he looks down in shame. and ryomen sukuna is never ashamed of anything he’s done, and he’s done a lot of shit.
“that asshole was putting his hands on you” he huffs and looks at your chest instead of your eyes “so yes, again” you’ve never looked this visibly annoyed, and what was scaring him even more is how calm your voice was.
“look at me, not my tits ryomen” you narrow your eyes, he immediately looks up “yes ma’am” you grab his collar and the security turns a blind eye(he’s been getting on their nerves also)
“when I say no stupid shit, that means no-” you give him a hard slap “-jail, got it?” he just nods his face didn’t even budge, of course you don’t intend to harm your husband and you’re not abusive. sometimes with ryomen sukuna you literally need to smack some sense into him.
“yes ma’am” he nods again, “can you bail me now?” you roll your eyes “im not picking you up again, call choso” ryomens eyebrows knit together in annoyance “but i want you to pick me up” if anyone didn’t know any better, he’s whining for you to pick him up.
“no ryo” he tilts his head and subconsciously pouts then leans in “cmon woman, stop being a brat” his words have no bite, but when you smile he scowls.
you take a deep sigh and close your eyes, “last time” “i promise baby” he smirks.
you both know this definitely isn’t the first, nor the last.
ps. ok pinky promise this is the last drabble after this ima finish two more request than boxer choso is coming😭 taglist : : @in-aa @chewiebee @applelite @crybabylulu @yassifie-d @ai-no-tegami @silverwfern @oksukuna
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨From a food baby to.. an actual baby? ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
Tags: [MDNI]husband!nanami x foodie!wife reader. SMUT and a sprinkle of fluff. Breeding (?), p in v, oral sex (f recieving), mating press, freaks in an established relationship (married), pregnancy. I need to stop writing smut but this has been in my drafts..
Ever since you were a little kid, you looooved eating.
And it's not like your parents teaching you to try everything at least once helped as you ended up growing up to be a foodie with no pickiness when it comes to eating at all.
Enter Nanami who you met at 21, just a year from graduating college, at one of the new local bakeries which you had just discovered recently back then.
He was all crisp button downs, dark blue slacks, cuffed sleeves, messenger bag slung over his shoulder—a walking portrait of what you just wished you would be waking up to in less than 10 years.
You didn't expect to run into him any more times after you'd seen him at the pastry shop ever again, he's one of those sights you only see once in your life.
Well, you were very wrong.
That same week, same time, three days later when you went back for a pick me up, he was there. Picking up the same order you noticed he got last time, and somehow looking finer than Monday did him justice.
Just out of curiosity, you asked for the same sandwich he got—a French Casse-croûte—fresh ham and cheese hidden in a crisp baguette baked early in the morning.
So simple, yet so heavenly. Though, you underestimated your stomach's capacity of hosting the large sandwich and... Had a little food baby pressing against the linen cloth of your yellow sundress.
Nanami noticed you had purchased and consumed the same sandwich he had—though not a social person at all, he found himself walking over to your table and making small talk.
“I’m impressed you finished it.” He had commented, you were wiping remaining crumbs from the corners of your mouth when his voice startled you.
Immediately you had flushed a deep shade of beetroot, suddenly feeling way too conscious about your dress being a tad bit tighter around the waist, the hair sticking to your neck and the fire burning the apples of your cheeks.
Because he was there talking to you when not even three days ago you were daydreaming about the handsome stranger you’d seen—the epitome of your type if you had one.
Grounding yourself surprisingly quickly, you had sheepishly smiled when replying “Oh it sure was a challenge..”, in a shy mutter.
Then, you realised how greedy you sounded and immediately stirred to fix your words up.
“I mean—I, uh, I was just really hungry you know? At work-” you began rambling, hoping to save face in front of perfectly gelled back hair and sculptured cheekbones that had women’s knees weak for days.
but Nanami broke out in a soft chuckle he hadn’t realised he needed until a pretty stranger pulled one out of him.
He left you with his business card and called one day later like he promised.
Fast forward five years later, you still have the now-outdated business card neatly kept in your bedside table along with your husband’s initial draft for your wedding vows which you found more authentic than the version he ended up reading to the audience on your special day—heartwarming and emotional nonetheless.
Living with Kento has taught you a slow world you never thought existed within all of the noise and chaos.
Every page from a book is turned slowly, every step of the day is calculated with no effort—just routine, every hour with your husband is priceless.
And you didn’t imagine this side of life existed. Where every human sentiment somehow was deeper and stronger when it was shared with your person.
Living within Nanami’s comfort zone is learning that his routine bends to you, and eventually incorporates your life into his.
It’s learning that he loves waking up with the sheets tangled between your legs, one of his hands buried in your hair as your face is pressed against his bare chest.
That he adores pressing reverent kisses to your neck, forehead, palm, temple. With a burning gaze that says more than any verbal statement ever could.
However, you learn that your husband relishes in afteroon reading with you snugly tucked by his side on the loveseat in your makeshift library corner, more than the normal person does.
Which is exactly where you are, pressed against his side, head on his shoulder, half of your brain paying attention to the words on the page he’s reading, the other half dipping into a dangerous side as you feel his warmth spread over you.
You’re insatiable, just hours ago Kento cooked you a full-course meal because you woke up “feeling empty” not really knowing what is wrong with you and thinking that just a hearty meal will do.
Creamy alfredo pasta did not in fact solve your issue. Now, once again with an empty stomach, you hold in the urge to open your mouth and disturb your husband’s reading.
Just what were you even going to complain about? It’s not like you were hungry.
And then it clicks.
Slowly, the corners of your lips gently pull upward as your fingers trace up his torso, feeling the dip of his hard abs, the rough lines of scars underneath his breathable pijama shirt.
God he is a sight for sore eyes.
The cogs turn in your head as you start to wriggle your way out from underneath his muscular arm draped over your figure, which was holding you close to him, palm on your hip.
His head turns from the book balanced between his fingers, eyes zeroing on your shifting figure that was slowly crawling over his bulky legs.
An eyebrow of his subtly lifts subconsciously as he carefully watches your every moment. The book in his hand lowers and closes—page forgotten, bookmark nowhere to be seen—as you sit yourself on his lap facing him, knees digging into the soft leather of the loveseat.
Using your hands on his shoulders to stabilize yourself, you slightly fight back a smirk when you feel Kento's hands find their place on your waist almost instantly after you get comfortable.
This position is no stranger to either of you—which is why Nanami puts the pieces of the puzzle together quicker than anyone else could. So this is what you meant when you said you felt empty?
It makes even more sense when he remembers that a few days ago your period tracker said you would be ovulating soon. Absentmindedly, his fingers trace gentle figures on your hips where his hands have lowered to.
You peer down at him, swimming in his alluring hazel eyes full of an unspeakable kind of love—feeling yourself melt into him.
He breaks the silence, "What is it, darling?" Even though he knows the clear answer, he asks.
Drawing closer to him, your head dips past his chin and you go to press a light kiss to his throat, feeling him swallow when you do. The familiar shape of him starts to grow beneath you.
Again, you feel pride creep up your spine, but you push it down and kiss the side of his neck—itching closer to his collarbone with each kiss peppered. You hear his breath lose it's steadyness little by little.
After a bit of teasing, you finally answer with a shrug "I feel..weird.” Letting a defeated sigh slip past your lips as they press up and at the peak of his right cheekbone.
“Weird?” He chokes out. “What do you mean by weird, honey?”
You hum as you shift over him, deliberately circling letters over his lap and dragging your thinly covered warmth against him.
“I guess I feel kind of.. empty.” The sultry tone in which your voice has dropped to makes blood rush at an embarrassing speed to Nanami’s cock—stiffening like a teenager underneath you.
“Yeah?” He hums.
You bite your lips, tongue then tracing your canines as you run your hands over his broad chest.
“Yeah.”
“I can do something about that.” His hand curves around your ass, firmly grabbing onto the skin—not enough to hurt, enough to have you dripping even more.
Your eyes lift to his face—clean,shaved, no hair to see, pink lips, drooping eyes. “You can?” You muse.
He smiles, a smirk he tried to suppress knowing what you’re going to ask for next.
“Like what?”
And before your question can even land, he gets up. Two hands under your thighs, effortlessly carrying your body.
Carefully, he turns and lays you down on the loveseat. Bracing his broad frame by the armrests—face dangerously close to yours.
Noses brushing, musk and manliness oozing out of him so much your legs close and you can feel yourself pulsing down there.
The roles are reversed and you are so whipped for your husband it’s not even funny anymore. How he has completely turned the tables.
A pin drops somewhere and Kento’s lips gently latch onto yours. Warmth and love exploding in your chest. Neediness clawing at you as your hands wrap around his shoulder’s.
He kisses like you’re a forbidden fruit he can’t resist tasting—happily accepting his sin. Basking in it when a swipe of his tongue under your lips opens a whole world he knows at the back of his hand.
You feel him exploring you—one hand running up your thigh—pressing a thumb against the wet material of your panties.
A moan from you vibrates against his lips. He detaches to hear more as his fingers slip past the lace and dive right into you.
The needy whine that escapes you has him thanking the gods for your paths crossing—for the universe giving him such a good wife.
His mind starts to run wild at the thought of what he’s going to do to you.
Thought he would never push or admit it. Nanami has found himself getting turned on way too often lately at the sight of you bloated, belly full of food after a hearty meal.
At the beginning of your relationship, he tried to ignore the sight—figuring you’d get insecure or uncomfortable if he looked at it for too long.
But he’s been having a hard time not relishing in your well-fed shape.
He’d never admit he cooks more food than usual lately to see you drape your hand under the protruding curve and huff out like you’re in pain from eating so much.
Because the sight of you so full drives him insane.
So insane the thought of using a condom doesn’t even cross his mind when you have sex. It doesn’t help that you have no intention of reminding him.
What would you look like if you were full of him?
His child.
A walking testament of him feeding you well.
A sharp moan snaps him out of his thoughts and he kneels down, taking his slicked fingers from your pussy and spreading your legs wide in front of him.
You’re blushing like crazy. Heat crawling up your spine, bundling up at your neck and cheeks—he’s barely even touched you.
Nanami’s big hands slide under your legs, hooking onto the thin material that has snapped back in place and pulling it off.
His face comes closer to your pussy subconsciously—body begging for a taste before his mind can even catch up.
And he dives in, hands hooked on your thighs, pulling you down the seat and closer to his face so he can lick up your slicked lips.
You become putty in his hands, back already arching off the seat. He sucks and sucks, greets with open mouth kisses—desperately devours like it’s his first time on earth.
Nose casually nudging your entrance, making your body jerk so violently that you almost cry at the blissful feeling.
Kento’s tongue slides into your walls, tasting your sweet nectar straight from the source and losing himself in its sweetness.
Your mind starts going blank, babbles of complete nonsense spilling out of your mouth as he jumpstarts your orgasm.
“Honey—don’t stop-please—“
He doesn’t, instead, a finger slips in—unexpectedly, but so welcome one your desperate hole starts clenching around him.
“Shit I’m going to—” You try to tell him the coil in your lower belly is going to snap but it does before you’re finished, coating his tongue, chin and nose in you and only you.
Panting, you try to catch your breath but your husband’s jaw doesn’t put itself to rest as he continues to lap up every drop of your juices over your sensitive clit.
Back arching off the loveseat, high-pitched moans rip from your chest from the overstimulation.
“Kento—” You whine.
He pulls back silent, shiny chin and drowsy eyes looking up at you from his position—a sinful picture that has heat pooling in between your legs again.
“Yes, sweetheart?” The urge to ride his face when his deep voice calls out to you with those nicknames is immense, but you want him.
“Inside—please go-”
“Your words, darling, use them.” Your hands find his forearm rested over your spread thigh and you dig your fingernails into them.
“Ken, please—please fuck me.”
A frown overtakes his face, lips disapprovingly pulling down into a pityful pout.
“I’m not going to fuck you, honey. I’ve already told you that.”
And it’s true, Nanami does not fuck. He is a stranger to the act of using someone as a tool for him to get off, belittle them into a good fuck or a bad one.
He loves.
And he loves you so much.
“Love me, Ken.”
A small smirk breaks out.
You have him.
He climbs over you, heavy—muscular thighs barely fitting between your spread out legs where he presses his clothed hard-on against your slit.
From the sensitivity, you almost moan against him.
His lips latch onto yours again, hungrily yet deliberately finding their way down your throat—making you taste your remains on his tongue.
Your hands travel down to the hem of his thin cotton sweatpants and hook your fingers both onto that seam, and his boxer’s waistband.
Simultaneously, the two layers that were between the both of you drop to the floor. Thick 7,5 inches to match his 6 feet of height.
Girthy, one prominent vein leading to the shaft and bringing your eyes to his dusty blonde happy trail.
Sculpted v-line that has you going feral for days.
Gosh, you really love your husband in all of his glory.
Wrapping your hand—and barely being able to fully grasp it—around him, you stroke a few times before rubbing him against your bare pussy.
A shock of electricity shooting up your spine at the feeling of his precum mixing with your slick. Nanami groans against your lips before delicately pulling your hand away and taking over.
Already nudging at the entrance has you biting down his soft lips to hold back a moan.
The tip slips inside after some coaxing, your fingernails dig into his shoulder’s for stability, legs shaking due to the pressure.
Kento tries to tether you, “That’s it, love. Relax, I got you.”
And he really does.
He pulls away from your lips every time he pushes himself a bit more inside, carefully watching your face—searching for any sign of pain or backing out.
Not once do you display any, so he bottoms out. Balls pressing against the soft skin of your ass over the expensive leather.
While you adjust, still inside, he rearranges both of your legs to rest over his shoulders as he hunches and looms over you.
Slowly, he starts moving. The deliberate drags of his cock between your velvety walls tattoo themselves into your gummy brain.
Eyes fluttering—opening and closing from pleasure, you feel yourself start to ascend to that personal heaven he always takes you to.
You clench around his size, unable to relax but enjoying the burn so much.
A hand of yours claws at his shirt, trying to bring him closer, harder. He wastes no time in delivering his sweet wifes request.
One thrust and you feel him in your throat, pale pink tip pushing past your cervix—probably going to bruise it later on.
But you love it.
And he continues. In and out, back and forth. A frothy creamy ring building at the base where your bodies meet.
He sees the bulge of him in your stomach, the imprint of his cock peeking through and his mind goes haywire.
The image of your protruding stomach after a meal, the idea of you leaking with his cum running down your thighs, the thought of a little baby with your genetics growing inside of your swollen belly.
Nanami’s control breaks with a hard snap.
His hips slow down, gently stroking your insides now. No longer pulling you apart. But he shifts, lowers his chest down, teeth finding your nipples and cock angled at a new direction.
You try to focus on what he’s doing still. Then the controlled thrust comes—slow, but so deep you know this is how he can get a baby in you.
Now, you feel full.
And you can only hope he leaves you this way.
“Mmh-Kento?”
He detaches his head from your tit. “Yes, sweetie?”
His cock slides out your pussy until only the very tip of it is inside before he rams himself home again.
“Oh my go—” you get cut off from your vision going blank at the pleasure. “—Kento, stay- inside.”
You clench around him, not wanting him to leave.
“Oh?” He knows what you want. He’s your husband after all. Doting, careful.
“Please.” You breathe out, pleading, clawing at his back under his shirt. His pace picks up just enough to be rhythmic but intimate.
“You want me to fill you up?”
Not even a beat goes by before you whimper. “Yesyesyes.”
So he stays inside. He finds your clit with thick fingers, gives her enough attention for you to get on cloud 9.
Slams into you till you spasm around his cock and then fills you up. Paints your insides with him.
And suddenly, you no longer feel empty.
But maybe you need a few more rounds to ensure you will be full of him for some time.
At 9 months pregnant though, you desperately need to feel empty. The weight of your son making you feel like an overfilled dumpling about to pop.
Your husband has his large hands that got you in this position in the first place on your lower back, applying pressure and massaging your aching hips while you hunch over the edge of the hospital bed as your lower half bounces on a gym ball.
“Ken, I curse you and your heavy baby.”
He doesn’t know if he should laugh or comfort you. No, he’s not vexed at all by you cursing him—he knows how his heavy son has been giving you a hard time in your first pregnancy so he’s not going to deny he is the cause of it.
In the end, he chooses the latter. “Just a bit more, honey. You’re strong, he’ll be here in no time.”
“He better be or I’ll strangle you!”
He got his nine months of your stomach poking out from under your clothes, nine months of you looking like a goddess around the house and glowing more than the sun.
Nine months of it driving him crazy how you are swollen with him.
Who knew his wife being a foodie would turn him on so much…
Anyway,
Nanami Kento is right where he wants to be.
Fanart by aradiart (middle one) and k_u_r_o_2_ both on X. Oh and a 🤍 for u!
Genre: Dark Fiction, Psychological Horror, Yandere, Thriller, Slow Burn
Word Count: 10k
⚠ Content Warning:
Psychological manipulation, gaslighting, obsessive behavior, stalking, captivity, emotional abuse, physical violence, disturbing themes, non-consensual sexual content, graphic sexual content.
Please DO NOT read if you're sensitive to these subjects.
🚫 IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER:
This is a work of fiction intended for mature audiences. The relationships and behaviors portrayed are abusive, unhealthy, and should not be romanticized or normalized in real life. This story is written purely for psychological horror, suspense, and dark fictional storytelling.
This piece was written as a commission. The core idea and dynamics were requested by the client, and I expanded on it with my own interpretation. Thank you for commissioning me<3
Masterlist
You're staring at nothing again. The hum of the building settles into your bones, a low vibration you can't shake since you got back.
Your eyes feel heavy, and every few minutes you realize you've been standing still, holding the same posture, not really seeing anything.
A voice cuts through. "Hey. You okay?"
You blink, turn. A coworker is looking at you with that mix of curiosity and mild concern.
"You've been spacing out all day.”
"I've been calling you for like... a whole minute.”
You gave an awkward laugh, rubbing the back of your neck.
"Sorry. Just didn't get much sleep.”
"You seriously need some rest.”
"Yeah," you murmur with a small shrug. "Guess so..."
“Mmh.” They smile, just a casual curve of their lips. "So…”
“How was your trip to Japan?"
“....”
You stare at them for a moment.
Your thoughts drift somewhere else before you quickly pull yourself back, forcing a tight smile onto your face.
"Yeah... it was…”
“Great.”
—
"I'm not really... looking for marriage yet."
The man in front of you watches you for a long moment. His expression barely changes. When he finally answers, his voice remains as calm as ever.
"Oh..."
A brief pause.
"I'm not asking you to marry me. Right now."
The words leave you blinking in surprise. Before you can respond, he continues in the same measured tone.
"But at least we need to do something to show that you're committed..." His gaze remains steady.
"...to me.”
The words hang in the air, refusing to settle into your chest.
"...But isn't this... too quick?" Your voice comes out thinner than you intended.
He doesn't answer right away. His gaze drops for a heartbeat—a measured breath escaping him in a quiet exhale.
There's no frustration in the lines of his face. If anything, he looks like a man trying to piece together a puzzle you didn't know you were building.
When his eyes lift to meet yours again, his voice is steady. Unshaken.
"I don't think it is."
He pauses, letting the weight of his certainty settle between you.
"You've become comfortable around me." His gaze holds yours, unblinking. "Isn't that why you're here?"
Only then do you force yourself to truly see the room.
The living room stretches around you, immaculate, every surface gleaming under the soft amber light spilling through the tall windows.
Polished hardwood floors reflect the glow, warm and inviting. The navy-blue furnishings are arranged with a precision that speaks of deliberate care—nothing out of place, nothing accidental.
You hadn't even noticed how naturally you'd stepped inside, how your feet had carried you past the threshold without hesitation.
Your lips part, searching for something to say. "Nanami—…”
"I don't understand.”
“My love..." He continues before you can finish, his voice gentle but unyielding, not interrupting so much as guiding.
Another pause.
"We've enjoyed each other's company for nearly a month." His head tilts, just slightly, a gesture of genuine curiosity.
"We've shared meals."
"We've spent evenings together."
"You've trusted me enough to let me walk you home." His expression doesn't shift. His composure remains intact.
"So help me understand."
The question drops into the space between you like a stone into still water.
"What changed?"
The silence that follows is thick enough to swallow sound. You lower your gaze, your throat tightening.
"...Nothing changed." The words are barely a whisper, fragile as glass.
"It just..."
"...caught me off guard."
Something flickers across his face—a flicker of understanding, soft and fleeting.
"Hm."
He nods, a small, slow movement. "I can understand that."
The tension in your shoulders eases for a fraction of a second. Then his right hand moves behind him.
When it returns, a small velvet box rests in his palm. Dark blue. The color of midnight.
He looks at it briefly, as though weighing the decision one last time, before holding it out between you.
"I even bought the rings." His voice is quieter now, almost apologetic.
"For us."
Silence…
Your eyes lock onto the box. Your mind refuses to catch up. The velvet looks soft, but the edges of the box are sharp against his palm.
Nanami watches you with that quiet attentiveness that has always been his hallmark. The kind of attention that makes you feel seen down to your marrow.
He notices your silence.
Without a word, he slowly lowers his hand and closes the box with a soft, decisive click. The sound cuts through the room like a quiet verdict.
"I'm not forcing you."
His tone remains gentle, but there's something underneath it—a thread of resignation, carefully controlled.
