[indiewritesxoxo]

NOTHING'S FAIR IN LOVE & WAR

the strongest sorcerer of all time refuses to have a weakness...even if it's you

synopsis: ryomen sukuna is not meant to have feelings for anyone. let alone the best friend sleeping in his bed, the single person in this suffocating estate who isn't scared of him. from starving to being double stuffed, you stayed by his side throughout all of it. so why can't he seem to do the same for you?

pairing: heian era!Sukuna x f!reader, Choso x f!reader

wc: 10.7k

content: mdni!! heavy angst and smut!!!! character death, regression, blood/violence, true form sukuna, he's a real asshole guys lmfaoo, mean and possessive sukuna, fingering, titty sucking, unprotected piv sex, anal sex, double penetration (each hole), creampie, accidental pregnancy, sukuna has ISSUES, reader loves him anyway, emotional hurt, no comfort, sukuna crashing out, sweet choso is also here, garden sex, mentions of marriage, happy ending for reader

a/n: this is a commission by my sweet amazing angel @martianzmars !!! love you cutie pie :3 the sukuna art is by @winterrbluess <3

What was the worth of a flower? 

It faded. Wilted. Petals falling off with time if they weren’t trampled on first. They didn’t last. Just another weak, fragile thing that sprouted only to die. 

“Why?” He plucked off a delicate petal, nose scrunching in disgust. 

You frowned at him, and he passed the detestable thing back to you. Swallowing his scoff and spreading his thighs further apart on his throne, propping his face up with one of his arms. Must you end the day with some boring fight over a petty thing like that? He watched the way your fist tightened around the crooked stem from the corner of one of his bottom eyes. 

“It’s medicinal,” you muttered, gesturing to the cut on his arm. 

He rolled his eyes, flexing his bicep before letting his own energy wash over him, healing himself without even an ounce of exertion. 

He didn’t need some puny, pathetic flower to do it for him. 

Didn’t need your help.

What would it take for you to realize that? 

You weren’t kids anymore. Not twelve years old, skin and bones, needing you to collect herbs and wildflowers to cure him from some cold or sickness. Both of you had grown up. 

And yet, you were still here, still following him, trailing after his path of destruction, holding onto his sleeve. Because you needed him. 

That was just the way it was. 

“My lord, you still have-” 

He shut up his aide with a single wave, grinding his back molars as he waited for the next person to enter the throne room. He resented his title. Resented the room itself. 

They were supposed to be a symbol of his strength, things he was given simply because he scared people. The men with money shoving material possessions, lands, titles, women, whatever they thought would satiate him, offering up their servants and daughters alike if it meant their heads would be spared. 

Sometimes it did. 

But others weren’t always lucky. And his mood was, ah, how did you put it? 

Fickle? 

His flames shifted with the wind. 

And your attitude this afternoon wasn’t helping. 

You dismantled the rest of the flower yourself. Moodily perched on the edge of his lap, distracting him while he tried to listen to the whines and pleas from his subjects. They always had something to complain about, even when they got on their knees trembling to ask him for more. 

These days, you didn’t even look up when he slaughtered them. Just twirling the stem between your fingers as the blood hit the floor. 

Your mouth was moving, like you were speaking, but no words came out. Pouting a little, your brows pulling together as you pried the last petal off and let it hit the ground. 

“What are you doing?” He grumbled, and you shrugged your shoulders, not looking back. 

“Playing a game,” you responded softly, barely reacting when one of his free hands grabbed your waist through the top layer of your kimono. 

He grunted his disapproval, but you didn’t flinch. 

The rest of the world was terrified of the four-armed monster rumored to butcher and burn those who dared to cross him. Serve their bodies up on a spit roast.  

He said they hadn’t experienced true hunger if they condemned him for a little cannibalism. 

You didn’t fear him though. Saw past the scars and disfiguration that made even those beneath him turn and whisper. 

“What kind of game?” He tch-ed, tempted to take the plain stem now from you. 

“I asked if you love me,” you admitted, and he couldn’t decide if this was some crude attempt at teasing him. His fingers sank deeper into your side, pulling you deeper into his lap. 

He nodded towards the scattered petals on the floor, the blood slowly spreading and threatening to seep into them.  “What did you land on?”  

“You love me not.” 

Sukuna’s mouth twitched at how you said it. As if you gave an idiotic child’s game weight. 

But he didn’t protest. Didn’t say no or scoff. 

Instead, he pried you off of him, placing you on the floor, barely bothering to check that you wouldn’t be stepping in blood before he started towards the exit. 

“Kuna,” you started in a soft voice, the irritatingly intimate making him freeze for a split-second, enough that you corrected yourself. He'd only criticized you for it once, snapped at you to refer to him properly when he was at his court. “My lord.” “My chambers tonight,” he announced, not looking back at you. 

There was a rhythm to the routine. A monotony he found dull and draining, a familiar itch creeping under his skin at staying here this long. He wanted back out in battle. To find some other sorcerer claiming themselves capable to cleave down. 

He made up his mind during his next meal, stuffing his mouth full of meat, fork stabbing clean through the fine cut of someone he never got the name of as he planned out his next departure. Some irritating white-haired woman kept trying to talk to him from across the table, claiming to be from some clan he couldn’t care less about. 

An advisor tried to quell his annoyance, but it was like another bug in his ear, whispering that she could be useful as a concubine, as if Sukuna gave a shit. A flick of his fingers was all it took for the room to finally fall silent – even if the wall was now splattered with blood. 

Perhaps they should be grateful he gave them messes to clean. Stable employment meant they wouldn’t starve. That their children wouldn't. 

Not everyone was so lucky. 

You kept eating next to him, taking a long sip of your wine before excusing yourself a few moments later, leaving without looking over at the still body in the seat next to you. You weren’t apathetic like him, but you would hold your tongue no matter how much his anger hurt you. 

Did it splinter your soul to see him kill? 

Sukuna had no way to know. 

Conversations weren’t something so commonplace between the two of you anymore. So much had changed, enough that he tried to convince himself that you were simply a body that he shared his bed with. 

He disliked the other concubines. They always expected things from him. Wanted clothes or jewels or power. Occasionally, he considered making you his wife, if only to put the others in their place. 

To remind them that they would never occupy the space by his throne. That they would never have children that would sit on it. 

His new advisors, these men who swore they had intelligence simply because they were schooled, they all urged him to. Begged him to select someone from a clan to have a child with, for his legacy, but he refused. 

Why would he want a child? Especially one that would be like him? 

He’d carve out his own legacy.

You were waiting for him by the time he returned to his room, cross-legged on the floor, squinting at a poetry book. Neither of you had learned to read as a child, but he’d begrudgingly hired you a tutor – and just happened to sit in on your lessons to learn himself. Supervising, he said. You didn't argue otherwise, even if your brow subtly arched up at his looming presence, his bottom set of arms folded across his chest while the tutor instructed you on how to write, teaching you everything from haikus to the hidden meanings in famous poems. 

Sukuna had found it unfortunate when he had to kill him, but it wasn't his fault that the fool had tried to put a hand on your waist, no matter how innocent he claimed it was. 

You had been mad at him though, huffing and shutting yourself in your room for four days before you started speaking to him again. 

Calling him a child, like you weren't the one clinging to this life he created. 

“What are you thinking about?” You asked, drawing him out of another pointless memory of the past. 

“You left dinner early,” he dismissed your question entirely. He didn't want to answer it. Why dredge up another reason for you to be annoyed with him? 

“I prefer to eat without the smell of iron,” you said, in that measured voice of yours, playing this game of skirting around the real subject.

“You used to eat dirt,” he pointedly reminded you, and you threw your book at him. A rare reaction, your hurt flickering across your face for a few fleeting seconds before you shut back down, maybe remembering that he beheaded a woman for much less hardly fifteen minutes ago. 

“You ate bugs,” you argued, brows furrowed in frustration before you glanced away from him. 

“And now we both get full meals that you don't even finish,” he sharply replied, the edge to his voice echoing as you flexed your jaw, forcing yourself to not respond to him. 

A poor imitation of the meek submission the other women who flitted around in their fine kimonos were well-versed at.

“My apologies, master,” you eventually murmured, your mockery not going unnoticed as you lifted your chin to look up at him from the floor. Dragging your eyes over his bulky frame, muscles stretched taut over bone, skin littered with scars and tattoos. 

And still, you stared like he was just the weakling he used to be. That faint flicker of sorrow persisting even when he had practically handed you a soft life on a silver platter. 

Sukuna scoffed, squinting before he begrudgingly took two steps forward, beckoning you to stand with a single gesture.

You obeyed. Dusting off the skirt of your robe as your hand reached for the tie – but Sukuna beat you to it. 

Skin slowly exposed when he peeled off every layer, removing piece by piece until you were completely bare for him, the light and shadows from the flames dancing across the shape of you while you stood still. Waiting for some appraisal, for him to do with you as he wished. 

Your position was always defined by him after all. As his friend or his fuck. 

He tossed you onto the mattress, his top set of hands pinning your thighs to your chest, watching your eyes widen as his own loosely-fastened robe hit the floor. 

Love was a waste. 

It meant nothing. 

You said it to him once, declared it under the moon, knees curled against your chest as you looked at him like that. But that had been before. Before the estate and the esteemed treatment that came with a title and land and leverage on all the people that previously treated him with disgust. When it was still simply you and him surviving. 

He didn’t say it back. Didn’t do anything other than grunt, tempted to call you a brat for saying something so stupid. 

“You're rather distracted tonight,” you murmured, fingers frozen just before they could touch his face. He flinched from it – pulled back before you could make contact. 

“You’re irritating today,” he grimaced back, even if you were the least annoying part of his life. The only thing that wasn’t dull and dreadful. The only one that actually made him feel alive.

He waited for you to whine that he didn’t really mean that, but your eyes just searched his for silent confirmation. 

You knew better than to expect him to say it out loud. 

And despite that (pretty) little pout of frustration flitting across your face, you were still wet when he dipped a single finger into your dripping warmth. 

All your feelings fading into the mush of pleasure, eyes rolling back with a simple crook of his thick finger, lazily swirling it around to see your reaction. Not much could compare to the adrenaline of a fight, of sorcery and raw strength, but a faint shiver of exhilaration ran down his spine at the sight of you arching your hips up to make sure he was knuckle-deep, lips falling in a lewd moan as he added another digit. 

He ignored it though, shoulders stiff as your walls tried to clamp down on him. 

“Were you this wet when you were on my lap?” He dryly mocked, not particularly caring how mean you might call him for teasing you later. 

You always forgave him. 

Whatever he did, you found a way to justify it. 

You weakly nodded, chin tilted back in the air as your lashes fluttered, gasping for air that didn't seem to go in. 

“Answer me, brat,” he grunted. 

“Yes, m-my lord,” you moaned, and it was only when they parted he noticed your pretty lips painted the same shade as his hair. 

“Sukuna,” he snapped, sick of correcting this stubborn new habit of yours. Sure, it had been who insisted on it in the first place, but it was annoying to remind you of what you were and weren't allowed to do. 

You swallowed hard enough for him to notice, but you still didn't say it. 

Held your mouth closed, and he begrudgingly closed the gap to crash into it, claiming it in a greedy kiss, his tongue in your mouth while you threw your arms over his shoulders. One hand ending up in his hair, scratching at his scalp the way you knew he liked, even if it was another thing he'd never admit out loud. 

You tried to wrap your legs around his waist, to push back against the palms still pressed against your thighs, but he didn't let you budge, refused to allow you to try and lock him in some more personal position. 

For all the times he'd been called a freak, a curse, for these four arms, there were many more he found them quite useful. 

He crooked his fingers deeper, harder, and your body was tensing automatically, your focus fading as you discovered yourself lost and floating in the force of his strokes. Your features softening, catching a fleeting hint of a smile before you were squirming again in his grip. 

Using your body to beg him for more. 

Sukuna did what he always seemed to do. Oblige you. 

Pulling his fingers out the second he thought he stretched you out enough, although it was always a tight fit when it came to him, but he paused, collecting your slick and rubbing it across your puckered hole in preparation for his real main course. 

You were the only thing he wanted to devour tonight. 

Drinking up the way you whined, wiggled your hips as he dipped his finger deeper in your ass, pushing past the initial resistance to open you up. Taking his time before adding another one, keeping a keen eye on your wrecked expression.

“S’torture,” you slurred, weaking moving your arm trying to grab one of his cocks and guide it to your entrance. “Wan’ you.” 

Drunk on him. 

He snatched your wrist before you could touch though, letting out a low growl before dropping it over your head. 

“Then beg,” he mocked. 

“Please,” you immediately whispered, eyes wide and wavering. “Please, Kuna.” 

Sukuna couldn’t stand how much he felt like a slave when you spoke like that, lips pretty and pursed and painted that infuriating fucking color. 

He dragged his fingers out with a heated huff, wiping them on the sheets and glancing down to see how wet you were for him, glistening in between your thighs as he kept them pinned in place. 

“Brat,” he dryly name-called, but his top cock was already throbbing as he slipped it through your soaked folds. Your fingers rushed to tangle in his hair, brushing it back and holding it from his face like he wasn't about to turn you into even more of a blabbering mess.

Glossy eyes hazy with arousal, anticipation as he slipped inch by inch inside, his other cock throbbing, aching to feel you too. Veins pulsing, abs tensing as he felt the sinful way you squeezed and sucked him in. 

“Hngh,” you groaned as his bottom tip started to grind against your ass, already starting to feel full as the first one found that spongy part at the back that left you scrambling for your senses. 

“You're a wreck,” he tch-ed, like he wasn't already resisting the string tugging tight in his own stomach, restraining himself as his second cock finally slipped inside you, the slow burning stretch leaving you frozen, shuddering as you tried to take him without falling apart. 

“Y-you,” you gasped, lashes fluttering, stray tears collected in them as he pulled out just to push back in a rough thrust that made a soft squeak escape instead.

“Finish your sentence,” he murmured, dark and dangerous. He wanted to bite. To sink his teeth into your skin until it left the kind of bruises that would mark you as his to everyone who saw. 

“It’s your fault,” you huffed, half a whisper, half a whimper. 

Sukuna scoffed, rolling his eyes and his hips, stuffing you too full to speak. 

One of his hands groped at your chest, grabbing and squeezing, watching them bounce in time with each thrust, leaning down to wrap his mouth around your peaked nipple. Tongue swirling over the top, sucking hard, toying with you while you unravelled underneath him. 

You tugged at his scalp, but he was too focused on his current task, lapping and licking at the hardened bud, feeling the soft tissue of your tits while your cunt clamped down around him in response. 

Making all sorts of noises that were hardly coherent, moans that hung in the air, the light of the fire dancing across the walls as he fucked you until you forgot all about your attitude earlier. 

His fourth hand flitted between your thighs, finding your clit with ease. Sukuna knew your body inside and out. Memorized without making an effort too. He supposed it was simply time. 

Rubbing rough circles over that bundle of nerves, well-aware what you liked, what was too much, what would make you whine and cry and try to wiggle free. Although, right now? 

Double stuffed with that dreamy look in your eyes, half-lidded and hopeful as you stared up at him while he took you in both holes? 

You would accept anything he gave you. 

Painting patterns he'd done a thousand times before across that sensitive spot, pinching and playing with it until your thighs were trembling, toes curled as your lips were stuck permanently parted in a broken plea of his name. 

You came so easily, he almost found it cute. That soft mind of yours melting with sloppy thrusts, stuffed too full to so much as think while he fucked into your stretched-thin holes, molded into the shape of him. Wrecking you with the way his hips slammed down, threatening to bruise your fragile body. 

But you took him how you always did. 

With greedy moans, nails raking down his shoulders and slicing through his skin. A little allowance he still gave – one he waited to heal until the morning after every time.

And then he was snapping too, warm ropes of cum spurting out and filling you up, his abs tensing before the abrupt release, his breath briefly growing ragged as his chest heaved. 

Most of the world was ugly. A disgusting, boring place he couldn't stand being stuck in. 

But the sight of you as he pulled out, dripping with his seed, kiss-bitten and barely held together, shivering as you struggled to catch your breath, well, it wasn't awful. 

He didn’t mean to cum inside of you. 

A simple accident. He stared indifferently at the cum leaking out onto the sheets, a prick of annoyance setting in at the thought of needing a servant to come change the bedding again in the morning.

It wasn’t the first time he slipped up. But you both were fairly certain years of starving had left you barren. Unable to conceive when you couldn’t even menstruate properly even now. 

There was a time when he didn’t think you’d even survive this long. Nights that he was convinced morning wouldn’t come. 

Where the snow had collected in your hair and ice clung to your lashes, where he couldn’t tell whose wounds were worse, watching you shiver and shake and cry for someone he could never be. 

But it never happened – and you were here now, shivering underneath him for entirely different reasons, sweat making stray hairs stick to your forehead as you belted out one last whine of his name. 

He let go of you, dropped your legs, untangled you from his body. Standing up as his cocks still sprang up in the air, rolling his shoulders back as you tried to sit up straight, clearly sore judging by the way you shuffled and readjusted. 

“Lay down,” he ordered, but you got down on your knees in front of him anyway. Took his top cock in your smaller hand, still covered in cum and slick, gingerly licking it clean before he pulled you off by your hair. “Do you ever listen to me?” 

You pouted at him, but you obeyed this time, pushing off the floor with your palms and crawling back into his bed, pulling the blankets over your bare body. 

Sukuna grunted, using a discarded piece of his own clothes to clean himself off, unable to stop his lower eyes from snapping out to watch you while you tossed and turned, impatiently waiting for his return. 

Irritation bubbling back up at your wide-eyed stare, how you bit your lip at him before squinting, not saying anything when he yanked the covers back and got in too. 

He never understood what was going on in that head of yours. 

“Perhaps we could take a walk around the garden in the afternoon,” you hopefully suggested, your fingers hesitantly interlacing with his, readjusting to lay closer to him. He let you do it. Indulged you when you squeezed his scarred and calloused palm. 

“I leave tomorrow,” he informed you, his mouth twitching down as your face fell. 

He didn’t have to, he supposed. The world revolved around his decisions – he forced fate’s hand. 

“How long will you be gone?” You asked under your breath, your hand slipping away from his to fix a loose strand of your previously pinned-up hair. He rolled away from you, the disappointment in your eyes bothering him like some shallow cut that refused to close. 

“A couple weeks.” 

It ended up being closer to a couple months. 

Days spent on battlefields, nights staring up at star-dotted skies or at the ceiling of his tent. His name, which used to only be spoken in hushed whispers under your breath, was now known across the land. Scarred into the people who lived on it. 

He returned to his estate with blood staining his robes, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead as servants rushed out to greet him. A handful of concubines he couldn’t remember the names of stepping out to stammer greetings. 

But you weren’t there. 

Not outside. Or in the entryway. 

The bed in his chambers neatly made and markedly absent of the one person allowed to stay there when he was gone. And when he stomped across to your wing and threw open the door to your room, it was empty too. 

He sent a goddamn letter before his arrival. Everyone here had to know by now he returned home. 

Were you hiding from him? 

It wasn’t like he wanted a fucking kiss or fuck. 

But Sukuna didn’t tolerate disrespect. Couldn’t. 

For as much as he disregarded court etiquette when it came to you, he would be a fool to miss the strange tone the sparse letters you’d been sending to him had begun to take. No longer begging him to return promptly, but telling him you didn't mind his delays. That everything was fine here, no need to rush back to his throne and the woman waiting for him on it. 

If everything was fine, where the hell were you? 

He could still sense you, still feel you somewhere close, unable to discern exactly where you were. Following the faint presence of your energy, tugging it like a line until he was in the gardens. Trailing down the winding path, leaves scattering by his feet as a chill bristled over his skin until he found a little alcove that was easy to miss, your body curled up on a bench, like you were taking a nap. 

“Wake up,” he snapped, tempted to shake you awake as you sleepily rubbed your eyes and started to blink up at him. His mouth opened, ready to snarl something about you catching a cold out here like an idiot with no blanket or cover, say that you knew better, but for once in miserable existence, he was stunned into silence as his senses picked up on a second energy signature swirling around and clinging to your skin. 

No, inside of you. 

“You’re pregnant,” he accused, staring at your stomach while something unfamiliar stirred in his own. 

“It’s-” You weakly started, trying to explain, but he silenced you with only a single hand held up while you made yourself sit. Exhaustion was obvious in the rings under your eyes, your fingers shaking as you fiddled with the skirts of your robe, deliberately loose to disguise the growing bump beneath it, surely. 

He was going to behead whoever failed to inform him of this. 

The personal servant he assigned to you had to know. The chef too, if he was cooking the proper food for your new needs. And his unborn child’s. 

“Your hands work just fine,” he sneered, nose scrunching up as something inside him twisted. He never wanted an heir. Never wanted to bring another curse into this world. How many fucking times had he told himself that? But this baby was yours too. “Why did you not write to me?” 

“My lord,” you began again, but you offered no real explanation. “I-”

“You what?” He barked, brash and blunt. 

Sukuna couldn't fucking believe it. That you would do this to him. 

Not even a single letter? 

Was he not worth the truth to you? 

He expected this cowardice from the other useless creatures in his court. But you had to know-

“I wasn’t sure how you’d feel,” you admitted, looking down at his feet instead of his face. “I was scared.” 

Sukuna nearly laughed.

You were scared of him.

He supposed it was only inevitable. How much blood had you seen him shed? How many lives had he snuffed that you bore witness too? 

And now you suspected he was going to take the life of your child. His own flesh and blood, the baby that sprouted inside you, and you were sure he was going to hurt it. Did you think he was going to hurt you too? 

“Did I not make a vow to keep you safe?” He hissed, reminding you of the only oath he’d ever taken. 

Maybe you were both barely big enough to know what the weight of that would mean, but he held true to his word. Asked the world for enough strength to protect the only person who saved his life, to return the favor, although you surely regretted the childish decision now to offer a starving boy the last of your food when he'd grown up to be the man he was today. 

The first time he met you, he tried to kill you. Robbing graves and eating remains, barely scraping by when he saw you under a tree, curled up on your side and clinging to raw roots. He bit you, buried his canines in your  exposed shoulder, drawing blood while you startled awake. Your small fists whacking him as hard as you could, fat tears rolling down your cheeks as you tried to fight him off. He'd been too exhausted to keep trying, huffing and letting go of you while you whined and asked him why he did that. And still, despite your wet face, the fresh wound, you still offered him your foraged meal, murmuring that he looked like he needed it more than you. He washed it down with the blood on your skin, dragging his tongue over the bite mark while you winced, tasting the salt on your face next.  

You didn't stop him. 

Started stealing more food, just enough for both of you to survive while he tried to get stronger. 

Tied together by circumstances, intertwined by some pathetic twist of fate, two parent-less children uselessly trying to take care of each other. 

But still, you were still alive, weren't you? Even when you didn't like what he had to do to ensure it. The times he had to peel the bark off trees and demand you eat it, days where you got hurt trying to defend him, forced to shake your shoulders and keep you awake, shoving down his anxiety that you’d drift off and die. 

This, too, was for your own good. 

You called him every name you could think of, weak fists hitting his back, telling him to put you down so you could talk about it, as if you hadn't tried to hide it. 

What was there to say? 

You knew as well as he did he was not a kind man. Maybe you had been made for motherhood after all, but he had not been cut from a cloth destined to be a father. 

But he had a vow to uphold. 

And you would have a thousand targets on you once word and whispers spread of what you were carrying. Whom.

Locking you up was his only option. 

The room was on the other end of the estate, one kept under careful watch by the few people who had been around long enough to know better than to cross him. 

You pounded against the door at first, protested that this wasn't fair, like anything in either of your lives has ever been. 

A servant would test your food for poison, bringing meals three meals a day while you whined about feeling like a prisoner. But your stomach started swelling with the weeks, a small bump taking shape, your hand reaching out to rub it when he came to visit or the rare occasion he spent the night. 

The anger was still blooming under his skin, silent rage burning when you frowned at him, as if he wasn't doing this for you. 

He still fucked you, pressed your body into the bedding and claimed you as his, even if it wasn't the same. Your body was changing, your words wilting as you complained about not being able to see the seasons shifting, the garden blooming, missing the weather and the warm sun. 

You had him. 

Why was that not enough?

A neighboring clan invited themselves over, forcing him to play host while he ordered everyone to stay hush about your current condition, ignoring your pleas begging to attend just one dinner, despite his irritated promise to see you afterwards. 

Except – while the festivities were still ongoing, he came to bring you food he personally selected, you had managed to sneak out, slipping past the pathetic guards, or maybe sweet talked them through a sliver of pity to allow you to walk through the garden at the worst possible time.

He stormed through, stomping as he made a mental list of men who wouldn't make it to the morning, sharp eyes scanning through the winding pathways and rose-lined trellises, searching for your energy amongst all the sorcerers here.

Bumping into a scrawny dark-haired man in the middle of the path, vaguely recognizing him as the Kamo head’s eldest son, the stupid startled expression that flashed on his face before he started stammering something about getting lost only making Sukuna scowl before he snapped at him to return to his father before he sent him to an early grave. 

He didn't give a shit if there would be retribution, if his threat would amount to something more, his throat constricting and closing at the idea of some other stranger stumbling across you first. 

Ripping down a trellis to break through the path, pushing through only to find you bent over and plucking a flower, recoiling at the sight of him when you glanced over your shoulder. 

Guilt. 

Written all over your face, in the way your mouth preemptively opened, ready to offer a weak excuse for something simply inexcusable. 

It wasn't just you that you were putting in danger. 

He dragged you back by your arm, tugging you through dimly-lit halls, your soft voice not reaching his ears even when you attempted to explain yourself. 

It was only when he slammed the door shut and let go of you in your new chambers, your kimono doing nothing to disguise the clear outline of your stomach that he paused. 

“I wish I never met you,” you whispered, pained, pulling away from him while his mouth twitched. 

“You’d be fucking dead,” he bluntly said, his dinner churning in his stomach, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. 

“Maybe I would be better off,” you spat back. 

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head as his thin tether to sanity threatened to snap. 

“You’re-”

“You're punishing me,” you pointed out, interrupting him with a finger pressed against his chest where his heart would have been. It didn't feel like he had one anymore.

Maybe he was.

“I'm leaving.” 

Why should he stay? 

You were ungrateful. Maybe some time apart would make you remember how fortunate you were to be in this position. 

Maybe going back to picking off sorcerers would burn off some of the betrayal, dull the blade of rage he felt every time he thought of this situation you were both stuck in. 

He didn’t mean to be gone so long. 

But there were battles to win, blood to be spilled. And it did make him feel better to see the bodies strewn on the ground, to climb up to the top of the world and look down on everyone else when he used to be at the bottom. 

The letter came late. Too late for him to do anything actually worth anything. His estate had been besieged. Surrounded and cut off, only able to send out this single communication from one of the few servants that slipped out during the attack. 

It seemed the Gojo’s had been waiting for the right moment to strike. 

He didn’t rush back. 

Maybe he should’ve. It wasn’t that he had confidence in the soldiers stationed there, in his own forces, but he thought he selected ones with any competence to know what to do. How to handle invaders – even if they were powerful sorcerers. 

He took his time fighting his way there, slowly sending sorcerer after sorcerer to early graves. He was the strongest after all. Would go down in history as a monster instead of a man.

Not a single wretched soul was spared. 

Although his own soldiers were picked off along the way, he kept moving. One foot in front of the others, carving a path back to you. Back to the small world he'd made for himself. 

Slashing and cleaving through them, scoffing at their bold professions of how they’d be the one to take him down. They never were. 

It began to get boring.  

Monotonous when all it took was a few moves to leave them a whimpering bloody mess on the ground. 

He figured the head of the Gojo clan would be waiting for him, probably poised and planning out some grand fight while he tried to wait out and starve everyone inside the estate. Let them grow weak enough they wouldn't be able to do anything to support Sukuna when he arrived. 

But he never expected the white-haired asshole to be sitting outside of his gates, casually leaning against it and flipping through the pages before he glanced up with blindingly blue eyes.

“Ryomen Sukuna,” the fabled six-eyes user greeted him, a casual smirk curling up on his lips as his sharp stare dragged over him. He was still covered in scrapes, mere flesh wounds, but the man just grinned brighter, tossing the book to the side and standing up. 

No servants. No guards. 

Birds falling silent and the chittering of bugs fading to the background as he stared down the only person bold enough to try and take his place by force.  

Sukuna wasn't in the fucking mood. 

He hadn't been back in months, and this was his reward? There would probably be repercussions that came with killing the Gojo brat, but he was asking for it.  

The freak didn’t even attempt to move out of the way when he sent the first slash, just taking it, but it didn’t even touch him. 

Sukuna couldn’t help but laugh, amused at the prospect of putting down someone like him. Of an actual challenge for once. 

Trading blows, dodges, gritting his teeth to push through the pain when a blow hit him only to grin when he managed to break through the technique that had been protecting his opponent, watching the cut blemish his previously clear complexion. 

“I met your wife,” he called out, not even flinching as he wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. “She was pretty. Even with the baby.” 

Sukuna saw red. Heat soaring through him, rage radiating through his veins. The fucker had to be lying. Maybe he heard of the baby through a servant he captured, but he had gotten it wrong. You weren’t his wife. Sukuna almost spat out something out that he would surely regret. That asshole didn’t need another reason to go seeking you out. To turn his attention away from Sukuna and to who was inside of the gate. 

“You just missed her,” he continued, clearly mocking him, hands moving up, about to throw another attack before Sukuna sent another cleave he expertly maneuvered away from, the gate behind him splintering from the force. 

“Shut up,” Sukuna hissed, knuckles clenching as he held them up, but his brain was faltering, failing to come up with what he needed to do when his thoughts had started to uselessly wander. 

The fun he’d felt at the start was gone. Replaced with something raw, like every movement he made was stepping on glass, shards of it stuck inside his throat as he was caught off-kilter.

“She begged, you know,” he added. “Said you'd come back for her.”

The next few seconds were a broken blur. Throwing all of his cursed energy into a move, just a little too late to realize the white-haired man across from him was doing the same. 

It was the aftermath that was clear. The slashed body cut in half in front of him, the blue eyes staring up at the mirrored sky, seeing nothing after a spoiled life of getting everything. Blessed to never know hunger or pain or suffering like him or you had. 

And still, Sukuna knew he was dying too. 

Even if he didn’t quite believe it. Couldn’t wrap his brain around the gaping hole in his side, his energy draining as he stumbled forward through the broken gate only to discover blood-soaked halls inside. 

It wasn’t a siege. It was a slaughter. 

Sukuna had done more than his share to see it for what it was. They were never trying to get his attention by holding his people hostage. They knew he didn’t care. So the clan killed them anyway. 

He wasn’t sure when he started running, how his body was even capable of moving, but he had to see it anyway. Confirm what everything in his body was telling him when he couldn’t feel you anymore. 

Your guards were gone. 

The door was cracked open, his hand impulsively shooting out to shove it the rest of the way, as if he couldn’t smell what was inside. 

But you were on the bed, curled up on your side, and he could almost believe for a second, you had been spared. He knew the truth though.

There was only death here. 

Rolling you over to see your face, black encroaching on the edges of his vision as his body threatened to give out, blood dripping from his side down to the floor, onto your bed. The light had left your eyes. Nothing else there for him to find in there except a single unspoken accusation. 

You're late. 

He didn’t have enough cursed energy to repair the damage to himself. 

But what was there left to live for anyway?

Warmth. 

Hands that didn’t quite fit in his, boney fingers clinging to his palm, too little to belong to anything except a child. For a brief moment, he thought it was yours. His. 

It couldn’t be. You were dead – and so was the baby growing inside you. It was impossible, and still, his mind betrayed him. Spawned treacherous images of a tiny thing that looked like you, annoyingly clingy and cute. 

His eyes opened, still thick with sleep, blinking slowly as he tried to discern dreams from reality. 

It wasn’t your child. 

It was you. 

Younger, your eyes still shut, lashes fluttering just slightly as he realized when this was. Where you both were. 

Back in the old village, in the husk of an abandoned home, where you slept on a makeshift bed of straw and tattered blankets he’d stolen from someone’s trash. Dirt in your hair, shivering before you snuggled closer, exhaling softly as your head rested on his chest. 

Breathing. 

What sick joke was this? 

There was nothing he’d done in his life to deserve a second chance. Was it some kind of hell to repeat his shitty life, cursed and condemned to a similar fate? 

He let go of your hand, sitting up to shake your shoulders harder than he should, watching you startle as you weakly opened your eyes. Focus slowly aimed on him as your brows scrunched together, fingers tightening and grabbing his shirt. 

“Mm, Sukuna?” You croaked, voice hoarse. 

He blinked. 

Laid back down, head throbbing as his dry mouth reminded him that he needed water. You were slow to move with him, body still heavy with exhaustion before he pulled you down again. 

“Go back to sleep,” he grunted, pressing your head back down against him. Running through the possibilities, wondering if this was just his life flashing before his eyes, a memory he’d forgotten. 

But it felt fucking real. 

You went stiff, trying to peek up at him, but his palm pressed down on your hair, refusing to let you budge. 

Had he really regressed? The clock turned back to a winter he hardly remembered?

“What’s happening?” You asked, but your words were small, muffled into his shirt. 

“I’m just tryin’ to rest,” he grunted.

Dozing off without meaning too, something about the pressure of you on him, the faintly familiar feeling of you curled on his chest dragging him into dreams. He didn’t think he’d wake up. 

But he did. 

And he was still here with you, children once more, condemned to scraping through trash and digging up graves and bugs to fill your stomach. He loathed this weak body of his. The scrawny arms and legs that could barely make it more than a few miles in a day.  

You were quieter than he remembered. 

More self-conscious, more serious, your smile not quite reaching the same spots on your face. Somehow clingier at the same time, softer with him, not arguing nearly as much anymore over who got to eat what or nagging at him for being reckless. You held on tighter to him in the evenings, pulled him closer, picking flowers you knew he couldn’t appreciate. Pressed a chaste kiss against his forehead, whispered the word friend like it was something intimate. A glimmer of adoration he didn’t deserve still glittering in your eyes. 

Would it still be there if you knew where you were both headed? 

What had happened before? How you wasted away waiting for a monster who didn’t show up in time? Died for him? 

Everything kept happening the same way it had before. You, stealing whatever food you could, narrowly avoiding getting caught and coming back to him with chilly hands and shaking limbs, affection in your words, rare laughter ringing in his ears long after it slipped from your lips. Him, struggling to get stronger, to feed the cursed energy inside him and train on a mostly empty stomach. 

He woke up once to you staring at him in the middle of night after going hunting for two days on his own with two measly fish to show for it, your fingers delicately tracing the shape of his jaw before you froze, that funny flicker of guilt in the lines of your face. 

“What are you doing?” Sukuna grumbled, unable to work up more than a weak glare. 

“Missed you,” you muttered softly, dragging your small thumb over the deformed half of him, just underneath his eyes. 

“It was only-” He started, stifling a yawn as you yanked him into you this time, your fingers sliding around to guide his head into the crook of your collarbone, despite the terrible pillow it made. 

He fell back asleep there anyway. 

 Before he realized it, a whole year passed, then two, the seasons changing and shifting, your presence a constant pull by his side, and yet, one he refused to lean on. 

Sukuna hadn’t learned his lesson. 

Rejected what the world might be trying to show him as he insisted you eat the past-ripe crop while he stuffed himself with the one thing you still refused to take so much of a bite of. You were still clinging to humanity he no longer felt any kind of connection to in his second life. 

“This place is wretched,” he muttered the next morning, shoving what few possessions he had in his sack. You were sorting through herbs you collected, not even glancing up when he spoke. Just silently stacking them, barely fucking reacting. 

He huffed, loud enough you had to look. “Hm?” 

“I’m going,” he insisted, remembering the first time you had this conversation. Where he announced that he wanted to go, wanted to leave this pitiful village and all the awful people in it. You grabbed him, whined about how dangerous it would be before caving in and clinging onto his hand as you asked to come with him. 

He had grumbled, shrugging his shoulders, letting your clumsy feet trail after him down a dirt path. 

Besides, there was no reason for him to stay here now either. 

Why bother reliving the next few years of starvation and scraping together enough for both of you to survive? 

“You’re leaving,” you echoed his sentiment, and he shoved down the uncomfortable suffocating feeling settling in his chest. 

“There’s nothing for me here,” Sukuna somberly spoke. 

You stood up, staring at him with an expression he didn’t understand. Arms folded across your chest, your lips pressed together in a thin line, ready to watch him walk away. Eyes hollow, daring him to say something else, to do something else. To not leave you alone like this. 

Why weren’t you begging to go with him? 

Tugging at his clothes and trying to convince him to take you too? 

He could ask you to. The question was on his tongue, all it would take was a couple words. To grunt out a ‘well?’ or ‘come on’ and surely, you would listen. Would rush around to collect what little things you had and chase after him. 

Sukuna’s throat was closing up, constricting tighter with every strained second of silence. 

But he didn't say anything. 

And all you had to offer was a little tilt of your head and a sad smile, swallowing hard before you said something he almost hated you for. 

“I was happy.” 

So he left like he said, stepped out and didn’t look back, scoffing under his breath once the village was out of sight that you’d come running sooner or later. Scramble to search for him, face the fact that you wouldn’t be able to survive without him. 

What the hell had you even meant? 

The only thing here was misery, curdling and coiling, trying to claw and claim his life and yours through starvation and sickness. In the scowls and stones thrown at him for simply having the misfortune of being born. What was there to even be happy about?

He pictured you huddled by a dying hearth, hands held out and shuddering, shutting down the thought before it could curse him. 

Sukuna gave it a month before you realized you made a mistake. 

You still needed him. 

It was never him that needed you. 

Getting stronger was easier when he didn’t have to look after you anywhere. Without needing to play babysitter or make sure you didn’t end up in the line of fire during fights. He fended for himself just fine. 

Time slipped by faster. 

He had more important things to focus on than the weather, redoing all those years of training with expertise from experience, forcing his body to catch up to his brain. 

Eventually, he found a companion in a child he stumbled across. A sorcerer who couldn’t quite control their potential yet, but suited his needs just fine. Could cook for him, store food too. They were far more fucking obedient than you were, listened intently when he barked orders at them. 

Uruame wasn’t you. 

But he didn’t miss you. He was fine living like this. Slaughtering without discrimination. Growing stronger far faster than he did in his last life. Avoiding the same petty mistakes that had resulted in injuries, acutely aware of the fact you weren’t there to nurse them anymore. 

Honestly, other than that, he hardly thought of you at all. 

Sometimes, he’d see you in his dreams, the older you, but rather than stuck in that small room, you were laying back in his chambers, one hand on your stomach, a lazy smile on your face while you read a book. 

Or he’d wake up in the morning, reaching out for a hand that wasn’t there. 

You probably weren’t even alive anymore. 

In an unmarked grave or tossed out in the woods. Maybe you managed to get a job as a seamstress, or found a clan or lord to work for as a servant to stave off fate without him. 

People were starting to whisper his name now, things getting thrown his way again now, fear sweeping across the land of the four-armed freak out for blood and bodies. If you wanted to find him, you certainly could. 

So really, Sukuna had no reason to return. 

Perhaps it was morbid curiosity, scratching an itch he’d been ignoring for what? Nearly ten years now? A decade had turned him from a skeleton to a curse, made more of muscle than anything else, his bulky frame far more menacing than it had been even in his last life. Well-tuned, energy coiling around him as he walked down familiar paths as he found himself standing on the outskirts of the place that had never really been home. 

It looked almost the same. 

And yet, the only thing that mattered was missing. 

The frame of the place you both used to sleep under had caved in, the thatched roof fallen into a pile of debris, the rest of the houses intact. Their inhabitants cowering inside as he prowled down the street, glaring as he felt the world still. Uruame was standing by his side, head bowed slightly down as they assessed the situation. “Would you like me to go door-to-door?” They asked. 

“Fine,” he tch-ed, shrugging his shoulders, his robes hanging loose as he walked ahead without them. There wasn’t a single trace of your energy. No sign to be found. 

An elder stepped out, aged wrinkles doing nothing to disguise the tremble in his mouth as he welcomed the monster that had been born here so long ago. 

“Ah, welcome-”

“Where is she?” He snarled before he could finish. 

“Your friend?” He feigned innocence, taking pride in his position as if it meant anything when a single sweeping motion of Sukuna’s fingers could cleave through his skull if he chose. “Ah, I believe she left, what was it? Two springs ago?” 

Tilting his head to the side, pretending this was a friendly conversation rather than his last words. 

“Left?” Sukuna repeated, scoffing at the fucking notion you would just go. 

Sukuna would search every home and rip every meager fucking foundation from the ground before he believed that you left. 

“She didn’t say where-” 

Blood was strewn against the mud wall of a home behind him, a scream ringing out from someone watching. 

This was just a waste of his fucking time.

He burned every house down. Left the village for the third time in his life in ashes, dark rain coming down as the smell of meat burned his nostrils. 

That would catch your attention, remind you that he existed if the elder had even been telling the truth. Sukuna considered the chance he was lying, that perhaps you had passed away long before he'd ever stepped foot back here on this pointless endeavor and the man had foolishly attempted to save everyone else by making up some story about you leaving. 

But you didn't show up to scold him. 

And eventually, the memory of you started to shrink. Maybe it was shoved down, forced under the surface while he focused on what he told himself was important. Defeating all the sorcerers he had so long ago, settling his score with the Gojo clan by catching them off-guard this time, razing their estate and refusing to spare so much as a single servant while the fear sparked and spread across the countryside as the cowards crawled into their shells and threw whatever they thought would satiate him out. 

But not everyone was terrified. 

The Kamo clan was just as interested in him in this life as the last, the head of it inviting him over for a proper tour of their own sprawling compounds, one Sukuna only begrudgingly accepted. 

The man was strange, stitches etched across his forehead, but he agreed with Uruame's opinion that he might be useful in the future considering his output of cursed energy, so he tolerated his presence. 

A potential future partnership. 

He loathed to think that he needed a partner at all. 

But even Sukuna had the sense to see why an ally like him might work out in his favor someday. 

Despite how much he loathed this forsaken estate. 

It was lavish, annoyingly so, traditionally designed and upholding the pillars of a lifestyle Sukuna still felt repugnance towards. 

His partner refused to shut up, insisting they continue this irritatingly long conversation through their gardens, Uruame dutifully opening the door and taking notes for Sukuna as he nodded along to whatever he was spewing now. 

Sprawling flower beds and arches adorned with roses, studying thorny stems wrapped around the trellis, a strange urge tempting him to pluck one. A faint memory started to float up, a name that plagued his dreams, but then he heard something he’d almost forgotten. 

A pretty laugh. Soft and sweet. 

A dessert he hadn’t tasted in so long, the taste was lost on him. 

But he recognized it instantly. 

He tried to ignore it. Focus on the boring political spiel he came here for, to shove it down, telling himself it had to be his imagination. A fractured remnant, dug up by these stupid fragrant flowers. 

Until he felt it. 

Sensed your presence, his head snapping in that direction to spot a picnic blanket spread out on the bank past a small koi pond. You were here. You were happier. 

Dressed in silk robes, smiling as you popped a strawberry in your parted lips, the juice dripping down the corner of your mouth. A thumb reached out, dragging over it to keep you clean, and he repressed a sudden surge of pure rage. 

Anger simmering at someone touching you like that, daring to put their filthy hands on what was his, his seething stare shifting to see some dark-haired man, a black tattoo stretching across the slope of his nose, brown eyes only focused on you. 

He knew that face, even if it was just a distant image of a night he'd rather forget. The night you snuck out, the one from the gardens before he found you. 

Kamo noticed his stare, chucking softly. 

“That’s my son, Choso, and his fiancée,” Kamo informed him, nodding towards the two of you. “Would you like to meet-”

“No,” he interrupted, scowling at you playing house. 

So this was where you found yourself?

Cozying up to the Kamo clan to secure a future for yourself? Instead of choosing him? 

He wanted to laugh. Actually, he wanted to murder that runt, and then-

“He’s actually a few years older than you, but I doubt…” Kamo continued, and Sukuna felt one of his fists reflexively start to take the shape to send a slash his way, only quelled by that annoyingly bright giggle of yours as he brushed a finger over your lips. You fucking licked it. Running your tongue over his knuckle, reaching up to grab his hand and hold it there. 

You left him for this? 

Walked away from him to become the next womb for the fucking Kamo clan? 

Too enraged to even realize he was the one who left you, all his muscles too tight, too tense, cursed energy flaring up as he fought to keep it under control here. 

“Are you alright?” Kamo carefully asked, brows knitted together as Sukuna’s jaw flexed tight.

“Yes,” he managed a one-word reply, turning his head away from you. 

Were you pretending he didn’t exist now? Was he a chapter in your story that you were choosing to forget? 

His focus had shattered. 

Fractured into something he couldn’t scrape together, his thoughts lingering on that infuriating expression of yours. For once, he was stuck on what to do. A possessive thing inside him curdling and demanding he take you back here and now, cut off every damn digit that had touched you.

But the splintered remnants of his reason reminded him that he was supposed to be here to form an ally. 

Which probably wouldn’t appreciate him snatching his heir’s bride.

It made Sukuna fucking sick to think of you as another man’s wife. 

One of Kamo’s assistants scurried up, bowing his head deeply before muttering something to his master. His face scrunched up, and he shook his head before looking up at Sukuna apologetically, “Would you excuse me for a few minutes?” 

Sukuna only tch-ed, waving his hand as he glanced around the suddenly suffocating arched walkway of the garden. 

“Feel free to look around as you please,” he politely said, but he didn’t miss the cruel glint in his eyes before he walked away. The look of a man who knew too much. Bored enough to enjoy other people’s misery. 

Sukuna tried to walk away. 

To continue down this path he’d picked, to push you and your pretty laughter back out of his mind. But it curved in on itself, and here it was again. There you were.

He couldn’t stop himself from looking. 

You were sprawled out, hair in the grass, giggling happily at the boy in front of you. Sukuna thought he’d seen every expression of yours. Sad, starving, smiling, he was sure he’d known all of you. 

But you never looked at him like that. 

So free.

Unburdened, unbridled by what, exactly? Him? 

“You’re beautiful,” you murmured to your groom, grinning as he gripped your legs and hooked them around his waist. Your robes mused, pushed up to reveal plush thighs, soft skin that still made his mouth water, spit pooling in the back of his throat as this fool failed to appreciate-

“I could live a thousand years and I would trade them all just for this moment to last,” he spoke quietly, his chest rising and falling too fast, like he had to hurry to get the words out. Assured, the kind of certain Sukuna wasn’t sure he ever gave you. 

“Would you?” You teased, one corner of your lips curling up higher than the other, clearly past pleased. 

The man, this Choso of yours, nodded, acting like a loyal knight as he craned his neck down to kiss the tip of your nose. You wrapped your wrists around his neck like he was some missing puzzle piece, fiddling with the ends of his hair as you sighed with contentment. 

“Tell me more,” you requested. 

Sukuna didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to hear this poor excuse of poetry and confessions as he watched from the sidelines like some sick voyeur, all four eyes stuck on the familiar curves of your body as your betrothed shoved your clothes to the side to shove himself in you. 

Could it even be considered fucking? 

All slow and tender, treating you like some fragile thing that might break, rocking his hips against your body as you dug your heels into his back. Kissing your mouth instead of sucking on your tits, caressing your exposed skin rather than holding you down. 

And yet, you were making more sounds with him than you did with Sukuna, tiny whimpers that hung in the air, moans that ended up muffled in that bastard’s mouth. Writhing and wiggling your hips like he wasn’t an amateur. 

“I would do anything for you,” he whispered, and Sukuna nearly snorted, sure that he had no idea what anything really meant. Would he starve for you? Kill for you? How far would he go just to call you his? Because right now, Sukuna was considering stomping over and cleaving him into his next meal to make sure he’d never be able to see you again, and he was fairly certain that your Choso couldn’t say the same. 

“All I want,” you purred, eyes opening slowly and fluttering, flooded with pleasure Sukuna unfortunately had to face he did miss. “Is for you to stay with me.” 

You didn’t even know Sukuna was there, and yet it still stung. 

Felt like an arrow aimed directly at his heart. 

“Of course,” Choso answered easily, head bobbing, dark strands hanging down as his next thrust left you tossing your head back. 

Sukuna would do anything for you. But he just couldn’t get himself to be there. “I love you,” he moaned, rutting harder, even faster, your thighs locking him into place as you giggled at his expression. Sukuna stalled, staring uselessly at the moron’s cock drunk confession.

“I love you too,” you sweetly whispered back, brushing his hair back from his face. 

He had to step away before he saw anything else. 

Before he got to watch the man cum inside you the way he used to, before he made another decision that would destroy his life – and yours.

Sukuna didn’t know peace. He never had any to offer you. 

When he stepped back, he had the misfortune of stepping on a tiny twig, as if his afternoon wasn’t awful enough. 

Your head snapped up first, your eyes locking onto his, and he saw the recognition before the guilt. How you held your breath, the light dissipating from that warmth you radiated as if his shadows swallowed you whole. 

And he didn’t know what gave it away, what little detail in your face did it, but he realized something he failed to fucking notice for far too long. 

This had never been his second chance. This was yours.

He had never deserved it. Or you. 

You knew it too. 

The universe tried to spare you, and he got tangled up in it. Your soul and his were still tied together even when the world attempted to give you a new life. 

And he was the fool that walked away from you.

[spideyyeet]

➷ Unspoken Conditions ✦ 1 || How it All Started

[ SUMMARY ] — it was obvious when this started, it was simply a mutual understanding between two horny college students, with very high libidos, and didn’t want any random stds that this was purely a sexual relationship only. and yet, both of you are unintentionally toeing the line between that and something else.

[ PAIRING ] — fratboy!sukuna x f!reader (college au)

[ TAGS ] — MDNI 18+ ONLY. nsfw. angst. piv. fwb. rough. spitting. exhibitionism. ráw. heavy spanking. degradation. dacryphilia. slight exhibitionisim (thin walls). fingering. oral f!recieving. cunnilingus. overstim. manhandIing, size differences, cervíx kíssing, sukuna’s a dick. aftercare. slow burn. lots of yapping. ft. gojo, geto, shoko, utahime. wc: 13.3k

everyone has priorities in life. of course for many college students (that care where their money is going) they’d like to graduate, so their priority will always be school first and foremost.

and yes, the same goes for you.

however, just like many young adults surrounded by other young adults put in a very high stress and competitive environment — you need some much needed relief.

which is how you find yourself eyeing the tattooed scary looking man in chem lab.

it made it slightly less suspicious since ryomen sukuna was your lab partner. and he was just quietly listening to the instructions you were lazily reading off the packet, letting him set up the station. he never cared really, in a similar position as you, he just wanted to get through this lab so he can take a fat nap before his next class.

“quit zoning out,” he mutters, neither annoyed or upset, just tired.

you hum, blinking. glancing back down at the paper continuing to read off the instructions as he listens, like always. you hum again when he’s done setting the basic steps, you finally hop in to help.

neither of you complain about the other. he was a good lab partner, he did his best, carried his weight, and you the same. their wasn’t much to say about the other, which was why your conversations were always casual during your four hour labs.

“you keep zoning out,” he interrupts your thoughts again, snapping you back to reality.

“huh?” you blink again, glancing down at his gloved hand holding your wrist, stopping you from pouring too much into the beaker. “oh, my bad.”

he hums low and unbothered, but his crimson eyes flick over your face as you remeasure the liquid again, fixing your mistake.

“you hungover or somethin?” he asks, his low raspy voice clearly made it known that he was hungover. especially because he usually came to eight am monday lab hungover and never bothered to hide it either when you asked, so it wasn’t anything new.

your eyes widen briefly, not expecting the accusation. but you play it off with a shrug, shaking your head.

“no, i was just…up,” your reply comes off as…off. he catches it, brow quirked, eyes narrow scrutinizing just momentarily.

“up,” he repeats, amused, immediately clocking what that meant, and you notice.

scoffing, “it’s not what you’re thinking,” you slide the beaker to him to continue. sitting back on the stool as he continues with his part.

he just nods lazy and sarcastic.

“It’s not,” you repeat, leaning against your propped hand, watching him work so casually.

once again your mind drifts to how easy it is working with this guy. you always feel bad for shoko who has lab after you and always complains about her partner not doing any work, or skipping on purpose, but asking for her lab report after.

and your gaze drifts lazily over to his gloved hands working so easily, his hand were huge as they wrapped around the large beaker. sukuna was intimidating mainly because of his starch size towering over everyone, including you.

it was not wrong of you to assume that he’s definitely built under his usually loose tshirt that always sat wide on his shoulders. and though you couldn’t admire his arms, and the way his veins were like spiderwebs across his tattooed skin, because of his lab coat. you knew that your partner is definitely fit.

“again, your turn,” he interrupts your thoughts, and you blink again. this time he’s smirking at you, not bothering to hide his own amusement over your aloof self today, especially eyeing you even closer. “seems like more of a long weekend type shit,” he snorts, unbothered when you flash him an unthreatening glare.

“like I said, it’s not what you think,” your fingers slide to the packet, writing down your results as your partner hums.

he glances at your focused expression, his amusement tugging on his lips again, “we’re both adults here, no need to be embarrassed.”

you scoff, still writing, still surprisingly unbothered by his teasing, because he really does have it all wrong. you know he’s implying you were up having sex. or I guess now he’s implying it was your whole weekend.

but truth is, you were trying to have sex. but unfortunately just as you were about to have sex with some guy you went on a few dates with this month, he breaks it to you that he actually needs to get tested, and low behold, he was found positive for some shit.

of course, you’re happy that you didn’t end up sleeping with him. but on the other hand, now you just have all this pent up sexual frustration bubbling inside you and no way to release it. and one thing you really hate doing, is having to solve it by yourself.

it was always boring, unsatisfying, and pathetic.

“wha—“ you yelp momentarily, a rough hand pressing on the top of your head making you blink up.

“you seriously needa pay attention so we can get the fuck outta here and not go over time,” he huffs, now glancing over your face as you do the same. almost mesmerized by how controlled he is, especially with the dark circles under his eyes and the tired expression painting his face. and yet he’s able to get through lab every week.

“sorry,” you mutter, turning back to continue writing down your work.

lab was uneventful. every week of the spring semester spent twice a week here, with a hungover attractive lab partner and a sexually frustrated you, working seamlessly, talking about frivolous things, and then going your separate ways.

that’s until the end of midterms came and spring break began.

it was the first weekend of the break, and just like everyone else on campus. you, shoko, and utahime all went to the first frat party before everyone went on vacation or back home.

shoko only came to this frat because she went to high school with two of the guys there. as for utahime, she was always dragged by shoko, but ultimately stayed because she started having a lil crush on one of the guys that was close friends with the frat.

and you.

you need to get fucked.

doesn’t matter if it’s today or tomorrow or at the end of the week. you just need to do something to get someone’s dick inside you and if you don’t have sex by this week then you know you’re fucked for the rest of the semester.

of course, it’s easier said than done. anyone can have sex, but you, you were cautious, you didn’t wanna catch any stds or see a mico-dick, or sleep with some sociopath, and they had to have basic ass hygiene, and good breath.

“why don’t you go on another date? i can set you up with someone,” utahime said, as she passed you and shoko a drink.

you sigh, following them outside to the backyard of the frat. the three of you sitting on the bench.

“you can’t date in college, nobody is serious about anything,” you huff, siping from your drink.

“that’s not true. I’m telling you my friend is making this list of people that are open to actually dating, she says she wants to do this experiment type thing, like matchmaking,” utahime explains very animated.

shoko hums, lighting a cigarette.

“i don’t want to be apart of some weird college experiment?” you sigh, pressing the cold bottle to your cheek. “plus, i was basically studying abroad all of last semester and the semester before, the only people I’m still close with here is you guys.”

shoko nods again in agreement. “but it won’t hurt to meet someone.”

and you hate yourself for being so difficult, especially when you lean forward, pouting. “maybe I just want something easy…”

“like a one-night stand?” shoko points.

you shrug, because that didn’t sound tasteful, and you hate sleeping around, “this is so annoying, i think I just need to calm down.”

“i can so set you up on date and you can see how it goes—what the fuck—“ utahime screeches as she feels something cold press against her nape. “fuck you!” she shouts, elbowing the one and only frat president, satoru gojo.

shoko snickers, shaking her head as you scoff at his annoying bullying.

“it’s just a joke, jeez,” he cackles, “was just comin’ over to tell you your big fat crush was lookin’ for you.”

her eyes immediately light up, looking past gojo and at the guy she’s been crushing on all semester.

“then just say that, asshole,” utahime jumps up, turning to you and shoko quickly pointing at herself and you both smile brightly.

“you look good!” you say in unison.

utahime lights up and skips over to the man. while gojo plops in her seat, grabbing shoko’s drink and taking a swing. “so how are you guys? enjoying the party?”

you nod, clearly not as into the party as everyone else is, and shoko just laughs at the look gojo’s giving you.

“fuck is your problem?“

“nothing,” you glance at him, and he’s narrowing his eyes. then he finally lets out a loud sigh, standing up dramatically.

“as the president and host of this amazing fucking party, i feel it’s my responsibility to elevate this experience for you,” he loudly announces.

you stifle a laugh, rolling your eyes at him, but that doesn’t stop him from taking your wrist and tugging you up, shoko easily pushing your back as they lead you into the rambunctious crowd.

and even after the stupid dance off gojo puts on for you and the crowd, the glow in the dark face/body painting, and the childish would you rather games, is when a familiar face finally makes his presence known.

you don’t notice him immediately. but others do, glancing at the intimidating man stepping into the house. as per usual, he’s dressed in ripped baggy jeans, along with a loose fitting tee that perfectly frames his wide shoulders, and his backpack is slung on. he scans the crowded entrance, face itched with annoyance. a few girls light up at the sight of him, even when he just offers them an uninterested nod or walks past them.

he pushes through the crowd, luckily many quickly side step out of the way, terrified to get in sukuna’s way.

weaving past people trying to get his attention, because he’s already set his eyes on his snowy white victim.

“gojo.”

and before you can blink, gojo who was sitting against the wall beside you on the living room floor, is now being lifted to his feet in seconds, collar squeezing his airway as a seething sukuna barks at his face.

“what?! you knew about the party—“

“you said you’d do it on sunday, why the fuck is it tonight?” sukuna shouts.

their argument has the groups attention, including yours. well yours for another reason entirely.

your lab partner looks so hot.

your cheeks stinging as you glance at the way the veins in his arms are bulging, his huge biceps flexing as he holds up gojo. you eye the banded tattoos that wrap around the large muscles making your cheeks heat up.

while one part of your mind is drinking in how naturally attractive he is, the other is piecing together the fact that he’s apart of this frat and you never realized it.

it’s definitely because you were abroad for a year, and you rarely came to these frat parties to begin with, so you had no reason to actually think about it. plus you never stayed long enough to even know anyone else other than gojo, geto, and nanami, but even he left after his freshman year because it was too much being around his high school friends again.

but maybe the worst part of it is that you really couldn’t care less about other people. it was mean, sure. but your friends were the only thing that mattered to you, along with school, and that’s definitely another reason you can’t get laid. you can’t even bother talking to new people. it was too much effort, too little payoff.

“you zone out at parties too?” the familiar gruff voice cuts through the music, and you blink up, pupils dilating at the sight of your lab partner dropping his bag and falling on the floor beside you. his broad back hitting the wall in exhaustion.

