riding on this, and the clan didn’t foster children they intended to give back.

It suddenly occurred to you that your name was being called.

“...—chan? So, that’s you?”

The suffix caught you off-guard, rattling you out of your churn of thoughts. It sounded almost affectionate, almost kind. Naoya Zen’in did not bow back, but he did smile when you straightened and met his gaze, bright with interest. He looked pleased to have something new to occupy him. You realized then that this was the first time you had been seen by the person you were meant to belong to.

“You’ll get to know her later, Naoya,” one of the elders said, and you were led away.

///

///

///

You learned the layout of your new surroundings quickly by walking behind Naoya.

Life at the Zen’in estate was different from home. Gone were the narrow streets and modest wood-and-concrete houses you had known; here, polished floors stretched through the dim halls, shoji doors whispered open and shut, and wooden staircases rose to upper floors you had not yet been allowed to explore. Most of the tatami-covered rooms were either barren with austerity or so ornate with vermillion-colored lacquerware that you didn’t know where to look.

“Oi! This way,” Naoya said, pointing. He had been moving impatiently, darting ahead and doubling back every so often when he realized you weren’t keeping up. “You’ll get lost if you wander.”

But I haven’t been wandering. You’re just faster than me, you wanted to protest, but it lodged in your throat. You didn’t want to admit that your new yukata was too constraining or that the sandals on your feet felt ungainly. Naoya led you through a sliding door into a quieter wing of the house, where it smelled of milk and something faintly sweet. When the two of you arrived, the twins were asleep.

Maki and Mai lay side by side in a wide crib, swaddled so tightly they looked like a pair of unmoving dolls. One had her tiny fist curled near her mouth; the other’s lashes fluttered as though she was dreaming something urgent. Naoya beamed down at them.

“See?” he whispered, far louder than necessary. “Ain’t they small?”

You nodded. You’d seen babies before, of course. But never two with the same face.

“They’re my cousins,” Naoya continued, chest puffing slightly. “Twins. Rare, right? But…” He lowered his voice and leaned in closer. “You know, they’re girls.”

“Oh,” you said, because you didn’t know what else to say.

Naoya watched your reaction carefully, head tilted, and from this, you got the sense that this mattered somehow. That he was measuring something about you in that moment.

“They won’t inherit anything important,” he added. “But they’ll be useful.”

You looked furtively back at the twins, their breathing slow and synchronized. They didn’t look like tools. They didn’t look like anything except babies, soft and unaware and entirely defenseless. You transiently wondered if someone once looked at you the same way.

Naoya straightened, apparently satisfied. “C’mon. I’ll show you the rest.”

Later, after he was finished telling you which rooms you weren’t allowed in (most of them) and which attendants could be ignored (all of them), he was whisked off for his music lesson, and you did not see him again until dinner that night. You were seated at a distance, well away from the men, next to a quiet, withdrawn woman. Her name was Shizue, though you had only thus far heard her referred to as the twins’ mother.

“You visited the girls,” Shizue-san said once the meal started, as the men at the other end of the table discussed appointments and politics.

It wasn’t a question, but you responded as if it were. “Yes, they were beautiful.”

Shizue lifted her napkin and dabbed delicately at the corner of her mouth. You watched the movement with an odd intensity, puzzled. You waited, unsure what you were waiting for, only later realizing how badly you wanted the woman to say something (anything) that sounded like maternal kindness. The women here were not warm, as a rule it seemed.

“You know why you’re here, don’t you?” she asked after a moment, and you hesitated.

“I’m… going to stay,” you said carefully. “And study.”

“Yes,” Shizue replied. “That’s part of it.” She lowered her napkin and did not look at you as she continued. “You’ll be educated properly. You’ll learn how this house works,” she went on, her voice neither cruel nor gentle, simply matter-of-fact. “And one day, you’ll be expected to give the family what it needs next. Heirs.”

Already, you could feel the walls closing in. This place had a shape, and you were being fitted into it, whether you liked it or not. You couldn’t imagine having children, much less having children with Naoya. It seemed like such an abstraction, something so far off and distant, that it was too blurry to make out. You didn’t know how to respond, so you merely nodded.

Across the table, Naoya glanced up from his meal and caught your eye. When he flashed you a grin, sharp and bright, you felt something in your chest loosen. Maybe, you thought for the first time, clinging to the feeling before it could disappear, it wouldn’t be so unbearable to marry a Zen’in.

///

///

///

Naoya was easy to get along with. You rarely had to ask if you were curious about something. He talked openly and frequently about whatever struck his fancy. He told you that his papa was very busy, and that his older brothers were “fine, I guess,” but that he would be head of the clan one day.

“It’s obvious,” he’d said. “Everyone knows.”

You supposed he liked having someone near his own age, who wasn’t one of his numerous brothers or cousins—boys who either competed with him openly or resented him or trailed after him eagerly and emptily. You weren’t jealous of him, nor did you fawn. You merely listened to him and laughed when he wanted you to, and that seemed to please him enough.

And you liked having Naoya for company, too, to play with and talk to. With him, you didn’t have to endure the constant warning looks and clipped corrections of the older women, who measured your every word and movement. Nor did you have to navigate the quiet, suffocating competition of the other girls, all of them watching and being watched, and comparing what little approval was handed out to them like scraps.

In a way, you thought, it made sense that things worked out that way. You had been handpicked for each other, after all.

You preferred Naoya’s company a whole lot better than his older brothers’; that was for sure. When they were not too busy ignoring you or turning their noses up at you like the dirt beneath their sandals, they seemed to go out of their way to provoke you—choosing you last at picking teams, pushing you down into the dirt during games, but never in any way that would betray outright hostility. The worst of them was Naosuke, whose blows were often the roughest of the bunch. His methods tended toward the tactless and brash, but Naoya, when he noticed, simply dismissed him.

“Onii-chan is an oaf. Don’t let him bother you,” he would say with a toss of his head, as if the matter didn’t deserve more than that.

You collected Naoya in fragments, the parts of him that existed between the lines that were spoken about him and by him. He still moved back then with a touch of carelessness, unaccustomed to the gangly limbs of a growing body. When he laughed, he did it loudly with his head tipped back and his eyes squeezed shut so that his long lashes pressed against his cheeks. When he grew bored, he slouched, propping his chin in his hand, tapping his heel against the floor.

He liked showing you things in the gardens and bringing you things he thought you might like. Candy he’d stolen from the kitchen, a book he’d already read with dog-eared pages. Once, a stray cat he’d discovered near the service wing, cradled awkwardly against his chest.

“We can’t keep it,” you had said, alarmed.

“I know,” he replied, defensive. “I just thought you’d want to see it.”

He knelt with you, letting the cat curl against his leg until a housekeeper came to shoo it away. When it fled, Naoya looked after it with a small, tight expression you did not yet recognize.

You stored these moments away without knowing you were doing it, arranging them like keepsakes in your mind. Proof, you thought, that your future husband was kind. That he noticed things. That beneath the structure being built around him, there was a boy who instinctively held on to his humanity. It made it easier, later, to excuse what came after.

///

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///

All the men in the clan were always training, especially the ones who didn’t have an innate technique to speak of. They were already there at the training grounds each morning, when you arrived for your instruction, and they were there after you left, when etiquette and literature and history lessons claimed you for the rest of the day.

You possessed a decent amount of cursed energy, but your instructor valued control above all else. You were praised for your neatness and for listening well, even when you tired rapidly from drills. The Zen’in women did not customarily seem to practice jujutsu sorcery, which baffled you and contributed to the confounding simultaneous lack of expectation and over expectation of your power.

“Watch out!”

You had been thirteen. Something struck the side of your head. Suddenly, the world tipped and slid sideways. The courtyard stones rushed up, and you tasted iron. You blinked, the edges of your vision swimming. The figure materializing before you loomed, an unimpressed curl to his lips.

“Are you alright?” cried out the voice from before, but it did not belong to the frowning boy. Ranta skidded to a stop beside you and dropped to his knees, his brows arched and knitted in worry. You looked past him, though, gasping and eyeing the wooden bō in Naosuke’s grip.

Naosuke flourished the staff, turning it in one palm. “You’re supposed to dodge,” he said, patronizing, as if speaking to a child. He moderated his tone just enough in front of the instructors to imply indifference, but you knew the strike had been no accident.

Ranta looked between you, uncertain—a talented youth, yet he was often too quick to defer to the older boys. “She’s not used to sparring yet,” he protested weakly. “You didn’t have to—”

“Didn’t have to what?” Naosuke cut in. “If she can’t handle getting knocked down, maybe she should stick to pouring tea.”

“I’m fine,” you said, pushing yourself up. You pressed your sleeve to your mouth, dabbing away the blood.

A stone-faced instructor sent you off to sit out the next set of drills. You sat at the edge of the courtyard, cradling your stinging head and watching the other students practice. Across the training ground, Naosuke barked a laugh, the sound carrying.

“You’re still doing this?” Naoya asked, appearing at your side and startling you. He was fourteen now and receiving his own special training.

You jolted, clandestinely concealing the crimson smearing your sleeve. You did not want him to notice your distress. Better to let him think it was nothing more than a run-of-the-mill training bruise. “Yes.”

He hummed pensively. “You don’t have to be good at it, you know.”

“I don’t?”

“I mean, obviously,” he said, shrugging. “It’s not what women are for.” He said it the way he said most things back then, repeating words he had heard older men speak and testing how they sounded in his own mouth. “You’ve got other lessons. Important ones.”

You considered this. “But I want to learn.”

Naoya tilted his head, studying you, and for a moment, you worried that he could read your thoughts. “Sure,” he said easily. “Just don’t overdo it. You look tired all the time.”

In contrast, Naoya never seemed tired. He seemed to have boundless energy and talent. His instructors had called him a genius enough times that he parroted the word himself. It appeared almost natural that the son of the clan head would receive so much praise, but then, you noticed that there were in fact many other sons who did not encounter the same treatment. His older brothers, namely—who, by Naoya’s own account, simply did not measure up.

You hadn’t questioned it when he said he’d be clan head one day, and now, it seemed just as obvious to you, too. In the years to come, you would wonder what kind of person Naoya might have become if he had struggled, even just a little. If praise had come more sparingly. If effort had ever failed to be rewarded. He might have turned out an entirely different man than the one he grew into. But you couldn’t imagine him in any other way. It was as if he had come already fully formed, and all it took was the normal course of his life for that to reveal itself.

///

///

///

By fourteen, you had discovered that you loved to watch Naoya at the piano, especially his hands. Long fingers confident, striking each note cleanly. You never saw him fumble, even on the intricate pieces that made your own knuckles tense from just listening.