"I wouldn't." A faint smile touches his lips, but it doesn't reach his eyes. The corners of his mouth lift, but the warmth doesn't follow.
"I suppose..."
He exhales quietly, and you feel the air shift. "I misunderstood."
He turns the small box over once in his hand, his thumb tracing the edge of the velvet, before slipping it back into his pocket.
"I believed we were arriving at the same destination."
His gaze drifts to the floor for a moment, and you see the faintest shadow of disappointment cross his features before he masters it.
"Perhaps I was walking a little further ahead than you realized."
He looks back up, and his composure is intact again, seamless as a mask. "That's my mistake."
The words are calm. Reasonable. Almost too kind. And yet they settle in your chest like a stone, so heavy and cold.
"I don't want you agreeing to something because you feel obligated."
He holds your gaze, steady and unwavering. "If your feelings aren't where mine are..."
A faint nod, almost to himself.
"Then I'll simply have to accept that I was mistaken."
He stands there, composed as ever, the perfect picture of graceful acceptance.
But the quiet disappointment he carries so effortlessly leaves you feeling as though you've reached into his chest and pulled the warmth out yourself.
You watch him, the way his shoulders relax just a fraction, the faint crease between his brows that smooths as he steadies his breath.
A thought flickers, unbidden.
It's not marriage yet… So why not?
"...Wait.”
“Are you sure, love?” he asks, his voice, usually so measured, cracks just enough to reveal the vulnerability he keeps hidden.
“You want to be with me?”
You nod, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, and let out a soft laugh that sounds more like a sigh of relief. “Yes,” you say, the word simple but weighted. “You just shocked me, okay?”
"I see." A faint smile touches his lips. "My apologies."
"I wasn't trying to startle you.”
He exhales slowly, the breath escaping as if he'd been holding it for far too long.
“Wait here, on the sofa,” he says, his voice low and steady, the faintest hint of a smile playing at his lips. “I'll be right back.”
You settle back into the cushions, the fabric cool against your skin, and glance at the wall clock. Five minutes tick by, each second stretching just enough to make you wonder if he’s changed his mind.
Then, from behind you, a voice—soft, familiar, yet startlingly close—calls your name.
You turn, and there he stands, arms laden with a bouquet of your favorite flowers, their petals a riot of color that seems to catch the light and hold it.
Beside them sits a massive teddy bear, its fur plush and inviting, and a box of chocolates tied with a satin ribbon.
He stands there with the bouquet lifted just enough to hide part of his face, a shy gesture that feels utterly out of character for the composed man you know, and yet it makes your heart flutter all the more.
You rise from the sofa, still staring at him in quiet disbelief before carefully taking the bouquet from his hands. Holding it against your chest, you let out a small laugh.
"It's... quite big.”
You gently place the bouquet on the side table before taking the oversized teddy from him, your fingers brushing over its impossibly soft fur. You can't help but smile at the absurdity of its size as you set it carefully beside the bouquet.
He watches you, his eyes warm, and lets out a soft sigh that seems to carry both relief and something akin to awe.
Slowly, he reaches for one of your hands, his fingers brushing yours with a reverence that feels almost ceremonial.
From his pocket he produces the same small velvet box, opening it to reveal a ring that catches the light with a quiet brilliance.
“This… is for you,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper that feels like a secret shared between just the two of you.
He lifts your hand, turning it over so that the back of your palm faces him, and presses a tender kiss to the skin there.
You look up at him, seeing the faint flush on his cheeks, the way his usual composure has softened into something tender and earnest.
“I… I wasn’t expecting this,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.
He smiles, a genuine, unguarded smile that reaches his eyes. “Neither was I,” he replies, his tone carrying a quiet certainty.
"But I wanted you to know..." He slides the ring gently onto your finger. It fits perfectly.
"...that I chose you with every intention of staying." His thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles.
"I hope... you'll allow me to remain by your side.”
—
It had all started with a chance encounter outside Shinjuku Station.
You'd been standing near the East Exit, trying to decide where to go next, when a quiet voice had caught your attention.
"Your first time in Tokyo?"
A stranger in a well-tailored suit had patiently explained the quickest way to Shibuya, pointing you toward the JR Yamanote Line and even telling you which exit would make exploring easier.
Before you could thank him more than once, he'd simply wished you an enjoyable trip and disappeared back into the evening crowd.
You hadn't expected to see him again.
Yet three days later, amidst the chaos of Shibuya Crossing, your paths crossed once more.
This time, the conversation lasted longer.
You noticed the white bandages wrapped neatly around his left hand—a detail you'd somehow missed during your first encounter.
Concerned, you'd asked if the injury was serious.
He'd looked down at it for a quiet moment, letting out a soft sigh followed by the faintest chuckle before answering,
"Yeah..."
A small pause.
"It is."
That was also the day the two of you finally exchanged names.
After that, the meetings simply... continued.
At first they felt like coincidences, then familiar routines. You'd cross paths in different districts, different cafés, different stations.
Sometimes he'd stop to recommend a restaurant, insisting the food was worth trying. Other times he'd quietly hand you a drink before you had the chance to buy one yourself.
Whenever the clock edged toward six in the evening, he'd walk with you for a while before politely excusing himself, never quite accompanying you all the way home.
The conversations remained effortless. Food, work, the city, places worth visiting—nothing personal enough to make you uncomfortable, yet somehow enough to make his company become familiar.
Weeks slipped by without either of you noticing.
Eventually, other people began noticing instead.
Cashiers, shopkeepers, waiters—strangers smiled at the two of you with the easy assumption that you were together. You always laughed it off. Nanami never corrected them.
When you finally asked why, he'd simply stirred his tea before replying, almost absentmindedly,
“I could have.”
A small pause.
“It didn't seem necessary."”
"People seem to mistake us for a couple rather often."
You'd laughed awkwardly. "Yeah... They do."
"Does it bother you?"
You'd thought about it before shaking your head. "Not really."
He'd acknowledged the answer with a single nod.
“I see."
Looking back now, perhaps that had been the moment everything quietly began changing—though you hadn't realized it then.
—
The next morning, you wake to the warmth of sunlight spilling across the bed, blinking slowly as the unfamiliar ceiling comes into focus.
It takes a second before the memories of yesterday settle back into place, and almost immediately, your eyes wander toward the armchair by the window.
"...Huh?"
You sit up properly, pushing the blanket from your legs. The chair is empty. You could've sworn you'd left the oversized teddy there before climbing into bed.
It had been impossible to miss—nearly half your height, ridiculous enough to make you laugh every time you looked at it.
Frowning, you climb to your feet and glance around the room. The bouquet still sits exactly where you'd placed it. The chocolates remain untouched on the dresser.
But the teddy...
It's gone.
You crouch beside the bed first, peering underneath as though something that large could somehow fit there. Nothing.
The wardrobe is next. Then behind the bedroom door. Even the bathroom.
"...That's weird."
Straightening, you scratch absentmindedly at your temple.
Did you move it?
You don't remember doing that.
After another quick look around the room, you give up with a quiet sigh. Maybe you'd left it downstairs last night and simply forgot.
The thought is enough to satisfy you—for now.
By the time you make your way downstairs, the apartment is already filled with the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
Nanami is sitting at the dining table, glasses resting low on his nose as he quietly flips through the morning newspaper. A porcelain cup sits beside him, steam still curling lazily into the air.
He notices you almost immediately.
Without saying a word, he folds the newspaper neatly and sets it aside before gesturing toward the empty chair across from him.
"Good morning."
You return the smile, slipping into the seat opposite him. "Morning."
His eyes linger on your face for a moment. "You slept well?"
"I think so."
"I'm glad."
He reaches for his coffee, taking an unhurried sip before setting the cup back onto its saucer. "What would you like for breakfast?"
"I've already prepared everything, but if there's something you'd rather have, I don't mind making it."
You tell him what you're in the mood for.
He nods once. For a moment, silence settles comfortably between you. Then the thought from upstairs returns.
"...Oh."
You glance up. "The teddy you gave me yesterday..."
His fingers pause around the handle of his cup. "Yes?"
"I can't find it."
A small crease forms between his brows. "...The teddy?"
"The really big one!"
He looks at you for a long second. Then, with complete sincerity—
"...Sweetheart." His voice is as gentle as ever. "There wasn't a teddy."
You blink. "What?"
"I bought you flowers." He says it simply, almost apologetically.
"I'm afraid there wasn't.”
"Huh...?" You let out a small, confused laugh.
"No... there was." You gesture with your hands, trying to show the size.
"It was huge!"
His expression doesn't change. "If there had been one," he says softly, "I think I would've remembered carrying something that large."
That…
...actually makes your confidence falter.
"...Maybe..." You rub the back of your neck.
"Maybe I left it somewhere else.”
“Hm.” He doesn't linger on the subject. Instead, he reaches for his coffee again before asking, almost casually—
"Would you like to spend today together as well?"
You hesitate. "I don't want to keep taking up your time."
He sets the cup down with a quiet click. "I wouldn't have asked if I minded."
The corner of your mouth lifts. "...Okay."
A smile—small but unmistakably genuine—appears on his face.
"Good."
He rises from his chair, stopping beside you just long enough to gently pat the top of your head with his other hand, the one still wrapped in bandages.
"I'll bring your breakfast." His hand slips away as naturally as it arrived.
"Freshen up."
"We'll leave once you're ready."
You nod, while he disappears into the kitchen. Left alone, your gaze drifts back toward the staircase.
Your brows slowly knit together again.
...There was definitely a teddy.
—
The smell of freshly brewed coffee fills the apartment as Nanami sets a steaming plate in front of you. The eggs are cooked just right, sprinkled with chopped chives that catch the morning light spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
He moves calmly, without wasting a single motion—and when he looks at you, his gaze lingers just a little longer than usual.
“Here,” he says, his voice low. " hope it suits your taste.”
“Thanks.” You smile, grateful for the ordinary comfort of the gesture, and lift your fork.
He watches you eat, his elbows resting on the table, his hands folded loosely. There’s a softness in his eyes, the kind that makes you feel both seen and strangely exposed.
A faint tapping against the glass draws your attention. You glance toward the windows just as rain begins to fall, droplets gathering before sliding down the panes and blurring the city beyond.
Nanami follows your gaze, his brow furrowing just slightly. He lets out a breath that sounds part sigh, part resignation.
"I had hoped we could go out today. There's a market nearby I thought you might enjoy. Unfortunately..."
He glances toward the rain. "...it seems we'll have to postpone that.”
You hum, the sound low and throaty, and let your eyes drop to the plate. The fork hovers over a piece of toast, your appetite suddenly muted by the weight of the words hanging in the air.
“Could you… drop me off at the hotel?” you say, the question slipping out before you can fully shape it. “I need to pack my things. It’s… almost the end.”
He sets his fork down with a quiet clink, the metal catching the light. "Of course." A small nod.
"I'll have your belongings brought here. You don't need to concern yourself with them.”
“But…”
“...Where are you going?” he asks, his voice gentle but probing, as if he’s trying to read the map of your thoughts from the curve of your jaw.
You swallow, the words catching in your throat. “I need to go back,” you say, the phrase feeling both familiar and foreign. “It’s the end of the trip.”
He leans back in his chair, the movement deliberate, his broad shoulders settling against the backrest.
"I see." He folds his arms, considering your words for a quiet moment. "That would make settling there rather difficult for me." His eyes meet yours.
"...Do you truly have to go back?”
The question hangs between you, heavy and unexpected. You feel a flash of surprise—had he been imagining a future where his life intertwined with yours in your hometown? The thought is both flattering and terrifying.
“You don’t have to,” you reply quickly, the words tumbling out in an attempt to ease the tension you sense building.
“We can keep it this way. No need to… change anything.”
He studies you for a long moment, the silence stretching like a taut string. Then, his voice low and earnest, he asks again, "...Would you rather we live apart?”
Your heart thuds against your ribs. You want to answer, to give him the clarity he’s seeking, but the words feel like they might shatter something fragile.
You look down at your plate, the fork now idle in your hand, and toy with the tines, the metal cool against your fingertips.
“I… don’t know,” you admit, the honesty raw and unfiltered. “I’m not trying to push you away. I just need to sort things out.”
“….”
He exhales, a sound that carries both frustration and a hint of something softer—perhaps disappointment, perhaps understanding.
He rises from his chair with a fluid motion that belies the tension in his shoulders, and moves toward you.
He places a hand lightly on the back of your chair, his fingers brushing the fabric, his palm resting just above your shoulder. His voice drops, intimate and a little wounded.
"You accepted yesterday." His voice remains calm, though quieter now. "Yet today..."
A slight furrow appears between his brows.
"...you're speaking as though nothing has changed." His gaze searches yours.
"Help me understand, love.”
Your gaze flicks up to his face, searching for the familiar calm that usually anchors him. You see the faint crease between his brows, the way his lips press together as he tries to make sense of the shift.
Your eyes drift back to the plate, to the fork you’re still twisting between your fingers, “Nanami, it's just—”
Before you can formulate a reply, his hand tightens—not painfully, but with a firm, unmistakable grip—around your throat.
The pressure is enough to make you turn your head, to force your eyes to meet his.
"Eyes. On. Me, [Name].”
His fingers remain around your throat for another heartbeat.
Not tight enough to hurt. Just firm enough that every instinct pulling your attention elsewhere quietly dies beneath the weight of his touch.
"You aren't going back." His voice remains even, almost gentle, the words carrying the same calm certainty.
There isn't a trace of anger in them, nor hesitation. He simply looks at you, those hazel eyes unwavering.
"...You aren't going anywhere."
For a second you only stare at him, convinced you've misunderstood.
"...What?"
The word escapes you in a breathless laugh, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.
You push his hands away and begin to stand, instinct telling you to put some distance between the two of you.
The movement barely lasts a second.
His hand slides from the back of your chair onto your shoulder, guiding you back into your seat with quiet, unwavering firmness.
"Shh."
The single syllable is spoken almost tenderly.
"We'll talk about this." His thumb brushes once against your shoulder before his hand falls away entirely.
"...But not now."
Then, to your complete disbelief, he reaches toward your plate instead. He straightens the fork you'd abandoned, nudging it a little closer as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened, as though he hasn't just calmly informed you that leaving isn't an option.
"You should eat before it gets cold."
You simply stare at him.
"...No." Your voice comes out quieter than intended.
"Nanami, listen to me…"
“.....”
His attention remains entirely on you, patient as ever, waiting for you to continue.
"Staying here isn't an option." You let out a small, awkward laugh. "I've got a life out there, and..."
You rub the back of your neck, trying to make him understand without making this bigger than it already feels.
"...and living here would definitely need citizenship, and I don't have that, or—"
"I'll get you one."
He interrupts so naturally that, for a moment, you forget what you were saying.
“.....” Your mouth opens but nothing comes out.
Nanami watches you with quiet patience. "It isn't something you need to worry about," he continues in that same composed voice.
"I'll arrange it."
Silence…
The rain drums steadily against the glass, filling the apartment with a sound that suddenly feels unbearably loud.
You slowly rise to your feet again, this time without looking away from him.
"...Nanami."
He lifts his eyes to meet yours immediately.
"I think..." You search his face, hoping for even the faintest indication that this is some sort of misunderstanding. "...I think you didn't listen to me fully."
A quiet pause.
"I cannot stay here."
Something immediately shifts across his expression.
His brows draw together ever so slightly, as though the sentence you've just spoken simply refuses to fit with everything the two of you discussed yesterday.
He studies your face for several long seconds, searching it with the same careful attention he always gives you.
When he finally speaks again, his voice is softer than before.
"I'm willing to do anything for you."
"I mean that." His gaze never leaves yours. "Literally everything."
A faint breath escapes him before he continues. "But..."
He tilts his head ever so slightly, genuine bewilderment settling behind his eyes. "...you can't do this one thing for me?"
The question isn't accusatory. If anything, it sounds wounded.
"If I could, I would've moved in with you instead." His expression remains calm despite the quiet disappointment creeping into it. "I truly would have."
His eyes soften.
"But that isn't possible, love." He lets the words settle before asking, with quiet, heartbreaking sincerity.
"Can you not understand that?”
“....”
"This isn't how relationships work." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
Therefore, he remains silent for a moment. He studies you with quiet concentration.
"...How do they work, then?"
You stare at him.
"What?"
"You said this isn't how relationships work." His voice is as calm as it has always been.
"Then tell me." He takes a small step toward you, his gaze never leaving yours.
"What am I doing incorrectly?"
The question catches you completely off guard.
You open your mouth, only to close it again. This wasn't what you'd expected. You'd expected him to argue. To become frustrated. To tell you that you were overreacting.
Instead...
He sounds genuinely confused.
"You..." You struggle to gather your thoughts, shaking your head slightly. "You can't just expect someone to leave everything behind."
He nods once, thoughtfully, as though carefully considering every word you've said. “I see.”
"And, my job," you continue quickly, relief flickering through you at finally finding something concrete. "I have a job back home.”
"You'll find another."
The answer comes so naturally that you almost miss it.
Your lips part.
"My apartment..."
"We'll arrange it."
You blink.
"My money..."
"I'll take care of it."
Every concern you raise is met with an answer before you've even finished speaking, each one delivered with the same composed certainty he uses when recommending something.
"My family..." Your voice grows noticeably quieter. "They're back home."
"You'll still be able to speak with them." He says it gently, almost reassuringly.
"I would never ask you to lose the people you care about."
You simply stare at him for several long seconds, you can't find a single word. Because he isn't arguing with you. He isn't dismissing your concerns. He's just solving them.
"...No."
You shake your head, taking an unconscious step backward. "No... that's not what I mean."
None of this is making sense.
Why is he acting this way?
"...How long are we going to keep doing this?"
His voice isn't raised. If anything, it's calmer than before. "I don't believe we're making any progress."
A brief pause follows.
"I suppose it would be better if we left the conversation here."
Before you can respond, his attention shifts past you. Toward the front door. Your eyes follow his almost instinctively. Then you freeze.
Your suitcase. The smaller overnight bag you'd left at the hotel. The shopping bags you'd accumulated throughout your trip.
Even your carry-on.
Every single one of them is neatly arranged beside the entrance, lined up with almost unsettling precision.
Your brows draw together. "...What?" You stare at them, your thoughts grinding to a halt.
When...
When had those gotten here?
You don't remember hearing the doorbell. You don't remember anyone knocking. More importantly—
Who had brought them?
You slowly turn back toward Nanami, confusion written plainly across your face.
He doesn't appear surprised by your reaction. "I'll have them taken upstairs."
"Your room is already prepared."
He offers you a small, reassuring smile. "So..."
His eyes meet yours.
"Let's forget about this rather silly conversation." Then, without waiting for your answer, he turns toward the luggage.
"...Nanami."
He doesn't stop.
"Nanami!" This time your voice comes out louder, enough to make him pause.
His hand stills against the handle of your suitcase, though he doesn't immediately turn around.
"You can't just decide something like this!"
"You're not even listening to me!"
“.....”
"...Go to your room." He says without looking back.
Your eyes widen. "What?"
"I said..." His voice remains calm. "Go to your room."
You don't move. Every instinct in your body refuses.
"No…”
A quiet breath leaves him almost immediately.
His shoulders rise almost imperceptibly before falling again.
Only then does he slowly turn back to face you.
There is something unmistakably stern in his expression. His mouth set into a thin, disapproving line.
He looks at you for several long seconds before speaking.
"...Aren't you being a brat?"
The word hangs between you, leaving you utterly speechless.
He holds your gaze for another moment before calmly pulling out his chair and sitting down once more, his movements as unhurried as ever.
You're still standing there, rooted to the spot, trying to process what just happened, when he moves.
It's faster than you expect from a man who's always so deliberate.
His hand closes around your wrist, and before you can react, you're being pulled forward. A surprised gasp escapes your lips as you tumble off balance, your body twisting mid-fall.
You land across his lap, stomach pressed against his thighs, your skirt riding up as your legs dangle off the side of the chair.
"What are you—!?"
The words die in your throat.
His bandaged hand comes down hard against your ass.
The SMACK echoes through the room, sharp and precise, and you feel the flesh jiggle beneath the impact. A startled yelp tears from your lips as heat blooms across your skin.
You twist, trying to push yourself up, but his other hand presses firmly against your lower back, pinning you in place.
"Let me go!" You squirm, legs kicking out uselessly. "Nanami—"
Another SMACK. Harder.
You cry out, your fingers gripping the fabric of his trousers as you try to thrash free. But he's stronger than he looks, and each movement only seems to anchor you more firmly against his lap.
"It hurts!—" The words tumble out, breathless and strained. "Please—"
He doesn't answer.
His hand falls again. And again. Each strike precise, measured, landing in rhythmic succession across your buttcheeks.
The heat builds. Spreads. Your struggles grow weaker, your body trembling with each impact. Your breathing comes in ragged gasps now.
By the time he stops, you can barely move.
You lie there, limp across his lap, your body quivering. Your ass throbs, hot and tender, and you can feel the dampness pooling between your thighs—a shameful, undeniable wetness that's soaked through your panties.
The silence stretches.
Then you feel it.
His bandaged fingers slide beneath the hem of your skirt, brushing against the heated skin of your inner thigh.
“...Don't!” You inhale sharply, your whole body tensing as his touch trails upward.
He finds the damp spot immediately.