“the arguing just got boring too listen too,” you shrug, and he snorts, taking the bottle you’d been hosting and drinking it. you lean to your side, head resting on the wall, fully facing your lab partner now. “I didn’t know you were ‘part of this frat.”

he hums, gulping down more of the alcohol easing his nerves from his burning veins, especially when he hears a crash in the distance. “mainly because of the team, just easier for everyone.”

“oh ya, you’re a forward right?” you vaguely remember him mentioning how he needs to submit the lab before his practice. and gojo and geto happen to mention him occasionally and his tardiness.

he grunts again, turning to actually glance at you. and he snorts at the sight of the glow-in-the-dark paint on your face, lips quirking a bit when he sees the pink and green hand paint on the tops of your breast and neck, and along your arms, and thighs. “who did your painting?”

“shoko and gojo,” you glance down at yourself, amused. “they went a bit overboard I had to shove ‘em off.”

“ya he’s a fucking dick.”

you snort, shaking your head in amusement. eyes unable to leave him. and the easy buzz that fills your mind made it easier to just ogle him. especially when his lips would move and you can see his sharp canines peaking again, and you can only imagine the way they’d feel sinking into your skin—

“ah—“ your eyes widen because his large hand is squeezing your cheeks hard.

“again,” he cuts in, “how bad is y’r fucking attention span? shit. you’re worse than my younger brothers.”

you’re just blinking up at him, embarrassed but also unbothered by his comments.

“I guess it’s bad,” you affirm. but in your defense, you were just horny and very sexually deprived.

“clearly,” he lets go, turning back to face the crowded house.

“what were you saying?” you interrupt, realizing he was definitely talking before you started daydreaming.

his gaze flicks to you in a momentary judgy side eye, and you just give him a bashful smile, clearly apologetic about zoning out. “was just asking how long you’ve been here. I rarely run into you at these parties.”

“uh what time is it?”

he glances at his watch. “11:15”.

“oh then I guess awhile. I got here at nine,” you glance around the room. “I came with hime—utahime, i dont if you know her.”

sukuna shrugs. and you continue glancing around until you spot your friend laughing in the kitchen with her crush, her cheeks flushed. cute, you smile. “that’s her, with the red bows in her hair.” you point, sukuna just hums. “and I came with shoko.”

“gojo’s friend?”

you hum. “did you go to high school with them too?”

sukuna barks out a laugh, “fuck no. probably would’ve killed that idiot if I’d known him that long.”

you laugh, shaking your head at the dark humor. “he’s not that bad.”

“he is. he’s worse actually,” sukuna tsks, almost like he’s recalling every horrible, annoying ass thing gojo’s ever done to him or in his vicinity. “throwing this party without me,” he scoffs again, more angry than anything.

“do all the guys in the frat have to be here to host a party?”

he tsks, “no, but gojo and the rest are too fucking lax with letting people in. I bet half the guys here snuck in without paying the entrance fee. and then when some shit breaks, we won’t have the damn funds to fix it. and his parents cut him off until the end of the semester so that idiot has no excuses now.”

“oh,” you cringe at his fueled rant. “i didn’t know it was that deep.” your lab partner just huffs in response. “is it bad that I didn’t pay?” you were half-joking, knowing that fee was mainly for guys anyways, and you were a close friend of a friend.

“s’ fine, you’re hot so we wouldn’t have charged ya anyways.”

his response was so casual, you could easily gloss over it. but instead your eyes seem to light up. it wasn’t in a crush type of way, but more like a horny college girl that hasn’t been fucked in months type of way.

“you think I’m hot?”

he exhaled amused, eyes glancing back at you, rolling his eyes. “you in the mood to be complimented?”

you smile politely, albeit very teasingly too. “it’s been awhile.”

and those words immediately register in him. “y’r saying you’re not day dreaming about your most recent hookup every time we’re in lab?”

your lips part in shock, “what??? why would I be thinking about that??”

“you’re always zoning out, and then saying y’ didn’t get any sleep. you couldn’t ‘ave been more obvious,” he laughs.

your face heats up, “I kept saying it’s not what you think.”

“I think it is,” he pushes, enjoying the sight of you squirming at his little interrogation.

“it’s not,” you push back, stubborn. but he simply smirks, eyeing you close, as if he can read you, which he can’t, but you still feel him pierce your mind, as if it says so blaring I haven’t had sex in so long and I’m just a desperate girl!

but instead you decide to clarify it for him. “i just haven’t slept with anyone in awhile and that’s the issue.”

silence.

your cheeks flare with unadulterated embarrassment. ignoring the way his crimson eyes are wide in pure shock. because if anything, he expected you to reveal you had a boyfriend, or that your amazing hookup ghosted you, or something that wasn’t that.

“say something,” you shove his shoulder. and he’s still staring, even as you slap your face, feeling how hot it is. “you’re so annoying. it’s not that no one wants to sleep with me,” you embarrass yourself further. “I just don’t want any fucking stds or anything, which I’ve been super close to catching since everyone here is disgusting.”

“so you’re a virgin?”

your eyes widen. “I’m not a virgin!” you shriek.

his head falls back laughing, chest rumbling, catching the attention of a few people around. and you’re clicking your teeth, waiting for him to settle the fuck down, because it’s not that funny. luckily he does after a few long minutes of his annoying deep ass sexy ass laugh.

it could be because you’ve gotten familiar talking to him in lab all semester, that when you fall into casual conversation about your sex lives, it doesn’t embarrass either of you. and you feel validated when sukuna voices the same concerns as you.

“ya pretty sure over the break someone started spreading chlamydia, and I don’t know if y’ remember last semester, some guy caught syphilis and a few girls got it too,” he lazily talks.

“ew no, I don’t remember that! but also I wasn’t here then.”

“you didn’t miss anything. but ‘s normal to be cautious of sleeping with anyone here, and the whole dating thing is just a fucking headache,” he mutters, sipping his drink.

“hime wants to set me up with this matchmaker thing,” your head drops forward, and sukuna offers you his bottle, and you just hold it for a second. “that’s just like…a lotta work.”

sukuna barks out a laugh, amused at the admission.

“it is,” you sip from the bottle, eyes closing briefly, missing the way sukuna hums in agreement, eyeing your throat bobbing. you sigh after swallowing, handing him the bottle.

“you don’t like relationships?” he asks.

“it’s not necessarily liking, it’s just not on my radar at all right now,” you admit. leaning against the wall again, looking over at utahime now doing shots with her crush.

utahime is definitely a romantic. she’s always wanted to get with her crush, and she’s always been a relationship type of person, which you were kind of jealous off because you could barely wrap your head around the commitment. and it meant more to her than just sex. but with you, when you see an attractive man, it was just sex.

“you sound like a guy,” he snorts, and you cringe at that.

“ew don’t say that.”

he shrugs, “I’m not saying it’s bad, that’s what I think too. maybe that’s why it’s easier for me to have sex, but harder now because everyone’s so fucking emotional about it.”

“that’s just mean,” you mutter, glancing at the women at the party. “obviously the girls you guys sleep with would get emotional. you guys don’t treat them very kindly. it’s kinda a universal experience as a girl, or just being in college.” you shake your head at his ignorance, and the man just scoffs, rolling his eyes as he sips.

“exactly my point. can’t fuck anyone anymore without it turning into a yelling fit after or getting a drink thrown in my face,” he tsks, you sigh, because that’s just the reality of dating/sleeping culture.

“probably because it’s never clarified to be a one night stand,” you think out loud.

“I’m pretty sure when you meet someone for the first time at a party and they’re all over you, it’s assumed that it’s just sex,” he scoffs.

but you shrug, shaking your head. “I don’t think so.” you pause, taking a beat to collect your thoughts. “many girls are romantics. guys just don’t know how to communicate, which leads to a lot of miscommunication.” you nod, proud of yourself for the way you phrased it.

sukuna snorts, laughing under his breath as he hums taking another long sip. “so anytime I wanna sleep with someone I have to clarify that’s it just fucking.”

you hum.

“I doubt I’d get laid if i did that.”

you shrug.

“would you do that?”

you frown, “it’s different for girls.”

he laughs. “the double standard is crazy.” he shakes is head. “I’m saying you, not the all girls.”

“well i am a girl…and i just wouldn’t do that,” you clarify, and sukuna just nods his head sarcastically.

“because you’re too good for that? I’m pretty sure you’re the one that just wants to get laid and i guess daydreams about it too.”

you inhale, taking a deep breath before releasing it, because giving an explanation about your own terms and conditions was just making you sound unreasonable or even pretentious.

but still you elaborate, entertaining your lab partner at this party. “i just wouldn’t want a one night stand or a boyfriend. getting a one night stand is too much work, especially if I’d want to get laid often, and I already explained the dating thing. I just want something easy.”

and that leaves sukuna silent for a moment.

“so essentially, a fuck buddy.”

hearing that immediately had something clicking in your mind. because you hum, nodding your head casually. “yeah that.”

that leaves sukuna’s even more amused. crimson gaze sweeping over you once again, taking you in for a second time that night because even though you were surprisingly easy to get along with in lab, he still would’ve never guessed you’d end up having a conversation like this.

though you haven’t fully realized the extent of your conversation, your attention distracted by gojo shouting at a few people in the kitchen because they broke a chair, sukuna’s eyes remain on you and his voice is just a bit lower when he asks.

“but you said you’re picky with who you sleep with?” you hum along. “then what’re the terms and conditions for your fuck buddy?”

your lips part, thinking briefly before responding. “well I’d have to be attracted to them. obviously.” sukuna nods along. “and they can’t be judgy or anything—“

“judgy how?”

“like if they’re judging me if i wanna have sex.”

he scoffs, “why the fuck would they judge if that’s the point of the relationship?”

your lips part not wanting to elaborate so you just hum, “good point.” but you continue. “um I guess we’d have to agree on a few conditions…”

“like?”

you think. “like no strings attached type thing. probably like school and classes first. um..” you bite your cheek thinking some more, and sukuna patiently watches you, beyond entertained right now. “oh! if you’re gonna have sex with anyone else, it’s fine, as long as i know about it—in case they catch anything I’d like to be aware,” and sukuna hums along, watching you think again. “probably like if you’re okay with kissing, i think in movies they don’t do that.”

“in movies?” he laughs. and you just laugh too, nodding at the ridiculousness.

“i don’t know, i’m just thinking out loud. what would y’r conditions be?” turning the tables you watch his sharp canines peak again as he smiles, amused.

“I agree with the no strings attached shit. she should probably know it’s just sex. no condoms—“

“wha?” you interrupt.

he shrugs, “if I’m gonna have sex with you multiple times, then I’d like to cum inside. feels better, isn’t that the point of the whole thing?”

you think, “i guess.” and you don’t say anything further, so you let the man continue, intrigued by his own conditions.

“school first type shit i guess, but also if I’m stressed then maybe some agreement about relieving that,” he thinks, and you quirk your head, needing some more clarification. “i don’t know, like if y’r busy then obviously I’m not gonna force you to come and help me with my problem, but also if you’re not busy but it’s a school night then I’d like to fuck.”

“oh,” you nod in understanding. “i guess that makes sense.” he nods, “I’d also add a safe word.”

sukuna scoffs, “fucking obviously, you should have one regardless, even if it’s just a one night stand.”

you blush just a bit, humming in understanding. “kinks on the other hand…” he sits back on his arms, head tilted back looking at the ceiling as he thinks, “i don’t mind most of em, I guess we’d have to discuss it but doesn’t need to be in the beginning.” he glances back at you, and you’re still criss cross in front of him. “what about you?”

you think, “i think I’m the same. I don’t think i’ve experienced anything crazy to know what id definitely say no too.”

“spanking?”

you itch your cheek, “that’s nothing. I like that.”

“bdsm?”

you think, “dunno depends. I don’t think I can deal with extreme bdsm.” you tilt your head at him. “is that what you’re into?”

he chuckles light, “I’m into anything,” he shrugs. yes, that was a full lie. he does have preferences, he like’s being dominant, he likes hitting, spitting, and maybe it doesn’t sound extreme at first, it usually ends up heavy and hard, and the worst part about him is that he isn’t a major piece of shit and will tone it down for a majority of the women that end up in his bed who can’t take it, and it ultimately turns him off going soft and vanilla—

but you cut in, “for real?”

his lips part, the words yes ready to fall out, but the way your eyes light up just a bit, has him clenching his jaw. the trajectory of this conversation is toeing the line between something else, and he doesn’t wanna fuck it up just yet.

“I guess I’m a bit rough.”

your brow quirks, “how rough?”

sukuna sits up, trying not to laugh because now he’s being asked to describe how he is in bed. “that’s hard to explain.”

you hum, not wanting to push, but still very much curious about how rough this scary frat boy is. especially with the tattoos on his face and arms, and his rippling muscles. the multiple piercings—

“I can show you though.”

silence.

the base of the music filled the space, people laughing in the distance. but you can clearly hear your heart hammering against your chest, and your cheeks stinging with heat.

“what d’you mean?”

it was amusing the way your voice was higher pitched.

“let’s fuck. and it’s just sex, and if you like it, I’d be down to do the whole fuck buddy thing with you,” he’s smirking, watching the gears turn in your head. and hell, the conversation definitely had him itching to see his lab partner naked under him. and even if it didn’t work out in the end, at least he’d make you cum and satisfy his own frustrations about the party and lost money.

“you’re attracted to me, right?” his ego was much bigger than his head, especially the way he’s looking at you.

it was funny seeing his cool headed, but aloof lab partner blush, but ultimately nod her head. “you’re clean right?”

sukuna lets out a loud scoff, clearly offended, “obviously.”

you shrug, waving him off, “I’m just checking…when was the last time you had sex.” you cringe, because you obviously didn’t take his word right away.

his jaw clenches, but alas his need to get in your pants outweighs his pride just a inch more. “like two—three weeks ago, ya right after our last game.” you smile, because if he had anything, there’d definitely be signs by now. “and you, woman?”

your eyes widen, but ultimately wave your hand again, “I’m definitely clean.”

he raises his brow sarcastically, “well if i had to expose myself then you sure as shit have too. that should actually be another condition, equality.”

you scoff out a laugh, rolling your eyes, “i think it’s been,” you let out a ball of air, trying to remember how long it’s been. it was definitely months. “oh shit,” your eyes widen, and he quirks a brow. “i think it’s been…a little over a year now—ya, since sophomore year winter break.”

a low whistle rings in your ears, glancing up at sukuna. you can’t tell since the lights in the house kept changing colors, but his ears were red, and his pants got a bit tighter. and the only thing he was thinking at the moment was that he’ll definitely need to stretch you out.

“was that an ex?”

you shake your head, “no just some guy i was seeing over break.” but you glance at his stone face. “what?”

he shakes his head trying to relax his shoulders, but his body was tense, and at this point he just wanted to take you upstairs already. “we’re both clean, so should we have a test round?”

finally, you hum in agreement.

your cheeks were permanently hot from this point on. letting your brooding tall lab partner lead you up the stairs to his bedroom. his hand was on your lower back, ignoring all the people that lingered in the hallway until finally swinging his door open.

your lips part with curiosity and anticipation, examining his bedroom, letting him drop his bag by his desk and grab his charger to plug his dying phone in.

you venture further in, setting aside your purse, before eyeing the few band posters he has up on his wall. his clothes were mainly strewn on his desk chair and beside his closest, but it smelled surprisingly good here. i guess you can thank the air freshener he has plugged into the wall. but it also smelled like him.

“ohhh do you guys all have your own bathrooms?”

“nah…” sukuna types something on his phone. “gojo and geto have a jack n jill type thing where they share a bathroom, and the basement bedroom has their own bathroom, but everyone else shares,” sukuna easily replies, tossing his charging phone on his desk before glancing back up at you.

he shamelessly lets his eyes track your figure as you stand in front of a scratch off movie poster list on his wall.

the skirt you were wearing was dangerously short, showing off your thighs and the paint marks all over them. he gets slightly irked thinking how one of those handprints is probably gojo’s. but he continues checking you out, especially your exposed back, and the dip in your spine.

his jeans grow tighter eyeing your soft hips. he shamelessly recalls every time he’s checked out your ass in lab, whenever you’d lean over the table, or bend down to grab something from your bag.

but now he definitely felt more eager to grab a handful of it, especially when you lean forward exposing more of your thighs for his greedy eyes, just to get a better look at the movie titles.

“you haven’t seen Lawrence of Arabia?”

your voice was unbelievably calm for how you’re actually feeling. maybe this seemed better in your head, but is this a good idea? you’re in your lab partners very fratboy-esque room, during a frat party, and neither of you are drunk enough.

“the movie’s like a billion hours long,” his voice is much closer now, and you tense momentarily when you feel his breath fanning against your shoulder. his hand casually brushing your hip as he leans forward pressing his chest against your back to glance over at the poster. “think I watched the first hour then fell asleep.” his thumb shamelessly caresses your bare skin.

you nod, heart hammering as you try not to move. but luckily, he takes charge. laughing under his breath as he turns you to face him. both hands on your hips now, head cocking to the side in amusement, gaze locked on your face.

“is talkin’ about movies foreplay for you?” he asks, all while eyeing your lips.

“well no,” you mutter, slightly embarrassed because he’s licking his teeth trying not to laugh. you were beyond casual talking about your sex life with him just a few minutes ago, and even more casual listing your conditions for your potential sex buddy. so it was definitely amusing seeing you all lost and mumbling right now. “you sure you wanna have sex? y’know it might be you who doesn’t like it in the end.”

he scoffs. “trust me, y’r not scaring me.”

you don’t respond, gaze glancing over his sharp features, bitting your cheek because you can see his dark lids on your lips, and his body heat was overwhelming your senses.

maybe you weren’t entirely uncomfortable with situation, but more so anxious. you’d been holding back for so long, that you don’t mind at all when he stands tall, hand casually holding your jaw, crimson pupils dilating just a bit at the sight of you parting your lips.

“you didn’t clarify,” he leans forward, easily pinning you to the wall, and your heart is hammering faster seeing this side of him. “kissing…yes or no?”

and the words couldn’t have come out faster. “yes.”

you gasp when his lips crash into you. your hands find purchase on his bicep as your kiss turns messy in seconds. you were not victim, whining in full delight when his tongue slipped into your mouth, hand grasping his shirt as he presses you further against the wall, knee slotting between your legs as his tongue plays with yours.

you could’ve guessed he’d be a good kisser, but this was mind-numbing.

especially in your sex crazed mind. your lips are parting, panting as you catch your breath before he’s kissing your lips again, biting down hard making and a cute gasp come from your lips.

your nails dig into his biceps. the pleasure courses through you, thighs clenching around his thigh as he presses it higher up, humming when his hands come down under your skirt, grabbing a handful of your ass. squeezing.

“angh!” you gasp in shock, and he chuckles, tonguing your lips, with a smirk, before muttering so deep it reaches your soaked panties.

“been eyeing this ass every time we’re in lab,” he admits, shamelessly. giving it another squeeze before kissing you again. “best part.”

your cheeks flush, unbelievably turned on, whining every time he bites down on your lips, running his tongue over it.

it was addicting.

so much so, that your lips only part in momentary shock when he lifts you up.

your lips don’t leave his, holding his jaw now as you kiss him desperately, legs wrapped around his waist.

his tongue was warm in your mouth, leading you to his bed. his hand still groping your ass, arm wrapped around your waist, kneeling down on the bed. and it was fucking validating when he cracks a hard slap on your ass, and you moan in pleasure.

“fuck, you’re so well behaved,” he laughs, laying you on the bed before sitting up. he easily lifts your legs up, pulling your skirt and panties down, in one swift motion, tossing it off the bed, and that’s when he has to bite back a pathetic groan. “shit.”

you’re flushing just a bit at how quick he’s moving, chest still uneven from the make out session. not registering how gone sukuna is. he’s pushing your legs apart, pupils blown at the sight of your exposed pussy. “you’re fucking drenched, woman, did you cum already?”

your lips part in shock, shaking your head, “no! you barely did anything.”

he hums, chuckling darkly as his thumb comes down and rubs through your drenched folds, your hips jerk in surprise, whining so softly he has to control himself. “well y’r fucking soaked,” he points. canines peaking as he smiles. “this is hot,” he hums in approval because your pussy was fully shaved, aside from cute heart you kept.

“yeah?” you bite your cheek, since you hadn’t slept with anyone in so long, this little design you decided to do, has never been complimented.

“fuck yeah,” he groans, leaning down to kiss it. your cheeks sting, the back of your hand covering your mouth, as you hum.

his lips continue to trail down to your dripping pussy, mouth already drooling before he even gets a taste.

and when he does, all hell breaks loose.

“angh fuck! wait—“ your head falls back in pleasure, forgetting how fucking good it is to be eaten out. his tongue is greedy, lapping the mess around your folds before delving back in again. he was a beast, rubbing his face between your legs, drinking in your arousal before tonguing your clit.

your hand shoots out, gripping his salmon locks hard, hips stuttering, but he doesn’t move, only groaning when you yank a little too hard. his wet lips loud as they fill the room.

the low base of the music downstairs shielding your moans as you whine, feeling the coil begin to wound up with every flick of his skilled tongue.

“suk—angh! gonna cum—“ your legs tremble, trying to close on instinct, but he keeps his arms tightly wrapped around your thighs, face moving between your legs, pushing you further along the edge, until you’re finally tipping over.

your hips jump, lips parting as a soft whine leaves your throat, and the man just groans in delight as you coat his tongue in more juices. your legs shake, trying to catch your breath, but he’s already kissing your heart, pushing a finger inside without warning.

“we didn’t think of a safe word,” he smirks, watching you whine, abs clenching in surprise because he barely gave you a chance to catch your breath, before he’s fingering your poor pussy.

“angh—um—“ you gasp, trying to think, but his fingers curl so beautifully, pressing against your sweet spot making you whine.

“fuck you really haven’t had sex in a year,” he coos, biting a smile at the way your hips chase his fingers every time he stops. “you miss cumming?”

you nod, lips parting to reply, but then he’s pressing his thumb against your clit and your words just turn into more whines. your pretty lashes flutter against your cheeks, hips rolling up like a desperate slut, and he’s fucking hooked.

“well? gotta think of a safe word, woman,” he inserts a second finger, humming as your walls stretch around his digits, not giving you chance before pistoning them in and out. your eyes bulge, back arching off the bed, nails digging into his bicep as he trails kisses up your neck, and he’s mean.

scissoring your tight cunt, ignoring your whines that it was too much. “answer me. you into colors? food?” he’s fucking teasing you.

he always has a go to safe word, but it was just more fun watching you struggle to answer him.

“I—r-ryome—angh please, ‘m close,” your voice was so fucking sweet, he was quite honestly amazed that you’re able to cum so quickly after your first orgasm. and maybe he should give you a second to breathe, but he’s just kissing your nipples, you hadn’t even realized he’d pushed your top up, and unclasped your bra.

“I’m gonna put a third finger in, but how about mango?” he’s licking your nipple, crimson gaze staring up at you as he teases a third finger, and you’re squirming, but nodding.

“mango, mhm ya that works,” you’re out of breath, “i like mangos,” you add and he’s biting back a smirk before pushing in a third finger.

“same.”

sukuna licks his lips, gaze locked on you as he stretches you open with his fingers. your moans weren’t crazy loud, and it was quite cute whenever you’d squeeze his arm, burying your face in his shoulder, or when your thighs would close around his arm as you shook.

“open up,” he clicks his tongue, but you’re panting. “calling it quits now?”

“no!” you blurt, but you’re pulling away, resting back on his sheets staring up at him. “can you put it in now?”

his hand stills, fingers frozen inside you as his eyes narrow, he was going a little overboard, but you were tight as hell. but the way you’re batting your lashes at him, and all he can see is his lab partner who is always rambling about some shit or zoning out all flushed and out of breath right now…well he couldn’t help the fact that your full undivided attention was on him.

your legs tremble as he pulls his fingers out, popping them in his mouth sucking them clean.

you sit up just a bit, letting him pull your top and bra off, tossing them aside while his hand grabs the hem of his shirt, lifting it overhead.

the air around you felt much hotter, even after your previous orgasms. a new tingling swirling inside you once sukuna tossed his shirt off. and it could be how ripped this man is, his abs sculpted to perfection, or it could be the religious tattoos the decorated his tanned skin.

your lips part in awe, chest rising and falling, hands playing with your fingers as he slid off the bed unbuckling his loose jeans and kicking them aside, followed so quickly by his boxers that you didn’t even get a chance to ogle his dark happy trail that lead to his large bulge, before the real thing sprung out.

your pupils dilate at the sight. biting back a pathetic whine, when he smeared the pre that collected around his bulbous tip, before kneeling beside you.

“y’r not gonna fuckin’ run away. s’ your fault you wouldn’t let me stretch ya more, so no crying, okay?”

his words were going in one ear and out the other.

your thoughts numb just nodding mindlessly as he continued stroking his abnormally large cock. your gaze locked on him, taking in the sight of your lab partner naked, allowing him to lean between your legs resting his cock across your belly— “when y’ feel me right ‘ere, then that means I’m all in.”

your face was beyond flustered. his words turning your head to mush, even when his lips found yours again, and he rocked his cock through your folds collecting your wetness to coat his length, you were just humming in delight.

“you’re so submissive,” he laughs, kissing the tops of your breasts, sinking his teeth in as he presses his tip to your entrance and it’s like everything clicked and you immediately push his chest back.

“condom,” you blurt. and his face immediately scrunches in disgust.

“no. that’s one of the conditions,” he huffs.

you frown, “well I’m not on birth control, considering I haven’t had sex in like a freakin’ year. you have to give me like a sec to get back on it,” your frown easily turns into a pout. eyes doting up at him, pleading.

it was worse, how you’re clasping your hands together like a begger but he’s just eyeing the way your pretty tits squish together and he can see the bite marks and hickies he left on em. “pleaseeee.”

his jaw locks, head falling back releasing a loud groan. “fine.”

he hates the way you perk up, rolling his eyes as he climbs off you and searches his nightstand drawer for the box of condoms. and you patiently wait like a spoiled princess before he’s kneeling back on the bed, pumping his cock again and rolling the condom on.

of course, he’s spewing curses, “fucking hate these shitty things,” he mutters.

you let him curse the heavens, but when he’s back between your legs, pushing your legs high up on his waist, you’re immediately consumed by him and the slow burn that spreads inside you as he pushes his tip in.

your moan breaks through, whining as he rocks his hips, continuing to push past the tightens, but you’re clenching around him like a fucking seductress, whining even more when he squeezes your thigh in warning. “watch it,” he huffs.

“k-kay,” you pant, lips parting in gentle gasps feeling him go deeper.

this is what he means when he said he’s kinda rough.

he doesn’t wait for you to fully adjust before crashing his lips into yours, tongue greedy as he pushes into your mouth. his knees plant into the bed before he starts thrusting into you, pushing the rest of his thick cock into your tight hole making you grasp his shoulders, nails digging into his muscles as he grunts.

he’s laughing against your lips, pulling back, arms braising himself above you, caging you under him, as he looks you over. “good?” and he was a self righteous prick. full of himself and it definitely stems from how much he’s packing and how you’re holding onto him like a baby koala.

but of course, your sex deprived self is eating it all up, humming and nodding.

you felt so full.

you can feel every vein and ridge of his thick cock, and you almost cursed yourself for not having sex for so long, because how can you have gone a year without this feeling??

but you doubt you’ve ever been stuffed this full. and maybe that’s why you’re whining and moaning when he starts rutting into you, hips snapping against you, grunting in your ear everytime you unintentionally clench around him.

“angh!—feels good!” you whine, grasping his nape, back arching as he continues his relentless pace. shape thrusts leaving your breathless.

“fuck—haah—“ he pants, groaning when your nails dig a bit too deep in his skin, his teeth sink into yours shoulder.

his face and chest are flushed, forehead dripping with sweat as he feels you come undone, and he’s filling the condom with his load before he’s pulling out and rolling on another condom.

you’re still panting, humming in delight when he easily flips you to your stomach pulling your hips back so you’re on your hands and knees.

“you can go again?” but the question was more of statement as he groped your ass, spreading it apart and eyeing your puckering hole. “pussy is still clenching,” he coos, and you’re leaning back, humming in pleasure as you feel the cool air touch your soaked folds.

“yes, more,” you reply, words falling off into a moan when he pushes his cock back into your warmth. your eyes flying open because he reaches much deeper, and he’s slamming into you unapologetically. “angh! haah—“

“good girl, you feel me inside? huh—fuckin’ you just like ya want?”

he’s pounding into you, bruising grip on your waist, before cracking a hand down on your ass just to hear your cute gasp of pleasure.

you’re grasping the sheets, but surprisingly trying to fuck back into him. sukuna bites down on his jaw, trying not to bust, but a deep groan slips when you squeeze his hefty cock again. “fuckin’ slut, tryna squeeze my cock—haah shit!” he grunts, leaning back as he wraps and arm under your waist and lifting you up.

“wha—angh ryo!—“ your eyes are wide as he holds your back against his chest, and you’re arching away in pleasure. “angh—“ you cry as he gropes your tits, pinching your nipples, twisting them between his greedy fingers.

“no sukuna?” he laughs, grunting against your shoulder as he watches your head fall back, whining when he gives your nipple another mean twist.

your mind is scrambled, completely lost to the pleasure, letting him use your body, making you feel every form of pleasure you could’ve ever dreamed off. and it didn’t matter how pathetic your whines got, or how much you came. because he was just manhandling you into another position, biting your lip hard, tongue invading your mouth again, before he’s got a fresh condom on and pummeling into you again and again.

your soft whines turn into sweet cries, and his eyes are dilating in awe, cheeks flushed as your vision blurs. your wet lips part, crying his name over and over. “s’ too much—ryo—please gonna cum—“ and he’s just laughing above you, as if his own abs aren’t clenching from the overstimulation. knocking the wind out of you with each vicious thrust.

his arm is locks around your torso, hugging you against his chest, your back sticking to him as he holds your leg up, fucking mean thrusts into your squelching pussy. heavy balls slapping your ass with every thrust.

“haah—fuck fuck—“ his grunts are just a bit louder than usual, and it was definitely because you’re actually keeping up with him. his lips part, groaning when you clench him again. his fat tip kissing your cervix every thrust, you were practically seeing stars.

“r-ryo—ah—“ you moan, arm coming around his neck, nails digging into his nape as your lips lock with his. and he’s grunting into your mouth, and you’re swallowing it, panting against each other like sex deprived addicts, because you were.

his lips part against your mouth groaning loud as he feels his balls tighten up again, abs flexing against your back, and he’s easily spilling another heavy load into the condom, just as your cumming around him too.

you’re both shaking in pleasure. covered in sweat, and spit, and your cheeks are damp, but you push him back.

his back hits the mattress and you’re grabbing another condom and rolling it on his sensitive cock. he jerks back abs flexing, groaning when you squeeze his base eyeing his flushed skin as you climb on his lap. your hand brushes over the dark hair that covers his base in awe.

“fuckin’ hell, woman,” his head falls back, calloused palms digging into your waist, as you sink down on his chubby cock. your lips part in ecstasy, eyes heavy as you roll your neck back. “think you can ride me?”

you hum, “yeah,” planting your small hands on his large pecs, leaning up, and just that has you shaking above him. shoulders trembling and thighs shaking with overstimulation. fuck, “s’ really big, ryo,” you whine.

his chest shakes a bit at the admission, licking back a wide ass smirk, as you adjust again, even after being fucked multiple times by this fat cock.

sukuna doesn’t complain, it gives him a second to catch his breath, staring up at you like you saved him from drowning in an ocean full of lazy ass women that just go two rounds of vanilla ass sex then pass out.

but you. he grunts when you start moving, tits bouncing every time you fall back down on his cock, and the squelching is obscene and lewd. your lips part in pleasure as you start moaning.

“just like that, mmm fhuck—“ sukuna spreads his legs further apart, tilting his hips up just to feel you clench even more, and his eyes darken at the sight of his cock poking your tummy. “fuck, ridin’ my dick like a fuckin’ slut,” he snickers, choking back another throaty moan, because you weren’t even fully riding his cock, you were only coming up a bit before clapping back down, whining like a touch starved baby. “cmon, yeah fuck—you can go faster, babe,” his hand comes down on your ass, grabbing a handful, helping.

“s’ hard,” you whine, trying to keep up the pace he’s setting, his biceps flex everytime he lifts your ass up, and your mind is going dumb because he looks so hot grunting under you. his chest was sticky with sweat, and his tatted cheeks flush, and he wouldn’t stop staring at your pussy.

“you’re on top, do some work,” he snaps his hips up, moan and rough, groaning when you fall forward. “don’t act like a fuckin’ virgin,” he pants.

“mm ryooo,” you whine, “I’m tryin’,” and you try to sit up, your big doe eyes glossy and red with new tears. and you’re practically numb trying to ride his pulsing cock, and it only sets him off again. thrusting up, knocking you forward. “ahh!”

“not tryna hard enough, woman,” his hand cracks down on your ass again as punishment, grabbing a handful of the flesh before thrusting up again and again. you’re crying into his neck, trying to sit up, but he’s ruthless, panting and grunting like animal, nor giving you a chance to take control of the pace. “such a fucking crybaby.”

“i-im n-not,” you cry again, lips parting in pleasure as he plants his feet on the bed, holding your ass up as he fucks up into your pussy. the squelching is beyond lewd, your moans can’t even be replicated in porn, they were so fucking sweet and sexy.

his mind was numb, grunting with pleasure as your pussy drenched his thighs and pelvis in a sticky mess, huffing out another groan when your lips find his in a messy kiss.

you whine against his lips, drooling into his mouth as he licks it up. cheeks flushed and eyes lidded as he watches your lazy gaze on him.

“spit in my mouth,” he rasps out.

you whine, not even disgusted but so fucked out that it makes you blush, holding his neck, nails scratching his jaw as his mouth opens. and just seeing your lab partner panting underneath you, had you loosening sanity and letting a fat glob of spit hit his tongue.

he swallows, blissed out when your wet lashes kiss your cheeks.

“ngh fuck, you’re so good,” he grunts, entire body lit, ruthless in his thrusts, letting you sob into his neck, enjoying every bit of it as you moan his name over and over. “so good, tight ass haah pussy taking my dick,” you tremble on top of him, tits pressed against his slick chest, cunt squeezing him to death as you cum with another muffled moan your vision goes white, trembling on top of him.

“fuckk— gonna cum,” his head falls back, hand slapping your ass again as his thrusts grow sloppier chasing is growing high.

you whimper in his ear, sighing his name over and over, “feels good, ryo, haah,” you pant, wet lips brushing the crown of his ear sending chills down his spine, face bright red, grip tight on your ass until he’s thrusting deep inside you, head lolling back, adam’s apple throbbing as he cums undone.

and maybe he was right, you think. your pussy clenches around his pulsing chub thinking how much he’d have filled you up if it wasn’t for the condom.

and a primal part of you wanted his heavy load to paint your walls and coat you in his scent. especially when his sweaty musk is invading your nose and making you even more dizzy as he lazily grinds his hips up, milking most of his white cum into the stupid rubbery protection.

“could’ve filled this pussy,” he mutters under his breath, kneading your ass, and you can’t even respond because you were thinking exactly that.

you pant softly against his chest, mind slowly regaining some senses as his legs slide back down on the bed, heaving underneath you.

you’re both enjoying the calm, neither of you jumping for a nth round, so he carefully lifts you up by your ass, letting his cock fall out, pulling the condom off and tying it. all while your face is still buried in his neck, hugging him close.

he tosses the condom on the floor, hand falling on your back rubbing lazy strokes up and down your back. he would never admit out loud, but if you’re still jumping to go another round, he’ll have to make due with his fingers and tongue, until his cock jumps alive again, because right now, he might faint if he feels your tight cunt squeeze his cock again.

“how do you feel?” you finally mutter. voice a little hoarse from your moans, and crying.

“good.”

your lips part, but instead you carefully slide off him, sighing once your back hit the soft mattress, chest rising and falling in even steady breaths.

sukuna glances over at you, eyeing you for the thousandth time that night. especially now, because he was ruthless, the dark bruises on your waist was a sign of that, along with the bite marks all over your tits and neck, and he didn’t even want to imagine what your ass looked like.

obviously it didn’t help when you kept moaning that stupid nickname his brothers call him, followed by harder harder. how the fuck was he not supposed to go harder then?

your arm covered your face, still managing to catch your breath, and he’s sitting up on his arms, watching you closely, eyes narrowed.

“don’t tell me that wasn’t good?” he manages to speak. and now all he’s expecting is for you to stumble up and out of his room because he was too rough—

“no,” you sigh, dropping your arm on your stomach, eyes a little damp from your crying earlier. “it was really good,” you blush internally, the way his sculpted face was looking at you, his dark eyes boring into yours, tongue peaking out to wet his lips a bit.

you would fucking jump his bones in a second, but you knew you were way past your limit. “never had sex like that…. worth the wait,” you admit.

he snorts, “was i too rough?” he checks the marks on you again, almost feeling bad about what he did to his poor lab partner, even if it made his cock stir a bit to know he’s the first to mark you up in a long time.

“you were rough,” you nod, caressing a hand gently on your stomach, almost missing how it bulged when he was inside you. “but i liked it. pretty sure i kept asking for more,” you laugh, embarrassed.

he licks his teeth nodding, “yeah, it definitely shows you haven’t been fucked in awhile.”

“hey!” you slap his arm, and he laughs. “don’t make fun of me.”

“kinda hard not too when you kept crying begging for more,” he laughs even more, and you’re flushing, lips parting in bewilderment. scrambling for a reply.

“I wasn’t crying!” you shriek.

he snorts, rough palm coming to your cheek, swiping under your eye collecting your tears. “what’s this then,” he shoves his thumb in your face, and you scoff loud, rolling you eyes.

“those are just eye tears, like when your eyes water when you yawn,” you shake your head.

“Pfff—“ sukuna barks out another hefty ass laugh, his entire chest shaking at your stupid ass excuse.

“ha ha ha,” you sarcastically join him, rolling your eyes again, ignoring the way your cheeks sting, because why did he look even more attractive when he’s laughing like this, especially when his eyes would close, hand actually on his belly as he laughs. “whatever,” you mutter.

“yeah yeah,” he slowly calms down, sighing from the laugh, as his hand lays on your waist.

“pretty sure the bruising will be gone in a few days,” he examines, large palm skimming over it.

“bruises??”

your body immediately on alert as you sit up. looking down at where he’s touching your waist, and you can already see the hand prints start to darken. “what the hell??” you shriek.

the man just shrugs, “what’d you expect?”

you’re speechless. “well….” his hand continues to hold you, before pushing you to your side, “what’re you—“

but his hands are already on the globes of your ass, humming at his previous words. “yeah a week for ‘em all to heal,” he squeezes the flesh, making you jump.

“hey,” you huff, burying your cheek against the pillow frowning up at him.

his brow quirks, “what? you mad at me?”

“no,” you mutter.

he scoffs, hand sliding back to your waist, not even fully realizing how attached he is to your body — he can’t seem to let go, even when you’re letting go of your pity attitude, to actually lick your lips and speak.

“so…was it a good test round?” you’re the one to ask. heart hammering because if you can have him as your fuck buddy for the rest of the year, then you’re set! no more grumpy attitude, no more sweet treats when you’re feeling stressed, no more pent up sexual frustration.

“i thought so,” he hums, “you?”

you nod immediately, unashamed how eager you are to lock this agreement.

“so?” you bite your cheek, almost like you’re trying to read his mind before asking, “so we have an agreement?”

he snorts, itching his chin as he nods. “yup, I’m game,” he smirks.

your hum is high pitched, nodding like this was the best gift anyone has ever given you, and if you were being completely honest, it was. at the time.

sukuna finally gets up, arms stretching overhead, rolling his shoulders back as he drudges over to the bathroom. “just so you know,” he starts, “I’m just being nice because we have an agreement,” he comes back with a warm towel. “I’m not fucking cleanin’ every girl i fuck,” his clarification has you nodding sitting back on your arms as he spreads your legs, cleaning you up. and you’re blushing, loving this agreement already.

“you should though, it’s nice,” you say.

he scoffs, shaking his head, thumb brushing over your cute heart. “fuck no.”

you sigh, like a disappointed mother, but laugh lightly when he rolls his eyes at you.

“what time is it?” you glance around for a clock.

“almost four,” he answers, handing you your phone as he tosses the towel aside, picking up the used condoms strewn across the bed and floor.

you’re sitting up fully now, hugging one of his pillows as you scroll through your messages. shoko and utahime texted you a few hours ago asking where you were, and a few minutes later saying they were gonna leave and that gojo saw you leave.

you check a few other messages, before going back and replying to them. a short apology for not responding and that you were fine. along with a dumb reaction pic of someone bitting their lip, implying well…you finally got laid.

“you good?” sukuna comes back out, now wearing loose pajama pants, holding a tee shirt in one hand.

you hum, glancing up, briefly before checking the time again.

“yeah, i should probably head home now, needa catch the next train.”

“just stay the night,” sukuna casually shrugs, tossing you his shirt. “there’s no classes tomorrow, just leave in the morning.”

“for real?” your cheeks sting smiling at his kindness.

“yeah, you probably can’t even fuckin’ walk properly, I’m not gonna let y’ take the damn subway at night,” he rolls his eyes at the stupidity. “and don’t be saying shit to other people because i kick every girl out.”

you stifle a snort, humming.

“so kind!” you cheer, throwing his shirt on and quickly getting under the covers. sukuna scoffs, itching his chest as he checks his phone yawning before climbing in beside you.

“don’t fuckin’ kick me, brat,” he warns, and you just hum again, rolling to your side, back facing each other, and knocking out immediately.

surprisingly enough, when the sun rises that morning and a loud knocking resounds in the room. you don’t feel embarrassed, or anxious. instead you just yawn into the comfy sheets, not wanting to fully wake up.

but the loud banging outside sukuna’s door was making you both stir in annoyance.

“hi bitch, you gonna get up for practice? coach said one more practice before the break!” gojo’s yelling doesn’t stop, shaking the locked doorknob. “hellooooo!!!”

“I heard you, okay, fuck off!” sukuna yells, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face in the pillow, and gojo mutters something pity before disappearing.

“you were fuckin’ kicking all night,” he grumbles, and you turn over, eyes heavy as you rub the sleep away.

“nuh uh.”

“yuh huh,” he turns his head to face you. eyes narrow. “fucking shoved me off the bed.”

“I’m a peaceful sleeper,” you tsk.

“peaceful my ass,” he scoffs, sitting up with another full body yawn.

and it was like second nature, the both of you seemed to be on the same page, just like how you guys are in lab. he lets you take his shirt, along with a clean pair of old sweats he never wears, pulling the drawstrings tight so it doesn’t slip. and you wash your face and use his mouthwash, before tying your disheveled hair up.

“you wanna fuck later today?” sukuna says casually, throwing shit into his duffle.

and you can’t help the way your face lights up, “yeah!” making the man snort.

“fucking weirdo,” he laughs, opening the door for you. and you were thankful you didn’t have a crazy ass limp, it was there, but subtle enough not to address as you followed sukuna downstairs.

it was a bit too casual for the both of you that neither of you batted an eye when gojo and geto gawked at your appearance behind the pink haired brute. you had that post-sex glow, eyes bright, lips pulled into a soft smile.

“hello??” gojo’s eyes are so wide, his piercing blue orbs almost take over the room. “you were the one he was fucking last night?!”

your face stings, almost forgetting the party was existing simultaneously as you were getting railed.

“shoko did mention how her and hime were tryna set you up,” geto notes, realizing why now. “you needed to get laid?”

“look at her face? what the fuck?? your attitude was so crappy last night, but after you get dicked it’s all smiles?!” gojo shrieks.

“my attitude wasn’t crappy last night,” you huff, “I had a good time. It was a fun party.”

“yeah sure,” gojo scoffs, crossing his arms. “started a dumbass dance battle for you.”

“thanks satoru,” you smile. and he just rolls his eyes, pity as always.

you fix your purse on your shoulder, your clothes from last night in a target bag.

“what you have nothing to say,” gojo tsks at the tattooed man, he just shrugs casually.

“not really,” he yawns, until your hand suddenly grabs his shirt when he reaches the bottom step, pulling him back as you whisper in his ear.

geto and gojo both raise a brow.

even more curious when sukuna barks out a laugh, pulling away. “yeah yeah okay,” he brushes you off and you hum, cheeks tinged a bit from what you’d said.

“what?” gojo blurts.

“none of your business,” you huff, waving a hand over your shoulder bidding the boys farewell as you disappear out the door.

gojo is already on his feet grabbing his duffle. “what’d she say, man?”

sukuna just snorts, shaking his head. “stupid ass shit.”

“i wanna know though,” gojo whines, “did she say not to talk about it? does she have weird kinks? are you gonna sleep with each other again?”

“yeah later today,” sukuna yawns, heading into the kitchen to grab a celsius. leaving gojo and geto even more lost.

and the entire walk to practice gojo was trying to guess what you’d whispered to sukuna. even geto curiously guessed a few times, but sukuna just put his headphones on flipped them off. please don’t tell them i haven’t had sex in year, i for real won’t hear the end of it. sukuna laughs again at what’d you’d whispered.

you guys didn’t talk about whether you’re gonna tell anyone. or how long this thing is gonna go for. is it problem if he tells them you guys have a friends-with-benefits thing going? the last thing sukuna would want is any confusion.

so when he’s texting you to come over later that day, and easily tugs you up to his room, unbothered by the looks gojo and geto shoot his way. already undressing you and fucking you with a condom (sigh), is when he voices some more conditions.

“y’r okay if i tell the guys we just fuck, right?” he pants over you, humming in pleasure when you gasp, his cock hitting your sweet spot.

“y-yeah, angh! i told shoko an’ hime already,” you whine.

“shit, for real?” he grunts, glancing down at his fat cock stretching you open with each mean thrust.

“yeah! angh yesyes—“ you’re already cumming, and sukuna can’t help his chest from swelling.

it’s not new being praised in bed, but it’s slightly more validating coming from someone who got fucked so rough last night, and still showed up in his bed the next day. any sane person would want a few days before riding that same mean horse.

but you’re here. under him again. letting him go just as hard as he pleases. eyes filling up with tears again, and his cock is swelling even more.

“angh!” you gasp, the one he still hadn’t gotten used too, the softness going straight to his pulsing cock. “r-ryo haah s’ getting big—“

your moan breaks off, lips melding with his as you gasp, feeling him press a hand behind your back, arching you into his chest, as he hits deeper, kissing your cervix.

after another round, you’re panting against his shoulder, both of you catching your breath as your phone buzzes.

“yeah?” you croak out, listening to utahime ramble on, before ending with you should come over. and you hum, telling her you’ll be there in thirty.

“leaving?” sukuna watches you sit up, smirk pulling on his lips when you pause for a second to gain some feeling in your shaky legs.

“yeah, gonna sleep over at hime’s place,” you wobble to the bathroom, cleaning yourself off, before waddling back to the bedroom, sukuna is still lazing on his bed, arm behind his head as scrolls through his phone.

“should we set an end date for this?” you ask, your voice slightly softer as you pick your panties up off the floor. eyes hesitant to look at him, not wanting to pressure him—

“your call, I’m good till whenever,” sukuna shrugs, itching his sweaty chest. and it takes him aback seeing your dazzling eyes all bright and happy. “you needa stop doin’ that,” he snorts.

“smiling?”

“no, acting like i fucking bought you a puppy.”

“but this is better than a puppy!” you clasp your hands together in gratitude. sliding your panties on.

he scoffs, loud, rolling his eyes. “when’re you gonna take the birth control.”

you roll your eyes, “soon, no rushing me. it’s my body.”

“yeah,” he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, waving you off. “pretty sure you were whining in my ear earlier when i said i could stuff my cum in ya if it wasn’t for the shitty condoms.”

you tch, cheeks stinging, “I’ll let you know when we can toss the condoms.” your hand presses against one cheek, even more bashful feeling how hot it is.

sukuna bites down, jaw clenching and hand flexing because you look so fucking cute pouting at him like that. heat spreads across his chest feeling it twist inside him when your eyes find his again. his throat goes dry when your glossy bitten lips part.

“I’ve never not used condoms before….but uh… i do wanna know what it feels like…for you to cum in me.”

shit.

it was the wording. it was the expression. it was the cute ass pout. it was the way your eyes were avoiding his. all of it just made what you said a thousand times more lewd and intimate, and he couldn’t help the way his face went red and a hot jolt went straight to his cock.

“yeah, whatever,” he shoos you, rubbing the itch in his chest as he stands up. “go before ya miss your bus.”

you hum, blushing just a bit when you see him try to cover his cock, before grabbing your bag. “cya!”

it was funny. honestly. your dynamic just went hand and hand. like two peas in a pod. without even trying.

the week of spring break, you can say, was one of the best weeks in a long time. it’s like you’d never had sex before sukuna.

he was rough and mean, but you didn’t mind it. you actually liked it more and more. and what made it even better was that it was so fucking easy. you guys didn’t even fuck everyday, the second half of the week he said he was going back home, and luckily your sister was able to visit in that time.

neither you or sukuna can blame yourselves for itching to see the other again. it was definitely an addiction.

but it was just sex.

and yet, the week back from break, sukuna noticed you sitting on the campus courtyard with an unfamiliar man. his jaw clenched momentarily, hand freezing around his lighter as his eyes narrowed. you leaned over to brush some leaf off the guy’s hair still speaking—

“hey,” his low voice startled you, turning around to see his cold expression, hand deep in his pockets, while the other held his unlit cigarette, eyeing the man across from you.

“hey!” you seem to immediately light up, not that he notices a difference in your attitude. you always act like that.

you don’t notice the intimidating expression he’s giving your companion. “this is zain, my cousin. zain, this is ryomen, he’s my lab partner in bio chem,” you easily introduce the two, unphased when sukuna’s shoulders seem to relax and he greets the man with a head nod. uninterested.

neither of you think twice about that interaction again. even if your cousin does.

but maybe things start to get confusing a few weeks later. when the frat decides to throw a party for the start of the warm weather.

you’re arriving a little late, having to submit your paper before coming. utahime and shoko were already there when step up the sidewalk, body freezing when you hear shouting.

you turn at the familiar voice.

glancing over your shoulder, eyes narrowing when you spot sukuna across the street. “what the..” you step forward, trying to get a look at who he’s shouting at. probably one of the poor pledges. but instead you see a woman. dark short hair, and sunken eyes—

“how many fucking times do i have to say it!” you hear him shout.

your hand grasps your bag a little tighter. you’d never seen him that angry. his back was heaving, arms flailing as the woman spoke. you couldn’t hear what she was saying only sukuna’s loud response. “fuck off before I fucking call the cops for trespassing,” he snaps.

eyes crazed with anger when he turns back to the house, then notices you. your lips part in shock, registering a bit too late that you’d been so obviously eavesdropping, and it doesn’t help either that sukuna is heading straight towards you.

“hey-“

“how long were you listening?” he barks, eyes dark, gripping your bicep to pull you away from the sidewalk, and on the frat’s property.

“not long,” you shake your head. and he’s scrutinizing your reply. “for real, i just got here and noticed you…shouting.”

“shouting what?” he snaps back.

your face was hot, heart hammering with anxiety. “uh something about how many times, then fuck you,” you repeat his words, “I didn’t hear what the other person said, it was too quiet…for real.”

your eyes plead with his, arm flexing in his grasp before he ultimately loosens his grip. his jaw locks, glancing over his shoulder like he’s being watched. but turns back, rubbing his nose.

“are you okay?” you’re cautious, voice low. “who was that?”

“no one.”

chills run down your spine. his expression stern, cold, jaw locked, and brows knit. but you nod, hand wrapping around his wrist gentle, but hesitate. “let’s go inside then.”

he doesn’t reply, but he lets you lead him back into the frat. drunken college students dancing, and music blasting. he notices the way you try to sneak a peak at the woman when you’re at the door, but you couldn’t find her.

“keep walking,” he grunts.

your eyes flick over to him, a flash of confused concern washing over you, but you turn around, keeping a grip on his wrist. his hand eventually leaves yours, and goes to your waist, his lips coming over your shoulder, and breath fanning against your ear.

“upstairs,” his voice was gruff, the underlying anger still evident as he squeezes your waist, before adding, “if you’re down right now?”

your throat goes dry, heart hammering. “yeah, let’s go.”

but your mind wanders off to that woman again. you weren’t doing it on purpose, but it was hard not to think about the way sukuna was shouting. his hands were balled into fists, and he was practically heaving by the time he turned around.

if you didn’t know him, you would’ve ran away.

he looked terrifying.

“fuck—“ his abs clench, drilling a hole in your cervix with every sharp thrust from behind. your back arched and nails digging into the sheets. until you’re both climaxing.

his low groan filled your ear, lips parted as you catch your breath.

it helped that you were exhausted so you didn’t question the way he was practically hugging you, pressing his face in your nape.

“was I too rough?” he mutters, exhausted.

you shake your head, exhaling softly. “jus’ a little,” you admit.

sukuna carefully pulls out, tossing the used condom on the floor, before falling beside you. his tatted arm wraps around your waist, pulling you against his chest, spooning you so close you can’t help but sink into the sheets.

“ryo?”

he grunts, warm breath fanning against your bare shoulder.

“are you okay?”

your heart beats quickly, eyes half lidded as you look at window beside the bed, nail picking at the sheets. sukuna shifts behind you, pressing his leg between yours, hand splayed on your belly holding you closer to his chest, if that’s even possible.

“s’ nothin’, so drop it,” his tone is cold, warning you not to cross. and you hate how it makes your chest tighten up. your lips part again, but only a quiet hums comes out. small hand closing over his, thumb brushing his cracked knuckles trying desperately to fall asleep.

but the uneasiness doesn’t go away, especially when sukuna ignores the way his phone is going off like crazy.

coach shithead — answer the fucking phone asshole!! [11:28pm]

next chapter || series masterlist

[a/n] — so their will be a second chapter, and maybe third, and maybe more, and some plot and some angst and some more smuuuut — i am just a mere girl w a new hyper fixation on frat!kuna and i humbly submit to it now, the plot won’t be too overwhelming, obv the focus will be on the tension b/w sukuna + reader :p

side note: i honest to god forgot where that header is from, I ss it like a year ago and it’s just been living in my drafts till now. I’ll look for it later tho!!

[uzugeto-deactivated20260405]

★ HELL’S KITCHEN DIVINE JUSTICE

your marriage had grown stale, with you buried underneath case load after case load and your husband often times not even bothering to come home at night. you feel like he’s hiding something from you but the last thing you expect him is to be the vigilante hunted down by the police.

★ PAIRING: daredevil! hiromi higuruma x lawyer! fem reader

★ CONTENT WARNINGS: 18+ content, MDNI. marital problems so light angst i’d say. mention of blood and injuries. makeup sex (kinda?) boob play. face sitting and nose mentions (c’mon it’s higuruma). panty sucking (??) unprotected p in v. doggy. cleanup + some aftercare. use of pet names.

★ WORD COUNT: 6.9k

★ JADE’S NOTES: used to have the biggest crush on black suit matt murdock anyways happy reading and i’d love to hear your thots :p

part of jade’s cinematic universe

"it feels like i don't know who you are anymore."

the words settled like a dead weight into the beige-painted room of your marriage counselor's office.

the session hadn't even formally started, a perfectly manicured finger pausing in mid air against the small, ticking timer on her desk. it indicated that only a minute had passed since you'd taken a seat on the overwhelmingly bright lime colored futon.

all your therapist had done was ask: "what brings you into my office today?" and that was the first thing you'd come to admit, the thought haunting you with every night that you spent in bed alone.

with each night you pretended to not hear him opening your window at the dead of night, stalking into your shared room despite each of his movements the same as a mouse skittering somewhere they shouldn’t. pretending like you didn't hear his breath catching in his throat, the man tempted to call you out on your lie, before ultimately turning his back.

there's only a few inches of distance between you and hiromi, a distance that could easily be broken if either one of you so much as dared to extend your hand out. but it feels more like a barrier extended multiple feet tall, a barrier that neither one of you is insistent on breaking. your husband's laying right next to you and you've never felt more alone.

pretending was easier than acknowledging. silence was better than arguing. a thought that the two of you had begrudgingly come to accept as the new norm of your marriage.

your therapist cleared her throat, pressing the timer to begin counting the hour down. the sound of pen scratching against paper filled the silence that your husband couldn't bring himself to break.

tic tic tic.

scratch.

tic tic tic.

you wonder if your therapist's writing down gibberish—anything so she wouldn't have to be faced with the awkwardness that seeped out of the room in thick waves. if she's writing about how you chose to address hiromi directly instead of saying i feel like i don't know my husband anymore.

if she's writing about how your marriage was over from the moment you stepped in the door.

before you find yourself down a rabbit hole of what she could've written in these past thirty seconds, she pushes her glasses up and looks over at you directly. clearing her throat before she asks, "so tell us, why are you feeling this way?"

us—you're suddenly reminded hiromi's sitting right next to you, clinging onto every word that left your mouth much like the woman in front of you. your clammy hands clasp together in front of you, thoughts coursing through your head at a million miles per hour.

"i am feeling this way because—” you take a pause, racking your brain. because of, what? because of everything? that would only lead to a barrage of more follow up questions.

after what feels like an eternity of the two of them gawking at you for an answer, you manage to build all the thoughts coursing through your head into one single sentence, “i am feeling this way because i used to read my husband with ease, i used to know what he wanted to say before he said it.

i know how he likes to drink his coffee, just black. i know what kind of jacket he prefers to court—double breasted with a peak lapel. but lately.. it’s like i don’t know who’s stepping through the door anymore.”

if only you knew.

another few moments of pen scratching against paper, another few moments of pretending like you don’t see hiromi staring from the corner of his eye. “thank you for admitting this. i know it can’t be easy. now i have to ask, when did you start noticing these changes in your marriage?”

the rest of the following hour ticks by painfully slow, with you filling in the blanks from your perspective and hiromi sitting in complete silence.

"okay, next week, i'd really like to hear things from your perspective, hiromi," your therapist speaks up with a calm smile, setting the notepad down. she stands up, crossing across the room to a drawer where a variety of pamphlets decorate the space.

all from self help guides to journaling advice, she pulls out two slips of papers. passing them over to you and hiromi. ‘how to communicate with your partner again! 50 conversation starters guaranteed to work’ written in big, bold letters smacks you right in the face when you start reading through it.

“i want the two of you to practice talking to each other again,” she speaks up, gesturing over to you, “i noticed you took the initiative with our session today. while nothing’s wrong with that, i think the two of you could benefit from expressing how you each feel in this relationship.”

—

expressing how you feel. what a load of bull. the drive back to the firm is filled with even more silence, radio playing some generic song neither one of you bothered to reach out to switch. the atmosphere’s filled with the sound of cars honking, people rushing by to catch a last minute taxi, police sirens swerving through narrow gaps in traffic.

