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a/n: you could say that this maybe got a little out of hand...but I'm not mad about it. not all of these are arranged marriages exactly, but that's the gist of it. toji's is more of a fake dating type situation, and geto's is like an arranged marriage that he, himself, arranged...so yeah. warnings: cussing, kissing. enjoy <3
fushiguro was a man of few qualities. in fact, if you asked shiu, heâd list three. he never missed a shot, he never got attached, and most importantly, for the right price, he was game for just about anything. typically, he was not in for the long con, wanted to get in, get out, and get paid. so when the job came alongâpretending to be someoneâs boyfriendâit was almost laughable. not his style at all. yet here he was, locked into a contract that demanded exactly that.
pretend. it was a performance he resented, a role he hated, but shiu had been patient enough to explain it to him repeatedly: this was a means to an end. not real. just business. but toji didnât buy itânot fully. because the moment he laid eyes on you, the daughter of some scummy, power-hungry politician, it twisted something inside him he wasnât ready to name.
you werenât what he expected. you were old enough to navigate the world, but still naive enough to be prey. the endless attempts on your life were proof enough of that. your father, a man with enemies in every shadow, had made you a target, and toji had been hired to keep you alive until the storm passed.
heâd met your father only onceâgruff, oily, desperate for protection he couldnât buy outright. toji accepted the contract with a smirk. this one was different.
usually, he didnât do long jobs. no dragging out, no strings attached. but the payout? it was obscene, something that promised security beyond the next paycheckâa small fortune just for keeping you breathing. that stack of cash was going to buy him a new life, one where he could afford to be indifferent about everything except what he wanted.and if pretending to be your boyfriend was the price of admission, so be it.
your first meeting was terse, clipped. toji was even more curt than usual, and shiu couldnât help but chuckle behind his back.
âyouâre really off your game,â shiu had joked later. toji had ignored him, the corners of his mouth tight.
you stood thereâcalm, unshakenâlike you had nothing to lose and everything to prove. you were beautiful, yes. but more than that, you radiated a strange kind of quiet strength, a composure that unsettled toji in a way he didnât expect. âthanks for taking the job, fushiguro,â you said, voice steady, no hint of fear or awe.
âtoji,â he corrected sharply, cutting you off. he wasnât fushiguroânot in this arrangement. he was toji. no room for formalities here. without waiting for a reply, he brushed past you, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, bringing only the bare essentials.
goddamn it. he liked you. not in the way a man liked a womanâno, that was messy and complicated. but there was something disarming about you: your kindness, your fire, the way you didnât flinch when he entered the room. you looked at him like he was just another obstacle to push past, and that unnerved him more than it should have.
toji made it clear he wanted distance. he stayed holed up in the guest room, insisting it was for his work. he spent hours inspecting every nook and cranny of the apartmentâscanning for bugs, tracking suspicious activity, watching every visitor, every shadow.
but the truth was, it felt less like a mission and more like a sentence. because every morning, like clockwork, you were there before him, bustling in the kitchen. breakfast for two.
after a few days, youâd nailed his preferences with unsettling precisionâthe exact way he liked his coffee, the times he preferred to eat, even the small details like his favorite cuts of meat or the way he liked his eggs. he wanted to hate it. but the smell of your cooking, the warmth of the apartment, the sound of your soft humming as you workedâit all chipped away at his resolve.
you were as distant as he was. there was no warmth between you, no awkward stammering or false smiles. you were indifferent. and yet, that indifference drove him mad.
every day, he fought the urge to speak to you beyond what was necessary, to tease you, to make you laugh. you were so impossibly beautiful, and he wanted to see that smile break free, even just once. but you kept him at armâs lengthârefusing to drop the formal âfushiguro,â insisting on driving yourself everywhere, rejecting his protective offers with a calm defiance. he wasnât sure if you hated him, or just didnât care.
nights were long and sleepless. toji barely closed his eyes, watching every movement in the apartment like a predator. but he noticed you didnât sleep much eitherâlikely haunted by the fear of waking to a blade at your throat or a gun pressed to your temple.
he could tell you rested easier since he arrived, but the tension was always there. you didnât trust him. not really. shiu told you toji would do anything for moneyârisk his life, bleed, even die. but that hardly settled the gnawing doubt.
even without a job to keep you busy, you filled your days. you read constantly, devouring books with an appetite that surprised toji. you crochetedâsomething toji never expected to find charming, but watching you work the yarn through your fingers, calm and methodical, was strangely captivating.