The music room was one of the few places you were allowed to linger without supervision, provided you sat quietly and kept your hands folded in your lap. It was not a room meant for you, but you felt welcome in it anyway when Naoya played for you on the upright piano, which was old but one of the few modern concessions in the house. He was fifteen. His music was never gentle. Even in the slower pieces, there was a kind of restrained ferocity that suited him. Back then, you never wondered if he was really playing for you at all, or if what you witnessed was simply the overflow of his own pride. The need to excel at everything, even leisure.

You did not think Naoya was flawless. No one was. But you thought, perhaps foolishly, that being told you were exceptional every day must be a kind of pressure. That being expected to surpass everyone else, always, must weigh on a person in ways no one acknowledged. Naoya did not fail, but surely he knew the consequences if he ever did. You wondered if he ever felt lonely because of it.

The idea filled you with a strange tenderness. The belief that beneath his confidence there must be something fragile, something human he was guarding. That perhaps he needed someone to see him clearly—to admire him not because he was destined for greatness, but because he was trying. That even Naoya, brilliant and praised and certain, must be trapped in the world he was born into somehow.

When Naoya finished, he let the last note linger in the air until it died out on its own, then turned to you with not the sharp grin he wore among the other boys, but something smaller and warm. The one you liked to think was for you alone.

“Well?”

“It was great,” you said truthfully. “And you make it sound so easy.”

“It is easy,” he said. Then, after a moment, as if reconsidering, he added, “Well. For me.”

You weren’t thinking when you responded, and the words would later replay in your head when you wondered why you hadn’t stayed quiet. “That piece is supposed to be difficult. I mean—people struggle with it. Even professionals. It would be okay if you did, too.”

The warmth vanished, and Naoya’s expression seemed to close itself off. His mouth flattened, his shoulders drew back slightly. “Why would I struggle with it?”

“I didn’t say you did,” you replied quickly. “Only that it wouldn’t be strange if—”

He stood, cutting you off. The bench scraped abruptly against the floor. “It ain’t supposed to be hard, unless you’re an idiot,” he snapped.

You flushed, heat creeping up your neck. “I was just saying—”

“I know what you were saying,” Naoya said. His tone had gone cool, distant in a way you rarely heard directed at you. “Don’t need to pretend you understand things you know nothing about.”

For a moment, the room felt too large. You swallowed, nodding. You should have known better. You should have remembered the script you all lived by here, the correct lines and cues, and kept to your part. Praise without question, admiration without comparison. That was what Naoya wanted. What all the men here demanded. If you couldn’t be the best, you pretended not to want it. The lesson was not new, but you learned it again anyway.

Naoya left then, without saying anything else. The door to the piano room closed with a shudder behind him, and the silence after was thin and empty. You stared at where he’d been sitting and felt an odd hollow open in your chest—one that would become more and more familiar as the years went on.

It was then that you realized Naoya did not believe in traps. Only in hierarchies. And he had never once considered that the cage which made him powerful might also be the one thing he would never escape.

///

///

///

He avoided you for the rest of the afternoon.

His displeasure at you wasn’t overt; he did not glare, nor did he snap. He simply did not look at you. When you passed in the hall, at the table during dinner, never once did his eyes meet yours. It felt like the punishment it was meant as. You spent the evening dissecting the moment, trimming your memory of it down until it was stripped away into something that was your fault:

I shouldn’t have said that. I embarrassed him. He’s under so much pressure.

“What’d you do to him?” Naosuke asked with an almost pitying amusement when he noticed. Of course, he noticed.

You tried not to betray your discomfort as he leaned in, pulse quickening. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Uh-huh.” He tilted his head, as if looking at something he’d cornered and found mildly fascinating. “You know he’s sensitive,” he said, his voice inflected with faint ridicule.

“It was a misunderstanding,” you insisted, firmly but quietly.

Naosuke grinned. He had a grin that was just as sharp as Naoya’s but lacking the same intent, like a blade wielded without discipline. “Careful. You don’t want to end up on his bad side, right? Imagine where you’d end up if he decided you weren’t worth marrying. You’d be worthless to us then.”

You looked away, your mind crying out for Naoya before remembering he wouldn’t be your rescuer. Not now. “Thank you for the advice, Naosuke-san.”

He laughed, eyes glittering with bored amusement before straightening and walking off, his hands shoved in his pockets.

///

///

///

It was nearly bedtime when Naoya finally appeared at the door to your room. He called out to you, that familiar suffix attached to your name, as if nothing had happened.

You rose immediately. “Yes?”

He didn’t step inside. He stood in the hallway, his mouth set in a line that wasn’t quite a frown, looking past you as if examining the wall behind your head. Your heart hammered, worried that the confrontation might be replayed at any moment, as if he might suddenly say what he really thought of your slip. Naosuke's words from earlier that day echoed around unbidden in your head.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Naoya said instead.

You hesitated. The hour was late, and the house was thick with rules about where girls your age belonged at night, but Naoya’s tone carried the familiar assurance that none of it applied to him. You let yourself believe that that certainty extended to those he chose and slipped on your sandals.

He led you up the hall and out onto the engawa, where the late summer air was cool and crisp. Somewhere beyond the garden, the last of the frogs murmured, mixing with the harkening chirp of autumn bell crickets. You sat together at the edge side by side, feet dangling above the stone path, not quite close enough to touch shoulders. While Naoya swung his legs idly, you folded your hands in your lap and sat so still that your muscles began to ache. You tried to sense his mood from the set of his profile out of the corner of your eye. He could be so laconic when he wanted to be, in spite of his outspoken nature.

Eventually, you braved a glance at him, and he looked back, but there was nothing in his eyes to read.

“Here.”

He casually held something out wrapped in a square of dark cloth. You took it with both hands. Inside was a small knife, not ornamental but beautifully made and practical, with a short blade and a smooth handle.

“It’s balanced,” Naoya said. “Not too heavy. You’d mess up your wrist otherwise.”

You looked up at him. “For me?”

“Obviously.” He rolled his eyes. “Don’t get the wrong idea. You might get sent out on lower-level exorcisms soon. It ain’t safe.”

“I can handle myself,” you said carefully.

He snorted softly, not in a way that suggested he meant to be cruel. “Sure. With weak curses. But if something slips through? You think they’ll protect you properly?” His gaze swept over you almost tenderly. “You shouldn’t have to rely on your technique alone,” he went on. “It’s fine, but it’s not…” He trailed off, as if the rest were too obvious to state.

You closed the cloth around the knife. “I see,” you said.

“I’m serious. Women get killed because they overestimate themselves.” He shifted slightly, letting his arm brush lightly against yours. “You’re smarter than that.”

Naoya’s gaze slid sideways again, searching your face for a reaction, though his tone had already softened. The earlier friction between you dissolved into the hush of night, and the space between you felt familiar again. Safe, even. Your fingers closed more tightly around the wrapped knife. You thought of the women at the estate, the ones who vanished into private rooms or withdrew into themselves until they were barely noticeable in the halls. Not one of them had ever held a weapon openly. Not one of them had been given a gift like this.

“Thank you,” you said finally, tucking the knife into your sleeve.

///

///

///

You had been trusted to start mending Naoya’s things after you turned fifteen. Between assignments to deal with minor exorcisms, Shizue sat with you at the kotatsu and showed you how to make use of the tiny needles. Sewing came easy to you, perhaps due to your innate technique, though it demanded even more precision than weaving threads to suppress curses.

“You cannot mend from the outside,” Shizue instructed. “It will show and look careless.”

You nodded, turning the dark fabric of one of Naoya’s haori inside out on your lap. There was a tear at the inner sleeve, no wider than a grain of rice. You wouldn’t have noticed it yourself. You wondered how long it had been there before Shizue did.

As you began to guide the needle through the inner seam, Shizue added, “Don’t pull too tight. Men notice when their sleeves bind.”

“Yes, Aunt.” You tempered the careful rhythm of your hands, catching only a whisper of thread from the lining and drawing it through with the softest motion. It was strange, you thought, how much attention was required for something meant to be unseen.

From the adjoining room came the cadence of men’s voices. The shoji between was closed, but the walls were thin. Naoya was in rare spirits that day. He had performed exceptionally on his latest mission and received praise from Naobito in front of everyone.

You tried to focus on the seam.

“Five years,” an aging voice carried through the screen. “Strange that there’s been no further issue.”

“Maybe there’s no point in trying,” Naoya’s voice answered. “Twins are already a bad omen. And girls, on top of it.”

Shizue’s fingers pressed lightly into her sleeve. You tried not to look up at the older woman. Her husband, Ogi, remained silent somewhere behind the shoji as the other men chuckled.

“You must match the tension of what is already there,” Shizue said, as if neither of you had heard anything. “If you force it, the fabric will pucker. If you are too loose, it will fray again the first time he moves.”

Meanwhile, Naoya spoke again, emboldened. “If you’re gonna bother, at least produce something useful. Unless, the problem ain’t you, Uncle.”

You felt heat rush to your face. No one rebuked him. Only another chorus of laughter followed. Your eyes held to the neat, invisible stitches you were drawing through the lining, but your ears stung with the words. You had learned through these male conversations the unguarded boastfulness of men when they thought no one was listening. Well, no one of consequence. Even at sixteen, Naoya could fill a room.

Shizue did not acknowledge the words. She lifted her cup of tea for a sip. “Yes, that’s correct,” she said calmly. “But watch your last knot. It mustn’t catch.”

She spoke as if the world beyond the kotatsu had ceased to exist. The implication was clear: you were not supposed to hear what the men said behind closed doors. Not supposed to mind. But you had spent the last three years at Shizue’s side, learning posture and tea preparation, the invisible mechanics of household management. And now, here she sat, reduced to a failed vessel in front of her husband, her brother-in-law, by the boy you were meant to marry one day.

You felt a sudden shiver run through you. You got the feeling that if you went through with it, you might become like Shizue one day. Seated beside Naoya and silent while he and the other men joked about your body, your usefulness, your failures. Would you shrink the same way? Or had Shizue always been this quiet?

“Good,” Shizue said as you turned the seam over to check your work. There was no sign of the wound. “You have a careful touch.”

The praise didn’t feel deserved. For the first time since arriving at the estate, you did not feel sorry for Naoya’s pressure.

Later, when he found you near the half-frozen koi pond, he slung an arm loosely over you shoulders. You were startled, just a little, by the casual heaviness of his touch. Naoya was always warm. Even in winter, he seemed to carry his own heat. It seeped through the layers of your kimono as he steered you along the edge of the pond.