“are you going to be coming home for dinner?” you question once the car comes to a stop, turning to look over at hiromi. the car sits on idle, his fingertips tapping against the steering wheel. when did having a simple conversation become so awkward?

he reaches out for the piece of paper the therapist handed out earlier, tired eyes scanning through the list. trying to find what conversation starter could be plugged into this situation. a vein in your forehead twitches at the sight,

“i acknowledge how you feel, honey,” hiromi starts off, the apologetic smile on his face when he looks up to meet your annoyed expression fading away into a small frown, “and i recognize your efforts, but i don’t think i’ll be showing u-” you slam the car door before he gets a chance to finish.

hiromi doesn’t pull out of the spot just yet, watching as you headed up the stairs. you don’t turn to look back at him, not even once. “my god,” an agitated mutter leaves his lips, reading through the list once more before shaking his head. he doesn’t realize how long he’s been with the engine running, only pulling out of the space when a loud honk rings behind him.

there’s a manila folder on your door step when you step up to the office—no returning address, nothing to trace back to. no kind of note either, but you know it’s meant for you. daredevil. he’s been dedicating himself to sending little envelopes to your office—no signs of concrete evidence (that’d end up being inadmissible anyways), but enough trails to where finding said evidence was a cakewalk.

this week had been a statement of bank records linking an offshore account to one of fisk’s buildings. it was something, that with enough pressure and persistence, you could get something out of. your heels scruff against carpet as you make your way further into your office, plopping down on a rusted leather chair. a pile of paperwork waits for you as soon as you sit down, from nda’s to settlement offers made by fisk.

an elderly woman walks into the office half an hour later, her head swishing from side to side to see if she was in the right place. that much was a given, you supposed. you only had second-hand furniture around the place—wooden chairs chipped at the ends and worn with age, a coffee maker that ended up burning the beverage half the time, and a fax machine that no one used anymore.

it was easy to think the building was abandoned, in all honesty. you clear your throat, drawing her attention to the open door at the end of the hall. she steps into your office with a stack of papers in hand and a tupperware container filled to the brim in empanadas.

“hi, welcome in,” you greet her with a smile, pulling the chair back for her before taking a seat once more. the woman takes a seat in front of you, her hands resting against her lap. “what can i do for you today?”

her brows furrow. "pensé qué había alguien que hablara español.” you didn’t need to be fluent to hear the disappointment clinging onto her voice.

"that would be my…” you snap your fingers, willing the word to come to you, “esposo, but if you need someone that speaks punjabi, i'm here.”

(hiromi’s attempts at teaching you spanish had proven unsuccessful throughout the years.

white flurries of snow covered the pavement in a thick white layers, every other student in the library already gone to their dorm for the night. orange hues illuminated the path back to your dorm, higuruma walking right next to you and listening to every word.

you were going on about a failed test in your foreign language class, complaining about how hard punjabi had been to pick up. “spanish’s been easy, it’s just the gendering that gets me all messed up,” hiromi speaks up when you’re finally done, air leaving his lungs in thin wisps of smoke.

a groan leaves your lips in agreement, “don’t even get me started on the gendering. i might just have to go to the tutoring center.”

the two of you walk in relative silence, boots crunching against the ground underneath. it’s a peaceful kind of quiet, one that makes you feel comfortable without the overwhelming need to try to fill it.

“how do you say lawyers in spanish?” you suddenly question, turning to look over at him. a snowflake chose to land on his nose at that moment, your finger reaching up to lightly brush it off. a small flush makes itself visible up his neck, his cheeks dusted in a light pink.

every action you took made his heart do a little spitter sputter, almost in disbelief you seemed to like him.

then he remembers you’d asked him a question. “lawyers,” hiromi takes a moment to pause, rummaging through the catalogues in his brain after frying it off with reading review after review and cans of red bull, “oh, abogados.”

“we’re gonna be el grande avocados!” you exclaim, gesturing to an imaginary title. it’s easy to imagine something big, something grand with him. an office where you could solely do pro bono cases, where you didn’t need anything to but a simple ‘thanks’ to be fulfilled.

where bills and building maintenance and rent didn’t exist.

a laugh bubbled out of his throat, the sound a sweet melody in the midst of car horns and police sirens, “that’s not spanish, that’s fruit baby.”

your nameplate still reads avocado at law. you didn’t think that you’d be the only fulfilling this dream, though.)

“but i can take a recording of your testimony and have him transcribe it,” you assure her, pulling out your trusty tape recorder from storage (your drawer). a cloud of dust leaves the surface, a sign of how long it’s been since its last use.

the woman gives you what you could only describe as the most strained smile you’ve ever seen, clearing her throat before starting to speak to the recorder. her voice cracks during certain parts, a couple parts you could pick up—fisk, 150 grand, trash apartment. you give her a pack of tissues before she leaves your office, accepting her empanadas with a warm smile and a gracias that came out sounding like grassy ass.

yet another example of how your husband was neglecting even his work at this rate. you’re not sure when’s the last time you’ve seen him at the office for more than half an hour, and each time you do, he seems to be on edge. like he’s aching to leave, waiting for the right moment to make his grand exit.

the rest of the day is filled with even more tenants coming in with their suits towards the building owner, each one showing images of apartments that were less than livable. mold covered the walls in thick clouds, asbestos found in blood work brought in by the tenants, one who’s child has been affected with lead poisoning.

it’s more than enough to get a formal complaint started up. if only you could get some help to deal with a class action suit like this. a quiet huff leaves your lips, resigning yourself to spending most of your night cooped up in your office.

—

the fluorescent billboard in front of your apartment building’s already painting the room in a deep crimson hue when you arrive, pale moonlight striking through the glass windows. you plop your briefcase onto the couch before trudging your way into your bedroom, the exhaustion of the day finally starting to wear down on your body.

there’s no point in making dinner for one person, you’ll call in for takeout sometime later. and while most people leave their job as soon as they shut their office door, you're flickering through the different tv channels. trying to see if any more reports of wilson fisk have made the nightly news.

it’s nothing interesting other than reports of the stock market, of a robbery gone wrong, of daredevil intervening in some kind of drug trade. “the masked vigilante appears to have been spotted in the scene around eight p.m., stopping a large cargo boat allegedly carrying kilos of cocaine…” you let the news play in the background, picking up one of the books in your shelf.

zoning law and practice, eighth edition volume one. you need as much as you can get when it comes to going up against fisk and his expensive team of lawyers.

a shadow appears from the corner of your eye. at first, you play it off to exhaustion. to some tree swaying in the wind, some bird that flew too close to your window. you don’t think too much of it, you live on the second floor. another section gets highlighted and annotated.

then you hear it. a latch coming loose, a silhouette making itself visible. the highlighter in your hand falls onto the bed next to you, painting your covers in a light yellow shade. a man plops onto your bedroom floor in the middle of the night. a man staining blood with each inch he moved, a man holding a crowbar in a deathly grip.

all of your senses fly out the window.

a loud scream erupts from your throat at the sight of the intruder making their way through your window, slinking onto the floor. a couple lights flicker on from the apartments beside you, neighbors surely waken from the ruckus. still, you scramble to grab the first weapon you can find to defend yourself.

the high heel scattered on the floor? (that you swore you’d pick up tomorrow) no.

the waterproof rabbit vibrator you kept in the top drawer of your night stand? heavens no.

hell, even your house keys? not even that.

your weapon of choice in this case happened to be your eighth edition thousand page leather-bound book full of new york’s zoning laws.

it was enough to give the intruder a concussion and enough to leave your wallet mourning the damages after the fact.

mentally preparing yourself, you’re about to toss the book. holding it over your head when the intruder chooses to slide the black mask over their head. your eyes nearly pop out of your sockets when you see who it is, book held up in midair.

"you said—" hiromi chooses that moment to collapse onto the floor, hand clasped around his bleeding abdomen and breathing ragged, "—you didn't know me. this is who i am."

you blink once, twice, even three times. laughter bubbles straight from the depths of your chest, your head flying back at the absurdity of the situation. hiromi’s not laughing, you quickly come to realize. you pinch yourself only to find out this isn’t some sort of dream, isn’t some sort of sick prank that your husband’s decided to play on you.

you’re faced with the reality that your husband is daredevil.

you don’t only see the big bad daredevil whose mask covered face has been plastered on a corkboard in each new york precinct police department around hell's kitchen with the promise of a hefty reward. the big bad daredevil who’s been painted on news outlets as menacing, as a threat, as an untrustworthy agent working on his own twisted sense of justice.

but you also see the daredevil who’s been helping you out with your case against wilson fisk. the daredevil that’s been protecting women and children from getting harassed in the street late at night, unwilling to kill but eager to incapacitate.

then, you see what’s underneath the mask. what’s underneath the various headlines, what’s underneath the mystique and flashy acrobatics. you see the guy you met in 3l who dared to go against nietzsche’s ethics with a passion, calling his writing ‘half-assed fragments at best.’

you see the guy who’d memorized your coffee order off one study session, never once failing to bring it to your table following after. the guy who didn’t hesitate to go pursue pro-bono cases, accepting payment in the form of baked goods while your classmates pursued prestigious internships defending corporation after corporation.

while everyone else went after the fame and the money that came with being a lawyer, he went to pursue justice for those harmed. whether it be by the own flawed system the guilty have been incarcerated under or the ones needing some sort of defense.

and in that, you see the man that you fell in love with again. the one you planned out the rest of your life with, the one with big dreams who’d made your first nameplate on a napkin and promised to be your partner.

you shove your blankets off your body, hit with the cold air whistling through the crack in the window while you make your way to the bathroom. the first aid kit stowed away in your bottom cabinet is laughable—a couple bandaids and alcohol pads thrown in together in case of a paper cut, in case of a nasty fall.

nothing in case for your husband bleeding out on your floor in the middle of the night.

miraculously enough, you manage to find an old sewing needle your mom left behind on one of her visits and a nylon thread hiromi had borrowed from nurse claire from the floor underneath. you're not sure how many times you've wiped the needle with alcohol, trying to get it properly disinfected before making your way back to the bedroom.

kneeling down beside the bleeding mess that was your husband, you slowly begin to unravel the sopping wet layers covering his upper body. the harsh scent of iron clings to the air, a reminder you need to work faster. and yet, you find yourself hesitating every moment a pained groan leaves his lips.

the layers drop unceremoniously with a heavy plop, staining your ivory floors in a deep, crimson shade. now that there’s nothing in the way, you can see just how profound the slash cutting through his abdomen went. it starts right underneath his pecs diagonally across to just on top of the waistband of his pants.

your fingers trembled, trying to put the thin piece of nylon through the small hole of the needle. you miss once, then you miss again. a frustrated sigh leaves your lips, hiromi’s hands coming to rest against your own. “take a deep breath for me, honey.”

funny how the man bleeding out was the one trying to reassure you. still, you followed the movement of his hands. taking a deep breath in and then exhaling slowly, your shoulders losing tension. you’re able to focus more clearly now, slowly threading the thin string through the hole.

it’s hard to distinguish where the wound starts and where it ends, pieces of flesh sticking out from nearly every direction. but somehow, and some way, you manage to line up the very messy edges you were working on suturing. or at least, trying to.

hiromi tries his best not to flinch, not to move, not to react as you’re threading the needle through his abdomen. “i can hear you thinking, so ask your questions,” he murmurs, the silence starting to become unbearable. you’ve been biting down on your lip for the past five minutes, almost saying something before swallowing it down.

and there were, in fact, about a million questions coursing through your head right now. but the simplest one you could pin point for the time being was: “why?”

why did hiromi higuruma choose to put his life in danger every night? why did he choose to put on a black suit and play vigilante for the streets of new york?

his throat bobbed, watching as your fingers worked on tying the first knot with precision. “i choose to do this because law isn’t always fair. you know as well as i do, that half the people guilty don’t get enough of a punishment that they deserve. and the half that do, don’t deserve that kind of punishment.”

it’s true—you’ve seen more than enough people get locked away for nearly a decade for possession while assaulters don’t even get a slap on the wrist. it’s deplorable. it’s not fair. and yet, “so you’re punishing these people based on your own system of morals?”

“i was in court one day ah,” a pained wince leaves him when you prod in too deep into the flesh, fingers twitching by his sides in an attempt to keep himself still. he clears his throat before continuing, “i was in court one day. a little girl came up to me and begged me to put her dad away, begged me to do something. and all i could do was hear how the jury declared him not guilty.

“i stopped by her house to check up on her a couple days later. her dad was being violent again, yelling in her face for making a case about him. i decided that was the final straw.

“so yes, i am working based on my own morals. if that deserves me being locked up like the cops say, so be it.”

you work in silence for a bit, focusing on tying the knots in front of you as best as possible. “i don’t think you’re a bad guy for what you’ve done. i just wish you would’ve trusted me to let me in on this secret.”

the knots in front of you are nothing short of sloppy despite your best efforts, the stitch job sure to leave a scar by the time it healed. but it was good enough for now, it stopped the bleeding and it closed the wound. with light pressure, you slowly started wiping away the flakes of dry blood with rubbing alcohol.

a sigh leaves his lips, the man slouching against the wall behind him. “i can deal with me being like this, bloody and beaten,” he utters, gaze directed straight into you in a way that makes you shiver, “but i can’t handle the thought of someone hurting you because of me. that’s why i didn’t tell you.”

your breath stutters in your chest, focusing instead on the work in front of you. it’s easier to swipe and soak the pad instead of trying to figure out of your feelings for the time being. you swipe a couple drops of disinfecting ointment onto the wound, putting a bandage onto the skin.

"i'm still mad at you." it comes out quiet. as cold as you’ve been, you’re also.. simply just tired.

you’re so tired of being angry, so tired of feeling tired, so so tired of feeling like you don’t know how to interact with your best friend. as if one wrong word, one wrong pause could simply…set things off and that’d be that.

and yet, you’ve spent so long being angry at your husband that you’re not sure how to feel any other way. if you’ll even feel anything but indifference when the anger subsides.

"i know."

"and this-” you gesture between the two of you, "—doesn't fix anything."

a more resigned, "i know."

but a wistful sigh leaves your lips, your hand coming up to rest on his cheek, "but i really want to kiss you right now. i don’t want to be mad at you."

hiromi’s quick to speak up, one of his hands coming up to rest against your cheek. you can’t help the way you melt into the touch, your anger fading away into something akin to longing. “so don’t be mad at me for right now. be mad at me later, honey. be mad at me all you want, be mad at me for the rest of your life. just don’t be indifferent with me again.”

you lean in slowly, breath caught in your throat. it’s awkward at first—you’re out of practice—fingers twitching by your sides until you firmly place them onto his shoulders in a deathly grip, breath caught in your throat, leaning the same way that he does when you’re close enough.

kissing him feels like trying to unlock something you don’t quite have the key for anymore. like trying to revisit an old home only to realize the numbers on the mailbox aren’t for you anymore, that the decorations hanging up aren’t the same old photos of you as a teen. like it’s nothing more than a distant memory.

the thought of that makes you sick. of your marriage being reduced to nothing but good memories. you try it again, his head tilting to the left and yours to the right. and just like that, every piece falls into place. your fingers loosen their grip, one of your hands moving up to his soft cheek.

it’s tentative, the way that his lips slot against yours. slow. his hands move by his sides like he’s also contemplating a difficult calculus equation before they move to your hold your hips. you move forward, back in an arch and he takes that chance to deepen the kiss.

his tongue traces the seam of your lips before they’re parting for him, his mouth swallowing every moan and shaky breath that left your lips. while the previous kisses had been a reacquaintance, these were much more needy. making up for lost time. his lips trail down, placing a small peck against your jaw. against the side of your neck.

“is this okay?” he whispers, his tongue tracing the sensitive flesh of your earlobe. “yeah,” you assure in a breathy whisper, your head thrown back in bliss. his fingers move down to the hem of your faded graphic tee, pulling it over your head with ease. cold air hits your body all once, a contradiction to how warm hiromi was making you feel.

you’re in nothing but an old bra, a simple beige one you pulled out from the back of your undergarment drawer. and yet, higuruma stares at you like you’re an angel incarnate. like it’s a blessing to even be in your presence. his brain short circuits, hands hovering in the air like he’s unsure.

grabbing his wrists in your own hands, you lead him closer and closer to your chest. “wow,” he murmurs under his breath, his thumbs rolling across your pebbled nipples. hiromi’s fingers squish at the flesh, tracing against your underboob. rubbing against all the little spots he knows you’re sensitive: your nipples, your areolas, your side boob.

placing little kisses where his fingers just were, reverent to you after he’s been neglecting the duty for so long.

your head rolls back, a muffled moan leaving your lips. he’s nothing if not eager to please, “let me take care of you.”

—

“you’re hurt.” you’re with your arms folded across your chest, brows furrowed as you take in the state hiromi’s in your bed. bandaged up and wincing when he moves his stomach too much. you didn’t think when he said let me take care of you, he wanted to jump straight into you sitting on his face.

the harsh look on your face makes his dick twitch.

“and you’re wet. like i said, let me take care of you,” he tries yet again, gesturing for you to come over with two fingers. as stubborn as you can be, there’s really no argument to be made. you pad your way over into the bed, avoiding the bandages on his abdomen before plopping down on his torso.

his hands come up to your hips, holding you in place like this is where you belonged. where you were meant to be.

“if at any point, you start feeling pain or you wanna stop, just let me know.” you jab a finger against his chest. he simply takes the digit, placing a gentle kiss onto the tip.

“yes ma’am.”

you moved up his chest, feeling harsh lines of muscle underneath. your cunt drips onto the thin material of your panties as you get closer and closer to his mouth. plush thighs settle by the sides of his head, nearly acting like earmuffs.

he revels in eating pussy, you know that. higuruma could spend hours in between your legs—jaw slack, fingers drenched and pruned, cheeks flushed, and dick weeping—and he’d still be asking for more. still, you find yourself hovering just above his awaiting mouth. you don’t want to end up hurting him any more than he already is.

his fingers grip onto the flesh of your thighs, leaving indents behind as he pushes your clothed pussy to be right on his lips. “you should know how to listen by now,” hiromi chides, tongue sliding across the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. a shudder runs down your spine, every movement making you hyperaware that your vibrator, well, couldn’t do this.

“i didn’t want you to suffocate,” you retort, fingers flying down to his hair. his lips are everywhere but your cunt, running up your thighs, peppering kisses onto your leg before moving back up again. a scoff leaves his lips, insulted at the insinuation.

“that’d be a dream come true.” his lips latch onto the wet patch of your underwear, sucking onto the thin piece of fabric separating your pussy from him. his tongue traces across your puffy folds, drinking every drop spilling from the lace like he wanted to consume you whole.

drool slips from the corner of his lips, drooping eyes fluttering shut in sheer pleasure while he sloppily makes out with your bottom set of lips. the bridge of his nose rubs against your clothed folds, tip nudging against your twitching clit. your fingers tighten up around his hair, nearly pulling on the roots.

all he does is moan in response.

your underwear’s drenched in a mixture of his drool and your slick when he pulls them off to the side with two, thick fingers. “look at you,” he speaks underneath you, reverence lacing his tone while he speaks to your vagina, “i missed you.”

your cunt clenched around nothing. guess she missed him too.

hiromi spits into your cunt and laps it back up like a man starved, every drop that lands on his tongue akin to the finest ambrosia. his tongue's flat, licking broad stripes from your dripping hole all the way up up to your swollen clit. his lips latch onto the nub, shifting between applying pressure that has you mewling and moaning for more and pressure that has you shifting to get away.

using his hair, you begin to swivel your hips against his awaiting mouth. rubbing your dripping folds across his lips, swiping against him like a card. your lips part into an ‘o’, rubbing your clit against the tip of his nose. “just like that, just use me,” he lets out a muffled groan underneath, his tongue dipping in and out of your hole.

his cock twitched and dripped against the material of his tactical pants, tenting up with each time he pushed his hips up into the air. your hand reaches out, giving him a few palms over the material and rubbing the dampened patch on his pants. “wanna cum already?” you ask in a breathy whisper, your own orgasm building up.

“only worried about you coming,” he responds easily, his own pleasure and needs discarded in favor of satisfying your own. two fingers take over where his tongue was thrusting in and out, pushing through a thin layer of resistance. he slowly began scissoring his fingers in and out, getting you adjusted to the stretch. "f-fuck keep going, just like that, please!"

his fingers curl up about a inch in, pushing against the spongy spot that has you pushing your hips deeper into his face. he switches from suctioning around clit, lips latched onto the nub, to rolling the tip of his tongue around it.

spelling out, ‘I’M SORRY’ in cursive. he mumbles the words like a prayer over and over again against your dripping cunt, almost like he wanted to get it through to you he was indeed, sorry.

“o-ooh fuck!” a strangled moan leaves your lips, thighs squeezing all that much tighter around his head. hiromi's lightheaded—whether that be from your legs squishing his head or from the anticipation of your release. he doesn’t let up, he lets you use him as you please. lets you fuck yourself onto his face, onto his mouth, tug on his hair, everything and anything that you need.

the orgasm that hits you feels like a wave, crashing onto you all at once. your thighs squeeze tighter, the grip on his hair gets tighter, everything gets tighter until SNAP! with one final curl of his fingers against your g-spot, with one final roll of his tongue against your clit, you cum.

clear spurts of your release drip onto his expecting tongue, onto his nose, onto his chin. hiromi doesn’t hesitate to swipe his tongue across his lips, lapping it up like a man finding water in a desert. he pulls out his fingers, immediately putting them in his mouth. swirling his tongue around them to get a taste.

you shift to get off, laying on the side of him. you don’t hesitate to pull him for a kiss when you finally settle down, tasting yourself on his tongue, tasting the remnants of iron from his busted lip, tasting what you’ve been missing. your nails dig into his scalp, your tongue moving against his in complete tandem. there’s no fight to dominate, nothing but just sheer bliss.

your lips move down the side of his neck, pressing a kiss against his jugular that has him resisting the urge to burst already. it’s slow, it’s teasing, the way you move inch by inch down the column of his neck. then you move onto his chest, finding it littered with a couple scars that hadn’t faded yet.

tentatively, your finger traces across the seams of the raised flesh. feeling him tense underneath you. your tongue takes place of your finger, tip tracing across the harsh lines that mark his pecs.

“do you think you deserve to fuck me?” you question, head tilted to the side as you meet his gaze.

hiromi’s quick to shake his head, “god no, i don’t deserve you,” he says it like the sheer notion is ridiculous but he’s quick to add anyways, “but i’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be deserving of you. to be deserving enough to fuck you.”

you shift onto the bed, presenting yourself like the most beautiful of gifts. propping yourself up on your hands and knees, your back in the most sinful arch possible. he’s not moving, not just yet. he’s awestruck, watching your ass jiggle from side to side like a hypnosis.

he snaps out of his trance a few moments later, moving over behind you. he’s quick to pull his pants down, nearly tripping over the pant sleeves when he rushes to kneel over your dripping cunt. his cock slaps against his happy trail when he slides his boxers down, tip flushed a deep shade of pink and dripping drops of precum.

one hand grips around the base, giving himself one tentative pump. you push back against him, shaft rubbing against your puffy folds. slick drips onto the shaft, wetting his cock before he slips inside. you’re still tight when he pushes in, walls tightly clenching around the tip. “there we go, you can take it, sweetheart.”

you nod your head fervently, feeling him stretch you out with each inch he started to push in. he’s thick, stuffing you full with ease. a loud moan leaves your lips when he knocks the air out of your lungs, cock fully snug inside of you and black tuffs of hair against your ass.

he pulls away slowly, your hips moving back to meet his cock. his hands firmly grip on to your hips, keeping you still before he’s pushing back in a deep thrust. it starts off like that, slow and deep, feeling him stuff himself to the brim from this position.

your hips move to meet each of his thrusts, his hands cupping the globes of your ass. “you just need some more, honey?” he questions, his tone gentle even if he was everything but. “more, hiromi, please!”

one of his feet plant onto the bedsheets beside you, the new angle allowing to reach in deeper. to mold your insides to the shape of his cock completely. his hips start pummeling into your sopping cunt, squelch after squelch after squelch ringing in your ears. heavy balls twack against the fat of your ass with each thrust, his own breathing heavy.

your hands give out underneath, your head buried against silk pillows and nails digging into the sheets beside you. his thumb rolls around your clit in quick, tight little circles as your orgasm starts to build up. “c’mon, it’s all yours baby, take it, i’m here,” he whispers in your ear, lips trailing down your back.

your eyes roll to the back of your head, his hips stuttering as he’s close to his own release. hiromi tilts your head over your shoulder, hand on your chin before meeting you for a sloppy kiss. he swallows every shaky moan that leaves your lips, every little i’m cumming baby, i’m gonna cum shiiit that you manage to get out.

you’re a babbling mess when your orgasm rolls over your body like a tidal wave. your pussy clenches tightly around his shaft before your release soaks him completely. he struggles to keep up—you’re tightening up, leaving him barely able to move. his thrusts are swallow and quick, running through the different statutes that come to mind to avoid cumming too soon.

“cum for me hiromi, want to feel you fill me up,” you babble, pushing yourself back onto his cock. his head flies back, unable to keep himself from denying you anything. with two more shallow thrusts and a guttural groan, he’s spurting a thick load that paints your walls white. he doesn’t move just yet—he stays still. feeling your walls snugly around his cock, the air still full of post sex bliss.

his breathing stills, his head coming to your shoulder. he presses one featherlight kiss onto the skin, letting out a relieved sigh. “i love you,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss. it’s the image of tranquility for those two perfect minutes that you sit there still, your heartbeats in tandem.

higuruma pulls off with a loud ‘pop’ echoing across the sex ridden room, dick glistening underneath the moonlight in a mixture of your release and his own cum. he moves across the room, shuffling his way into the bathroom to grab the softest towel he could find.

he lets it run under the sink for a couple seconds before squeezing out the excess, making his way back in between your legs. back home. he swipes the towel in between with care, lightly applying pressure to wipe off the milky trails dripping down your thighs.

“there we go,” he lets out a quiet hum, his lips pressing a small kiss onto your inner thigh, “you did so good for me, my love.” your arms come up, tugging him back to the mattress when he manages to get close enough.

hiromi sets the towel off to the side, making a mental note to pick it up in the morning. he settles back next to you, inching closer like he’s still afraid to test how close you’ll let him. he ends up wrapping one arm around you. “should we call the therapist and say we don’t need her?”

“she’d say this was an unhealthy coping mechanism, husband,” you note, a small laugh leaving hiromi’s lips in response. the air’s light for the first time in months,

your marriage isn’t fixed, not by a long mile. even as you lay there next to him, basking in his warmth, you’re well aware of the fact. but you can’t help how nice it feels to feel like you’re part of a marriage again, to feel like you’ve gotten your best friend and partner back.

first time writing for hiromi so i hope i did him justice 🤞

HIGURUMA SPECIFIC TAGLIST: @backtoyourbed @submissivelittlebella @pinkulraviolencedoll

SERIES TAGLIST: @cherrys-wrld @suguruss1ut @indiewritesxoxo @vanillakirstein @softtashoney @lucy-lulu @yvannaille @nimininini @yarimarjane @bluebell33 @certifiablyunstable @designerpvssy @leonkennedyscums1ut @creamkissed @jenniechuu @melanin90sbaby @heh123321 @bheaniebeans @davienaa @moniless @bootyytickler069 @aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa444 @calebposer @tohru-tales @michiiiisposts @kentokisses @littlemisssatorugirl @itzmeme @tecolote2755 @powerhayakawaa @blushedcheri @dawnsoblivion @nefertiti2003 @kunakizen @lem-hhn @casssiesthings @melonnscrwam @the-midnight-blooms @shadykittyperfection @wavetojulia @partyinthebackroom @mysteryfem @nerosero-requiem @dogggggggblog-kaye @shittypunkbarbeque @kvntybb @b00rants @bamtorriii

[saetyrn9]

venus

Iwaizumi Hajime x f!Reader

Summary: After returning to Japan from studying abroad in California, Hajime’s found that his desire for you has only grown stronger in his year away. He hopes you feel the same, and see him as he sees you. What he doesn’t expect is for it all to go tits up when you ask him–your trusted friend–for help with losing your virginity.

WC: 15k

A/N: This is a long awaited commission piece for @jungwoohoos​, thank you so much for your patience! I really loved your prompt and I wanted to do it justice! I hope you enjoy it, and thank you again for commissioning me!

Warnings: NSFW, 18+ ONLY, MINORS/EMPTY BLOGS/AGELESS BLOGS DNI, MDNI, cisfem!reader, Smut, Mutual Pining, Flirting, Drinking and Drunk Confessions, Druken Kissing (but nothing more), Inexperienced!Reader (a virgin, but has messed around a little), First Time, Friends to Lovers, a Dash of Corruption Kink on Both Sides lol, Haji Is A Little Condescending At First But Means Well, Mild Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, Oral (m->f, brief f->m), Woman On Top, Riding, Unprotected Sex uwu

masterlist

Hajime would never admit just how much he’s thought about you while he’s been away in California. It’s been a lot. A lot more than he wants to even admit to himself, maybe. So much so, it seems, that his semi-weekly catch up calls with Makki, Mattsun, and Oikawa have left enough of a trace for them to tease him about you.

“Have you hooked up with anyone in Cali yet, or are you still holding out for what’s-her-face?” Makki asks, voice a little slurred. Beside him, Mattsun is downing the rest of his sake. Out of habit, Hajime corrects his friend with your name. It’s late in Japan, but only the afternoon in California, and a little later than that in Argentina.

“I’m not holding out for anyone,” he grunts, resolutely keeping his eyes away from his laptop, pretending to futz with his water bottle. Makki and Mattsun both make impressed noises, and when he cuts a glare towards the screen, he can see Oikawa’s brows arch, making a curious face that in turn makes him groan.

And it’s true, he hasn’t been holding out. He’s been going through what his friends will ultimately call his slut phase while he’s been here. It was hard to not be eager when he was a virgin before coming here, and suddenly there’s all manner of people tossing eyes at him at the gym or at the occasional party he goes to. It’s not something that happens often with his focus on studying, his internship, and training at the gym. But as much fun as it is sometimes, more than half the time he can’t really get off with his partner of the night without thinking of a certain young woman on the other side of the planet that he’s been craving since before he’d even agreed to go abroad for a year.

It’s often swirling in the back of his mind when he makes someone cum or follows an instruction that pulls a pretty moan, if you would like that, too. His gym buddies state side are somewhat in tune with his regrets about not making a move before leaving, and seem to think that the sexual and flirtatious experience he’s gained here will surely help when he returns to Japan.

Not to mention he’s put on a good few pounds of muscle in the year he’s been gone, and there’s no way you won’t notice. He’s cut, as they like to tell him.

Hajime has never felt more attractive than he does now. And yet the thought of seeing you again makes him almost weak in the knees and second guessing if you’ll see him the way he sees you.

Wondering, wishing, hoping his California friends are right.

Keep reading

[miyasmagnolias]

𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋆˙⟡

suna rintarou x f!reader

all you wanted was to spend the holidays convincing yourself you didn't need anyone. so when your friends-with-benefits drags you to his parents' house for christmas, you fail. spectacularly.

tags: mentions of unhealthy family dynamics, suggestive language, no explicit smut, suna's family loves y/n, sending any and all holiday blues straight to hell this year! 🤍

"So what are you doing for Christmas?"

You flinched at how easily he had asked the question. How casually.

"Why?" you asked from the foggy bathroom, shaking your wet hair out with the towel Suna had tossed you from the dryer. "Thinking of having me over again?"

"...no?" Suna replied, eyes never leaving his phone screen. His long limbs were splayed across his wrinkled bed sheets, and he wore nothing besides a pair of boxer briefs and a frown.

"Then why do you ask?"

"Because I want to know?" The YouTube video he'd put on rushed to fill the silence. "Because it's a thing people ask each other?"

"Yeah, at company holiday parties," you snorted. You secured the towel around your bare chest, flicked the faucet on, and plucked your toothbrush from the mug by the sink. "Seriously. You don't have to pretend like you care."

"We can talk about something else," he offered, unfazed by your accusatory tone. "Like your favorite color. What your major was in university..."

"Okay, okay." You rolled your eyes, knowing full well he knew the answer to both of those questions. "You really want to know?"

The flat stare he shot you from bed told you yes, he really did, and no, he would not have asked you if he didn't. You braced yourself against the bathroom counter and sighed.

"I'm watching Die Hard, doing laundry, and catching up on work. There, happy?"

You were too busy massaging the near-empty tube of toothpaste to notice Suna's broad, six-foot-one body now standing in the door to the bathroom.

"Really," he said. Not a question. Not entirely a judgement, either. "You're not spending it with your mom?"

"She's going on a cruise with her newly minted Peruvian boyfriend," you laughed. "And before you ask about my dad, I don't particularly feel like hanging out with the children he hid from us for seven years."

"Wasn't going to," Suna scoffed, plucking the toothpaste from your hands and squeezing it onto your brush himself. "The guy's an asshole."

"Least he felt bad enough to invite me," you huffed, attacking your molars with enough force to break enamel. "That way, he can't say he didn't try."

The faucet roared as Suna brushed his teeth beside you. Hair tousled. Eyes tired. Mouth filled with foam as he mumbled out his next question.

“What if you spent Christmas with my family this year?”

You choked on your toothpaste.

“What?” you coughed out. “No, I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because!” you spat, flecks of fluoride flying out onto the mirror. You wiped them off with a flattened palm, taking all the condensation with you. “Because friends-with-benefits don’t do that. Because I don’t want your parents getting the wrong idea.”

“They won’t get the wrong idea.”

“Kumi might.”

“Kumi’s sixteen. What does she know?”

"Enough to know that inviting your fuck buddy to Christmas is weird!"

Suna rolled his eyes as you stuck your mouth under the sink and rinsed. This was a ridiculous argument; it didn't help that you could barely hear each other through mouthfuls of Crest cavity protection.

"My family doesn't know about us, okay? For all they know, you're my good friend," he argued. "Besides, they don't read into things like that. If I bring someone over for Christmas, they'll just assume you didn't have any other plans."

You folded your arms across your chest and pouted.

"I have plans."

"I know." He shrugged, spitting into the sink. "Mine are better."

"Why?"

"Because who wants to do laundry and watch Die Hard on Christmas? It isn’t even a Christmas movie!”

A muscle ticked in your jaw at that horribly inaccurate statement. "I don't need your pity invite."

Suna exhaled through his nose and ducked inside his closet for a t-shirt and sweats. "It would only be a pity invite if I didn't actually want you there. But I do."

The words burned inside your stomach as you stormed into Suna's bedroom, swiped a clean thong from the top of your overnight bag, and yanked it over your legs.

"...I don't have gifts, though."

The silence that followed made you antsy.

"What?"

"For your family. I don't have gifts," you ground out. "I can't just show up empty-handed. It's rude."

Suna emerged from the closet with an extra t-shirt — an EJP Raijin freebie you'd worn the past couple of times you'd been over.

"Don't worry about that," he told you, tossing the t-shirt in your direction. "Just be ready the morning of the twenty-fifth with your overnight bag and a pair of pajamas. My parents will be taking an embarrassing photo of us."

You tucked yourself into the side of the bed closest to the wall, terrified by the ache in your chest, the slight rise in your spirits.

It was just a dumb family tradition. One that would definitely blur the lines of your and Suna's arrangement, should you choose to partake in it.

But as he settled into the mattress and threw an arm around your waist, you allowed yourself to picture it. The corny smiles, the plaid pajama bottoms. The camera mounted on a tripod in front of a decorated Christmas tree.

As corny and compromising as that photo would be, there was also something...nice about the idea of it. Mundane.

"I'd need to Amazon Prime pajamas before Thursday," you said. Voice quiet. Stripped of its usual edge.

You felt Suna smile against the back of your head.

"Is that a yes?”

The following week, you met Suna outside your apartment building with an overnight bag, three Snapware containers of baked goods, and the Amazon Prime package you hoped were your pajamas.

"Merry Christmas," he drawled in amusement, leaning against his beat-up Toyota Corolla. He pocketed his phone, jutted his chin towards the baked goods, and asked, "Those for me?"

"Just the cinnamon rolls," you snapped, grabbing the top container and shoving it towards him. "I also made cream cheese brownies for your parents and gluten-free chocolate chip cookies for Kumi."

Suna slid the duffel bag from your shoulder and threw it into the backseat. "You didn't have to go through all that trouble."

"Please. It's the least I could do for crashing your family holiday," you grumbled, nerves already buzzing in equal parts embarrassment and anticipation. "Merry Christmas, by the way. Can I have aux?"

The heater warmed your skin as Suna pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main road, a single hand guiding the bottom of the steering wheel.

"What's wrong with my music?"

"Nothing's wrong with it. We just listen to it all the time," you said. You thumbed through your Spotify playlists in search of something you hadn't grown tired of. "Makes my ears want to bleed."

"I think our tastes are more similar than you think."

You huffed. "In what way?"

"Arctic Monkeys, Phoebe Bridgers, Gorillaz — "

"I swear, if you make me listen to another minute of Gorillaz, I'm never sleeping with you again."

"They're a good band!"

"Yeah, when we were in middle school!"

The dimples on either side of his lips always deepened when he teased you. "You're just embarrassed because you had a poster of 2-D in your bedroom."

At your incredulous expression, he admitted, "I saw an old photo of it on your Instagram."

"What — did you stalk me?"

"Course I did!" he scoffed. Like you were the crazy one here. "I don't sleep with just anyone."

You pulled your knees to your chest in the passenger seat, the city quietly flitting past your window. "Fair point."

"Let's not pretend you didn't stalk me, too,” he drawled.

"Well, duh. I saw all your grungy bathroom selfies from high school. You’re lucky I kept talking to you.”

The car settled into a comfortable silence save for the sound of the engine running, the tires scraping against patchy asphalt.

"You know, I never thanked you for keeping me company," Suna said, voice surprisingly sincere. "That night, at Atsumu's party."

"Please," you scoffed, though it didn't quite land the way you wanted it to. “As if I wasn’t looking for an excuse to get out of his beer pong tournament.”

You remembered that night vividly. The loud music. The collective body heat. The brain fog you'd been trying — and failing — to break through all day. You didn't expect to like anyone at Atsumu's end-of-season rager. But when you spotted Suna by himself on the balcony — eyes tired, hands nursing a bottle of Dos Equis, you wondered if you'd found your crowd.

"This seat taken?" you asked, gesturing to the empty patio chair beside him.

His green eyes flicked to yours in what you would later realize was his way of looking amused.

“Depends,” he said. “Did Atsumu send you here?”

“God, no,” you laughed. The cold seared through your dress as you sat. “I’m trying to hide from him, too.”

You disclosed far too much of yourself on Atsumu's balcony that night. Your stress-baking habit. The kind of music you downloaded in middle school. The way your chest tightened when you answered your mom's phone calls, unsure whether you would be her daughter, her therapist, or the subject of her backhanded compliments.

I'm not looking for a relationship right now, you'd messaged him after the party. But if you'd ever like to hang out, I'd be down.

You'd obviously done more than that. But that was besides the point.

"I wasn't in the best headspace that day," you confessed to him now. "Talking to you really helped me. Distracted me. So really I should be thanking you."

Your words lingered in the air as Suna gave you the softest flicker of a smile.

"Glad I could help."

You sucked in a sharp breath. Ignored the way your chest ached at his earnest expression.

"I'm going to put on my Liked Songs now," you told him unceremoniously. You retrieved the phone from your lap, punched in your passcode, and hit shuffle on the right playlist.

Then, because your Spotify algorithm hated you —

"No," you groaned.

"Oh?" Suna drawled, cocking an eyebrow at the first song in your queue. "Not a big fan, I see?"

"Traitor," you told the Apple CarPlay as Clint Eastwood by Gorillaz blared through the speakers. "I'm skipping this — "

"Too late. I'm already singing it," Suna said, looking wholeheartedly pleased by this turn of events. Your face burned as he turned up the volume. "I ain't happy, I'm feeling glad, I got sunshine in a bag —"

"I hate you."

The smirk he gave you made your chest ache a second time.

"Guess you're never sleeping with me again."

Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth ticked into a smile as Suna rapped the entire six-minute song just to spite you.

Two hours and several miles of suburbia later, you pulled into the driveway of Suna’s childhood home.

You’d heard a lot about this house. The birthday parties. The pre-tournament carb nights. The big family Christmas gatherings — although most of Suna’s extended family had since moved.

You opened the car door, climbed out of the passenger seat, and wondered what it would have been like to live in a place like this. To have friends over. To help your parents line the roof with Christmas lights.

The daydream was short-lived, however, as Suna’s mom jogged down the driveway to greet you.

“You made it!” she cheered, bringing you into her arms like you’d known each other for years. “Merry Christmas, love. Did Rinnie drive safely?”

Your brain short-circuited as the scent of her perfume — light and citrusy — filled your nose.

“My neck’s a little sore from the whiplash, but I’ll survive,” you said with a nervous chuckle.

Suna Yumi merely squeezed your shoulders with an affectionate laugh.

“No wonder you two get along so well. You’re just as sarcastic as he is,” she hummed in delight.

Your cheeks flushed pink as she crossed the driveway to greet her eldest child.

"Merry Christmas, ma," Suna murmured with a smile, tucking her into his chest. "You sleep well last night?"

"Oh, you know me. Can't sit still when we're expecting a guest." She waved off his stern look and went to grab your bags. "Come in, come in! Your dad's just putting the finishing touches on the hot pot."

Your breath unfurled into the crisp winter air as you shouldered the rest of your belongings and teetered towards the front door.

"Thank you for having me, by the way," you said sheepishly, the hearty scent of tonkotsu broth greeting you as you entered the house. "I know it was kinda last-minute."

"Oh, don't worry about that, love. It wouldn't be the first time Rinnie had a friend over for Christmas," she reassured you with a laugh. "Remember when Tsumu got into that huge fight with his brother? He practically stormed over here and refused to leave."

Suna slid you a wry look once his mom turned her back.

"See?" he murmured under his breath. "Nothing to worry about."

You merely rolled your eyes, kicked your shoes off, and followed the smell of tonkotsu into the kitchen.

You half-expected to feel like a martian in Suna's house, surrounded by people you'd never met and Christmas decorations you'd only ever seen in Pottery Barn catalogues. But as you shook his dad's hand and greeted his little sister, you were surprised by how nice it was to talk to them. How easy.

"So Rin tells me you like to bake?" Suna's dad asked. He prepared the bok choy for hot pot with a rhythmic chop of his kitchen knife.

"I do, yeah. Gives me something to do with my hands," you told him with a soft smile. "Something within my control."

Suna Iwata's green eyes crinkled when he smiled back.

“Well, it was very kind of you to share your talents with us,” he said, wiping his hands on his apron. “I’m not much of a baker myself. Just can't get the proportions right.”

"Yeah, and Rin's smelly volleyball friends never bring us anything," Kumi said around a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie.

She shot her brother an annoyed look from across the kitchen and tilted her chin in your direction.

"Can you bring her around more often?"

Not gonna lie, you felt good about yourself after that.

The nerves escaped you the longer you were there. Helping Iwata plate the leafy vegetables for hot pot. Trading stories with Yumi over the dining room table. Laughing as their children bickered over the last of the ribeye.

"I'm on a bulk right now," Suna drawled, shoving his little sister's chopsticks out of the way. "Captain's orders."

"And I'm iron deficient, asshole," she said, shoving him back ten times harder. "That's ten times more important than your fake diet."

It was the kind of argument you wished you'd had more with your family. The trivial, teasing kind. In fact, as you finished lunch, threw on your pajamas, and posed for a photo on the staircase of Suna's house, you found their bickering...sweet. Endearing, almost.

"Dad," Kumi groaned as the camera flashed in your faces five seconds too early. "You're supposed to put the timer on for ten seconds. Are you sure you know how to do it?"

"Kumi, you talk to me like I'm a senior citizen," Iwata huffed, easing from his spot on the staircase. "I know how to work a simple camera."

He doesn't, Yumi mouthed to you and Suna over a discreet shoulder before standing to help her husband.

"...having fun?" Suna asked you, then. Voice amused. Eyes tracing the unchecked curve of your smile.

Stubborn as ever, you elbowed him in the ribs and said, "Just smile for the camera, Rinnie."

It would be six more tries before you eventually got the photo.

"Can I ask you a question?" Kumi asked you now, eyeing her hand you'd just painted a gorgeous shade of Pine and Dine green.

You dragged the applicator brush across the index finger of her other hand and said, "Go ahead."

"Why are you spending Christmas with us and not your own family?"

Her tone was quiet. Curious, even. You met her stare across the dining room table and continued painting.

"Because I don't really have one," you told her, the words coming out before you could stop them. At her perplexed expression, you said, "I mean, I do — we just don't celebrate Christmas together."

"Must be nice," Kumi mumbled, frowning at her family's Christmas decorations like they had personally offended her. "My parents get so embarrassing around the holidays."

"I dunno. I think it's kinda sweet that they still do all this for you guys." You gestured to the manicure kit they'd gifted her as a case in point. "Besides, my mom is on a Caribbean cruise right now with a man half her age. Talk about embarrassing."

Despite herself, Kumi laughed at that.

"…okay," you murmured once you were done. You studied Kumi's nails from multiple angles before eventually releasing her. "That'll be forty-thousand bucks, please."

You stopped yourself from fist-punching the air as a small grin worked its way onto her face.

"This is so much better than I could've done," she gushed, admiring your handiwork beneath the dining room lights. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." You twisted the cap back on the glossy top coat you'd used and plunked it back in the carrying case. "Should we paint your brother's nails next?"

You bound up the stairs and stood outside Suna's bedroom not a moment later, a goofy sort of smile on your lips.

"Hello, Rinnie," you stage-whispered, knocking twice before pushing your face through the crack in the door.

Suna shot you an amused stare from where he lay in bed, scrolling through Twitter.

"Have you been drinking with my sister?"

"No." You pouted. "The nail polish fumes killed a few of our brain cells, though. Can I come in?"

He gestured you in with a lift of his hand as you pushed open the door, his bedside lamp casting lazy orange hues across four deep blue walls.

"Sorry it's a little cluttered," he said, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and shoving his feet into slippers. "My mom is sort of a memory hoarder."

"No! No, I like it," you reassured him as you looked around. "Feels like I stepped inside the Smithsonian."

"Okay," he snorted. "I'm not that much older than you."

You fell quiet as you swept your gaze across the room, the details of Suna's childhood tucked into every nook and cranny. Volleyball certificates tacked onto the wall. Family vacation photos arranged atop the dresser. Homemade CDs stacked in neat rows on the shelves.

"My mom would do this thing where she'd burn a CD of all the songs we liked that year," Suna explained when you plucked one off the shelf. "That one's from 2014."

You read the track list Yumi had written on the disc in permanent marker with a soft laugh.

"Clint Eastwood by Gorillaz. Classic."

"What can I say?" Suna lifted his shoulder. "Middle school Rinnie was goated."

It was such a small thing, to have a mom who knew your music taste. To have a dad who took more pictures than necessary and a sister who rolled her eyes at you every chance she got. But as you returned the CD to its rightful place and swallowed back the lump in your throat, it didn't feel small to you at all.

"You okay?" Suna asked you gently, catching the way your expression slipped, your eyes grew distant.

"Yeah!" You stepped away from the shelf and massaged the growing ache in your chest with your palm. "Yeah, I just..."

God. What were you supposed to say? That your brain fog had turned into something painful? That being here made you miss the things you never had? Suna was already kind enough to have invited you here — you didn't need to ruin it with the grief now threatening to swallow you whole.

But as a small, jagged cry escaped your throat, splintering whatever composure you had left, Suna just tucked you to his chest and held you.

You came undone in the minutes that followed — chest heaving, steady cries reverberating off the bedroom walls. Suna's white shirt grew soaked by a combination of your snot and tears, and you didn't even have the energy to be embarrassed as you wailed in his arms like a baby.

"Fuck, sorry," you apologized with a loud, ugly sniffle. "This day has just been really weird."

"I know." He lifted the hem of his t-shirt and wiped your face. "Thanks for putting up with my family all day."

"Are you kidding me?" you scoffed. "Your family has been the best part about all of this. It's me that's making it weird."

"Yeah?" he asked. Not agreeing. Just curious. "And why's that?"

"Because," you lamented. As if it were obvious. "Because I'm not used to any of this. Because I couldn't spend a single Christmas without my dad stress-smoking — or my mom nitpicking my weight to distract herself from her shit marriage."

Your face crumpled at the memory. The way it paled in comparison to this strong, colorful spectacle Suna's family had offered you.

"Being here, seeing you with your family, it just...it makes me homesick for a place that doesn't exist," you told him. "For people I always wished for but never really had."

Before you, Suna's eyes filled with an emotion you couldn't quite place.

"Well, the people in this house care about you," he said. Voice gentle. Laced with honesty. "And you can always come here when you want."

His words made something inside of you break.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" you breathed.

Suna gave you a mildly exasperated look and asked, "Is it so surprising that I've grown to like you?"

You folded your arms across your chest and frowned.

"No. Maybe. I'm a highly likable person, just..." The sarcasm died on your lips. "Kinda broken if you squint."

"Come on," he drawled. As if you knew better. "You're not broken. You're...tough. Resilient."

"You make me sound like a weather-proof car mat."

"I'm serious!" he said, though he was laughing now. "You can't choose your family. It sucks and it's unfair, but...you're not broken. I've never once thought that about you."

You squirmed at the sincerity in his voice. Forced yourself to sit with it for a second longer than you normally would.

"Thanks, Rin," you said after a long while. "I needed to hear that."

"You're welcome," he huffed with a soft smile. "Wanna stay up here for a little longer? My family always watches a Christmas movie during dinner, but you don't have to if you're not up for it."

"No, I'm up for it," you sniffled, wiping your nose with the sleeve of your pajamas. "What movie are we watching?"

He peeled off his snotty t-shirt and smirked in your direction.

"You'll see."

His dad was already struggling to rent Die Hard on the TV by the time you'd returned to the living room.

The next morning, Suna walked you to your apartment and set your overnight bag on the doormat.

"I actually got you a gift," he confessed, sliding a flimsy package from the inside of his coat. "I know you said you didn't want anything, but my family insisted."

"Oh?" You set down the bag of leftovers Yumi had prepared for you and took the gift into your hands. The dimples on either side of Suna's lips deepened as you ripped into it like a child.

"Figured you could use it for your next stress-bake."

The apron — made of high-quality canvas and adorned with pockets and adjustable straps — was easily the nicest thing you'd ever owned. And on the front? The words 'Having a Mental Bake Down,' stitched in your favorite color thread.

It was ridiculous. Incredibly thoughtful. It made you laugh so hard you started crying.

"It's perfect," you breathed, wiping the tears from the corners of your eyes and clutching the gift to your chest. "Thank you."

Before you could even process what you were doing, you pushed yourself onto your tiptoes and pressed your lips to his cheek. Somehow, it felt more intimate than anything else you'd done with him.

"...Rin?" you asked. Voice tiny. A little nervous.

"...yeah?" he replied, a blush creeping up his neck.

"Will you go on a date with me?"

The expression he gave you was stunned.

"An actual one, this time," you clarified. "With cute outfits and a reservation and candlelight so dark we have to use our flashlights to read the menu."

It didn't escape you that this was the first time you'd seen Suna flustered. It also didn't escape you that the only thing keeping you from dating was, well, you.

Suna knew this, too, given the question he asked you next.

"What made you change your mind?"

Your lips ticked into a small smile.

“Come on, Rin. Is it so surprising that I've grown to like you?"

His laugh made your chest swell in affection.

"I'm not very good at the whole dating thing," you warned him. "I'm stubborn and evasive and I say things I don't mean — "

"Really?" Suna drawled. "I couldn’t tell."

You elbowed him in the ribs.

"I want to try, though. With you," you continued. "I can’t let my shitty family be the reason I don’t. They've taken enough from me already."

Suna nodded, something like trust in his green eyes.

"...okay," he said. "Let’s try, then.”

"Great." You grinned, fumbled for your keys, and unlocked the apartment door. "I'll pick you up this Saturday at six?"

The smile he gave you was better than any gift he could've given you.

And when he texted you the cheesy family photos later that evening?

You realized you'd finally gotten what you wished for. Who you wished for, rather.

The thought alone was enough to make you cry a third time.

@miyasmagnolias, 2025

[rinstars]

── .✦ START A WAR ⋆𐙚₊ 𝟎𝟓 BREAKEVEN

PAIRING : Gojo Satoru x Reader. Geto Suguru x Reader.

GENRE : Angst. Smut.

TAGS/WARNING : NSFW. Friends with Benefits. Fuck Buddies. Unrequited Love. Profanity. Toxicity.

SYNOPSIS : Gojo Satoru doesn’t do relationships. You knew that from the start. Six months of late-night calls and empty beds later, you’re still foolish enough to believe you might be different. But when loving him starts to feel like losing yourself, you’ll have to decide: keep fighting for someone who won’t fight back, or finally walk away from the only person who ever made you want to stay…

Better yet, you’ll play his game and start a war—one where neither of you will come out unscathed.

LENGTH: 13.5k

TAGLIST: CLOSED

NOTES: Yeah… This might be one of my favorite chapters so far. When a heart breaks, no, it don’t breakeven. HEHEHEHEH tell me what u all think and enjoy!

chapter four ⋆𐙚₊ series masterlist ⋆𐙚₊ chapter six

The bar hadn’t changed.

Same exposed brick walls. Same dim Edison bulbs casting everything in amber and shadow. Same bartender with the sleeve tattoos who nodded at you like he recognized something broken when he saw it. Same corner booth where you’d sat months ago, before Gojo, before everything got complicated, back when you were just another person trying to forget a bad day with good whiskey.

You’d chosen it deliberately. This place. This specific bar. Not because it was convenient or close to home or had good reviews. But because it was *his*. The place where Gojo Satoru had first slid into the seat across from you with that devastating smile and those impossible blue eyes and asked if you came here often like it was the world’s oldest line delivered with enough charm to make it new.

“Not usually,” you’d said that night, nine months and a lifetime ago.

“Me neither.” He’d grinned, all sharp edges and dangerous beauty. “But I think I might start.”

The memory tasted like ash now.

You ordered whiskey. Neat. No ice, no mixer, nothing to soften the burn. The bartender poured without comment, the professional kind of discretion that came from serving too many people trying to drown too many things. You took a sip and felt it trace fire down your throat, settle heavy in your stomach. Not numbing. Not yet. But promising to be, eventually.

That word again. Eventually.

The bar was moderately full for a Thursday night—couples on dates, groups of friends celebrating something or nothing, lone figures scattered at intervals along the bar like pieces on a chessboard. Normal people living normal lives. You envied them with an intensity that felt physical.

Your phone sat face-down on the bar. You hadn’t checked it in three hours. Hadn’t looked at Gojo’s messages—if there even were any—or Suguru’s text from this morning (*thinking about you*) or Utahime’s increasingly worried calls. Just left it there, silent and accusatory, a tether to a life you weren’t ready to return to yet.

The whiskey was disappearing faster than it should. You signaled for another.

“Rough night?”

The bartender’s tone was neutral, professional concern rather than actual interest. You appreciated that about him.

“Rough year.”

“Aren’t they all.” He poured. “Pace yourself, though. I’ve got a policy about carrying people out.”

“Don’t worry.” You managed something like a smile. “I’m a functional disaster. Very on-brand.”

He left you alone after that.

You were halfway through your third drink—definitely past tipsy, approaching drunk, that dangerous space where bad decisions started looking like good ideas—when you felt him before you saw him.

A presence. A shift in the air. That particular awareness that came from spending months learning someone’s proximity, their heat, their weight in a room.

Gojo Satoru slid onto the stool beside you without asking. Without speaking. Just sat there in his expensive jacket and his exhaustion, staring straight ahead at the bottles lined up behind the bar like they held answers to questions he didn’t know how to ask.

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t acknowledge his presence. Just took another sip of whiskey and watched the amber liquid catch the light.

The silence stretched. Heavy. Loaded with everything unsaid, everything that had exploded between you over the past weeks. The breakup. Akane. Suguru. The time where you’d almost taken Suguru’s hand just to watch Gojo’s face crack open.

The betrayal. His. Yours. The kind that left marks deeper than skin.

“Whiskey,” Gojo said to the bartender. His voice was rough, unused. Like he’d been screaming or not speaking at all and you weren’t sure which was worse. “Whatever she’s having.”

The bartender poured without comment, set the glass down with a soft clink that sounded too loud in the weighted quiet between you.

Gojo drank. You drank. Neither of you looked at each other.

Five minutes passed. Maybe ten. Time felt elastic, unreliable. The bar hummed around you—conversations, laughter, the clink of glasses, the indie music playing just loud enough to fill space without demanding attention. Normal sounds. A normal night. Except nothing about this was normal.

“You come here a lot?” Gojo asked finally.

The question punched something in your chest. The same words from nine months ago, but different now. Weighted differently. Not a pickup line but an accusation, or maybe just a statement of fact—you’d returned to where it started because you didn’t know how to move forward.

“It’s my bar,” you said quietly. “I was here first.”

“I know.” He took another drink. “That’s why I came.”

Your fingers tightened around your glass. “How did you know I’d be here?”

“I didn’t.” He laughed, bitter and sharp. “I came here to drink alone and try to remember what it felt like before. Before you. Before I fucked everything up.” He finally looked at you, and god, he looked wrecked. Shadows under his eyes that his glasses couldn’t hide. Hair messier than usual, like he’d been running his hands through it for days. “But of course you’re here. Because the universe is either poetic or just cruel.”

“Both,” you said. “Definitely both.”

Another silence. This one different. Less hostile, more exhausted. Like two people too tired to fight, too hurt to heal, just existing in the same space because they didn’t know how to do anything else.

The bartender came by, raised an eyebrow in question. You nodded. He poured two more.

“We shouldn’t be drinking together,” you said, but didn’t move to leave.

“Probably not.” Gojo didn’t move either. “Add it to the list of things we shouldn’t be doing.”

“It’s a long list.”

“Getting longer every day.” He turned his glass in slow circles, watching the liquid catch the light. “How are you?”

The question was so normal, so casual, so completely at odds with everything between you that it almost made you laugh. Almost.

“Terrible,” you answered honestly. “You?”

“Same.” He took another drink. “Shoko’s worried about you.”

“Shoko’s worried about everyone. It’s her default state.”

“She called me yesterday. Said you weren’t answering your phone.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Said you looked like you weren’t sleeping.”

“Takes one to know one.” You gestured vaguely at his face, at the exhaustion written in every line of him. “You look like shit.”

“Feel like it too.” He smiled, and it was the saddest thing you’d ever seen. “We’re quite a pair.”

“We’re not a pair.” The words came out harsher than intended. “We’re not anything anymore.”

Something flickered across his face—pain, maybe, or acceptance, or both. “I know.”

The admission sat between you like a third presence. A ghost. The relationship that had died but wouldn’t stay buried, kept clawing its way out of the grave to remind you what you’d lost.

“I miss you,” Gojo said quietly, not looking at you. Like the confession was easier if he didn’t have to see your face. “I know I don’t have the right to say that. I know I fucked everything up. But I miss you. Miss the way things were before—” He stopped himself.

“Before Akane,” you finished for him.

“Before I couldn’t figure my shit out,” he corrected. “Before I made you feel like a choice instead of the choice. Before I hurt you enough that you—” He cut himself off again, jaw clenching hard enough that you could see the muscle jump.

That you left. The unspoken words hung there, heavy and damning.

You should leave. Should throw some money on the bar and walk out and let this be the closure neither of you had managed to achieve any other way. Should protect yourself from whatever this was becoming.

But you were so tired of protecting yourself. So tired of being strong and smart and doing the right thing when all it got you was alone and hurting and drinking in the same bar where everything had started.

“I miss you too,” you admitted, and hated how good it felt to say it out loud. How the truth tasted like relief even wrapped in pain. “I hate that I do. Hate that I can’t just turn it off and move on like a normal person. But I do. I miss you.”

Gojo’s hand moved—barely, just a twitch toward you before he caught himself. Stopped. Kept the distance that had become the defining feature of whatever this was.

“Can I—” He paused, seemed to reconsider, then pushed forward anyway. “Can I take you home?”