you cooked. and you cooked well. thrilled to have someone to share your experiments with, you kept a little tally card ranking each dish by how much you thought toji liked it. reading his face was a challenge.
toji was the kind of man whoâd lick his plate clean whether it was tasteless congee or the finest kimchi dumplings. but over time, you learned to notice the small tells: the flicker of raised eyebrows, the twitch of scarred lips that almost became a smile, the way heâd sometimes devour leftoversâor refuse them. when he refused, you packed the extras and brought them to nearby shelters or friends who appreciated the meals.
to keep the act going, youâd introduced him as your boyfriend. your friends were terrified of him, whispering about the intimidating figure who shadowed your life. you swore up and down he was a gentle giant.
toji, of course, thought you were a fool to leave the safety of the apartment. one of the few real conversations you had was an argument about your refusal to stay locked away like a caged animal. âI already quit my job,â you said firmly. âIâm not going to be reduced to some doll playing dress-up in one of my fatherâs luxury apartments.â
he admired the fire simmering beneath your calm exteriorâthe kind of fire he could light and feed, even if it never quite broke free. ââforcedâ to quit your job? poor thing,â he said dryly. âyou act like thatâs a punishment. I donât get paid unless you survive past the election. after that, youâre free to do whatever you want.â
you didnât listen. and he secretly loved that. he was afraid of what that meantâthat he was falling for you. your calm, measured strength, your quiet rebellion. you sneaked out one morning, slipping away in the shadows just as the farmerâs market came to life nearby. toji found youânot with anger, not with a scolding, but slipping silently behind you within half an hour. his eyes scanned the crowds like a doberman on a scent, glaring daggers at anyone who dared glance your way too long.
for the first time, you caught a glimpse of something softer beneath the armorâsomething almost like care. that was when things began to shift. you were no longer just the charge, the contract, the obligation. you were becoming...a companion.
he learned the way you smiled when something amused you, how your laughter was low and genuine. he noticed the way your brows creased when you read something that caught your attention. he was no longer a stranger in your life.
if either of you had been honest, you wouldâve admitted he had become something more than a bodyguard. he was your boyfriend, just like the contract had stated. he held your hand during quiet walks through the cityââto keep up appearances,â he grumbled, though no one was around to see. he steered your grocery cart, picking out the items you requested while you focused on your list.Â
slowly, he became a part of your world. and maybe, just maybe, you were becoming a part of hisâŠand thatâs why, the morning you donât wake up beside him, tojiâs chest tightens with a cold, gut-wrenching panic.
gone are the days when you slipped out before dawn, tiptoeing past his guarded watch like a ghost avoiding the light. now, when you wanted to leave, you askedâsometimes even insistedâthat he come with you. but this morning? there was no note, no whisper, no quiet footsteps fading down the hall. you were gone.
the ransom letter was a savage slap in the face, but what truly shattered him was how it was addressedânot to your father, not to some faceless politician, but to him. toji fushiguro. shiu drove him to the location marked on the letter, but the drive was silent except for tojiâs grinding teeth and shallow breaths. when they arrived, toji didnât hesitateâdidnât bother with pleasantries or playing along. he threatened shiu, razor-sharp voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
toji didnât have the ransom money. hell, he never planned on handing over a single cent. his plan was razor-simple: get you outâalive. the killings were brutal, cold, almost automatic, each one a step closer to you.
when he finally found youâtrembling, bruised, but breathingâeverything else faded. before you could even speak, before you could protest, he scooped you up without hesitation.
âput me down,â you tried, voice shaky but determined.
âno.â his voice was low, sharp, no room for argument. âyouâre not walking out of here on your own.â
you tried to push against his chest, weak but insistent. âIâm fine. really.â
he shook his head, voice cracking with something close to desperation. âdoesnât matter if youâre fine or not. I thought you were dead.â he buried his face in your hair, arms locking around you like a cageâsafe, fierce, unyielding. âIâm not letting go. not until youâre somewhere safe.â your protests faltered, swallowed by the pounding of your heart and the steady thrum of his. he carried you away from it like you weight was nothing, like he was happy to be carrying it, and he was.Â
the car ride home was thick with unspoken tension. shiu squirmed in the driver seat, clearly baffled by the strange dynamic between you two. tojiâs eyes were dark, wildâfurious and scared, all at once. he wasnât just angry. he was terrified.
back in your apartment, everything shifted. toji was softer. he cleaned your wounds with careâgentle hands tracing away dried blood, questioning your well-being even when you insisted you were fine.