One finger presses against the soaked fabric of your panties, the rough texture of the bandage grazing your most sensitive flesh. You bite your lip, a shaky breath escaping through your nose.
He presses harder, searching, until he finds it—your clit, swollen and aching beneath the wet cotton. His finger circles, the pressure just enough to make you gasp, before he twists, grinding the fabric against you.
His voice drops, low and rough against your ear.
"What are you?"
You shudder, unable to form words.
His finger presses deeper, rolling in slow, torturous circles.
"A masochist bitch?”
“—!?”
Your fingers are curled into the fabric of his trousers, your forehead pressed against his thigh, and you can't form a single word.
He waits.
The silence stretches, broken only by your uneven breathing.
Then his thumb shifts.
It moves, sliding down from your clit, tracing the soaked line of your panties until it finds the dip—a hungry, aching hole begging to be filled.
The cotton presses inward, squeezing your cunt lips together, making the wetness seep through the thin material and stain the fabric with your need.
Then, with a slow, deliberate pressure, his bandaged thumb nudges against the very entrance, just barely breaching the tight, trembling ring of your fuckhole.
The rough texture of the bandage grazes your sensitive flesh, and you jolt violently, a sharp gasp escaping your lips.
“mmgh…” Your hips buck instinctively, but his hand on your lower back holds you steady.
For a single, agonizing second, the tip of his thumb is inside you.
Then it's gone.
He pulls back completely, withdrawing his hand from beneath your skirt, and in one fluid motion, he stands.
His arms hook under your knees and around your back, cradling you against his chest.
Your body is still trembling, your ass still throbbing, your core still aching and wet, and you can only stare up at his jaw as he carries you upstairs.
He pushes the bedroom door open with his shoulder, steps inside, and lowers you gently onto the bed. Your body sinks into the mattress, your skirt still bunched up, your panties still damp and clinging to you.
He straightens and turns without a word. Walking out without even looking at you.
The door clicks shut behind him.
A moment later, you hear the unmistakable sound of a lock turning from the outside.
You're alone.
Most importantly... he didn't do anything more.
—
Next day—
The room is still half-dark, painted in shades of gray and blue, and for a long moment you simply lie there, staring at the ceiling.
The memory comes in fragments. The pressure of his fingers around your throat. The way his eyes changed—how they went from warm to something else entirely, something ancient and hungry and utterly without mercy.
You spent the whole night thinking.
The apartment was secure in ways you couldn't even begin to understand. And even if you could get out, where would you go? You barely know the streets.
So the only option left was to make him believe.
Make him believe you understood. That you accepted. That you were beginning to see things his way.
When you find the lock open, you step out of the bedroom, the apartment is quiet. The living room is bathed in pale morning light, and you find him standing by the large window, looking out at the city.
He's wearing a simple white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and he holds a cup of coffee in one hand.
He doesn't turn when you enter, but you can see the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the cup.
You stop a few feet behind him.
"Nanami."
He doesn't turn immediately. There's a long pause, a beat of silence that stretches just long enough to make your stomach clench. Then he sets his coffee down on the windowsill and slowly turns to face you.
His eyes are careful. They sweep over your face, taking in every detail, and you can see the question in them—What are you thinking? Are you thinking of arguing again?
“.....”
"I've thought about this the whole night," you say, and your voice comes out softer than you expected. "Everything that happened. Everything you said."
You take a step closer. Not too close—but close enough to show that you're not afraid.
"I'm sorry," you say. "For how I reacted. I know you weren't trying to hurt me. I know that now."
He blinks.
You take a breath. You let your shoulders drop, let your posture soften, let yourself look vulnerable.
"I just needed time," you continue. "It was all happening too quickly, you know?”
“I didn't know how to process everything. I panicked."
You pause. Letting the silence settle between you.
"I said things I didn't mean," you add quietly. "I was scared. But I've had time to think now. To really think."
You look down at your hands, then back up at him. You try to make your eyes look sincere. You try to let him see the truth—or at least, the truth you want him to see.
"I've been thinking about what you said," you say. "About how you need me to understand. About how this is the only way things can work. And I think... I think I understand now."
His expression shifts. Just slightly. The hardness in his eyes softens by a fraction, and you see something flicker there—hope, maybe.
“....”
You take another step closer. Now you're close enough to touch him, but you don't. You let your hands hang at your sides.
"I'm sorry I fought you," you whisper. "I'm sorry I made it harder than it needed to be."
He stares at you for a long, long moment. Searching your face, your eyes, your body language, trying to find the lie, trying to see if you're manipulating him.
And then, slowly, his shoulders relax.
He takes a step toward you, closing the distance between you.
"I understand, love," he says, and his voice is soft, gentle, the voice of the man you'd first met.
"This is what I was saying yesterday. I knew you'd come around. I knew you just needed time."
He reaches out and cups your face in his hand, his palm warm against your cheek. His thumb strokes your skin, slow and tender.
"I'm so glad you finally understand," he says, and his voice is thick with something that might be emotion. "I was so worried. I thought I'd lost you. I thought I'd pushed too hard."
You shake your head slightly, careful not to break his hold.
"You didn't lose me," you say. "I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere."
He lets out a breath, a long, shuddering exhale that seems to carry the weight of everything he'd been holding in.
He pulls you into his arms, wrapping you in a tight embrace, and you feel his face press into your hair.
"Thank you," he whispers against your scalp.
"Thank you for trying."
—
The rest of the morning passes in a strange, fragile peace. He doesn't lock you up anymore. He doesn't even suggest that you stay in the apartment. Instead, he asks you, with genuine warmth in his voice, if you'd like to go out today.
"Let's visit some places," he says, his hand resting lightly on your lower back. "I want to show you more of Tokyo. The parts you haven't seen yet."
You agree. You smile. You let him guide you out the door and into the soft morning light.
He takes you to a quiet neighborhood in Yanaka, where old wooden houses line narrow streets and cats doze in sunlit doorways.
He buys you a warm taiyaki from a street vendor—red bean paste, your favorite—and watches you eat it with a soft, fond smile.
He holds your hand as you walk. His thumb traces lazy circles on your skin, and every now and then he stops to point out something interesting—a hidden shrine, a small garden, a shop that sells handmade paper.
By midday, he takes you to a rooftop café in Shibuya, where you can see the scramble crossing below, crowds of people moving like a single organism.
He orders for you both—a cold brew for himself, a matcha latte for you—and you sit together in comfortable silence, watching the city pulse beneath you.
"Are you tired?" he asks, his eyes on your face.
"A little," you admit.
"Then we'll take it slow. There's no rush."
He reaches across the table and takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. His touch is warm, steady, and you let yourself relax into it.
You let yourself pretend that this is real. That this is a normal date between two people who love each other.
—
By the time the sun begins to set, the two of you find yourselves walking along a quiet street overlooking the river.
The city glows in warm shades of orange, its lights slowly flickering to life as evening settles in.
Nanami comes to a stop beside the railing and looks at you.
"Thank you for today," he says. "For giving me a chance. For trying to understand."
You look back at him. In the fading light, he looks like himself again. Calm. Gentle.
"...You're welcome."
The words leave your mouth before you can think too hard about them.
He steps closer, lifting a hand to your cheek. His thumb brushes your skin once, giving you enough time to pull away if you wanted to.You don't.
He leans in, and his lips meet yours.
The kiss is slow and gentle, nothing like the desperation of the night before. His hand stays lightly against your cheek while you kiss him back, the warmth of the setting sun lingering on your skin.
When he finally pulls away, a small smile settles on his face.
"Dinner?" he asks quietly.
You nod, and he offers you his hand before the two of you continue walking together.
—
The restaurant is hidden in a narrow alley in Ginza, its entrance marked by a simple wooden sign with Japanese characters you can't read.
You glance at it as you pass, catching a glimpse of black ink on pale wood, but the meaning escapes you.
Nanami holds the door open for you, and you step inside.
The interior is breathtaking. Dark wood, soft lighting, a single long counter made of polished hinoki cypress.
The air smells of soy and sake and something else—something rich and savory. A chef stands behind the counter, bowing as you enter.
But the room is empty.
There are no other customers. Not a single table is occupied. The only sound is the soft hum of the ventilation and the distant clink of a knife from the kitchen.
You look around, confused. "Is it... always this quiet?"
Nanami smiles, guiding you to a seat at the counter. "I reserved the entire place. I wanted us to have privacy."
You blink. Of course he did. Of course.
You sit down, and he takes the seat beside you.
But you can't stop thinking about the sign.
Something about the empty restaurant, the exclusive atmosphere, the way everyone seems to know exactly who Nanami is—it makes you wonder.
You push the thought away. You take a bite of the sushi, and it melts on your tongue, and you let yourself enjoy it.
—
Dinner passes easily between the two of you.
The conversation drifts from one topic to another until, somewhere between courses, Nanami looks at you with a small smile.
"Do you know the first time I saw you?"
"You were walking down the street," he says. "Looking completely lost."
A quiet laugh escapes you.
"I remember thinking..." His eyes drift over your clothes before settling back on your face. "...I mistook you for one of us.”
“...What do you mean?”
“Nothing serious.”
You aren't sure how to respond, so you simply smile and ask him another question. He answers without hesitation, and you listen, nodding along, letting him feel heard as the evening slips by.
—
Dinner comes to an end sooner than you expected. As the last dishes are cleared away, you and Nanami step out of the private dining room together.
You tighten your grip on your purse. It has been resting against your shoulder the entire evening, its familiar weight grounding you.
Your passport. Your flight ticket. Every important document. You'd slipped them inside before leaving the apartment that morning, telling yourself it was only a precaution.
If an opportunity ever presented itself, you'd have minutes—nothing more.
You glance down the hallway before looking back at him.
"Um... where's the restroom?”
Nanami follows your gaze. "Just down the hall." He gestures toward the corridor.
"I got a little turned around," you admit with an awkward laugh.
His expression softens. "Take your time. I'll wait here."
You smile. "Thanks."
As you start down the corridor, one of the restaurant staff quietly approaches Nanami and begins speaking to him in Japanese.
He turns his attention to the conversation without another glance your way.
Only then do you keep going.
You pass the restroom without slowing, your heartbeat beginning to pound harder with every step. Another corner. A narrow hallway leading toward the entrance. The heavy wooden doors come into view.
Don't look back.
You push through them and the cool evening air rushes over your face.
Then you run.
You don't stop until you're at the curb, frantically waving down the first taxi you see. The driver barely has time to unlock the doors before you climb into the back seat.
"The airport, please."
The taxi pulls away from the restaurant, merging into the evening traffic. Only then do you dare glance through the rear window.
Nothing.
No one is chasing after you.
Your lungs finally release the breath you'd been holding as the city slips past outside the glass.
Please...
Please let this work.
By the time the taxi reaches the airport, your hands are trembling so badly you nearly fumble your wallet. You pay the driver, clutch your purse tightly against your side, and hurry inside.
The terminal is crowded. Travelers weave past one another with rolling suitcases, families gather around departure boards, and announcements echo overhead.
Then you notice him.
A man in a dark suit standing near one of the entrances.
You barely think anything of it until you notice another leaning against a pillar farther ahead, an earpiece tucked discreetly beneath his hair.
You turn toward another check-in counter.
One of them moves too.
Your stomach knots.
You keep walking, pretending not to notice, but another suited man comes into view near the security line. None of them approach you. None of them say a word.
Every now and then one tilts his head slightly, his lips moving as though speaking quietly into his earpiece.
Why are they following me?
The question loops through your head as you force yourself toward security.
Don't panic.
Just keep walking.
The officer takes your passport and boarding pass before glancing past your shoulder.
"Where's your luggage?"
Your heart lurches, but you manage a small smile.
"It's... an emergency. I'm flying home alone. My family's staying here for a little while longer, so the luggage is with them."
He studies your face for a brief moment before giving a small nod.
"I understand."
He stamps your documents, hands them back, and smiles politely. "Have a safe flight."
"Thank you."
You murmur the words before continuing through security. Only after you've crossed to the other side do you finally look back.
The men haven't followed you.
They're still standing exactly where they were, watching from beyond the checkpoint.
Relief washes over you so suddenly your knees nearly give out.
By the time your boarding group is called, your breathing has finally settled. You join the line with the other passengers, your passport already in hand.
Just as you're about to step onto the jet bridge, a familiar voice speaks behind you.
"Miss [Name]."
Your entire body goes rigid.
You turn slowly.
One of the suited men stands several feet away. He doesn't come any closer. Instead, he gives a polite bow before setting down your carry-on that you'd left behind.
"I believe these belong to you."
You stare at him, unable to speak.
"...How?"
The man simply reaches into his jacket and produces a slim envelope.
Inside are the remaining documents you'd thought were gone.
He closes it again and offers another respectful bow.
"Mr. Nanami wishes for you to have a safe flight."
Before you can ask another question, he turns and walks away without another word, disappearing into the crowd as calmly as if nothing unusual had happened.
You remain frozen where you stand, staring after him.
A flight attendant gently smiles.
"Ma'am?"
You blink, forcing your legs to move.
When you finally land, exhaustion settles deep into your bones. Carrying your purse and your carry-on, you pass the baggage carousel without a second thought—until something familiar catches your eye.
Your suitcase slowly rolls into view, a fresh baggage tag fastened neatly around the handle. You stop in your tracks. You never checked it in. You never even touched it after leaving.
Yet somehow... it had made the journey home with you.
—
Two months.
Two whole months had passed since you'd stepped off that plane, and yet Japan still found its way back into your thoughts when you least expected it.
You let out a quiet sigh, leaning back against the couch as your phone rested loosely in your hand.
You'd tried to move on.
You'd thrown yourself back into work, answered every worried question from your family with carefully edited half-truths, and convinced yourself that leaving had been the right decision.
It was the right decision.
...Wasn't it?
Sometimes, usually late at night when the house had gone quiet, you couldn't help wondering what would have happened if you'd stayed. If you hadn't run from that restaurant. If you'd gone back to the apartment with him instead…
The thought never lasted long.
Because no matter how gentle he'd been the next morning, no matter how normal that day had felt, there had been something deeply wrong about him.
Something you still couldn't put into words.
You rubbed your temples with a frustrated groan. "Ugh..."
Enough.
There was no point thinking about him anymore.
Unlocking your phone again, you opened the delivery app instead. Your new pair of shoes was supposed to arrive today.
Out for delivery.
A small smile tugged at your lips.
Right on cue, the doorbell rang.
"Perfect timing."
You set your phone aside and walked toward the front door without a second thought. The delivery drivers usually left as soon as the package was handed over anyway.
You unlocked the door, pulled it open and the smile disappeared.
"...”
A tailored black suit.
Blond hair.
Tired eyes behind familiar glasses.
The same calm expression that had haunted your dreams for the past two months.
Nanami.
Your eyes widened.
Before your mind could catch up, your body reacted. You shoved the door with both hands, trying to slam it shut.
It didn't move.
A bandaged hand had already wedged itself against the edge. The muscles in his forearm tightened as he pushed forward with terrifying ease.
"No—"
You threw your weight against the door, both hands straining, your shoulder pressing into the wood with everything you had.
It didn't matter.
The door inched open anyway. Another inch. Then another. Your strength meant nothing against his.
The gap widened just enough for him to step forward.
And once he was inside—
Nanami’s bandaged hand clamped down on your scalp, fingers twisting deep into the roots until the burn spread across your head like fire.
He yanked you backward without a word, dragging your stumbling body across the floor as your screams tore through the room. The door slammed shut behind him with a final click.
He hauled you straight into the bathroom. The tub was already full. Before you could twist away, he shoved your face under the surface. Cold water rushed up your nose and into your mouth.
Your lungs seized. You thrashed, hands slapping the porcelain, legs kicking uselessly. He held you there, unmoving, until your chest started to convulse from lack of air.
He pulled you up. You gasped once—then he forced you back down again. Water flooded your throat. Your ears filled. Your eyes stung red and raw. Up. Down. Again.
Each time longer. Each time your panic spiked harder. You choked, coughed, sobbed between every brutal dunk. Snot and tears mixed with the bathwater running down your chin.
After the fourth time he twisted your hair sharply, forcing your face upward to meet his. His tired eyes stared down through the glasses, calm as ever.
"Do you know how much trouble I’ve faced to get here?"
You couldn’t answer.
“Uhck…!” You could only wheeze, lungs burning, water still dripping from your lips. And, he shoved you under again without waiting.
Your hands clawed at the air. Your body bucked and twisted in his grip. He kept you pinned until your vision spotted, then yanked you out once more.
The moment he released your hair you collapsed forward, sucking in ragged breaths, chest heaving.
Nanami stepped back. You heard the shower handle turn. A hard spray of cold water hit your back, then your shoulders, soaking straight through your clothes.
He moved the stream methodically—over your spine, down your legs—until every inch of you was drenched and shivering. Only when you were completely soaked did he grab you again.
His left hand slammed you against the tiled wall, pinning you there with effortless strength. The shower head came up, blasting your face first, then lower.
Water hammered across your breasts, your stomach, then straight between your thighs. You tried to turn your head away. He brought the spray back to your face.
"Hold still."
He yanked your soaked pants down in one rough motion. The shower head pressed directly against your exposed pussy, the stream forcing its way between your folds.
His fingers followed—two of them slapping your clit sharply, then spreading your lips wider so the water could hit deeper.
Nanami’s fingers shoved straight into your soaked pussy, two at once, curling deep without warning. He pumped them hard and fast, the wet sounds filling the bathroom as he worked you open.
Every few thrusts he pulled his hand back just to slap your cheek—sharp, stinging little hits that snapped your head to the side and kept your eyes from rolling back.
Your body jerked when the orgasm crashed through you. Your thighs shook, pussy clenching around his fingers, a broken moan tearing from your throat.
He didn’t let you ride it. The second your knees buckled he yanked you by the arm, dragging you out of the bathroom and across the room.
You hit the bed face-down, the mattress bouncing under your weight.
“Women like you don’t deserve a gentleman,” he said, voice low and flat. The metallic clink of his belt buckle echoed behind you.
One hand stroked your ass once, almost gentle, before the first sharp smack landed. Then another. He yanked your pants the rest of the way down and off.
He peeled off his own soaked suit jacket next, then tugged his shirt over his head, tossing both aside.
With your face pinned down, you could only glimpse part of it.
Ink spread across his left shoulder in bold blacks and muted reds. A dragon wound through dark waves and cherry blossoms, stretching across his chest and down his arm.
It was the kind of full-body piece you'd only ever heard whispered about.
Then the belt came next. The first strike cracked across your both asscheeks, heat blooming instantly.
“AHH..!!!”
Each hit made you cry out, hips twisting, but he held you down with one hand on your lower back.
“I’ve held back myself for this? I did all those things… tried to hide… tried to change for you… just for you to run away!?”
The belt landed again, harder.
“If only I could’ve stopped you at the airport…”
“But that would’ve gotten me in trouble. You knew that, right? That’s why you lied. You never took me for granted.”
Another lash. Your cries grew louder, skin already bruising.
“As if I meant nothing to you. You only used me like a whore. Do you think I’d let it slide!?”
He dropped the belt. You felt the thick, hot length of his cock rub slowly over your burning ass, letting you feel every inch of his hardness against the welts.
He slapped it against your cheeks a few times, the wet sound mixing with your ragged breathing, then lined up and shoved inside in one brutal THRUST.
He fucked you hard from behind—deep, punishing strokes that rocked the bed.
He had already taken you once, twice, four times, thirteen times—each thrust a brutal claim that left your insides raw and overflowing.
His cum leaked from your stretched pussy in thick, messy trails, yet his cock stayed rock-hard, veins pulsing as he fought the urge to unload again.
The restraint showed in every flex of his muscles, every sharp breath he held back while his hips snapped forward with punishing force.
Your breasts twisted under his grip, fingers digging deep into the soft flesh, pinching and rolling your nipples until they throbbed.
You lolled your head, mouth open in a constant stream of broken moans, cumming nonstop around his driving shaft.
Each slam pushed you over the edge again, your walls clenching and fluttering as fresh waves of slick and his seed gushed out.
“N-Namami—S… stop—”
But, he kissed you hard, tongue forcing deep while his free hand cracked across your cheek in a stinging slap.
The impact jolted through you, mixing pain with another helpless orgasm that made your thighs shake.
You were beyond sense, vision swimming, ears filling with a long, piercing beep that drowned out everything else.
His hips stuttered to a stop mid-thrust, cock buried to the hilt. Your eyes turned hazy, head pounding so fiercely you could barely turn toward his gaze.
Slowly he withdrew, the thick length dragging along your sensitive walls until it slipped free with a wet sound, leaving you empty, aching, and dripping.
Through blurry sight you watched him peel the bandage from his left hand—the one he always kept covered.
The cloth fell across your stomach as he revealed the missing pinky, the stump raw and healed over.
Then the bedroom door swung open, silent on its hinges. A man in a black suit stepped in, his face impassive, carrying something massive in his arms.
It took you a second to register the shape—a giant teddy bear, cream-colored fur matted in places, a faded red bow tied crookedly around its neck.
The exact same teddy you’d lost in Japan months ago. The one you’d mentioned in passing, the one Nanami had looked at with empty eyes and said, There’s none.
But here it was.
The suited man crossed the room without a word. He halted beside the bed, held the teddy out toward Nanami.
Nanami took it without looking, his gaze fixed on you the whole time, that raw stump now resting on his thigh.