He was taller than you now by several inches. Sometimes, you forgot how quickly he’d grown; the childishness of his face had receded, replaced by a sharpness that did not soften, even when he grinned.

“Hey,” he murmured, nudging you. “You’re quiet. Bored?”

You shook your head. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

The words from the men’s room were still echoing in your mind, but you knew better than to give voice to them. If you did, you felt he might laugh at you. It occurred to you that you should have moved away. Instead, you leaned into his warmth.

Why did you treasure this closeness as though it were a privilege? Why did you measure yourself so thoroughly against his approval? There were others in this house who received only the flatness of his gaze. You had seen it. You had seen it turned toward you once or twice by now. And still, when he found you in a courtyard or at the end of a corridor, when he chose to stand beside you instead of ahead of you, something in you eased.

The answer only became obvious when you let it. It was something that, previously, you had viciously chased out of your mind every time because it was simply too foolish to entertain. You had feelings for him, in whatever quiet, ill-formed way they had developed. And because you did, you could see the flaw in it. If no one ever contradicted him, he would become the kind of man who believed a woman’s silence meant she deserved it.

Naoya squeezed your shoulder lightly, misreading your stillness. “You think too much,” he said, almost fondly.

///

///

///

There was a lot you missed about home—the rows of dusty comic books at the corner store, the smell of fried sweet potato, the sound of your schoolmates’ laughter—though at this point, the Zen’in estate was starting to feel more like home than the place you grew up in. It was the summer of your sixteenth year, and the mountain air was thick with bottled heat, trapped between the walls and the endless tile rooftops. You took to rising early, before everything had the chance to turn syrupy, to train alone while the grass was still wet from dew.

You walked the shaded paths behind the outer house, careful to avoid the training grounds where Naoya and the others would soon gather. He liked to be watched when he practiced, but you sensed lately that your presence was less a comfort and more a challenge, and some days, you preferred not to be seen at all. There was a stretch of flagstones tucked behind the gardens, shaded by aged cypress and mostly ignored. The quiet there was more peaceful than the quiet of the house, and you relished the rare freedom it granted you to move as you pleased.

Today, though, the space was occupied. Maki stood barefoot in the middle of the yard, a bokken gripped in both her small hands. The wooden sword seemed like it would be too heavy for her thin arms, but it didn’t drag as she lifted it. She swung, and the strike landed cleanly but just a little too hesitantly against the target post.

“You’re holding it wrong,” Naoya said as the girl attempted to reset her stance. He was leaning against one of the cypress trunks with his arms folded, grin crooked with amusement. He must have come looking for you and found something better instead.

Maki didn’t turn toward him. “I’m not.”

“You are,” he said lightly. “But it don’t matter, I guess. You can’t even see curses. What’re you planning to cut?”

The girl’s shoulders tightened, lifting high to her ears. Unlike Mai, she had barely managed to manifest any cursed energy yet, and given that they were twins, it had been taken as a sign by the family that she never would. But Maki was stubborn, and you had noticed the girl had recently taken to watching you train, catching her lingering just beyond the edges of the garden wall, always vanishing the instant she thought she’d been noticed.

“Maybe you should try needlework. You’re more likely to hurt yourself with that thing than any curse.”

“I don’t want to do needlework,” came Maki’s reply through gritted teeth. “I wanna be a jujutsu sorcerer.”

Naoya pushed off the tree and strolled closer. “Sorcerers fight curses. If you ain’t got cursed energy, you ain’t a sorcerer,” he said.

He tapped two fingers against her forehead, hard enough to knock her backward. Maki landed on the stones with a tight oof, then glared up at her cousin like she was trying very hard not to cry. You quickly stepped in, your feet carrying you forward on shocked indignance.

“Naoya, don’t!” you blurted. “She’s only practicing.”

He turned at the sound of your voice, brow arching. “She’s trying to be you, you know. You’re setting a bad example for her. Maki-chan ain’t got what it takes to be a sorcerer. She might as well learn how to be a proper wife.” He paused, tilting his head. “Or have you been encouraging this?”

You moved between them as Maki scrambled to clutch at the bokken that had tumbled from her hand. “She’s six.”

Naoya scoffed. “I inherited Papa’s technique when I was six. She’ll be fine, anyway. She’s just pretending.” He knelt, squatting so that he was level with Maki’s eyeline behind you. “Ain’t that right, Maki-chan?”

Maki’s lips pressed together into a tight, quivering line. She nodded once rigidly.

“See?” Naoya stood, stretching his arms behind his head nonchalantly. You could barely believe he was the same boy who had once proudly presented his twin cousins to you when they were just babies. The same boy, who was now nearly a man. And yet, for all his height, Naoya had always held that same impatience for weakness.

You ignored him and bent to help Maki to her feet. “There,” you murmured, dusting the sleeves of the girl’s kimono. “Carry that back inside carefully. And don’t drag it.”

Maki nodded, her eyes shining but dry. She clutched the bokken to her chest and slipped past Naoya without looking at him. You listened to her footsteps fade along the stone path.

When you straightened, slowly, to turn back to Naoya, you were met with that flat disdain you were already expecting. For once, he didn’t look at you indulgently, like you were a child in need of explaining. He was not angered in the way he had been at the piano years ago. There was something new and simmering in his expression—something you had not meant to summon. It made you shudder.

“You embarrassed me,” he said.

“In front of who? Maki?” you replied, forcing yourself to lift your chin. “You’re so easily embarrassed in front of a child?”

Naoya’s gaze hardened. The air between you seemed to contract. You were suddenly aware of the sweat at your collarbone. A strand of hair had come loose and stuck to your cheek. You didn’t brush it away.

He took a step closer. “You think you can—what? Teach me a lesson?”

You realized, belatedly, that you had not stepped away. You were still standing directly in front of him, close enough that you could smell the salt and the heart rising off his skin.

“I know you’re not so naive that you would—”

“Don’t,” you hissed, giving his chest a hard shove. “Don’t act like you know anything about me.”

You had pushed him before, plenty of times, but not for years. Not since he’d begun outgrowing you in height. Now, he didn’t stumble. He barely even moved. Naoya’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, you were certain he would lash out. You thought perhaps he might shove you back, like he did as a child.

Instead, he leaned in almost imperceptibly and insisted, “I do know you. I know you spent your first week here cryin’ into your pillow every night. I know you visit the pond whenever you miss home.” His mouth curled upward faintly, the ghost of the smile meant only for you. “I know you hate being wrong, and you hate being ignored. And you think if you work hard enough, I’ll respect you for it, ‘stead of just likin’ how pretty you look when you try.”

Your mouth fell open, then closed. You felt the rush of blood rising to your cheeks. “Well, I know you,” you huffed, chest heaving as you thrust an accusing finger into his chest. “I know you hate feeling stupid. I know you hate being doubted more than anything, even if it’s just for a second. And you hate when anyone sees you lose, even a little. You always have to be the best, even at things you don’t care about.”

You were stricken by the sound of the words, even as they left your own mouth. Naoya’s expression didn’t shift for a long beat. There was an anticipation between you, thicker than the warming summer air. And then, so fleeting you nearly missed it, his golden brown eyes flickered down to your mouth. All of a sudden, you became acutely aware of your own breathing, of the way your pulse had climbed high into your throat. Your hands felt awkward at your sides. You had stood close to him before, countless times. Walked and sat beside him, even leaned into him. But this felt different.

For years, you had thought of your future with Naoya as an abstract. Your someday husband. A childhood arrangement that had yet to take shape. But now, standing in the morning light filtered through the cypress trees, you felt the future condense into something immediate and physical. You could practically see it: shared rooms, shared beds, children raised under the same roof.

Naoya blinked. Realization rippled across his face in tandem before he managed to contain it. “You’re gettin’ bold,” he said, the low roughness of his tone sending a shiver down your spine. “Don’t undermine me again.”

And then, he stepped around you, shoulder brushing deliberately against yours as he passed.

a/n: thank you for reading! This might be the 267th arranged marriage fic with naoya but damn it’s the perfect trope for him.

(I do have an outline for all the chapters already, but there are a lot of years to cover here, and i’ve got several other projects running at the same time. Additionally, i have some huge things going on irl, so i can't promise any kind of posting schedule for this. That being said, your support as readers is greatly appreciated <3)

[torupng]

CLINGY MORNINGS .ᐟ

゛★ roommates ! satoru and sukuna use you as a body pillow.

oneshot .ᐟ ⋆ modern au ⋆ cuddling ⋆ gojo grabs your boob and sukuna grabs your ass ⋆ polyamory-ish ⋆ fluff ⋆ sfw but suggestive? art by to__0fu

you woke up to warmth. a lot of it.

there was a solid weight pressed against your back, all long limbs and bony elbows, and an arm thrown across your waist that had somehow migrated upward during the night. satoru's hand was cupping your breast like it was a stress ball, his fingers slack but undeniably there, palm warm through the thin fabric of your shirt. his breath was hot against the back of your neck, each exhale of warmth making you shiver, and his knees were tucked behind yours like he was trying to fuse your bodies together.

in front of you, sukuna was a wall of heat and muscle. your face was smushed into his chest, the faint smell of his soap still clinging to his skin, and your leg was thrown over his hip in a way that would've been scandalous if you weren't half-asleep and pretty much used to it. his arm was draped across your waist, large hand splayed low on your back, fingers curving just enough to rest on the swell of your ass. he wasn’t grabbing or groping though—unlike someone. a certain white haired someone.

you blinked slowly. this was normal. this was your morning. sandwiched between two men who could not be more different if they tried, both of them treating you like the human embodiment of a pillow.

satoru's fingers twitched against your chest, squeezing slightly in his sleep, and you felt a low hum of something that was definitely not annoyance.

"satoru," you mumbled, voice rough with sleep. "your hand."

nothing. just more warm breathing against your neck.

you tried shifting, but that only made him pull you closer, his arm tightening around your waist and his nose pressing harder into the curve of your shoulder. a soft, pleased noise escaped his throat.

"five more minutes," he slurred, barely coherent.

"your hand is on my boob."

"i know. it's nice."

you sighed, but you couldn't even pretend to be mad. this was just how it was. how it had been for months, ever since the three of you had fallen into this weird, unspoken arrangement that no one had bothered to define but everyone was clearly on board with.

you turned your attention to sukuna, who was still dead to the world. his face was relaxed in sleep, which was the only time he ever looked anything close to peaceful. his jaw wasn't clenched, his brow wasn't furrowed, and the perpetual scowl he wore like armor was nowhere to be found.

his hand on your ass squeezed once, reflexive, and you felt your face heat.