The question landed like a bomb in the space between you.

Not my place. Not your place. Just home, vague and loaded with implication. An offer and a question and a plea all wrapped into four words.

You should say no. Should maintain the boundary you’d fought so hard to establish. Should protect yourself from the inevitable hurt that came from letting him back in when nothing had actually changed.

“Okay,” you heard yourself say instead.

The car ride was silent.

Not the comfortable silence of before—the kind you’d shared in his penthouse, bodies curved together, breathing in sync, no need for words. This was the heavy silence of two people afraid that speaking would break whatever fragile truce they’d established. That words would remind them why they’d broken up in the first place.

Gojo drove with both hands on the wheel, focus absolute, like the road required every bit of his attention. You watched Tokyo slide past the window—neon and shadow, life happening everywhere except inside this car where everything felt suspended. Frozen. Waiting.

His penthouse looked the same. You don’t know why you expected it to be different, to somehow reflect the destruction that had happened here, but it didn’t. Same minimalist aesthetic. Same floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Same couch where you’d sat dozens of times, curled against him, feeling safe in a way you’d never managed to feel safe anywhere else.

The key to his place was still on your keychain. You’d never given it back. He’d never asked for it.

Gojo tossed his keys on the counter—that same casual gesture you’d watched a hundred times before. Shrugged out of his jacket. Moved to the kitchen with practiced ease.

“Want something to drink?” He pulled down two glasses without waiting for an answer, poured water because you’d both had enough alcohol. His hands were steady despite everything. That clinical control he wore like armor. “Water okay?”

“Yeah.” You took the glass he offered, fingers brushing his for just a second. The contact felt electric, dangerous. “Thanks.”

You both stood there in his kitchen, drinks in hand, not moving toward the bedroom or the couch or anywhere that implied intention. Just existing in the same space, unsure how to navigate proximity without the rules you’d built and then destroyed.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” you admitted finally.

“Me neither.” Gojo set his glass down, leaned back against the counter. The pose was casual but his eyes were intense when they met yours. “But I know I want you here. Even if I don’t have the right to want that anymore.”

“You don’t.” The words should have been harsh but came out soft. Tired. “You don’t have the right. But I’m here anyway.”

“Why?”

The question was too big, too complicated. Because you missed him. Because you were weak. Because nine months of muscle memory didn’t disappear just because your heart broke. Because sometimes destruction was easier than healing and you were so tired of trying to heal.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly. “Maybe I’m just that pathetic.”

“You’re not pathetic.” He moved closer—not invading space, just closing distance. Close enough that you could smell him, that familiar scent of expensive cologne and something underneath that was just him. “You’re here because we’re both too fucked up to stay away from each other even when we should.”

“That’s not better.”

“I know.” His hand came up—slowly, giving you time to move away—and pushed a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was so familiar, so him, that it made your chest constrict painfully. “But it’s honest.”

Your breath caught. His hand lingered near your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone with the kind of tenderness that had always been his most dangerous weapon. Not the passion or the intensity or the way he could make you forget your own name. But this. The softness. The way he touched you like you were something precious even as he destroyed you.

“Satoru—”

“I know.” His voice was rough, raw. “I know we shouldn’t. I know nothing’s fixed. I know I don’t deserve this, don’t deserve you, don’t deserve another chance when I fucked up the first one so catastrophically.” His forehead pressed against yours, the contact achingly familiar. “But I need you. Just tonight. Just—fuck, I just need to not feel like I’m drowning for a few hours.”

You should step back. Should maintain distance. Should protect yourself from the inevitable morning after when nothing would have changed except you’d be more broken than before.

But you were drowning too. Had been drowning for weeks. And maybe going under together was better than suffocating alone.

Your hands fisted in his shirt, pulled him closer even as your brain screamed warnings. “Just tonight.”

“Just tonight,” he echoed, and the lie tasted sweet on both your tongues.

Sex with Gojo had always been intense.

The kind that left marks—on your body, on your heart, on your memory. Passionate and consuming and overwhelming in the way he approached everything, all-in, no half measures, burning so bright it was blinding.

This wasn’t that.

This was quiet. Tender in a way that hurt worse than rough would have. Like you were both afraid of breaking something already shattered.

He undressed you slowly—each piece of clothing removed with careful reverence, like unwrapping something precious. His hands traced skin he’d mapped a hundred times before but touched now like it was new, like he was memorizing, like he knew this might be the last time.

No words. Words would make it real, would force you both to confront what this meant, what you were doing. So you stayed silent, let touch speak instead.

His mouth on your neck. Your fingers in his hair. The familiar choreography of bodies that knew each other, had learned each other, even if the hearts inside them were strangers now.

When he finally pushed inside you, it felt like coming home and being exiled in the same breath. Perfect and devastating. Everything you’d missed and everything that hurt wrapped into one sensation that made tears burn behind your eyes.

“Look at me,” he whispered, hand cupping your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Please. Look at me.”

You opened your eyes, met his gaze, and the intimacy of it was unbearable. Those blue eyes that had haunted you for months, looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered even though you both knew that wasn’t true.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice cracking slightly as he moved inside you with aching slowness. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You couldn’t speak. Could only hold onto him as he took you apart with a gentleness that felt like violence, each thrust deliberate and careful and designed to remind you of exactly what you’d lost when you’d walked away.

When you came, it felt like breaking and being put back together wrong. Shattered into pieces that didn’t quite fit anymore even as pleasure rolled through you in waves.

Gojo followed moments later, your name on his lips like a prayer or a curse or both, face buried in your neck, holding you like you might disappear if he let go.

After, you lay tangled together in his bed—the same bed where you’d slept dozens of nights, woke up to him watching you with something soft in his eyes, felt safe enough to be vulnerable. The sheets smelled like his detergent and your shampoo and sex and everything familiar that had somehow become foreign.

His arm was around you, your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. The position was so natural you’d slipped into it without thinking. Muscle memory. Your body recognizing home even when your heart knew it wasn’t anymore.

“Stay,” he said quietly into the darkness. “Please stay.”

You should say no. Should leave now while you still could, before morning complicated things further. But his arm tightened around you and you were so tired of being strong.

“Just tonight,” you whispered again.

“Just tonight,” he agreed.

You both knew it was a lie.

But in the dark, in his bed, with his heart beating under your ear, it was easier to pretend.

You woke at 3 AM to find him already awake.

He was on his back, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it held answers to questions he didn’t know how to ask. The city lights filtered through his windows, casting everything in blue and shadow. You could see the tension in his jaw, the exhaustion in the lines of his face.

“Can’t sleep?” Your voice was rough with sleep and emotion.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.” He didn’t look at you, just kept staring up. “Go back to sleep.”

“Can’t.” You propped yourself up on one elbow, studied his profile in the darkness. “Not when you’re lying there looking like you’re carrying the weight of the world.”

“Feels like I am.” A pause. “Or at least the weight of all my fuckups.”

The vulnerability in his voice made your chest ache. This version of him—unguarded, honest, stripped of all the bravado and confidence—was the one you’d fallen for. The one he only showed at 3 AM when his defenses were down and the dark made honesty easier.

“Talk to me,” you said softly.

“About what?”

“Anything. Everything. I don’t know.” You traced a pattern on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. “We’re awake. Might as well.”

He was quiet for a long moment, and you thought maybe he wouldn’t respond. Then:

“How are you? Really.”

The question was so simple, so normal, but it felt huge in the darkness. When was the last time someone had asked you that and actually wanted the truth?

“Tired,” you admitted. “So tired of hurting. Tired of being angry. Tired of missing you. Tired of pretending I’m okay when I’m falling apart.” You paused. “Tired of being tired, if that makes sense.”

“It does.” His hand found yours on his chest, fingers intertwining. The gesture was achingly familiar. “I’m tired too. Of hurting you. Of hurting myself. Of making choices that hurt everyone.” His jaw clenched. “Of being stuck.”

“Stuck how?”

“Between who I was and who I’m trying to be. Between the past and—” He stopped himself. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.” You squeezed his hand. “It matters to me.”

He finally looked at you then, turning his head on the pillow, and in the darkness his eyes were shadowed, unreadable. “Does it?”

“Unfortunately yes.” The admission hurt. “I wish it didn’t. Would be easier if I could just hate you and move on. But I can’t. I still—” You caught yourself before finishing the sentence. I still love you. Too much. Too dangerous. Too honest for 3 AM confessions that wouldn’t survive daylight. “I still care. Against my better judgment.”

“I miss you,” he said again, softer this time. More vulnerable. “I know I said it at the bar but I need you to know I mean it. I miss you so fucking much it’s like I can’t breathe sometimes. Miss the way you’d steal my hoodies. Miss your laugh. Miss waking up to you. Miss—” His voice cracked slightly. “Miss us.”

Tears burned behind your eyes. “We destroyed us.”

“I destroyed us,” he corrected. “This was my fault. My inability to choose. My past. My damage. You just—you got caught in the crossfire of all my unresolved shit.”

“It takes two people to destroy a relationship.”

“Maybe. But it only takes one to save it.” His hand tightened around yours. “And I couldn’t. I tried but I couldn’t get past my own demons long enough to just—” He stopped, jaw working. “To just be honest. About what I feel. About what you mean to me. About how terrified I am of—”

“Of what?”

 The words came out barely above a whisper. “Of giving someone that much power over me. Of being vulnerable enough that they could destroy me.” A bitter laugh. “Ironic, since I destroyed us anyway trying to protect myself.”

The honesty was devastating. You’d spent months trying to get him to open up like this, to let you past the walls he’d built, and now here he was at 3 AM admitting his fears when it was too late to matter.

Or maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe that was the dangerous thought creeping in.

“Satoru—”

“I saw Akane yesterday,” he said abruptly, changing the subject before you could finish. “Had lunch. Talked about the partnership, about Singapore, about—” He paused. “About us. Her and me, I mean. What we were.”

Your stomach clenched even though you’d been expecting this. “And?”

“And,” he laughed humorlessly. “She’s beautiful and successful and represents everything I thought I wanted three years ago. And I sat across from her and felt a lot of complicated shit about our past.” He turned to look at you fully. “But I didn’t feel what I thought I would. Just felt sad about what we destroyed in the name of what was our fucked up version of love.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you should know.” His thumb traced circles on the back of your hand. “You should know that when I asked for time, I wasn’t trying to choose between you. I was—I am—trying to figure out if my feelings for her are real or just unresolved trauma.”

The words should have felt like victory. Like the choice you’d been demanding for weeks. Instead they just felt sad. Melancholy. Like too little too late even if they were everything you’d wanted to hear.

“But?” Because there was always a but with him.

“But I don’t know if that’s enough.” His voice was raw with honesty that only came at 3 AM when defenses were down and the dark made truth easier. “I  don’t know if I can be what you need,” he continued, voice raw. “When I’m still this fucked up. When I’m still carrying all this damage and don’t know how to put it down.”

“You think I’m not damaged?” The question came out sharper than intended. “You think I’m some perfect, put-together person who has all her shit figured out?”

“No, but—”

“I’m damaged too. I’m angry and hurt and I’ve made choices that—” You stopped, couldn’t finish. “We’re both broken, Satoru. The question is whether we can be broken together or if we just keep cutting each other on our sharp edges.”

Silence stretched between you. Heavy. Loaded with possibility and pain in equal measure.

“I don’t want you to leave,” he whispered finally.

“I know.”

“But you will.”

“Yes.” The admission hurt. “Morning will come and reality will crash back in and all the reasons we broke up will still be there. This—” You gestured vaguely at the space between you. “This is just 3 AM honesty. It won’t survive daylight.”

“I know.” His hand tightened in your hair. “But we have until dawn. Can we just—can we just pretend until then?”

You should say no. Should leave now, save yourself the additional pain that would come with morning. Should protect yourself from the inevitable hurt of having this and then losing it again.

“Okay,” you whispered instead. “Until dawn.”

He pulled you closer, tucked you against his chest, arms around you like he could keep the world at bay through sheer force of will. You breathed him in—familiar scent, familiar warmth, familiar heartbeat under your ear. Tried to memorize it all because you both knew this was temporary. A moment out of time. A goodbye disguised as hello.

“I wish things were different,” he said quietly into your hair.

“Me too.”

“I wish I wasn’t so fucked up.”

“Me too.”

Eventually, exhaustion won. You fell asleep curled against him, his arms around you, his breath steady in your hair. Safe for a few more hours. Loved for a few more hours, even if neither of you could say it out loud.

When you woke, sunlight was streaming through the windows and Gojo was asleep beside you.

You watched him for a moment—the soft rise and fall of his chest, the way his white hair fell across his forehead in disarray, the vulnerability that only existed when he was unconscious. He looked younger like this. Less haunted. Almost peaceful. Beautiful in that devastating way that had first caught your attention—all sharp lines and impossible features softened by sleep.

You memorized his face. Just in case.

Then you carefully extracted yourself from his arms, moving slowly so as not to wake him. Found your clothes scattered across his floor—evidence of last night, of choices made and boundaries crossed. Got dressed in silence, every movement deliberate, trying not to think about what you were doing.

Leaving. You were leaving before he woke up, before morning-after conversations could make this messier than it already was. Taking the coward’s way out, maybe, but also the kind way. Sparing both of you the awkward aftermath where neither of you knew what to say.

Your phone sat on his nightstand—dozens of messages you hadn’t checked. Utahime. Shoko. Names you couldn’t deal with yet. Reality could wait a few more hours.

You paused at the door, looked back at him one more time. He’d shifted in his sleep, arm reaching out to where you’d been, hand closing on empty sheets. Even unconscious, he was looking for you.

Your chest constricted painfully.

I love you, you thought but didn’t say. I love you and it’s not enough and I don’t know how to make it enough.

Then you left, closing the door softly behind you, and tried not to think about how it felt like goodbye.

The morning after that fateful night when you basked in your heartbreak and mistakes with the man you’re supposed to stay away from, he texted you.

Satoru: I woke up alone

You stared at the message for twenty minutes, thumb hovering over the keyboard, trying to figure out what to say. How to explain that leaving had felt like survival. That staying would have destroyed you both faster than distance could.

You didn’t respond.

He didn’t text again.

And life continued in that horrible way it did after heartbreak—kept moving forward even when you wanted it to stop, kept demanding participation when all you wanted was to hibernate until the pain faded.

Work. Home. Work. Home. An endless cycle punctuated by Utahime’s worried looks and Shoko’s careful questions and your own reflection in the mirror looking more hollow each day.

You deleted Instagram from your phone. Told yourself it was for mental health reasons, to avoid the endless scroll of other people’s highlight reels. Told yourself it had nothing to do with not wanting to see Gojo’s life continuing without you.

Created a burner account three days later like the pathetic stalker you’d become.

And that’s how you saw them.

The photos were cryptic—the kind of vague Instagram stories that said everything while saying nothing. A photo of an expensive restaurant’s interior. A caption: “Good company makes everything better.” A hand—definitely female, elegant with perfect manicures—holding a wine glass across from another hand you’d recognize anywhere. His watch. His rings. His fucking hands that had been on your body just days ago.

No faces. No names. Just implications stacked on implications. Enough to tell a story without confirming it.

Akane. Obviously Akane. Who else would he be having romantic dinners with in exclusive restaurants? Who else would he be seeing regularly enough to warrant cryptic Instagram stories?

You scrolled through her feed with masochistic determination. Designer clothes. Glamorous events. Shots of Singapore’s skyline and Tokyo’s streets. And interspersed between them—hints. Suggestions. The edges of a man with white hair in the background of a photo. A coffee cup with two spoons. A caption about “reconnecting with old friends.”

Each post was a knife to the chest you invited in anyway.

Utahime found you one evening, phone clutched in shaking hands, staring at a new story with the intensity of someone decoding nuclear launch codes.

“What are you doing?” She grabbed the phone from you before you could hide it, saw the burner account, saw Akane’s feed. “Oh honey. No.”

“I’m just checking—”

“You’re torturing yourself.” She sat beside you on the couch, phone held hostage. “This is not healthy. This is not healing. This is—” She stopped, seemed to reconsider her approach. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

“I need to know.”

“Know what? That he chose her?” Her voice was gentle but firm. “Does it matter? Will it change anything?”

“No,” you admitted. “But I can’t stop. I need to see. Need to know if—” Your voice cracked. “If I was that easy to replace.”

“You’re not replaceable.” Utahime pulled you into a hug. “And checking his ex’s Instagram at 2 AM isn’t going to make you feel better. It’s just going to make you feel worse.”

“I already feel worse.” The words came out muffled against her shoulder. “This is just—I don’t know. Confirmation, maybe. Proof that I was right to walk away.”

“You were right to walk away.” She pulled back, hands on your shoulders, forcing you to look at her. “But you’re wrong to keep looking back. Delete the account. Block them both. Move forward.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Fake it.” Her smile was sad. “Fake it until it becomes real. That’s what the rest of us do.”

You deleted the burner account.

Created a new one the next day.

Because apparently self-destruction was easier than healing and you’d never been good at doing things the easy way.

You saw them by accident.

Not on Instagram. In real life. In the flesh. Real and unavoidable and worse than any photo could have been.

You were walking to work—same route you took every day, through Shibuya, past the restaurants and shops and the controlled chaos of Tokyo at rush hour. Running late because you’d spent too long trying to make yourself look put-together, like you were thriving, like your life hadn’t imploded.

That’s when you saw them.

Gojo and Akane, sitting at a window table in that new fusion restaurant everyone was raving about. The kind of place that required reservations weeks in advance, where dinner cost more than your monthly grocery budget. The kind of place you went for special occasions or to impress someone.

Your feet stopped moving before your brain caught up. Just froze there on the sidewalk while people flowed around you, annoyed at the obstacle, while you stared through glass at a scene that felt like it was happening in another dimension.

She was perfect. Of course she was perfect. You’d seen her in photos but seeing her again in person was different—devastating in the way only real beauty could be. Elegant in a cream silk blouse that probably cost more than your rent. Dark hair falling in perfect waves. Laughing at something he’d said, hand reaching across the table to touch his arm in that casual, intimate way that spoke of history, of comfort, of belonging.

And Gojo—

He was beautiful even in his misery. That’s what killed you most. The way his white hair caught the restaurant’s soft lighting, the sharp line of his jaw, those impossibly long legs stretched out under the table. He wore his expensive black jacket, dark sunglasses pushed up on his head, revealing those blue eyes that had haunted your dreams.

But something was wrong. Even from outside, even through the window and the deliberate distance, you could see it. The exhaustion in the set of his shoulders. The tension in his jaw. The way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes even as Akane laughed. The way he looked… trapped. Miserable.

But you were too hurt to register it fully. Too consumed by the image in front of you—them together, having an expensive dinner, looking like the power couple everyone said they were. Your brain showed you what you expected to see rather than what was actually there. Her touching his arm. Him sitting across from her. The intimacy of a shared meal in a romantic restaurant.

It looked like a date. It looked like he’d moved on. It looked like everything you’d feared since that first presentation where her name had shattered your world.

You should leave. Should turn around and walk away before he saw you, before this got more humiliating than it already was. But your feet wouldn’t move. Could only stand there like an idiot, staring through the window at the man you loved having dinner with someone else less than a week after sleeping with you.

Someone bumped into you, muttered an annoyed apology. You barely heard it.

Gojo’s phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at it, and for a moment—just a split second—his expression cracked. Pain flashed across his face, raw and unguarded, before he schooled it back to neutral. Said something to Akane. Smiled that empty smile again.

He looked like he was drowning. Like he’d rather be anywhere else.

But you couldn’t see it. Couldn’t see past your own hurt to recognize his. Could only see them together and feel like you were dying right there on the sidewalk while Tokyo moved around you oblivious to your destruction.

This is the dance of two people so deeply wounded they can’t see past their own pain to recognize each other’s. The author despises being an unreliable narrator—it feels like a cheap trick, a manipulation—so let me pull back the curtain and tell you exactly what’s happening in Gojo Satoru’s head right now.

He’s drowning. That’s the only word for it. Sitting across from a woman he doesn’t love, in a restaurant he didn’t choose, having a conversation he doesn’t want to have while his phone burns a hole in his pocket with your unanswered messages. Every buzz makes his chest tighten. Every minute that passes without hearing from you feels like another nail in a coffin he’s building with his own cowardice. He looks trapped because he istrapped—caught between the past and the present, between the life he fully expected to live and the one he’s desperate to build with you. That expensive dinner? It tastes like ash. Akane’s laugh? It grates against his ears like nails on a chalkboard. Every smile he gives her is a lie. Every nod is mechanical. He’s counting the seconds until he can leave, until he can find you, until he can fix what’s breaking between you with every moment he sits here pretending.

The reservation wasn’t his idea. The restaurant wasn’t his choice. He’d shown up because his boss had called, because the other company was “concerned,” because the merger was at a “delicate stage.” He’d shown up because he’s spent his whole life showing up to things he didn’t want to do, being who everyone needed him to be. But this time, saying yes to them meant saying no to you.

On the other hand, you—standing on that sidewalk with your heart shattering in your chest like dropped glass—you see only what your fear shows you. A beautiful couple. An expensive date. A cream silk blouse that costs more than your rent. Evidence of your own inadequacy, proof of what you’ve always suspected: that you were just a distraction, a momentary lapse, a mistake he’s already moving past. You’re so consumed by the certainty of your own abandonment, so convinced of your own unworthiness, that you can’t see the truth written all over his face. You can’t see that he’s as miserable as you are. That every muscle in his body is tense with the effort of staying in that chair. 

This is the tragedy of two people who love each other but can’t bridge the gap their trauma has carved between them. You look at him and see someone who’s chosen someone else. He looks at his phone and sees your silence as confirmation that you’ve given up on him. Both of you are wrong. Both of you are so wrapped up in your own pain that you can’t see the other person is reaching through the dark, desperate to find you.

But this is none of anyone else’s business but theirs. These are private devastations, intimate misunderstandings, the kind of pain that should be worked out behind closed doors between two people who care enough to fight through it. The author has no right to be here, narrating their suffering like it’s entertainment. And yet here we are—because someone has to tell this story. Someone has to bear witness to the way love can be right there, within reach, and still slip through your fingers because you’re both too scared to hold on. Someone has to document how two people can be desperate for each other and still manage to break each other’s hearts.

You finally made yourself move. Turned away before you could do something pathetic like cry or go inside or make a scene. Walked blindly in the direction of work even though you were definitely going to be late now, even though tears were blurring your vision, even though your chest felt like someone had reached inside and crushed your heart with their bare hands.

Your phone buzzed in your bag. You ignored it.

Buzzed again. And again.

You finally checked at a red light, vision still blurred with tears.

Utahime: Where are you?

Utahime: You’re late. Everything okay?

Utahime: Hello?? Are you alive?

You typed back with shaking hands.

You: saw them together. can’t come to work. sorry

Utahime: Saw who?

You: Satoru and Akane. having Dinner. Looking perfect together.

Utahime: Oh honey. Where are you?

You: Walking

Utahime: Come to my place. I’ll take the day off.

You: U don’t have to

Utahime: I’m taking the day off. Text me when you’re close.

You should tell her no. Should tell her you were fine, that you’d pull yourself together and come to work like an adult. Should stop being the friend who needed constant saving from her own bad decisions.

You: okay

You went to Utahime’s. Let her hold you while you cried about a man you weren’t even dating anymore, about seeing them together, about how stupid you’d been to sleep with him, to think that one night meant anything, to believe that you could ever compete with someone like Akane.

“He looked happy,” you sobbed into her shoulder. A lie, but one you believed because it hurt less than the truth. “They looked perfect together. Like—like I never even mattered.”

“That’s not true.” Utahime stroked your hair. “You know that’s not true.”

“Then why is he having romantic dinners with her?” Your voice cracked. “Why is he—why does it look exactly like what I was afraid of? That he’d figure out his feelings and realize she’s what he wanted all along?”

“I don’t know.” At least she was honest. “But torturing yourself with assumptions isn’t going to help. You don’t know what that dinner was about. Could have been business. Could have been him getting closure. Could have been—”

“Could have been exactly what it looked like,” you finished bitterly. “A date. Him moving on. Him choosing her.”

Utahime didn’t argue. Just held you while you cried yourself empty, until there were no more tears left, just exhaustion and a hollow ache where your heart used to be.

Shoko’s birthday was a week later.

You almost didn’t go. Made excuses to Utahime about work, about not feeling well, about anything that would get you out of attending a party where Gojo would definitely be. Where you’d have to see him and pretend to be okay and act like you weren’t dying inside.

“You’re going,” Utahime said firmly. “You’re going because Shoko is your friend and she wants you there. And you’re going because hiding from him isn’t healing, it’s just avoidance.”

“I’m fine with avoidance.”

“Well I’m not. You’re going. I’ll pick you up at seven.” She hung up before you could argue further.

So you went.

Dressed in something simple but flattering because you refused to look pathetic even if you felt it. Did your makeup with extra care, covering the shadows under your eyes that spoke of too many sleepless nights. Looked at yourself in the mirror and tried to see someone strong, someone healed, someone who had moved on.

Saw a liar instead.

The restaurant Shoko had chosen was nice without being ostentatious—her style exactly. Intimate, good food, the kind of place where friends gathered for birthdays and celebrations and normal happy occasions. You walked in with Utahime beside you, her hand on your elbow in silent support, and immediately spotted the group.

And him.

Gojo sat at the far end of the table, and he looked—god, he looked terrible. Worse than when you’d seen him through the restaurant window. Exhausted didn’t even begin to cover it. Like he hadn’t slept in days, hadn’t eaten properly, had been going through the motions of existence without actually living. His white hair was messier than usual, dark circles visible even behind his sunglasses. Those impossibly long limbs looked somehow folded in on themselves, like he was trying to take up less space. His usual effortless confidence replaced by something that looked like barely controlled desperation.

His eyes found yours the moment you entered. Those blue eyes—still impossibly beautiful even dulled with pain—widened slightly. Then he stood—an aborted movement, like his body moved before his brain caught up. Like seeing you had short-circuited something fundamental.

“Can we talk?” His voice carried across the space, raw and desperate. Not the smooth, confident tone you were used to. This was broken. Pleading.

Every eye in the restaurant turned to you. Your friends, Shoko, strangers at other tables. All watching this moment play out like entertainment.

“Not here,” you said quietly. Firmly.

“Please.” He took a step toward you, and you could see the tremor in his hands. “Just five minutes. I need to—”

“I said not here, Satoru.” Your voice was sharp enough to cut. “It’s Shoko’s birthday. Can we just—can we just not do this right now?”

Something flashed across his face—hurt, maybe, or frustration, or desperation so acute it looked like physical pain. But he nodded slowly, sat back down, though his eyes never left you. Like if he stopped looking, you’d disappear. Like you were the only thing tethering him to reality.

You took the seat Utahime had claimed on the opposite end of the table. As far from Gojo as physically possible while still being at the same celebration. Put your purse down with deliberate care. Smiled at Shoko with what you hoped passed for genuine happiness.

“Happy birthday,” you said, and your voice only shook a little.

“Thanks for coming.” Shoko’s eyes were worried, flicking between you and Gojo. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” The lie tasted like ash.

The dinner was torture.

Not the food or the company or even Shoko’s birthday celebration. Just the awareness of him at the other end of the table. The weight of his gaze that you felt every time you looked up—constant, intense, almost desperate in its focus. The tension so thick everyone noticed but pretended not to, making conversation extra bright, extra normal, trying to compensate for the elephant in the room.

You sat rigid in your chair, hyperaware of his presence. Of the way he barely touched his food, just pushed it around his plate while his eyes tracked your every movement. Of how his knuckles were white around his glass. Of the muscle jumping in his jaw every time you laughed at something someone said.

“You look exhausted,” someone said to Gojo. You didn’t look, didn’t want to see his face, but you heard the observation anyway.

“Rough week.” His voice was flat, empty. Dead in a way that made something in your chest clench despite yourself. “Work stuff.”

“You should take better care of yourself,” Shoko said gently, and you could hear the worry in her voice. “You’re running yourself into the ground.”

“I’m fine.”

He wasn’t fine. You knew him well enough—even now, even broken—to hear the lie in his voice. Could feel his eyes on you, burning like brands, begging for something you couldn’t give.

But it wasn’t your problem anymore. Wasn’t your job to worry about him or take care of him or make sure he was eating and sleeping and functioning like a human being.

You’d given up that right when you’d walked out of his penthouse.

Or he’d taken it away when he’d chosen to have dinner with Akane.

“How’s work going for you?” Utahime’s voice was bright and loud beside you, deliberately pulling your attention away from where it kept drifting. “That new project you mentioned?”

“Good. Fine.” You forced a smile. “Busy, you know how it is.”

The conversation flowed around you—birthday wishes, updates about mutual friends, plans for the future. Normal topics for normal people living normal lives. You participated mechanically, saying the right things at the right times, laughing when appropriate.

All while hyperaware of Gojo watching you. Of the way he barely touched his food. Of the tension in his shoulders that spoke of barely contained something—frustration or pain or desperation, you couldn’t tell.

Didn’t want to tell.

Utahime leaned close, voice low. “Are you okay?”

“No.”

“Do you want to leave?”

“I can’t. It’s Shoko’s birthday.”

“She’d understand—”

“I’m fine.” You took a sip of water, tried to steady your breathing. “I’m fine.”

Another lie to add to the collection.

The evening crawled forward at an agonizing pace. Dessert came—Shoko’s favorite cake, decorated beautifully, candles lit while everyone sang. You joined in, voice merging with the chorus, trying to focus on your friend and her happiness rather than the man watching you like you were the only person in the room.

Like you were oxygen and he was suffocating.

Shoko blew out her candles. Made a wish. The moment should have been sweet, uncomplicated.

Instead you felt like you were suffocating.

“I need air,” you muttered to Utahime. “Just five minutes.”

“Want me to come?”

“No. I’m fine. Just—I’ll be right back.”

You escaped to the bathroom, locked yourself in a stall, and tried to remember how to breathe. Your hands were shaking. Your chest was tight. Every breath felt like swallowing glass.

Your reflection in the mirror looked haunted when you emerged. Makeup still perfect but your eyes gave you away—too bright, too fragile, barely holding it together.

You splashed cold water on your wrists. The old trick for anxiety. Counted backwards from ten. Reminded yourself that you could survive this, that it was just a few more hours, that you could leave soon and never have to do this again.

When you returned to the table, there was a new presence.

Time stopped.

Suguru Geto stood at the entrance, scanning the room. He was dressed casually but devastatingly in dark jeans and a leather jacket, long black hair half-up in that effortless way that looked studied but wasn’t, that silver lip ring catching the light when he smiled at something the hostess said. He looked dangerous and beautiful—all dark eyes and sharp features, the perfect contrast to Gojo’s bright, ethereal beauty.

And when his eyes found yours across the room, he smiled. Warm. Intimate. Knowing.

The temperature in the restaurant dropped twenty degrees.

You watched Gojo see him. Watched every ounce of color drain from his face, leaving him almost as pale as his white hair. Watched red flood back in its place—rage and betrayal and something feral rising to the surface. His hands clenched into fists on the table, knuckles going white. His whole body went rigid, coiled like a spring about to snap.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Gojo’s voice cut through the ambient noise like a knife. Not loud, but sharp enough that conversations died. Everyone turned to look. His blue eyes were wild, almost manic with sudden rage.

Suguru moved through the space with deliberate calm, unbothered by the attention or the hostility radiating from the other end of the table. Stopped beside Shoko, bent down to press a kiss to her cheek.

“Happy birthday, Sho.” His voice was warm, affectionate, the tone of someone comfortable with his place here. “Sorry I’m late. Work ran over.”

“Suguru!” Shoko’s smile was genuine, if worried. “I’m so glad you made it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” He straightened, surveyed the table with eyes that saw too much—taking in the tension, the way everyone was frozen, the way Gojo looked like he might flip the table. When those dark eyes landed on you, his smile softened into something more intimate. More knowing. “Mind if I sit?”

There was an empty chair. Next to you. The only empty chair at the table, and you’d bet everything you owned that Shoko hadn’t planned it this way. That the universe or fate or cosmic irony had arranged this specific torture.

You should say no. Should protect Gojo from this, should maintain the distance you’d barely managed to establish. Should save everyone from the carnage that was about to unfold.

But you could feel Gojo’s eyes on you. Could feel the desperation in his gaze, the silent plea. Could almost hear his thoughts—please don’t, please, anyone but him, not him.

And you remembered seeing him with Akane. Remembered the Instagram posts and the romantic dinner and the way she’d touched his arm. Remembered the week of silence after sleeping with you. Remembered every moment of pain he’d caused, every choice he’d failed to make, every time he’d hurt you by choosing himself.

You were so angry. At Gojo for moving on. At Akane for existing. At yourself for still caring. At the universe for making everything so impossibly complicated.

And Suguru was standing there offering you a weapon.

Now the author wants to laugh. Wants to close the laptop and walk away from this disaster because what comes next is inevitable, predictable, the kind of mistake that can’t be unmade once it’s set in motion. But here’s the thing about hurt people: they’re dangerous. Here’s the thing about pain: it makes you stupid. And here’s the thing about weapons: when one is placed directly in your hand in the middle of a war, when you’re bleeding and desperate and so fucking angry you can barely see straight—you use it.

It doesn’t matter that you’ll regret it later. Doesn’t matter that you’re about to burn down everything in a five-mile radius including yourself. Doesn’t matter that the person you’re trying to hurt is the same person you’d die to protect on any other day. In that moment, with Suguru standing there offering salvation in the form of vengeance, with Gojo’s desperate eyes begging you not to, with your own heart still bleeding from a wound he doesn’t even know he caused—the choice isn’t really a choice at all. It’s just pain seeking an outlet. It’s just a wounded animal lashing out at the thing that hurt it, even if that thing is the only person who’s ever made you feel alive.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“Sure,” you heard yourself say.

The word detonated like a bomb.

Gojo’s eyes—those blue eyes that had haunted your dreams for months—looked at you with such devastation, such betrayal, such rage that you almost took it back. His face had gone from pale to flushed, jaw clenched so tight you worried he’d crack a tooth. His hands were shaking on the table. He looked like you’d physically struck him.

Almost apologized, almost asked Suguru to sit somewhere else, almost chose Gojo’s feelings over your own hurt.

Almost.

But then you remembered seeing him with Akane through that window. Remembered feeling exactly this kind of devastation. Remembered every moment of pain.

Suguru sat down beside you. Not touching, respecting space, but close enough that his presence was unavoidable. Close enough that Gojo could see exactly what this looked like. Close enough that his familiar scent—something dark and woody, completely different from Gojo’s bright cologne—washed over you.

“Thanks,” Suguru said quietly, pulling in his chair. To you, not the table. Intimate enough that it felt like a secret.

“Of course.” Your voice came out steadier than you felt.

The table had gone silent. Everyone staring—at you, at Suguru, at Gojo who looked like he might combust or leave or implode. At the drama unfolding in the middle of what should have been a simple birthday dinner.

Shoko cleared her throat. “Should we—”

“I need to know something.” Gojo interrupted, still staring at you. Voice shaking with barely controlled rage. Ignoring Suguru completely, like acknowledging his presence would make it real. Like if he didn’t look at him, Suguru might disappear. “Did Shoko know about this?”

“About what?” Shoko’s voice was careful, worried.

“About him.” Gojo gestured sharply at Suguru without looking at him, jaw clenched. “About—” He stopped himself, jaw clenching so hard you worried he’d crack a tooth. “Did you know?”

“Know what, Satoru?” Shoko’s tone was deliberately calm, the way you’d speak to someone on the edge of breaking. “Suguru’s my friend. He’s been my friend through all of this. I invited him to my birthday because he matters to me. Just like you matter to me. Just like—” Her eyes flicked to you. “Everyone here matters to me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer you’re getting.” Her voice firmed. “This is my birthday. Can we please just—can everyone just try to be civil for a few hours?”

The request hung in the air, fragile and desperate.

Gojo laughed. The sound was bitter, broken, wrong coming from him. “Civil. Right. Sure. I’ll just sit here and be civil while my ex-best friend who fucked me over sits next to—” He cut himself off, hands flexing like he wanted to hit something. His blue eyes were wild, almost manic. “This is unbelievable.”

“Then leave.” The words came from you before you could stop them. Cold. Final. “If it’s too hard to be here, leave. No one’s forcing you to stay.”

His eyes snapped to yours, and the look in them made your chest constrict. Pain. Betrayal. Rage. Devastation all mixed together. “You want me to leave?”

“I want you to stop making Shoko’s birthday about your feelings.” Your voice was sharp enough to cut even though your hands were shaking under the table. “This isn’t about you, Satoru. It’s about her. So either sit down and be an adult or go. But stop making a scene.”

Something in his expression shattered. Hurt flashed across his face—raw and unguarded and devastating. His mouth opened like he wanted to say something, then closed. He sat down slowly, jaw clenched, white-knuckled hands gripping his glass, and didn’t say another word.

But his eyes never left you.

You know you’re being cruel. You can feel it even as the words leave your mouth—each one a small violence, a deliberate wound. This isn’t you. Or maybe it is you, maybe this is who you become when you’re hurt badly enough, when love turns to poison in your veins. You can see it on his face, the way your coldness lands like physical blows. Can see Shoko’s distress, Utahime’s concern.

You know you’re using his feelings for you as a weapon against him, know you’re being unfair because he doesn’t even know what he did wrong, doesn’t know you saw him with Akane, doesn’t know you’ve spent days constructing an entire narrative of his betrayal. You’re punishing him for crimes he isn’t aware of committing. You’re being the villain in this story and you know it, can feel yourself doing it, and still you can’t stop.

Because it feels good. Because making him hurt the way you hurt feels like justice even though you know it’s just revenge. Because you’re so tired of being the one who’s always bleeding, always waiting, always understanding. Just this once, you want him to feel a fraction of what you’ve been feeling. Even if it makes you someone you don’t recognize. Even if you’ll hate yourself for it later.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

The dinner resumed in painful, halting conversation. People tried—god, they tried so hard to act normal, to pretend everything was fine, to ignore the fact that the table felt like a powder keg waiting for a match.

And Suguru—

Suguru was perfect.

Attentive without being obvious. Asked about your day in that quiet, interested way that made you feel heard. Passed you water when your glass emptied. Handed you the salt before you had to reach across the table. Small gestures that meant nothing and everything, intimacy in the casual touches that spoke of comfort, of knowing someone, of belonging.

Every interaction was a knife in Gojo’s chest, and you knew it, and you couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to stop.

“How’s the new project going?” Suguru asked, voice low enough that it felt like a private conversation despite being at a table full of people. His dark eyes were warm, focused entirely on you.

“Good. Complicated, but good.” You took a sip of water, aware of Gojo’s eyes tracking the movement like a predator. “Keeps me busy.”

“That’s good.” His hand brushed yours as he reached for his own glass. Brief, could have been accidental, except for the way his eyes met yours. Knowing. Deliberate. “Staying busy helps.”

“It does.” You didn’t pull your hand away. Let it rest there on the table where Gojo could see. Where he could watch Suguru’s fingers so close to yours. “How’s work for you?”

“Stressful.” He smiled, and it was the first genuine smile you’d seen all night. “But better now.”

The implication hung there. Better now that I’m here. Better now that I’m with you.

Gojo’s glass hit the table with more force than necessary. Not enough to break, but enough that conversation stopped. Everyone looked at him.

“Sorry,” he said flatly, voice dead. “Slipped.”

But his eyes were on Suguru’s hand, still close to yours on the table. On the space between you that kept getting smaller. On everything he’d lost and everything he was watching slip away in real time. His jaw was clenched so tight the muscle jumped. His breathing was shallow, controlled, like he was fighting for composure.

“Maybe you should slow down,” Shoko said gently, nodding at his drink. “You’ve had a lot.”

“Maybe you should mind your business.” The words came out harsh, ugly. Gojo immediately looked stricken. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine.” But Shoko’s voice was hurt.

“It’s not fine.” Utahime leaned forward, protective. “You’re being an asshole, Gojo.”

Someone from the other end of the table cleared their throat awkwardly—one of Shoko’s friends, looking confused by the tension. “I’m sorry, but—” They looked at Suguru. “How do you know everyone? I mean, you seem to know Satoru and—”

The question cut through the moment.

Suguru leaned back in his chair, that dangerous smile playing at his lips. His dark eyes met Gojo’s across the table. “Satoru and I go way back. Best friends, actually.”

The table went completely silent. Even the ambient noise of the restaurant seemed to fade.

“Years ago,” Suguru continued, voice calm and deliberate. Each word chosen for maximum impact. “Inseparable, really. Until—” He paused, tilted his head. “Before he fucked me over.”

“Fuck you.” Gojo’s voice was a snarl, the word exploding out of him with such venom that nearby diners turned to stare. His chair scraped violently as he stood. “You fucked my girlfriend.”

“After you took her from me!” Suguru stood too, slower, more controlled, but there was steel underneath. His dark eyes glittered with something dangerous.

“She was never yours.” Gojo’s voice cracked, loud enough that the entire restaurant was watching now. His blue eyes were wild, manic. His white hair disheveled from running his hands through it. He looked like he was barely holding himself together.

They were both standing now, facing each other across the table. The air between them crackled with years of unresolved anger, betrayal, hurt. Everyone at the table had gone still—frozen in their seats, caught between two men on the edge of violence.

Other diners were openly staring now. Conversations had stopped. Silverware paused mid-air. Even the waitstaff had frozen.

The tension was suffocating.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“Enough.” It was Utahime who spoke, voice hard as you noticed she also stood up and looked hard between the boys. “This is bullshit. Both of you are acting fucking stupid.”

“I’m aware.” He dragged both hands through his hair. “Trust me, I’m very aware of how stupid I’m being. But what am I supposed to—” He stopped, looked at you with something desperate. “What am I supposed to do? Sit here and watch this and pretend I’m okay with it?”

“Yes,” you said coldly. “That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do.”

The truth detonated between you like a grenade.

“Is that what this is?” His voice wavered slightly, eyes locked into you in that hard sort of way. “Revenge? You’re using him to hurt me?”

“I’m not using anyone.” The lie tasted bitter but you committed to it anyway. “Maybe I just like him.”

“Bullshit.” Gojo stood abruptly again, chair scraping against the floor with a sound that made people at other tables turn. “You’re doing this to hurt me. To make me feel what you felt. To—”

“To what?” You stood too, refusing to let him tower over you. “To make you understand that seeing you with someone else destroys me? Mission accomplished, Satoru. But guess what? It doesn’t change anything. You still chose her. You still had dinner with her. You still—”

“I didn’t choose her!” The words burst out of him, raw and desperate. “I was trying to get closure! Trying to figure out why I’d destroyed so much for something that meant nothing. Trying to understand what I’d done to Suguru, to us, to—” He stopped himself, breathing hard. “I wasn’t choosing her. I was trying to figure out how to choose you.”

The confession hung in the air, devastating in its honesty.

You’re well aware of the other people at the table looking at you. Well aware of how this is quite literally ruining the night and by extension—Shoko’s birthday. Well aware of how some people might be rolling their eyes at the love triangle sort of drama going on here.

Frankly, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. None of you could.

“Well you took too long.” Your voice broke despite your best efforts. “And now I don’t know if I can—if we can—” You gestured helplessly between you. “I don’t know if there’s anything left to choose.”

“Don’t say that.” He moved toward you, hand reaching out. “He’s fucking with your goddamn mind.”

“Why not?” Tears were burning behind your eyes. “It’s true. You broke us, Satoru. And I don’t know if—”

“Can I say something?” Suguru’s voice cut through the moment. Calm. Measured. Dangerous in its control.

Everyone turned to look at him. He stood slowly, deliberately, hands in his pockets like he had all the time in the world.

“I think,” he said, eyes on Gojo, “we’re all forgetting something important here.”

“Who asked you?” Gojo’s voice was flat, hostile. Not even a question, really.

He continued anyway. “That you don’t own her.” Suguru’s smile was sharp. “That she’s a person who can make her own choices. And if she chooses to spend time with me, that’s her decision. Not yours. Not anymore.”

“This isn’t about ownership—”

“Isn’t it?” Suguru tilted his head. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re upset that someone else might value what you threw away. That someone else might see what you were too fucked up to appreciate.”

“Don’t.” Gojo’s voice was low, dangerous. “Don’t act like you know anything about us.”

“I know she showed up at my door crying.” The words were quiet but devastating. “I know you hurt her badly enough that she needed someone—anyone—to make her feel like she mattered. I know—”

Gojo lunged.

It happened fast—one second he was standing there, the next he was across the space, hands fisted in Suguru’s jacket, shoving him back against the wall. The restaurant went silent. Shocked diners staring. Your friends half-rising from their seats.

“You don’t get to talk about her.” Gojo’s voice was barely controlled rage. “You don’t get to—”

“What?” Suguru didn’t fight back, just looked at Gojo with something like pity. “Tell the truth? Admit that you fucked up? That you’re watching her slip away the same way you watched Akane slip away to me?”

“Don’t compare this to—”

“Why not?” Suguru’s laugh was sharp. “It’s the same thing, isn’t it? I took something from you. You took something from me. Now I’m taking something from you. Poetic justice. Full circle. Whatever you want to call it.”

“He’s not taking anything.” Your voice cut through their standoff. Both of them looked at you. “Because I’m not a thing to be taken. I’m a person making my own choices. And right now I’m choosing to leave.”

You grabbed your purse, suddenly desperate to be anywhere else. “Happy birthday, Shoko. I’m sorry I ruined it.”

“You didn’t—” Shoko started, but you were already moving.

Out of the restaurant, into the night air, trying to breathe through the panic constricting your chest. Behind you, you heard sounds of the scuffle continuing—Shoko’s voice trying to mediate, Utahime’s sharp rebuke, chairs scraping.

You were halfway down the block when you heard footsteps.

“Wait.”

Not Suguru. Not Utahime.

Gojo.

You stopped but didn’t turn around. “Go back inside.”

“I can’t.” His voice was raw. “Not without—we need to talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Everything to talk about.” He moved closer, and you could feel him behind you. Close enough to touch but not touching. 

“Like what?” You finally turned, and the look on his face almost broke you. He was wrecked. Completely and utterly destroyed. “Like how you’re having dinner with Akane? How you slept with me and then disappeared? How you can’t make a choice? Which part needs explaining, Satoru?”

“Suguru.” The single word came out like a curse. Like a plea. Like everything. “Of all people. Him.”

“You don’t get to be mad about him.”

“The fuck I don’t!” His control cracked completely. “You went to my ex-best friend. The person who destroyed me. The person who—” His breath hitched. “Of all the people in the world, you chose him.”

“You did this.” Your voice was steel and hurt in equal measure. “You pushed me away. You couldn’t choose. You had dinner with your ex while I—” Your voice broke. “While I tried to piece myself together from what you left behind. So yes, I went to Suguru. Yes, I talked to him. Yes, I almost—” You stopped, couldn’t finish.

“Almost what?” His voice was barely a whisper now. Terrified.

“Almost became what you were afraid of.” The admission cost you everything. “Almost betrayed you the way he did. Almost used him to hurt you the way you hurt me. But I didn’t. Because unlike you, I don’t use people as weapons.”

“That’s not—” He stopped, seemed to realize the futility of arguing. Dragged both hands through his hair again. “I was trying to do the right thing. Trying to get closure. Trying to—”

“You’re still doing it.” You laughed, and it came out broken. “Still can’t just say what you mean. Still hiding behind vague excuses. Still—”

“Suguru.” He cut you off, and his voice was different now. Lower. More dangerous. “Of all people. Him.”

The repetition felt like an accusation.

“You did this,” you said again, weaker this time.

“I know.” He took a step back, and the distance felt final. His eyes—god, those blue eyes—looked at you with something you’d never seen before. Disgust. Betrayal. Like he didn’t recognize you anymore. “I know I did. And I have to live with that. With losing you because I couldn’t get out of my own way fast enough.”

He paused, jaw working, and when he spoke again his voice was cold. Dead.

“But you could’ve fucked a thousand other guys.” The words were quiet but devastating. “And that wouldn’t have been half as shitty as you deciding to fuck him.”

The statement hung in the air like poison.

“Don’t you understand?” His voice cracked, and suddenly he wasn’t angry anymore—just tired. You’ve never heard him tired. “He’s not just my ex-friend. He’s the ghost I can’t exorcise. The betrayal that taught me not to trust. He’s part of the hell I refuse to go back to.” His eyes met yours, and the pain in them was unbearable. “And you chose him. Knowing exactly what he is to me.”

“I didn’t—I haven’t—”

But that line doesn’t matter. The technicality of it—that you haven’t slept with Suguru, that you haven’t even kissed him, that every interaction has been innocent even if the intention behind it wasn’t—none of that matters. Because Gojo’s not wrong about what you’re doing.

He’s just wrong about how far you’ve taken it.

You can stand there and deny it, can throw his accusation back in his face with righteous indignation, can act like he’s being crazy and paranoid and unreasonable. But deep down, in the part of yourself you don’t want to look at too closely, you know he’s seeing clearly.

It was never about actually fucking his ex-best friend, his betrayer, the ghost of his past that still haunts him. It was never about Suguru’s hands on your body or his lips on your skin or taking him into your bed. It was about choosing Suguru as the instrument of your revenge. About sitting next to him at this table, laughing at his jokes, letting him lean in close, accepting his attention in a way that you knew would detonate something in Gojo’s chest. It was about the optics, the implication, the suggestion of intimacy whether or not it actually existed.

We all want to believe we’re better than what people make us out to be, want to believe we’d never actually cross that line, want to give ourselves the benefit of the doubt. But the truth is messier, uglier, more uncomfortable to sit with. You chose Suguru deliberately. Cultivated his attention consciously. Encouraged his presence knowing exactly what it represented. Knowing it would feel like a betrayal. Knowing it would break something in Gojo that might not be fixable.

Whether you sleep with Suguru or not is irrelevant. The line you’re defending so fiercely, the technicality you’re clinging to like it absolves you—it doesn’t matter. The damage is already done. You’ve already used Suguru as a weapon. You’ve already made your choice visible, deliberate, cruel. You’ve already crossed the line that matters, the one that says “I care about hurting you more than I care about protecting what we have.” Gojo knows it. Suguru probably knows it too. And you—standing there defending yourself against an accusation that’s technically false but spiritually true—you know it most of all.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“Haven’t you though?” He looked at you with something like disgust now. Like you’d become a stranger. “You went to him. You let him in. You chose him over me knowing exactly what it would do.”

The words hit like physical blows.

“You did this,” you said, again and again, as if trying to convince yourself—but there was no strength left in it.

“I know.” He turned away, started walking back toward the restaurant. “I know I did.”

“Where are you going?” Your voice was small, scared.

“Inside.” He didn’t look back. His voice hard. “To apologize to Shoko for ruining her birthday. And then I’m leaving.”

“Satoru—”

He stopped but didn’t turn around. “I can’t watch you with him. Can’t sit there and pretend I’m okay with it. So I’m going to leave. And maybe—maybe we both need to figure out what we want.”

Then he was gone, back into the restaurant, leaving you standing alone on the sidewalk trying to remember how to breathe.

You stand there frozen in the doorway, watching his figure disappear down the hallway, and suddenly it hits you like ice water flooding your veins—what the fuck did I just do? The realization doesn’t come gently; it slams into you all at once, stealing the air from your lungs as your brain finally catches up to your mouth.

“You did this,” you’d said. Over and over, like it was a shield, like it justified everything. But standing here alone in the cold, watching the empty space where he’d been, you finally hear how hollow those words were. How cruel. Because yes, maybe he pushed you away first—but you chose the one person specifically designed to destroy him. You could’ve fucked a thousand other guys, he’d said, and it wouldn’t have been half as shitty. But you picked him. Knowing exactly what Suguru represents. Knowing exactly what it would do.

The hallway is so quiet now. So empty. And you’re standing here with the full weight of what you’ve just done crashing down on you, the understanding so sharp and sudden it feels like falling, like the ground just disappeared beneath your feet and you’re only now noticing there’s nothing left to catch you.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

You stood there for a long time. Ten minutes. Maybe twenty. Time felt unreliable.

Then you followed him inside because you needed to apologize to Shoko too, needed to at least try to salvage what you’d destroyed.

The scene you walked into was tense. Gojo was by the door talking to Shoko, clearly about to leave. Shoko looked devastated. Your friends looked uncomfortable, caught between people they cared about, not knowing whose side to take.

And Suguru was still at the table, watching everything with those dark, knowing eyes.

You walked past Gojo without looking at him. Couldn’t look at him right now, couldn’t handle the hurt in his eyes or the way your chest cracked open every time you saw his face.

Stopped beside Shoko instead. “I’m so sorry. This is—I never meant to ruin your birthday.”

“I know.” She pulled you into a hug. “I know, honey. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.” Your voice was thick with tears. “This is your day and we made it about—”

“About pain that’s been there for a long time.” She pulled back, hands on your shoulders. Her expression was gentle but worried. “Not your fault. Not Satoru’s fault. Just—” She sighed. “Just a lot of hurt coming out at once.”

Behind you, you heard footsteps. Gojo moving around.

Part of you wanted to run after him. To fix this somehow. To take back what you’d done.

But you stayed. Because running after him felt like giving in.

Shoko’s expression shifted to something more serious. “I don’t know what’s going on,” she said quietly, glancing toward where Suguru sat. “But Suguru is—” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “He’s a ghost from Satoru’s past and—it’s not my story to tell but I think Satoru needs time. I’m sorry but—he’s, yeah, this is hard for him.”

The words landed like a weight in your chest. Not an accusation. Just a statement of fact. A reminder that what you’d done wasn’t just about you and Gojo—it was about reopening wounds that had never really healed.

“I should go too,” you said quietly. “Let you salvage what’s left of your birthday.”

“Are you okay?”

“No.” At least you could be honest about that. “But I will be. Eventually.”

You gathered your things, said quiet goodbyes to your friends. Avoided looking at Suguru even though you could feel his eyes on you.

The restaurant is so quiet now. So empty. And you’re standing here with the full weight of what you’ve just done crashing down on you, the understanding so sharp and sudden it feels like falling, like the ground just disappeared beneath your feet and you’re only now noticing there’s nothing left to catch you.

You force yourself to move, your legs heavy as you push back through the door into the restaurant. You need to—what? Apologize? Explain? Fix this somehow?

But just before you step outside, you see him.

And her.

Temptation, they say, is just pain looking for somewhere to go. And isn’t that what we all are in the end? Just walking wounds searching for anything that might make us feel less empty, less broken, less alone. We preach about strength and restraint like they’re virtues we were born with, but the truth is uglier: we’re all just one bad night away from becoming the worst version of ourselves. One heartbreak away from proving we’re exactly as weak as we feared.

Satoru has spent his whole life being untouchable—with his money, his looks, his charisma. Power made physical. But there’s a cruel irony in despite having all of these—you still bleed the same, you just bleed alone. And tonight, standing in this restaurant with his chest carved open, he understands that power was never about being invulnerable. It was about having something worth protecting. Someone worth being vulnerable for.

And that someone just chose his ghost.

So when he sees Akane across the room—a sick twist of fate, a cosmic joke—he doesn’t look away.

She’s leaning against the bar, all crimson lips and calculated grace, the kind of beautiful that knows exactly what it costs. A vixen in designer heels, temptation wearing a little black dress.

You watch him approach her. Watch her eyes light up with recognition, with interest, with something predatory and knowing.

“Rough night?” Her voice carries just enough that you can hear it, honey and smoke.

“Something like that.”

“You look like you’re trying to forget something.” She tilts her head, and her hair cascades over one shoulder like silk. She locks eyes with you—or at least that’s what it felt like, as you watch them pushed in the secluded corner of the restaurant, by the mini bar. “Or someone.”

“Maybe I am.”

She takes a sip of her drink, and the movement is deliberate, sensual. Everything about her is deliberate. “And here I thought the great Gojo Satoru didn’t run from anything.”

“I’m not running.” You can hear the lie in his voice even from here. “Just… relocating.”

“Mmm.” Her smile is knowing, dangerous. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

You should look away. Should leave. Should give him this, let him have whatever vengeance he needs. But your feet are rooted to the floor, your eyes locked on them like watching a car crash in slow motion.

“Do you want to come home with me?”

The words hit you like a physical blow. Your purse slips from your numb fingers.

Akane’s smile sharpens into something predatory. “That’s a very dangerous offer, Satoru.”

“Maybe I’m feeling dangerous tonight.”

“Are you?” She steps closer, close enough that you can see her hand reaching up. “Or are you just feeling desperate?”

“Does it matter?”

“It might.” Her fingers trace the air between them. “Desperation makes people do things they regret. Makes them use people they shouldn’t.”

“And if I said I don’t care about regret right now?”

“Then I’d say you’re lying.” But she’s still smiling, still looking at him like he’s exactly what she expected. “But I’d probably come with you anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because I like broken things.” Her fingers ghost along his jaw. “And you, Gojo Satoru, are the most beautifully broken thing I’ve seen in a long time.”

Crack.

The sound is distant, muffled—like something precious falling in another room, shattering upon impact. Like crystal meeting marble. Like something irreplaceable breaking where no one can see it.

You look around, trying to find the source, but the restaurant continues unchanged. People laugh. Glasses clink. Music swells. Nothing’s broken. Nothing’s fallen.

But you hear it again. Crack. Louder this time, closer, and your hand moves to your chest without thinking because suddenly it’s hard to breathe, hard to stand, hard to be.

Crack.

It’s the kind of sound that shouldn’t be audible over the music and conversation, but somehow it cuts through everything else. A singular note of destruction in a symphony of noise.

And then Satoru’s turning, his eyes finding yours across the room.

Akane’s hand is on his arm now. Her fingers molded perfectly into the space just above his elbow, fitting there like they were always meant to, like his body was just waiting for someone else to fill the spaces you left behind.

The restaurant spins on. People laugh. Glasses clink. The world refuses to stop just because yours is ending.

But you’re frozen there, a statue of your own devastation, watching the man you love reach for someone else because you reached for his ghost first. And there’s a poetry to it, isn’t there? A sick, twisted poetry. You chose Suguru, so he chooses oblivion. You picked his past, so he picks anything that might erase you from his present.

Crack.

And finally you understand.

Nothing fell. Nothing shattered on the restaurant floor.

It’s you. It’s been you all along.

That sound—that terrible, delicate sound of something breaking—it’s coming from inside your chest. From that space behind your ribs where you keep all the things too precious to say out loud. Where you’ve been storing every moment with him, every touch, every smile, every time he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing.

It’s all breaking now. Fracturing. Splintering into pieces so small you’ll never find them all again.

The restaurant spins on. People laugh. Glasses clink. The world refuses to stop just because yours is ending.

But you’re frozen there, hand pressed to your chest, finally understanding what it means to feel your heart break in real-time. To watch the man you love reach for someone else because you reached for his ghost first.

Because yes, you’ve been cruel. A lot more cruel with your choices and intentional pain-inflicting actions and decisions. But you forget that Gojo Satoru can be cruel too. You forget that he’s spent the past few years of his life learning how to hurt people before they can hurt him, that when he decides to make you bleed he knows exactly where to cut.

You’ve been operating under the assumption that your pain gives you the right to lash out, that being hurt first means you can’t be the villain. But Gojo’s been holding back this whole time. Been taking your hits because he thought he deserved it, because he loves you enough to let you be angry.

And now you’ve pushed him too far.

Equivalent exchange. Mutual destruction.