He cradled the bear against his chest for a moment, stroking its matted fur with his four-fingered hand, then leaned over and placed it gently beside your head on the pillow.
“.....?” Your pulse hammered. You couldn't speak.
Without ceremony, Nanami hooked his arms under yours and repositioned you flat on the bed, your back sinking into the mattress, your head lolling to the side where the teddy’s button eyes stared back at you.
He didn't ask. He just put you there, like arranging a doll he’d been waiting to pose. Then he climbed onto the bed again, knees bracketing your hips, his weight settling over you.
His cock was still hard, he wrapped his hand around it—the missing pinky making his grip look asymmetrical, incomplete, yet practiced.
He pumped slowly at first, watching your face, the teddy, your face again. A bead of precum glistened at the tip.
He sped up, breath hitching, muscles in his stomach tensing. You could only lie there, the giant teddy’s fur brushing your cheek, as Nanami’s strokes grew frantic. His jaw tightened, a low grunt escaping his throat.
Then his cock jerked, and thick ropes of cum splashed across your face—warm, sticky, landing on your lips, your eyelids, trailing down your cheek.
He shifted his aim and painted the teddy’s snout as well, white streaks mingling with the bear’s cream fur.
A long, shuddering exhale. He stayed there, hovering, admiring his work. A satisfied smile crept across his face, slow and deliberate, as he studied the details—the way the cum clung to your lashes.
「その姿は、少し可愛すぎますね。」
He traced a fingertip through the mess on your cheek, smearing it, then brought that finger to his own mouth and licked.
He simply pulled back, off the bed, trousers still undone. He turned to the man in the black suit—who had remained motionless, witness to everything—and spoke.
The words came in quiet Japanese, too fast for you to follow.
The ringing in your ears grew louder, your headache splitting so fiercely you could barely keep your eyes open, barely even register what was happening around you anymore.
But somewhere in the back of your mind...
It all made sense.
These men always around. Even at the airport. The effortless way your luggage had found its way onto the same flight.
His promises spoken with absolute certainty.
The private restaurants. The empty streets. The places where no one would interrupt. No one would question.
It had never been confidence.
It had been power all along.
♡ enjoyed reading? consider supporting me on Ko-fi by becoming a member or purchasing a chapter from my shop. every bit of support means the world to me! ♡
texts with bully!sukuna who's kinda your situationship
a/n: pls ignore the (unintended) spelling errors, i wrote this at 1am......... also what do we think of sukuna? do we think he'll be better, or turn out to be just the same.........
Genre: Dark Fiction, Psychological Horror, Thriller, Yandere, Obsessive Horror, Captivity
Word count: 14.5k
Content Warning ⚠️
This story contains extremely dark and potentially disturbing themes, including:
Psychological manipulation, coercive control, obsessive and possessive behavior, stalking, captivity and imprisonment, emotional abuse, physical violence, weapon threats, blood and injury, trauma responses, panic attacks, fear conditioning, isolation, gaslighting, psychological torture, intimidation, forced dependency, escape attempts, disturbing power dynamics, references to murder, body horror elements, insects/entomophobia, claustrophobic situations, emotional distress, and yandere themes.
Please DO NOT read if you are sensitive to these subjects.
Important Disclaimer ⛔
This is a work of fiction intended for mature audiences.
The characters, behaviors, and relationship dynamics depicted in this story are intentionally unhealthy, abusive, and psychologically disturbing. They are written for the purposes of horror, suspense, and exploring manipulation, trauma, and obsession within a fictional setting.
This story does not endorse, romanticize, or normalize abuse, coercive control, stalking, or violence in real-life relationships. Readers are expected to distinguish fictional horror from healthy real-world relationships.
Masterlist
The silence of the mansion is heavy and suffocating. You move through the living room like a ghost.
You wipe a counter that is already spotless, your breath shallow. Every few seconds, your head tilts toward the door, your ears straining for the sound of a key in the lock or the distant hum of his car.
Then, the heavy thud of the front door echoing through the foyer.
Your shoulders hitch, locking into a rigid line. You don't move; you simply freeze, the microfiber cloth still pressed against the marble,—
"I'm home!"
The voice is bright, melodic, and brimming with a childish energy that would be endearing to anyone who didn't know the cost of it.
When he enters the room, he is a vision of effortless charm, his glasses perched on his nose, a wide, beaming smile stretching across his face.
"What're you doing?" he asks, his tone light and curious.
You swallow hard, your throat feeling as though it's lined with sandpaper. You don't look at him directly, keeping your gaze lowered.
"I… was just cleaning around the house," you whisper.
Satoru lets out a soft, melodic laugh, the sound airy and almost offended. "Babe... you don't have to!!!"
He draws out the word with an exaggerated, goofy lilt, his voice sliding into that playful, whining register he uses when he wants to be adored. "I'm here, aren't I? I'll do everyyyything!"
“Wait!” He reaches behind his back with a flourish, revealing a small shopping bag. With the excitement of a schoolboy, he pulls out a package of your favorite sweets—the exact brand, the exact flavor.
He knows every preference, every craving, every tiny detail of your palate.
"Look! I even bought your favorites," he chirps, holding them out to you. He is practically vibrating with a need for validation, his eyes searching yours for the praise he believes he deserves.
He leans closer, the scent of his expensive cologne filling your senses, invading your personal space.
"So... where's my kiss?" A pout forms on his lips. His bottom lip juts out, childish and exaggerated. He whines playfully, rocking on his heels.
"C'monnn, I went all the way to that little shop across town for these. You're gonna leave me hanging?"
You feel the corner of your mouth twitch—an attempt at a genuine response. It fails… you take the bag. Your fingers brush against his.
"Thank you..."
He doesn't seem to notice your stiffness. Or maybe he chooses not to. He leans in anyway, pressing a kiss to your forehead—warm, soft, domestic.
"There. Was that so hard?"
He pulls back, grinning. He's already moving past you into the kitchen, chattering about traffic, about a stupid joke someone told him at work, about how the weather was nice today.
You stand there, holding the sweets. The bag crinkles in your grip. Your forehead still tingles where his lips touched.
You wonder if he tasted your fear as well…
—
Later—
He's set the table himself—insisted on it, shooing you away with playful swats when you tried to help.
The plates are arranged with precision. Candles flicker in the center. Wine breathes in two glasses, though he knows you barely drink.
He sits across from you. Light from the chandelier catches the white of his hair, softening his features. He looks like a painting. Like something beautiful you're meant to admire but…
"Try the fish," he says, gesturing with his chopsticks. "I marinated it differently this time. Lighter soy, more citrus."
You lift a piece to your lips. It's good. Always. He's meticulous about everything.
"Good?" he asks, already knowing the answer.
“Yes."
He beams. He launches into another story. His hands move animatedly as he speaks, chopsticks waving through the air for emphasis. He laughs at his own punchline before taking another bite, completely amused with himself.
You nod when you're supposed to. You hum in the right places. You take slow, careful bites.
Then, almost absentmindedly, he rests his chin in his palm. "Oh, right…"
He points his chopsticks at you with a grin. "I've gotta leave for a few days next week. Some boring work stuff."
He sighs dramatically before puffing out his cheeks.
"Sooo..." His smile turns teasing. "Are you gonna miss me?"
You pause halfway through another bite, slowly lifting your eyes to meet his. A small smile finds its way onto your lips—
"Yes... I..."
Mid-sentence—His eyes flicker. Just a fraction. The smile on his lips doesn't waver, but something behind his gaze goes flat.
"...will." You finish quietly. While he keeps smiling. Keeps looking at you.
“Hm..” He tilts his head. "...That took you a while.”
You immediately stiffen.
“...Huh—?”
SLAP.
You don't even register the pain immediately. Just the shock. The ringing. The way your head snaps to the side, your neck protesting the sudden movement. Your cheek burns where his palm connected.
You don't move. You don't speak. You don't dare breathe.
He exhales slowly. The cheerful mask has slipped entirely. His eyes are cold now—not furious, not explosive, just... irritated.
As though you're a misbehaving pet that's soiled the carpet one too many times.
He clicks his tongue almost immediately, voice is lower. "I know you're scared of me."
"But at least TRY TO HIDE IT, DAMMIT!"
He shoves his own plate away as he stands. The chair legs screech against the floor. He walks around the table. His footsteps are unhurried.
He stops beside you and looks down. Then he gestures—a lazy wave of his hand toward the room.
"You call THIS Cleaning?"
His voice drips with disdain. He points at the corner of the bookshelf. "Look over there."
You follow his finger. The shelf is pristine.
"And there."
A spot on the floor you can't see. It doesn't matter. He's not pointing at dust. He's pointing at control.
"This place is still a mess.”
He's not angry. That's the terrifying part. He's just clinical. Calm. Delivering criticism as though stating facts.
Then his hand moves. His fingers find your chin, gripping your jaw before you can flinch.
His thumb presses into the soft flesh beneath your cheekbone—the same cheek he struck seconds ago.
He forces your head up until you're looking directly into his icy blue eyes.
"You should be grateful I'm even letting you breathe the same air as me..." His thumb digs deeper. Pain radiates through your jaw.
"I expect you to stay in your lane."
Silence.
The seconds stretch. Your heart hammers against your ribs. You can hear your own blood rushing in your ears.
"...Yeah?" He repeats, voice is soft. Prompting.
You try to speak. Your throat closes. Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Your eyes begin to burn—tears threatening to spill over. Not sobbing. Just enough to blur his face.
His grip tightens. "Yeah?"
You force a nod. Barely. A fraction of movement. "Yes…-”
“Yes… understood… " The sound scrapes out of you. Raw. Broken.
He holds your jaw a moment longer. Then, abruptly, he releases it. The absence of his touch is almost as painful as the grip itself.
And then—As though someone flipped a switch—The smile returns.
"That's more like it."
He reaches toward the small plate sitting beside him, where he'd already arranged the sweets he'd brought home earlier. Taking one between his fingers, he carefully unwraps it before holding it to your lips.
"Open up."
“.......” You obey. The sugar hits your tongue. Sweet. Sticky. A kindness that tastes like poison.
He hums approvingly. He sits down beside you—pulling his chair close.
"Will you cuddle me tonight too?" His tone is playful. "Hm?" He tilts his head, waiting, while he pops another sweet into his mouth.
"You'll stay with me until I fall asleep?"
“......” You watch him. Your cheek still throbs. Your jaw aches where he gripped it. Your body remains rigid, coiled, ready to flinch at the next sudden movement.
But you nod. "Yes…"
“Ah hah!” He beams. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you against him. He feels warm.
You hate that your body still relaxes for a fraction of a second before remembering who is holding you.
You sit frozen in his embrace, swallowing tears you can't shed, because that might upset him.
—
The rest of the evening passes quietly. You clean the dishes. He hums to himself somewhere in the house as though nothing happened.
By the time you reach the bedroom, the sting in your cheek has faded into a dull ache.
"But.. you said we were going to sleep.."
Satoru’s gaze lifts to you, one eyebrow arched as he shrugs with that lazy grace, his long legs spread wider on the edge of the bed, the fabric of his pants stretched tight over the obvious bulge between them.
“I changed my mind. Any problem?”
".....—" You stammer, voice small, “No.. I didn’t mean that.”
"Yeah?" His tone drops, low and commanding. “Then come here and give me a nice head like you mean it.”
"......"
You step forward on shaky legs and sink to your knees between his spread thighs. He watches every movement, blue eyes sharp and expectant. When you hesitate, he clicks his tongue.
“Hurry.”
You lean in, lips parting around the thick head of his cock. The moment you take him into your mouth, he shudders hard, a sharp breath punching out of him as his head falls back.
"MhH..." A deep, throaty moan rolls from his chest. His fingers immediately fist in your hair, holding you steady while his hips roll forward in slow, controlled thrusts that push him deeper over your tongue.
The wet sounds of your mouth sliding up and down his length fill the room, mingling with his heavy breathing and the occasional soft grunt when you gag around him.
He keeps you pinned between his thighs, guiding your rhythm with firm tugs on your hair, never letting you pull back far.
Then his voice softens, sweet and coaxing even as he fucks your mouth. “Good girl… just like that, baby. Your mouth feels so warm and tight around me... uhg...”
You work him faster, saliva dripping down your chin, throat fluttering each time he pushes in. His thighs tense around your shoulders, muscles flexing as his breathing grows ragged. The grip on your hair tightens; his thrusts turn shorter, sharper.
He groans your name, hips jerking as he cums hard, thick pulses of cum flooding your throat. You choke and gag around the sudden rush, forced to swallow every hot spurt while he holds you down, refusing to let you up until he’s finished.
Only when the last twitch fades does he ease his grip slightly—still keeping his cock nestled deep in your mouth.
“Again.”
—
The next morning light filters softly through the curtains as you stand at the kitchen counter, dazed, the corner of your lips still faintly red and a little bruised from the night before.
Satoru remains asleep in the bedroom, leaving you alone with the quiet hum of the stove and the memories that refuse to stay buried.
Your hands move on autopilot, cracking eggs into a pan, the familiar motions grounding you even as your mind drifts back.
You were happy. Really happy. Before the fights began.
They started as little things—your father’s voice rising an octave over dinner, your mother’s fork clattering against the plate.
You’d look up from your homework and see their faces, tight and strange, as if they’d forgotten you were there. Then they’d notice you, and the conversation would stop. Just stop.
They’d smile at you—thin, brittle smiles—and tell you to finish your food. But they wouldn’t look at each other.
You didn’t understand what changed so badly. What just happened. You were ten years back then, but old enough to know that something was wrong.
Something they wouldn’t name. They’d avoid you—not in obvious ways, not in ways you could point to and call cruel—but in the spaces between words.
In the way they’d leave a room when you entered. In the way your mother would stroke your hair and say nothing at all, her eyes fixed on something far away.
Then the accident. Just a year ago. Out of nowhere.
You got the news from others. From strangers with pity in their voices and nothing in their hands.
They told you you’d be alone now—so bad, so hard to survive—but when you actually needed someone, nobody stepped in.
You had run to see them, to hold their hands, to pretend it wasn’t real. But a nurse stopped you at the door. They said your parents had been taken to the postmortem room.
They were about to contact relatives. And when you said— "I'm their daughter," voice cracking, tears hot on your cheeks—something shifted in her eyes. Then she pointed down the corridor.
Straight to the morgue room.
The smell hit you first. Bleach and something deeper, something metallic. You stood outside the heavy door, hands shaking, and saw him.
A tall man. Huge. Broad shoulders, pale skin that seemed to absorb the fluorescent light. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching you with eyes that held no warmth.
“You the relative?”
You nodded.
“Good.” He straightened. “The examination’s halfway done. You pay everything yet?”
Your stomach dropped. “N-no… not yet. How much is it?”
He told you the number. It was too high...
Everything you had was in your bag—a few crumpled notes, a card with a limit you’d already hit.
You tried to explain. "I can pay, just give me time. Please. I’ll get it, I swear. I just need—"
Your voice broke. You pleaded. You felt yourself shatter, piece by piece, right there in the harsh light of the corridor.
You told him you’d give him everything you had. You begged him to help. You were alone, so alone, and no one else was coming.
He just watched.
Then his hand shot out, grabbed your wrist, and dragged you inside.
The door swung shut behind you with a heavy thunk. The room was cold—freezing cold, sterile, smelling of chemicals and something sweet underneath. Your eyes went straight to the two tables. Two bodies. Covered in white sheets.
He let go of your wrist. Walked to the nearest table. And pulled the sheet away.
You saw it. All of it.
The faces—half of them missing, the skull exposed, brain visible through a gap. The chests split wide, ribs splayed like fingers, the cavities inside dark and wet.
The stomachs cut open, intestines looped in loose coils, and the stitches—black thread, thick, uneven, most of them undone. Some were just hanging. Some left the flesh gaping.
Your vision swam. Your stomach heaved. You couldn’t recognize them. Couldn’t believe these were your mother and father. This couldn’t be them. This couldn’t be—
"Blehck-" You tried to look away. Tried to turn your head, but your body wouldn’t obey. Your hand flew to your mouth, but no sound came out. Just a choked, ragged breath.
The tall man pulled a chair from the corner and sat down. Sat down. He crossed one leg over the other, leaned back, and looked at you.
“You finish the stitches, and I’ll pay you instead.”
The air left your lungs. You stared at him, mouth open, unable to process. He looked down at you—a slow, deliberate gaze—then up again, as if measuring the distance between you.
“You think the system cares?” His voice was flat, almost bored. “How naive.”
A pause. His lips curled, not quite a smile.
“Well... understandable for someone as you.”
Your feet moved backward. One step then another. Your whole body screamed at you to run, but your legs felt like wet paper.
Meanwhile, he just sat there, watching, his eyes tracking your retreat with something like amusement.
The light buzzed above. The bodies lay open. The stench clung to your throat. You didn't think twice and ran.
The corridor blurred past you—white walls, flickering lights, the sound of your own footsteps echoing.
You burst through the double doors into the entrance area, where a few staff members were gathered at a desk, chatting, flipping through papers. You staggered toward them, gasping, words tumbling out—
“What… what is that guy doing in there?! Someone like him shouldn’t be—he’s not—you have to—!”
One of them looked up. A woman, maybe fifty, with tired eyes and a clipboard in her hand. She didn’t even flinch.
“Couldn’t do it?” She shrugged. “Then move along. We don’t have time for such.”
That was it. No question. No concern. No offer to call anyone, no look of shock or anger. Just dismissal. Move along.
You stood there, chest heaving, cold sweat on your back. And you understood.
The horror wasn’t just the man in the morgue—his cold calculation, his casual offer, the way he sat there like it was any other job. That was part of it. But the real horror was the silence around him.
The way no one questioned him. The way no one cared. The system was built for this. The system expected you to either take the deal or shut up and disappear…
—
You stand in the middle of the living room, the papers still clutched in your trembling hands. The official stamps are still fresh, the red seals gleaming under the pale afternoon light.
Eight hundred seventy-six million.
The numbers swim before your eyes, blurring and sharpening in waves as your brain refuses to accept them.
You read the same line four times. Five times. Each time hoping the digits rearrange themselves into something smaller.
Your fingers press into the paper so hard the edges begin to crease. A small sound escapes your throat—not quite a sob, not quite a word.
Your knees feel strange... you lower yourself onto the arm of the sofa. "No.."
The clock on the wall ticks. The refrigerator hums in the kitchen. Your father's slippers are still by the entrance, placed neatly side by side the way he always left them.
Your mother's teacup sits in the drying rack, upside down, a few droplets clinging to the ceramic.
They were here...
Two days ago, they were here.
And now you're holding the evidence of a life they never explained to you. A life of numbers and signatures and obligations that somehow grew into something monstrous while you slept under their roof, ate their food, believed their silence meant safety.
Then why...?
Where did the money go? Who gave them that much? There has to be some misunderstanding!—
One of them—a man with wire-rimmed glasses and a voice like still water—simply slid another document across the coffee table. "Here."
A corporate seal. A signature from someone you've never met. But... everything is perfectly legal.
—
Time moves strangely after that.
You're standing on the pavement now, across the street from the house you grew up in, and the world is happening without your permission.
A bulldozer sits idle near the front gate, its engine rumbling low and patient. Men in hard hats carry lumber and tools toward the side of the house where the old wall used to stand.
You watch as a section of the roof—the part above your bedroom—is dismantled piece by piece. Tiles clatter to the ground.
It still looked like home. It just wasn't yours anymore.
Everything feels so wrong.
—
One moment the street is empty. The next, a long, polished sedan glides around the corner and pulls to a stop in front of the property.
The engine cuts off with a soft purr. The doors open in perfect synchrony.
Men in dark suits step out first.
Broad-shouldered. Expressionless. Their eyes scan the surroundings with practiced efficiency before one of them nods toward the car's rear door.
A second man—leaner, older, with grey-streaked hair and the bearing of someone used to being obeyed—steps out.
You don't know his name. You've never seen his face before. But the moment he straightens to his full height, adjusting the cuffs of his charcoal suit with a single, unhurried motion, the entire street changes.
The workers stop. Hammers freeze mid-swing. Conversations die.
The construction supervisor—a thick-necked man with calloused hands and a voice like gravel—practically sprints toward the sidewalk, his posture shifting from authority to submission in the span of three strides.
"Sir! Welcome, welcome—" His voice is syrupy, obsequious. The same man who snapped orders at his crew ten minutes ago is now bowing slightly, his hands clasped in front of him, his smile stretched wide and uncomfortable.
"We weren't expecting you today, but everything is on schedule. Right on schedule. The demolition's progressing beautifully—"
The older man doesn't interrupt.
He simply stands there, hands clasped behind his back, head tilted slightly as he surveys the property.
The supervisor keeps talking, filling the silence with nervous praise.
"—absolutely top priority, sir, we made sure your people's instructions were followed to the letter. The new foundation will be laid within the week, and the structural changes you requested—"
He laughs. An ugly, ingratiating sound. "You'll definitely win this election, sir. No question about it. A man with your vision? Your resources? The people will line up to vote for you."
A politician...
The man's lips twitch. Something that doesn't reach his eyes.
He hums. A low, absent-minded sound, barely audible over the distant clatter of machinery. His gaze drifts across the property—the collapsing walls, the exposed beams—before it lands on you.
One second.
His eyes meet yours.