"you're awake," you murmured, because there was no way that was accidental.

sukuna's eyes cracked open—just a slit, those deep crimson irises catching the pale morning light filtering through the curtains. he didn't move, didn't speak, just watched you with that flat, assessing stare that would've made anyone else squirm.

then his hand squeezed again, deliberate this time, and one corner of his mouth twitched.

"morning," he rasped, voice a low rumble that vibrated through his chest and straight into your cheek.

"you're shameless."

"you’re still here."

you opened your mouth to retort, but satoru chose that exact moment to stir behind you, his arm tightening and his hand shifting just enough to make you gasp.

"oh my god," you breathed.

satoru made a sleepy, questioning noise against your neck. "what? what's wrong?"

"your hand."

"it's still on your boob, yeah. i noticed."

"then move it."

"don't wanna."

sukuna snorted, the sound rough with sleep. "you're a pervert."

"you're one to talk," satoru shot back, voice still thick with drowsiness. "i can feel your hand on her ass from here. don't act all high and mighty."

"at least i'm not groping her like a teenager at a house party."

"it's not groping, it's comforting. they’re like stress balls. there’s a difference.”

"there really isn't.”

you felt satoru shift behind you, his chest pressing closer, and then his hand—which had been resting innocently on your shoulder—slid back down. slow. deliberate. his fingers traced the curve of your ribs before palming your breast through the thin cotton of your tank top.

"groping would be if i did this—"

his hand firmly squeezed, fingers kneading the soft flesh, and then his thumb found your nipple through the fabric. he flicked it—once, twice, a lazy, practiced motion that sent a jolt straight through you.

you gasped, sharp and involuntary, the sound punching out of you before you could stop it. it was embarrassing, needy, and it hung in the morning air like an admission.

"satoru!" you smacked his hand, your face burning, and he let out a theatrical whine like you'd just wounded him.

"okay—okay, sorry..." he grumbled, but you could hear the grin in his voice. his hand slid down to your stomach, palm flat and warm against the bare skin there, fingers splayed like he was claiming territory. "but you made that really cute sound. like a little squeak."

"i did not squeak."

"you absolutely did," sukuna said, voice low and rough with sleep. his eyes were open now, watching you with that knowing look.

“shut up, kuna.”

satoru’s thumb traced a slow circle on your stomach, just above the waistband of your shorts, and you shivered despite yourself.

sukuna's hand moved, sliding from your ass up to your hip, then around to your thigh where it rested heavy and warm. his thumb pressed into the soft skin there, stroking slow, lazy patterns that made your breath catch.

"you're blushing," sukuna observed, and his voice was almost smug. oh how that bastard loved teasing you like this.

"it's warm in here."

"the ac’s on the lowest setting."

"yeah—well, you two are suffocating me. shut it."

satoru giggled and pressed a kiss to the back of your neck. his hand on your stomach tightened slightly, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. "you're so cute when you're flustered."

"i'm not even flustered."

"your heart's racing," sukuna said, and you hated that he was right. you could feel the thrum of it in your chest, quick and betraying. no matter how used to this you’d gotten, the two still knew exactly how to get to you.

"that's because you two are suffocating me."

"you love it," satoru sing-songed.

you didn't answer, because he was right, and they both knew it.

you groaned and tried to roll away, but both of them held firm—satoru's arm locking around your waist, sukuna's hand pressing flat against your lower back. you were trapped.

"you're both so annoying," you muttered into sukuna's chest.

"you say that a lot," satoru said, and you could hear the grin in his voice. "maybe you should get new material."

"maybe you should get a life."

"i have one. it's you. and him, unfortunately."

sukuna's eyes had slipped closed again, but you felt his chest shake with a silent laugh. "unfortunately is right."

"shut up," satoru taunted, kicking him under the covers. "you know you love me."

"i tolerate you. there's a really big difference. if you were smart you’d know that.”

“semantics. and for your information, i am smart.”

you smiled despite yourself, face still pressed against sukuna's chest. the morning light was growing brighter, painting the room in soft gold, and the warmth of both of them was starting to lull you back toward sleep.

"you're both dumbasses," you grumbled, but there was no heat in it.

"and that would make you?” satoru teased, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

“he has a point,” sukuna grunted in agreement, his hand sliding up from your ass to rest on your hip, thumb tracing a slow circle against the skin there.

you let your eyes close, breathing in the mixed scents of them—satoru's sweet, almost floral shampoo, sukuna's sharper, spicier shampoo.

"breakfast?" you asked, voice sleepy.

"later," satoru mumbled.

"five more minutes," sukuna said, which was practically a declaration of love from him.

"fine," you sighed, practically waving a white flag. "five more minutes."

satoru's hand (which was honestly doing mean things to you) finally moved—off your chest, up to your shoulder, pulling you back against him until you were perfectly cocooned. sukuna's arm tightened around your waist, drawing you closer until there was no space left between you.

and for five beautiful, quiet minutes, there was peace.

then satoru said, "so who's getting up to make coffee?"

"you," you and sukuna said in unison.

"rude."

© torupng | all rights reserved.

[getoplanet]

(18+) MDNI! lazy morning with bfs satosugu

the room is almost stifling with the heat of two overgrown bodies tangled so close to you. soft breathy sighs and honeyed little moans stir you awake, the bedframe creaking shamelessly beneath the force of both your boyfriends' onslaught beside you. you don’t even have to open your eyes to know what they’re up to, not with the way suguru whimpers so cutely, the familiar deep groan bubbling from satoru’s throat giving them both away instantly.

your eyes blink open lazily, bottom lip caught in your teeth to stifle your own sounds, mouth watering at the sight you’re met with. suguru is always so pretty like this, smug grin wiped clean off by the blissful roll of his eyes, the cinch between his brows and his lips fixed in a pout, nails digging into the grooves of satoru’s back muscles. his meaty thighs tremble around satoru’s waist while he slowly pummels into him with unforgiving strength.

“ngh…s-satoruuu..” suguru slurs quietly, honeyed voice breaking into sweet little moans. the wet shlick sound of their skin connecting accentuates every brutal thrust forward, satoru’s pretty pink tip catching on that tender spot that leaves them both breathless and glossy eyed. poor suguboo, you think to yourself realizing only god knows how many orgasms satoru has fucked out of him in their thoughtfully frivolous attempt at “waiting on you to wake up.”

every nerve in your body begged you to touch yourself. alleviate the growing ache between your thighs. your breath hitches, heart skipping beats with an anticipation that can only be described as that familiar hunger they always draw out of you like this.

“fuck—fuck sugu, wake her up baby,” satoru groans softly into the crook of suguru’s neck, rough voice muffled between messy kisses pressed against sticky skin. every bulging vein stretches him wider, deeper, and suguru giggles, lashes fluttering shut, head thrown back in pure bliss.

“she is awake ‘toru,” you gasp at the ravenette brat, cheeks heating instantly as you turn on your back, squeeze your eyes closed, hands immediately darting up to cover your face. satoru smirks in amusement, pace picking up at the realization he doesn’t have to try holding back now. his massive hand clamps around suguru’s jaw, fingertips digging into his cheeks before he lifts his head to look at you.

“morning princess. c’mere,” satoru hums, voice deep and wrecked with ruin, swallowed by the eager, open-mouth kisses suguru steals from him. satoru never relents, continually dragging the prettiest whines and moans right out of suguru while he holds your gaze teasingly. you crawl into the space made for you with sheer urgency, satoru’s large palms lower you by the hips on suguru’s cock, panties already torn off and a heaping gush of your slick makes a mess all over him. suguru squirms, cheeks pink and avoiding your gaze.

satoru leaves a tender trail of kisses down your shoulder, snowy tufts of hair tickling your skin as he lifts off your shirt from behind you. he can’t keep his hands to himself now that you’ve joined in on the fun, oversized palms eagerly coming down to cup your tits and pinch your nipples lovingly. he fucks suguru faster, harder. enough for his abs to clench with every thrust, shoving him further up the mattress. suguru’s eyes shoot open when you line him with your soaked cunt, his hands immediately gripping your waist for purchase as you drag yourself up and down, his tip throbbing and leaking at the ring of your entry.

“ngh—too much!” suguru wails helplessly beneath you, two small hands pressed against his hard chest to anchor yourself through every languid bounce. sultry, higher-pitched whines come tumbling from his parted lips, lost in the heat of your tight walls suffocating him like you were trapping him there, locked balls deep inside you. suguru exhales through his nose, overwhelmed with the thick and wet intrusion that fucks his ass so deep he thinks he could split in half. you lift your hips up with a loud slurp!—then sink back down the hilt, punching the air from your lungs in the process. suguru’s cheeks burn crimson red, strands of silky bangs stuck to his forehead while he gasps for air.

“feels so good sugu…mmph,” you huff softly, goosebumps covering your skin where satoru giggles behind you humorlessly. his breath fans your shoulder blade, cerulean pupils blown wide and manic as his handsome face contorts with ecstacy. you drop to suguru’s chest, lazily lifting your hips to accommodate the stretch. poor guy is a sticky mess writhing underneath you and satoru both, his hands gripping you tighter, dragging out every syllable when he whines out your name.

you tangle your fingers into the long raven locks cascading his shoulders, cheek pressed flush against the sweaty warmth of his pec. he twitches under your grip, your ass coming back down to land with a wet smack. he instinctively jerks up to reach deep enough you’re keening and arching, mumbling sweet nonsense into his skin.

your pace slows, body trembling over him in small spasms to the feeling of his thick cock expanding inside you. soft lips teasingly nibble at the tip of your ears, down the side of your neck. satoru’s treacherous touch dips down the valley of your breasts, down your stomach and finally pressing circles into your clit, his free hand leaving a bruising grip on suguru’s hipbone.

“shit, gonna cum—gonna cum!” suguru cries out, his fat length twitches violently inside the push-pull of your cunt. the knot in your lower belly unravels with the saccharine sounds of your boyfriends coming undone. suguru’s obscene length glides through your sloppy folds over and over, bullying your sensitive spot just right. satoru sneaks his ever curious fingers to where you and suguru connect, pussy glistening in the creamy mess of cum that dribbles down both your thighs. his touch slides from the soft mound of your asscheek, trailing to suguru’s balls and up the base, sliding a thick finger along the bulging veins on the underside of the cock bruising your cervix, thrusting himself inside. suguru groans, broken and raw. you curse under your breath, cunt fluttering around the added stretch as you roll your hips on them both.