The oldest story ever told: two people who love each other finding new and creative ways to break each other apart.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

🏷️ @sadmonke @satorupied @azumiriiri @shmd-nora @gyoouu @tilothecutie @sirencholia @vegeta-love @scaraslover @rntrsuna @ssetsuka @hynkari @zukowantshishonourback @aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa444 @naxinomi @blueangelbread @aliensleeb @ckilhj @uravitypng @dtftheavengers @prettylee @sweetoblivionis @kamuihz @yellow—dandelions @justhere0000 @uniquenicefangirl @itsmebb @highhjime @lizzjupiter @sabbrriiinnaa @ynackerman9499 @eolivy @sherizaraiyah @tim—tam @emoedgylord @pnkoo @kvi-kvi @bakarinnie @itoshi-r @chelseasayshi @bloomingbirdiez @untouchablegojo @literallyadarling @allsenvy @jlovesyuuji @withersworld @rastamousey @thatpinkshirt @bitchystudentninja @inserte-un-nombre-original @moomiez @theoverthinker-sdumpster @miksde @brekkielukiel

[rinstars]

🏷️ (2) @idontfuckingknowlol @bizzystraightoffthedome @littlemisssatorugirl @jyneprincess @pe4ch14 @antikillua @dovey-quacks2332 @melsthots @thatobsessedreader @elme333 @wichu127 @catalinasroom @tluvr777 @dabi-vakarian @yukitanakalibrary @mshooe16 @vdotcom @h3iress @tojifile @sabztov @0angel-baby0 @gumsgum @naomikozura @junghoonbooty @softtashoney @nervousshinnie @lacedwitbabypowda @anshika111 @emluvsgetou @casssiesthings @augennn

[rinstars]

── .✦ START A WAR ⋆𐙚₊ 𝟎𝟐 AFRAID

PAIRING: Gojo Satoru x Reader. Geto Suguru x Reader.

GENRE: Angst. Smut.

TAGS/WARNING: NSFW. Friends with Benefits. Fuck Buddies. Unrequited Love. Profanity. Toxicity.

SYNOPSIS: Gojo Satoru doesn’t do relationships. You knew that from the start. Six months of late-night calls and empty beds later, you’re still foolish enough to believe you might be different. But when loving him starts to feel like losing yourself, you’ll have to decide: keep fighting for someone who won’t fight back, or finally walk away from the only person who ever made you want to stay…

Better yet, you’ll play his game and start a war—one where neither of you will come out unscathed.

LENGTH: 14.9k (sorry…)

TAGLIST: OPEN (reply/ask to be added!)

NOTES: MONSTER of a chapter! I really wanted to be able to get the setup clear and out of the way because there are a LOT of things planned for this series and I didn’t want to start moving the plot only 5 chapters in hehehe so here’s to weeks in the life of gojoyn! As always, please tell me what u all think! And yes, the chapter titles are ALL song titles.

chapter one ⋆𐙚₊ series masterlist ⋆𐙚₊ chapter three

Sunlight streamed through unfamiliar floor-to-ceiling windows, too bright, too expensive, the kind of aggressive morning light that felt like an invasion. You blinked awake slowly, disoriented by the thread count of sheets that probably cost more than your monthly rent—Egyptian cotton, if you had to guess, the kind that whispered wealth against your skin. The sprawling skyline view stretched beyond the glass, Tokyo glittering forty-three floors below, marking this as somewhere high up, somewhere exclusive, somewhere that wasn’t yours and never would be.

Gojo’s penthouse. Right.

The memories came back in fragments, each one a small cut—his hands on your body, reverent and possessive all at once, his mouth on your neck leaving marks you’d have to cover with concealer, the way he’d looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered, like you were precious, like you were his. The way you’d let yourself believe it, let yourself sink into the fantasy, let yourself imagine this could be something more than what it was.

God, you were an idiot.

You turned your head, expecting to find him beside you, maybe still asleep with that unfairly perfect face relaxed in rest, maybe awake and watching you with those blue eyes that always seemed to see too much. The space was empty, sheets cool to the touch, the indentation of his body barely visible. He’d been gone for a while. Long enough for the warmth to fade. Long enough for reality to settle back in like frost.

Your heart sank in a way that felt pathetically familiar, a sensation you were becoming far too accustomed to—this particular brand of disappointment that came with wanting someone who only wanted you in specific, controlled doses.

The sound of a voice filtered through the cracked bedroom door—his voice, low and measured, carefully modulated in that way that meant he was talking to someone important. Someone who mattered. You sat up, pulling the sheet around yourself like armor, suddenly very aware of your nakedness, your vulnerability, and strained to hear.

“—I know. I’m handling it.” A pause, heavy with implication. “No, she doesn’t know.” Another pause, longer this time, pregnant with secrets you weren’t privy to. “Look, I’ll figure it out. Just give me some time.”

She. He was talking about you. Had to be. Who else would there be? What else would need “handling” like you were a problem to be solved, a complication to be managed?

The knot in your stomach tightened, twisting into something ugly and cold.

When he walked back into the bedroom a minute later, he was already dressed—black jeans that hung just right on his hips, white t-shirt that should have been simple but somehow looked designer on his frame, phone in hand like it was an extension of his body. He looked up, saw you awake, and his expression shifted into something carefully neutral, deliberately blank. It was a look you were learning to recognize—the mask sliding into place, the walls going up, the distance establishing itself like a physical thing between you.

“Morning,” he said, tone casual, easy, like this was normal. Like you waking up alone in his bed while he took mysterious phone calls about you was just another Tuesday. Like last night hadn’t happened, or if it had, it didn’t mean anything worth acknowledging. “Coffee’s in the kitchen.”

The dismissal was so casual it felt almost violent.

You stared at him, trying to reconcile this version of Satoru—detached, distant, already halfway out the door mentally—with the one who’d whispered your name like a prayer last night, who’d held you so carefully afterward you’d almost believed he meant it, who’d traced patterns on your skin like he was trying to memorize you.

“Morning,” you echoed, voice rough with sleep and something that might have been hurt if you let yourself feel it fully.

He went back to his phone immediately, thumbs moving across the screen with practiced efficiency, responding to messages that were apparently more important than looking at you. Not looking at you. The dismissal was subtle but unmistakable, the kind of casual cruelty that came naturally to someone who’d perfected the art of keeping people at arm’s length.

You got out of bed, suddenly very aware of your nakedness in a way you hadn’t been last night when he’d peeled your clothes off with such focused intensity, of how vulnerable you felt standing there while he treated you like a roommate he’d barely noticed, like furniture that had inconveniently found its way into his space. You found your clothes scattered across his floor like evidence of last night’s poor decisions—your jeans near the door where he’d yanked them off, your shirt by the nightstand where it had landed when he’d tossed it aside, your bra somehow on top of his dresser like a trophy. The treasure hunt of shame, each piece a reminder of how eager you’d been, how willing.

He still wasn’t looking at you. Eyes glued to his phone screen like it contained the secrets of the universe, jaw set in that way that meant he was deliberately avoiding something. Avoiding you.

By the time you were dressed, something cold and ugly had settled in your chest, crystallizing into a hard knot of hurt and anger and self-recrimination. You recognized this feeling. Had felt it before with other guys who’d made promises in the dark they had no intention of keeping in the light, who’d whispered sweet things with their hands on your body but couldn’t remember your name in the morning.

You’d told yourself Satoru was different. That this was different.

What a joke.

“So,” you said, breaking the silence that had stretched too long, that had filled the space with tension thick enough to choke on. Your voice came out steadier than you felt, thank god, carefully controlled. “What is this?”

That got his attention. He looked up, one eyebrow raised in that infuriatingly casual way he had, like you’d just asked him something vaguely amusing rather than something that mattered, something that had been eating at you for weeks. “What do you want it to be?”

The non-answer made you want to scream. Or cry. Or both. Maybe throw something expensive at his stupidly perfect face and watch it shatter.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly, forcing the words past the tightness in your throat. “I just thought—after last night—”

“We hooked up.” He shrugged, the gesture so casual it felt like a slap, like last night had meant nothing, like you meant nothing. “It was good. That’s all.”

That’s all. Two words that made everything from last night feel cheap, tawdry, meaningless. Made you feel cheap. Made you feel like exactly what you’d sworn you’d never be again—another girl in a long line of girls who’d mistaken good sex for genuine connection.

“Right.” You swallowed hard, pride kicking in just in time to save you from the humiliation of tears, from begging him to explain what last night had meant if it hadn’t meant anything at all. “Of course. My mistake.”

You grabbed your purse, movements sharp and jerky, not looking at him because if you looked at him you’d either cry or throw something, and you refused to give him the satisfaction of either, refused to let him see how much this hurt, how much you’d let yourself hope.

“Hey.” His voice stopped you at the bedroom door, made you pause despite yourself. When you glanced back, his expression was unreadable, those blue eyes giving away nothing, carefully blank. “You okay?”

Were you okay? Were you fucking okay? You’d just spent the night with a man who’d touched you like you were precious, who’d made love to you—because that’s what it had felt like, even if he’d never call it that—and was now treating you like a one-night stand he vaguely regretted, like a mistake made in a moment of weakness. You’d let yourself hope for something more, let yourself be vulnerable, let yourself feel—and he’d just casually dismissed it all with three words, packed up the whole messy experience and filed it away as “it was good.”

“I’m fine,” you lied, the words bitter on your tongue.

You left before he could say anything else, before you could do something pathetic like ask him to explain what last night had meant to him, before you could beg him to look at you the way he had when he’d been inside you, like you mattered, like you were more than just convenient.

The elevator ride down felt endless, each floor a small eternity. Forty-three floors of expensive marble and chrome, watching the numbers descend while you blinked back tears you absolutely would not shed over Gojo Satoru, while you tried to reconstruct the walls he’d somehow managed to dismantle with his stupid hands and his stupid mouth and his stupid way of making you believe you were special.

⋆𐙚₊

Three days.

Three days of radio silence, of staring at your phone like it might spontaneously generate a message if you looked at it hard enough. Three days of checking your messages compulsively, heart jumping every time your phone buzzed only to sink when it wasn’t him, hating yourself for it, for this pathetic hope that refused to die. Three days of telling yourself you didn’t care, that you’d known exactly what you were getting into with Gojo Satoru, that you were fine, that this was fine, everything was fine.

Three days of lying to yourself with increasing desperation.

Utahime had been characteristically blunt over brunch, cutting through your carefully constructed denial like a knife through butter: “He used you. Block his number and move on.” She’d said it while aggressively stabbing her omelet, each motion punctuating her words with violent emphasis.

Shoko had been more measured, thoughtful in that way she had: “Give him time. Maybe he’s just processing.” But even she’d looked doubtful, like she was offering comfort she didn’t quite believe in herself.

You’d said you were fine either way, that it didn’t matter, that you weren’t invested enough for it to hurt. Another lie, transparent enough that both of them had seen right through it but had been kind enough not to call you on it.

Now it was day four, 2:03 AM according to your phone screen, and his name lit up your notifications like a beacon, like a warning flare.

Satoru: you up?

You stared at the message for a full minute, thumb hovering over the keyboard, heart doing something stupid and traitorous in your chest. The smart thing—the self-respecting thing—would be to ignore it. To roll over and go back to sleep and let him wonder if you’d moved on already, if you’d realized your worth, if you’d finally understood that you deserved better than late-night texts and empty beds.

But anger was burning in your chest, hot and righteous, demanding acknowledgment. He’d ghosted you for three days—three entire days without a word, without an explanation, without even the courtesy of a “hey, that was fun but I’m not interested”—and now wanted to just slide back in like nothing had happened? Like he hadn’t made you feel like the worst kind of fool? Like he had the right to your time, your attention, your body whenever he decided he wanted it?

Fuck that. Fuck him.

You left him on read, the tiny notification showing he’d seen that you’d seen it, and turned off your phone with perhaps more force than necessary. The small act of defiance felt good, like reclaiming a piece of yourself he’d somehow claimed without permission. 

A small victory, but yours.

⋆𐙚₊

He showed up at your work the next day, because of course he did, because Gojo Satoru didn’t understand the concept of boundaries or appropriate workplace behavior.

You were in the middle of explaining a filing system to a new intern—a sweet kid fresh out of college who looked perpetually terrified—when you felt it, that prickle of awareness that meant he was nearby, that meant his attention was focused on you. You looked up and there he was, leaning against your desk like he had every right to be there, like this was his space, sunglasses on indoors because of course they were, because he couldn’t just be normal for five minutes.

“Lunch?” he asked, tone casual, easy, like he hadn’t ignored you for three days straight, like this was normal behavior.

The intern looked between you with poorly concealed interest, eyes wide and curious. Great. Fantastic. Tomorrow the whole office would know you had some gorgeous asshole showing up during work hours, and the rumors would spread like wildfire through the gossip chain.

“I’m busy,” you said flatly, turning back to your computer screen, fingers resuming their typing with deliberate focus.

“You have to eat.” His voice held a note of amusement, like this was funny, like you were being unreasonable.

“Then I’ll eat at my desk.”

From the corner of your eye, you saw him tilt his head, studying you with that intense focus he had when something wasn’t going according to plan, when someone had the audacity to not immediately bend to his will. The intern had wisely disappeared, probably sensing the tension crackling in the air between you.

“You’re mad,” he observed, like he’d just solved a complex puzzle.

“I’m not mad.” The lie was transparent, unconvincing even to your own ears.

“You’re definitely mad.” His tone held that infuriating certainty, that absolute confidence that he understood you better than you understood yourself.

You stopped typing, fingers frozen over the keyboard, every muscle in your body tense. When you looked at him, you made sure your expression was perfectly pleasant, perfectly cold, the kind of polite distance you’d use with a stranger who’d asked for directions. “You called me a hookup, Satoru. What did you expect?”

Something flickered across his face—too quick to identify, gone before you could analyze it. Hurt? Regret? Irritation that you weren’t playing along? “I called it what it was.”

“Then why are you here?” The question came out sharper than you intended, frustration bleeding through your carefully maintained composure.

The question hung between you, heavy with implications neither of you wanted to examine too closely, loaded with meaning you weren’t ready to unpack. His jaw worked like he was chewing on words he wasn’t ready to say, like he was trying to figure out how much truth he was willing to admit to.

“Because,” he said finally, voice low enough that only you could hear, intimate despite the office setting, “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Your heart did that stupid flutter thing, that traitorous leap that ignored every rational thought in your brain. You hated it. Hated him for making you feel this way—off-balance and uncertain and desperate for whatever scraps of attention he decided to throw your way, like a dog begging for table scraps.

“That’s not my problem,” you said, proud of how steady your voice came out, how unaffected you sounded.

You stood, grabbed your purse with deliberate movements, and walked toward the break room, spine straight, head high. You could feel his eyes on you the whole way—burning into your back, heavy with intent, that particular quality of attention that made your skin prickle with awareness.

Let him watch. Let him want. Let him feel a fraction of what you’d felt when he’d dismissed you like you meant nothing.

When you glanced back from the break room doorway, he was smirking, that infuriating half-smile that said he knew exactly what you were doing, that he could see right through your act.

Like this was a game. Like he was enjoying the chase. Like your hurt and anger were just obstacles to overcome rather than valid emotions deserving of respect.

He showed up at your apartment that night with takeout, because apparently workplace rejection wasn’t enough of a hint.

You opened the door to find him standing there with bags from that Thai place you’d mentioned liking once, weeks ago, in passing during some late-night conversation you’d barely remembered having. The fact that he’d remembered—that he’d paid attention to something so small, so insignificant—made something in your chest ache in a way you didn’t want to examine too closely.

“I’m sorry I was an asshole,” he said before you could slam the door in his face, words rushed like he’d been practicing them. His sunglasses were off for once, tucked into his collar, and his eyes were almost—almost—contrite.

“You’re always an asshole,” you replied, but there was less venom in it than you’d intended.

“Fair.” His smile was crooked, almost genuine, vulnerable in a way you rarely saw from him. “Let me make it up to you.”

You should have said no. Should have told him to leave and never come back, to stop playing these games, to either commit or leave you alone. Should have protected yourself before you fell any further into whatever this was.

But the food smelled amazing, and you were hungry, and some masochistic part of you wanted to see where this would go, wanted to believe that maybe this time would be different, that maybe he was actually trying.

“Fine,” you said, stepping aside with a sigh that said you were doing him a favor. “You have one hour.”

His smile widened as he slipped past you, close enough that you could smell his cologne—expensive and clean and uniquely him—and you hated how much you liked it. “I’ll take it.”

You ate on your couch, legs tucked under you, while he spread out like he owned the place, comfortable in your space in a way that should have annoyed you but instead felt almost right. The food was perfect—he’d ordered your usual without asking, pad thai with extra lime and spring rolls with extra peanut sauce. Another thing he’d remembered. Another small piece of evidence that maybe he paid more attention than he let on.

“So,” you said, spearing a piece of chicken with more force than necessary, “want to tell me what happened the other morning?”

“What do you mean?” His tone was carefully neutral, deliberately obtuse.

“I mean the part where you acted like I was a stranger after spending the night inside me.” The crudeness was intentional, designed to cut through his casual dismissal.

He had the grace to wince, a flash of something that might have been shame crossing his face. “I panicked.”

“You panicked.” You repeated his words flatly, disbelief clear in your tone.

“Yeah.” He set down his container, running a hand through his hair—that tell-tale gesture of discomfort, what he did when the mask was slipping, when he was forced to be honest. “I don’t do relationships well.”

“I didn’t ask for one.” The lie tasted bitter on your tongue.

“Then what do you want?”

It was the second time he’d asked you that, the second time he’d turned the question around on you instead of just being honest about what he wanted. You still didn’t have a good answer, or maybe you had one but weren’t brave enough to say it out loud.

“I don’t know yet,” you admitted, setting down your own container. “But I know I don’t want to feel like shit every time you decide you’re done with me.”

“I’m not done with you.” His voice was firm, certain, his eyes intense on yours.

“No? Could’ve fooled me with that three-day disappearing act.”

His eyes—bright blue even in the dim light of your apartment—locked on yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You’re here now. Where were you for three days?” The hurt bled through despite your best efforts to sound detached.

“Trying to convince myself I didn’t need to see you again.” His honesty caught you off-guard, made your heart stutter in your chest. “It didn’t work.”

The air between you shifted, charged with something electric, heavy with possibility. He leaned closer, and you could smell his cologne—expensive and clean and uniquely him—mixing with the scent of Thai food and your own shampoo.

“What are we doing, Satoru?” The question came out softer than you’d intended, almost vulnerable.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice low and rough. “But I don’t want to stop.”

When he kissed you, it felt different from before. Slower, more deliberate, like he was trying to apologize without saying the words, like he was trying to communicate something he didn’t have the vocabulary for. His hands cupped your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones with devastating gentleness, and you let yourself sink into it, let yourself believe—just for a moment—that this could be something real.

“Stay tonight,” you whispered against his lips, hating how needy you sounded.

“Why?”

“Because I want you to.” Simple. Honest. Terrifying.

He did.

The sex was better this time—he took his time, learned what made you gasp, what made your back arch off the bed, what made you cry out his name like a prayer. Paid attention in a way that felt almost reverent, like he was cataloging every response, every reaction. And afterwards, when you were both breathing hard and tangled in your sheets, he pulled you close and just held you, arms wrapped tight around you like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“This is new for me,” he said into the darkness, voice barely above a whisper. “Being honest about wanting someone.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You traced idle patterns on his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady beneath your palm.

“It means I’m trying. I might fuck it up, but I’m trying.”

It should have been a red flag—that qualifier, that escape hatch he was already building into whatever this was, that pre-emptive excuse for when things inevitably went wrong. But you were too far gone already, too willing to accept whatever pieces of himself he was willing to give, too desperate to believe this could work.

“Okay,” you said, pressing a kiss to his collarbone.

“Okay?”

“Okay, you can try. We both can.”

He kissed your shoulder, your neck, the spot behind your ear that made you shiver. “You’re gonna regret this,” he murmured against your skin, and there was something almost sad in his voice.

“Probably.”

His laugh was low, almost sad, tinged with self-awareness. “At least you know what you’re getting into.”

But you didn’t. Not really. You had no idea how much worse it would get, how much of yourself you’d lose trying to hold onto someone who was never really yours to begin with.

⋆𐙚₊

The pattern emerged slowly, like a storm building on the horizon—gradual enough that you didn’t notice until you were already caught in it, until it was too late to seek shelter.

Some days, Gojo was perfect—attentive and present and making you feel like you were the only person in his universe, like you mattered, like this was real. He’d text throughout the day, random messages that made you smile despite yourself: saw this and thought of you accompanied by a picture of something ridiculous—a cat wearing sunglasses, a terrible pun on a coffee shop sign, a sunset that reminded him of the color of your lipstick. He’d show up at your place with dinner, with movies, with that smile that made your stomach flip and your common sense evaporate.

Other days, he disappeared. Radio silence for twelve, fifteen, twenty hours. No explanation, no apology, no acknowledgment that disappearing without a word might hurt someone who was starting to care about you. Just gone, like you didn’t exist, like whatever you had together was something he could pick up and put down at will.

The whiplash was exhausting, like emotional vertigo.

“He’s playing games,” Utahime said over coffee, her expression sympathetic but firm, the kind of brutal honesty only a real friend could deliver. “Classic hot and cold. Keeps you guessing, keeps you hooked. It’s manipulation 101.”

“Or he’s just busy,” you countered weakly, knowing even as you said it that you didn’t believe it, that you were making excuses for behavior that didn’t deserve defending.

“Busy people still text back. Especially when they actually give a shit.” She stirred her latte with enough force to create a small whirlpool. “Hell, even the President probably texts his kids back faster than this asshole texts you.”

You wanted to argue, wanted to defend him, wanted to explain that he was trying, that it was complicated, that she didn’t understand. But you couldn’t. The evidence was damning—the pattern too consistent to ignore, too deliberate to explain away as mere carelessness. Available when he wanted to be, ghost when he didn’t. Present when it suited him, absent when it didn’t.

“I’m not chasing anyone,” you told her, lifting your chin with false confidence.

But you were. You checked your phone constantly, heart jumping every time it buzzed only to sink when it wasn’t him. Analyzed his messages for hidden meaning, for signs that he felt what you felt, for evidence that this was more than just convenient. Made yourself available whenever he decided to grace you with his attention, rearranging plans, canceling commitments, just in case he wanted to see you.

You were chasing, and you hated yourself for it. Hated the person you were becoming—smaller, needier, willing to accept crumbs when you deserved the whole damn meal.

Yet, despite knowing this, you curl right into his palm every single time. One call away—it lost its romance a few months ago since you fell for the boy with eyes bluer than the world’s most beautiful oceans. And you’re drifting away, carried by the waves he guides you through. And in that ecstacy, you find yourself unable to swim back to shore.

“Come out with us tonight,” Gojo said over the phone later on, voice warm and inviting, the version of him that made you forget all the reasons you should say no. “Some people from work are getting drinks.”

Your heart lifted despite your best efforts, despite all your self-talk about not getting your hopes up. This meant something, didn’t it? He wanted you to meet his colleagues, to be seen with him in public, to integrate you into his life. That had to mean he was taking this seriously, that this was progressing, that maybe he was finally ready to admit this was more than just casual.

“Okay,” you said, trying not to sound too eager, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity. “What time?”

“Eight. I’ll text you the address.”

You spent an embarrassing amount of time getting ready—changing outfits three times, redoing your makeup twice, straightening your hair only to curl it again. Utahime would have roasted you for it, would have delivered a scathing commentary on your desperation. But when you finally looked in the mirror, you felt good. Confident. Pretty. Like someone worth introducing to colleagues, worth claiming in public.

Maybe tonight would be the night things shifted. Maybe he’d introduce you as his girlfriend, make it official, stop playing these games that were slowly driving you insane.

The bar was upscale—exposed brick and Edison bulbs, craft cocktails with names you couldn’t pronounce, the kind of place that screamed “we take our alcohol very seriously.” You spotted Gojo immediately, white hair like a beacon in the dim lighting, surrounded by a small group of impeccably dressed people. He saw you and smiled, genuine and warm, and your anxiety eased slightly, hope blooming in your chest like something foolish and fragile.

“Hey,” he said when you reached him, arm sliding around your waist in a gesture that felt possessive, intentional, like a claim. “Everyone, this is—”

“Satoru!”

The voice came from behind you, high and bright and far too familiar, cutting through whatever introduction he’d been about to make. You turned to see a woman approaching—stunning in that effortless way some people managed, dark hair cascading over her shoulders, red lips curved in a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, body-con dress that left little to the imagination and probably cost more than your monthly rent.

“Mina,” Gojo said, and something in his tone made your stomach clench with premature dread. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

“Last minute decision.” She reached them, immediately touching his arm in a way that was far too familiar, fingers trailing down his bicep with casual ownership. “Been too long.”

“Has it?” His arm was still around your waist, but you could feel the tension in his body, the subtle shift in his posture.

Mina’s eyes slid to you, assessment quick and dismissive, the kind of once-over that made you feel like you’d been weighed and found wanting. “And who’s this?”

“This is—” Gojo hesitated, just for a second, but it was enough, long enough for your heart to start sinking. “A friend.”

A friend. Not his girlfriend. Not even someone he was seeing. Not even “this is someone I’m dating” or “this is someone important to me.” A friend.

The word hit like a physical blow, like he’d reached into your chest and squeezed your heart in his fist. Then you remember, Mina was the name on his notifications a few days ago. The name that sent your stomach tumbling and your heart dropping into a million little pieces. 

“Nice to meet you,” Mina said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, already dismissing you as irrelevant. Then she turned back to Gojo, effectively cutting you out with the angle of her body, with the focus of her attention. “Remember that place in Shibuya we used to go to? They finally reopened after the renovation. We should go sometime, relive old times.”

And just like that, you were invisible. She monopolized his attention with inside jokes and shared memories, touching him constantly—his arm, his shoulder, once even his face in a gesture so intimate you had to look away or risk the humiliation of tears. Gojo didn’t shut it down. He laughed at her jokes, engaged with her stories, let her touch him like she had every right to, like your presence meant nothing, like you weren’t standing right there watching this unfold.

You stood there feeling like an idiot, smile frozen on your face like a mask, trying to figure out if you should just leave, just walk out and save yourself the embarrassment of being ignored for the rest of the night.

“Should I be worried about her?” you asked when Mina finally excused herself to the bathroom, voice carefully neutral.

Gojo looked surprised by the question, eyebrows raising like you’d said something unexpected. “Mina? Nah, we’re just friends.”

“Friends who fuck or friends who used to fuck?” The crudeness was intentional, anger bleeding through.

His silence was answer enough, damning in its length.

Something hot and ugly twisted in your gut—jealousy mixed with hurt mixed with rage at yourself for being here, for letting him do this to you. You wanted to scream, wanted to throw your drink in his face, wanted to demand he explain what the hell you were doing here if he was just going to treat you like an afterthought, like set dressing, like something that didn’t matter.

You excused yourself from the table, movements controlled and deliberate, refusing to look back at Gojo and his admirers.

The bar was crowded, bodies pressed close, the air thick with perfume and expensive cologne. You squeezed into a gap that had just opened up, grateful for the escape, for the chance to breathe without feeling like you were suffocating on your own inadequacy.

“That seat’s taken,” came a voice beside you—low, amused, like he was already laughing at some private joke.

You turned to find a man settling onto the stool next to yours, all sharp angles and deliberate confidence. Pink hair, dark tattoos visible at his collar and wrists, and eyes that assessed you with the kind of directness that should have been uncomfortable but somehow wasn’t. He was attractive in a dangerous sort of way, the kind of man your mother would have warned you about.

“I don’t see anyone sitting here,” you replied, matching his tone.

His smile widened, sharp and pleased. “I like you already.” He gestured to the bartender with two fingers, effortless and commanding. “Whatever she’s having, and a whiskey for me. Top shelf.”

“I can buy my own drinks.”

“I’m sure you can.” He leaned back, studying you with unconcealed interest. “But you won’t. Not tonight.”

The audacity should have been off-putting. Instead, you found yourself intrigued, leaning slightly toward him despite yourself. “That confident, are you?”

“Confidence implies doubt.” His eyes glinted with amusement. “I’m just stating facts.”

The bartender slid your drinks across the bar—something amber for you, darker for him. You took a sip, letting the burn settle in your chest.

“Sukuna,” he offered lazily, not bothering to extend his hand. “And you’re the current source of entertainment, apparently.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on.” He took a drink, eyes never leaving yours. “You think I sat here by accident? Gojo’s been watching you sulk over here for the past five minutes like a kicked puppy who lost his favorite toy.” His smile turned razor-sharp. “Figured I’d see what all the fuss was about.”

“So this is just a game to you.”

“Everything’s a game.” He shrugged, unbothered by your tone. “And this one looks particularly fun. You know what would really get under his skin?”

“I’m not interested in—”

“Liar.” He leaned closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “You’ve been positioning yourself in his line of sight since you sat down. The hair flip, the way you’re angled just so—it’s deliberate. You want him to watch.” His gaze dragged over you, assessing and appreciative in a way that felt purely transactional. “Can’t say I blame you. If I had to watch him fawn over that Mina girl all night, I’d want revenge too.”

You stiffened. “You know Mina?”

“Know of her. Social climber, decent looking, completely forgettable.” He took another sip. “The kind of woman Gojo entertains when he’s bored. Which, granted, is often.”

“And what makes you such an expert?”

“Please.” His laugh was dark and dismissive. “Gojo and I have been circling each other for years. Same schools, same social circles, same—” he waved his hand vaguely, “—tedious obligations. The difference is I don’t pretend to care about any of it.”

“And you think insulting me is the way to… what, exactly?”

“Insulting you?” He raised an eyebrow. “I’m being honest. There’s a difference.” He shifted, angling his body toward you in a way that was clearly visible from across the room. “But if you want to waste your time being offended, go ahead. I’ll just enjoy my drink and watch Gojo’s eye twitch from here.”

Despite yourself, you glanced back. Caught Gojo’s gaze across the room—sharp, focused, tracking every movement. Mina was still talking, hand on his arm, but his attention was entirely elsewhere.

“There it is,” Sukuna said, satisfaction evident in his voice. “God, he’s so predictable. Like a dog with a bone he doesn’t even want until someone else picks it up.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Correct.” He grinned, clearly pleased. “But I’m an entertaining asshole who’s currently making your neglectful date absolutely furious. So what do you say we really give him something to be angry about?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Laugh at something I say. Touch my arm. Lean in like I’m the most fascinating person you’ve ever met.” His eyes glinted with mischief and malice. “Make him think he’s losing—not because you’re special, but because it’ll be fun to watch him spiral.”

The casual cruelty of it should have made you walk away. Instead, you found yourself laughing—really laughing, genuine and sharp-edged. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m effective.” He leaned closer, voice dropping.

You took another sip of your drink, considering. “And what do you get out of this?”

“The satisfaction of annoying Gojo.” He said it like it was obvious, like that was reason enough. “Plus, you’re not bad looking. If this goes well, maybe we both win.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

The , you felt it—that familiar presence, heavy and demanding. Gojo appeared at your other side, materializing like he’d been summoned, his hand finding your lower back with possessive certainty.

“There you are,” he said, voice carefully pleasant but with something sharp underneath. “I was looking for you.”

“Were you?” You didn’t turn, keeping your eyes on Sukuna. “I’m surprised you noticed I was gone.”

Sukuna’s smile widened, clearly enjoying the tension. “Gojo. Still monopolizing things you don’t actually want?”

“Sukuna.” Gojo’s voice dropped several degrees. “Still lurking around other people’s dates?”

“Date?” Sukuna’s laugh was mocking. “Is that what this is? Could’ve fooled me, considering you’ve spent the evening with every woman in the room except this one.”

“Funny,” Gojo said, smile razor-sharp. “I didn’t realize you knew how to pay attention to anything that doesn’t directly benefit you.”

“At least I’m honest about it.” Sukuna leaned back, utterly unbothered. 

“We should go,” Gojo said to you, ignoring Sukuna entirely. “Now.”

“Should we?” You took another sip of your drink, emboldened by alcohol and anger and Sukuna’s casual disregard for social niceties. “Sukuna was just about to tell me something interesting.”

“I’m sure he was.” Gojo’s jaw tightened. “He’s very good at talking. Less good at follow-through.”

“Rich, coming from you.” Sukuna leaned back, unbothered by the hostility radiating from Gojo. “All that power, all that potential, and what do you do with it?

The air between them crackled with hostility, years of rivalry condensed into this moment. You should have been uncomfortable. Instead, you felt a rush of something dangerous—power, control, the intoxicating knowledge that for once, you were the center of attention.

“Gentlemen,” you said, voice cutting through their standoff. “This is flattering, really.”

“Nothing flattering about it,” Sukuna said lazily. “Just two men who can’t stand each other, and you’re the convenient excuse.” But his smile suggested he was enjoying every second of it.

“Convenient?” Gojo’s hand tightened on your back. “She’s not—”

“Not what? Yours?” Sukuna’s laugh was derisive. “Could’ve fooled me, considering how much attention you’ve been paying her tonight. Oh wait—”

“Sukuna—”

“Tell you what,” Sukuna interrupted, standing smoothly. “You two figure out whatever this is. I’m bored now anyway.” He caught your eye, smile sharp and knowing. “Thanks for the entertainment, sweetheart. Let me know if you get tired of playing second fiddle.”

He walked away without looking back, leaving you alone with Gojo and the weight of everything unsaid between you.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

The pressure on your back increased, guiding you toward the exit with barely concealed force. You let him, but only because you didn’t want to make a scene, didn’t want to give Mina or anyone else the satisfaction of witnessing whatever this was about to become.

The car ride back was silent, tension thick enough to choke on, heavy and oppressive in the confined space. His jaw was clenched, hands tight on the steering wheel, knuckles white with the force of his grip. You stared out the window at the Tokyo nightscape blurring past and said nothing, letting the silence speak for itself.

He pulled up outside your building but didn’t kill the engine, the Mercedes idling with a low, expensive purr that filled the silence between you.

“What was that?” he asked finally, voice tight with barely controlled anger.

“What was what?” You kept your eyes on the window, refusing to look at him.

“You. Throwing yourself at Sukuna fucking Ryomen.” Each word was bitten off, precise and cutting.

You turned to look at him, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “I was having a conversation.”

“You were flirting.” The accusation hung in the air between you.

“So?” You let the question sit there, sharp and challenging. “I thought we weren’t doing the relationship thing?” You echoed his own words back at him, watched them land like stones. “Or does that only apply when it’s you and Mina?”

“Mina is a friend.” But his jaw was clenched, the muscle jumping with tension.

“And Sukuna could be a friend too.” Your voice was sweet, deliberately innocent.

He scoffed. “He’s not someone you make friends with. Besides, it's not the same.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel until you thought it might crack.

“Why not?”

He didn’t have an answer for that. Just stared straight ahead, jaw working, frustration radiating off him in waves.

“Take me home,” you said quietly, suddenly exhausted by this game you were both playing.

“You are home.”

“Then leave.”

Instead, he killed the engine with a violent twist of the key. Turned to face you, eyes blazing with something that might have been anger or might have been want—with Gojo, it was hard to tell the difference, the two emotions bleeding together until they became indistinguishable.

“You trying to piss me off?”

“You know what?” You were done. So fucking done with this, with him, with making excuses for behavior that didn’t deserve defending. “Fuck you, Satoru.”

“Excuse me?” His eyebrows shot up, genuine surprise crossing his face.

“You heard me. You don’t get to have it both ways. Either I’m yours or I’m not. Either this means something or it doesn’t. But you don’t get to treat me like I’m nothing and then get pissed when someone else treats me like I’m something.”

“It’s not that simple—”

“Yes it is!” Your voice rose, not caring who heard anymore, not caring who was listening or what they’d think. “It’s the simplest thing in the world. But you’re too scared to admit what you want, too scared to actually commit to anything real, too scared to—”

“You don’t know what I want.” His voice was low, dangerous, a warning.

“Because you won’t tell me!” Frustrated tears burned behind your eyes, hot and humiliating. “You just keep playing these games, giving me just enough to keep me hooked but never enough to feel secure, never enough to actually build something on. And I’m done. I’m so fucking done with this, with you, with feeling like I’m crazy for wanting something normal.”

“He doesn’t want to be with you. He wants to fuck you.” The crudeness was intentional, cruel.

“And that’s different from us how exactly?” The words came out sharper than you intended, cutting and designed to hurt.

The words landed like a slap. His jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle jump beneath his skin, could see the impact of what you’d said written across his face.

“It’s different.”

“How? Tell me how it’s different, Satoru.” Your voice rose despite your efforts to stay calm. “Because from where I’m standing, you’ve been treating me like a fuck buddy for weeks while refusing to call it anything else, while refusing to claim me in public, while refusing to give me anything real.”

“That’s not—” He stopped, ran both hands through his hair in frustration, the gesture violent and telling. “You know it’s more than that.”

“Do I?” You laughed, the sound bitter and sharp. “Because you’ve never actually said it. You’ve never called me your girlfriend. Never introduced me as anything other than a friend. Never even wanted to arrive at the same party together because god forbid someone think we’re actually together, that you might actually care about someone.”

“I’m protecting you.” The words burst out of him like they’d been held back too long.

“From what?”

“From me!” The confession exploded out of him, raw and anguished, like it had been clawed from somewhere deep. “From getting hurt when I inevitably fuck this up like I fuck up everything good in my life! From wasting your time on someone who doesn’t know how to do this, who’s never been able to make it work, who—”

The vulnerability in his voice stopped you cold, shocked you into silence. For a moment, you just stared at each other—both breathing hard, both afraid, both teetering on the edge of something you couldn’t take back.

“You don’t get to make that choice for me,” you said quietly, the anger draining out of you, leaving something softer and sadder in its wake.

“Someone has to.” His voice was rough, raw, like the words hurt.

“Why? Why are you so convinced you’ll ruin this?”

“Because I always do.” His laugh was bitter, self-deprecating, full of old wounds. “Ask any of the girls I’ve dated—or, fuck, we didn’t even date! Cause I fucking can’t do shit like that. Ask Mina—I fucked that up so badly she didn’t talk to me for six months. Ask anyone who’s ever tried to get close to me. I destroy things. It’s what I do.”

“I’m not them.” You stepped closer, drawn by his pain despite your better judgment.

“No. You’re worse.” He moved closer too, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. “You’re worse because I actually care. Because the thought of hurting you makes me feel sick. Because you’re a friend. Because you’re my fucking friends’ friend. Because I can’t stop thinking about you and it’s driving me fucking crazy. Because I—” He stopped, jaw working like the words were physically painful, like they were being dragged out of him against his will. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you and it’s fucking me up.”

Your heart was hammering, pulse racing with something between fear and hope. “Then be with me. For real.”

He chuckles humorlessly, eyes closing for a second as he shakes his head. “I can’t.” 

“Why not?”

“Because when I mess this up—and I will fucking mess it up—I won’t be able to handle seeing that look in your eyes.” He looked away, azure eyes trying their best to hide the deep pools of emotion swimming in them. “The one you’ll get when you finally realize I’m not worth half the pain you’re going through because we both know you can do a whole lot better with someone who doesn’t fuck around half as much as I do.”

“You’re not bad, Satoru. You’re just scared.” Your voice was gentle now, the anger replaced by something that felt dangerously close to tenderness.

“Same thing.” But there was less conviction in his voice now.

“It’s really not.”

He was so close now you could feel his breath on your face, could count his eyelashes, could see the conflict in his eyes—want and fear and something else you couldn’t name but desperately wanted to.

“Come home with me,” he said roughly, the words almost desperate. 

“Why should I?” But your resolve was weakening, crumbling under the weight of his proximity, his vulnerability, the raw need in his voice.

“Because—” His hands came up to frame your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones with devastating gentleness that contradicted everything else about this moment. “Because I’m asking. Because I’m trying. Because even though I’m shit at this, I don’t want you leaving with anyone else. Because the thought of him touching you makes me want to destroy things.”

“That’s not enough.” But your voice was weak, unconvincing even to your own ears.

“I know.” His forehead dropped to yours, the gesture intimate and vulnerable, breath mingling with yours. “But it’s all I have right now. It’s all I know how to give.”

You should walk away. Should choose self-preservation over whatever this self-destructive thing was, should protect yourself before you lost more of yourself to someone who couldn’t promise to catch you.

But his hands were so gentle on your face, gentle in a way that contradicted every harsh word, every moment of distance. And his voice was so raw, stripped of all the usual arrogance and bravado. And despite everything—despite the games and the hurt and the impossibility of it all—you wanted him.

God, you wanted him so much it hurt, wanted him with an intensity that scared you, that made you understand why people did stupid things for love.

“This is a bad idea,” you whispered, even as you leaned into his touch.

“I know.” His thumb traced your bottom lip, the touch feather-light and electric.

“We’re going to destroy each other.” The certainty sat heavy in your chest.

“Probably.” He didn’t deny it, didn’t try to convince you otherwise, and somehow the honesty was worse.

“I should leave with someone else. Someone nice. Uncomplicated. Available.” The words felt like ash on your tongue.

“Yeah” Gojo’s thumb traced your bottom lip again, the touch more deliberate this time. “One who’d probably treat you right. Take you on real dates. Introduce you as his girlfriend without hesitation. Call you back. Show up when he says he will. All the things I can’t seem to do, all the things you deserve.”

“Then why are you stopping me?”

“Because I’m selfish.” His lips brushed yours, barely a kiss, just a whisper of contact that made you ache for more. “Because I want you even though I know I don’t deserve you. Because the thought of you with him makes me want to put my fist through a wall. Because I’m too fucked up to let you go and too fucked up to keep you properly.”

You should push him away. Should salvage what was left of your dignity, should make the smart choice for once in your life.

Instead, you kissed him.

It was desperate immediately—all the anger and hurt and want from the past few weeks pouring into it, months of frustration and longing crystallizing into this single point of contact. His hands fisted in your hair while yours clawed at his shirt, trying to get closer, trying to crawl inside his skin, trying to make him feel what you felt.

“I hate this,” you gasped against his mouth, the words torn from somewhere deep. “Hate what you do to me. Hate that I can’t just walk away.”

“I know. I hate it too.” He bit your bottom lip hard enough to sting, soothed it with his tongue. “Hate how much I need you. Hate that I can’t stop wanting you even though I know this is going to end badly.”

“Then stop fighting it.” Your hands found the buttons of his shirt, started working them open with shaking fingers.

“Can’t.” His hands slid down to grip your ass, lifting you easily like you weighed nothing. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically, bodies fitting together with practiced ease as he pressed you against him. “Can’t give you what you want. Can’t let you go. Can’t do anything right when it comes to you.”

“Satoru—” His name came out like a plea, like a prayer, like a curse.

“Tell me to stop.” His lips dragged down your neck, teeth scraping your pulse point in a way that made you gasp. “Tell me you’re leaving with someone else. Tell me to let you go.”

“I can’t.” The admission felt like defeat, like surrender, like giving up the last shred of self-preservation you had left.

“Why not?” His teeth found your collarbone, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark.

Because you loved him. Because despite everything—the games and the mixed signals and the emotional whiplash and the way he made you feel crazy—you’d fallen completely and irrevocably in love with Gojo Satoru. Because you’d crossed that line somewhere between the first time he’d touched you and now, and there was no going back, no un-knowing this feeling, no protecting yourself from the inevitable hurt.

But you couldn’t say that. Couldn’t give him that power over you, couldn’t hand him the weapon he’d eventually use to destroy you.

“Because I’m an idiot,” you said instead, voice thick with tears you refused to shed.

His laugh was rough against your throat, humorless and sad. “Join the club. We should get jackets made.”

“Come home with me,” he said again, and this time it sounded like begging, like desperation, like he needed you as much as you needed him even if he couldn’t say it in those words.

“Okay.” The surrender was complete, total, irrevocable.

⋆𐙚₊

You woke to the smell of coffee and something sweet—vanilla, maybe butter.

For a moment, you lay there disoriented, wrapped in sheets that were too soft, too expensive. Then the memories filtered back: last night, the party, the fight, the desperate way he’d touched you like he was afraid you’d disappear.

The space beside you was empty but still warm.

You sat up, pulling the sheet around yourself, and followed the sounds coming from the kitchen. When you found him, you had to pause in the doorway.

Gojo Satoru was making pancakes.

He stood at the stove in grey sweatpants and nothing else, his hair still messy from sleep, humming something off-key under his breath. There was flour on the counter, a carton of eggs, a bowl of batter. He looked… domestic. Normal. Like someone who did this every Sunday morning instead of someone who usually left before you woke up.

“You’re staring,” he said without turning around, but you could hear the smile in his voice.

“You’re cooking.” You couldn’t keep the surprise out of your tone.

“I practiced.” He glanced over his shoulder, eyes crinkling. “Coffee’s ready. Made it the way you like it—too much cream, borderline offensive amount of sugar.”

Your chest did something complicated. He’d remembered.

You padded over to the counter, poured yourself a cup from the French press. He was right—it was exactly how you liked it. You wrapped both hands around the mug, watching him flip a pancake with more confidence than the burned eggs incident would suggest.

“Since when do you know how to make pancakes?”

“YouTube tutorial. Last week.” He shot you a grin. “Figured I should probably learn how to make at least one breakfast food that doesn’t involve calling for delivery.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, casual, but something in his shoulders tensed slightly. “Seemed like a useful skill.”

He didn’t say for yoy. Didn’t say because I want you to stay over more. But it hung in the air anyway, unspoken but understood.

“They look good,” you offered.

“They better be. I practiced twice yesterday.” He slid a stack onto a plate, added another pancake from the pan, then turned to face you properly. His eyes tracked over you—his shirt on your frame, your bare legs, your sleep-mussed hair—with an expression that was soft around the edges. “You look good in my clothes.”

“It’s just a shirt, Satoru.”

“Still.” He set the plate on the counter between you, then reached around you for the syrup, deliberately crowding into your space. His hand found your hip, thumb stroking once through the fabric. “Should make you steal my clothes more often.”

“Pretty sure stealing implies you don’t want me to have them.”

“Then take them. Whatever.” His smile was crooked, boyish in a way that made him look younger. “What’s mine is yours and all that.”

He said it lightly, casually, like it didn’t mean anything. But his hand lingered on your hip, warm and solid, anchoring you there.

“Eat,” he said, nodding toward the pancakes. “Before they get cold. And before you start thinking too hard—I can literally see the wheels turning in your head.”

You took a bite. They were actually good—fluffy, slightly sweet, the edges just crispy enough.

“Verdict?” He watched you with something almost nervous in his expression.

“Not bad. Seven out of ten.”

“Seven?” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I slaved over a hot stove for you and I get a seven?”

“The presentation could use work.”

“Presentation,” he repeated, shaking his head. “Unbelievable. I make you pancakes from scratch and you’re critiquing the plating.”

But he was grinning, and you were grinning back, and for a moment it felt easy. Simple. Like this was something you did every weekend—stood in his kitchen in his shirt, eating pancakes he’d made, trading gentle insults like they were endearments.

He moved around the kitchen with surprising ease, cleaning as he went, refilling your coffee without being asked. At one point he came up behind you, arms bracketing you against the counter, chin resting on your shoulder.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“Being clingy. Is that allowed?” His breath was warm against your neck.

“Since when do you ask permission?”

“Good point.” He pressed a kiss just below your ear, lazy and soft. “What are you doing today?”

“Laundry. Errands. Boring adult stuff.” You leaned back into him slightly. “You?”

“Had some work thing but I’m gonna cancel it.” His arms tightened around your waist. “Wanna stay in. Watch those trashy reality shows you pretend not to like.”

“I don’t pretend—”

“You absolutely do. I’ve seen your watch history.” He bit your earlobe gently. “Come on. Stay. We’ll order lunch later. Be completely unproductive.”

You should say no. Should go home and give yourself space to think, to process whatever this thing between you was becoming. Should protect yourself from getting used to this—to morning pancakes and lazy Sundays and Gojo Satoru acting like a real boyfriend.

“Okay,” you heard yourself say.

His smile pressed against your skin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. But I get to pick what we watch.”

“Deal.” He spun you around, kissed you properly—sweet and unhurried, tasting like coffee and syrup. When he pulled back, his expression was soft, unguarded in the morning light. “Go get comfortable. I’ll finish cleaning up.”

You started toward the bedroom, then paused. “Satoru?”

“Mm?”

“This is nice. The pancakes. The… all of it.”

Something flickered across his face—pleased and almost shy, like he wasn’t used to being told he’d done something right in this particular way.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It is.”

And for once, you let yourself have it. Let yourself enjoy this perfect morning without waiting for the other shoe to drop, without bracing for the inevitable disappointment.

Just for today, you could pretend this was your real life.

Just for today.

⋆𐙚₊

You were still at his place when he said it—barely past noon, sunlight aggressive through those floor-to-ceiling windows, wearing his shirt and nothing else while he made coffee with unnecessary focus.

“Let me take you out tonight.”

You looked up from your phone. “What?”

“Dinner. Somewhere nice.” He still wasn’t looking at you, attention fixed on the coffee maker like it required his full concentration. “I’ll pick you up. Proper date.”

The casualness felt deliberate, studied. Like he’d been working up to this.

“You’re literally making me coffee right now. I’m wearing your shirt.” You gestured at the space between you. “This is pretty date-like already.”

“It’s not the same.” He finally turned, and something in his expression made your chest tighten. “I want to take you somewhere. Do this right.”

“Do what right?”

His jaw worked, that tell-tale sign of discomfort. “This. Us. Whatever the fuck we’re calling it now.”

The reference to last night—to Shoko’s party, to Sukuna, to everything you’d said in that bedroom—hung heavy between you.

“Okay,” you said carefully.

“Yeah?” Relief flooded his features, quick and revealing before he could mask it.

“Yeah. Dinner sounds good.” You set down your phone, studied him. “What time?”

“Seven. I’ll pick you up.” He crossed to where you stood, hands finding your waist. “Wear something nice.”

“So I have to leave now. Go home and get ready like we’re not already—” You gestured vaguely at the domestic scene you’d fallen into.

“Yeah.” But he pulled you closer instead of letting go. “Unfortunately.”

“You could just tell me where we’re going. I could meet you there.”

“No.” His grip tightened slightly, possessive. “I’m picking you up. That’s the whole point.”

Something warm unfurled in your chest despite your best efforts at self-preservation. “The whole point of what?”

“Of doing this properly.” His forehead dropped to yours, voice rough. “Of not fucking it up for once.”

You wanted to push, wanted to make him say exactly what “this” was, wanted guarantees and promises and clarity. But his vulnerability was so rare, so carefully offered, that you swallowed the questions.

“Okay,” you said quietly. “Seven o’clock. I’ll be ready.”

He kissed you then—slower than usual, more deliberate, like he was trying to communicate something he couldn’t say out loud.

When you finally pulled away to actually leave, to go home and transform this morning-after situation into something date-worthy, he caught your wrist at the door.

“I mean it,” he said, eyes intense on yours. “Tonight. I’m going to do better.”

“Okay, Satoru.” You squeezed his hand once. “I’ll see you at seven.”

⋆𐙚₊

You stared at yourself in the bathroom mirror, trying to decide if the dress was too much, hands smoothing over the burgundy silk for the hundredth time.

It was definitely too much—the kind of dress that demanded attention, that clung to every curve with shameless precision, neckline just shy of inappropriate. But he’d texted you the restaurant name—something French and expensive that required a reservation—and you wanted to look good. Wanted to feel like this meant something.

Your phone buzzed against the bathroom counter.

Satoru: downstairs

Your stomach flipped, that stupid flutter of anticipation you couldn’t suppress. He was here. Actually here, on time, picking you up like he’d promised.

He was leaning against his Mercedes when you emerged—black slacks and a white button-down that should have been simple but looked unfairly good on him. Sleeves rolled up, top button undone, effortlessly elegant.

When he saw you, his eyes went dark, pupils dilating with unmistakable want. He let out a low whistle that made heat pool in your stomach.

“Fuck,” he breathed, pushing off the car to meet you halfway. “You look incredible.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself.” You smiled despite all your resolutions to maintain some distance, some dignity.

He opened the car door for you—another boyfriend gesture, another piece of evidence to add to your collection.

The restaurant was the kind of place you’d normally never go to—hushed and elegant, dim lighting, prices not listed on the menu. Gojo ordered wine you couldn’t pronounce with ease, made you laugh with stories about work, looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he said, reaching across the table to take your hand, thumb stroking over your knuckles.

“You already got me into bed. Multiple times.” But your smile took the sting out of the words. “You don’t have to sweet talk me.”

His thumb traced circles on your palm. “Maybe I want to.”

For once, it felt real. No games, no mixed signals, no sense that he was holding something back. Just soft lighting and good food and a man who looked at you like you mattered.

Then his phone started buzzing.

He ignored it the first time. The second time, a slight tightening around his eyes. The third time, his jaw tensed. The fourth time, his hand twitched toward it.

By the fifth time, his jaw was tight enough that you could see the muscle jumping.

“Sorry,” he muttered, checking the screen. His expression shifted—something complicated flickering across his face. “Work thing. I need to make a call.”

“Now?” The disappointment was hard to keep out of your voice. “We just got our food.”

“It’ll just be a minute.” But he was already standing, already pulling away, already choosing whatever was on that phone over you.

He was gone for ten minutes.

When he came back, the easy intimacy from before was gone. He was distracted, checking his phone every few minutes, eyes glazing over when you spoke, clearly somewhere else mentally.

“Everything okay?” you asked finally, setting down your fork.

“Yeah, just some bullshit I have to handle.” His tone was dismissive.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” The words were clipped, final, a door slamming shut.

The rest of dinner felt hollow. You picked at your food, trying to recapture the magic from earlier, but it was gone. He was physically there but mentally somewhere else, and the whiplash made you nauseous.

Back at his place, the sex was different—rougher, less connected, mechanical. He was in his head, going through the motions with technical precision but none of the emotional presence from before.

His mouth found yours—harder than before, more demanding, teeth catching your bottom lip sharp enough to sting. You kissed him back with equal intensity, weeks of frustration bleeding into it, but something felt off. Mechanical. Like he was going through motions rather than actually being present.

“Satoru—” you started, but he was already walking you backward toward the bedroom, hands everywhere at once, tugging at the zipper of your dress with impatient fingers.

The dress pooled at your feet—that expensive burgundy silk you’d agonized over—and he barely looked at it. Barely looked at you, really, even as his hands mapped your body with practiced efficiency.

“Wait, slow down—” You tried to catch his face, to make him look at you, but he was already lowering you onto the bed, mouth hot and distracted on your neck.

“Need you,” he muttered against your skin, but it didn’t sound like need. It sounded like escape.

His hands were rougher than usual, grip tight enough to leave marks on your hips, your thighs. Not painful exactly, but insistent. Demanding. Like he was trying to lose himself in sensation, trying to drown out whatever was in his head.

“Look at me,” you said, catching his face between your hands, forcing his eyes to yours.

He did, but only for a moment. Those blue eyes were distant, clouded with something you couldn’t read. Then he was kissing you again, swallowing whatever you’d been about to say, hands pinning your wrists above your head with enough force to make your pulse jump.

The sex was intense but hollow—all physical precision with none of the emotional connection from earlier. He knew exactly where to touch, exactly what angles made you gasp, but it felt rehearsed. Distant. Like he was performing rather than feeling, like you could have been anyone beneath him.

You tried to reach for him, to pull him closer, to bring him back to you, but he kept your hands pinned, kept that careful distance even as your bodies moved together. His breathing was ragged against your neck, movements almost aggressive in their intensity, but his eyes—when you caught glimpses of them—were somewhere else entirely.

“Satoru, please—” You didn’t even know what you were asking for. For him to slow down, to be present, to actually see you instead of using you as a distraction from whatever phone call had derailed the entire evening.

He buried his face in your neck, movements becoming more erratic, more desperate. You felt him shudder against you, heard your name torn from his throat—but it didn’t feel like intimacy. It felt like drowning.

When it was over, he rolled away immediately. No lingering touches, no soft words, no careful aftercare like usual. Just distance, immediate and absolute, like he couldn’t get away fast enough.

You lay there breathing hard, staring at the ceiling, feeling used in a way that made your chest ache. The expensive sheets felt cold against your overheated skin. You could feel the places where his fingers had dug in—your hips, your thighs, your wrists—marks that would probably bruise by morning.

“What’s going on with you?” Your voice was small in the darkness, vulnerability you hated leaking through.

“Nothing.” Too quick. Too practiced.

“Satoru.” You propped yourself up on one elbow, looking down at him. “Talk to me.”

“Why do you need to analyze everything?” His tone was sharp, cutting, designed to push you away. “Can’t we just exist without you picking everything apart?”

The words hit like a slap. You felt something crack in your chest—hurt and anger and crushing disappointment all tangled together.

“I’m not analyzing. I’m asking.” Your voice shook despite your efforts to control it. “There’s a difference.”

“And I said nothing. Can we drop it?” The dismissal was final, harsh, leaving no room for argument.

For a moment, you just stared at him. At this man who’d looked at you like you hung the moon three hours ago and was now treating you like an inconvenience. Who’d promised to do better and was already falling back into old patterns. Who’d just been inside you but couldn’t even meet your eyes now.

The hurt crystallized into something sharper, colder.

“Fine.” You sat up, started gathering clothes from the floor with jerky movements. Your dress, your bra, evidence of your poor judgment scattered across his bedroom. “Fine, we’ll drop it.”

“Where are you going?”

“Home.” You found your underwear, pulled them on with shaking hands. “Since you’re clearly not in the mood for company.”

His hand shot out, caught your wrist with enough force to stop you but not enough to hurt. “Don’t go.”

“Why?” You turned to look at him, eyes burning with unshed tears you refused to let fall. “You obviously don’t want me here. You don’t want to talk, you don’t want to let me in, you just want—” Your voice cracked. “I don’t even know what you want, Satoru.”

“I do. I just—” He ran his free hand through his hair, that gesture of frustration and discomfort. “I’m bad at this.”

“Bad at what?”

“This. Talking. Feelings. All of it.” The admission came reluctantly, like pulling teeth. “I don’t know how to do this.”

The vulnerability in his voice—that rare glimpse of something real beneath the walls—made your anger falter. Against your better judgment, against every instinct telling you to protect yourself, you softened.

“Then we don’t have to talk.” You got back in bed, let him pull you close despite everything, despite knowing this solved nothing.

He wrapped his arms around you tight—too tight, almost desperate, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he loosened his grip even slightly. You could feel his heartbeat against your back, still elevated, still unsteady.

“I’m trying,” he said quietly into the darkness, voice rough with something that might have been shame. “I know I’m shit at it, but I’m trying.”

“I know.” You laced your fingers through his, squeezed gently even though your wrists ached from where he’d held them.

But trying wasn’t enough anymore. You both knew it, even if neither of you was ready to say it out loud.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

⋆𐙚₊

You woke before him, disoriented by the unfamiliar weight of his arm across your waist, by the expensive sheets that still felt cold despite the body heat between you.

Morning light filtered through those floor-to-ceiling windows—softer now than the aggressive brightness from yesterday, almost gentle. You turned your head carefully, not wanting to wake him, and studied his face in sleep.

He looked younger like this. Peaceful. The usual arrogance smoothed away, leaving something almost vulnerable in its place. His white hair was a mess against the pillow, lips slightly parted, one arm still possessively wrapped around you even in unconsciousness.

It would have been romantic if last night hadn’t happened. If you couldn’t still feel the ghost of his fingers on your wrists, the hollow ache in your chest from how distant he’d been.