There is no recognition. No curiosity or sympathy. Only faint displeasure.
The crease between his brows deepens by a millimeter. As though your presence is an inconvenience.
And then he looks away. Returns his attention to the supervisor, who is already gesturing toward blueprints and babbling about timelines.
—
Your hands curl into fists.
A heat rises in your chest—sudden, sharp, blinding—and for a moment, you feel something other than numbness.
Rage.
Pure, incandescent rage. It screams at you to move. To walk forward. To grab that immaculate suit and shake him until he looks at you the way he looked at the property. With recognition. With acknowledgment.
Ask him. Ask him how he did it. Ask him why—
Your throat burns, feet shift on the pavement. But you don't move. Because by now—
By now, you understand.
Even if you walked up to him and screamed until your voice shattered, nothing would change.
Even if you demanded answers, he wouldn't give them. He would simply turn away, and his assistants would step forward, and the supervisor would call security, and you would be removed from this street like a piece of trash.
Even if you filed a case—
Well...
The law isn't blind. It's selective.
And it protects people like him before it protects people like you.
Power always shields power. And you have nothing. No money, no home, no leverage. No voice that anyone in that world would ever hear.
And then...
He appeared. Out of nowhere—as if he'd been waiting for the exact moment everything fell apart.
He said he'd help you. Said he'd pull you out of this mess. That he'd take care of everything.
At the time, it sounded impossible.
You knew nothing about him. Nothing beyond the image he presented.
The heavy gold chain resting against his collarbone. The rings decorating nearly every finger—his index, middle, and ring fingers catching the light whenever he moved.
The silver piercing through his right eyebrow. Another tucked into the corner of his lips.
And… the barbell through his tongue.
A detail you hadn't noticed until much later… until the first time he kissed you.
Even now, you still know almost nothing about him. Where he came from. What kind of life he lived before yours. Why he chose you.
Or why he was willing to spend such an impossible amount of money on a complete stranger.
The only thing you truly knew...
Was his name.
Satoru.
—
The knife slipped before you noticed the tremor in your fingers. A thin line of heat opened across your knuckle, and blood welled up, bright against the pale skin.
You stared at it for a second too long, the sting pulling you out of the fog that had settled behind your eyes.
Footsteps approach from the hallway. Satoru appears in the doorway wearing only black boxers, hair tousled, eyes still soft with sleep. He stops when he sees the blood.
"What’s wrong...?"
You tuck the hand behind your back on instinct. "It’s… it’s just a small cut."
He crosses the space between you without another word. His fingers close around your wrist, gentle but immovable, and he draws your hand forward.
The warmth of his mouth closes over the cut. He sucks once, slow, the wet heat of his tongue startling against the sting.
You feel the faint pull of suction, the careful press of his lips sealing around the wound. Memories of the night before flash behind your eyes—but his mouth now moves with a tenderness that refuses to match those images.
He releases your finger and studies the cut, thumb brushing once beneath the knuckle. "Wait here," he murmurs. "I’ll get the bandages."
Minutes later, he returns with the kit already open. Alcohol touches the slice and you flinch; he murmurs an automatic apology, voice low, and blows across the skin before wrapping it in clean white gauze.
When he finishes he nudges you toward a chair. "Sit. Don’t move."
"Yes.."
He takes your place at the counter. Eggs crack, butter melts, the pan hisses softly. He moves with the ease of routine—reaching for plates, flipping slices of bread, humming a fragment of melody under his breath.
Nothing in his posture acknowledges the hours that came before. The smell of toasted bread and coffee fills the kitchen, ordinary and grounding.
He sets a plate in front of you and pulls his own chair close. When your fork stays still, he spears a bite and lifts it to your lips without comment. You open your mouth. The food tastes normal. The silence stretches.
Your fingers tighten in your lap. The tremor starts small, then travels up your forearms. You wait until the words feel unavoidable.
"Hey…"
He keeps stirring sugar into his coffee.
"About… the promise."
The spoon taps once against ceramic. He lifts the cup, takes a slow sip, and sets it down again. Only then does he answer, still not looking at you.
"Hmm. Why should I?"
Your stomach drops. "B-but… you promised."
He glances over. The softness is gone; his eyes are flat, faintly disappointed. "But you aren’t doing what I asked you to do," he says quietly.
"You’re still acting like this."
He returns to the coffee as though the exchange never happened.
You hear yourself speaking faster, voice thin. "I… I won’t be anymore. Really."
Satoru shrugs, a small, almost fond smile touching his mouth. He takes another sip, then meets your eyes with light amusement.
"Hmm…”
"You see here?" Satoru’s voice drips with that lazy, cruel amusement he always has when he’s about to make you squirm.
He spreads his legs wider on the chair, just him in those loose boxers, and there it is. A thick, prominent line straining against the cotton, the head pushing out a dark shape.
He glances down at it, then back up at you, one eyebrow raised. "What do you call it? Hm?"
"......."
You feel the heat crawl up your neck, settle low in your belly. You know the answer. He’s drilled it into you—literally.
"M… morning wood," you mumble, the words familiar now, as natural as breathing when it comes to him.
"And… what do you do with it?" He palms himself slowly, deliberately, the fabric shifting as the thick line bulges, the tip reddening the cotton. A wet spot blooms.
He clicks his tongue. "C’mon…"
"I might even change my mind and actually 'help' you~." That last part is a purr, a promise that makes your thighs press together involuntarily.
You stand. Your legs are shaky, but you move between his thighs, knees hitting the floor. Your fingers hook into the waistband of his boxers and pull down.
His cock springs free and slaps against your lips—hard and heavy, the head smearing a bead of precum across your bottom lip.
Before you can even gasp, his hand tangles in your hair and shoves you down onto it. He groans low in his throat, a sound of pure, lazy satisfaction.
"Ahhh… yeah… good little cocksucker…" He doesn’t watch you—not yet. His other hand picks up his laptop from the table beside him.
Fingers start typing, keys clicking as you gag and suck, your tongue working the underside of his shaft, the thick vein pulsing against your palate.
He takes his time, occasionally shifting his hips to grind deeper into your throat, a soft grunt escaping when you don’t fight it.
But midway—after about fifteen minutes of you drooling and choking around him, your jaw aching—he stops typing. His hand yanks your head back by the hair, pulling you off with a wet pop.
A string of saliva and precum connects your lips to his cockhead. He looks down at you, his eyes glinting with that mischievous, dark light.
"Mm... bored of your mouth. Get up." He pushes his laptop aside, grabs your arm, and pulls you up. His hands go to your waistband, yanking your pants and panties down in one rough motion.
A wet string of your arousal stretches from your pussy to the fabric—proof of how desperately you want this. He laughs quietly, that breathy chuckle that makes your skin prickle.
"Ah~ pervert…" A grin stretches across his face, sharp and delighted. "Dripping like a whore just from sucking my cock, huh?"
He pulls you onto his lap, back first, so your spine presses against his bare chest. His arms wrap around you, locking you in place.
His cock is hot and rigid against the cleft of your ass, and he reaches down with one hand to spread your pussy lips apart, guiding the head to your entrance.
He doesn't ask—just pushes in, a single slow, deliberate thrust that makes both of you moan.
"Hah... Fuck… yeah…" He bites your earlobe, then drags his teeth down the side of your neck. "You’re so good like this, baby… you make me so happy~"
His voice is honey over gravel, sweet and terrifying. He starts pounding—mercilessly, his hips slamming up into you from below, each thrust deeper than the last.
His arms tighten around you like a vise, holding you impossibly close. He bites your neck, hard enough to leave a mark, then soothes it with his tongue.
One hand slides up to slap your left breast, then your right—each sharp, stinging impact making you jolt. Then he’s kneading both, squeezing roughly, pinching your nipples under the top between his fingers until you whimper.
"Can’t even think straight, can you?" His breath is hot in your ear, his pace brutal. "That’s right. Don’t think. Just take it. Take my cock like the good little slut I made you into."
He emphasizes each word with a snap of his hips, driving himself so deep you feel him in your throat.
He’s relentless, his mood shifts on a dime—one moment whispering "I love you, baby, you feel so fucking good," the next snarling "You’re mine, you’ll always be mine, I’ll FUCKING BREAK you if you EVER leave."
It only makes your pussy clench around him...
"Fuck… I’m close…" His rhythm stutters, but he doesn’t slow down. Instead, he grabs both your wrists, pins them behind your back, and forces you to stand on your trembling legs.
He stays seated, still inside you, using the leverage to pound even harder from below. "Stand. Fucking stand for me. Don’t you dare fall."
Your knees are jelly, your vision blurry, but you try. He drives into you, his balls slapping against your wet folds, and then he’s there—so close.
"Oww… FUCK…!!!" His roar is raw, animalistic. He buries himself to the hilt, and you feel his cum flooding your insides, hot and thick, pulse after pulse.
He holds you there for a second, panting, then lets go carelessly. You collapse forward onto the floor, your ass still high, still dripping his seed down your thighs.
He leans back in the chair, chest heaving, a lazy smirk on his lips as he watches you twitch and shudder on the ground. He doesn’t help you up. He just laughs softly, reaches for his laptop again, and types one-handed.
"Clean yourself up. I’m not done with you yet.”
—
Later that night, You stand at the counter once more, the cutting board before you a dull expanse of wood, the knife in your hand feeling heavier than it should.
Your legs tremble with each small shift, the ache in your muscles a reminder of the bruises that still bloom beneath your clothes.
A warm breath brushes against your neck before you even register the movement. Strong arms encircle your waist, pulling you back into a chest that radiates heat.
Satoru’s chin rests on your shoulder, his breath a soft puff against your ear.
“Still so pouty, baby?” he murmurs, voice light, teasing, as if the earlier storm had never existed. A laugh follows, low and amused.
“Even after I paid everything?”
Your hand freezes around the knife’s handle.
The words hang in the air, inert at first, then they click like a latch turning. Your eyes widen, heart stuttering against your ribs.
Did he... really? Is he serious?
You look up at him. His face is open, soft, almost boyish in the dim kitchen light. That crooked smile. Those bright eyes, gleaming with something that could be affection.
“What?” he asks, tone innocent. “You don’t believe me?”
You swallow. Your throat is dry. “No.” The word comes out too fast, too sharp. You shake your head, nerves spilling out before you can stop them. “No, I—I believe you.”
He hums, satisfied, and his fingers slip into your hair, stroking with a tenderness that feels almost paternal. "Good."
A pause stretches, thick with the scent of simmering sauce. “Don’t worry…” he whispers, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “I paid half of it because of your obedience.”
His thumb brushes the line of your jaw, then trails back to your scalp, each movement deliberate, soothing. “Try being a good girl more often, yeah?” He grins, the expression boyish, almost goofy.
“Then you won’t have to worry about a thing.”
"......"
Did he really pay it? Half of it? How much? Was it a lie? A test? A manipulation?
You can’t ask. You know better than to ask. Asking means doubting, and doubting means punishment. So you stand there, knife in hand, trying to look grateful.
His gaze drops. He notices the knife. Then, without warning, he gently plucks it from your fingers. His head tilts dramatically, feigning surprise.
“Aw, baby… I didn’t even notice until now.” His eyes land on the bandage wrapped around your finger—the one from earlier, when you cut yourself washing a glass. His expression shifts to exaggerated pity. “Why are you using knives again? You just got hurt earlier, didn’t you?”
He sighs, shaking his head like a disappointed parent.
“You could’ve just told me instead.”
A gentle nudge against your hip. “Move. Lemme do it.”
He takes your place at the counter. His fingers wrap around the knife handle, and he begins chopping—effortlessly, rhythmically. He hums under his breath. A cheerful, aimless tune.
“Don’t overthink things anymore, okay? I’ll handle everything. I’ll protect you, I’ll keep every promise, I’ll take care of every problem.” The words spill out between chops, light and casual.
“Only if you listen to me, of course. That’s all I ask, baby. Just listen.”
“You can do that, right?”
You nod. Forcing a smile, you say, “Yes,” softly, just enough to keep him happy.
Inside, your mind races, a frantic loop of questions and fears. How do you verify his claim? How do you know if he’s telling the truth?
He'll get angry. Hurt you. And...
Your gaze drops. Just for a second. Down to the floor, to the tile, to a stray drop of water. A lapse in attention. A tiny fracture in your performance.
That’s all it takes.
His hand shoots out, closing around your injured wrist with a grip that bruises. Before you can flinch, he drags the same kitchen knife—still slick with vegetable juices—across the fresh bandage on your finger.
"AHHH!?!"
The sound seems to suck the air from the room. Your vision blurs, tears spilling over as you stare up at him.
His face is twisted with anger, his jaw tight, his breathing uneven. His eyes—those bright eyes—are now frighteningly intense, boring into you with a cold fury that steals the air from your lungs.
“Why…” His voice is low, grinding. “Why are you looking like that!? Huh!?”
His grip tightens. The knife presses harder against your finger. The pain spikes. Blood seeps through the bandage.
“You fucking think I’m lying!?”
He shoves the knife again—a sharp, deliberate push that reopens the wound completely. The pain spreads through your entire hand, up your wrist, a fiery ache that makes your vision blur.
He shouts now, his voice cracking with rage.
“You fucking don’t trust me!? Why the fuck are you hesitant, bitch!?”
His breathing grows heavier. His knuckles are white around the knife handle. The pressure increases until your other fingers begin to ache from the force of his grip.
You can’t pull away. You can’t struggle. Every instinct screams that resistance will only make it worse—that he’s waiting for an excuse to break something.
Tears spill uncontrollably down your cheeks. Your voice breaks into desperate, ragged pleas.
“It’s not—it’s not true—I TRUST you—I TRUST YOU more than anything—”
You repeat it, over and over, through sobs, through the pain, through the terror thickening your throat. You say whatever you think will make him stop. You beg. You promise. You swear.
“PLEASE—PLEASE, I believe you—I’m SORRY—I’M SORRY—”
"......."
Satoru simply stares at you. His face is unreadable—a mask of cold stone, no flicker of emotion.
The seconds stretch into an eternity. The only sound is your ragged breathing, the drip of blood onto the tile.
Then—as abruptly as the rage appeared—it disappears.
Without another word, he eases the pressure, withdraws the knife from your hand, and turns back toward the counter. He resumes chopping as though nothing happened.
He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak.
"......" Your hand throbs. Your tears are still wet on your face. You stand frozen, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to breathe without feeling the phantom edge of that knife against your skin.
And you know—with a certainty that settles like ice in your stomach—that he could snap again at any moment. For any reason. For no reason at all.
—
You've returned upstairs to your room, sitting on the edge of the bed, carefully unwrapping the blood-soaked bandage from your injured hand.
Your entire body is still shaking from what happened downstairs. You keep hiccuping from crying so hard earlier.
Every tiny sound outside the bedroom makes your shoulders tense.
You're painfully aware that Satoru is still somewhere in the house. You don't know what mood he'll be in next. You don't know if he'll suddenly walk in angry again.
You're trying your hardest not to make any noise while replacing the bandage yourself. Every shaky breath threatens to become another muffled sob, and you bite your lip to keep yourself quiet.
Then—
The bedroom door quietly opens.
Satoru stands in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim light from the hallway. His face is unreadable.
No smile. No teasing. No anger. Just a quiet, neutral stillness that is somehow more frightening than his rage.
He steps inside. The door closes behind him with a soft thud.
Your hand freezes mid-motion. The bandage dangles from your fingers. Your heart hammers against your ribs, erratic and loud.
He crosses the room slowly, his footsteps muffled by the carpet. His eyes are fixed on your wounded hand. He says nothing.
He simply sits beside you on the bed—close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body.
The silence stretches. Seconds become an eternity. He stares at your hand. Then his own hands curl into fists on his own thighs.
His jaw tightens. A muscle twitches beneath his eye. For a moment, you think the rage is returning—that he's about to grab your hand again, to press another knife into the wound, to demand why you're still shaking, why you still look afraid.
But he doesn't.
Instead, he reaches over. Slowly. Gently. His fingers brush against yours, and he takes the roll of bandage from your trembling grip. His voice, when it comes, is quiet. Almost soft.
"Let me."
You don't hesitate. You let go immediately. Not because you want his help—but because you're terrified of refusing him. Because every instinct screams that compliance is survival.
You sit perfectly still, offering your injured hand, and let him do whatever he wants.
He begins wrapping the fresh bandage around your finger. His movements are careful, deliberate. His fingertips brush against your skin with surprising gentleness.
He aligns the gauze perfectly, winding it around the wound with practiced ease. The pressure is firm but not painful. He doesn't tug. He doesn't squeeze.
He doesn't apologize. Doesn't acknowledge your tears are still wet on your cheeks.
You stare at his hands. At the way his fingers move with such care. You don't understand. You can't understand. There is no logic to him, no pattern you can predict.
He hurts you. He holds you. He kisses you. He cuts you. He bandages you.
And between each act, he offers no explanation, no bridge between the two.
After a long silence, he speaks. His voice is calm, almost conversational.
"You almost did it."
He finishes wrapping another layer around your finger. "Who taught you?"
The question catches you completely off guard. Your mind goes blank for a second—then scrambles, reaching for an answer that won't upset him.
The words leave your mouth before you can think them through.
"My father..."
You say it instinctively, without meaning to. The memory surfaces briefly.
Satoru glances toward you. Just briefly. His expression doesn't change. Then he returns his attention to your hand, letting out a small hum—low and thoughtful.
He finishes tying the bandage neatly. A small, precise knot. Then he gently pats the back of your hand.
"Alright. All done."
His thumb brushes over the fresh bandage. Almost absentmindedly. The touch is featherlight, almost tender. His voice softens.
"I think I've still got some painkillers left..." A tiny smile curves his lips. "Just for you."
His fingertips stroke the back of your bandaged hand, tracing slow, soothing circles. Then, almost casually, he asks,
"Well..."
"[Name]..."
"Is there anything you're scared of?"
Silence...
Your thoughts immediately spiral.
Why? Why is he asking that? Did you answer something wrong? Is this another test? Is there a right answer? Is there a wrong one? What is he thinking? What does he want from you?
You can't read him anymore. Maybe you never could. His smile is soft, warm, inviting—but you've seen that same smile twist into fury in the span of a heartbeat.
You've seen his eyes go cold. You've felt the steel of a blade against your bones.
You stay silent too long.
His smile stretches just a little wider. Still soft. Still warm. Still impossible to trust. He tilts his head, the motion slow and deliberate.
"Hm?"
The single sound makes panic bloom inside your chest. A hot, suffocating wave that tightens your throat and makes your palms slick with sweat.
You need to answer. You need to say something. Anything. Something harmless. Something ordinary. Something that won't upset him.
Your voice comes out stammering, too fast. "Ah—me, I'm..." You scramble for the safest lie you can find.
"I'm scared of insects."
A nervous laugh escapes you—high and brittle, almost a giggle.
"Yeah... bugs... I don't like bugs."
Satoru blinks. One eyebrow lifts ever so slightly. For a fraction of a second, you think you see something flicker in his eyes—amusement? Suspicion?
Then he chuckles.
Soft, natural and, so normal...
For a brief moment, you almost forget. Almost. You remember why people fall for him so easily. How handsome he is. How gentle he can seem. How effortless his smile looks. How his laugh can sound so genuine, so warm, so inviting.
Until you remember everything else.
Still smiling, he says, "Aw... Insects, huh?" Another quiet chuckle.
"Guess that's pretty common among girls."
The conversation ends as abruptly as it began. He stands, smoothing the wrinkles from his shirt with a casual motion. His tone shifts to something practical, almost distant.
"Well... Go to sleep." A pause.
"I need to leave now."
Your eyes lift toward him. Leave? You remember him mentioning a trip earlier during the other day. But now? This late at night?
You realize, with a sudden, hollow clarity, that you don't actually know what he does. Where he goes. Who he meets. What kind of work keeps him away for days.
You've lived beside him. Shared meals. Shared a bed. Shared every terrifying, breathless, impossible day. Yet you know almost nothing about his life.
The curiosity lingers only for a moment before you force it down.
Satoru quietly lays you down on the bed. His hand settles on your shoulder, turning your body, steering you toward the pillows. He waits until you've pulled the covers up to your chin.
He watches as you close your eyes. He doesn't move. He waits—as though making sure you're truly staying there, that you're not going to bolt the second he turns his back.
Only then does he lean down.
His lips press against your forehead. A soft, lingering kiss. Then another against your lips—gentle, unhurried, almost tender. Silent.
Without another word, he straightens. Walks toward the bedroom door. The door clicks open, then quietly shuts behind him.
The room falls into silence.
You open your eyes. Your hand still throbs beneath the fresh bandage. Your thoughts are a tangled knot of fear and confusion.
And one thought crosses your mind, quietly, as you lie there in the dark.
Maybe... maybe he'll be gone for two... three days.
—
You don't remember the moment consciousness slipped away. One moment you were lying in the dark, your bandaged hand throbbing, your mind still replaying everything, the way his voice shredded through your skull. The next moment, there is nothing.
But it doesn't last.
Something is wrong.
At first, it's barely perceptible—a faint tickle against your forearm, light as a whisper. Your sleeping mind tries to dismiss it. A loose thread. A strand of hair. The brush of a blanket.
Then another tickle. On your neck. Your ankle. The back of your hand.
Your dream shifts uneasily. Shadows coil and writhe. You feel something moving beneath the sheets, a subtle undulation against your thigh, and your stomach lurches with a nameless dread.