“yeah, gonna cum like this suguru? with my cock splitting you open—mmph—and our girl squeezing you tight, hmm?”

suguru murmurs something unintelligible, his eyes shooting open like he’s bracing himself, cheeks stained with tears of pleasure while he desperately struggles to catch his breath. his grip softens, settling down on your ass to guide your slow grinds against his deep, deliberate ones. your voice breaks into a shattered moan, clawing at suguru’s biceps as he pulses along every velvety ridge of your pussy. satoru’s unrelenting, plowing into suguru with enough force to jerk him deeper against that sweet spot that aches inside you. the sensation is dizzying, it leaves your cunt drooling down every inch of suguru in thick, creamy rivulets. satoru thinks he’s in heaven with this view.

suguru spills into you crying out your name, a string of pleas and whispered chants of yesyesyes sneak past his kiss bitten lips when he forces your hips down with the palm of his hand. you’re stuffed full like this laying pliant over him, with so much cum you think you feel it in the bloat of your lower belly. the sounds that escape you are raw, messy and so loud even as satoru continues his wet trail of kisses up your shoulder.

“there you go, that’s it—fuck, feels so good squeezing you, doesn’t she?” satoru taunts the black haired man, hand reaching forward to thumb his tears away, the action gentle in contrast to the wet plap! plap! plap! sound of his pelvis meeting his ass grows faster, louder, his pace staggering only as he leans in. his mouth hovers over your abused hole stretched around suguru beautifully. one, two seconds of nothing and then his nose brushes against your thigh, his tongue dragging up you and suguru both.

the cutest sounds come spewing from the two of you, satoru’s lips smooching your abandoned hole and twitching into that infamous smirk, his tongue licking up once, twice.

“oh god! please ‘s too much!” your cries are swallowed into suguru’s greedy lips, arms locked around you pulling you close. your whole body trembles when you cum with the hot muscle licking idle lines up your asshole in a sloppy, messy kiss between your cheeks. satoru pulls back just enough to watch you shake, the gush of your slick soiling not only the sheets but the both of them. the endless flow of cum that coats you three leaves satoru chuckling as his orgasm shatters through him.

“wow! hngh—look at that sugu! she squirted all over us,” neither one of you get the chance to respond or catch a break truly, satoru’s already buzzing with excitement and ready to make you do it all over again.

i am so excited for gojo’s 2 min screentime and choso baby omfg i’m gonna cream all over the theater seats!!!! (kidding) lol…. also sorry i don’t have time to double proodread and edit this rn IM SORRY update: just edited and i’m still unsatisfied but i give up goodnight

[blossomsicle]

mdni 18+

part one but can be read as a standalone

“Feels so good, doesn’t he, baby?” Suguru purrs, his lips brushing your ear. He sits beside you and Satoru on the couch where you’re straddling Satoru’s lap, your thighs burning from the stretch of your legs wrapping around his.

Suguru’s dragging Satoru’s cock up and down, up and down over your slippery slit, nudging your clit with the tip and then teasing your entrance with it. You hide your flushed face in Satoru’s neck, your soft mewls muffled by his sweat slicked skin.

“Don’t get shy on me now,” Suguru tuts, grabbing your jaw and turning your face to him to place a kiss on your lips. “You’ve both been begging me for this for a while.” He holds Satoru’s cock at your slick hole and says, “Go ahead, darling. Take what you want.”

You can’t help the moan that stutters up and out of your throat as you sink onto Satoru slowly, dragging out the delicious stretch as long as possible until you’re fully seated. You test out a gentle rock of your hips and his breath hitches, his body arching up into you sending his dick that much deeper into the wet heat of your cunt. The hypnotic roll of your hips has Satoru’s cheeks and ears burning bright red, thrusting up into you as best he can.

Any semblance of control either of you have (not that there was much there to begin with) slips right into Suguru’s hands the second he speaks again and Satoru is the first to fall.

“Wanted to fuck my girlfriend so bad, and so confident with it, too. Where’s all that confidence now, Satoru?”

Melted out of his ears along with his brain the second your lips met his, maybe? Drunk on your kiss and the sweet red wine that stained your lips and got him here in the first place.

Satoru glances at Suguru for a split second, eyes wide, jaw dropped and panting, too wrapped up in your sweet pussy to fight back. His head falls back against the couch with a thud, groaning out a soft, “Suguruuu–fuck,” the only thing he can muster.

And, yeah. So what? It’s not like he thought Suguru would ever actually let him fuck you—he figured he’d be jerking his cock to the one glimpse he caught of your tits one time, years ago, for the rest of his life. This was a dream come true for Satoru. He could kiss Suguru for letting this happen so that’s exactly what he does.

He leans to the left and captures Suguru’s lips, his hands searching for any form of contact he can get from the two of you, one squeezing your waist as you grind down onto him, the other pawing at Suguru’s dick sitting hot, heavy and throbbing in his sweats. His swollen cock bobs as he frees it, precum dribbling from the slit. A groan works its way out of his throat when Satoru’s fist wraps around him fully, smearing precum as his hips jerk forward at the sensation.

“Pussy’s good, isn’t it?” Suguru mumbles against Satoru’s lips, who can only nod weakly in response. He maneuvers a hand between your bodies, your hips jerking into it, chasing the friction momentarily provided by Suguru swiping his thumb over the sticky, creamy mess of your clit. “Have a taste.” He presses his thumb to Satoru’s tongue, dragging it over his tastebuds. He withdraws and lifts Satoru’s chin, bringing their lips together again to share the taste of your pussy on their tongues.

“And you,” Suguru says when he pulls away from Satoru, the string of saliva connecting their mouths snapping as he speaks. He lands a sharp smack! on your ass causing you to jolt on Satoru’s cock, forcing a gasp from him. “Miss ‘he’s so pretty.’” Smack! “Miss ‘just once.’” Smack! “Go on and tell him what you think now.”

“S–so pretty.”

It’s difficult to think anything else when his glazed over gaze was locked on yours, face scrunched up in the effort of not cumming, not yet, not yet, not yet. Yeah, he’s sinfully fucking beautiful, he always has been and always will be.

The desperate rolling of your hips speeds up, ramming Satoru into your sweet spot over and over every time your pelvis meets his. Tears well up in your eyes at the burning need you have for Satoru, for Suguru. You lean to the side and into him, locking your arms around his neck, holding onto him for dear life.

“I need to cum,” you mumble into him, eyes pleading when they meet his. The idea that he still holds control over your orgasm while Satoru is the one balls deep in you has his cock twitching in Satoru’s hand.

“I know, baby, I know.” He kisses the top of your head and brings his thumb to your clit again, circling over the sensitive nub until a broken sob wretches out of you as you cum, slamming yourself onto Satoru as you ride out every second of your high, pussy squeezing and squelching lewdly around him.

“Fuck, ‘m gonna–,” Satoru starts, unable to finish his sentence before he’s spilling thick, hot ropes of seed deep into your cunt. The hand he has on Suguru flies to your hip, his sticky fingers gripping you tight to slow your movements before you send him into pure, agonizing overstimulation.

You sag into Satoru, sticky, sweaty skin against sticky, sweaty skin, chests heaving as you drag in lungful after lungful of air. Your bones and muscles feel like they’re made of jello, all strength in your body drained from the earth shattering orgasm that had built up after years of tension.

Suguru, ever patient as you slowly detach from each other, stands and takes each of you by the hand. “C’mon,” he says, “on your knees, sweethearts. You’re not done yet.”

a/n: i will write pt 3 eventually but for now i’ve gotta move on from this and write something else and yall are gonna have to live with the insinuated bj 😭 love yall <3

[blossomsicle]

mdni 18+

Life with Suguru is life with Satoru and somewhere along the way the lines started to blur.

It starts innocently—holding hands when the three of you walk down the street together, cuddling on the couch during movie night with Satoru in the middle, kissing the homies (Satoru) goodnight okay maybe that last one wasn’t so innocent.

And then one night, you’re drunk on the living room floor looking up at them in the couch. Satoru’s lying across it, his head resting on the arm, long legs bent at the knee with his feet on the floor to make room for Suguru on the other end.

“You two should kiss,” you giggle, half joking.

“Okay,” Satoru smirks, sitting up to grab Suguru’s jaw and pressing their lips together for a quick kiss.

Boring. You’ve seen it a thousand times.

“No, like a real kiss,” you clarify, rolling your eyes and sitting up to crawl over to the side of the couch next to them.

“What? Like this?” Suguru’s hand wraps around the back of Satoru’s neck and pulls him forward, capturing his lips again, deeper this time. They don’t pull apart as quickly, or really, at all. It’s all spit slick lips and sloppy tongues gliding over each other.

It’s when they shift, Suguru laying Satoru back on the couch, that you realize oh fuck, your boyfriend is making out with his best friend and it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

You suck in a sharp breath when you catch a glimpse of the tents forming in their pants, thighs squeezing together, face flushing, hazy brain short circuiting as you watch.

A damp spot is forming in your panties when Suguru reaches out to you, bringing you closer. Butterflies flutter in your stomach when his hand cups your face, bringing your lips to his and then guides you to Satoru.

“You two should kiss,” Suguru teases.

part two

[itssocomplicatedyeah]

Imagine: Your room was warm.

The warmth spread from the small lamp on the desk, from the blanket slipping off the edge of the bed, from the cups of unfinished tea on the floor, from the quiet light that lay across the walls in amber patches.

Outside the window, the city was slowly growing silent. Somewhere in the distance, voices still murmured, doors thudded dully, people passed along the corridor, but here, behind the closed door, all of it seemed unimportant. As if the world had stayed outside and agreed to wait for a little while.

You sat on the bed, leaning back against the headboard, while Enjin settled beside you. Unusually relaxed. Without that constant tension in his shoulders, without the look he usually wore when checking every corner of a room. His umbrella stood against the wall, his jacket had been tossed over the back of a chair, his hair was slightly tousled, and there was something almost domestic about it. So domestic that your heart clenched every time from how pleasant it felt inside.

Enjin was flipping through some old book he had found on your shelf, but he was clearly only half-reading it. You could tell by the way his gaze kept slipping from the text to you.

“You’re not reading again,” you said, without looking away from your mug.

“I am.”

“And what was on the last page?”

He slowly lowered his gaze to the book, then lifted it back to you.

“Words.”

You laughed softly. Enjin smirked too. Then he closed the book and set it aside, as if admitting defeat, though in truth he simply wasn’t going to pretend that anything interested him more than you.

“That’s unfair,” he said.

“What is?”

“You’re distracting.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“I was sitting quietly.”

“Exactly.”