You extracted yourself carefully, sliding out from under his arm without waking him. Found his shirt from yesterday on the floor and pulled it on, the fabric soft and expensive and smelling like him—that clean, indefinable scent that always made your stomach flip despite your better judgment.

The bedroom was pristine except for your scattered clothes—evidence of last night that felt almost accusatory in the morning light. You gathered them quietly, folded them with unnecessary care, trying not to think too hard about how mechanical the sex had been, how absent he’d felt even while inside you.

A soft sound made you turn. He was stirring, face scrunching slightly before his eyes blinked open—unfocused at first, then sharpening as they found you across the room.

“Morning,” he said, voice rough with sleep.

“Morning.” You set your folded clothes on the chair, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands.

He sat up slowly, running a hand through his already-chaotic hair. The sheets pooled around his waist, revealing the lean muscle of his torso, the pale expanse of skin you’d touched last night with trembling hands.

“Listen,” he started, then stopped. Jaw working like the words were difficult. “About last night. I was—” Another pause, longer this time. “I was weird. I’m sorry.”

The apology hung in the air between you, inadequate and incomplete.

“Okay,” you said carefully, waiting for more. For an explanation, for context, for anything that might make sense of the whiplash.

But he just looked at you, something unreadable in those blue eyes. No elaboration. No explanation for the phone calls or the distance or the way he’d used your body to escape whatever was in his head.

“That’s it?” You couldn’t keep the edge out of your voice. “You were weird, you’re sorry, and that’s all I get?”

“What do you want me to say?” But there was no heat in it, just exhaustion.

“I want you to tell me what’s going on. What that phone call was about. Why you—” You gestured vaguely at the bed, at the space between you. “Why you completely checked out on me.”

His jaw tightened, that tell-tale sign of walls going up. “It’s complicated.”

“Then uncomplicate it.”

“I can’t.” He swung his legs out of bed, stood with his back to you. The morning light cut harsh angles across his shoulders, highlighted the tension in every line of his body. “Not right now.”

The dismissal stung worse than if he’d just told you to leave.

“I need to shower,” he said, still not looking at you. “You can—if you want breakfast, I’ll make something after. Just go ahead to the kitchen. I’ll join you in a bit.”

It wasn’t quite asking you to leave, but it felt close enough. You watched him walk toward the bathroom, all that easy confidence from last night replaced by something brittle and guarded.

The bathroom door closed with a soft click. Then the sound of water running, muffled through expensive walls.

You stood there for a moment, feeling untethered and uncertain. Then, because you didn’t know what else to do, you made your way toward the kitchen.

His penthouse was ridiculous in the daylight—all clean lines and expensive minimalism, the kind of space that looked like it belonged in an architecture magazine rather than being actually lived in. Everything was pristine, carefully curated, revealing nothing about the person who inhabited it.

Except for one wall in the living room.

You stopped, drawn by the unexpected splash of personality in all this calculated emptiness. Photo frames—several of them, arranged with surprising care on floating shelves. Actual printed photographs, not just digital files lost in a phone somewhere.

The first one made you smile despite everything. Young Satoru—maybe sixteen or seventeen, though the white hair and those unmistakable eyes made him recognizable even then—grinning at the camera with his arm slung around a girl with dark hair and a distinctly unimpressed expression.

Utahime. You recognized her scowl, the way she was trying to shove him away even as the photo was taken.

The next frame showed a larger group. Satoru and Utahime again, plus Shoko looking bored and elegant even as a teenager, and two other guys you didn’t recognize. One was blonde—striking, with sharp features and an easy smile. The other—

Your eyes caught on him and stayed there.

Dark hair pulled back, longer than you’d expect on a guy. His features were striking in a way that made you do a double-take—the kind of face that belonged in art museums, all elegant lines and sharp cheekbones and an expression that seemed both present and distant at once. He stood next to Satoru, close but not touching, and there was something about the composition that made it clear they were the center of this group, the axis everyone else orbited around.

You moved to the next photo, and your attention snagged on something new.

A girl.

She appeared in this one—beautiful in an understated way, with a soft smile and bright eyes. She stood between Satoru and the dark-haired guy, her hand caught mid-gesture like she’d been laughing at something. The three of them formed a triangle in the center of the frame, the others arranged around them. There was an ease to the composition, a natural intimacy that spoke of inside jokes and shared history.

Another photo. The same girl again, sitting on what looked like a school roof between Satoru and the dark-haired guy. All three of them were laughing at something off-camera, the girl’s head tilted back, caught mid-joy. The two boys leaned toward her from either side, like she was the sun they both orbited.

You moved along the shelf, and something in the progression caught your attention.

More photos with the girl. Her in the center of the group, or standing between the two boys, or laughing with everyone. But there was something in the composition you couldn’t quite name—the way both Satoru and the dark-haired guy seemed to angle toward her, the way they’d position themselves on either side of her, the way the camera caught glances that might have meant nothing or might have meant everything.

Then, about halfway through the chronological display, something shifted.

The girl disappeared.

Just—gone. One photo she was there, bright and laughing and clearly part of this tight-knit group. The next few photos, she simply wasn’t. Like she’d been edited out of their lives entirely.

And the photos after her absence were different.

The smiles were wrong. Still present, still captured by the camera, but hollow somehow. Performative. The blonde guy looked uncomfortable. Utahime seemed angry in a way that went beyond her usual irritation with Satoru. Shoko’s boredom had transformed into something that looked more like exhaustion, like she was tired of being caught in the middle of something.

But the most striking difference was between Satoru and the dark-haired guy.

In the earlier photos—the ones with the girl—they’d stood close, natural, like it was habit. Partners in crime, two people who’d known each other so long they moved in sync.

In the later ones, there was distance. Visible, deliberate distance. They were still in the same frame, still technically together as part of the group, but they might as well have been on different continents. The dark-haired guy’s expression had gone carefully blank, his posture closed off. Satoru’s smile had gained a sharp edge, something brittle and defensive in the set of his shoulders.

The last group photo was particularly telling. Everyone was there—all five of them—but the composition was fractured. Satoru on one side with Utahime and the blonde guy. The dark-haired guy on the other with Shoko acting as a buffer in the middle. No one was touching. No one was smiling quite right. It looked like a group of people who’d been told to stand together for a photo but had forgotten how to actually be together.

And after that photo, the dark-haired guy appeared in only one more frame.

The face-down one.

Your eyes moved to it now, sitting there like a tombstone. Whatever was in that frame was from before the shift, before the girl had disappeared and the smiles went wrong and the two people who’d clearly been best friends became strangers standing in the same photograph.

You reached for it before you could stop yourself.

The photo was just the two of them—Satoru and the dark-haired guy, younger than in the other photos, maybe fifteen. They stood side by side in matching school uniforms, Satoru’s arm slung casually over the other boy’s shoulders. Both of them were grinning at the camera—Satoru’s smile wide and cocky, the other boy’s more reserved but genuine. The dark-haired guy’s eyes were lighter in this photo, less guarded, like whatever weight he’d been carrying in the later photos hadn’t settled on him yet.

There was writing at the bottom, faded but still legible in teenage handwriting: First year. Partners in crime.

Before. This was clearly before. Before the girl, before whatever had happened, before everything had gone wrong.

“What are you doing?”

His voice behind you made you jump, nearly dropping the frame. You turned to find him in the doorway—showered, dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, hair damp and dripping slightly onto his shoulders. His eyes locked immediately on the frame in your hands, and his entire body went rigid.

“Sorry, I was just—” You held up the frame, caught. “I saw the photos. There’s a story here, isn’t there? That girl who was in some of them, and then wasn’t, and then everything seemed—”

“Put it back.” His voice was flat, cold in a way you’d never heard before.

“Satoru, what happened—”

“Put. It. Back.” Each word was bitten off, sharp enough to cut.

You set the frame down carefully, face-down exactly as you’d found it. When you turned back to him, his jaw was clenched so tight you worried he’d crack a tooth.

“Who was she?” you asked quietly. “The girl in the photos?”

Something complicated flickered across his face—anger, pain, something that looked almost like guilt before it was quickly buried. “No one. Just someone we knew in high school.”

“And him?” You gestured vaguely at the shelf. “The guy with the dark hair?”

The anger that flashed across Satoru’s face was immediate and visceral—sharp and bitter and barely contained. But underneath it, there was something else. Something that looked like hurt, or regret, or maybe both tangled together so tightly they’d become indistinguishable.

“He’s no one either.” The words came out hard, final, but his voice cracked slightly on the last word. “Just someone I used to know. We don’t talk anymore. Haven’t in years.”

But the progression of photos told a different story. The way the girl had been there, bright and laughing between them. The way she’d disappeared. The way what had clearly been a close friendship—maybe the closest friendship, judging by those early photos—had deteriorated into the visible tension of those later group shots.

Something had happened. Something involving all three of them. But the photos didn’t tell you who was at fault, who had betrayed whom, who had been hurt worst. Just that there had been a before—happy, intact, whole—and an after—fractured, hollow, irreparably broken.

“What happened?” You couldn’t help asking, even though his expression was screaming at you to drop it.

“Nothing that concerns you.” His voice was ice, deliberate and cutting. But his hands had curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white with tension. “Ancient history. It doesn’t matter.”

“It clearly does matter—”

“It doesn’t.” He moved past you toward the kitchen, movements sharp and controlled, like he was barely holding himself together. “Those photos are old. From before. They don’t mean anything now.”

But the way he’d hidden that one frame told a different story. The way his entire body had gone tense at the sight of it. The careful way he’d preserved all the group photos—even the fractured later ones—while singling out that one moment between just the two of them, that evidence of a friendship before whatever had happened with the girl.

You followed him to the kitchen, watching as he pulled out eggs and bread with more force than necessary.

“She was important to both of you, wasn’t she?” you tried carefully. “In those photos, it looked like—”

Satoru’s hand slammed down on the counter, the sound sharp and violent in the quiet apartment. “I said drop it.”

But his voice wasn’t just angry. It was raw, cracked open, exposing something underneath that he clearly didn’t want you to see. Pain, maybe. Or guilt. Or the kind of complicated regret that comes from situations where everyone was wrong and everyone was hurt and there’s no clear villain to blame.

“I don’t know what you think you saw in those photos,” he said, voice low and dangerous and trembling slightly. “But whatever story you’ve constructed in your head—forget it. It’s done. Over. We all made our choices and now we live with them.”

We all made our choices. Not ‘he made his choice’ or ‘she made hers.’ We all. Collective. Shared responsibility for whatever had destroyed that tight-knit group, whatever had taken three people who’d clearly been close and turned them into strangers.

“Okay,” you said quietly, backing off. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”

He didn’t respond, just turned back to the stove with rigid shoulders and started cracking eggs with enough force that shells scattered across the counter. His jaw was still clenched, every line of his body radiating barely suppressed emotion—anger and pain and something that looked suspiciously like shame all fighting for dominance.

You sat at the counter in silence, watching him cook with sharp, aggressive movements. The breakfast was quiet, uncomfortable. He was somewhere else entirely—trapped in whatever those photos had dredged up, in memories of a girl who’d disappeared and a friendship that had died and choices that apparently everyone had made that led to this ending.

“I should probably go,” you said finally, appetite gone, the tension in the air suffocating.

He nodded, still not quite looking at you. “Yeah. Okay.”

You gathered your things in silence. When you emerged from the bedroom with yesterday’s dress back on and your purse in hand, he was still in the kitchen, staring at nothing, or maybe at everything he’d lost.

“I’ll call you,” he said automatically.

“Will you?”

“Yeah.” But it sounded hollow, distant, like he was still trapped in whatever memories those photos had triggered.

You left, but the images stayed with you. The progression of photographs like a timeline of something precious being destroyed. The bright girl who’d been there and then wasn’t. The dark-haired boy with the striking features who’d gone from standing close to Satoru to being erased from his life entirely. The smiles that had gone from genuine to hollow.

Partners in crime.

Until something had happened. Until a girl had been caught between them—or they’d been caught between her—and whatever trust they’d built had shattered completely. Until Satoru had been left with nothing but carefully displayed evidence of a happier time he couldn’t let go of but couldn’t quite look at either.

You didn’t have the full story. Didn’t know the details, didn’t know who had done what to whom. The photos didn’t tell you if Satoru had been the villain or the victim or something in between. Just that something had broken, irrevocably, and everyone involved was still carrying the damage.

We all made our choices.

And you were supposed to trust him. Supposed to believe he could let you in, could be vulnerable with you, could build something real.

When he was still carrying this much unresolved damage from whatever had happened with that dark-haired boy and that disappeared girl. When he couldn’t even look at evidence of that friendship without shutting down completely. When whatever choices he’d made—whatever role he’d played in that destruction—still haunted him enough to make his hands shake and his voice crack.

You were grasping at straws, trying to trust someone who couldn’t even acknowledge his own history. Trying to build something with someone who was still bleeding from old wounds he refused to address, wounds that might be self-inflicted or might not be, and you had no way of knowing which.

But you were still trying. Still hoping.

Still foolish enough to believe that maybe you could be different.

Even though all the evidence suggested that Gojo Satoru was still too broken by the past—by choices made and friendships destroyed and a girl who’d disappeared from photos like she’d never existed—to let anyone fully into his present.

Even though you had no idea what role he’d played in that story, whether he’d been hurt or had done the hurting, whether he was carrying guilt or grief or both.

All you knew was that something had shattered. And the pieces were still sharp enough to draw blood.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

🏷️ @sadmonke @satorupied @azumiriiri @shmd-nora @gyoouu @tilothecutie @sirencholia @vegeta-love @scaraslover @rntrsuna @ssetsuka @hynkari @zukowantshishonourback @aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa444 @naxinomi @blueangelbread @aliensleeb @ckilhj @uravitypng @dtftheavengers @prettylee @sweetoblivionis @kamuihz @yellow—dandelions @justhere0000 @uniquenicefangirl @itsmebb @highhjime @lizzjupiter @sabbrriiinnaa @ynackerman9499 @eolivy @sherizaraiyah @tim—tam @emoedgylord @pnkoo @kvi-kvi @bakarinnie @itoshi-r @chelseasayshi @bloomingbirdiez @untouchablegojo @literallyadarling (i cant tag the others omg im sorry)

[thicchaikyuuboys]

THEY ACCIDENTALLY PROPOSE DURING AN ARGUMENT

Includes: Oikawa Tooru, Iwaizumi Hajime, Bokuto Koutaro, Miya Atsumu, Sakusa Kiyoomi

TW: slight angst, no biggie

★ OIKAWA TOORU

It had started small, the way it always did. A sharp comment over dinner, your voice too flat when you asked if he was even listening. He’d just come back from practice, sore and distracted from a long day, his phone buzzing with messages from his teammates and coaches.The tension simmered over the silence until one wrong look, one poorly timed sigh, lit the whole room ablaze.

Now, the storm was in full swing.

“You never take me seriously. You come home, you barely speak to me about anything other than volleyball—and when I talk? You don’t even entertain what I have to say!” you snapped, arms crossed tight, nails digging into your own skin. The apartment around you felt claustrophobic—lamps casting long shadows, the faint hum of the fridge too loud in the silence between your words. “All you care about is volleyball. The cameras, the edits, the social media attention that you get from everyone other than me. I don’t even know if you see me anymore.”

Oikawa froze mid-pace, then spun back toward you, brown eyes sparking with indignation. “That is absolutely not true! Don’t you dare say that—don’t! You think this life is easy for me? You think I don’t come home aching, exhausted, with every bone in my body screaming—”

“You chose this! This is your career—you knew exactly what you signed up for!” Your voice rose, cutting sharp through his. “You chose volleyball. You chose to chase your dreams—you chose to chase something so big, something so much larger than life and now there’s no room left for me. And you act like I should just be grateful to stand in your shadow and wait my turn to be seen. All I want it so be seen by you!”

His breath hitched, fury flashing across his face. His hands went to his hair, yanking it back until it stood messily, his chest rising and falling too fast. “You think I want you in my shadow? I never wanted that, I couldn’t imagine making you feel that way. Damn it, I want you beside me—”

“Beside you?” You laughed, hollow and trembling. “No one stands beside you. Everyone in your life follows behind you or they get left behind! You take every opportunity you can to stand out, to make everything about yourself! That’s what being with you feels like.”

The silence after was brutal, heavy as lead. You could see the blow land; his jaw clenched so hard you half-expected it to crack. He turned his back for a moment, shoulders shaking with the effort of keeping his voice even.

“Do you really mean that?” he said finally, his tone razor-sharp, “You don’t know me at all if that’s what you’re saying.”

Your throat tightened, but the anger pushed you forward. “Maybe I don’t. Maybe I don’t want to know you anymore.”

And that—those words, small and cruel as a knife’s edge—shattered something in him. He spun back to you, eyes blazing, tears barely restrained at the edges of his anger.

“Don’t you dare,” he hissed, stepping closer. His voice shook now, less fury, more desperation. “Don’t you dare say you’re wasting your time with me. Do you have any idea what you are to me?”

“I never said that I was wasting my time—“

“That’s what it feels like, y/n!”

You opened your mouth, but before you could, he cracked wide open.

“Fine! You want to know how serious I am about you? You want proof that I see you? Then marry me. I’ll marry you right now if that’s what it takes for you to understand! And I have the ring—had it for months. It’s in the cabinet in the kitchen that you can’t reach without my help.”

The words reverberated in the room, louder than either of you intended. His hands shook, clenched tight at his sides, his chest heaving like he’d just finished a match. The bravado slipped almost instantly, leaving him looking stricken by his own admission.

“I…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I wasn’t supposed to say it like that.” He swallowed, throat bobbing as he took a step closer, softer now, the raw truth spilling out. “But I mean it. I’ve always meant it. You’re not in my shadow—you’re the only thing I can see when the lights go out. You’re the only person I want to come home to.”

For once, Oikawa Tooru looked small—no sarcastic grin, no dramatic mask, just a boy trembling in the center of your living room, confessing in the ugliest, truest way possible.

And outside, the rain tapped steady against the windowpane, the city holding its breath for whatever you would say next.

⸻

★ IWAIZUMI HAJIME

You found him in the kitchen, shoulders hunched over the counter, hands braced on either side of his phone. The glow of the screen lit his face in harsh blue, jaw tight, lips pressed into a line. He didn’t even flinch when you stepped in.

“Hajime?” you asked softly. “What’s going on?”

He locked the phone, flipped it face down like a guilty reflex. “Nah, it’s nothing. Just work shit.”

“Hmm. Just work shit,” you echoed, crossing your arms. “You’ve been saying that all week. You barely look me in the eye anymore, you stay late at practice, you’ve been coming home more tense than usual and pretend you’re fine. Don’t lie to me. Talk to me, what’s going on?”

His nostrils flared, and for a moment, he looked cornered. “I’m not lying to you. I’m just…dealing with a lot right now. I’m handling it.”

The words lit a fuse in your chest. “Handling what? Baby, you come home and don’t talk to me about anything. You don’t even come to bed. Like, am I not worth the conversation? Or do you just not trust me enough with what’s going on.”

The kitchen felt suddenly smaller, air thick with your voice bouncing off the cabinets, the fridge humming like static. He straightened, arms crossing over his chest, a wall you knew too well.

“This isn’t about trust. I just—don’t want to dump this on you, okay? You’ve got enough going on without my shit, alright?”

Your laugh came out sharp, bitter. “So you get to decide that for me?You get to carry this weight—all of it alone while I sit here wondering why the hell the man I live with feels like a stranger?”

“Baby—I’m trying to protect you!” His voice finally cracked, louder than he meant. He scrubbed a hand over his face, hair spiking from the motion. “Do you think it’s easy for me? Coming home and seeing you exhausted, stressed out, and then what—I pile my own shit on top of you? No. I won’t do that to you. It’s my job to protect you from unnecessary stress—“

You stepped forward, heart pounding, heat rising to your throat. “Protect me? I’m not some fragile thing that needs protecting, Hajime! I’m your partner. You’re supposed to come to me, you’re supposed to confide in me, you’re supposed to be honest with me. Instead, you shut me out and bottle everything up until it explodes—like this!”

His jaw clenched, teeth grinding. “Babe, you don’t get it.”

“No,” you shot back, tears stinging your eyes, “you don’t get it. Every time you hide something from me, it feels like you’re saying I’m not enough. Not strong enough, not trustworthy enough, not important enough for you to let me in. Do you know what that does to me?”

That one hit. His face faltered, eyes widening like you’d just torn through the armor he’d been holding together with bare hands. He took a breath, sharp and shaky, chest rising too fast.

“I—” He started, then stopped, words choking out of him like they’d been locked up too long. His voice dropped, rough and raw. “You are enough, you always have been. You’re the only one I want to lean on, the only one I want to talk to—and I have. This is just different, baby.”

Your silence was heavy, trembling, waiting as you stared at him.

“Something else is going on. Im not saying anything, but you aren’t being honest with me about something.” Your voice was stern, bordering an anger that festered in your chest.

“Fine, you really wanna know what’s been on my mind? Why I can’t fucking sleep?”

“Yes, I do.” Your arms folded over your chest, foot tapping, heart racing.

He swallowed hard, nostrils flared. “I just bought you an engagement ring.” He was visibly irritated, voice raised. “I haven’t been able to sleep all week because I’ve been thinking about proposing to you and what I’d do if you said no.”

The words shot through the tension, reckless, bare. His hands balled into fists at his sides, knuckles white, as if bracing himself against the weight of his own confession. “If you, for one second, think that I don’t trust you, you’re wrong. You’re the only person I’ve ever trusted with my entire heart. You are my better half. I just don’t know how to do this without screwing it up. But I know I want you—for the rest of my life. So if you marry me, I’ll prove it every day.”

The fight still lingered in the air, jagged and raw, but in his voice there was nothing but desperation — a vow cracked open too soon, in the middle of the mess, like it had been clawing its way out for months.

For once, Iwaizumi Hajime looked unsteady, standing in your kitchen with his heart in his hands, waiting for you to either take it or leave him undone.

⸻

★ BOKUTO KOUTARU

The slam of the front door rattled the apartment, and Bokuto’s voice followed it, already too loud for the small apartment.

“I don’t get what I did wrong!” His bag was thrown to the floor, shoes kicked off carelessly. His hair was still damp from the shower at the gym, sticking to his forehead, chest heaving from the leftover adrenaline of practice.

You stood by the couch, arms crossed, refusing to let your voice shake. “You forgot, Koutaro. Again. You promised me that you’d be there tonight.”

His face twisted, hands flying out in exasperation. “I had a last minute team dinner, there was no way out of it. We were meeting with the marketing team for our next tour!”

“This isn’t just about dinner, Koutarou. You knew that this night was important to me—you promised me you’d get out of anything related to work. This was my best presentation yet—this was my night! And you weren’t there. You didn’t even text me.”

That landed like a spike straight into his chest. He opened his mouth, closed it, then started pacing, socks squeaking against the floorboards. “I’m sorry, okay? I messed up. But do you have to make it sound like I don’t care about you? You’re everything to me!”

“Then why don’t I ever feel like it?” The words shot out sharper than you intended, but you didn’t take them back. The apartment went quiet, save for his uneven breathing and the faint hum of the streetlights outside.

Bokuto froze, shoulders sagging like you’d physically struck him. His lower lip trembled, his voice catching somewhere between anger and despair. “That’s not fair.”

“You think it’s fair for me to sit alone in a room full of people, waiting for you to show up, pretending that I’m not hurt?” Your voice cracked, eyes burning. “Sometimes you make me feel invisible, Koutarou. Like my ambition, my career, my dreams don’t matter to you. I don’t feel supported in my endeavors.”

He flinched, stumbling back like the word itself had knocked the air out of him. His hands tangled in his hair, tugging, his voice breaking apart. “You aren’t invisible to me, baby. You think I don’t see you? I see your hard work, the passion behind your work! You think I don’t—” He stopped, choking on the words, and then his whole chest heaved as they tore out of him:

“You know what? Fuck it—just marry me. ”

It came out raw, desperate, too loud. His eyes were wide and wet, his chest rising and falling like he’d just sprinted down the court. “Marry me so you’ll never think that you don’t matter to me again. Marry me so you’ll know—every single day—that you’re the only thing I see, even when I’m a screw-up, even when I fall through, even when I’m the worst version of myself.”

The silence that followed was brutal. His hands dropped uselessly to his sides, trembling. His voice softened, cracked.

“I was gonna make it special. I bought a ring. It’s been in my gym bag for weeks because I know it’s the only place you wouldn’t find it. I wanted to wait for the right moment.” His laugh was broken, hollow. “Guess I’m not good at waiting.”

And there he was: Bokuto Koutarou, the loudest man in the room, suddenly looking small, undone, his whole heart laid bare between the broken pieces of an argument.

⸻

★ MIYA ATSUMU my baby

Your voice cracked as you shoved the door open, storming into the humid night. The slam of the door echoed down the quiet street, the sound of your footsteps slapping the pavement.

“Don’t walk away from me!” Atsumu’s voice thundered after you, raw and furious, door slamming open, chasing you down the front steps of his apartment building. His bare feet hit the concrete as he sprinted after you, hair wild, shirt twisted on his frame like he hadn’t even managed to pull it on right, his expression carved with frustration and something sharper underneath.

You spun on him under the harsh glow of the streetlight, voice breaking as you shouted, “What else am I supposed to do, Atsumu? You don’t come home, you don’t answer when I call, you act like a stranger—and now you can’t even look me in the eye when I ask where you’ve been. What am I supposed to think?”

His hands flew out, helpless, exasperated. “Not that! Damn it, baby, not that!”

“What then?!” Tears blurred your vision, hot and relentless. “Tell me, Atsumu! Because right now, it feels like you’re lying to me. It feels like you’re hiding something—or someone.”

That word hit him like a fist. His whole body snapped forward, eyes blazing, chest rising too fast. “Don’t fuckin’ say that,” he growled, low and dangerous.

“What else am I supposed to think?!”

He cracked.

The words split him open. His face twisted, anger and pain colliding, and he barked out, “I WASN’T CHEATIN’ ON YA!” his voice splitting the night wide open.

Lights flickered on in two different windows above you. Someone hissed, “Can you shut up!” from a balcony. Neither of you cared.

Atsumu’s voice shook as he pointed a finger at his chest, his whole body trembling with the force of holding himself together. “I wasn’t cheatin’ on ya babygirl, I would never do that to you! I was—I was—fuck—” He dug into his pocket, yanking something out with shaking hands. The little velvet box was so worn it looked like he’d been carrying it everywhere, squeezing it to death.

Your breath caught.

He snapped it open, ring glittering in the harsh streetlight. His knees buckled, and before you could process it, he was kneeling on the cold, wet pavement, tears streaking down his furious face.

“I was buyin’ you this!” he shouted, voice breaking ragged. “I’ve been sneakin’ off, lyin’, stressin’ myself sick ‘cause I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted the words to come out right. I wanted the moment to be beautiful—not this.” He slammed the box against his chest, laugh splintering into a sob.

The night went dead silent, except for the thrum of your pulse in your ears. You blinked, the fight stalling in your throat.

Your lips parted, words caught somewhere between disbelief and heartbreak. “You bought me a ring?”

He nodded once, quick and jerky, then dropped to one knee right there on the cracked sidewalk, under the yellow glow of the streetlamp. His hands were shaking as he pried open the box, revealing the simple, gleaming band inside. His voice cracked when he looked up at you.

“Marry me. Please. I don’t care that it’s ugly like this, in the middle of a fight, with the neighbors watchin’.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, desperate. “I can’t stand ya thinkin’ I don’t want ya, that I’d ever choose anyone else other than you. You’re it for me, y/n. Always have been. I can’t do life without ya—I won’t.”

The whole street felt like it had gone still — the air, the lights, even the rain-slick pavement underfoot. Atsumu Miya, brash and arrogant and impossible, knelt trembling before you, his messy truth finally spilling out into the night.

⸻

★ SAKUSA KIYOOMI

The silence had stretched between you for days, and now it was breaking, sharp and brittle like cracked glass. You stood in the narrow hallway of his apartment, arms crossed, jaw tight, the evening light falling across your face in harsh lines.

“You’re impossible,” you spat finally, voice shaking despite your attempt to stay calm. “I can’t—how am I supposed to be with someone who… who doesn’t even let me in?”

Sakusa leaned against the wall, hands shoved deep into his pockets, expression unreadable. His hair fell just enough to shadow his eyes, and you could feel the distance in him pressing against your chest. “I let you in,” he said quietly, too quietly. “You just… don’t notice.”

“Don’t notice?” You laughed bitterly. “Don’t notice? I’ve been here. I’ve tried, every day. And you… you close off. You shut me out. I don’t know what you’re thinking half the time. I feel like I’m just—waiting around for… for something.”

He said nothing at first, letting your words hit like stones. Then his voice came low, careful, controlled. “I don’t shut you out. I… I just don’t—” He paused, jaw tight. “I don’t want to make mistakes. I don’t want to—hurt you.”

Your chest ached at the quiet confession, the words crawling under your skin. “Then stop hiding. Stop treating me like I can’t handle it.”

A long silence followed. He finally pushed off the wall, stepping closer, each footfall deliberate, deliberate in the way only Sakusa’s movements could be. Your heart thumped so hard it drowned out the city sounds beyond the window.

“I wasn’t hiding from you,” he said, voice softer now, almost breaking. “I… I just—” He pulled something small from his pocket, a box, weight heavy in his hand. “I was planning something. I wanted it to be right. I wanted it to be perfect.”

You blinked, confusion cutting through the hurt. “What… what is that?”

He swallowed, eyes flicking away, then back, calm and steady. “I—” He dropped to one knee, box open, the ring catching the dim light like a secret flame. “I can’t stand holding this in anymore. I love you. I need you to know I’ve always needed you. Will you… marry me?”

The words hit harder than any argument, heavier than any silence. The hurt, the anger, the fear—they all collided with the raw honesty in his eyes. His hands shook slightly, just enough to betray the storm he kept inside.

You stared, breath caught, heart thundering, and the walls you’d both built for months cracked. “Sakusa…” you whispered.

“Say yes,” he urged quietly, voice low, almost a plea. “I can’t promise perfection. I can’t promise I’ll always know the right thing to say. But I can promise you this—I’ll never shut you out again. Not like this. Not ever.”

The city outside faded, the argument forgotten, leaving only the two of you and the weight of everything unsaid finally coming to light.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I haven’t written angst in so long lol. Also, happy to be back, my cat is doing so much better. Hopefully things stay that way. Anyway—tell me what you think and if we want a part two?

[sashimiyas]

atsumu never wins setter of the year in his professional career. the pool is small and even talent like his can seem unimpressive when compared to others.

you may have jested on occasion, touting oikawa and kageyama and the like, because a foul mouthed and pouty atsumu is your favorite sight. his huffiness is unbearably endearing and despite the stardom that surrounds him on the court, your eyes are always enraptured by him.

so when atsumu reveals to you that he’s about to retire, you begin planning. it takes a whole season, nights of waffling, (should he? should he not?) and quite literally a whole village, but you’ve carefully curated the night.

surrounded by people he loves, favorite foods on, liquor in so much abundance he’s had to pop the top three buttons of shirt, osamu claps to gather everyone’s attention.

you take your cue. suna dims miya onigiri’s lights back as kita scuttles in front of you, ducked with his head tucked between raised shoulders, as he tries to pass by unnoticed with a microphone. atsumu has an expletive forming on his mouth that mama miya tampers with a quick rub at his back.

you blow a kiss to the woman, that saint. now that the restaurant has quieted, you don’t know quite what to do with yourself. everyone is in on your plan, but still, you don’t know how atsumu would react. joyously, you assume, but there’s a chance he could pull a wildcard on you today.

you tap the mic at your thigh twice and then blow into it, “this thing on?” no one reacts so you blow twice more, “hello? hello?”

suna thrusts a thumbs up from the back, the other hand dramatically covering an ear.

“oh. okay. well…” atsumu’s stupefied expression compared to everyone’s eager one gives you the confidence to continue on. “thank you all for coming today to celebrate. as you know, we all casted our votes weeks ago, and we have finally tallied the votes tonight.”

atsumu looks at his ma then osamu who only give him a knowing smile and shrug. he mouths to you, what the fuck is going on? causing you to chuckle before continuing.

“the winner of this award is well known in his field. In the past year he’s had 3,010 assists, 78 kills, 32 aces, and only Three trips onstage, 2 viral videos but in an ironic way, and 1 in an unironic way…”

you see the light slowly dawn in atsumu’s eyes as he sits up in his seat.

“he has made me laugh and made me mad, and then begged me not to be mad at him which made me laugh again. and he is so deserving of this award, i cannot fathom why it has taken so long for his name to be called. so without any further delay…”

you pull an envelopes from your back pocket. atsumu’s gaze catches yours as you open it and you cannot help but beam. his eyes glitter in the light and your thankful. it doesn’t seem like a wildcard will appear tonight.

“the best setter of the year goes to miya atsumu!” suna takes cue and flips a switch on. atsumu’s engulfed in light as he stands when you gesture for him to join you.

the room erupts in celebration and despite it being all for show, that his trophy is simply an action figure of him that says “BEST SETTER” on the jersey, atsumu envelopes you his arms.

the embrace is joyous and public, but in your ear he thanks you quietly, a frailty in his voice reserved for you. he takes the microphone, and turns to the crowd.

“they said i couldn’t do it!” atsumu points at his brother an faux animosity, “but i always knew i could.”

you smile. there’s that wildcard.

[dictearchive]

[notmyart7]

Me with that one friend in class 😂

[hxltic]

THE CARD GAME BOKUTO KŌ

• Genre: smut (wee bit of fluff too?)

• Warnings: alcohol, public display, party environment, female reader, praise, raw fuckin, creampie, birth control, prn w plot! (moderately proofread)

• Synopsis: Simple. Pull a card, drink or do. If you do—make sure the players to your right or left are willing to risk it ;)

NO GUIDANCE- CHRIS BROWN & DRAKE at party

LIQUOR- CHRIS BROWN after bathroom

3K SPECIAL !!!

As the night falls of a big win, the team takes their pictures and sends their supportive families off to their hotels or long drives. You remain present a little later, as manager, with matters to tend to. Your family could come if they wished since you’re provided extra tickets; though you obviously aren’t playing, so unless they are just in the mood to watch than it was no point.

Coach strolls off joyfully. With his face flushed and breathless from the yelling, overwhelming audience, it all ended in a second when all sneakers stopped squeaking against the court. You signed for clean up duty even though it wasn’t your gym, but technically the event was hosted by MSBY.

The clipboard became light on your fingers as you swiftly walk to the closet of the facility. The high-pitched sound of the carts rolling multiples in the gym echo and you leave them on the court, under the (now dark) roof, the only lights being illuminated over play area.

This part was irritating some days, but others it was therapeutic. Your skin crawls at the mere thought of being alone, in the darkness, of an empty building— but the quicker you do it, the quicker you may leave.

You begin the easiest portion first, shagging any stray balls played with by kids or used for photos after play, but a large sum of the time is spent walking back and forth within the large gymnasium.

You will say though: even with repetition, the fear never completely dissolves because hearing the push door open while you’re standing in the dead center of the light gave you a heart attack. Weight shifted to your toes with building keys in hand, you only relax when you see a head of mixed hair.

“Hey,” his voice carries in a soft tone from afar, like it’s forbidden to be loud in a dark, vacant gym.

“Hey,” you parrot, leaning down to pick up the last ball. Once you walk it to the cart and scan again, you fully acknowledge him. “What are you doing back?”

He’s gotten closer now, with his water bottle still swinging in hand from earlier, but he is no longer in his jersey. “I don’t like to feel dirty with sweat longer than I have to,” he said a few years ago.

“Came to help you out,” he grins. The thin shirt he wore fell loose over his tight frame as he stuffs his own keys in his sweats. His hair was still slightly damp too, now fallen. Not because he washed the gel out, but because it is it’s “bedtime.”

You shake your head politely as you proceed to roll the carts back into the closet.

The corners of your mouth lift, “It’s alright, just part of the job,” you reply.

“I’m helping anyway, so you can try to shove me out if you want to.”

He does that famous grin of his, except a more tired version. He was calm and quiet. Extremely different from how you saw him around 35 minutes ago, but he was only like this when he was tired, upset, or something else you don’t know about. The exhaustion of play was probably just kicking in.

Clearly there was no pushing him out, no matter what sentiment about rest you could give him, so if he was here, he was going to help take down that almost-eight-foot net.

Once he gets both sides down, you come in to help roll/fold it, then use the bottom rope to tie it off. In the end, it took less than half the time it would’ve taken to do it alone, and that includes the endless giggles about nothing in particular throughout the whole thing. He carries the net and pads away over his bicep.

“So how long do you usually stay after?”

2 hours. You don’t tell him that, so instead you yell something along the lines of “Not too long!”

“I waited up for you because I noticed you’ve been the last to leave almost every time. Alone. Once you never came out, that’s when I realized you were in here working.”

He explains the situation from a different point of view. You had found yourself bending to pick up trash from the long rows of seats, skimming through to lay some work off the janitors. He finally appears out of the closet, so you walk back to the chairs that you were instructed to leave out.

The door closes loudly. He then outstretches one hand for the keys, with his opposite hand still located on the knob.

You toss them poorly, he easily catches them with a hearty chuckle.

Once you grab your things, you walk and talk side by side down the soundless hallways. You hadn’t known him long, and to be completely fair— you weren’t necessarily acquainted with everyone on the team— but he was very caring for the people around him. He was attentive, but forgetful. You’re not sure how it works, but if he forgets something, then does it really matter if he notices it each time?

“I don’t like that everyone gets to leave but you. I’ll start staying back.”

“That’s not necessary; I’m a big girl,” you entertain.

“It just feels wrong. Leaving you here by yourself too? No,” he declares. He shakes his head tenaciously, and despite his large steps, his shoulder remains brushing against yours in sync.

“…You do realize how bad this looks right? A player staying back with the staff?”

A boisterous laugh erupts from him, “Only if you word it like that. We’re the same age, both students, and you’re the manager—not the coach. What can they say? I’m fucking you for a better looking jersey?”

Oh okay. woah.

You almost physically recoil in shock, but it just renders you speechless for a moment; moreso the images that just flashed into your head.

It seems he picked up on it, because he rushes to apologize.

“Shit- sorry, I didn’t mean-“

“No, no, it’s okay—I really don’t mind,” you console. It just caught you off guard, and it was obvious what he meant, so none of this was his fault. Also holy shit? Bokuto saying “fucking” in that way? You’re slightly tempted to ask him to repeat it. This proves the image of him in your head is a lot more innocent and less vulgar than the real one.

There’s a light flush to his skin and his shoulders are tensed, but it doesn’t stop him from teasing you.

“You say you really don’t mind?” He leans down to repeat the words in your ear, except when he says it, it’s significantly dirtier than when you did. He’s trying to imply you wouldn’t mind him…doing that to you.

Would you?

He contemplates his next words in your silence.

“It almost sounds like you’d like it,” he breathes out, but the devious grin lurks behind it.

“Stooop,” you roll your eyes and wrap your fingers around his face. He giggles even as you shove him away jokingly.

Once calm from his own fit of laughter, he tells you the team is supposed to celebrate tonight at home and he wants you to come. You oblige after making him beg a few times for forgiveness.

He did warn it would technically be as if they were out, but you don’t mind. They deserve it. Drinking at home is also better than drinking elsewhere anyway: no risking an image, no chance at driving, and since everyone knows each other, it automatically becomes somewhat safer.

Passing the concessions on the way out, you make sure to list the stock of what’s left while you leave him to count the money collected.

The roles were supposed to be reversed, but you don’t complain as you get to watch him handle the money like second nature. A small muscle in his arm flexes as the bills fly past his fingers and he whispers the numbers aloud to himself.

“You’re really good at that.” You say in awe. You weren’t aware how close you were leaning over his shoulder until the slight turn of his head has his nose about an inch from yours.

“Learned a little something from a business friend of mine,” he sighs in a hushed tone. He took the compliment shyly as if there weren’t fans screaming his name about an hour prior.

You clear your throat and provide him space before he relays the number to you. Thank god it’s dark.

He wishes you didn’t—he enjoyed the feeling of your small hands over his broad shoulders.

. .

The time nears 10 o’clock when you head to Bokuto’s. There wasn’t much to do at home other than shower, and because it was a casual event, you arrived in a cute pair of jeans and a tank.

The door opens to a familiar face. Soon you’re being led to the living room where music and low lights set the mood, some players of the team surround you, drinks are being passed around, and the atmosphere is far more calming than any club you’ve ever attended.

Atsumu is the first to greet you. He rises to his feet for a hug, expressing how much he didn’t think you would come to something like this.

As you look around, others are genuinely surprised by your presence as well, but it’s expected. For some, it’s the first time they’ve seen you outside of practice. Bokuto watches you begin to become uncomfortable under curious eyes.

The large hand that loops around your waist sends a warm wave through your body. He towers over you, all muscle and height, so when you look up to see his smile, you can’t help but return it. He leans down, fanning cool breath against your skin like earlier.

“Can I get you a drink? You okay?” A fulfilling scent floods your nose. God, what cologne was he wearing?

“I’m okay, thank you.”

He twists you to his seat on the sectional couch, to which he picks the spot on the floor right next to you. The feeling of his hand lingers.

You speak to Sakusa. The liquor in his hand is almost to the bottom, but he still seems more than present.

The TV plays in the background and you slowly ease into the party by conversation. Bokuto’s voice is so distinctive you can hear it whether you’re listening or not. His conversations with Hinata are pure amusement, especially as they talk about moments from the game. Sakusa asks about your family, what you study, things of that nature—it was very refreshing actually.

The team celebration was more team bonding and getting to know the players for you. A lot of how they act reflects on the court.

Some old friends of his along with other girls were there, presumably some their partners, but essentially it was a equal group. It didn’t stop the fun, because in the end, Meian had won every Uno game held and everyone had a justified animosity towards Sakusa for all his plus 4s. He’s fully aware of it, and as you all glare, he tips his head back, laughing incessantly.

You were slightly scared of him at first because he was so reserved.

At the height of the night, in the midst of tipsy attendees, someone pulls out a box from under the coffee table. You’re not even sure if it was Bokuto’s.

“Drink or Do,” A dark haired woman reads aloud. She glances around the crowded couch knowingly, silently asking if we were down. Hell, half of you were already drunk. The game was just “Do” by this point.

Of course, Atsumu is the first to audibly agree as if the slight slur of his words wasn’t enough signification he shouldn’t be playing.

She pushes her glasses further up her nose before displaying the contents of the game. She impressively shuffles the cards, clearly showcasing her sobriety. Bokuto suddenly grunts underneath you.

He raises himself just enough to slip up onto the couch beside you. You watch quietly.

He must’ve seen your shameless, big eyes admiring him too.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” you return. His lips stretch into a show-stopping smile and he turns his attention to the table. You follow his gaze to the game neatly assembled.

“Thanks Kiyoko. Who goes first?”

She shrugs and it was concluded you all would follow in a circle. Kuroo takes one for the team, first getting up and retrieving an extra bottle of liquor. His fingers connect around a card from the middle, all eyes falling on him in anticipation. It was explained on the pack that you could either get a physical card or a card about truth.

You only know the court versions of these men even though they knew each other, so your back hits the support of the couch in underlying excitement.

Kuroo reads it first to himself, then aloud.

“Name two other people you would have a threesome with or take a shot.”

A truth card. However, it seemed to take him no time to think about it.

“Alisa and Bo.” He slides the card unabashedly to a random spot on the coffee table, creating a potential pile for the rest of the used ones. The man beside you just crosses his arms and chuckles. His shirt stops about halfway down his deltoid and hugs him perfectly at the top, almost like it was altered just for you to look—it’s painful to look away, catching sight of Alisa giggling and pulling a card next.

“‘Take a shot from a player’s chest. The last player picks who.’ So regardless, I have to drink. How is this fair?”

All eyes land to Kuroo, conversing with Meian. He catches the memo, but doesn’t seem to care about his pick. He says Kiyoko.

Kiyoko wastes no time filling a shot to the brim. She places it snugly between her breasts, then awaits Alisa impatiently. She eventually places both hands to the gray-haired girl’s face, leading her face directly to her boobs. They laugh genuinely through the whole thing.

The fact that those two were playing this game implied they were single, and all you can think is holy hell, how is that possible? She wraps her plump lips around the glass rim, tilts her head up, and allows the liquid trail down her throat once free. A flood of groans and comedic applause fill the air.

“Is there something you would like to tell us Alisa?” Aran insinuates.

She then manually removes the glass from her mouth, dropping it to the table and brushing her bottom lip off flirtatiously at Kiyoko. “Your turn!”

. .

Kiyoko ends up admitting to the three riskiest places she’s ever fucked, stoking a heated discussion about the best and worst places to do it within the table. Everyone had clear opinions.

“At a school though? Really? I’m no saint, but that’s foul.”

Next, as told by the card, Sakusa must give a hickey to the random player on his left.

It was you.

He sucks on the surface of his teeth with a smile after reading the card, his gaze slowly turning to meet yours. You only stare at each other curiously.

He’s the first to speak up: “Are you…?” His brows furrow.

“I’m cool about it.” You aren’t sure if it’s the liquor swimming through your bloodstream providing you confidence but you lean your chest forward, unintentionally displaying your breasts in the low tank, and tilt your head up just enough. It was so fast, though once he concluded you were sure it all happened naturally.

One hand of his comes up to cup your jaw. In contrast, the other softly slides up your collarbone, wrapping back around until the strap of your cami is being nudged off your shoulder. He gravitates closer until all you see is a full head of dark hair.

“I’ll spare you,” he hums, leaving only you to hear him. Your brain is too occupied by his overwhelming presence to understand he meant putting it in a spot that wouldn’t have people questioning you left and right.

Then finally, his pink lips attach, sucking hard enough for the surface cells to break, effectively creating a hickey that darkens by the second.

You have to remind yourself to keep breathing.

He leaves a few open mouthed kisses on the spot to soothe the pain, but if you didn’t know any better you’d say he got carried away. The back and forth drag of his thumb on your jaw and the fluttering kisses leading up to your under ear tell you so. Others seem to see it too. Is it wrong to thread your fingers through his hair?

The moment ends almost as quickly as it came, and the game moves on. You reach for the top of the deck and flip it around.

“Act out your favorite sexual position with the player to your left for fifteen seconds.”

Dammit, all these left cards will be the death of you.

You survey Bokuto, in all his hair-down glory, just as Sakusa had you. “Uhh…” a downturned smile carves onto your features.

Alisa giddily reassures, “C’mon girl, don’t get all shy on us now!”

Surprisingly, it gives you enough courage to at least look Bokuto in his golden eyes. They were low with alcohol, anger, or something else.

“I don’t know— I don’t really have a favorite,” you admit. “Missionary, I guess?”

Maybe you should’ve picked a different one; you could easily swing your leg over him to cowgirl and be done. Leisurely, his arms uncross as he twists to face you, then he places his large hands around your ribcage to effortlessly lift you up and forward. You lean backwards with the newfound space, but once you’re down, he grips your hips and roughly pulls you close to him.

At the same time he slots himself between your legs, his fingers swiftly curl under your knees and lift them until they’re pressed to the side of your breasts.

All broad and firm that he is, he completely crowded your area. His fingers creep to your nape, trekking through the hair there, the heart of his thumbs resting upon your cheeks. Your hands subconsciously roll up his arms.

You attempt to scan him above you and search for any ounce of discomfort—or any emotion for that matter—but instead, you find him hyper-focused on the bruising spot Sakusa initiated. Like it personally offends him, he won’t look away. You’re so close you can see his jaw tense.

“Bokuto,” you whisper. He finally catches your eye.

His back rises with a deep breath through his nose. He still struggles to look at your eyes since he was now fixed on your lips, despite being a few centimeters away. “Hm?”

You drift your fingers to wrap around the base of his neck loosely. “It feels like you’re frustrated.”

The chance to ease the tension worked, because his forehead drops to yours as his shoulders shake the slightest bit. After a long time of waiting, those glowing eyes of his locate you skittishly.

“Fuck, you’re killing me over here.”

A blare over the music sounds. “Times up,” someone’s voice calls.

. .

Eventually, you’d sobered up a bit by doing all your cards. You applaud yourself for it; some of those truth ones were harsh.

“Hey, where’s the restroom? I need to go, like, now.“

“The guest bathroom is over there, but I think someone’s in it and Bo’s bathroom is closer.” Kuroo points. “Through that door to the right.” You nod and journey your way past a few people.

The door to Bokuto’s room unlocks, causing him to look up from his position in the beside. You wish you could stay to look longer but you sprint past him and into the bathroom, only having enough time to close both doors out of respect.

. .

Correcting yourself one last time, you walk out with a now-dry hand closing the door behind you. To your surprise, Bokuto is still there.

“Sorry, yours was closer.”

He glances up from his phone. “It’s fine. Did you snoop?”

“A little.” You shrug facetiously. “Are you coming back out? To the party?”

He narrows his eyes accusingly, searching between you and the bathroom, then shakes his head as if to remove the previous ides from his brain. He casts another smile with a small laugh.

Is he ever not happy? You knew the answer, it surfaced just fine when he realized you worked alone while everyone else went home.

“Oh, uhh— maybe. Might be a while.”

You step closer, “Why, what’s up?”

He sighs deeply and huffs, “I’m just not…decent. Probably won’t be for a while.” In opposition to the smile on his face, his brows are furrowed. And they’ll tell you if you really want to know what he’s thinking.

“You aren’t…decent?” Your own eyebrows twist in confusion.

“Forget it, I should be out soon.”

“No, you just said you wouldn’t be. You can try to shove me out if you want to, but I’m staying until you tell me.” The deliberate use of his words has him contemplating whether he should lie or give in. You’re bent with both hands on your knees before him now, trying to look under his hair due to his hunch. It doesn’t take long until he concludes you’re too stubborn.

“Alright then.” He raises his head completely and uses his palms as support when he leans back. “You’ve got me hard as a fucking rock. If I left now, I’d be throwing myself into the lion’s den.”

Unintentionally, you shoot a glance to his sweats, only to find out he was as serious as you were. Somehow, only one question came to mind.

“I did it? Me?”

“Yes, you,” he mocks.

You stand in front of him, still bent over, blinking. He’d been tucked away in here because of the game? You just thought he left to do something and he’d return at some point; it was his house after all.

“How?”

He watches with disbelief plastered on his face. “How? You’ve been doing it all day. Touching me, looking up at me how you do—and God those eyes turn me into a horrible person. You might not have even realized it, but when I was on top of you, you connected your ankles like you didn’t want me to go. I was done the second I felt it.”

He kept going, “I didn’t want to scare you off, especially considering you work with us everyday.”

“I’m not scared,” you quickly respond, realizing you’d have to take initiative when his eyebrows raise and you spot a faint blush overtaking his skin. In fact, he makes you feel safer, like there’s an exaggerated sense of invincibility because he’ll always make sure you’re okay. There’s no way your heart has been beating this hard this whole time. He could probably hear it.

One step at a time, you saunter until you’re close enough for his arms to connect around your body.

His eyes are wide and glistening as if he couldn’t believe the scene in front of him.

He goes to stand, but you lightly press his shoulders down, advising him to slowly sink back to the duvet. His Adam’s apple bobs with a swallow once your finger tilts his chin up even further, the prospect getting the best of him when you lean this slightest bit into his lips. They connect without a sliver of space. It feels so surreal, so soft, and you begin to wholeheartedly believe the soft buzz from one of these would raise your mood any time. It was slow, innocent, and sweet to get used to each other, but when your leg rose at his side to crawl onto him, he knew he was fucked.

Of course, he welcomes you with open arms, hands moving nonstop along your back once you’re sat comfortably. Following the grab at his hair, there’s a deep rumble in his chest. Desire surges through you at the sound. You turn your head and bite on his bottom lip, a soft sound of your own flowing out when it plops back into place.

His tongue molds into the kiss as his hands travel lower, down your thighs and gliding back up to your ass. Soft touches morph into gropes. With the pressure already there, a small grind against him is imminent. Connecting both arms around his neck, you decide to tell him what you want and breathe a bit.

“Off,” you whisper, “I want it off.”

In no time, with one more kiss to the nose, he stands with his hands hooked under your thighs, turning completely around and laying you on his bed.

He only pulls away momentarily to turn the lock on his door, pinch at the end of the thin shirt that does him more than justice and tug it over his head. Now bare from the waist up, he comes to hover over you in the same position from about 30 minutes prior.

If only you could see his back, but the view from the front does not disappoint. Sculpted to perfection, strong and demanding attention. He kisses you again, this time farther to your neck and sliding his hands down your body, leaving your back to arch upwards from the bed in hopes he’ll go lower.

Then in a split second, you’re back to square one. He gazes at the mark of his teammate on your collarbone.

“Bo-“

Before you can even finish his name, he redirects back up to your neck, wrapping the opposite hand around it to force your chin up, then begins sucking a fresh new hickey. Hard. And clearly more visible than the lower one already there.

It almost makes you hiss because it was already a bright red, but you don’t mind. He removes himself to stand as if it never happened and tugs at your jeans with his fingers.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

He slides them down and off, dropping them on the floor uselessly. Groaning, his eyes travel down your body.

“Are you real?” It falls from his mouth before he can stop it.

“I think so.”

He massages your legs, easily removing every knot in your calves. “Feel like I’m dreaming. Had to make sure.” He places a light kisses everywhere from your belly-button to your toes, drifting towards your center, worshiping your thighs and humming.

He surveys you through his light eyelashes.

“If I had to take a guess, I would say you’re wet right now.” He shrugs. “Could be wrong.”

As if to accentuate his words, the light touch over the line of your panties makes you shiver. Defiantly, you shake your head no as if your body hadn’t already betrayed you. He feigns innocence, his brows turning upward in the process.

“That’s, of course, just a guess though.”

He pulls gently from your hips and slowly slides the fabric down your legs. He watches hungrily as he reveals every part of you. Unlike earlier, he wastes no time to shallowly dip a thumb between your folds, causing a deep, held breath from you both to mix with the air at the same time. The pad of his finger reaches your clit and begins circling.

You attempt to sit up when your hips begin to fidget but you’re caged by his own chest. He’s risen above you again. He can’t resist the chance to kiss you when he’s so close, so it’s eager but still sensual.

“Seems like it wasn’t just a guess, hm?” He grins against your lips.

“I hate you,” you whisper in return.

“Really? I don’t think you do.”

Simultaneously, a finger plunges into your wetness while his thumb remains circling, immediately being coated by the liquids you swore weren’t there. The gravel yet softness of his voice breezing through your ears is not helping your situation. In fact, your hands come to comb through the hair on his head when your mouth drops and your breasts reach his chest, only divided by the fabric of your shirt you wish was gone.

His finger is much bigger than your own so your eyes flutter shut as he moves it inside and kisses your neck. He feels around, watching what moves your hips where, and once he finds a specific spot, he ignores it.

Adding another finger, he pulls them apart inside to stretch you out. Your breaths below him quicken as he increases speed, your body trying to refill everything he is taking out of you. He, on the other hand, is greatly enjoying himself; so much so that he adjusts his position lower down your body, giving his supporting elbow and hand enough freedom to tug your tank and bra down the side closest to him. It’s bundled under your breast now, practically asking him to suck on it. He was going to anyway.

He kneads first, then attaches his plush lips to the nub there. All while toying with you below.

It’s not long before it’s too much, the sight itself and what it’s doing to the little spot below your stomach. He adds one more finger when sensing that you’re close. Soft moans and whimpers cover the sounds he makes beneath you.

With a pop and one last stretch of his fingers, he pulls out before you can release, leaving you angry and empty.

“Oh my god, you cannot be fucking serio-“ He forces the fingers coated in your own slick past your lips and down your throat. The other hand pushes his waistband down to show his black boxer briefs as he somehow kicks the sweats off.

While you were mad at him, you didn’t fight it, and it didn’t take him long at all to notice that you don’t have a gag reflex. He pulls them out shiny and clean sometime later.

“I should kill you,” you assert breathlessly. It held no weight considering you aren’t even looking at him, but at the ceiling.

“I love it when you talk dirty to me.” He ignores. His large arms scoop under you, having you being carried bridal style momentarily, then the bed creaks when your back hits and you bounce from the impact. This time, your head hits fluffy pillows bound with silk coverings. The man was obsessed with his hair.

You take this time to pull the rest of your shirt off and throw it away where you assume your pants are. He leaves to open a drawer in his bedside table before finishing with a packet in his hand. “I can talk dirty to you.”

“Please, make more threats on my life baby.” The sheets cave as he crawls back over, kissing your abdomen with the plastic still in hand. To be fair, you could say anything to him right now and it wouldn’t make him any less hard. You take both your breasts in your hands.

“You can fuck me without it, I’m on birth control,” you coo.

His movements pause instantly. His shoulders tense, like he stops breathing, and a rush of embarrassment waves over you. Maybe he wasn’t comfortable? He could just forget you said it.

Checking on him, you look down, only to find a head of black and white hair looking back at you instead of him.

“Are you sober?” It comes out as a complete switch in tone. A demand to tell him accompanied by the multiplied grip on your waist.

“Yes.”

Bokuto likes to believe he’s a good man. A good man with a lot of self-restraint, especially compared to his friends. And to anyone else, his immediate thought is no, but who is he to deny something like that from you? From you? Truth be told, the thought of ruining you bare is enough for him to accept the offer.

“Flip over, ass up.” He tosses the plastic to land perfectly on his nightstand. His seriousness prompts you to move faster than usual, obeying him despite how bad you want to piss him off to hear more. A few more soft creaks in the background help you conclude he’s shuffling around, but then it goes quiet.

“Bokuto?”

When you struggle to twist around, it doesn’t matter in the end because he’s slowly pushing himself inside. Your eyes blow wide and close. You mutter, “Holy shit.”

Your face contorts into one of mixed emotions; his expression showcases pain behind you. It’s like you can feel your walls enclose his tip, spread open to traverse up the head and stay there.

“It shouldn’t hurt, but if it does, tell me,” he advises. You nod in response.

He leans his hips further. Inhaling deep breaths, you feel comfort the second he curls his body over yours and waits in the crook of your neck. It’s silence aside from the bass reverberating lowly in his living room. “Give me an update.”

“You’re big,” is all you plan to say. Bokuto is not the most humble person you know and he would take something like that to the grave.

“You’re halfway.”

Fucking halfway? There’s no way.

He groans as he grinds all the way in until he’s balls deep, caressing the skin on your back as if it accounts for his actions. It didn’t hurt just like he’d said, but it felt like there was something foreign stuffing you up like a goddamn turkey. He might have been a little impatient, he admits.

“Your word is red.” There was sweat dripping down your face and it couldn’t have been flattering. “Do you trust me?”

“I do.”

Retracting to palm the dimples of your back, his cock slides against your walls until just the tip is peeking in, then he curls his hips forward back into your heat. You wish you could say it felt amazing, but it was actually quite uncomfortable.

It just felt like exactly what he was doing—rubbing along the rubber of your walls.

On his side, he was about to faint. You were gripping him so hard it was suffocating. It felt so good since he was fully bare, feeling every contraction and pulse of your pussy, but there was nothing he could do to ease you up other than keep going.

An idea popped into his head at the thought, sending his hand down to your jaw, twisting it enough to him where he could bend and lock your lips. The sultry sigh that leaves your mouth travels through his.

He continues the slow thrusts as your lips move with eachother. The angle of your neck proved burdensome, but you would do anything to have him as close as possible so you have no choice but to smell that cologne you like so much.