Your eyes snap open.
The bedroom is completely dark. Silent. The kind of silence that presses against your eardrums, thick and suffocating.
You lie frozen, your breath caught in your throat, your heart hammering so hard you can feel it in your temples.
Nothing moves.
You sit up slowly. The blankets rustle. Your eyes strain against the blackness, searching for shapes, for movement, for anything that might explain the crawling sensation that still lingers on your skin like a ghost touch.
Nothing...
You exhale. A shaky, relieved breath. Just a dream. Just a dream, yeah. You're safe. You're—
You place one hand back onto the plush bedding to steady yourself.
And you touch something.
Something cold and alive.
"—!?" Your hand recoils as if burned. The thing—whatever it is—squirms away beneath your fingertips, a wet, writhing motion that leaves a trail of horror imprinted on your palm.
Before you can even process what you touched, something small and dark suddenly launches itself from the darkness toward your face.
You scream.
The sound rips from your throat, raw and instinctive, as your entire body jerks violently backward.
You throw yourself off the bed, kicking away the blankets, wildly swatting at the air around your head, desperately trying to shield your face from an attack you can't see. Your feet tangle in the sheets. You stumble, catch yourself against the wall, and fumble blindly for the light switch.
Your fingers scrape against the plastic. You slam it on. The room floods with harsh, yellow light. And then you see them.
Not one or two bugs.
Too many.
Cockroaches crawl across the floor in waves—brown, glistening bodies moving in a slow, coordinated drift, their antennae twitching, their legs scuttling over the carpet fibers.
Some are large, almost obscenely so.
Spiders hang from the ceiling. Not just one or two. Dozens. They're suspended from invisible threads, dangling at various heights, their long legs curled and waiting.
Earthworms writhe across the carpet. Some are long and thick, coiling over each other in slow, wet knots. Others are thin as thread, barely visible until they catch the light.
They're everywhere—beneath your feet, beneath the bed, beneath the dresser, sliding out from under the door.
The furniture is covered. Your nightstand hosts a congregation of small, brown beetles. The dresser drawers have centipedes emerging from the gaps—dozens of legs rippling in unison.
The pillows on your bed are speckled with black ants, crawling in erratic lines, disappearing into the folds of fabric. The blankets are no longer safe; slugs cling to the hem, their mucus-slick bodies leaving silver trails across the cotton.
Everything moves.
Your mind stops working.
Your breathing becomes ragged. Short, sharp gasps that don't reach the bottom of your lungs.
Your skin crawls—you can feel them even when they're not touching you yet.
Your legs give out. You don't fall, but you stagger—one hand grasping the wall, your knuckles white, your nails scraping against the paint.
Your eyes dart frantically around the room, searching for a safe spot, a clean spot, somewhere your feet can rest without touching something alive.
But, they're everywhere.
On every surface. In every shadow. Crawling over your shoes by the door. Climbing the legs of the chair in the corner. Nesting in the folds of the curtains.
The curtains. The windows.
You turn your head slowly, dread pooling in your stomach, and you see them.
The curtains are no longer fabric. They're a surface. A writhing, shifting surface of clustered insects—flies, moths, beetles, earwigs—all pressed together, clinging to the cloth, crawling over each other in a dense, living tapestry.
Every possible escape route is blocked by the very thing you fear most.
The bedroom door is the only way out.
Your body moves before your mind catches up.
You sprint across the room, your feet landing on carpet that squirms and crunches beneath you.
You grab the handle. Twist. Pull.
But, nothing...
The door is steel—solid, unyielding, impossible to break. You rattle the handle again and again, the metal clattering uselessly in the silence.
Panic detonates inside your chest.
You slam both fists against the door. The impact jars your arms, sends pain shooting through your injured hand, but you don't care.
You can't care. You pound against the steel until your palms sting, until your knuckles split, until the fresh bandage on your finger turns red again.
You scream. The sound tears out of you, raw and desperate, your voice cracking and breaking.
the windows rattled at the strong winds hitting, followed by the sound of rain drops splattering over the glass before dews trickled and disappearing until being replaced with a new ones. lightning flashes across the sky and there's the murmur of a distant thunder before erupting into a deafening boom.
along with the sounds of the stormy weather outside was the low pitches of your voice, morphing into soft whines and gasps. the room is cold but your choso-nii's touch is warm.
“lick my pussy more, choso-nii....” choso groans at his stepsister's request. his eyes narrowed, the red of his eyes seemingly glinting at the dimmed room. watching through tired eyes of his at his stepsister laying in her back. head propped up on the pillows, that flimsy top decorated with red cherries rests just above your round stomach.
biting your index fingers to keep your voice at bay like it was a sin to moan for your big brother that settled between your legs. cuddling your pillow like it was the only salvation from the pleasure he was giving you.
a slurp and lick sound being emoted as his tongue touches the smooth texture of her plump folds. the mixture of his saliva and the slick drooling from your fat cunt adding to the desire for his little sister. he takes a long stripe to your cunt from his tongue. starting from your dripping hole until it reaches the engorged bud. tensing the soft pink muscle of his before circling your clit with the tip of his tongue before wrapping it with his lips.
the soft squelch can be heard despite the clap of thunders and your mewls mixing. he grabbed both of your thick thighs that was spread in the bed. placing both of it in his shoulders. using it as a leverage like he was holding the rind of a watermelon.
a touch of warmth is being sprinkled to the pale complexion of his skin. warm is your thighs wrapped around his head and face being warmed by your fat pussy. long and slow licks as he delved between your folds. tasting the sweet essence of his sweet little sister.
“'m close choso-nii....” you didn't need to tell him cause the trembling of your thighs against his cheeks and the low pitched of your voice. you were close.
choso continue to greedily lap at your folds. the strokes of his tongue doubling in effort to get you near to the edge and with a harsh suck. a loud mewl coming from you and the sudden gush of the slimy, clear liquid coming from you, he knew you came.
he continued to lick prolonging the orgasm as you ride it. choso hears your heavy breaths turning shallow as you recovered from the intense orgasm.
choso pressed a chaste kiss to your inner thigh before slowly rising. watching you with every move as your eyes gets heavier and your chubby face turning in a calmer one. you weren't frightened by the storm anymore as you drift into a dreamless sleep.
cute. choso mutters. thinking that even at the tender age of 24, when you already had achieved so many things in your life. you always still look for him for comfort when thunderstorms rolled around.
you were always going to be his sister and comforting you with his tongue just like you sweetly asked of him, he will always do it. all for his little sister sleeping soundly at the comfort of her fluffy blankets.
Sum: Died, went to hell, got a retail job, sucked off your landlord to make rent, and then got recognized by two predators at the convenience store register. Things are going great.
Yandere! SatoSugu x Reader // featuring brief Yan! Nanami x Reader
Warnings: yandere, monsterfucking, dubcon/noncon, coercion, humiliation, piss, rough oral, power imbalance, captivity mentions, afterlife, implied cannibalism/threats, predatory behavior, violence, sexual exploitation, dead dove do not eat
a/n: what was supposed to be a crack fic oneshot has somehow turned to this...
Part one wc: 7k // Part two: The Pet
Congrats, You’re in Hell!
At least that was what the banner overhead said, its cheerful Comic Sans lettering bright as you sat in the most uncomfortable waiting-room chair imaginable. One of those chairs designed to look luxurious and deceptively padded, only for the armrests to sit at such a miserable height that your shoulders ached no matter how you held yourself.
Regardless of the chair, you are in hell.
Now, you may have a thought or two about what drove you here. Was it that one time you went a little over the speed limit and flirted with a cop to get out of a ticket?
None of that really matters now. What matters is how you leave.
See, hell has a moral code. A deeply annoying one, but a moral code nonetheless. You can do something awful at the wonderful age of two and go on to live the rest of your life as an absolute saint, only to still get sentenced to two miserable weeks downstairs before being shuffled up with the angels.
The goal is to serve your time, do your sentence, and eventually get access upstairs.
The unfortunate rule is that time can be added. Which, in a place run by the inmates with no laws, no dignity, and a catastrophic lack of ethics, makes it alarmingly easy to rack up a sentence.
You found yourself wandering up to the front desk, the waiting room stretched into a bright white that seemed to swallow the space, only to find your childhood plush sitting primly, wearing a tie.
No need for a name tag.
“Ah ha! You’re awake. Welcome to hell!”
The thing had a sweet voice, the kind that reminded you of a cartoon mascot or a customer service representative who had never known the feeling of despair. Its voice rang oddly in your skull, a little too crisp and far too close, and as you slowly looked around, the room itself seemed rather... unsettling.
It was pure white.
Not a warm white, like what you’d imagine the afterlife would have, but a sterile, flat white, like an office building scrubbed of all personality. Gone was the horrible waiting room chair and whatever space you had crossed to get here. All that remained was a thick glass barrier with a tiny microphone built into it and the plush sitting behind it, bent over and a little lopsided.
The barrier must be for people who didn’t take being in hell particularly well.
You forced yourself to ask the sort of question one generally asks upon dying.
What did I do to deserve this?
Sure, you were no saint, but there was nothing you could think of that actually warranted eternal damnation. And honestly, you had expected hell to be far more dramatic. At least something to match the descriptions in Dante’s Inferno. Something worth crying about, not this bureaucratic nightmare.
At the very least, give you the backrooms.
“You died by a...,” the plush paused. “Wait, wait, you asked what you did?”
The comfort object blinked at you with round, beady little eyes. Perhaps after years and years of handling people who stepped into the room, it had simply grown accustomed to a different string of questions.
“Huh. Usually they start with an ‘AHHHHH!’ and a ‘NOOOO! I need more time!”
The fuzzy little thing acted out each response with theatrical enthusiasm, its voice pitching and warping to accommodate each imaginary soul it seemed to be quoting. You stared at the thing, half convinced you had finally tipped into insanity. Maybe this was all some sort of terrible nightmare, one your feeble little mind couldn’t quite make sense of. Did everyone get their own plush? Was hell customized? Or was this simply the first sign that your mind, faced with the incomprehensible, had decided to protect itself by becoming stupid?
Before you had time to wrap your brain around it all, a paper scroll appeared in front of you with a dry little rustle as it unfurled. Only one line was written across it in a stiff, businesslike font:
Section 67, Rule 421: Copied Another Individual During a Major Test
A low, dramatic whistle rang in your mind. You assumed it was the plush, seeing as it had no mouth to accommodate such a sound.
“That’s really bad, you know!” It shook its soft little head, disappointment evident in its tiny features, before looking back at you through the glass divider. “Thankfully, you only have a week here. I think you’ll survive quite well.”
Unfortunately, you did not survive very well.
By the time you were discharged to the city streets through one of those plastic, bank-vault-looking things that dropped you into a particular district, you were already exhausted. You imagined everyone had a different drop-off location depending on their crime. You weren’t given a map, so there was no way to confirm whether your theory was correct.
Hell was not the cinematic inferno every cautionary church pamphlet had promised you. Instead, it was rather functional, much like a big city, except the time was always mostly night, or some in-between time designed to guarantee you would never have a restful second of sleep because your circadian rhythm would be forever screwed up.
The air was thick and damp, clinging to your skin like a second layer, with a persistent drizzle falling from somewhere above that never quite turned into proper rain but never stopped either. Instead, it slicked the pavement and softened the neon lights plastered above buildings, the words shifting through languages you didn’t know and yet could still understand.
Something large swept overhead.
You flinched on reflex, the shadow warping across the ground, and looked up just in time to catch the silhouette of wings cutting through the glow of the city, massive and slow-beating, before disappearing between buildings. Others followed, some similar in shape, others larger or smaller, either hovering, gliding, or simply watching.
You had the awful feeling that one of them lingered a beat longer than the rest, its eyes fixed on you as though you might be its next victim for an early dinner.
You decided to keep walking, matching the pace of the other creatures on their commute home, or to work, or wherever one went in hell. Some were human like yourself. Others had scales slick with rain, or fur damp and clinging to their bodies. Horns knocked faintly against passing umbrellas. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed loud enough to make your shoulders jump, but no one else seemed to pay it any mind.
‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅
You managed to secure a place using whatever money was left in your bank account when you died. Unfortunately, your 401(k) had been drained and passed on to your loved ones, but with the sad little chunk of change you still had access to, you were able to get a furnished apartment.
Again, you did not survive your first day in hell well.
At least not socially.
Mr. Nanami had been kind enough to point you toward places that were hiring since, thankfully, your degree had transferred over. Which felt like one of the only mercies this place had afforded you. So naturally, in a desperate attempt to remain housed and not piss off your landlord, who accepted rent weekly instead of monthly, you tried to get a job.
Unfortunately for you, the hiring manager at one of the establishments Mr. Nanami had suggested was an orc.
A very ugly one, too.
Broad, tusked, and sweating through a short-sleeved button-up that strained across his chest. He smelled faintly of sulfur, wet pennies, and microwaved fish. The hiring office itself was hardly any better, with bolted plastic chairs and a sad little ticket dispenser by the front desk for interviews.
You waited nearly an hour for your turn, resume trembling in your hand as you were finally called up to take a seat in front of the gruff orc, who adjusted his glasses to read the small print of the freshly printed paper you had spent your last dollar on.
The orc squinted down at your paperwork, snorted, and tapped the note attached to your file with one bumpy green finger.
“Did you really earn your degree?” he asked.
Not quietly, either. Several heads turned in your direction as heat began to crawl up your neck. You forced yourself to nod, bottom lip wobbling, because this had to be the third place rejecting you over your crime.
“Sorry,” he said in an annoyed voice, his lips curling around the words before he spat them out. “Can’t do it.”
You did your best to plead your case. You insisted that you really had earned your degree, that one copied test did nothing to invalidate years of work, sleepless nights, and academic suffering. But the smelly orc merely jerked a crooked thumb toward the others waiting in line and informed you that, at the very least, they were more qualified than you.
Someone behind you made a little huff and whispered to another creature waiting for an interview, “At least commit murder if you’re going to end up here.”
You stood there for one long second, feeling every eye in the room on you, all because of one stupid test. The living had already been hard enough. Why did the dead have to be worse?
Something hot and furious crackled inside you. You reached for the hand sanitizer and the free lighters from the front desk and, well...
You torched the place.
In hindsight, perhaps not your best moment.
Still, you had not even known you were capable of that kind of firepower, which was at least a little exciting. The flames licked across the front desk and raced up a motivational poster with two kittens hanging over a branch above a fire pit, the words Hang in There curling black at the edges as the whole thing went up.
You did, unfortunately, kill a few people in your little arson attempt, to which hell did not respond with much whimsy.
A cheerful little ding sounded somewhere above your head, and then the plush returned to announce:
New Sentence: 667 Years
You picked up your torched resume off the floor and figured you had better find a job before Mr. Nanami refused to extend your lease because you couldn't make your next payment. Pitiful little crocodile tears could only get you so far in a place like this, and if you didn't figure out a way to make rent, and quickly, well, selling yourself was always an option.
Though you weren’t sure your soul would rest easy with that.
‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅
With an odd little stroke of luck, you spotted it on your way back to the apartment while kicking rocks along the sidewalk. A convenience store was hiring, and the going rate was three times your rent every two weeks. The bubble letters were oddly specific.
Late Shift! Five-Year Contract!
Printed at the very bottom of the crumpled pink flyer, beneath faint stains you could only hope were ketchup and not blood, were the words.
Rules Apply.
Surely you could follow rules, and there was no way your crime would be a problem for an establishment like this. With your dignity hanging by a frayed thread, you stepped inside to apply.
‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅
For as cheerful as the flyer had been, you expected someone equally cheerful behind the counter.
Instead, there sat a dragon hybrid who looked less like a store manager and more like a final boss guarding a dungeon you very clearly weren’t the right level for.
He was huge.
Not just tall, though he certainly had that going for him too, but broad in a way that felt excessive, built with the sort of monstrous proportions that made the cramped convenience store seem laughably too small for him. The place itself was dingy, with flickering fluorescent lights overhead, one of the drink coolers making a low rattling hum in the back, and tile floors sticky enough that your shoes made faint little tacky sounds every time you shifted your weight. A cheap bell had jingled when you walked in, though he hadn’t looked up right away.
Four arms. Two folded lazily across his chest, one hand flipping through what appeared to be hell’s version of a Playboy while another obsidian claw picked idly at one of his fangs. One of the lower hands was occupied with absolutely nothing at all, drumming black claws against the countertop beside the register, as he might eventually remember that he worked here.
You stared.
Because frankly, what else were you supposed to do when faced with that?
A pair of red eyes slid over you once. The slushie machine in the corner gave a loud, wet gurgle. “You here to buy something,” he drawled at last, “or just stand there gawking before asking for a job?”
Your mouth parted. You couldn’t say anything for a handful of seconds, which only made him roll his crimson eyes. “A job?” you merely squeaked out with your resume already crumpling in your hand.
“So you can read. That’s a relief. I was beginning to wonder if hell had lowered its standards again.”
You bristled instantly. “Yeah… I’m here for the job.”
He looked you over once more, taking his sweet time with it, and somehow managed to make standing there in your own skin feel weirdly humiliating. One claw tapped lazily against the laminated countertop. Somewhere behind him, a refrigerator compressor kicked louder for half a second before settling back into its usual little hum.
“That bad out there already?” he mused, flipping another page. Two of his four eyes dropped back to the magazine. “Couldn’t even make it a full day before crawling into retail?”
His tail gave a lazy thump against the floor, heavy enough to rattle a crooked little display of lollipops near the register.
“You can call me Mr. Sukuna,” he said. His voice came out low and rough, thick with amusement that never once softened the threat beneath it. “Not Kuna, not mister, not Sukuna, and definitely not by my first name. You don’t look nearly important enough for that.”
You almost asked if that meant you could call him Mr. Kuna, but one glance at the claws, the fangs, the tail, the extra arms, and the overwhelming possibility of dying again convinced you that perhaps restraint was a virtue after all.
He seemed to notice your hesitation.
“What?” he asked, mockingly expectant. “Got a smart little comment caught in that tiny head of yours?”
You said nothing.
“Pity,” he hummed. “You looked just irritating enough to have one.”
His crimson gaze dragged over you again, slow and invasive, from your shoes to your face, with all the lazy scrutiny of a predator deciding whether you looked more pathetic than useful.
Then he snorted.
“I don’t usually hire little runts,” he said, glancing back down at the magazine in his hand, “but you’ve got that desperate look I like in employees.”
He turned another page.
A beat passed.
Then, without warning, one of his lower hands reached beside the register, grabbed a lighter and a pack of cigarettes, and tossed both toward a customer who had apparently been waiting by the end of the counter the entire time. You startled hard enough to nearly jump out of your skin. The creature caught them, slapped a few crumpled bills onto the counter, and left without either of you acknowledging what had just happened.
“What?” he said flatly. “Did you think this was going to be a formal interview? I sell cigarettes, energy drinks, and cursed scratch-offs to the damned at two in the morning. If you can stand upright and count change without crying, you’re overqualified.”
That was fair, actually.
He finally looked back at you, grin turning sharp enough to split skin.
“But if you steal from me, mouth off to me, or make my store look worse than it already does, I’ll peel your hide off and use it to mop the freezer aisle. You understand, sweetheart?”
You were almost too stunned to say anything before nodding eagerly.
“You start now.”
‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅
As it turned out, working for Sukuna deserved its own circle of hell.
On your first night, he handed you an entire list of rules, most of which you had only skimmed with the sort of confidence only a fool, or someone recently dead, could possess. Some of them had been normal enough, if you could even use that word to describe hell.
Don’t antagonize armed customers.
Don't flirt back with the customers.
Don't open the back door past 3 a.m.
Others made you wonder why, exactly, he had thought to warn you in the first place despite his generally miserable exterior. Anytime you asked, he would grumble something under his breath about you being too much of an idiot to understand the basics of this kind of life.
You imagined he would know, seeing as he had apparently been here for two centuries.
And of course, there were also rules that felt a little too personal.
Don’t touch my food.
Don’t sit in my chair.
Don’t use my office for anything other than dropping off your timecard.
The most important one had been written in thick lettering and decorated with an alarming amount of stickers; you didn't quite take him for the type to own. You briefly wondered if he had someone locked in a basement somewhere making these signs for him. The thought passed almost as quickly as it came.
THE CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT.
You had heard that one before back in the land of the living. Everyone had. And more often than not, everyone had abused it.
The job itself was relatively easy once you got used to the sort of riffraff that drifted into the shop. Sukuna would linger with you for the first few hours of the night, always with a new porn magazine in hand, which you sometimes caught him lazily jerking off to before scoffing when you looked his way.
He never stopped, though.
Sometimes he was kind enough to leave the old boxy television on. It played whatever happened to be popular in hell on a low, tinny volume throughout your shift, the sound crackling beneath the buzz of the fluorescent lights and the occasional wet gurgle from the slushie machine in the corner.
Commercials for blood banks and strip clubs. The occasional ad for demon casinos promising that you can even bet your soul! Prescription medication with side effects read so quickly you were fairly certain they had to be illegal. Even the local news changed depending on the district, usually something about possession rates, traffic pileups, or whichever neighborhood had the highest body count that week.
And every so often, music.
Some of it you had heard back in the land of the living. You supposed not every musician made it to the pearly gates on talent alone. Others were actual creatures you had never heard of before, though you were quickly becoming a fan.