For some reason, those words made you feel not just warm, but almost hot. You turned toward the window, pretending to study the dark sheet of sky beyond it. But in the reflection, you could see Enjin watching you. Calmly, openly, without that mocking defense he so often wore around others. With you, he had been taking it off more and more often. Revealing another side of himself, letting you understand: he trusted you with the parts of him he usually showed no one.

You set your mug down on the floor and shifted a little closer. Enjin said nothing, only lowered his hand to your waist, as if the movement were the most natural thing in the world. His palm settled over the fabric freely, but firmly, and you relaxed almost at once beneath his touch, feeling his fingers brush the bare part of your skin, sending pleasant shivers running over it.

“Tired?” you asked more quietly.

“A little.”

“With you, ‘a little’ usually means ‘very.’”

“And with you, ‘I’m fine’ usually means the same thing.”

You looked at him.

“We’re a terrible couple.”

“At least we’re honest with each other.”

“We both just lied.”

“But we both figured it out quickly.”

You smiled and shook your head. Enjin pulled you closer. Not sharply, not demandingly, just carefully, as though leaving you the chance to refuse, even though he knew you wouldn’t. You settled beside him, resting your head on his shoulder, and felt him breathe out almost imperceptibly. As if only now had he allowed himself to finally relax.

You closed your eyes. He smelled of cigarettes, dust after a mission, and something warm and familiar. That very scent that had long since become a kind of peace to you. His fingers slowly slid through your hair, weightlessly combing through the strands.

“You know,” you said almost in a whisper, “I used to think you didn’t know how to rest.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“No,” he breathed into your hair, pressing his nose into it. “I’m just with you right now.”

You opened your eyes. Your heart skipped a beat so quietly that it seemed even Enjin might not notice. But he did; his fingers stilled in your hair, and his gaze softened. You turned to face him.

“Sometimes you say things like that on purpose, just so I won’t know what to do with myself.”

“Sometimes?”

“Lately, suspiciously often.”

“Then my plan to seduce the most beautiful girl is working perfectly.”

You wanted to protest, but he leaned in and kissed your temple. And that touch made something inside you turn so tender that all your words scattered and no longer mattered as much. You lifted your hand and ran your fingers along his cheek. Enjin closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself that weakness. He pressed his nose into your palm, wanting to feel your warmth closer and drink in that nearness.

He had always seemed like someone used to keeping his distance from anything that could hurt him.

But then he had allowed himself to let you into his life. And now he sat in your room, on your bed, with your blanket over his knees, looking as if this was the one place where he finally didn’t have to be stronger than he was.

“Enjin,” you called softly.

He opened his eyes.

“Mm?”

“Stay tonight.”

A smirk flickered across his face, but his gaze held no mockery.

“I wasn’t planning to leave.”

“Even if I take up the whole bed at night?”

“I’ll survive.”

“Even if I kick?”

“I’m used to it by now.”

You smiled, and he leaned toward you again, this time toward your lips. The kiss was slow, warm, without hurry or any attempt to prove something. Just his lips on yours, his hand on your waist, your fingers curled into the folds of his shirt. The kind of touch after which the world didn’t disappear, but became brighter.

When you pulled away, Enjin touched his forehead to yours.

“It’s so cozy here,” he said.

“You like it?”

“Very much.”

“Because no one’s yelling or arguing with each other?”

“Because you’re here.”

You didn’t answer right away. You only hugged him tighter, pressing your nose into his neck and leaving short kisses on his skin. Enjin chuckled quietly, closing his eyes and stroking your back with his strong, tattooed hands.

Outside the window, darkness had settled completely. The lamp on the desk was still glowing, the tea had long since gone cold, and the book lay open beside you, already forgotten and unnecessary. Someone passed by in the corridor again, but now the sound seemed very far away.

“Are we going to sleep?” he asked.

“Maybe.”

“So no.”

“So sit with me a little longer.”

He kissed the top of your head.

“As long as you want.”

And there was more tenderness in those simple words than in any promise. You closed your eyes, listening to his breathing, feeling his warmth beside you, and thought that perhaps happiness sometimes looked exactly like this: a small room, soft light, cold tea, and a person who stayed not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

Because he loved you.

Because beside you, he was finally at peace.

[itssocomplicatedyeah]

Warning: spoilers for Chapter 170 of the manga.

Imagine: The corridors of the Hell Guard smelled of medicine, metal, and other people’s exhaustion.

You walked quickly, barely looking around, though the stares still clung to you. Burgundy uniforms, stern faces, clipped commands, people who were used to not asking unnecessary questions out loud, but who knew perfectly well how to ask them with a single glance.

They led you almost in silence. Maybe someone had managed to warn them who you were. Or maybe your face simply looked the way it did, and even the guards understood that it was better not to stand in your way right now.

After the Doll Festival, the news had reached you in fragments. First: “It’s over.” Then: “There are wounded.” Then, far too late and far too dryly: Enjin had been taken to the Hell Guard’s infirmary.

You didn’t remember getting ready. You didn’t remember how you got there. You only clenched your fingers so tightly that your nails left marks in your palms, repeating one thing to yourself: he’s alive. If they brought him there, then there’s still something to save. That means he’s alive.

The door to the ward was slightly ajar. And the first thing you heard was an irritated male voice.

“Are you kidding me?”

Goka Nijiku’s voice was so dry and angry that even the walls of the room seemed to grow straighter.

Enjin was lying on the bed, half-sitting against the pillows. His neck was tightly bandaged, the white wrappings disappearing beneath the collar of his hospital shirt, and when he answered, his voice sounded hoarse and lower than usual.

“I’m lying down. Not bothering anyone.”

“You’re smoking.”

“I’m healing.”

“It’s annoying.”

“A lot of things annoy you.”

Goka narrowed his eyes sharply.

“You annoy me.”

Enjin smiled faintly, but it came out crooked: the movement must have sent pain somewhere beneath the bandages.

“Mutual.”

Goka took a step closer and jabbed a finger toward the cigarette.

“My sister can’t stand cigarettes. If Kyoka finds out you turned this place into a smoking room, first she’ll chew me out for allowing it, and then she’ll tear your head off too. Although, considering your neck, she won’t even have to try very hard.”

“How touching that you’re so worried.”

“I’m worried about myself. Don’t confuse things.”

“Of course.”

“And about clean air.”

“How sweet.”

“Shut up, Enjin.”

“You’re forcing me to answer.”

Goka exhaled heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers.

“Just start by putting the cigarette out.”

At that exact moment, the door opened quietly. Goka turned first, already prepared to scold whoever had entered too.

But then he saw you.

And for a moment, all his anger seemed to vanish somewhere. He didn’t look openly flustered. Not enough for anyone else to notice. His gaze simply went still for a little longer than it should have. The fingers gripping the folder in his hand froze.

Enjin turned his head too and immediately winced.

“Don’t move,” you said.

For a second, a strange silence hung in the room. Enjin gave a hoarse chuckle.

“Now I’m definitely in danger.”

You didn’t smile. Your gaze stopped on the bandages around his throat, and something inside you clenched unpleasantly. Rumors, fragments of news, other people’s hurried explanations on the way here… all of it was nothing compared to seeing that white bandage on his neck.

“How did they let you in?” Goka asked.

His voice had gone even again, almost official, but there was still that same poorly hidden disorientation in it.

You shifted your gaze to him.

“I said I was here for Enjin.”

“And that was enough?”

“No. Then I said that if they didn’t let me in, I would start looking for whoever was responsible for the wounded after the festival.”

Enjin gave a quiet snort and immediately started coughing. Goka snapped his head toward him.

“See? You can’t even laugh properly, and you’re already sticking a cigarette between your teeth.”

You walked over to the bed and silently took the cigarette from Enjin. He looked at you almost offended.

“You too?”

“Absolutely.”

You put the cigarette out in the ashtray and sat down beside him, careful not to touch him. Enjin looked up at you from below. Tired and pale. Still trying to hold himself like nothing serious had happened. But his voice gave him away.

“You came,” he said quietly.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I thought you might decide to give me some time to live peacefully.”

“Not a chance.”

“Understood.”

Goka stood nearby in silence. Technically, he should have left. It was embarrassingly obvious, but for some reason he still didn’t move for several more seconds.

He watched as you adjusted the edge of Enjin’s blanket. As you carefully touched his shoulder, as if afraid even the slightest movement might cause him pain. As your gaze returned again and again to the bandage on his neck.

You didn’t even notice that Goka was still there. All your attention was fixed on the man you loved.

And that was what irritated him most of all. Not the fact that Enjin was smoking. Not the fact that he was arguing again. Not the fact that even wounded, he still managed to answer so easily and mockingly. It was the fact that you looked at him as if there was no one else in that room. Goka tightened his grip on the folder.

“I’ll arrange for them to bring water and something to eat,” he said at last. “You should eat too, if you came here straight after hearing the news.”

You turned around.

“Thank you, Goka.”

A simple “thank you.” Calm and, in essence, meaning nothing at all. And still, it struck him.

“You’re welcome,” he replied dryly.

Enjin lazily lifted his gaze to Goka. Something attentive flickered in his eyes, almost unpleasantly perceptive.

Goka understood at once: he had noticed.

That man irritated him even more because he saw too much, even while lying there with a bandaged neck, looking as if he should have been silent for at least a week.

“And no more cigarettes,” Goka threw over his shoulder at the door.

Enjin answered hoarsely,

“Tell Kyoka I repent.”

“You can tell her yourself. If you survive her visit.”

The door closed. You followed Goka with your eyes and said quietly,

“He really doesn’t like you.”

Enjin looked at you.

“It’s mutual.”

“Why?”

“Because he has good taste in women too.”

You frowned.

“What makes you say that?”

He smiled faintly, this time softer.

“Doesn’t matter.”

You carefully touched his hand.

“What matters is that you stop making me come here like this.”

Enjin fell silent. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, he turned his palm over and covered your fingers with his.

“I’ll try,” he said hoarsely.

“I don’t like that answer.”

“Bear with it.”

You wanted to protest, but instead you only exhaled and lowered your gaze to his bandaged neck. Enjin noticed your worried look.

“Hey,” he called to you softly.

“What?”

“I’m here.”

“I can see that.”

“No,” he said even quieter. “Look at me, not at the bandages.”

You raised your eyes. He was looking at you calmly. He was still pale and exhausted, but with that impossible habit of remaining himself even when death had passed far too close.

“I’m here,” Enjin repeated.

And you, squeezing his hand a little tighter, finally allowed yourself to believe it.