Your soft sounds increased in volume and became more frequent like he foresaw; therefore, he knew the moans were less from his tongue down your throat and more from his unstopping movements before you did. He pulls away and you follow him, but he goes too far.

He rises again, rubbing his hands in a circular motion around the curve of your ass. He brings one down harshly and grips like he’s feeling you up.

“Harder,” you mumble. He barely hears it, but when he’s sure he did, he follows orders. You don’t even flinch, but now there’s a reddening print of his large hand as evidence to what you asked of him.

Amused, he switches his attention to the bounce of your ass when it hits his body. The momentum now carries you smoothly.

“How’s it feel?” He calls. From below, your cheek is pressed comfortably to the silk.

“Feels good.”

That’s all he was waiting on. Just good. It didn’t hurt and you weren’t uncomfortable, it was just good. As long as it felt okay for you, he’s sure he can make it better later.

Later is now.

He lifts one leg to a lunge and corrects his hand positioning snugly to your hips, then tugs you down forcefully. So hard it feels like a jolt shoots from your core. If the headboard wasn’t bolted to the damn wall, it would’ve broken.

Back and forth, he fucks you onto himself. A long, seductive whine is muffled by the pillow at your lips, turning uneven with every snap of his hips. Now that the uneasiness was gone, he can do what has been the star thought of the day: the slapping of skin, the creak of the bed, and the grunts from the man causing it all are music to his ears, and soon, the feeling under your tummy runs back up.

“Bokuto.”

He laughs deeply at this. The pillow sinks when you dig your face as far as possible into your arms as your cheeks flush over, able to somehow still find a way to be embarrassed, but he notices and goes to explain himself.

“You’re the only person I know that won’t call me Kōtarō even if I’m buried to the hilt inside of you.”

What you were going to tell him is how the feeling is coming barreling back, the same feeling he previously revoked from you last second. The man slips past your entrance with ease now, no friction to stop him, leaving his fat tip to spread the clear essence dripping down your folds, his shaft, and now coating your thighs in a sheen of gloss. Your ass slams against his front continuously, reddening with every ricochet.

The heat of your connecting bodies already fills the room to make the atmosphere stuffy but neither of you seem to mind. His fingers dig into your skin, creating little indents. You whimper, “Kōtarō?”

“Hm?” You can’t see him, but you can imagine the little held tilt he does. You wish you could think about it longer. The image disappears as fast as it came, not standing a chance to your nerves on edge from of his length plowing through you.

“I’m close- don’t stop. Please.”

“It wasn’t part of the plan, baby.”

To him it probably wasn’t even that bad. He was moving his hips at high energy, just as he does everyday— but for someone who’s not a professional athlete, it was pretty discouraging to think about his stamina versus yours.

There’s a tug on your arm, silently informing you he’s going to pull it. He does, bringing the other one along too, and gathers both your wrists in one hand to raise your chest with the support of his open palm across your stomach.

Your back is to his front and your impressive arch can’t be covered by the hair trickling off your shoulders. He shifts his weight back to stabilize you both, then positions you so you won’t fall over: a hand cupping your breast while the other bases your jaw up. The coolness of his breath nears once he begins to nip at your ear. Just as you requested, he never stopped.

“You’re so beautiful,” he admires.

In an attempt to push back the little bubble in your heart, you focus the attention on the little bubble in your tummy. You don’t respond but whimper in acknowledgement.

Unfortunately for you, the man can snuff out anything he doesn’t feel is right. You ask him how; he calls it a hunch.

“I mean it.” His lips attach to your neck once more, sucking and kissing until there’s another spot to match the one given earlier. The music in the house is faint now, though it could be clouded by the euphoria of the new angle considering you can’t seem to hear anything else but him.

With that he punctuates each thrust like he has something to prove. To prove he does truly believe it— and if the info wouldn’t go through your brain, then maybe it would go somewhere else. He admires the effort to force your ass down and meet him halfway after you hang your head loosely off his big shoulder.

“Kōtarō,” you cry out his name, and it is by far the sexiest thing he’s ever heard. It even puts when you told him he could “fuck you without it” to shame.

“I’m here, relax.” He reassures, and it truly felt like he was. You two were too close to be called two separate beings, and with only a slight turn, you’d be staring directly into his eyes. You claw your fingers around his wrist at your neck, hoping, praying to God that he wouldn’t whimsically disappear the second you’re done with this whole thing.

If the recoil from how precise his thrusts were didn’t throw you around he would be a second away from kissing your forehead. Finally, your eyebrows synch in the middle and your lips form a pout.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck!”

It was silent for the moment of your release for the same reason. Because it felt like you were fucking floating. Your heavy breaths were short, and it took all the stamina he had left in the day not to paint your insides white. In fact, a line of faded white heterogeneously mixed with clear dripped freely to his balls, but it was yours. Every time you gasp for air, your cavern stretches and retracts around his tip.

Huffing with fatigue, you regain the ability to think. He steals your breath the second you regain it. It feels so good to kiss him again, to have him close, but he carefully lifts your head, pulls out, and lies you down. On your back.

He takes this time to sulk in your attention and allow your high to dissolve. Plus, multitasking is great, though he loves feeling your hands on him singularly.

“Think you can go another?” He grins. You think about your answer. Not for long, because whether you could or not, you wanted it to happen even if it meant fighting to keep your eyes open.

“Yeah. Will it be as good as the first?”

“Of course. If not, money back guaranteed.” A gust of air blows from his small laugh, and it adds to the desire to kiss him. “Let me see you slip it in yourself.”

Instead of answering, you reach down between the two of you, delicately wrap your fingers around his head that is now wet and throbbing an angry-red, lift it up to your clit where you swirl it around for extra measure, then position it just right to shuffle down on it yourself. Everything was swollen and sticky.

You look up to his eyes during the satisfied sigh that leaves both of you, the fullness returning. It felt like a part of you was missing the second he pulled out.

“Good girl,” he praises, pressing a short-lived kiss to your lips. He had spent the little time ensuring your ankles dangled over his shoulders, beside his ears, leaving your knees pressed to your breasts, imprisoned by his large frame. He’s far from it if you know him in person, but even just his stature makes you feel dominated. Almost comedically, everything to this point has been completely in your control and you knew it.

He was slower with you the second time, rebuilding the heat in your stomach strategically. Every thrust was ten times longer than the next until he completely slowed down to a speed he found fit.

Unfortunately for him, it didn’t take long to build at all, especially with the squelching noise from each time he enters you, opens you up, closes when he pulls back, and leaves your insides to match the outline of his cock. He was propped on his elbows, but still close enough for your arms to span the entirety of his back. His skin had tanned the slightest bit with the summer so the scratch marks you leave may be a slightly darker red than usual.

“Fuck, you feel incredible. There’s no way I can prepare myself each time.”

“So good,” you moan half-mindedly. If you weren’t so satiated, but in the right state of mind, you definitely still would have said it. It’s directly in his ear to genuinely test his patience, and giving him the primal urge to mark your neck until the entire thing turns purple. He knows it’s a stretch in his head yet it’s still only barely enough to convince him not to do it.

“Yeah? You like to take it slow?”

You nod but clarify, “Both.”

Taking the hint clear as day, he increases speed by getting off his elbows and holding under your knees, effectively switching the weight to his biceps to keep balance. Consequently, your lower back rises from the covers even more as you tilt backward. Thank god for your flexibility.

The back of your thighs redden and start to itch from purely how hard he was coming down on you, slamming you into the bed relentlessly. His vision is narrowed by the position of your legs in front of his face, but with them so close together, you could feel every part of him— every vein, drop, and movement into your heat.

“Bo!”

Once you realize it wasn’t you calling his name, but someone else who was rapping at the door on the other side, adrenaline shoots through you, tensing your body, successfully closing up your entrance and emitting a throaty groan from the man currently on top of you. “Man, you in there?”

He notices how uncomfortable you become just by your body language. Dropping your legs to the side of his hips, he regains access to your face so he may relieve your nerves with a comfort forehead rub. There was sweat gathered at your hairline, no doubt. His brows dip down at the thought of anyone ruining the moment when he turns to look at the door.

“Bokuto,” you whisper aggressively, an angry crease forming between your own brows. He snaps his head back to you, softening his gaze.

“Kōtarō,” he rectifies.

This only widens your eyes more. He cannot be serious. “That’s not important right no-”

His hand comes up to cover your mouth, only avoiding your nostrils. You even consider licking him but you rule it out as the childish option.

“It’s Kuroo,” he declares from outside the room, “I sent someone in here earlier. Is she good?” Kōtarō’s head twists back to the door.

“You sent someone in here?” Bokuto replies loudly, not missing a beat. Instead of dismissing him, he asks a question back. Classic Bokuto.

“Yeah, did she not come in?”

“No.” You wait impatiently and silently, still flustered by the whole thing. Bokuto seemed cool as a cucumber; the glare he possessed dissolved quickly. “Who was it?”

“Uhh, I’m not completely sure. I don’t know her name.”

You two had spent an entire game together, drinking and bonding, and he still didn’t know your name. What else could you expect though?

At least he came to check up on you, so you give him the benefit of the doubt.

On another note, Bokuto seems to be prolonging the conversation for his own amusement. If only he would look back at you to see the scowl in your eyes.

“Oh well. I didn’t see anyone.”

His attention reverts to your face and he temporarily removes his hand, but when you begin speaking again, he covers it back up and draws his body in close. Closer than he already was.

“You okay? You’ve been in there forever,” Kuroo adds. Why won’t he just leave?

“Yeah, just had to take a call. Did you want something?”

Bokuto ends his sentence with the trail of his thumb over your forehead. You feel his cock pulse inside of you, then to your surprise, begin to push even deeper. He pulls out, and repeats the action.

The faint hum and gust of air he feels on his finger from your nostril signifies your pleasure. If Kuroo knew he was fueling Bokuto’s risky fantasies, he would pester him all day about it. It felt too good to be mad at him.

“I’ve been over all this time and don’t know where your lighters are,” Kuroo goes on, “I checked the kitchen drawer next to the sink.”

Truthfully, the player above you couldn’t care less about whatever the fuck he was talking about. The idea of filling you up just right as you desperately try not to make a sound that will notify the man on the other side of this very door where you actually are is too good to pass up. Underneath one of your teammates— as a reminder.

“No weed,” he tells his friend, “we randomly get tested throughout the season.”

While Kuroo tries to prove that’s not what it’s for, all of Bo’s focus is on you just as it had been due to your wriggling beneath him. These thrusts were back to slow but meaningful, and too deep to be labeled natural. He whispers profanities to you whenever he doesn’t have to answer his best friend, and this time, he warns, “You’re gonna get us caught, beautiful.” Little did you know, it was all up to his master plan.

“Check the bottom left drawer of guest bathroom.”

He readjusts his positioning, attempting to pinpoint the spot he discovered sometime earlier. A few quiet mattress creaks and experimental thrusts later, his palm is still covering your lips in an attempt to reduce any sound about to give you away in case he hadn’t left, his other hand is brushing hair away from your face gently, and his hips are curling into an area that has an unbelievable amount of control over your legs. They shudder when he repeatedly hits it spot on.

A loud whine and the occasional groan he couldn’t conceal leaves your mouth, just barely going undetected. Or so you think. Your waist wiggles as your hands roam around his chest frantically. He was so smooth with it, like he had no plan of stopping anytime soon and he was programmed to continuously grind in your prostate. It was like it was just you two in a competition to see who would give in first.

Not even an inch apart, watching your soul and gauging your reactions through your orbs, his eyes all pretty and gold scan yours. Similarly enough, the resemblance to an owl is definitely there.

There was a tremble in your legs at the filling pool in your stomach. He grabs your moving hand by the wrist and flattens it over your lower tummy, then rests his on yours, applying pressure. On top of emphasizing the heat, you can barely feel the head of his cock rough in and out.

“You think I don’t know exactly what turns you on? What gets you wet like this?” He places a chaste kiss on the side of your jaw. He was staring so intently it felt like an unforgivable crime to look away.

Intending to say something along the lines of “You do, Kōtarō,” it fails miserably, coming out a line of muffled speech, but he hears you all the same. Reading your droopy eyelids like a book, he recognizes your inability to pick between the top half of his face and lips as you were right on the edge. Tears almost begin to swell.

“Need to see you cum on my dick the right way.”

He removes his hand from your mouth, immediately having you spill everything that was bottled up tenfold in a mix of deep breaths. So much so, you don’t even know what you’re saying anymore.

“Talk to me, baby.”

You do just that, and if you were in the position to crack jokes, you’d say your dripping pussy was doing it too.

“Kōtarō I’m- oh fuck-please please please.”

The scene is wet, sticky, and everywhere in the place where you’re connected and everywhere in the place that you’re not. You look every bit of exhausted and reflecting in a sheen of sweat.

“Where do you want me?” He grunts.

“I-inside. Cum inside.” Your ankles link and dig into the descent of his back, sending him over the edge just as it did during the game. He doesn’t remove himself, keeping his movements so perfect it feels robotic; however, the thumb of the hand pressing into you circles where you need it to most. Depleting the stamina of a professional athlete isn’t easy and the only thing ensuring his continuation is the drive to make you feel better than he does.

“I’m back. I can take one of the candles, right?” Kuroo’s voice bounces off the room walls. Bokuto knows you’re at the summit, so to prevent your uncomfortable response at the pure thought of shouting his name with an audience (that he doesn’t mind at all), he relieves you and takes into your mouth as fast as possible.

His tongue mixes with yours before you know what’s going on, and it allows for the best orgasm of your life. It maybe made you a bit light headed, and might have taken away oxygen, but you’ll take it any day. The force of how tight you clenched down on him almost pushed him out. He resists, an animalistic groan vibrating about his throat as he leaks the contents of his balls into you.

Bokuto absorbed anything you would have cried that Kuroo could hear. He thought about allowing you to scream as you please, heightening his ego, but he then considered how many laps he’d have to run next practice; your clit was red and puffy under his finger, begging for relief, and the opportunity will come another time. Adding to the irritated scratches along his back, your free hand drags down the skin.

“Shit,” he curses. He stills inside, throbbing as spurts of silky white cum rest idly, clogged by his tip, and when he removes the flat hand to match the one at your hip, your arms meet around his neck tenderly and your fingers dig through his hair. Soft sounds and whimpers as you fall from your high accelerates his. Yours ended a little faster with a larger impact since it was your second, but it was his first. He couldn’t even find the will to pull out.

A little more present, you push his head to kiss you. Kuroo’s somewhere floating in the back of his mind. Maybe.

Naturally, you shiver at his movement.

He kisses you with need, throwing your hair aside and holding your face.

“Are you okay?” He asks, despite still barely being off his climax. He was still breathing heavily and twitching every now and then.

“Better than ever.” You smile wearily. “Are you?”

He nods happily.

At some point, you watched him pull away together. Low sounds from the both of you occupy the air as his shaft comes out sleek, and when his tip finally reveals itself, a line of cum slips after, finally being released and dribbling down your hole. He googles at the sight. It’s almost enough to make him completely hard again.

With a much needed bath, a change of clothes, and painkillers from the kitchen, most of everyone had already left but his closest friends. He ushers them out since the ones that were drunk had rides.

He places the water on his nightstand, slipping in bed beside your completely relaxed body, rubbing up right against you. His presence alone makes you turn around to his face. He kisses your forehead and holds you close when you hook a leg around him, snuggling your head near his neck.

“Does this mean I get a cool jersey?” His voice is alone and serious in the night air.

You don’t even respond, just unhook your leg and turn over. He giggles when your shoulders rise from a deep sigh.

©️hxltic

[hxltic]

Matsukawa has the nastiest deepstroke and nobody can tell me otherwise. Especially front. He curls his hips just right to make that fat tip hit the perfect bundle of nerves inside you. He whispers to you in missionary, one large hand hooked under your leg and the other rubbing your forehead and holding his weight. He makes you look at him, which would be so funny with how lovey dovey he gets when the squelch of your pussy echos in the background, and you’d laugh if all your energy wasn’t clenching your toes. It’s a slow pace, speeding up to about a medium every now and then, but it’s so constant it feels like it’ll never stop, though you are in heaven and the only thing you can see is the blur of his face.

When you can’t look at him, if holding your head up is too much, he’ll grab your hair and tilt your chin up to him, then mimic it to you. He may let closing your eyes for a bit slide.

The moment is still in all the world—just you and his words as you let him drag you through your orgasm. Faint yes’s and head nods tell him you can still somewhat function.

“That feel good?”

“Yeah? I know how to take care of this pretty pussy.”

“Fuuuck. You just gonna clamp down on me like that?”

“Pussy’s a mess. So fucking wet.”

He doesn’t even need to roll your clit like he usually does. Him hitting the spot repeatedly is enough to get you to squirt. Proven the last time you came.

Mattsun says he has to take care of his girls.

[nagumoanarchive-deactivated2025]

PAIRING: Yamada Asaemon Shion x Reader

SYNOPSIS: Your arranged marriage is something you are unable to fight. Accepting your fate, you are surprised when your new husband just wants to treat you kindly.

A collection of moments following your marriage with Yamada Asaemon Shion.

CONTENT: Minors DO NOT interact! Female reader, arranged/forced marriage, physical and emotional abuse are mentioned/hinted at within reader's family, falling in love, two idiots in love, pining, food, alcohol (reader gets tipsy), poetry, blood, canon-typical violence, some angst, miscommunications, masturbation (male), kissing, smut, hand job, fingering, penetration, first time together, domesticity, humor, some banter, there are some notes at the end of this regarding the poems/stories used, as well as some translations!

WORD COUNT: ~ 16.8 k

NOTES: Thank you so much for your patience! This is not my best work writing-wise but it is definitely one that I will be coming back to. I hope you can find some joy in reading this fanfic! This works as a prequel for the couple from this fanfic!

Your name is something you should not give to a stranger. There is a distance to be kept when it comes to men. Suspicious people should be avoided at all costs.

As much as the boy in front of you fits the description of someone you should not interact with, you don’t turn away. His clothes are dirty and worn, he looks a little sickly and the scars that marr his face are prominent. He’s probably around your age, maybe a little older. You’ve just turned seven a few weeks ago.

“Do they hurt?”

He turns his head towards you, wary now. You wonder how he turned so accurately, facing you despite his eyes being closed. His hearing must be very good.

It’s dark outside already and you really should not be out here, sitting in front of the door like this but you felt caged in. You needed some fresh air and some sort of distraction. The gods seem to be kind to you tonight.

“Your scars, I mean,” trying again, you don’t feel upset over his obvious lack of desire to talk to you. No one really talks to the daimyō’s daughter, unless they mean trouble.

“No,” he murmurs, as he turns his head towards the trash you found him digging through just now when you decided to sit down in front of the house. Tentatively he turns his attention back to you. Is he embarrassed? Or perhaps is he asking for permission? 

“Here,” you offer, stretching out a hand. The boy tilts his head, brows furrowed in confusion. His cheeks are a little sunken in and he looks exhausted but there is some sort of pull you feel towards him. A sort of quiet resilience that has found its home in the downturn of his pouty lips and carved its existence into the lines of his face.

A sigh of frustration leaves you and you tell him to come closer. When he obliges, you pull on his arm. He flinches and instinctively tries to free himself from your grasp but you’re stubborn as you put the small fruit in his hand.

“Eat some. I brought enough here with me since I had to sneak through the garden. There is nothing in the trash and it’s dirty,” you explain as you pat the space next to you on the little stone wall.

The boy holds the small fruit in his hand as he examines it with his fingers. “What is this?”

“A plum,” you tell him simply. “I pulled the stone out for you. You can just eat it.”

Hesitation cannot win over the feeling of his stomach twisting with hunger and he quickly puts it in his mouth to eat it. He squeezes his eyes shut even more than they’re already closed and there’s a frown on his face now. 

“That’s sour!”

For a moment, you’re stunned. With just two words, he suddenly seemed his age and you can’t help but laugh at his reaction. “I like it when they’re still a bit sour. If you come back after some weeks have passed, then they’ll be a lot sweeter,” you explain, plopping half a plum into your mouth.

It’s not often that you get to talk to someone your age and maybe it’s not the most clever thing to invite a beggar back to your home but that doesn’t deter you the slightest bit. “What’s your name?” you ask the boy while you eat another plum, offering your name before waiting for his answer.

He takes a moment to think before he replies, “My name is Shion and you should be more careful out here alone.” There is almost a tinge of worry to his tone and the frown on his face makes you grin. Saying something like that makes him sound like a nagging old man.

With a kind of bitter sarcasm that is utterly unbefitting of someone so young, lacing your voice, you tell him, “It’s probably more dangerous for you, right here in front of my house, you know? You never know when-”

And as if you’d summoned trouble, you hear shuffling inside the house and the voice of your father echoes inside, the door not doing much to hide his anger. Quickly, you hand the small basket filled with plums to the boy and forcibly turn him around.

“You have to go - Hurry! I need to go inside before my father gets even more mad at me. Take these with you, boy! I will see you around!”

With that, you turn around and hurry off to the other side of the house. The boy is left on the street, looking dumbfounded.

There’s a tinge of sweetness within the aftertaste of the plum you had given to him just now.

It is a warm summer day when your father whispers harshly, telling you to keep your back straight. The past few days have passed by like a whirlwind. Talks of marriage have never been unfamiliar business to you - the only daughter of a prestigious daimyō. Your father, a friend of the shogun, as close as friendship within such a hierarchy gets, has always received his favor.

So it was only a matter of time until you’d get wed off to someone the shogun trusts, in hopes of strengthening this friendship.

It’s more of a business relationship, really, but you are not in a position to criticize this bond of theirs.

When the sliding door opens, your forehead is already pressed against the tatami flooring. The servants lead the Yamada Asaemon into the room and your father moves to stand up but the rustling next to you settles as soon as it begins and he bows as he kneels next to you. Not quite as deep as you do and not for as long either.

He is a man after all.

You don’t doubt that even if your father was the poorest farmer in this country, his pride would still stiffen his back so that he could bow no lower than 45°. Respect only goes one to that man, unless the shogun is involved.

The Yamada Asaemon must have signaled for him to stay seated, or else your father would have at least had the courtesy to get up and puff out his chest as he does. The soft thumping on the other side of the table lets you know that he has taken a seat himself.

Raising your head, you make sure to keep your gaze cast to the floor, your vision barely reaching toward the white fabric of his pants. His work attire - how official. A show of respect? Or perhaps an intimidation tactic?

“Had I been informed of your acceptance of my offer, I would have brought the lady a present from my travels. I apologize,” the man speaks up and the deep tone of his voice sends shivers down your spine and it makes your fingers feel numb.

The chance to answer is taken from you, as your father laughs, “It is forthcoming enough of you to come by so quickly right after your mission even after we took so much time to answer. I apologize. I hope the shogun was not offended by my leisure.”

When his hand settles on your shoulder, you feel as if someone put a heavy boulder on top of it. Its warmth feels uncomfortable through the already too-warm layers of your expensive kimono.

“We wanted to make sure that my daughter understands just how much of an honor this truly is,” he explains and it takes every ounce of patience you have to not grimace when he sends you a disapproving look.

They had ridiculed you. Made fun of you for being wed off to a man with a permanent ailment and your father had nearly beaten you senseless, as if it was your fault the shogun had set up the blind executioner with you. In your father’s eyes, this was a failure that was indeed caused by your lacking persona. He’d told you how this reflected poorly upon his relationship with the shogun. 

“Do you know what this means? What this says about how much he values me? My daughter is worth nothing more than a crippled man!”

A crippled man who could cut you down this instant - is what you think to yourself. While you have never met the man face to face, he was the Yamada Asaemon who was assigned to your part of the town, protecting it from criminals. Daimyōs like your father would claim themselves to be the peacekeepers, while all they did was send their men to a certain death while filling their own stomachs with more food than the pigs they feed on could eat.

Thankfully, the voice inside your head is loud and clear. You can yell and scream and insult the man who had taken part in your birth as eloquently as you wished to. It is the only comfort you have. The only humor you can possibly find in such a predicament.

They exchange pleasantries, one man clearly far more genuine than the other, until your father nudges your side. “Go take a walk with your husband and then lead him back for some tea. We will have some things to discuss, which I shall prepare for this instant.”

Monetary things, surely. It seems your life as an entertainer continues from here on out, but your crowd seems to slowly shift. How miserable.

Getting up, you’re proud of how you manage not to stumble over the layers of fabric that seem to be draped endlessly over your body. “Let me lead you through the garden,” you speak demurely, still keeping your gaze low out of respect. 

It is when you’re outside, the door shut behind you, and a few steps into the garden, that he speaks up. This time, it’s directed at you. For the first time today.

“Are you alright?”

It’s a simple question and the answer lays heavy on your tongue but you swallow it down. “Of course.”

“Would you look at me then?”

You stop walking, keeping your gaze no higher than his chest, “I am not sure if that is alright, my Lord.”

His tone now is much more mild and something in his tone tells you he is smiling. “You can drop the odd honorifics and titles. I am going to be your husband soon, am I not?” The rough pads of his fingers are gentle as he tugs you closer by the sleeve of your kimono, ever so slightly. Like a child asking for an adult’s attention. 

“Or do you wish to annul the marriage? Perhaps, you have taken me into the garden so you could reject me dramatically, with a more illustrious scenery to fit the moment? Although I must admit, the visual aspects of such endeavors are usually lost on me,” the man tells you and when a soft gasp leaves your lips, you tilt your head up only to be met with a smile that makes your cheeks burn.

“Such jokes seem a little…of ill taste.” “Even if I am the one making them? It is my ailment after all. Am I not allowed to make light of it?”

There is nothing clever you can quip back but your desire to do so anyway surprises you. Usually, you do well on holding back any snide comments but he makes it easy to let go of that control.

A defeated breath leaves your lips as you look at him. Carefully, his fingers travel along the end of your sleeve, grabbing your hand gently. His hand is warm, a little rough - from his sword, you assume - but the way it holds yours is very gentle.

“I hope you can forgive me for being this casual but I need you to know that I mean well with you. I know this arrangement isn’t ideal for you-”

You wonder if it is ideal for him.

“-and while I don’t know the exact circumstances of your life here…,” he tilts his head towards the main house, where your father must still be sitting inside, “I can at least promise that I will treat you as my equal. That is also all I wish for in return.”

He seems to know a lot about your family, even the parts that aren’t privy to the general public. Narrowing your eyes at him, you step a little closer, inquiring, “Why would you offer me this so selfishly? What do you gain from this arrangement?”

The man in front of you crosses his arms and a thoughtful expression crosses his face. He frowns slightly as he collects his thoughts and you think to yourself that he is quite handsome. On top of that, he seems to be as well-behaved as the ladies your mother would bring over would whisper to each other.

How ironic that you’d roll your eyes at their daydreams about the man and yet here you are, about to be married off to him.

“I think,” his voice snaps you out of your thoughts, “You are someone who I wish to treat well.”

The wind blows softly, moving the fabric of your kimono ever so slightly and conducting a symphony of leaves as it slips through the bushes and trees of the garden. Taken aback, you blink up at him for a few moments. You take a deep breath, lick your lips, and then open your mouth slightly.

Only to close it again.

Shion suppresses a laugh and you gape up at him, heat licking its way up your spine as he squeezes your hands gently. “I did step forward when the shogun offered this arrangement. Just as you have inevitably heard a lot about me, I have also heard a lot about the lady in return.”

He lets go of your hands but the warmth of his touch lingers on your skin and you almost feel saddened by the loss of physical contact. “I know the members of your family are the ones who are responsible for the uniforms of the Yamada Asaemon, as well as the clothing for the shogun, no?” he asks with a tilt of his head and you notice that he does this a lot. It’s cute and makes him seem a lot more approachable, coupled with that soft smile.

“The previous shogun took a liking to the work of my grandmother and appointed her as his personal seamstress. My mother takes care of the current shogun’s robes and I take care of the ones that all of the Yamada Asaemon wear,” you explain, despite your feeling that he might already know that.

Shion nods and smiles, “You were the one who sent me my uniform without the bell attached. I took the liberty to ask who was considerate enough to do such a thing.” “So you decided to marry me because I didn’t attach a bell to your uniform?” you ask him, still lost on his motives. What a strange man.

It is then, that the peaceful conversation and the prospect of a proper reply is shattered by the voice of your father. It is almost impressive how the man manages to sound as if he had woven five layers of suppressed anger into his voice. You flinch and Shion’s expression falls slightly as he notices your change in posture.

With a soft sigh, he puts a guiding hand on your upper back for a short moment, redirecting you back towards the house as the both of you walk back. It’s quiet for a moment, the air thick with tension before he dispells it easily once more.

“I accepted the offer because I was curious if I could be a considerate husband towards such a kind person. Perhaps I also simply feel like I have a favor to return.”

A husband in return for a change in uniform design might be the oddest deal you have struck thus far.

You’re sitting across from your husband for the first time since your wedding. Right after the small ceremony, work had pulled him from your now shared home and you did not get the chance to spend any time with him.

Perhaps it was for the better. His absence had given you the chance to make yourself familiar with this house you’d be calling your home from now on. You’d wandered the corridors, made your feet familiar with the grass of the garden until it got too cold to do so, and listened to the way the empty branches danced with the wind as they parted from a few of their leaves. You wondered if they’ve held fruit this year. The trees seem familiar but you cannot put a name to them.

In those moments you had to yourself, it had been peaceful. This house feels more like a home than the grand estate of the daimyō - your father - ever did. Now you share this home with the man sitting across from you.

Your hands lay on top of the small table, your tea untouched.

Shion clears his throat and your head snaps up so you can face him, ready to listen to whatever he’s going to say.

“I am sorry for how uncomfortable this must be for you,” he says, sounding a little resigned. In turn, it makes you feel a little sorry.

“It’s not your fault!” you hurry to speak, your hand instinctively reaching out to offer some comfort but you’re unsure if he’d be okay with you touching his hand, so you drop it softly, letting it rest on the table again. “I am just not too sure what to say. This is my first time being married.” Your words cause him to hold back a laugh and you feel heat climb into your cheeks. That was a dumb thing to say.

“What a coincidence,” he tells you and the lines at the corners of his eyes become more pronounced when he smiles, “It’s my first time being married as well.”

His joke eases the tension you’re feeling and you feel your shoulders loosen up a little. There is something very comforting about his smile and the lines of his face almost carry a sense of familiarity but you struggle to put your finger on the reason for it.

“How was your work today?” you ask, grabbing a hold of your cup and drinking your tea. Finally. It’s only lukewarm now but that doesn’t matter too much.

Shion looks amused. “Do you really wish to know? My work isn’t the best topic for a lighthearted conversation between newlyweds… Unless you are harboring a sadistic side I was not made aware of?”

You grimace. “Never mind then. Apologies for asking, you’re right.” A low chuckle leaves his lips as he brings his cup to his lips. Your gaze is drawn to the lines of his throat as he drinks and your ears feel a little warm. 

After he puts it down again, he speaks once more, “I have a student who is going to be appointed as one of the Yamada Asaemon soon. Today, I spent most of the day training with him. No violent business.”

A strange sense of relief settles in your chest and you nod. “That sounds nice… Is it difficult to be a teacher to somebody else? I tried teaching one of the other daimyōs’ daughters how to sew once but I fear I lack the patience to offer guidance of any sort.”

“So you’re the impatient type?”

“It depends,” you defend yourself quickly, “I can be patient if I want to be. Are you going to answer my question?”

“There it is - your patience,” Shion retorts and you feel irked, breathing in deeply, causing him to laugh. 

“Anyway, it’s not so much that it is difficult, it just requires a willingness to understand the other. When teaching, you cannot apply the same words and actions to every pupil you teach. Not everybody is receptive to my ways of teaching.”

Humming in reply, you think out loud, “Are you a strict teacher?”

“I can be.” “I cannot imagine that. Put on a frown for me, please. To stimulate my fantasy,” you plead, a little too excitedly before you cough and clear your throat, reining it in again.

His eyebrows pull together and yeah - he does look a little intimidating but soon enough a smile tugs on his lips and the muscles of his face fail him. He breaks the strict facial expression in favor of a charming, slightly awkward smile.

“Did that stimulate your fantasy?” he asks with raised brows and your teeth sink into your lower lip, as you’re trying to hold back your grin.

“Plenty. Thank you,” you reply, drinking the rest of your tea before getting up and grabbing a hold of his empty cup, carrying both of them to the kitchen before returning once more.

Instead of sitting down, you decide to walk towards the shelf that covers the entire wall on one side of the living room, standing in front of it as you have done plenty of times during the first few days here.

“Perhaps I can get someone to do the household chores soon-” Shion begins but you cut him off.

“There is no need. I enjoy playing house. My cooking may not be up to par but I fear you will just have to show me some of that patience of yours in that regard,” you smile. “We may have had servants at home but to be honest, that kind of lifestyle has never suited me much.” “What kind of lifestyle suits you then?” Genuine curiosity resounds in his question and you hum softly in response. “Perhaps we will just have to find out together,” you offer, reaching out to run a hand over the back of a little booklet. A scroll lays on top of it so you carefully pull it out.

“I apologize if this is an improper question to ask but why do you collect so much poetry and so many stories when you cannot read them by yourself?”

After offering up this question, you turn towards him again, slowly unraveling the scroll as you wait for his reply. Unsure, your eyes flit towards his form again before settling back on the calligraphy displayed on the scroll.

“Whenever I go out to the market, I stop by the place where they sell poetry. The vendors read it to me and I buy it if it appeals to me. It’s a simple explanation, really,” Shion explains. “Surely, you buy things you’re fond of a lot too, right? Even if they aren’t necessarily something you’re able to use a lot.”

"Even if it were something of the past, With each day the white snow falls, My love for you grows stronger, Surpassing all that came before."

Your eyes wander over the words on the scroll carefully while you answer him absentmindedly, “I wasn’t allowed to buy what I desired. However, sometimes I would receive fabrics as a present, from a dear aunt of mine. That would be my personal little luxury.” Shion frowns, “The daimyō is quite the strict man, isn’t he?”

“Imagine dealing with the shogun and then multiply that by twenty. Perhaps then you’ll get close to just how difficult he is to deal with.” Your eyes flit towards his face and you wonder, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m not looking at you,” he refutes and you stay quiet for a moment.

“You are quite fond of these kinds of jokes, aren’t you?” “I find them incredibly amusing,” he replies, smiling in a terribly boyish manner. Adorable, is what you think it is but you would not dare to say that out loud.

Clearing your throat, you read the poem on the scroll out loud in the way you were taught to do it - with an elegant tone and yet, carrying a tempo that commands attention. Your literary criticism is immediate, “This is a little sad, is it not? Why would one yearn for something that’s in the past… Wouldn’t that just break your heart?” Shion thinks about your words for a moment before smiling softly. “Something from the past might just return to become a part of your present, no? Also, I do think it’s important to cherish beloved memories.”

His words hang in the room between the both of you and for a faint moment you get the feeling that he is waiting for something else but then he gets up before you can ask any further questions.

“Come on. Let’s go out and get some fresh air. We can continue our talks about the depths of feelings of the past outside,” Shion invites you and you huff, before following him.

“Don’t pour him sake,” Shion tells you and you sigh, switching over to pour sake into your own cup. It’s clear that you have had too much to drink tonight and Tenza is finding great humor in it.

He whisper-shouts your name, pulling on your kimono sleeve excitedly. “And then? What did Sensei say?”

Right. You were in the middle of your retelling of an uncomfortable encounter with a man on the street before you decided to be nice and pour Tenza some of the sake as well. It’s the first time you've had a drink like this. Before, you were not allowed to drink any alcohol but tonight, Shion brought out some sake for you two to share. Tenza decided to join, in search of some entertainment.

“He said ‘I suggest you keep your hands off my wife’ and looked at the guy all scary. Like this,” you giggle, leaning onto your hand, your elbow propped up onto the table as you try to imitate Shion’s expression from back then. It doesn’t look anything like any of his expressions at all and the grimace you’re pulling is so ridiculous, that Tenza snorts loudly.

The tips of Shion’s ears are a little flushed and he shifts awkwardly. His voice is gentle yet firm. “I could not let someone harass you,” he mumbles, drinking from his cup. 

“I knew sensei was a protective person but love really does change-oof!” Tenza groans and reaches down to rub his shin, right where Shion just kicked him under the small desk.

“Training tomorrow will begin an hour earlier than usual. Go get some sleep,” Shion urges the young man with a voice so kind that his words almost seem harmless. Tenza’s mouth is caught in a permanent gasp now, at the consequences of his nosy actions. While his mentor can be a little strict, he was not used to him practically throwing him out of his home.

Grumbling, he gets up and bows to you, foregoing his bow towards his mentor. “Good night. Please prepare more stories of sensei’s gallant acts for the next time I come over,” he tells you, a grin pulling on his lips.

With a grin of your own, you reach out and ruffle his hair, breaking into a fit of giggles when he groans about you ruining it. 

The world spins and you decide to rest your head on the table. You don’t know how much time passes as Shion leads Tenza back to the entrance to bid him goodbye. Their voices are far away and you close your eyes, feeling a little dizzy.

Cool fingers touch your forehead. “You had too much to drink,” your husband tells you gently, sounding a little amused. Still, there is a hint of worried care underlying his words.

“No such thing happened…,” you mumble and Shion huffs softly, sitting down next to you. Slowly, he traces his fingertips over your face, running them over the apples of your cheeks, along your brow bone before following the lines of your lips. 

“Don’t touch my face,” comes your complaint, slurred and hard to understand with your cheek pressed against the table.

Your husband merely smiles but you don’t see it, your eyes still closed. “I am looking at you,” he says in a tone that is so tender that it causes you to take a peek at him. The smile on his lips is a sweet one, so gentle that it pulls on your heartstrings. His brows are drawn together as his fingers draw shapes over your face and it makes him look painfully emotional.

The thought of him not knowing what you look like twists something inside your chest and your throat feels as if you’ve tried to swallow a small rock.

“I am looking at you as well,” you tell him and it would have made for an intimate moment, were it not for how jumbled your words sound due to the alcohol. He laughs softly and cups your cheeks with his hands to turn your face towards him better. His hands are warm, the skin a little rough from the regular use of his sword but they offer a comfort and now something you dare to call familiarity, that you wish to hold onto.

“You look at me a lot.”

“Because you’re handsome,” you shoot back and he looks a little taken aback, the tips of his ears flushing red. With newfound bravery, generously sponsored by the alcohol coursing through your bloodstream, you reach out and cup his face in return. Running your thumb over his ear, you giggle.

“You’re pretty drunk. Let me help you get to bed,” with that he gently tugs your hand away from his face and you pout as he helps you up. Shion wraps his arm around you, helping you to get to your room. 

Your hands hold onto the fabric of his kimono. There is something about the way he looked at you when you told him he’s handsome. You decide that you don’t like it. “I really think you are handsome. It’s not the sake,” you promise, tugging on the fabric of his robes.

He pulls you along gently, opening the door to your bedroom before entering with you. Shion helps you get ready for bed, as much as is appropriate. When you change into your clothes for the night, he even turns to face away from you. Watching his broad back, you snort.

“It’s not like you can see me, even if I were to be entirely naked,” you tell him. The tips of his ears are red again and he huffs, shuffling in place.

“It feels inappropriate,” he mumbles, keeping his back turned towards you. “Did you get dressed already?” It’s quiet for a moment and he clears his throat, “If it’s alright, I will turn around-”

Your fingers find the back of his robes, tugging him closer gently… Or are you the one moving closer to him? Shion isn’t sure and his feet feel heavy, yet oddly light, as if he doesn’t have any in the first place. Your arms are warm as they wrap around his middle. As far as he can tell, they’re bare.

“Now, this is inappropriate.”

“We are married,” you tell him, leaning against his back, your cheek rubbing against the spot between his shoulder blades fondly. He’d compare you to a cat if your proximity didn’t toss his thoughts into a big, disorganized pile inside his mind.

“It’s cold. You should get dressed,” he tells you, his hands clenched into fists by his sides. His breath is heavy and his tongue feels restless inside his mouth. It’s too hot and his body is yelling at him to simply take a step forward and a way from your body against his back.

He doesn’t.

You remove yourself from his back and he hears the rustling of fabric, coupled with your clumsy steps. “Don’t trip. Be careful,” he tells you and you simply hum, pulling on your robes to sleep in.

“I was wearing my kosode,” you tell him when he turns around and he nods, guiding you to your futon and helping you lay down as he sits by your side. “I wouldn’t hug you if I was indecent. Not even if it was because of the alcohol.”

With a sigh, he nods again and when he tries to stand up after having made sure you’re safe and sound in bed, you grab onto his clothes again. As he regards you with a raised brow, you feel odd. You don’t know if it’s the alcohol or this strange tension that hangs in the air between you. Maybe that is due to the alcohol too. Perhaps, this is why your parents never let you drink before.

“Stay. I can read to you if you stay with me for a while longer,” you whisper and Shion faces you for a moment, quietly. It’s a little cheeky to offer such a thing this late at night - to ask someone to stay a while longer already has its implications but something like that, to him at least-

A smile tugs on his lips and he reaches forward, gently rubbing his thumb between your brows, chasing away the frown that he finds with such accuracy, that you truly wonder as to how easy he finds it to understand you without needing to see. 

“What if the letters start dancing across the scroll?” he teases you for your tipsy state as he gets up to grab one of his poem collections for you to read out loud to him.

“Then we’ll just have to dance with them,” is all you offer and he huffs before leaving the room for a moment.

You hear him chuckling on his way down the hall to the living room.

“The old pond. A frog leaps in - The sound of the water.”

“So…the frog jumps into the pond?”

“You’re quite quick with your deductions, aren’t you?” Shion teases, and you raise your brow at him, pursing your lips in a dissatisfied pout.

“And you have bad taste in poetry. Why did you buy this? If you are in search of obvious retellings of natural happenings, I can be your source for that kind of information for the rest of your days,” you mumble, looking back at the scroll again as you lay on your tummy. 

One of you visiting the other’s room with poetry or stories in hand has become a habit. You’ve been spending the past weeks reading to him - faithfully, every single evening. Both of you seem to regard this as an essential part of your days despite not talking about it. Just like how you avoid putting a name to the feelings that have blossomed in your chest.

Shion feels his chest tighten at your casual promise of a life together. The teasing lilt of his voice turns into a warm and comforting one as his hand reaches out to gently cup your cheek. His thumb strokes over your protruding lower lip until you stop pouting. “But can you be as picturesque with your words?” he asks and you grumble.

“How would you even rate that?”

It slips out before you can do anything about it, hours of frustration from trying to work your way around clever plays on kanji, as well as the haikus of Basho taking a toll on you. 

“I am so sorry,” you say, trying to get up but your husband tugs on your yukata, urging you to stay on the comfortable futon.

“The old pond has always been peaceful. Quiet and undisturbed,” he speaks, undeterred by your antics and your little joke at his expense but you can tell that he is fighting off a smile. You being comfortable enough to join in on his neverending jokes about his ailment is causing him to feel a warmth that makes him feel unsure whether he wants to share it with you or lock it away inside himself for colder times.

“And then, a little frog comes along. It’s cheeky and doesn’t care about the current ways of the pond. So, mischievous as it is, it jumps into the calm little pond, causing a commotion. A big splash, a loud noise,” Shion murmurs softly, his fingers moving down your arm as he reaches for your hand. 

Almost naturally, he laces his fingers between yours and concludes, “Ripples move all over the place as the frog breaks the surface of the water. The calm pond is no more.”

Shion’s attention is entirely on you now and you look up at him as he sits next to you on the futon. You take a moment to process his words, wiggling your fingers between his while you are deep in your thoughts. 

“Is that kind of disturbance really that bad? Surely, for a pond that has never experienced anything, aside from its boring quiet life, something like that must be quite exciting, no?”

Amused, Shion lifts your hand to his lips, pressing gentle kisses against the tips of your fingers, one by one before he replies, “It’s quite exhilarating.”

A grin tugs on your lips. “So you’re the pond now?”

“Indeed, and you’re the cheeky little thing that decided to shake my life up a little.”

Pricks of warmth climb their way up to your neck and you suppress a shiver. “Is that so…,” you mumble quietly, feeling a little flustered at how happy he sounds about your presence in his life. It grows quiet once more as you return to the poem. Your husband keeps your hand in his and runs his thumb over the side of your finger.

A soft yawn escapes your lips and you blink tiredly, finally noticing how heavy your eyelids feel.

“The kanji for ‘frog’ can be read as ‘to return’,” Shion tells you and you look up at him for a moment, mulling over his words. His attention is fully on you and when he notices that you are lacking a reply, he almost seems a little…disappointed?

“Which also means, the little frog needs to return to her room for tonight,” he concludes and you sigh. With a nod, you get up and as per usual, he accompanies you to your bedroom. Despite how it is almost right next to his own; only a few steps away.

Leaning down, he kisses your forehead ever so gently before bidding you good night and returning to his room.

Your forehead feels warm throughout the entire night as your hand rests on top of it in an attempt to preserve the feeling of his lips against your skin for a moment longer.

Crimson stains your vision on a cold winter day, breaking the abundance of pure white that your eyes have gotten used to. 

The smell of iron stings deep inside your nose and your ears feel as if they have been filled with cotton. When you part your lips to speak, nothing escapes your dry throat and you force yourself to swallow before trying anew, “W-What-” “Just help me get him inside. Quick!” Tenza all but shouts and you comply, your movements almost mechanical as you open the door fully, closing it behind him and leading him to the bedroom.

“Shouldn’t we call a doctor?” you ask, your hands anxiously grabbing onto the fabric of your kimono. You want to reach out and help but you are afraid of hurting your husband even more. You’re not even sure where he is hurting. All you see is how his clothes are stained a deep red.

Nausea climbs its way up your throat but you force it down. Carefully, you help Tenza sit him down. The young man seems unsure what to do himself, sweat beading on his forehead. He’s in distress but he is trying to keep it together.

You feel pathetic.

The wound is on his back and once you know this, it seems clear as day. The back of his clothes is dripping blood and you wince. “I sent for the medic, he should be-”

“Go wait for him outside. Someone needs to guide him here. I will take care of Shion until then.”

Tenza hesitates, shuffling a little before he springs up and into action, leaving the room. Carefully, you brace Shion against your body, unsure of how to lay him down, so this seems like the best option.

“I wanted to see you,” he rasps and you think you misheard. Shifting, you hold him in your embrace, his chest pressed against yours as you grab the thick blanket by your side. Pushing his uniform off his shoulders, you try not to react to the cut on his back. Using the blanket, you apply pressure on his wound. It doesn’t work too well.

“It’ll be okay…” you mumble, not sure whether you are trying to comfort him or reassure yourself. His head is resting on top of your shoulder, his fingers twisting into the fabric of your kimono. You had put on the purple one with the intricate patterns that could be felt by his curious hands. The fondness he expressed over this kimono did not escape you.

You had put it on for when you’d welcome him back. If you had hugged him, would he have been surprised? Would he have hugged you back, delighted by your affection? How long would it have taken him to realize what you’re wearing? Your husband has a sharp mind - you doubt it would have taken long.

Now the soft purple is ruined, stained murky red. Like an overripe plum thrown to the ground and stepped on until there was only a puddle of mush and juice left.

A wave of nausea hits you again, your hands pressing against his back with firmness, ignoring the wetness against your fingertips.

Tenza’s voice cuts through the deafening, high-pitched sound that has crawled its way into your ears as it chases away any and all thoughts, and relief floods you as your eyes lock onto the doctor he brings in tow. The older man seems calm enough at the sight of the wound, once you remove the bedsheet, that you feel a bit of it seeping into you as well.

It would be okay.

The doctor redirects your attention to the task of making sure that Shion stays awake as he works on cleaning the wound and stitching it up. Tenza scurries about the place, grabbing water and supplies from all over the place and he seems glad not to have to sit there in silence.

You hold onto Shion, asking him questions about his trip - What did he eat? How was the weather? Did he find something exciting and new? His replies are sluggish, his head heavy on your shoulder but he answers, despite how strained he sounds. You try your best to not look at the stitches.

Once it’s done and finished, Tenza helps you change Shion into a comfortable kimono and your eyes find no joy in roaming over his body. All those little scars littering his body cause your thoughts to spiral. How much has he endured in the past? How much would he have to endure in the future? Pushing those thoughts away, you carefully lay him down on his front, not daring to put any strain on his back. The doctor informs you about the things you should be aware of, instructing you on how to clean the wound and how to aid in his recovery. Tenza gets up to guide him out and when he sends a questioning look filled with worry your way, you simply shake your head and wave your hand to shoo him away.

The young man has had enough of a strenuous day as is.

“You can go home for today. I can handle the rest,” you tell him, still holding your husband in your arms. The look he gives you is not one that screams that he believes you much but his fatigue wins over his desire to help you and a mere nod ends up being his reply to your words.

“I will return after I finish reporting this to the others,” he tells you before he leaves and the moment he closes the door, it’s as if he’s sealed you inside a vacuum. You don’t know how you maneuver Shion onto the futon on his stomach but by the time you’ve snapped back into reality, he’s situated comfortably on it, pillows cushioning the parts of him that need it. 

—

It takes a few days for him to get back into a condition where you don’t fear that his fever might turn his brain into charcoal. The snow has settled outside but the cold that seeps into your body every night as you lay next to him, waiting for him to wake up, is not due to the cold weather outside.

Your relief is endless when you enter his room in the morning to see him sitting up on his futon. He looks a little tired and a touch more pale than he usually does but he seems to not be waiting in front of death’s door anymore.

Quickly, you hurry to his side, kneeling next to him. Your hands hover over his body, unsure where to hold onto, the desire to help him in any way you can thrumming within your limbs. “How are you feeling?” you ask carefully, your hands moving to busy themselves by smoothing out the sleeves of his robe.

Your fingertips burn with a desire to touch him, to make sure this is real. 

Shifting a little, he carefully rolls his shoulders back, hissing at the hot flash of pain. Immediately, one of your hands lands on his back, gently resting below the injury and offering support. “Don’t move too much. The injury is still not fully closed up.”

A raspy sigh leaves his lips. “I am sorry for causing you trouble,” he mutters, his voice strained from days of not talking. His brows are furrowed and his breathing is still a little heavy. A frown that mirrors his own makes its home on your expression.

“You are my husband. There is no such thing as causing me trouble,” you utter, gently flicking your finger against his forehead. He could easily move out of the way but he takes it in stride, the frown on his face giving way to a softer expression. 

“Then allow me to rephrase that: Thank you for taking care of me,” he tells you and you smile gently. Your hand stays on his lower back, your thumb rubbing back and forth over his skin.

“I was a little afraid that you wouldn’t wake up again. It’s silly and I know that but…,” Withdrawing your hands from his body, you fix the blanket over his legs. “That day I thought you’d bleed out in my arms, Shion. I am not a doctor, so coming to me first - in that kind of state…”

The only thing that hangs in the air between the both of you is silence before his hand moves to take one of your own, gently untangling the blanket from your fingers. You didn’t notice that you had been grasping onto the fabric way too tightly. His hand holds yours firmly enough to reassure you of his presence.

“I wouldn’t leave you alone like that,” he tells you quietly, squeezing gently. When you look back up at him again, he smiles warmly, His fingers move to tease your palm softly, tickling you, as he asks, “Who else would explain all of those poems to you?”

Slowly, your frown slowly melts into an amused expression and you shake your head. “They don’t make sense. Trust me, I have spent enough time complaining about them while you were resting.”

Shion’s eyebrows quirk up at that. “Did you read to me while I was asleep?”

For a moment, there is no reply from you. He’s left in the dark and the only thing that reminds him of your presence is the weight of your hand in his.

You clear your throat, “I thought it would be rude to just stop reading to you.” Anxiously, your fingers press into his hand ever so slightly. “I wanted you to know that you’re not alone.”

You don’t notice that he has gotten closer to you until his forehead bumps against your temple softly, and his hand finds the back of your neck. “Thank you. I don’t deserve you, my lovely wife,” he whispers tenderly.  

Turning your face towards him a little more, you sigh softly, your forehead pressed against his as your breaths intermingle. “You need to be more careful from now on. This house is too big for me to live in by myself,” you complain and he laughs softly. His lips are so close to yours that you feel your cheeks heat up beyond a level you consider comfortable.

You shift and move away slightly. He seems reluctant about letting you go but does so regardless. Cleaning up the supplies that you have kept around his futon, you watch how he shifts in discomfort. “Are you alright?” “I need a bath,” he mutters, scrunching up his nose. These past few days you’d wipe him down but for someone who is as clean and as thorough about his hygiene as he is, this must be a nightmare. There is no way he can go by himself though. Not with how hurt he is.

“I will help you wash up,” you announce and the grimace he pulls makes you laugh. Firmly, you grab onto his upper arm where he is not hurt, carefully helping him up onto his feet. On the way to the bath, you support his weight, thankful for the fact that the houses of the Yamada Asaemon all have their own private baths. Helping him wash up in a public bath would have proven to be very complicated.

Steam envelops you merely a few minutes later. Your husband is sitting on a wooden stool in front of you, only covered by a simple tenugui. Carefully, you remove the bandages on top of his injury. With bated breath, Shion waits for a reaction but it never comes. Tentatively he asks, “Is it bad?” “It’s healing up nicely,” you answer calmly, feeling a little emotionally detached whenever you look at it. The nausea that would take over whenever you’d look at it, left after the fourth day of taking care of him. There were more important things to deal with and it had faded into the background.

The thought of you getting used to violence like that in any way deeply aggravates Shion. He feels a little helpless and it seems to show. Your wet fingers meet his face when you tilt his head back so gently that it fills him with the desire to reward every single one of your fingertips that have bestowed such a tender touch upon him.

“Are you alright?” you ask, your fingers moving to gently trace over his eyebrows, fixing them in place before following along the lines of his scars. There is something about them that makes you feel weirdly nostalgic in a way that causes something to stir in your chest but you pour water on that warmth, preventing the spark that might offset something. 

The way you are right now is alright.

“It just feels a little unfamiliar to be this exposed in front of you,” he tells you, his breath warm against your face and it is only then that you realize that you have been leaning down to be closer to his face. 

The way his lashes brush against the top of his cheeks makes you want to lean even closer but you clear your throat, straightening your back again before allowing him to tilt his head forward once more.

“You’re covered up. I wouldn’t mind either way. We are married and eventually, we’d come into contact with each other like this,” stating this firmly, you move on to wash his hair. His ears are flushed a soft red but the bath is warm so you pay it no mind.

Surprised at his hair’s softness, you find yourself taking much more time than necessary to run your fingers through the tufts of silvery white, separating the strands before pushing them back together again. Your fingertips push into his scalp in a gentle massage.

When your nails join in on the fun and you tug on his hair a little, a sharp intake of breath echoes through the little room and your fingers leave his scalp.

Turning away, you grab a hold of the little bucket and scoop water into it. Once you turn back, your husband’s ears are still decorated with that healthy flush that now spreads to his shoulders.

“I would like to let you soak in the tub for a bit but it seems your fever is coming back,” you mumble, washing his body clean with water before helping him dry himself off with a soft towel.

Handing him his robe, you turn away to let him get dressed once more, albeit you tell him to not pull the upper part of the robe up. Instead, Shion leaves it down, the garment tied around his waist securely as the both of you walk back to his room. It’s cold and the way he shivers ever so slightly pushes you to walk a bit quicker.

Once you arrive, he settles on his futon and you get to work. With practiced movements, you put the ointment on his wound before dressing it carefully to ensure that nothing would be able to mess with the healing process. 

It’s an action you don’t think about at all when you lean forward to press a kiss on top of the bandage. Shion startles slightly, turning his head towards you. You realize and freeze. “Don’t look at me,” you mumble, feeling a sudden sense of embarrassment flood your body. 

He turns around to face you, your embarrassment no hindrance to him as he pulls you into a hug. “I am not looking at you,” he mumbles back cheekily, his hands pressing you closer against his body. His upper body is warm against you and very naked but the need for comfort outweighs your bashfulness and you carefully wrap your arms around him, mindful of his injury.

Something as simple as a hug shouldn’t cause you to feel a feeling as bittersweet as the one that pulses within your chest right now but you don’t remember the last time someone had held you like this.

You don’t think anyone ever has.

If Shion can feel the way your shoulders tremble and how your wet lashes brush against his skin, he does a good job not commenting on it. All he does is hold you tightly as he whispers, mere inches away from your ear, “I am really happy that I got to return to you. While I was gone, I was really anxious about how you were doing back home.” He sighs. “I am sorry for being reckless.”

Pressing his lips against the top of your head, he sighs softly, confessing, “I missed you.”

Your breath is warm against his shoulder as you stay like this for a while. He holds you until the trembling subsides and you part with a shaky exhale. With care, you reach out to pull up his yukata, helping him get his arms inside the sleeves before draping it over his shoulders. 

It’s late. The darkness slowly settles outside as stars creep out of their homes and show themselves in the night sky. Shion gets comfortable on his futon, laying on his stomach as per your orders while you go ahead and grab something to read to him.

You return with a new story for him - no poetry this time - wanting to have an excuse to spend more time with him. Rationally, you know you don’t need an excuse to spend time with your husband who is more than generous enough to let you waste all of his free time but still, this is the method of your choosing, your very own way of circling around your feelings. 

It’s easier to push them aside if you don’t verbalize them - if they don’t hang in the air between you and make it difficult to breathe. Suddenly those silly poems make a little more sense and the longing described feels more palpable.

The cold doesn’t seem to be a problem to you anymore. You feel too warm.

You discard the haori that you had worn over your kimono all day long to shield you from the cold. Instead of putting it away, you carefully cover Shion’s back and shoulders with it, mantling his body with it like a blanket.

Bemusedly, he pulls it closer around himself. “It smells like lavender, just like you do,” he breathes out, sounding a little exhausted as he settles, laying his head atop his pillow. Snickering at how docile he looks, you settle on his futon as well, right next to him on your tummy. 

Your fingers move to comb back a particularly messy patch of hair right at the top of his forehead, your eyes surrounded by tiny folds as deep as your affection for the sweet man as you smile fondly. Absent-mindedly, your fingers make their way through his hair, over the nape of his neck, and down his arm until they find his fingers, and then they travel back up to his shoulder. 

Today, it’s difficult to keep your hands to yourself but he seems to be alright with that. So you don’t, and simply continue touching him, while you begin to read.

“The days and months are travelers of eternity, just like the years that come and go. For those who pass their lives afloat on boats, or face old age leading horses tight by the bridle, their journeying is life, their journeying is home.”

Shion listens to you, letting out a soft hum of acknowledgement here and there. His face twitches in reaction to the words every now and then when he scrunches up his nose at some of the details, or when he smiles at how you dramatize certain passages.

By the time you reach the end of the book, your voice is lower than usual, much more intimate and quiet. The way your fingers casually trace over the nape of his neck, right where his hair meets his skin, has his skin burning. Flipping his pillow over, he buries one side of his face against the cool material in hopes of bringing comfort to the heat that wells up inside him.

Intrigued by his antics, you turn your head towards him once you finish the book, putting it away. Leaning closer, you pout as your fingers rub at his neck gently. “You must be tired, hm? Let me head off for tonight.” Swiftly, you move in to press a lingering kiss against the top of his head, before whispering a quick “Good night”. With that, you’re off and once the door is closed, a soft sigh leaves Shion.

As he shifts to get more comfortable, he notices that you’ve left your haori with him. Brows furrowed, he presses the soft fabric closer to his nose, breathing in deeply. It doesn’t just smell of lavender but it smells of you.