Then one night, a familiar tune drifted through the store speakers.
A love ballad sung by two of the biggest pop idols in hell at the moment: Gojo Satoru and Geto Suguru.
Lovers, some of the trashy little entertainment articles had claimed, which you had read during the slower hours of your shift while pretending not to. Apparently they had committed something heinous enough to land themselves a sentence nearly as long as Sukuna’s.
Sukuna often told you not to pay them any mind if you knew what was good for you. Especially if they ever made their way inside. You had laughed the first time he said it. You couldn't imagine men like that setting foot into a run-down convenience store in a district like this.
To which Sukuna had only given you a long, knowing look and muttered, “If they knew what they were looking for.”
Sukuna sometimes talked like he knew things you never would. You pushed, he pulled away, and the most he ever left you with was:
“No creature here is a good person.”
That had been reassuring.
So naturally, you paid him absolutely no mind.
Instead, tonight, you found yourself leaning against a mop and staring at their little performance on the old television. Satoru, with his blinding white hair and dazzling smile, reaches for the hands of screaming fans like he might siphon the feeling of love from their adoration alone. Suguru carried the softer notes, smooth and far too easy on the ears, only to slip into a rap halfway through before making a heart with his broad hands and winking directly at the camera with those pretty violet eyes.
You could see why people were stupid about them.
Sukuna noticed immediately. With a sharp click of his tongue, he stood and smacked the side of the television hard enough to make the image warp and shriek into static before blinking black.
You jolted and shot him a look that very clearly said: Hey, I was watching that.
“What?” he said without looking at you, two hands still counting bills while another idly picked at one of his fangs. “You here to work or stare like a creep?”
Heat crawled up your face. “I wasn’t staring.”
“Hm.”
His tail lashed once behind him, displeased.
Then his red eyes slid over you.
“Listen carefully,” he said, voice low and edged with irritation. “I don’t care if customers rob you, threaten you, or cry at the register. You follow my rules exactly. And if you don’t, I’ll crack your bones open with my teeth and stock what’s left of you in the freezer.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Then, with the sheer arrogance of a creature entirely confident in his place at the top of the food chain, he snorted and looked away first.
You decided to finally listen to the old bastard for once.
‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅
Still, that was not the rule you failed.
No, what you failed to do was correctly price-mark the limited-edition Dungeon Crawler Spellbooks over in aisle three. In your defense, they had been shelved right beside the clearance bin, and the little orange stickers had all started to blur together after your fifth hour under those migraine-inducing neon lights.
You had tried to explain to Sukuna that you had simply gotten confused.
Unfortunately, before you could fix your mistake, a goblin had waddled in, squinted at the shelf with all the greedy suspicion of a man born to haggle, and promptly robbed you blind.
Didn’t even pay the clearance price. Just stuffed the books under his greasy little vest and bolted.
What a truly spectacular stroke of luck for you.
So now nasty old Sukuna had docked your pay down to one penny a day, which you argued was not only ridiculous but deeply evil, and he had simply stared at you as if to say:
Are you planning to pay for what I lost?
You had, unfortunately, not been planning that.
Which was how you found yourself standing in front of your neighbor and landlord’s door, fist hovering in the air.
‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅
Your knuckles never made contact before the door swung open, causing you to startle back a step.
You had nearly forgotten just how large Mr. Nanami was.
He was not monstrous in the obvious way so many others in your district were, with their dripping fangs and proud vulgarity, their open displays of appetite and violence. His intimidation was of a far more insidious sort. The kind that did not announce itself. The kind that merely settled into a room and let your nerves discover it for themselves.
He was an orc, yes, but scrubbed clean of the usual roughness you had come to associate with most of them. His ivory tusks were smooth and immaculately kept, neat against the severe line of his mouth, and his skin lacked the grime, the sweat-slick coarseness, the animal disorder so many others seemed to wear with careless pride. There was nothing careless about Mr. Nanami. Everything about him looked deliberate. Pressed. Ordered. As though even his cruelty, if it existed, would arrive neatly folded and set before you without so much as wrinkling the tablecloth.
“I was just about to see you.”
His voice was soft, but there was a bluntness beneath it that made your stomach draw tight all the same.
He stepped aside, one broad hand motioning for you to enter. You brushed past him into the apartment and were struck all at once by how clean it smelled. Faint soap. Starch. Something dry and papery, like old books left undisturbed on a shelf. It wasn't an unpleasant scent.
“About my rent,” you began, though your voice had already started thinning by the second word.
The door shut behind you with a quiet click. Nanami didn't move right away. His hand remained resting on the lock for one suspended second longer than necessary, his expression unreadable, his posture still as stone.
“You have it, yes?”
Again, his voice was far too gentle for a landlord with a tenant already a week late.
Then the lock turned.
Such a small sound.
And yet it seemed to pass through you with the cold precision of a needle.
He motioned for you to sit, and with all the solemn dread of someone approaching their own execution, you lowered yourself to the floor before him while he took his seat opposite you. His knees spread slightly. One hand rose to prop his chin, thumb resting against the edge of his jaw, while the other came to rest low at his waist, fingers grazing the polished buckle of his belt.
Great.
You kept your head bowed, save for the occasional flicker of your gaze upward to see whether he was still looking at you. He was. Those hazel eyes had a way of fastening to you that felt less like attention and more like arrangement, as though you had already been set neatly into place before him. Pinned there. A specimen behind glass. Every second beneath that gaze felt like another fine silver needle slipped carefully through the fragile architecture of your ribs.
Your hands fidgeted in your lap.
“About that...” you started weakly, your nails picking at the skin beside your thumb until a quick, bright sting answered you. “I need another week.”
Silence stretched between you.
Not empty silence, either. It had shape. Weight. It gathered itself in the room until even the faint hum of the apartment seemed to recede beneath it.
You picked harder at the ragged skin around your nail until blood welled dark and sudden at the edge of it. You curled your fingers quickly, hiding the mess in your palm before any of it could stain the cream of the rug beneath you.
“You think hell is free?”
The firmness in his voice struck harder than if he had raised it.
You folded in on yourself at once. There was no bark to his tone. Only disappointment. Flat, measured, and somehow far more humiliating than fury ever could have been.
He exhaled quietly through his nose, one finger tapping once against the smooth curve of a tusk.
“I suppose,” he said at last, after you had sat there long enough to feel your own pulse fluttering in your throat, “there are other ways for you to pay.”
For one foolish moment, you didn't understand him.
Then came the soft metallic sound of his belt being undone.
Your head snapped up so quickly your neck nearly protested.
His gaze had not left you. If anything, it had softened, though only just. Not into kindness. Never that. Pity, perhaps. Or patience. The sort reserved for frightened things too small to understand the shape of what was being asked of them.
“I will only do this once,” he said evenly, and there it was again, that unbearable note of pity beneath the words. “I’m saving myself for someone who’s still living.”
How thoughtful.
Apparently, less respectable methods had arrived.
You moved closer in one unsteady shift, rising onto your knees. One hand came to rest against the solid breadth of his thigh, the muscle beneath his slacks firm and warm beneath your palm, while the other crept hesitantly toward the hard, heavy outline straining against the fabric and, oh.
That was...
You swallowed.
Could that even fit in your mouth?
He had to be at least ten, perhaps eleven inches. The sheer girth of him had your hand moving in slow, uncertain strokes, feeling each heavy vein and strange ridge of orc flesh through the thin fabric of his briefs.
You peeled them down by degrees, and his mossy-green cock sprang free, revealing the coarse blond patch at the base and a flushed, leaking tip that drew your tongue out almost on instinct. The taste of him was thick, almost creamy, touched through with salt and something muskier, that made your thighs press together before you could help it. You gathered what you could with slow, circling strokes of your tongue, both hands working along the hot, weighty length as you tried to slick him well enough to take more of him.
His broad hand came to rest at the back of your head.
He pushed your lips farther past the mauve tip, heedless of the sharp scrape of your teeth against him, and a low, rough sound broke from his chest in answer.
“Haa... it’s been years,” he sighed, nails pressing into your scalp as he began to guide you more insistently. “Haven’t done this since my, fuck... don’t bite now.”
You tried to loosen your jaw enough to accommodate the thick weight of him on your tongue, forcing yourself to take him deeper with every wet gag and muffled little whimper that never quite made it free.
“Breathe through your nose,” he said, the words frayed with strain.
You did.
He pushed all the way down until your hands were slapping weakly at his thighs for air, and still you obeyed, dragging shallow breaths through your nose as panic bloomed hot beneath your ribs. His cock pressed at the back of your throat before he drew you back to the tip, only to thrust you down again. Tears blurred your vision, spilling hot over your lashes as your tongue dragged helplessly along every bump and ridge of his heavy length.
It could only have been a matter of minutes.
It felt an awful lot like dying all over again.
When he finally came down your throat, hot, sudden, and far too messy, your body pitched forward of its own accord, his hand still resting and patting the crown of your head. Your throat spasmed around what he forced down your throat, chest hitching as you struggled to swallow, to breathe, to do anything other than sit there and choke on the ruin of him. Your eyes watered afresh, vision blurring as you pressed one trembling hand to his thigh for balance.
Nanami watched you for a moment.
Not with concern, exactly. More as if he were waiting for the obvious to pass.
Then his hand returned to your jaw, firm as ever, tilting your face back up toward the blunt head of his cock still aimed at your mouth.
Nanami Kento Has Earned One Day!
An overexcited plush employee announced it from absolutely nowhere.
And then came the rest.
He squeezed your jaw until your lips parted once more, still coughing, still trying to catch your breath, your tongue fallen helplessly from your mouth as the golden warmth of his piss struck it. The stream spread hot over what already sat heavy in your stomach, the heat of it thinning some of the thickness lodged at the back of your throat and forcing the rest of his seed down to your belly.
“Don’t cough any of it up,” he said, voice low and distant, as though remarking upon some minor inconvenience. “You’ve already made enough of a mess. And you can't imagine how difficult it is to get the smell of orc out.”
You swallowed with effort, throat raw, forcing everything down between gags from smells and conflicting tastes before taking the towel he handed you and pressing the plush fibers to your damp face.
Should you say thank you?
For the towel, perhaps.
For not letting you choke... debatable.
You coughed weakly into your sleeve, still trying to gather breath, and watched as he tucked himself back into his trousers with the same composure one might use to straighten a cuff. When he sat again, one brow arched very slightly.
“You alright?” he asked calmly, though it was plain enough he regarded the whole affair as transactional.
“I would’ve given you water,” he continued, “but I know you wouldn’t be able to pay me back for something like that.”
Right.
Water was a high commodity, and he was a stingy orc.
Apparently, not even tap water was considered worth wasting on someone like you.
“Right...” you breathed, your voice coming out hoarse and thin. You still remained on the floor, trying to gather yourself back into something resembling a person. “What... brought you here?”
The question slipped free before you could stop it.
Above you, Nanami leaned his head into one hand and looked down at you for a long, quiet moment.
“You almost remind me of my wife,” he said softly.
One hand reached out. His fingers caught a strand of your hair and wound it slowly around his meaty digit. The gesture ought to have felt absent, almost gentle. Instead, it was cold and something dreadful unfurled low in your stomach.
“I kept her in a basement for most of my life,” he continued, his tone as level as ever. “I suppose I earned all this through that.”
Silence followed between you.
The candle in the corner gave a faint little pop. Somewhere in the kitchen, water dripped once into the sink. The clock on the wall ticked the seconds by. Every small sound became suddenly, horribly distinct, as though his words had sharpened the apartment itself.
Your mouth parted, but nothing came out.
Because he had said it so casually.
Not like some shameful thing unearthed against his will.
You wanted to stand, to move, to put some distance between yourself and him that still fiddled with your hair, but something inside you begged you not to. Instead, your eyes moved over the apartment. The perfect order of how everything had a place. The locked door.
You could only imagine how much order had once gone into a windowless basement.
Your stomach turned.
Ah.
So he was not nearly as innocent as he had once seemed.
And judging by the way his thumb still idly stroked that strand of your hair, he had not entirely broken himself of the habit of keeping someone within reach.
“So you’re waiting?” you asked softly.
His eyes softened in a way that made your heart kick hard against your sternum, not from affection so much as dread.
“Mhm.”
That was all. No attempt to soften the meaning. Just that low little hum, as though of course he was waiting. As though patience had always come naturally to him.
Then, after a pause, his fingers loosened from your hair only to smooth once over the side of your head in a touch so domestic, it made your stomach dip.
“I keep my apartments the cheapest in the district,” he said.
The words took a moment to settle.
“She was always impulsive when she ran,” he continued. “Stubborn. Emotional. Never very good at thinking long-term.”
The words were not spoken cruelly. If anything, they carried the mild indulgence of someone remarking on an old and tiresome habit.
“So I figured,” he said, “if I kept the rent low enough, eventually she would have nowhere else to go.”
Your throat tightened. The room felt colder somehow, though you could hear the heater stir to life with a soft mechanical groan. His broad shoulders shifted as he leaned back in the chair, and for one awful second, all you could think was that this whole apartment building had all been part of one long, patient design.
One trap.
Laid carefully over years.
Waiting for the right person to stumble back into it.
“It’s the least she could do,” he added after a moment, his voice dropping into something quieter. “Considering she killed me.”
You coughed into your arm, whether to ease the tension or clear the last of him from your throat, you could not say. You watched the fondness drain from his hazel eyes before he finally said, coldly, “Rent is due on the twentieth.”
He gestured toward the door.
You didn't need to be told twice.
You rose too quickly, your legs uncertain beneath you. Something deep in your gut, dread, or some final scrap of common sense, told you that if you stayed there even a second longer, you wouldn't be leaving again.
‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅
You somehow managed to clean yourself up just enough before your shift, standing in the employee-only bathroom with one hand smoothing down your hair while the other braced against the sink. You wiped away the tears that threatened to push past the corners of your eyes, then dragged your toothbrush back through your mouth, trying your best to scrub away the taste of him.
How could you have stooped so low just to keep a roof over your head?
You spat into the sink.
The white foam blooming there was enough to make your stomach twist. It looked too much like the thick mess that had sat at the back of your throat, enough that bile threatened to rise again with the memory of what still seemed to cling stubbornly to your tongue, your teeth, the sour lining of your stomach.
The bell at the front chimed.
You jerked from your own pity party, then called out a hurried, “Coming!”
Sukuna had left you alone tonight, for which you were grateful. You didn't need him looking you up and down and somehow guessing exactly what you'd done to make rent. He seemed the type who would know on sight. Worse, the type to laugh.
Still, the thought of Mr. Nanami lingered.
Not for yourself, strangely enough.
For the poor girl.
The one he had spoken of so mildly. He seemed so certain his wife would eventually return to him, as though years, death, and distance were all very minor inconveniences before the weight of his patience. You couldn't stop picturing her now. Some frightened creature dragged back into those gentle, waiting hands, into whatever basement had once held her.
The thought sat ugly inside you.
You stepped back into the main part of the store and slid behind the register just in time to see two men by the snack aisle, one with bright white hair piling armfuls of junk food into the hold of a darker-haired companion who appeared to be chastising him for taking too much.
You recognized them at once.
You did your best not to visibly lose your mind, or worse, ask for an autograph. Instead, your first thought was whether there might still be toothpaste foam, or something even more humiliating, at the corner of your mouth by the time Geto Suguru made his way to the counter.
He dropped a small assortment of items onto it with graceful care.
Blood bags. Sweets. Condoms.
You began scanning.
Geto began talking.
You kept your eyes lowered, trying to remember the rules.
Don’t look a vampire in the eye for too long.
Which Geto certainly was. His hand brushed yours as he passed over the next item. His fingers were cool, the rings he wore colder still, and something about the symbols worked into the metal felt oddly familiar. Religious, perhaps. Or cultish. Which, honestly, wouldn't have surprised you.
“Old man Sukuna left you here alone?” he asked softly.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The scanner kept up its cheerful little chirp. You didn't answer beyond a small nod.
From somewhere behind him, Gojo called out, “Want coffee?”
Geto ignored him entirely.
Instead, he bent just enough to catch your face, and you, being the fool that you were, glanced up at exactly the wrong moment and found his violet eyes waiting for yours.
You nearly dropped a can of soda.
His hands closed over yours before it could fall, long fingers caging yours lightly around the dented aluminum.
“Careful now.”
His smile was pretty in a way that made your skin prickle. Feline. Far too familiar with itself.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He laughed softly, but the sound did nothing to settle the unease winding tighter in your stomach.
Then Gojo appeared at his shoulder in a rush of white hair and brightness, bumping into him hard enough to jostle the various items on the counter as he dropped even more items into the pile. His tail swept out behind him, knocking a few lollipops from the stand beside the register before he stooped to gather them with a delighted little hum and placed them directly into your hand.
“Oh, you do look familiar,” he said brightly, cheerful in the exact practiced way he always was on television. “You almost remind me of a pet we had.”
He snapped his fingers and nodded toward Suguru as though inviting confirmation.
Suguru only laughed under his breath and leaned in to murmur something too low for you to catch into Satoru’s ear.
Then Gojo turned back to you, smiling as though you were all in on the same joke.
“Give me your number.”
Geto's eyes settled on you. Whatever protest might have formed dissolved before the words could ever reach your tongue. Your hand had already found a receipt slip and a pen. By the time your mind caught up, you were scribbling your number down in your neatest handwriting, as obediently as if you had been asked for the total.
Suguru watched the whole thing with that same smile. Like he had just won a game of hide-and-seek you hadn't realized you were playing.
some part of you thought that maybe sukuna would be startled upon being caught red-handed (or... mouth-handed) like this. but as you lean against the doorway and drink in the lewd position you've walked in on him in, he just looks at you.
"no," you watch his palm pull up and off the tip of his cock, and the drooling mouth that you're sure was just sucking the soul out of himself seals up. he makes a point of closing his fist around the thick length of his cock and giving it a few rough strokes. "you see things that aren't there. you're odd."
you cross your arms. "well i'm not the one sucking my own dick."
"don't call it that. and you have no cock to suck," sukuna bites, hitting right where it hurts. a sudden reminder that you'll never be able to slip it into a warm and loving mouth like your own…
“shut the fuck up.”
you step into the room, ignoring the disgruntled noise he makes at your movement, and plop yourself down on the bed where he stretches out, stroking himself languidly.
"you're perverted," he tsks, ignoring your hungry eyes as he keeps pace. "go on, then. serve me with your mouth."
"i think you can do that well enough for yourself," you shrug.
"i should spank your ass raw, brat."
despite his sharp words, sukuna doesn't make much of an effort to stop you when you pull his hand from his cock and trace your finger over his palm. there's no mouth in sight, though his skin is covered in a sheen of what could either be precome or saliva. you aren't sure.
you give his open palm a soft kiss. "come on, kuna. i think it's hot, you know."
he doesn't reply, just bears his teeth a little as you guide his palm back to his leaking tip, pushing it gently against the in-tact skin. you aren't so sure how it works, his hand-mouth. the only glimpses you get of it are when he's using it to suck on your clit while he fucks you full of his cock.
it takes you reaching down with your free hand to give his balls a squeeze for him to finally relent and, with a groan, let the mouth on his palm manifest. you watch it latch on to the tip of his cock, collecting his beading pre on the tongue before you gently push his palm down a little, feeding sukuna's own cock to himself.
"can you taste it?" you ask, rolling his balls a little with your free hand.
"yes."
"do you like it?"
"keep asking questions and i'll replace this mouth with your own."
he's groaning his words out, rolling his hips up a little to push into his palm better. you don't listen to his threats, though you know they aren't empty.
"does it have a gag reflex?" you chime, taking sukuna's irritation as a chance to push his palm down even further, and watch in awe as he takes his own cock down to the base. "holy shit."
sukuna groans at the sudden engulfment, tipping his head back and bucking his hips up in rhythm with the push of your hand down on his own. he's in nirvana for all of five seconds before you laugh.
"it's like the fucking bag from mary poppins!"
"what the fuck is a—" sukuna cuts himself off, preferring to find his orgasm in peace than entertain the weird shit you say. his free hand comes up to the back of your head, and with a strained 'shut the fuck up', he pushes your head down to his balls.
you're easily occupied, smiling as you mouth over his sack with a kiss before starting on worshipping him properly. your warm mouth works in beautiful tandem with his, which takes his cock right down to the base.
you only chime up again when his balls tighten up, and you're met with the full force of his orgasm as he spills right into his mouth-hand with a chesty groan. you pull off his sack with a grin "ha, you just ate your own load."
chest heaving, sukuna growls. his hand pulls off his cock and shoots down to caress the side of your face, all too soft to be genuine. there's a stupid spark of amusement in his eyes that has your lips parting to ask what the fuck he has planned for you.
your question is answered before it can even leave your lips. pushing you backwards onto the bed and pressing himself in between your thighs, he doesn't give you a second to react before he's covering your mouth with his hand.
The prettiest cock you’ve ever seen. Pale, thick, curves up toward his stomach like it’s pointing at god. Veins prominent but elegant. He’s uncut but pulls back clean, and the head gets so red when he’s close.
Length-wise? Above average. Girth-wise? Problematic. He knows it. He watches your face when he pushes in, chasing the moment your eyes roll back.
Fucks like he has something to prove. Uses his hips. Uses gravity. Infinite Void means he can suspend you mid-air and ruin you at leisure.