[reallyreis]

‧₊ higuruma coming home early to his girlfriend studying

your boyfriend was a lawyer, and most lawyers like him, didn’t believe in leaving the office before dark. you gotten used to making dinner for the both of you, just to end up putting his plate in the fridge.

so when the front door opened just after 7pm, you immediately looked up from your notes.

“…what are you doing here?”

he loosened his tie as he stepped inside, a tired smile finding its way onto his face the moment he saw you. “I live here, need I remind you?”

“you do,” you said, still blinking in disbelief, “but you’re never home before ten.”

“i know.”

he slipped off his shoes and walked further into the apartment, his briefcase hanging loosely from one hand. “I finished early.”

you narrowed eyes at him suspiciously. “did you get fired? lost a case?”

a laugh escaped him. “no.”

“then why are you home early?”

he slipped his watch off and placed it on the counter, along with his briefcase, before looking back at you.

“I spend enough of my life arguing with strangers.”

his smile softened. “I figured I’d rather spend tonight with the person who gives me peace.”

his words caught you off guard. you smiled to yourself. “I didn’t know lawyers can be sweet.”

“we’re not.”

“no?”

“no.” he slipped off his jacket, draping it neatly over the back of a chair before walking to where you were seated. “we’re just very good at knowing what we want.”

“and what do you want?”

his gaze drifted to you, seated cross-legged at the dining table, highlighters scattered across pages of handwritten notes.

he smiled. “this.”

you looked down at the chaos spread across the dining table before looking back at him, unable to hide your laugh.

“my colour-coded notes?”

“no.” his voice was quieter now. “you.”

he took a slow step toward you, his tie still hanging loose around his neck, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled just enough to reveal his forearms.

“I spend all day surrounded by case files, deadlines, and people trying to prove each other wrong.” his eyes softened. “then I come home…”

his fingertips gently lifted your chin until you were looking at him.

“…and I find you here, studying just as hard as I do.”

a smile tugged at your lips. “you make me sound impressive.”

“you are.”

before you could tease him again, he leaned down and kissed you.

one hand came to rest gently against the side of your neck while the other reached up to your face, his thumb brushing lightly along your cheek. his fingers hooked around the arm of your glasses, carefully sliding them off before setting them on the table beside your open textbook.

“didn’t want these getting in the way,” he murmured, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

you laughed softly, but it barely escaped your lips before he kissed you again. his lips were warm, carrying the faint bittersweet taste of the coffee he’d been drinking earlier. without thinking, your hands found their way into his hair, your fingers threading gently through the soft strands at the nape of his neck.

he smiled against your lips, his hand settling a little more securely at your waist as though he’d been waiting all day to hold you like this.

when the kiss finally broke, neither of you moved very far.

he rested his forehead against yours, a slow smile tugging at his lips.

“I’m starting to think coming home early was the best decision I’ve made all week.”

“oh really?” you ask teasingly.

“ask me again after I kiss you properly.”

[senalaced]

frat!satoru asking you to chat mid-party after days of radio silence | 18+ | ‹ 4k wc

coming to this party hadn't even been your idea.

with midterms concluding and your cortisol levels at their highest, shoko's idea of winding down comes in the form of cheap, unlimited booze and vomit tinged air. promises of it being fun, paired with not wanting her going on her own lead to your current situation.

the tiny black dress seems to cling to every dip and crease, something cute and overly strappy on your feet (per shoko's ordering around). you look…different. good different, of course. from the top down save for your glasses balanced on your nose because contacts make your eyes water. near the corner like a wallflower, trying to remain as separate from the bodies bumping and grinding as possible. silently searching for the one person you know you shouldn't have on your mind.

you spot satoru before he spots you, halfway across the room, air seeming to shape around his presence. he looks good, as annoyingly good as he always does. black tee, biceps. big…fat biceps. jeans hanging low on his hips in that irritatingly effortless way. his friends are laughing at something he just said, he’s grinning, just looking so in his element. so different from you.

you're barely given the opportunity to look away before he catches your stare across the room as though he'd felt your gaze. you watch the recognition hit, feel your skin tingle with the unabashed once over he gives right from your head right down to your toes.

taking in your hair, the dress, the heels—everything that isn't your usual skirts, cardigans and dresses. his eyes meet yours again, carrying a look that makes your face far too warm for comfort. satoru's eyes leave you only for a moment, clapping his friend—suguru, you think—on the shoulder before abandoning his side completely.

…to walk in your direction. your heart feels like it drops all the way down to your ass, frozen like a deer in headlights as you stare at his approaching figure. you will your limbs to move but they just don't cooperate despite your best efforts, heart pounding in an unsteady staccato rhythm against your ribcage.

then he's in right front of you, close enough that you have to tip your head back to properly meet his gaze. "can't say I expected to see you here."

and as you always are when satoru's in your orbit, or well, when you're in his, you choke up. embarrassingly, pathetically so. managing just a small "huh?" that he can only make out by the shape of your mouth.

his mouth slants, teeth flashing in a smile. you're staring up at him all wide-eyed and pretty behind your glasses. god, you're so easy to fluster. satoru wonders if you know just how much he likes it.

"I said I didn't think I'd see you here." he says a little louder, eyes travelling down your frame before finding your gaze again, "shoko's doing?"

you manage a small nod, fingers instinctively reaching to tug at the hem of the material sitting too high on your thighs. "..she said I should try something new."

"yeah?" and if ogling the first few times weren't enough, he's reaching to play with the hem of your dress, settling it back into place, "tell her i said thanks, then."

the red solo cup feels weighted in your hand, words lost on you despite knowing you should have some sort of response here. satoru doesn't seem to mind your silence though.

he's closer in a heartbeat, and you can hear yours pounding in your ears, blood heating with the warmth of his breath against your ear. "wanna go somewhere quieter to talk? the music's too loud."

if there's nothing else you know in the world, one thing you do know is what being alone with satoru leads to. how your 'talks' with him always end up. yet still, you repeat his offer, "to talk?"

"mhm, to talk." his fingers trace the length of your arm down to the inside of your elbow, giving you a little encouraging tug in his direction. "just for a little bit."

despite this being the exact reason you've been avoiding him, the exact reason his messages have gone unanswered, you're nodding dumbly and letting him drag you away because really, what other option is there?

(saying no, probably. but your feet betray you anyway.)

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆˚₊

the door shuts behind you with a resolute click, music pounding faintly under the cracks of its frame. muted, distant. his spot of choice is a pantry a bit off from the main one in the kitchen, packed full of unopened snacks and crap ton of solo cups.

you're the one to cut through the silence, "..what'd you wanna talk about?" the shoes are awfully interesting now that he has you alone, pinching your toes, straps digging into soft skin. you chance a glance up at him through your lashes, finding bright blues even in the mostly dark room. fixed on your features with an intensity that makes your stomach lurch, grip tightening around the condensation slick cup.

"just wanted to know why my smart girl is avoiding me." to think he'd even noticed you pulling away. not that you were being subtle about it - his messages had gone unanswered, usual spots avoided or outright abandoned.

“I told you to stop calling me that.” your hands feel uncomfortably clammy. you wipe them down the front of the dress, immediately regretting the action when you remember that it isn't even yours.

it's far too cramped in here, satoru's too close and it does something to your psyche that you don't appreciate in the slightest. it's like close proximity reroutes any brain signal that tells you to maintain self preservation, instead keeping you rooted in his space. “and I wasn’t ignoring you, I got busy.” your eyes find him again, lie burning your throat, “midterm stuff, you know?”

“ah, right. same midterms that ended a week ago.” he reaches to retrieve the cup you’ve been nursing for the past couple minutes, placing it somewhere in your peripheral.

lengthy fingers find your now freed hand, lacing it with his like it’s the most casual thing in the world. his thumb brushes your pulse point and you wonder if he can feel how fast your heart is racing. just how nervous all of this is making you. "I think you’ve been getting all up in your pretty head about stuff that doesn't matter."

stuff that ‘doesn’t matter’. as if that’s covers it. how do you let him know that multiple people have warned you off him. how his interest ‘doesn’t last more than a couple days’, how he ‘isn’t one for serious relationships’ and that you should enjoy your turn while it lasts. none of it should phase you since this has been casual since day one, but it still makes your stomach turn for whatever reason. “I should go. shoko’s probably looking for—"

“—I saw her doing belly shots on the way here, trust that she’s not turning the place inside out looking for you.”

he’s stepping closer, enough that you try to retreat. packs crinkle against your back on contact, hand in his growing embarrassingly slick in your nervous state. “can’t exactly talk to you if you won’t look at me.” the smile he gives when you do look at him again is enough to make that fickle restraint of yours begin to falter, pulse racing, “there’s my girl.”

your heart does something stupid in your chest, retort hot on your tongue before you can even think it over, “again, i’m not your girl.”

satoru quirks a brow, corner of his mouth tilting upward in bare amusement. “you’re not? could’ve fooled me with all the sex we have.” his other hand shifts to adjust your glasses though there’s definitely nothing off with it.

“where was it the last time..my car? maybe your dorm?” his confusion is nothing but a facade to get a reaction out of you and it’s unfortunately doing the job. a feel like you’ll get a nosebleed with how much blood rushes up to your face with his words, his closeness. “maybe the study room? you know, I really liked that thing you did with your ton—” you clap a hand over his mouth before he can continue, wide eyed and a tiny bit mortified, watching his eyes crinkle near the corners.

“you’re so…you’re so vulgar.” he’s grinning like a fool behind your palm, as amused as he always gets at how easily you become flustered.

the hand not holding yours gently pries your hand covering his mouth away, pressing a chaste kiss to your palm, “see how good we are together when you're not ignoring me?”

you ignore what the intimate gesture does to you, focusing on his words instead. “I said I wasn’t ignoring you. It’s just…I didn’t want..” you try to find a way to explain yourself without being too embarrassing.

without outright telling him you didn’t want to make things awkward. without saying that you possibly likehimbeyondhavingcrazygoodsexwithhim. “does it matter? we’re not dating or anything.”

and, you're not wrong. it's not like you owe him anything. but still, “doesn’t have anything to do with me being a 'dumb' frat dude? figured you might’ve found someone more..” he makes a gesture from your top to bottom, implication clear, “like you. or whatever.”

what the fuck? "no? it's not like that." you're stumbling over your words now, flustered. why he would even think that is beyond you. “I don’t think you’re dumb. you know you're not. and I haven’t found anyone else.” the last part comes out lower, almost shy, gaze averted. “like, really. I just had so much to do and you barely texted so I figured—”

he kisses you. quick and soft, cutting off your rambling. when he pulls back you're staring at him with your mouth half open, dumbfounded. “figured…uh.”