It makes him feel an intense sense of yearning and his tongue presses against the roof of his mouth. His hips feel restless as the minutes pass by and his fingers tighten their hold on the haori while his other hand moves a little lower along the front of his body as he leans more onto his side.

The sting of his injury causes him to take in a sharp breath - or rather, it’s the feeling of his hand pressing against the mortifying hardness that is slowly arising underneath his yukata as he hastily pushes the fabric aside. He wishes the pain were more severe. It might have prevented such a shameful situation. 

Perhaps the mix of pain and desperation can wash away the shame that threatens to burn his ears as your voice still seems to echo within them, contorting in ways his mind conjures up. You have never made the kind of sounds that plague him at this very moment, that urge him to move his hand and his hips in an attempt to ease this ache. Shion is troubled by this sudden revelation of his mind's creativity. 

He wonders what you’d sound like if he worshiped at your feet. If he showed proof of his gratitude, right between your legs. Over and over again, until your cries die out and turn into soft murmurs, until your skin is warmed by his reverence.

Shion returns your haori a few days later in a hurried manner, his face turned away from yours as he hands it to you rather passively before leaving. It’s freshly cleaned and the smell of lavender is nowhere to be found.

It smells like nothing. 

It is when the leaves start turning green again and you get to describe the various shades of the flowers blooming in your garden to your husband, that you feel the desire for there to be more within this. How much closer can one really get when they’re married?

Shion treats you well. Not once has he gone back on his promises and you have more than you could wish for. Not only are you well-fed and warm, but you are also free to do what you want and he treats you kindly.

Yet, every kind word of his leaves you with a deep ache.

It is also during that same spring that Shion starts to avoid you.

At first, it’s just the small things. He flinches away from your casual touches. You chalk it up to a miscalculation on your side. Perhaps he is not that comfortable with it after all. 

Within your presence, he starts to look increasingly uncomfortable. He is in deep thought most of the time around you, and he doesn’t realize you’ve been calling his name many times in a row, trying to grab his attention.

And then, he blatantly begins to avoid you. The hours you’d spend reading his beloved poetry and long-winded stories to him dwindle down to the smallest fraction of an hour until he tells you that he’s too tired for your shared reading time.

Long pages remain unread, the new stories you’d bought stay hidden within the beautiful fabric you had wrapped them up in to surprise him with, and your nights feel a little colder now, despite the weather warming up.

It is on a warm spring day, that Tenza refuses to leave until you promise him to visit the sakura matsuri later that week. It feels like only yesterday when the plum blossoms in your garden had started to bloom and yet, it was already cherry blossom season. “Bring Shion-sensei with you!” is the last thing he tells you.

It’s not that easy.

Frustration sinks its claws deep into your heart. It’s not as if he doesn’t talk to you anymore or as if he is unkind. He shares with you the same kindness as he did when you got married but that is precisely what irks you.

Back then, you barely knew each other. Back then, you were just happy to have gotten out of that household, away from your father. Back then, you did not harbor this many difficult feelings for this man and it is only when your eyes sting and your lower lip begins to tremble, that you get up.

Distance is not a wall, it can be minimized, one step at a time. Even if it were a wall - you didn’t climb over the manor walls when you were younger for nothing. You’d climb over any wall he would build.

Your feet carry you to his room, a route you’re awfully familiar with by now. Softly, you knock as you take a deep breath. Once your husband bids you inside, you enter.

“Tenza asked for us to go watch the cherry blossoms with him.” “Did he phrase it like that when asking for our presence? How cheeky,” Shion mumbles, his hands working to polish his sword with an uchiko ball. There is no humor in his tone like there used to be and the straight, confident posture you put up falters ever so slightly.

“I want to go,” you tell him and he nods, still not stopping his work, not turning towards you either. 

“You are free to do so. You know you needn’t ask me for permission, as long as there is someone to keep you safe.” “Together,” you add and he stops, carefully putting down his katana as he finally turns towards you. You continue, “Please, come along. It will be fun. I have been working on a kimono recently and it would be a good opportunity to wear it.”

Shion looks like he might deny you, his brows furrowed, his expression stuck in that internal conflict that has nestled somewhere inside his mind. You wish you had the courage to talk about it, to pester him more whenever he tells you that it’s nothing.

The shuffling of your feet as your toes grow restless against the tatami mats is loud enough for him to relent. A night out might also distract you a little and lift your spirits. Recently, you have been rather quiet and it makes him feel guilty.

He wouldn’t dare pinpoint himself as the cause of the shift in your behavior but he is aware that his recent changes have made you… Uncomfortable, perhaps. Shion doesn’t know what exactly you are feeling but he doesn’t dare to ask. He doesn’t have the right to do so.

With a nod, he complies, “Alright. We can head out together then. It’s at the end of the week, right?”

You didn’t notice that you had been holding your breath, so the first breath you take after his reply feels exhilarating. “Yes! I will ask Tenza where he wants to meet up that day and I will also take care of the rest. Thank you!”

As you hurry out of his room, Shion smiles gently, the pitter-patter of your feet against the floor accompanying him as he picks his tools back up.

—

When the day arrives and he is washing his face as you wander about, getting ready, he is reminded of a poem the old lady at the market has read to him once.

"Even though we may be apart, if I am to hear that you pine for me as the Inaba mountain pines,  I shall return to you."

Reaching up, he ruffles up his hair, frustrated by the resurgence of this memory. It is ridiculous to think that you have seemed so excited for him to join because it is him in particular.

The more, the merrier - that is what you’d say whenever you’d invite the other Yamada Asaemon over for dinner, or whenever you’d tell Tenza to tag along for your walks together. Futile, is what it is, to hope and pray and spend his day interpreting your awkward shifting when he’d sent you away that first night, telling you that he was too tired to have you read to him.

Futile, to search for meaning in the way your tone has changed around him. It is especially futile to think about how you’d react if he were to reach out and claim your lips.

His face feels warm.

Your hand is cold as it touches the nape of his neck and he flinches. Dumbstruck, you stand there for a moment. He’s never been one to be surprised by your presence. He had chalked it up to his heightened senses, due to his lack of vision and you’d thought it a good enough explanation. On top of that, he was a seasoned fighter.

“You’re warm… And you seem a little out of it,” you mumble gently, the awkwardness of the past few weeks forgotten in light of the possibility of him being sick. “Are you coming down with a fever?”

“I am alright,” he tells you, sounding a little flustered. Ever so softly, you reach out to lay the back of your hand against his forehead. It doesn’t seem to be a fever but his skin is a little warmer than you’re used to.

With a soft sigh, you let him know, “If you are feeling unwell, we can stay at home, you know?” You take your hand off his forehead but he grabs a hold of it mid-air, tugging it towards his lips. Pressing a gentle kiss against where you had just touched his skin, he breathes deeply.

“I want to go together.”

A tingling sensation spreads over your skin and you smile. “Alright. Let me go grab your kimono.”

“I can get it myself. My closet is right there,” Shion points towards the closet in his room but you huff in reply, pulling your hand out of his hold.

“Now, don’t tell me I spent all week hurrying to finish your kimono, just for you to want to wear one of your old ones. How terribly unkind.” You’re pouting and it weaves itself into your manner of speech in a way that Shion finds so charming that it tugs on the corners of his lips.

“The kimono you were referring to a few days ago when you told me about this…was mine?”

“I have plenty of my own that I have made over the years. Since we have gotten married I have made even more. On top of that, you make sure to gift me fancy fabrics every time we go out, so I wanted to repay that favor,” you tell him, the end of it sounding a little flustered, and he smiles warmly.

“I will gladly wear it then,” he tells you and you smile, content now as you go to retrieve it. You leave most of the work to him, your back turned to him as a way of giving him privacy. It is only the details that you busy yourself with, helping him fix up the obi in a nice way, as well as smoothing out the odd wrinkle or two. 

A happy smile tugs on your lips. “Is it comfortable?”

Shion runs his hand over the sleeves, his brows furrowing ever so slightly. “This is incredibly soft,” he mumbles softly, almost in awe. You smile triumphantly.

“I found this fabric the other day when I was out with Tenza. I wanted to make sure you get to enjoy the clothes you wear. Just for your knowledge, the color is really pretty too. A dark blue. It reminded me of the night sky so I just had to take it with me,” you explain proudly and he smiles.

“Thank you,” is all he replies but it’s filled with enough tenderness to make up for the lack of colorful words.

You feel at ease, for the first time in weeks, as the both of you walk towards the designated spot for your meeting with Tenza. Once you meet up with him and some of the other Yamada Asaemon, you feel the rest of your awkwardness dissipate. 

It was fine this way. Shion could spend his evening with his colleagues and you could just stay with Sagiri and Tenza, trying out the different foods Tenza would carry over from the stalls to the blanket you were sitting on.

So that is what you do for the entire duration of the little festival. Your hand rests on Sagiri’s arm as the both of you move from one food stall to the next. She doesn’t ask any questions, seemingly knowing that there is something going on which must be solved between you and your husband.

She offers you a gentle squeeze as she rests her hand on top of yours, trying to comfort you. You smile at her but it looks awkward and wrong. The way Shion seemed more approachable again today worries you. If you return home and he ends up going back to his avoidant behavior, you don’t think you’ll know what to do.

You walk back to where the others are sitting.

It is only when everybody is knocked out from either the alcohol, too much food, or long-winded talks, that your group goes silent. Only soft conversations happen here and there. You’re seated on a soft blanket, the cherry trees blossoming around you, their petals illuminated by the moon as they drift onto the grass.

“The plum blossoms in our garden are this pretty too,” you murmur softly. Shion, who is sitting next to you, hums in reply.

“They are almost the same color, right? Both are popular topics for poetry after all.”

“I think plum blossoms are prettier,” you tell him firmly and he huffs softly. His fingers bump into yours on top of the blanket but neither of you move to change anything about that. Turning your head to look his way, you’re startled by how close his face is to yours. It’s quiet for a moment and you feel awkward.

Behind you, Tenza and Sagiri are eagerly mumbling. You catch a few words such as “kiss” and “romantic”, and heat flares up inside your chest. It feels as if Shion is playing pretend in front of everybody tonight. As if everything is alright.

But it’s not.

Getting up quickly, you dust yourself off. “We should head home. It’s late,” you declare, your tone tinged with a sense of detachment that causes Shion to purse his lips but he nods, following suit regardless. He gets up, grabbing what little you had brought along before bidding everybody goodbye and following you.

Brisk is the pace you set, your geta clacking against the floor rhythmically. Shion follows you, two steps behind you as he keeps his attention on you regardless of any distance between you. It’s noticeable and only upsets you more.

Shion tries to strike up a conversation twice. Once, by bringing up the sweets you had tried with Sagiri and the second time by asking about the view. Both times, your replies are curt and to the point, your desire to not talk to him evident. 

He doesn’t say anything else.

You step inside the house first, discarding your geta and getting ready to head to your room for tonight. Your endeavor is cut short when you’re pulled back into your husband’s arms, your back against his chest.

“I am sorry if I upset you.” His words are met with silence from you and his arms tighten their hold around you in response as he whispers, “Talk to me. Please.”

“I don’t want to,” is all you reply, grabbing a firm hold of his arms and freeing yourself from his hold. Never one to get overly physical, he lets go of you easily but is persistent regardless when he follows you through the house.

When you open the door to your room, step inside, and turn around to close it, he’s quick to nudge his foot between the sliding door and the frame. Neither of you anticipates just how much power you put into sliding the door shut.

A gasp leaves you when he hisses and pulls his foot away. Immediately, you open the door and pull him inside. “Sit down and let me take a look,” you mumble, guiding him towards your futon. “I am so sorry, I really didn’t mean to. I just wanted to-”

“To shut your stupid husband out. I know,” Shion replies as he sits down, a gentle smile tugging on his lips. Regarding him with furrowed brows, you sigh softly as you sit down and grab his foot, squeezing gently.

“Does it hurt?”

“Tenza would stomp on my foot with more force than that during training back when he started. I will be fine,” he reassures you, allowing you to drop his foot on the soft futon. “I am sorry for upsetting you. That was not my intention.”

“Then what was your intention?” It’s a fair question and Shion knows this but despite his desire to tell you everything, he keeps quiet. 

“I don’t mind if you aren’t by my side at all times,” you continue, “I was content just being your wife in name but when you go ahead and build up my hopes, treat me with so much care, and familiarity, just to turn around and avoid me-”

Shion feels his heart sink when your words are interrupted by a choked sob and his hands move to cup your cheeks. A Yamada Asaemon’s hands never tremble, for it would be detrimental to the techniques they use for their executions. He swings his blade with firmness, confident in the path he has chosen to tread in this life.

All of his confidence is washed away by the teardrops that run down your cheeks, his thumbs trembling as they wipe them away. Apologies are all that he manages to utter before he pulls you in for a hug. 

He breathes in deeply as he holds you. “I was unaware that keeping my distance would affect you so,” leaning down, he buries his face against the side of your neck. “I suffer whenever you aren’t close but when you are close to me I suffer twice as bad. I love you deeply and I have loved you since I can remember.”

Pursing your lips, you sniffle, finding comfort in rubbing your damp cheek against the soft material of his kimono. Allowing for his words to sink in for a moment, you ask, “Is that why you were avoiding me?”

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” he murmurs softly and your breath hitches when you feel his lips against your throat. Shion takes a deep breath, “I was enduring.”

A wry smile tugs on his lips, hidden away from your sight. He huffs, finding humor in his suffering and you tremble when his warm breath washes over your skin. “The self-control I take such pride in seems to crumble so easily when you’re around me.”

His hands find your waist and his fingertips press into the fabric of your kimono with such desperation and yet, he holds back. As always. “That night…when you read to me and forgot your haori…,” he continues, going lower until his lips are just shy of touching the bit of collarbone that presents itself to him.

“It smelled so much like you that I felt intoxicated by it. Your voice kept ringing in my ears and I was aching to touch you but I couldn’t.” His voice gives way to a shuddering breath when your hands cup his cheeks.

“But you can,” you tell him, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. If this was a man’s desire - no, your husband’s desire for you, then you wish for it to swallow you whole and mold you anew.

“I’ve yearned for you to touch me,” you whisper and your breath hitches when you feel attention fully on you as he leans back from your embrace.

“You should have told me.” “I know,” comes your reply. He doesn’t fault you and neither do you blame him in any way. 

“I will make up for the lost time,” Shion promises, leaving a gentle kiss on your forehead, “I will leave no inch of you untouched. You won’t ever have to ache for me the way I do for you.” 

When you lean forward to press your lips against his - not in that tentative and careful way you used to, whenever you’d kiss his cheek but ardently, with a need that shakes him to his core - only then do you feel his hesitance disappear.

His hands find your waist with a firmness that you have grown familiar with and you smile against his lips, your breathing still stilted by your earlier tears. Shion notices and leans back to kiss your cheeks, right where your tears are drying. 

“I love you,” he tells you again, “I love how your voice sounds in the late hours of the night whenever you read to me. The way you smell makes me feel weak, especially when the smell of your favorite sweet treats lingers on you. Whenever I am away from you, I find myself thinking about you endlessly until I come back home.”

Grabbing a gentle hold of your hand, he pulls it up to his lips, leaving a kiss on each fingertip. “I adore these hands that cause my skin to burn beneath their touch.”

“I wouldn’t want to burn you,” you whisper bemused. A smile tugs on his lips and he lets go of your hand in favor of pulling you close.

“I wish you’d burn me terribly. The pain might distract me from my longing,” Shion whispers, his breath warm against your lips. His voice is quiet and you don’t dare to breathe in fear of sending it away with the wind. “May I kiss you?”

With a soft laugh, you pull him closer, your lips meeting his in a passionate kiss. Gently exploring the other, your lips move together, falling into a comfortable, warm rhythm. You’re both a little clumsy, inexperienced, and hurried by your need but it’s sweet nonetheless and it fills the empty cup in your heart ever so slightly.

But a sip like that would not quell your thirst. Not anymore.

Your hands find the obi that they had neatly tied to hold his kimono earlier. Shion lets out a soft breath at the feeling of it untying and your hands diving beneath the fabric of his kimono. “We don’t have to-”

“I want to touch you,” you urge, firmly and in a way that won’t allow for him to question if you are doing this out of your own desire. “Don’t you think you’ve denied me your affections long enough?” “I can share my affections with you but this is a bit…,” he mumbles, his cheeks red and you cup his cheeks. 

Leaning forward, you press a gentle kiss against his lips before telling him, “If this is too hasty for you, I am willing to wait. I love you.”

The expression on his face is barely visible to you through the little moonlight that shines into your room. It’s one you haven’t seen on him before and you don’t get to decipher it for long before he moves forward to kiss you once more.

This time, he dives in to taste you, his tongue exploring yours as you engage in a heated kiss. His body presses into yours and you don’t know when it is that your back meets the futon underneath you but you don’t care enough to spend another second wondering about it. 

Traveling lower, his lips find your jaw, then your throat, and your collarbone right after. The trail of kisses he leaves is hot against your skin and you find yourself feeling entirely too warm in your intricate kimono. Relief floods you when you feel his hands settle on your obi and your own hands move to help him out with the complicated bow.

Once the bow is untied and the belt is discarded, his hands move to glide over your shoulders, parting the fabric from your skin.

To his chagrin, his palms slide over another layer of fabric. A frustrated sound leaves him and you huff, amused by his antics. “Please tell me there aren’t any more layers to this. I wasn’t aware that my wife’s real identity was that of an onion.”

“Your wife likes to stay atop the latest fashion trends. There is no way I’d compromise my comfort and wear a kosode on top of my hadajuban. I’d be sweating way too much,” you explain, slipping your arms out of the fabric of your kimono and letting it fall down around you.

You could clean it later.

“Unfortunately, I think you’ll be working up a sweat regardless,” Shion teases as his hands work to untie your inner robes with such dexterity that it almost makes you feel impressed.

Your hands move to rid him of his robes and once the both of you are entirely bare, with no fabric between you to separate your bodies, you feel shyness creep up inside you. Hesitantly, your hand reaches out to brush over his chest and the way he shudders causes your touch to be firmer - more explorative and sure in its approach.

Your other hand moves to settle on his shoulder as he kneels between your legs and he allows you to acquaint yourself with his body. His own hands are resting on your thighs, balled into fists.

“You can touch me too,” you whisper, leaning forward to kiss him for a short moment, feeling as if your chest would burst if you didn’t release all of this pent-up affection. Moving your hands to his, your fingers gently uncurl his fingers from their firsts, leading them to your waist. They settle on your naked skin and he shudders visibly. A soft laugh leaves you.

An embarrassed smile finds its place on his lips and he leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours. “I am sorry but now that I get to touch you, it feels a little overwhelming,” comes his soft explanation and you smile. 

Your breath gets caught in your throat when his hands slide over the curves of your waist, tracing your skin up to your chest. Carefully, his thumbs brush over your nipples, circling the sensitive nubs until they perk up under his attention. The rise of his chest speaks for his delightment and he leans lower, still hovering over you but moving lower to take your nipple into his mouth.

It’s an unfamiliar sensation, different compared to your touch. His mouth is hot, his tongue wet and soft when it licks over and around your nipple before there’s a slight sucking sensation. It sends a hot tingle down your stomach and you gasp softly, your hand finding purchase on his shoulder while the other settles on the back of his head. 

Strands of silver slip between your fingers and you tug gently while his lips leave your chest, the cool air of the room brushing against your wet nipple and sending a shudder through your body. You think you can feel him smiling against your tummy as he works his way lower, down to your pelvis.

His hands are gentle as they explore your curves. Sliding along your hips before grabbing a hold of your thighs, squeezing to feel your flesh between his fingers. You wonder how all of this feels for him.

Settling on his knees between your legs, he leans back over you. Meeting him halfway, you lean up to kiss him again. The initial eagerness has died out and what you are left with is a warm simmer between your legs. One of his hands slides between your thighs, his fingers exploring eagerly. A soft gasp tears itself free from your lips and Shion asks, in a whisper, if you are alright with what he is doing.

You nod and pull him a little closer until his lips rest against your collarbone once more. His breath is heavy as he slides his fingers over your folds, cupping your mound before dipping between your lips. There’s a stutter in his breathing once he gathers some of your wetness.

A smile tugs on your lips. “What? Surprised?” you tease, moving your hips a little so that his fingers glide back and forth between your folds. He follows your motions, thankful for the bit of guidance you seem to be offering.

“Just new to this,” he murmurs, playfully nipping at your throat. “It’s a little difficult to really get a feeling for it unless you indulge in the real thing. The few drunken words of others can only provide so much information.”

Your soft laugh reaches his ears and he moves upwards until his lips meet yours once more. “So you’ve been receiving private lessons, hm?” you tease and he chuckles, his thumb finding your clit and circling the swollen nub slowly, applying gentle pressure. Meanwhile, two of his fingers dip between your folds, finding you unbearably warm and wet for him as he slides them in and then out again steadily.

The soft gasp that leaves you sends a tingling sensation up Shion’s spine and he gulps.

“They were rather unpleasant lessons, although the knowledge I have gained seems to be proving useful,” your husband shoots back with more wit than you wish he’d have right now. 

A little impatient, despite your desire to take your time, your hand moves to wander across his chest, tracing the defined lines of his abs. The muscles move under your fingertips, taut and firm as you continue lower until you reach his cock.

The way your husband bucks his hips into your touch and the way his breath hitches in his throat when your fingers wrap around him diffuses your anxieties. He has half the heart to tell you that you don’t have to touch him, that this is about you but you manage to chase all of those thoughts out of his mind once you begin to stroke him.

A little too slow for his liking and a little too gentle. Even so, he doesn’t stop you or complain. His hand wraps around yours and he squeezes it gently. “A little more firmly,” he tells you and his words are so airy that it knocks the wind out of you. All you manage is a slow nod as you follow his instructions, picking up on how he seems to like it. His hands rest on your hips, one of them still wet with your desire.

You wonder if he’d touch himself like this when thinking of you - if his breath felt as hot against his pillow as it does on your skin, and if his thighs trembled ever so slightly, just as they do now.

Tugging on your wrists, he coaxes you to let go of him. Reluctantly, you follow along, immediately missing the weight of him in your hands. Was it that unpleasant for him?

As if he’s read your mind, he presses a kiss against your temple and explains, “I want you to feel good too.” Breathing out softly, you shake your head. You were ready to protest but how could you, when he says something like that?

Shifting on top of you, he moves his lips lower along your body but you stop him in this endeavor, cupping his cheeks as you pull him back up to kiss you once more. “Please,” his voice comes in such a deep, parched tone that seems to rumble inside his chest; you find it hard to focus on what he is saying. “Let me have a taste.”

And as much as you want to give in - the fantasy of his lips caressing places you wouldn’t dare ask him to kiss making you feel a heat unlike anything else - you simply wrap your legs around his hips, keeping him right where he is.

“There will be time for that later,” you tell him, and the way he swallows at that, the movement of his adam’s apple faintly visible under the light that the moon provides, tugs on the corners of your lips and makes you pull him a little closer.

“You’re terrible,” Shion mumbles, his lips finding their home on your face, over and over again, wandering from your cheek to your temple, and then up to your forehead, “Have I not waited long enough?”

Pushing his hips right up against yours, you shudder at the warm weight of his cock that settles on top of your tummy. “I think there are more pressing matters,” you argue, shifting to change the angle of your hips. A soft sigh falls from your lips when he pulls back a little before sliding back, the underside of his cock rubbing back and forth over your clit as he slides it through your folds.

His chest is pressed against yours, the weight on top of you comfortable as it presses you deeper into the sheets. Warm lips find yours once more and you have lost count of how many kisses you have shared tonight. It doesn’t matter since there will be too many to count soon anyway. You’d make sure of that.

When he finally sinks into you, it’s not as violent of a sensation as you expected it to be. Not as harsh and unrelenting as the women in your life would whisper when the men were gone. 

It’s warm, almost unendurably so and yet, you wish to cling onto this warmth. The stretch isn’t painful - a bit uncomfortable at most. You’re more focused on how he feels inside you and how you find it difficult to tell which heartbeat belongs to you, his heart thrumming in his chest that is right up against yours.

Bottoming out inside you, Shion lets out a soft groan. His forehead meets yours and your breaths intermingle. “I love you,” he sighs, relieved to finally be able to say it freely and you smile up at him fondly, cupping his cheeks. 

“I love you,” comes your echo to his confession before your back arches and you push up against him more when he finally moves. The drag of his length inside you burns in a way which your fingers could never hope to replicate and your toes flex, your heels arching off the futon.

A choked sound of Shion’s has your head tipping back, your eyes fluttering shut at how good and right he feels buried inside you. Your eyes burn behind your eyelids and you’re only aware of the tears that escape the corners of your eyes when Shion kisses them away.

“Are you hurting? Should we stop?” he asks, his tone ever so gentle but it’s a little strained and you think you see his cheeks flushed with such a beautiful color that you make a mental note to explore this particular hue in the morning hours, accompanied by the light of the morning sun.

The shake of your head is immediate and you whisper a soft “No”. Putting your hand on top of his that is cupping your cheek, you turn your head to press a kiss to his palm and you get to watch as the firm, upright man on top of you melts, his expression twisting into one that you finally understand.

A suppressed chuckle leaves you in the form of a shaky breath and it’s wobbly as your lips tremble. “Feels good,” is all you manage to speak and he smiles down at you fondly, prompting you to return his smile. Your cheeks hurt.

The need for conversation subsides as he begins to rock his hips into yours again, pushing himself deeper with each thrust. Your thighs begin to tremble when one of his hands slips between your bodies to find your clit, circling it once more with his thumb to help push you over the edge.

Moans, heavy breathing, and the sounds of his skin meeting yours over and over again fill the room, echoing inside your four walls in a way that would usually make your ears burn with shame. Right now, you’re freed from any sort of feeling of that sort.

Your nails dig into his back, pulling him closer as his hips move insistently and his lips lavish your throat with soft bites that he caresses with his tongue to soothe the pain. All it takes is a particular grind of his hips and his name leaves you as a choked sound, your vision turning white as you close your eyes.

It feels like all the air leaves your lungs and you feel dizzy, your walls pulsing around his shaft as your body trembles in his hold, the soft tremors continuing until he removes his thumb from you and stops the onslaught of his mouth on your body. Shaky breaths are all that leave your lips for a few moments as you finally fill your lungs greedily.

Forehead bumping against his shoulder, you keep Shion close, the quick rhythmic up and down of his chest soothing your quivering body. The man above you is breathing heavily, way more out of breath than he’d be after one of those training sessions you were allowed to watch.

A breathless chuckle leaves him as he presses a little closer and it is only then, when you feel the wet sensation between your thighs that drips down your folds and onto the sheets, accompanied by a squelching sound that shoots heat into your cheeks, that you realize he has spilled himself inside you.

“You are beautiful,” he whispers, cupping your cheeks with a tenderness that has never before been yours to claim from anyone. The way the folds around his eyes join in on his expression of joy as his cheeks push up against them while he smiles has you feeling a warmth that you wish to never miss again.

Blurry is your vision as you watch him pull out of you, making do by wiping the excess of your combined essence with the corner of his futon’s cover, before he lays down next to you. Your sniffling reaches his ears and he laughs joyfully, pulling you closer. “Cry as much as you wish to. I will be right here to wipe your tears,” he promises, chasing your tears away with the pads of his thumbs. “Although I do prefer you smiling and laughing.”

Wrapping your arms around him, you move as close as possible, resting your head against his chest. It’s quiet for a while; comfortable. Your breath evens out and you relax against him as his fingers trace shapes into the skin of your back. You’re too tired to decipher what kind of shapes they are.

After a while, you speak up and laugh softly at the way Shion startles ever so slightly. He must have thought you were already asleep.

“Does this mean I can come to your room and read to you again?” you ask mischievously, looking up at him with an unbearably cheesy smile pulling on your lips. You’re glad he can’t see it.

Shion smiles down at you warmly before pressing his lips against your forehead. Lingering there, he whispers,

“You may read to me in our room. Every single evening, for as long as you wish to stay with me. Every poem or story that piques your interest.”

“For as long as I wish to stay?” you ask teasingly, shifting to press your lips against his jaw. “That is going to be a long time.” “It could never be long enough.”

A few months later it’s still warm, despite the late hour.

Too warm to stay inside, which is why you are sitting outside on the engawa, humming softly as you try not to spill the juicy goodness of your fruits onto your yukata.

“Don’t eat too quickly or you might not be able to sleep.”

Tilting your head back, you look up to see your husband hovering over you as he stands right behind you. There’s a teasing smile on his lips and the light of the setting sun illuminates his skin nicely. He looks warm.

“Oh, come on now. I am not eating that quickly,” you shoot back, opening up another plum to remove its stone, just to throw it into one of the bushes. A product of nature returning to nature. No harm done.

He chuckles, sitting down next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. “Couldn’t find any shut-eye inside? I could give you a few tips.”

You snort inelegantly. 

“It’s too stuffy and warm inside the house,” you explain, munching away on your plums. Resting one hand on the wood of the engawa, you lean back onto it. Autumn is around the corner but it’s still very warm. The ongoing heat rewards you with sweet plums so it’s a little easier to forgive the weather for now. “You know, when I was a child I used to steal plums from my father’s trees.”

Shion tilts his head at you in a way that compels you to reach out and pinch his cheek but you hold back. “I know,” and the smile he gives you with that reply tugs your expression into one of cautious confusion.

“Did I tell you about that before?” comes your question, which your husband denies with a shake of his head. He holds a hand out to you, palm facing up. Removing the stone from a plum, you hand it to him.

“I got to eat them as well,” he explains and you look at him for a few moments, your gaze tracing the scars on his face and the way he eats the plum. Brows furrowing, he sticks out his tongue and mumbles that it’s sour and it is only then that you finally realize.

Putting your head in your hands you laugh, dumbstruck. Shion raises a brow at you, feeling a little anxious about how you’re feeling. While he did poke fun at you just now, he’s not sure if it’s all that funny to you. Maybe you’d feel differently about him now, or perhaps you’d-

“It’s not sour,” you tell him and he laughs at how you sound as if he knocked the wind out of you with one simple statement. Your shoulder bumps into his as you lean closer, grabbing a hold of his hand that rests on his lap. He intertwines his fingers with yours, bringing your hands up to his lips to press a soft kiss against your fingertips.

“You’re right. It’s sweet.”

NOTES:

Tenugui - a type of traditional Japanese towel

Hadajuban - traditional sort of underwearn, worn underneath kimono

Kosode -  the direct predecessor of the kimono, short sleeved and worn underneath intricate kimono in some places when the switch from kosode to kimono happened

Engawa - A wooden terrace

—

The first poem is by Ariwara no Narihira, taken out of the KOKINSHŪ.

Frog poem is by Matsuo Bashō

“蛙 (kawazu) - Frog can also be read as (kaeru) which can be translated as “to return”, meaning that Shion was joking here about himself being the pond and the reader being the frog. She returned to him after their initial meeting

The story the reader reads to Shion is “The Narrow Road to the Deep North” written by Matsuo Bashō.

The poem where Shion is getting ready for the festival is by Ariwara no Yukihira from Hyakunin Isshu: Poem 16.

[heich0e]

“Didn’t expect to see you out here.”

Your head pops up as the unexpected voice makes itself known, twisting your face towards the sound only to see a figure standing at the end of the alley. He’s silhouetted where he stands—a shape more than a person. You can tell he’s tall, broad, and has a knot of hair tied up loosely at his crown. 

Geto Suguru steps into the light where you can see him better, though it makes his sudden appearance no less surprising. 

“Did you drink too much?” he asks, treading a few steps closer as he eyes you worriedly. You pull yourself up from where you’d been crouching on the ground.

“No, no. Just getting some air,” you reply with a stiff smile, dipping in a bow and quickly adjusting your pencil skirt once you’re back upright.

He has his tie loosened over his shirt with the top button undone, and his suit jacket is nowhere to be seen. He considers you for a moment, and his attention makes you want to fidget but you fight the urge.

You watch as he pulls packet of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his shirt and offers it out to you. “Do you smoke?”

“No, thank you,” you say with a quick shake of your head, smoothing your hands along the front of your skirt and then moving to step past him back towards the entrance of the restaurant. “I should go.”

He angles his body in your way before you can.

“No need to leave on my account,” he says, peering down at you. His face is partially in shadow because of how he’s standing, angled between you and the mouth of the alleyway that leads back to the busy street, caught in a small dark patch between the streetlights and the light affixed to the grungy brick wall. He tips his face up and the light touches his features once more, catching in his brown eyes as he waits in anticipation of your response.

“I should get back inside.” It’s strangely difficult to meet his gaze, so instead you look past him towards the street as an unwelcome heat surges up your throat to flood your face. A car passes quickly by the alley, and you watch as the headlights come and go in a flash.

“Why?” the man before you asks, placing the cigarette he’d fished out of the pack to his lips. He uses his teeth to keep it there while he fumbles through his pockets for a lighter. “You’re clearly having a terrible time in there.”

Your eyes snap up to meet his in shock.

“No I’m not,” your reply is notably indignant, even though his accusation is valid.

How would he know anyway?

“The smiley, nice-girl bit’s gotta be getting old, isn’t it? Pouring everyones drinks. Cleaning up everyones messes.” He laughs, though it’s only to himself, before clicking his lighter to life and holding it to the tip of his cigarette until it catches. The cherry burns red and bright on an inhale, and smoke slips from his lips as he adds, “You don’t have to lie to me, I’m not your boss.”

“I’m not lying,” you insist, but your performance isn’t particularly convincing. 

Truthfully, the very last thing you wanted to do after a ten-hour work day—capping off a fifty-hour work week—was come out drinking with your colleagues. You’ve never really liked these kinds of gatherings, even if the company is the one footing the bill. They always get a bit too rowdy for your liking. Always drag on a bit too long. And you know that you’ll inevitably be the one stuck forcing your plastered boss into a taxi in the wee hours of the morning, while the rest of your equally-sloshed coworkers find their own ways home.

But the department chair, the very same one you’re sure will be singing karaoke with his tie around his forehead in only a few short hours, had been adamant that everyone in marketing attend the gathering since the sales section was joining in too. 

Hence the sales employee standing toe-to-toe with you, blocking your path.

You know Geto Suguru, but only indirectly. The sales and marketing departments are separated by a single floor in your company’s office building, and often work on projects together. Geto is a section lead in sales, with a long, illustrious history behind him before he worked his way up to that role. He’s made a lot of money for the company, and a lot of friends along the way—what with his easy charm, silver tongue, and undeniable good looks. His reputation precedes him—in both good ways and bad.

The fact that he’s here talking to you—a fresh-faced, relatively new-to-role nobody in comparison to his lengthy history with the business—is what you have a hard time wrapping your head around.

“Sure, sure.” Geto waves his hand dismissively, ash fluttering off in tiny specks from the end of his lit cigarette. “I’m sure you just love making all those copies, remembering coffee orders, and running that section lead of yours’s errands too. Oh, and don’t forget when he takes credit for your ideas.”

Your stomach drops. 

He keeps going.

“This upcoming brand collaboration is exciting,”—he takes a puff of his cigarette, his eyes sparkling as he looks at you—“too bad no one knows it was you who came up with it, huh?” 

Your fists clench tightly at your sides, your lips pressing together in a thin line.

Geto blows the last of the smoke in his lungs from the corner of his pursed lips, away from you.

“That’s the first honest expression I’ve seen on your face all night,” he says with a sly smile tugging at his lips.

Your hands are shaking.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask him weakly.

He tilts his head to the side, like your question confounds him.

“I’m not doing anything,” he says, and he sounds like he genuinely means it. “Have I said anything that isn’t true?”

You bite your lip, staring down at your pretty, professional pumps as you stand on the craggy pavement of the alley.

“You’re allowed to be angry, but don’t direct it at me for pointing out the people who keep screwing you over,” Geto says, and the way his voice sounds a bit nearer and the smell of his cigarette gets stronger tells you that he’s dipped down closer to you even though you don’t watch him do it. “No one’s gonna hand anything to you if you don’t fight for it.”

You glance up at him, your expression and your tone equally flat. “And what if I’m not a fighter?”

“Oh, I don’t believe that,” he says, chuckling a bit as he backs away from you.

You watch him as he watches you—contemplates you, like he’s sizing you up. He drops cigarette suddenly to the ground, still only half-burned, and crushes it with the toe of his shoe. You hold your breath as he takes another step towards you.

He leans forward.

“Hit me.”

“Pardon me?” The bewildered question rushes out of you all in one gasping breath, and you take a loping step back in shock.

“Come on, just one,” the man goads you further, rapping against his jaw with the knuckle of his index finger as a smile twists his lips up at the corners.

“You’re drunk,” you spit out incredulously, shaking your head and quickly moving to step past him.

“I’m not.” He sidles smoothly into your path once more before you get the chance to flee, like he’s half-a-step ahead of you at all times. 

It’s infuriating.

“Alright, then you’re just insane,” you offer instead.

You knew the sales department had a reputation for being a bit wild, but this is beyond all your expectations. This is nothing like the charming, easy going Geto that you’ve heard all your female colleague gossiping about in the break room.

His smile falls, and he crosses his arms over his chest. You try not to pay too much attention to the way his forearms look with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“I’m still your senior, y’know,” he says, and his voice is a little bit colder now. More admonishing.

You’re very acutely aware of that fact without him saying it.

You huff out a frustrated little breath through your nose, crossing your own arms over your chest in a mirror of his stance.

“I’m not hitting you.”

Geto’s brow quirks curiously.

“Why not?”

You can’t believe you’re having this conversation.

“Because that’s assault,” you counter his question shortly.

“It’s only assault if I press charges—which I won’t.” You know he’s telling the truth but it doesn’t make it any more convincing. He tilts his head to the side again, and a silky strand of his dark hair slips into his eyes. “Haven’t you ever hit anyone before? It’s cathartic.”

Your lips part in an expression of astonishment. “Of course I haven’t.”

The man in front of you looks mildly surprised at your answer.

“Do I look like someone who goes around fighting people?” you ask him incredulously.

“You look like you’ve got some repressed rage in you,” he says with a smirk, and the expression only worsens when he sees the way you react to it.

He taps his cheek again before tucking both his hands behind his back and leaning in close to you, like a man offering himself up to the executioner’s block. He shuts his eyes.

“C’mon, just a little one.”

“I won’t.”

“You should.”

“I won’t.”

“How come?”

You take his face in your hands suddenly, tilting it up to meet your gaze.

“Geto-san,” you say quietly, your tone bordering on desperate. “I’m not going to hit you, so please stop asking.”

He opens his eyes slowly, his dark lashes fluttering as he blinks up at you. After a moment he smiles, and his eyes curve into narrow crescents as he leans subtly into your touch.

It’s quiet in the alley, but your heartbeat is quick underneath your skin.

“Can you blame a guy for trying?” he asks you coyly.

You’re still cupping his cheeks in your hands. 

They’re warm.

“You really are crazy,” you reply softly to his question, though it’s not much of a reply at all.

He hums, turning his face so his nose drags across your wrist. His lips brush against your palm as he speaks once more. “I’ve been called worse.”

You don’t doubt he’s telling the truth.

Slowly, the dark haired man picks himself up to his usual height. He’s closer to you now than he’s ever been—and thanks to the little cat and mouse game that the two of you have been playing, you’re very nearly pressed against the alley wall. You can’t even see the street anymore beyond the expanse of his wide shoulders.

Everywhere you look, you only see him.

The realization sits hot and heavy in the pit of your stomach.

“I know you’re a good girl, but what are we gonna do about all that stuff you’ve got pent up in there?” Geto lifts his hand and presses a featherlight touch to your sternum over your diaphragm, his fingertips trailing delicately against the smooth plane where the arch of your ribs ends. Your breath hitches painfully as you stare up at him, a sticky knot at the back of your throat preventing you from forming any response—not that you can think of anything to say. 

Geto smiles down at you, his expression soft.

You see the faintest flash of sharp teeth behind his pink lips.

“Don’t you want me to help you let it out?”

[mitsies-deactivated20240911]

I know this is like so random but do you have any geto, gojo, nanami, or megumi ao3 recs because the only good fics I’ve read of jjk are ones you’ve written 😭

you have come to the right place :,) i post more recs than fics at this point haha most of these are copy pasted off previous rec lists but have been added onto! the ones with green + marks are NEW RECS

here's a post on how to use ao3 to find fics by yourself for those who dont know <3

gojo + ao3:

+ intrinsic warmth: my favourite fic of all time. like genuinely. insane writing, fucking amazing in every sense of the term. 2nd time recommending this! reader's character is so sick BUT updates real slow (which isnt a bad thing!! good things take time!!) so i wouldn't read if you aren't patient // 122k words, 15 chapters, incomplete

+ ripverse: not really a series, more like a compilation of fics! it's got a lot of angst and the one titled 'interlude' contains smut i think so beware, and it's also a lovetriangle/poly-but-geto-goes-crazy-so-not-poly moment // 55k words, 8 pieces

+ the witches' brew: super cute fluff! reader owns a cafe, gojo is a regular, it's all around adorable // 2 chapters, 11k words, completed

+ all that is solid melts into air: arranged marriage trope! i haven't read but @/aanobrain loves this one // 7k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ cake batter: established relationship w/ dad!gojo & megumi <33 not much to say, just short n sweet, i am such a sucker for dad gojo so its no surprise there's one of these on the list.. // 2k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ best of luck: initial concept is really unique!! confessions, slight angst, takes place at the beginning/middle-ish of s1 i think? so cute loved this &lt;;3 // 5k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ afternoon tea(se): gojo torturing megumi. classic !! so so cute love the banter // 1.7k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ my apologies, gordon ramsay: god i hate this man. jk. reader is a teacher and a functional human being; gojo is not. loved! // 8k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ a name known only to paper: platonic, angst- beautifully written, such a unique idea. reader is gojo's older sibling. // 3k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ heart beats: another collection! i looove gojo in this so so cute i also adore bff nanami in the last one haha // 11k words, 3 pieces

+ exposure therapy: this is 1/2 of a 2 piece collection. when i read this for the first time i was floored- i love the creative take, and the reader's character (it was a 'she's so me' moment). this author writes with such a subtle but unadulterated take on love and i adore it // 5k words

+ how to be a human being: 2/2 of the previous rec and the perfect continuation in every sense of the term. oh my gosh, is this masterful- from the relationships & writing of megumi and tsumiki to gojo (i almost forgot this was a rec for him) it's all around amazing // 20k words

+ the sanctity of a name: SO SENTIMENTAL !! what an adorable work that rly goes into the psychology and significance of his technique + upbringing. so real and raw and very him // 2k words, complete, 1 chapter

+ assumptions: omf jealous gojo...... he's so cute in this!! you guys are married and it's almost his birthday, but while you're planning his surprise party he suspects something else.. // 6k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ even with the lights off: RAHHHH another fic that has me floored and pushing the #saveijichi agenda at the same time // 8k words, 2 chapters, complete

nanami + ao3:

+ math help: dad!nanami w son!yuuji.... yeah that's all i really need to say i think! // 1 chapter, 2k words, complete

+ photo albums: nanami shares abt his childhood! // 1k wc, 1 chapter, complete

+ i don't really read for nanami but i would check out @aanobrain and maybe shoot them an ask bc she's a big fan :)

geto + ao3:

+ lessons in love: DAD!GETO.................. im such a sucker for a good family dynamic in fics and this is adorable !! no curse au if i remember right! // 4k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ forever is in your eyes: angsty but ends in fluff :,) touches on his mental state, riko's death, all that! so sweet, i adore how this author writes him <;3 // 2k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ ripverse: not really a series, more like a compilation of fics! it's got a lot of angst and the one titled 'interlude' contains smut i think so beware, and it's also a lovetriangle/poly w gojo-but-geto-goes-crazy-so-not-poly moment // 55k words, 8 pieces

+ dog days are over: a series!! by the same author who wrote ripverse which is how you know it's going to be brilliant !! marriage, parenthood, some nsfw moments // 30k words, 5 chapters, incomplete

+ curious cat: cat gojo and neighbor geto.. i love this one! it's so so cute and sweet, if you're looking for some light fluff this is definetely for you // 8k words, 5 chapters, complete

megumi + ao3:

+ complicit: college!au !! i remember reading this and loving it omg, the unique concept kept me hooked and interested, especially paired w the lovely writing! one of my fav series ive read. be warned, last chapter is nsfw // 18k words, 5 chapters, complete

+ a very special december 22nd: cute bday fic :,) forgive me for reccing all this author's megumi fics... theyre just too good !! i love the dynamics, all of it! // 5k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ kisses and cough syrup: THE BANTER!! THE FLUFF!!!!! i love this fic sm, so cute! // 1k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ nocturnal: establishING relationship fics are one of my fav genres and this hits the nail on the head.. he's so stupid silly in this and i know you'll love it like i do // 2k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ lover boy: 2nd year reader, annoying meddling gojo, placed at the beginning-ish where megumi gets beat tf up- what more could you ask for! // 2k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ difficult to not overthink: todo strikes again! you ponder megumi's type // 1k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ ten confessions: megumi: ten dif confessions in dif tropes each time, so they can all be read as stand-alone pieces! so so cute and beautifully written.. we all know i love a good confession // 19k words, 7 chapters, incomplete

+ therefore, i am: reader gets mixed up in the world of sorcery.. megumi's there, too! // 3k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ takes one to know one: flowershop au..... convulsing on the ground. my fav trope, ever, and so so cute oh my GOSH // 2k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ i really (x6) like you: fluff!! this is the one i linked in my og ask but it deserves a place here too &lt;3 // 4k words, 1 chapter, complete

[tojikai]

SUNDERED

Pairing: Gojo x reader

Genre: Angst

tags/cw: angst, mean!gojo(kinda), babydaddy!gojo, babymomma!reader, motherhood, insecurities, arguments

word count: 3.2k

One woman’s life lesson is another woman’s better man.

❧ babydaddy!Gojo intentionally runs into you when you’re buying groceries just to show you his girlfriend. The woman was your classmate from high school. At the first meeting, she was shy and tried avoiding your gaze but Satoru just had to call you and ask something about your daughter. Completely unnecessary but he’s just that much of a jerk. Once was considered an accident. But when it happened two, then three times, you already know that you have to change your shopping schedule.

❧ babydaddy!Gojo picks up his daughter from your house an hour late, rubbing on your face that he overslept because he spent “some time” with his girlfriend last night. Distasteful and disrespectful, but you let it slide cause he seems happy. You don’t want to be a killjoy, right? You were never his girlfriend, to begin with. Just someone he got pregnant from a one-night stand. 

❧ babydaddy!Gojo posts pictures of his day out with his daughter online. His girlfriend carrying your kid as the three of them wear matching Mickey and Minnie Mouse headbands. You could only scroll past and continue your work to busy yourself. Maybe you should stop lurking around social media and just use your phone for important messages. Maybe you should also lose feelings for someone who never harbored genuine ones for you in the first place.

❧ babydaddy!Gojo always lets his girlfriend open the door for you when you’re picking up your daughter from his house on weekends. He leans back on the couch, watching you grab your daughter’s things, opening his arms to cuddle with his girlfriend before you even get to walk out the door. It made you feel pathetic and small but what can you do? There’s simply no place for you in that house.

❧ babydaddy!Gojo insists that you spend more time together for the sake of your daughter. You agreed to it and now, you had to sit in the back of the car with your daughter as he drives his girlfriend to work. It made you feel sick and nauseous that you were only able to spend half a day with them before you decided to go home and sleep the day away. Maybe when you wake up, you’ll find it in you to hate him.

“Mommy? Call her, love.” Gojo used a higher voice to encourage his daughter to call you. He knows that he was foul for what happened earlier. But what is he gonna do? He can’t reject his girlfriend’s request, plus it was only a ride. It’s not like she was with you for the whole day. Still, he doesn’t think it’s the reason why you left early. You might be feeling…tired. Even if it was Saturday yesterday and you have no work. You might still feel fatigued on Sunday, right?

“Mama!” The little girl mimicked pointing upstairs. Satoru sighed placing her little bag on a nearby chair as he made his way upstairs. He figured that if you’re still asleep, he could just wait for you to wake up and just look after his daughter here. You’re a single mother for 4 days a week, and on top of that, you also have work. You literally don’t have time to rest. He told himself that he needs to stop messing around just to get a reaction from you. 

Reaching your room, Satoru knocked on the door three times, calling out your name when you didn’t answer. “Wait a second.” You voiced out from the other side, “I’m just gonna call my mom, can you wait for her?” You suppressed a cough at the end of the sentence but it didn’t go unnoticed by Satoru. “Are you sick? I could take her back to my house, we’ll look after her until you feel better. ” The suggestion made your stomach churn. They get to play house with your kid and here you are, being miserable.

You shook your head, realizing how bitter you sounded. She wasn’t unkind in any way to your baby but something in you hurts when you think of them giving your daughter the family experience that you cannot provide. You and Satoru tried to work things out but you just can’t get on the same page. Instead of trying to be better for you and your daughter, he decided to fuck around and date someone else instead. 

You wouldn’t say that your name was clean. What with a couple of threats such as finding someone who could act right. You just didn’t think that he’d really leave. It hurt but now you’re getting yourself used to the feeling. Maybe he just couldn’t act right with you. Because why is he so good with his girlfriend now? She tamed him, as he once boasted to you during a fight.

“I’m stuck with a child that I have with you, but not with you.” He pointed out, leaving a searing pain in your chest. “There’s no way I’m letting that happen.” Tears were starting to form in your eyes as the words come out of his mouth. How could he say something too cruel to you, the mother of his child? All you did was tell him that his girlfriend was getting kind of too much after she told you what to do with your child. And now he’s making you the villain.

“I just told her that—” You tried to explain, voice starting to shake. “If that’s all you did, she wouldn’t come to me crying, Y/N.” You just can’t believe that you’re fighting over this. You already have so much to think about and now this, you also have to be cautious about his girl. “She told you herself, I just didn’t want her telling me how to raise my child!” 

“Of course, she wouldn’t tell me that you’re being harsh to her. Unlike you, she’s actually kind and considerate of other people’s feelings.” You looked down, letting out a strangled sob escape your throat before quickly wiping away the forming tears in your eyes as you turn away from him. Why was he never this defensive of you? He didn’t even try to fight for you when his girlfriend convinced him to take your daughter with them on a trip. Without your permission.

And now he’s talking as if you’ve been nothing but a disturbance in his relationship with her. Everything's just unfair. Yet, you just let it slide because you wanted nothing but peace for your baby. “I don’t want to have this conversation with you anymore, Satoru. You’ve said enough.” You sniffed, walking to your daughter’s room to check if the noises woke her up. Satoru was left standing there, processing all the things that he said.

He watched you disappear into the dark hallway of your apartment, shoulders shaking with your head hung low. Even if he can’t see your face, he can tell that you’re crying and it made him feel like shit. He went overboard, didn’t he? “Fuck.” He threw his keys on the couch, running his fingers through his hair. He wanted to apologize but at the same time, he wanted to prove his point. His girlfriend was only trying to help and you took it the wrong way.

At that time, Satoru thought that maybe she was right. You’re just getting kinda jealous that she could spend time with your daughter and Satoru more and now you’re being too sensitive, letting out your irritation on her. She said that it was a natural feeling for a mother to feel that way but Satoru can’t let you treat his girlfriend like shit just because of your pettiness and jealousy. You have to learn to adjust and accept that some things are gonna be the way they are because of your setup. 

As for you, you felt hurt. Neglected even when you know that you’re not supposed to receive as much attention, much less protection from him. His priority is your child, but not you. You have no choice but to talk and work everything out with them for the sake of your daughter. You know that you could start dating someone of your choice but you wished that it would be that easy. You just want to focus on your daughter and if you’re gonna find someone, you want them to love her as much as you do. 

You wonder what you lacked that couldn’t soften him the way he did to her. You started to think that you’re the problem and that is why you couldn’t fix him as easily as she did. 

You stood up, opening the door for him seeing your two-year-old, reach out to you. “Mama’s sick, love, sorry.” You covered your mouth, blinking away the heaviness in your eyes. Satoru watched you pack your daughter’s things. “If you’re gonna be busy, just tell me. I’ll just contact Mom. She can be with you for a few days, just until my cold is gone.” You murmured, counting the diapers to put in her baby bag. 

You don’t want to be away from her, but letting her stay with you when you’re like this puts her at risk and that’s the last thing you want. You can’t stand seeing your daughter through pain and you’re pretty sure it’s the same for his dad. Begrudgingly, you placed the bag in front of Satoru before reaching over for her favorite toy. You smiled at how she squealed when she saw it.

“You know we’re never too busy to take care of her. Just rest, so you’ll get better soon.” You swallowed, nodding your head slowly as you thought of what else they should take. “Yeah, I’ll be picking her up.” You kept your distance from her, sitting down as you felt your head spinning a bit. “Do you...do you have medicine, though? I could get some if you want,” Satoru can tell that you’re really sick and despite his situation with you, he can’t just let you be when you’re like this. You’re still the mother of his child. 

“No, it’s fine. I have some here. Just take care of her.” Your voice was hoarse and your daughter was starting to reach out for you again as if sensing that something was wrong so you urged Satoru to get going. “Be good, okay?” You waved as she watched you with her curious eyes but waved back, nonetheless. You wouldn’t admit it but you feel envious that they could be happy together with her. You’re afraid that one day she’ll prefer being with them over you.

As for your feelings for Satoru, you hated thinking or talking about it. You’re obviously in love with him, but you wouldn’t acknowledge that yourself, either. You fought too much, you hurt each other too much. Other than that, there’s no point for your feelings now that he has someone he really loves and truly cares about. 

You never experienced the boyfriend-girlfriend stage with Satoru. It’s like one day, you just woke up and you’re already parents. You can’t blame him for not having real feelings for you. You do your best to be as civil to them as you can be but sometimes his girlfriend’s just out of bounds. And after a couple of painful fights with Satoru regarding her, it just became too much for you. 

You’re just tired of feeling like a wedge to someone’s healthy relationship. That’s how Satoru makes you feel and you just can’t take any ache from that. 

Another thing that you deny to yourself is the hope that you might fix this all. There are always what-ifs in your mind, and you would never tell Satoru about them. He’ll probably laugh at you and your threats that you’re gonna be with someone who truly makes you happy. You would never destroy his relationship just because yours didn’t work. If you have to cover your eyes, look away and pretend to be deaf every time they’re around you, you would. 

You often think about what it would be like if he settled down with his girl; if they decided to get married and have a family of their own. You don’t want your daughter to feel left out. You don’t want her to feel like she doesn’t have her own family in the middle of them. You also wondered if you’d have moved on by then. You hope so. You don’t want to be this pitiful and heartbroken forever.

------------------------------

After a couple of days, you’re finally feeling well. You got up early and sent Satoru a text that you’ll be picking up your baby in a few hours. You missed her and her giggles so much. The house was clean during the past days but you very much prefer it to be messy, as long a she’s there. You’ll never mind getting up in the middle of the night or waking up extra early for her. 

Arriving at Satoru’s residence, you rang the doorbell as you waited patiently for someone to open the gate for you. You were hoping that it would be your baby girl, extending her short, chubby arms to you but instead, it was Satoru’s girlfriend. “Come in, she’s still playing inside.” She smiled at you, opening the metal door wider. “Thanks, I messaged Satoru that I was coming to pick her up. Is she ready?” You asked her as you walked to their front door.

“She is, but she’s kinda fussy about it. Satoru bought her a huge playpen and she just wouldn’t get out of it. She’s enjoying a lot.” She tucked a hair behind her ear and you can’t help but feel conscious of how you look. Opening the door, you were welcomed by the sight of Satoru lying down with his daughter in the said enclosure. She was fiddling with a toy as they watched on the big screen. 

Her favorite toy was at the corner, and for some reason, it left a pang in your chest.

“Sweetie, someone’s here for you.” You hated the way she phrased it but you know that she doesn’t mean for it to be offensive or rude to you. The little girl looked up with her binky in her mouth, blinking before smiling at you. “Oh, you’re already here. She wouldn’t let me out of the playpen.” Satoru explained, probably thinking that you didn’t appreciate that it had to be his girlfriend opening the door for you. 

“It’s alright. I don’t mind.” This place always made you feel like you’re an outsider. Probably because you are and it didn’t help that they’re making you feel like it. “Mama!” She waved at you, pointing at the screen as she sat down. “That’s a nice show, love. Maybe we could just continue watching it at home?” You know that she doesn’t have a big playpen there. The screen isn’t that big, either. She suddenly lied back down, whimpering as she kicked her tiny feet. You felt like telling her that you’d work hard to buy her that too.

She doesn’t want to go home yet and that’s what you feared. 

“Baby, mom’s here. She missed you.” Satoru called out but to no avail. He came to lift her up, trying to see if she was just being too lazy to get up. Her eyes were glued to the television as she sucked on her pacifier. She was too into it, pointing the show to everyone before smiling at you. Oh, how you missed that smile. “Let’s go, now.” You cooed at her, softly clapping your hands.

When you tried to reach for her as Satoru leans her close to you, she started wiggling around. “Down, Mama! Wait.” Her cute language never ceases to make your heart swell with joy despite the fact that she’s trying to get away from you. She runs away, stopping to look around before going to Satoru’s girlfriend and hugging her leg. She was in awe when she picked up your daughter. 

So… she’s who your daughter’s referring to by…Mama. You could almost hear your heart shatter at the realization. Since when did she start calling her Mama?

“You don’t wanna go home yet? But Mom’s here.” She talked in her baby voice and you don’t know if you’re gonna be happy that she treats your daughter really well or jealous that she came running to her when she don’t want to do something. Satoru went up to them, leaving you standing a few meters away. You don’t like what you’re seeing aside from your daughter.

“It’s not good to ignore Mama.” Satoru tapped her nose with his finger which she cutely swatted away, eliciting a chuckle from him. “Y/N, I was thinking… maybe I could just, uh, take her home later in the day. This playpen just arrived yesterday and you know how kids are…” He laughed nervously, struggling to find a nice way to say that your daughter won’t be coming home yet.

“Yesterday, I was joking about giving her playmates and she was so excited, she was running around.” His girlfriend giggled as she shared. It was a simple story yet it was a thorn to your heart. Why does it seem like your every nightmare is coming to life? You just smiled at her, understanding that she was talking about giving your daughter siblings. Satoru was silent, but you didn’t dare look at his face. You know that it’s in their future plans and you don’t have to see him smiling about it too. 

“That’s adorable..” You don’t know what else to say, so you just nodded your head slowly, blinking quickly so as to bring yourself back to reality. His place was huge compared to your apartment. The playpen looks so much more comfortable than the crib she has at your place. She has new toys and a mom and dad by her side. So, now she doesn’t want to leave. Suddenly, you can feel the weakness in your knees from when you were sick starting to come back. You cleared your throat as you straightened yourself.

“J-just take her home later. I, uh, bought something for her.” You lied, knowing that you still have to go looking for something you can buy for your lovely child. You wanted to snatch her away from Satoru’s girlfriend, her other mom, but the giggle flowing out of her lips are too precious for you to ruin; the smile on her face as she tickled her tummy was too priceless. Look at them, you told yourself as you started to feel farther and farther away from their little world. They’re a picture of a happy family. 

“I’ll see you later, honey…” You whispered, giving her head a pat as she looked up at you with her big, cerulean eyes. You didn’t wait for any of them to walk you out, you just let your feet take you out of their home, not daring to look back for the fear of breaking down. Your fingers tremble along with your lips and the tiny droplets of rain felt like acid on your skin. Maybe what they say was true. We experience people differently.

One woman’s life lesson is another woman’s better man.