Likes to keep the blindfold on so you can’t see where the pleasure’s coming from. Likes when you claw at it, desperate to see him.
Talks constantly. Filthy, arrogant, "you’re taking me so well, look at you, stuffed full." Edges you for literal hours because time stops when he’s inside you.
Comes with his teeth in your shoulder and his hand around your throat, and then stays hard because he’s the strongest for a reason.
Kento Nanami
Heavy. That’s the first word. Thick, blunt, cut with a ridge that catches on your rim every time he pulls back. Shorter than Gojo but wider. You feel him for days.
Precise. Knows angles. Knows exactly how to roll his hips to hit your cervix with a rhythm that’s almost cruel in its efficiency.
Keeps the suit on. Unbuttons just enough to free himself, keeps the glasses on so you can see your reflection in them while he fucks you over his desk.
"7:3 ratio," he whispers, hand over your mouth. "That’s the probability you’ll scream if I thrust here—" and then he does.
Control freak. Won’t come until you’ve gone twice, minimum. When he finally loses it, it’s with his face buried in your neck and his hands bruising your hips, groaning like he’s disappointed in himself for being so messy.
Aftercare is clinical and thorough. Bath drawn. Tea made. But his fingers stay inside you while you drink it, keeping his cum where it belongs.
Toji Fushiguro
Animalistic. No technique, just force. His cock is massive—thick, veined, heavy enough to slap against his stomach and leave a wet spot. Straight, no curve, just a battering ram.
No prep. No patience. He lifts you, pins you, splits you open on his length and grunts when you cry out. Likes the resistance. Likes the fight.
Fucks like he’s trying to break something. Uses his whole body—sweat-slick, scarred, muscles rolling. Bounces you on his lap like you weigh nothing.
Loves hearing you choke. Loves when you scratch him, bite him, leave marks he can feel later. "Again," he growls, already hard after coming once. "Wanna feel you break around me."
Stays hard. Always stays hard. Round two starts before round one ends, cum used as lube for the next round until you’re delirious, limp, leaking him from every hole.
Leaves you covered in bruises shaped like his fingers and walks away smirking, but he always comes back to carry you to bed when you can’t walk.
Yuji Itadori
Perfect. Honestly unfair. Cut, thick, flushed dark, curves slightly left and hits your anterior wall like it was designed by a deity who wanted women to suffer.
Sensitive as hell. Whines when you touch him. Comes fast the first time, apologetic and red-faced, but then—then—the stamina kicks in.
Enthusiastic. Wants to know what you like. "Here? Like this? Can you take more?" Fucks with his whole heart, trembling and sweating and telling you you’re beautiful while he’s ruining you.
Sometimes Sukuna bleeds through. When it happens, the cock gets thicker, the thrusts get cruel, and the voice drops to something ancient. "Taking what’s mine," Sukuna growls, gripping your jaw. "Look at you, stuffed full of cursed energy and cock."
Yuji always comes back after, horrified and turned on in equal measure, gentle hands checking you over before he gets hard again and forgets to be careful.
Likes it best when you ride him so he can see your face, likes to thumb your clit until you’re shaking, likes to come inside you and watch it drip out with fascination.
Megumi Fushiguro
Long. Slim but long. Curved in a way that finds spots you didn’t know existed, presses against them until you’re seeing stars.
Quiet. So fucking quiet. You think he’s not into it until you feel him—hard as steel, leaking precum, thrusting with a desperation that belies his cold face.
Likes the dark. Likes shadows. His technique curls around your ankles while he fucks you from behind, holding you in place like he’s afraid you’ll run.
Possessive in silence. Bites your shoulder to muffle his groans. Grips your hair hard enough to tear. Whispers "mine" like he’s casting a curse.
Comes with a shuddering exhale, face buried in your neck, cock pulsing deep. Stays inside you until he’s soft, thumb tracing your hip bones like he’s memorizing you.
After, he’s distant, but his shadows follow you home. Marking you. Keeping you.
Suguru Geto
Religious experience. Thick, elegant, cut with a flared head that catches on your rim and makes you sob. He’s patient with it. Cruelly patient.
Likes you on your back, legs spread, while he watches. "Look at you," he murmurs, sliding in inch by inch. "So wet for a monster. Is this your salvation?"
Moves like water. Fluid, endless, grinding against your clit with every thrust. Can go for hours without breaking a sweat, smiling while you beg.
Likes to edge you with his cock barely inside, just the head stretching you open, until you’re crying, clawing at him, "please, Suguru, please—"
Comes with his eyes open, staring into yours like he’s stealing your soul. Spills hot and deep, then stays there, thumb circling your oversensitive clit until you’re coming around him again, milking him dry.
Whispers sutras against your skin while you tremble. Marks you as his last good thing. Fucks you like he’s taking communion.
₊ ݃ ࿔ྀིྀ ꒰ 𓈒 NANAMI KENTO might be the pettiest man alive . . .
⎯⎯ ꒰ 1.3k ! ꒱ 💭
contrary to outsider belief, your marriage to nanami worked remarkably well. too well.
a shocking revelation, considering you were “ill-tempered” while nanami had the patience of a saint, allegedly . . . .
the truth of the matter was that beneath the all the composure, politeness, and that expensive wristwatch kento always wore on his wrist, your husband unfortunately was just as much of a brat as you were.
if not, worse.
the two of you held grudges over the stupidest things imaginable: once, nanami corrected your pronunciation of “espresso” during breakfast. so? you didn’t kiss him goodbye before work for three whole days.
in retaliation, your coffee that he would make you each morning mysteriously happened to arrive without the three ounces of sugar you so adamantly required to — “balance out the armpit taste.”
petty. childish. ridiculous.
yet somehow, these cold wars became the foundation of a deeply functional marriage.
“kento dear,” you began, soft steps quietly thudding against the wooden floors as you made your way to him, who was fully dressed: soft charcoal sweater hanging off his frame, pushed up revealing his forearms, reading glasses hanging off the bridge of his nose while his sandy locs unstyled in a way you almost never got to see outside these walls.
which, unfortunately, was the problem. he was far too comfortable for the atrocities he had just committed against you whilst you slept.
“did you touch it?” your voice coming out suspiciously calm.
nanami doesn’t even look up from the cup of jasmine tea he was nursing. “no.”
you only narrow your eyes as you finally end up next to him. “kento.”
that bratty tone of yours was enough to earn you a glance now, hazel eyes tired yet sharp all the same. “i told you, no.”
“yeah, well,” you huff, crossing your arms, looking up at him expectantly, “waking up feeling like i got left in a meat locker says otherwise.”
he shuts his eyes as he takes a slow sip of his tea, setting it down with a soft clink, the steam curling between you. “interesting,” he begins, voice flat with quiet amusement.
“you seem quite functional for someone who claims they’re—” he pauses, unimpressed, before lifting his hand and giving your forehead a quick, precise knock with his knuckles, withdrawing before you can even think to catch his wrist. “—frozen solid.”
“ugh!” you huff, hands missing his wrist and instead clutching your forehead with an adorable frown. “i’m not frozen solid, but i’m going to be. i don’t know why you just can’t leave it on 72.”
he exhales slowly through his nose, “you know i get hot. i shouldn’t have to strip to be comfortable in my own home,” he says flatly.
his hand lifts without much ceremony, gently replacing yours on your forehead. he briefly rubs the spot he’d knocked before his fingers slip down to tug lightly at your ear, earning an immediate, indignant whine from you.
“or would you prefer i start walking around the house naked instead?”
“what? i’m not answering that.” you say, turning your face slightly away from him, the words coming out clipped as you huff under your breath, “pervert…”, still clearly offended at the recurring offenses.
you manage to slap his arm away. “i don’t see why you insist on wearing long sleeves and then complain you’re hot.” you grumble. “you’re making me hot just by looking at you.”
he scoffs softly at that, as if the answer is obvious. “i wear it because i enjoy being properly dressed,” he replies, smoothing an imaginary crease from his sleeve before leveling you with a look. “and physiologically speaking, it’s significantly easier to warm up than it is to cool down.”
“so, like i said,” he murmurs, reaching for his tea again, “the thermostat stays where it is.”
and just like that, the war begins . . .
the rest of the day was full of quiet hostilities:
the two of you swiping the thermostat in opposite directions each time you walked by, addressing each other by first name as if you were two disgruntled coworkers trapped in an enemies to lovers arrangement rather than of spouses, nanami opening windows for “circulation” while you wrapped yourself in blankets like a victorian child afflicted with a devastating illness, texting each other back and forth instead of verbally communicating.
YOU ‣
my hands are blue and numb. i hope your happy
KENTO ‣
*You’re
How are you texting me then?
YOU ‣
don’t be annoying ken.
that’s not the point
clearly, neither of you were willing to concede. which only meant this was quickly becoming a battle of endurance rather than a dispute about “temperature”. which also meant this was not going to end soon.
or so you thought.
despite the many, many hours of domestic warfare, the two of you still end up in bed the same way you always did, backs turned dramatically beneath the blankets, the thermostat unfortunately still set at 63. which meant nanami was winning.
the cold seeped through the sheets and curled around your legs until your body instinctively tucks in on itself, shoulders hunching deeper beneath the comforter with a quiet frown hidden against your pillow. beside you, nanami remaining entirely unaffected, laid comfortably on his side with one arm tucked beneath his pillow, warmth practically radiating off of him in waves.
it was infuriating.
because no matter how committed you were to the cold war, your body had always betrayed you first when it came to your husband.
sometime somewhere in between stubbornness and sleep, you found yourself shifting toward him subconsciously, inch by inch until your forehead presses against his back, your leg slipping over his beneath the blankets in search of warmth. the soft fabric of the white shirt he’d changed into earlier brushes against your skin, warm from sleep and smelling faintly of cedarwood and tea.
and god, the bastard was warm.
firm beneath your touch too, broad shoulders relaxing slightly the second you curl fully into him with a sleepy little sigh.
you knew he was awake. you could tell by his breathing, it wasn’t the same comforting slow that soothed you once the day came to an end.
for a moment, neither of you said anything, pride still clawing at your insides. then came the soft shifting of sheets before nanami turned toward you, your forehead brushing against his chest as his strong arms came to cage you in instinctively, one settling around your waist while the other tucked beneath your head. his chin rested atop your hair with a quiet exhale, pulling you into his warmth.
your fingers curl weakly into the front of his shirt, face pressing deeper against his chest despite yourself. somewhere above you, nanami hums softly, entirely too aware of the fact that you were the one to cave first.
an inevitable outcome.
“interesting,” he murmurs into your hair, sleep roughening his voice. “what happened to hating me?”
you grumble something incoherent against him.
“mm?” he asks, entirely too pleased with himself. “couldn’t quite hear you love.”
your brows pinch immediately. “still hate you.”
his chest rumbles faintly beneath your cheek at that, amusement subtle but absolutely there. absolutely nanami.
“so, you admit defeat?”
you tilt your head up just enough to glare at him through the dark. “i told you. don’t say anyth—”
you were going to argue. save whatever was left of your pride.
except your words barely make it out before he tips your face up just enough to cut you off with a slow kiss, warm and unbearably smug beneath the blankets.
any and all insults died in your throat as butterflies began to bloom low in your stomach, your leg still hiked around his waist while his warmth slowly melted the last stubborn pieces of your pride away as your lips firmly molded against his own, a soft sigh escaping you. one of spite, obviously.
you could feel the faint curve of amusement against your lips when your annoyed little huff melts into him anyway — the exact outcome the two of you had been stubbornly dancing around all day out of pettiness and “spite.”
nanami pulls away from you before resting his thumb on your lower lip. “there you are love,” he murmurs softly against your mouth, breath mingling with yours: entirely too pleased with himself.
“63 seems perfectly fine to me, no?”
he only watches as your expression softens in real time before giving the faintest nod — mentally noting the effect he had on you.
Just Android!Nanami who’s never been called a real nickname before
You’re his first owner, and hopefully his last, so everything is new to him. He was made to be a- let’s go with ‘bed warmer’.
But there are lost of other functions according to his manual and the Jujutsu Kaisen Android website!!
When you called him ‘Ken’ for the first time he gave a small smile, and did a search though his hard drive— “What is ‘Ken?’”
“That’s you Nanami.”
“But my name is Nanami Kento. Number 73000–“
You giggle, slipping in your work shoes, “—It’s a nickname Kento.”
A nickname. Right. Nickname. He gives the new word a feel on his lips, “What’s a nickname?”
And you have to pause, because no one, or no thing has ever asked you what a nickname is.
“It’s a playful name you can give someone. It can be a shortened version of their name or something cute like ‘baby’ or like something related to their traits or how they act. I got a cousin who goes by ‘Beary’ because he’s a really burly guy and pretty hairy also my sister ‘Lil Jo’ because my mom’s named Josephine and they look just alike—“
“—You’re rambling [+].” He stops you, not to be rude because you know you’ll get lost in the conversation, it’s 7:50, you’ll be late at this rate.
“Right! I’m leaving I swear, but Ken, is a shorter version of your name. It’s cute so think about it, Kay? I’ll see you later!” You’re swift, grabbing your work bag and Nanami’s hand made lunch and dashing out the front door.
Ken, Ken, Ken, short for Kento. Nanami’s first name. He can’t help but think about it as he goes about this day. The way you say it, the smile you made when you said it. He was watching some classic 50s romance movie, something Nanami likes to call his “studies”, he heard the man say ‘My love’ during his dramatized love confession.
And then he heard ‘baby’ in another movie as he was cleaning the house.
And when Nanami took it upon himself to look up nickname on the computer, ‘100+ Nickname’s to Call Your Partner’ popped up. Of course he clicked the link, revealing a long list of names. You said they were something cute.
You came back home, later than expected but exhausted. You’d expected Nanami to be recharging in the bedroom when the front door of your apartment closed behind you, but the blonde popped his head out from behind the wall, his apron around his neck, modelesce face
“My love, welcome back. I accidentally made dinner late, but you’re right on time.”
My love? Who? Was he talking to you? It made your heart leap. No way an android made your heart leap. Goosebumps rolling up your arms.
“I found out about the nicknames darling, and you’re right, they sound very ‘cute’ on you.”
“B-but Ken,” you can’t even look him in the face as he takes your hand, helping over to the small but set kitchen table. “These nicknames are for- for lovers.”
And Nanami’s goes through his hard drive once again, tilting his head to the side, and this time his cheeks heat up. He rests his forehead on your shoulder, then lets his blue eyes look up at you ever so adorably.
“You take care of me, and I take care of you… we eat and sleep together… Are we not lovers?”
a/n: everyone shut up right now, I’ve finally written something good.
SUKUNA x female reader. fluff. artist! sukuna. established relationship. reluctant cat dad! sukuna
boyfriend! sukuna who knew you had a soft spot for strays, case in point being him. he had that whole “tortured artist" look down to a look when you had found him sitting in the middle of the road with his doodles and paintings. and honestly? he could not believe his eyes when you had bought a few of his pieces and even offered to pay for his meal that day. and the rest is history, the story of how artist! sukuna became boyfriend! sukuna. he can't believe how he lucked out finding you, and he would not have it any other way.
boyfriend! sukuna who is often encouraged to continue painting and creating, but he just scoffs and flicks your forehead in response. he's starting to see art as a hobby more than a career, now that he has you in his life and he is determined to take care of you. still, he can't help but hide his smile when you go out of your way to buy him a new set of paints or brushes for occasions like christmas, birthdays or even your anniversary.
boyfriend! sukuna who is aware of a stray cat you feed everyday. he asks you why do you not take it in as your own pet or house cat, but you explained it's behaviors to him - extreme sensitivity to external stimuli, difficulty adapting to changes in the environment, behaviors of anxiety and hiding from people and other animals. all telltale signs of a cat that was, well, not one that could be handled like the others. so, you explained, you silently did your part by leaving a big plate of food for the critter everyday, and would come back to it being polished clean. and that was enough.
boyfriend! sukuna who can't help but curiously eye the feline from far away when you leave the house to him for a couple of days. you made sure to instruct him properly on what and how to feed the little one, and boyfriend! sukuna religiously followed your instructions for all three meals of the day. he tried his best not to stomp around when he places the food-bowl in it's designated spot, and is outright skidding out of view the minute he sees the feline walking carefully towards the backyard, just to ensure the cat is not startled or anxious.
boyfriend! sukuna who dedicates a few minutes of his day to silently sit by the window and watch this strange cat scarf down the food with the same intensity he did on your first “date” with you. whether he would like to admit it or not, he sees himself in this little creature - someone with zero clue how the world works, armed with nothing but his own unique reactions to everyday, normal situations.
artist boyfriend! sukuna who doesn't even realize when he pick up a doodle-pad and sketches messy portraits of the feline - he always finishes it under five minutes, knowing your friend is quick to leave the minute it finishes eating. he sees it as an artistic challenge as well, having to sketch a different pose or expression everyday of the cat you and him love so dearly.
artist boyfriend! sukuna who one day, uses all his doodles as references to paint a portrait of the cat, the first portrait he's done in weeks. he's flustered when you walk in on him adding the finishing touches, your arrival back home completely slipping his mind as he immersed himself in the task.
you, who know better than to tease your artist boyfriend! sukuna for picking up his brush again, knowing that it took him a lot of courage to do so. and for him to paint your favorite cat was a feeling that remains unmatched till date. instead, you just put your bags down and cozied up next to him as he talked you through the process.
artist boyfriend! sukuna who finds himself smiling alongside your stray cat, as he holds up the painting close to it's face, as it finally overcame it's fear and took up a place next to your window, it's little nose sniffing the window curiously as it eyes the painting.
artist boyfriend! sukuna who is gifted the same moment in the form of a picture snapped by you on christmas, the stray cat - now named “uraume” - having taken up a permanent residence in your house, and is often found snoring against sukuna's stack of paint brushes
artist boyfriend! sukuna who finds you framing his doodles of uraume around the house, and who finds himself drawing a little face doodle of the feline when he signs you notes in your office lunch's bento box.
artist boyfriend! sukuna who's won in life, having uraume on his lap as he paints you reading a book alongside him <3
this is a drabble archive account for creamflix - this is a repost and not something stolen. i am not exclusively active on this account, nor do i take requests on here. if you want to use this idea for a fic or series, please ask for permission first.
（＾∀＾●）ﾉｼ support me on kofi and help me pay for college!!
satoru gojo is quite literally the worst person on earth to try and have a silent treatment with.
of course, he knows you’re mad, he knows he fucked up - but he also knows that if he can make your life "unbelievably" inconvenient, you’ll eventually have to break the silence just to tell him to stop.
here's the thing; you haven’t spoken to him in twelve hours.
you are a fortress of solitude, him?
he is a persistent, white-haired fly that cannot be swatted away because of his infinity or maybe a mosquito; sucking your energy out instead of blood.
he realised (unfortunately he is capable of realising things) that as long as you are self-sufficient, you can keep ignoring him. therefore, he must delete your ability to function.
it's 9am, you wake up and try to get out of bed - you can't.
no, not because he’s holding you, but because he has lowered the friction of the floor around your bed to exactly zero; you try to step down and your foot just slides back like you’re on the world’s most invisible ice rink.
satoru is sitting in the corner, casually reading a magazine upside down, doesn't say a word. he just watches you glide helplessly back onto the mattress. 0-1.
10:30am, you manage to "crawl-surf" to the bathroom.
naturally, you reach for the faucet - it’s not there.
you blink, and the faucet is on the ceiling. water flowing upward into the pipes - you look in the mirror;
he’s standing behind you in the reflection, holding a toothbrush and looking incredibly "helpful," "innocent," waiting for you to snap - you don't.
you use bottled water instead, winning the second battle of this "silent treatment war". 1-1.
by midday, he realizes you’re more stubborn than a cursed spirit, so he goes full on nuisance mode. (special grade sorcerer edition).
you open your closet to get dressed; every single item of clothing, every shirt, every sock - is vibrating. if you touch a sleeve, it teleports to the other side of the room.
you are effectively locked out of your own wardrobe by a space-time anomaly.
you go to make tea to calm your nerves, thinking 'if you can't fight it, then adapt to it.'
the kettle is suddenly encased in a "red" orb that repels your hand every time you get within six inches.
the final straw for you was when you tried to leave the apartment to get some space;
you open the front door and walk out, only to find yourself stepping right back into your own living room.
confused, you try again. door → living room. door -> living room, an infinite loop. he’s turned your hallway into a localized version of the prison realm.
you stand in the middle of the room, hands on your hips, fuming.
satoru is now sitting on the couch comfortably, dramatically sighing and checking his watch as if he's the one being inconvenienced with this whole thing.
you take a deep breath. you tried - you really did.
"satoru," you growl, finally looking at him.
"oh! someone spoke!" he teleports directly into your personal space, his blindfold pushed up so his blue eyes are practically glowing with "i won" energy.
"was that the wind? or was that my favorite person finally realizing that they need a certain handsome sorcerer to fix the literal glitch in their reality?"
"fix the door," you snap, trying to hide the twitch of a smile. "the tea, and the floor. you’re such a fucking brat."
"i'm your brat," he chirps, snapping his fingers.
suddenly, the world stops vibrating and gravity returns to normal.
he leans down with no shame resting his chin on your head. "apology accepted! let’s go get lunch. i’m paying - mostly because you can't reach your wallet since i put it on the moon."