“hm? figured what?” you try to find the words again but they don’t come. the way he’s staring down at you doesn’t help with gathering your thoughts either. “did you miss me?”

you can't form a proper thought, words dying on your tongue. his thumb rubs painfully familiar circles into the back of your hand and it isn't exactly helping your case. "..you know what you're doing."

he has the gall to tilt his head like he's confused, dipping to kiss the side of your mouth. "what am I doing?" one hand slides down to give your hip a gentle squeeze. sliding lower to caress the small of your back like he can't help but touch you now that you're giving him the chance to after two very long weeks. "is telling my favorite lady I missed her a crime?" his expression shifts into a wounded one, bringing your joined hands to the center of his chest, "so you didn't miss me?"

"I didn't say that."

he's smiling again in an instant. that specific, annoyingly gorgeous smile that you've become nauseatingly fond of, "okay. tell me you missed me then." you wonder if he knows just how sick he makes you.

the words bubble up, spilling out before you think too much lose and any and all confidence, "..so annoying. of course I missed you." it's far too soft, somewhat exasperated sounding but he's glad that you'd said it nonetheless. "..isn't that obvious?"

"oh yeah?"

"stop." you can't tell if your cheeks are as hot as they feel, managing an eyeroll before your eyes break contact with his to fix on a distant point behind him, "..i'll take it back if you make it weird."

"doesn't matter if you take it back. already saved it to my memory." the hand on your back draws you closer, practically chest to chest with him at this point. "can i please have my 'i'm so sorry for ignoring you' kiss now?"

"i wasn't…" the words die on your tongue because you both know each other well enough to see things as they really are.

your nod is enough confirmation that you're okay with his request and you’re prepared this time when his lips flatten over yours.

it's deeper than a measly little peck, you're not too sure what to do with your hands even now so you settle for his chest. broad and hard under your fingers, lips parting around a dreamy sigh. it's like you go without kissing him for a bit and forget just how good it is. god, do you love kissing him. love the way he tastes, the way his tongue moves against yours, the little satisfied sound he makes when you do something he likes. satoru has no issue reminding you, clearly. you're kissing him back now, less tentative, and fuck if that doesn't make him want to push this further.

his hands aren’t stationary for long, familiar and roaming—squeezing your hips, moving around to smooth down the curve of your behind. his thumbs tease the edges of the dress, lips pulling away from yours to kiss across your cheeks. ‘love this dress on you. just as pretty as those—” another kiss, moving down your neck. “cardigans and stuff.”

“t-thank you.” your fingers find place in his hair as he kisses along your collarbones, across the curving slope of your breasts. "..you look nice too." a familiar heat that only he brings about rushes through you, nipples tightening, gripping his strands between your fingers. his answering groan is enough to have you flushing, a rush of arousal dampening your panties. his hand slides up your thigh now, fingers tracing patterns along the inside. squeezing, nuzzling and kissing at your tits.

"satoru." it comes out breathy, voice carrying over the music still thumping outside. “I don’t think we should—” you lose your train of thought when his fingers press against you through your underwear with the lightest pressure. he drags it from your clothed entrance to your clit, circling once, twice. slow enough to make it ache.

your fingers in his hair are shaky, but you have a good enough grip to angle his head up, keeping him from nuzzling into your chest so he can listen. his lips are swollen and pink, hair already a mess from your fingers, and he's looking at you with those half-lidded eyes that make your heart do something stupid. “s-someone might come in.”

"hm? it's okay, baby." he runs his nose along the slope of your breasts again, nipping and kissing the bared flesh, free hand moving up to tug the flimsy polyester out of the way so it bunches under your bare tits, "no one's gonna come in." his mouth latches onto one of your nipples like it's meant to be there and the sound that leaves you has his cock leaking like a untouched virgin.

"satoru—oh.." the sound that leaves you comes breathless, pure pleasure coursing through you. he continues thumbing at your clit at a pace seems genuinely cruel given the state of your underwear. pressing down just enough to give you a taste and nothing more. the first direct contact against your clit when his fingers push beneath the fabric pulls a sharp inhale out of you, packs crinkling under your head as it falls back.

he's rubbing gentle circles, mouth alternating to the next breast after sufficiently slicking the previous one up. his fingers easily spread your puffy lips, thumb sliding through the slick mess he's caused. he pulls off your tit with a wet pop, teeth grazing the now peaked nipple. "god, you're so wet."

he's so good at working you up like this every time, ridiculously so. it's no wonder 2 weeks is the longest you've stayed away so far.

"didn't—mmh—mean to go quiet on you." his lips trace the curved slope of either breast, nosing at the underside of one. "the frat had a ton of stuff to deal with." he kisses his way back up your chest, over your sternum, across your collarbones and back up to your face. your mouth crushes against his again as he finally slides his middle finger home, palm hitting your clit with wet thwacks as he drives it in and out.

"no, it's—nng, fuck—it's fine." you manage, trying to follow his rhythm. kisses uncoordinated, growing messier. "it's fine, I promise."

he pulls back, glossy string stretching between your lips. chest rising and falling faster, never letting up on fucking his finger into your slick cunt. "it's not though." his finger curls somewhere deep and your knees buckle, sure the only thing keeping you upright is how he's pressed to you "let me make it up to you."

you don't get the chance to ask him for clarification - satoru wastes no time dropping to his knees, pushing your dress up above your hips. free hand grabbing your soft thigh to throw it over his shoulder. your heel finds his back and digs in there, skin hot against his. his kisses up the inside of your thigh burn your skin and you're practically shocked into silence, eyes lidded, breathing paced.

you probably shouldn't be doing this here. letting him finger you is one thing but eating you out.. "toru.." you try for a warning tone but it falls flat, closer to a whine, hands sliding into his hair.

his breaths warm your skin, breath warming your skin. kisses getting closer and closer to your core before ultimately landing on his prize. it takes everything to muffle your yelp of surprise, tugging on his hair. he takes it as encouragement if anything, nose nudging your clit. "mhm?"

"someone might come in." the words are half hearted at best, hips pushing closer to his mouth if anything. "i'm s-serious, the door isn't—"

his tongue drags across the ruined fabric in a long stripe and you finally find yourself wordless, eyes fluttering closed. it's that warm, wet pressure of his tongue through thin cotton, gusset thoroughly soaked through. satoru laps at you over the fabric like this comes close to the actual thing, firm strokes up and down your entrance, moaning openly into you. when your eyes finally open again his eyes are already on yours, mouth fully covering you, hand kneading the underside of your thigh.

his thumb hooks at the edge of your underwear, finally tugging it out of the way. the cool air hits where you're hottest first, then comes the firm, wet press of his tongue.

flicking over your clit once, twice. he plants a sloppy kiss there, breath shuddering. "so pretty." satoru makes quick work of practically making out with your cunt, tongue lapping at every inch of your arousal covered flesh. tonguing at your entrance, working its way inside. your chest heaves with your increasingly needy sounds, arm flying up to bite your forearm, tugging hard at his hair.

satoru eats you out with vigour, squeezing your shaking thigh, moaning like this affects him as much as it's affecting you. your arm falls away from your mouth only in search for something to keep yourself balanced, hand crushing down sealed packets on the rack behind you.

the throb of his cock is almost painful at this point, filled out and straining hard against his jeans, actively choosing to ignore it in favor of pleasuring you. squeezing your thigh, caressing your skin. large hands slide all they way up your body to bear the weight of your breasts, gently thumbing at your stiff nipples. your eyes are watering, thigh shaking around his head, wet obscene sounds of his mouth on you filling every corner of the small space.

he doesn't need you to say you're close before he feels the tell-tale throbbing of your clit, the way you begin to rut more desperately against his tongue. satoru strokes the muscle inward deep with no care for the building ache in his jaw, the tight pull of his balls.

pulling back only to seal his lips around your clit. suckling and stroking with his tongue till you're bucking harshly against his face and panting into your arm. with a firm tug from you, he pulls off, two lithe fingers sliding knuckle deep to keep you filled. rising off his knees to get to your level again, forehead dropping to yours. satoru's in worse shape that you'd thought - lips slick and swollen, chin coated in your arousal. heavy hardness of his cock pressing into your stomach as he peers down at you in the dark. "come on, pretty. tell me how good you feel."

his voice is low, wrecked enough that the heat in your stomach flares almost painfully. your head drops into the space between his neck and shoulder, hips instantly bucking and rolling into his hand. chasing the pressure of his fingertips against your sweet spot, the mean inward curl to target it head on. he grinds the heel of his palm down on your clit with every pass and you're left to bite into his shoulder, blood rushing straight to your head. "so good. gonna—haah, you're gonna make me..." the words are muffled into his shirt, slick pooling on his fingers, inner walls pulling tighter and tigher around him.

"sato...mm, i'm cumming—" it stutters out of you broken, thighs shaking. the coil finally snaps with a mean upward curl of his fingers, cry breaking right into his neck. it hits you in harsh waves, worked through the entirety of it, fingers never letting up on rubbing at your g-spot. falling apart for a man you didn't plan on seeing at a party you didn't even want to come to.

it's like you've gone 2 weeks untouched with how it just drags on and on. frame bowing into his broad chest, chip packet giving out under your grip with a pop that you barely hear over the roar of blood in your ears.

"that's it." murmured against your cheekbone. "cum all over my fingers, baby."

his thumb angles to swipe over your clit and you're sure you black out for a little, coming back down to slightly damp cheeks and his mouth pressing open kisses to your neck. your heartbeat pounds in your ears, body hot and still vibrating from the intensity of your high.

two sticky fingers prod at your lips and your eyes flutter open, parting to take what he's offering. tasting yourself as you gently lap at the digits, body curving right up into his warm front. he pulls them free with a wet pop, hands working to wipe your smudged mascara and lipgloss, sliding your dress back into place like he hadn't given you a mind numbing orgasm moments ago.

"are you coming home with me?" soft lips press to your cheek. then the corner of your mouth. warm hands moving slow up your back like he has no intention of rushing you.

you know better. you know him, know yourself. how tonight will go if you say yes, if you let yourself fall back into this same pattern… your lips part to tell him no, really…but then he presses a kiss to your temple, gently brushing damp strands out your face so he can get a good look at you.

"...let me go tell shoko i'm leaving."

author's note :: 𑣲⋆ wayyy longer than I was going for but I have no idea where to cut down so...yay (ㅅ´ ˘ `)

comments, reblogs and likes appreciated always, thanks for reading! ❁

[kuna-beefcake]

if i get a boyfriend one month into uni its gonna be yalls fault btw. the fics make me so envious for a romantic connection im gonna throw myself at the first guy giving me attention