âno,â he scoffed. âyouâre not fine. youâre still here because I didn't let those assholes finish the job.â
that night, he refused to let you cook, ordering in some regrettable takeout that neither of you touched with enthusiasm. he watched you like a hawkâevery blink, every shiver, every quiet breathâuntil exhaustion finally pulled you under. when you finally climbed into bed, he didnât leave.
âyou donât have to stay, toji. the guest roomâs just twenty feet away.â
his voice was rough, low, and thick with something raw you hadnât heard before. âyeah,â he said, voice cracking. âI was twenty feet away when you got taken.â he sank into the chair youâd barely noticed beforeâone you kept mostly for decorationâand didnât move. âIâm not going anywhere.â no explanations. no promises. just presence.
after that day, everything between you changed. toji became something more than a hired gun. he became your boyfriendânot just in name, but in every small gesture. you talkedâreally talkedâfor the first time. about his past, the ghosts he carried, the scars left by a wife heâd lost in ways no one understood. about your father, the political games, the betrayals and backstabbing that left you both hollow in different ways.
you showed him your recipe ranking card, and he smiledârough, rareâand corrected your assessments.
âonigiri, a couple weeks ago? that was the best Iâve ever had,â he admitted, voice a little softer than usual. âmake it again. please.â heâs teasing, but you donât laugh, in fact his plea roots itself deeply and seriously in your chest.Â
he bought you little trinketsâsimple jewelry he wanted to see you wear, something to remind you he was here. he offered his hoodies when the nights got cold, and you accepted, feeling the warmth of something you hadnât known you needed.
movie nights became a ritualâmostly his favorites, gory horror flicks that had you curling into his side whenever the blood spilled a little too vividly, and he teases you mercilessly, even though he secretly loves how you tuck your face against his chest like you trust him with the darkest, ugliest things.
the election came and went. your father won by a landslide, just like you both knew he would. toji was off the hook, free to retreat back to the hellhole apartment he called homeâor whatever ramshackle place shiu could find for him to crash in.
but your guest room sat empty, pristine, a silent invitation. besides, life here had its perks. the soba and udon cart just a few blocks away. shiu close enough to catch him if needed. you insisted he stay. at first, it was a joke. then it became a hope.
and finally, it became something more. one night, as you rambled about the neighborhoodâthe quiet streets, the friendly shopkeepers, the little park bench where you liked to readâhe cut you off with a kiss. soft, deliberate. the kind of kiss that said everything without saying a word. âIâm staying,â he murmured against your lips. and just like that, the guest room wasnât empty anymore.
there were murmurs, and not the kind geto could afford to ignore.
at first, it amused him. the whispers that heâd never taken a woman beforeânever so much as kissed someone in earnest, never truly let another person into his personal sphere. as if he cared. as if any of that mattered in the grand scheme of things. he wasnât here to play house. he was building a world. a new age. a godhood. but over time, the whispers festered. they didnât remain idle gossip passed around bored followers in temple halls. noârumor became narrative, and narrative became belief. and belief, to geto, was currency. worship was leverage. if the people started to think he was unloved, undesirable, even unworthyâŠwell. that was bad for business.
his presence had always demanded respect, but lately it had been drawing more pity than awe. so, he considered the simplest solution: take a wife. the logic was clean. appearances mattered. to the world, he would become a man desired. a man chosen. it didnât need to be realâhe just needed a woman who looked good on his arm and knew how to smile through a lie. he could force it, if he had to. plenty of women in his ranks would drop to their knees for him without hesitation. he could choose any one of them, claim her, and that would be that. but they were...unimpressive. all of them. pretty, yes. devoted. but empty vessels. parroting back doctrine without a shred of understanding. suguru geto was not going to be associatedâmarriedâto someone who couldn't hold his gaze without asking permission.
so he remained single. untouched. unbothered. until manami pointed you out. you were not one of his. you were not a sorcerer, not even particularly spiritual. but you had just graduated with a degree in some intimidating branch of mathematics, and you carried yourself like a woman who knew things. not just factsâbut people. the way your eyes scanned a room before entering. the way you paused, mid-sentence, like your mind worked in algorithms and not emotions.
you were not beautiful in the way the others were. you were devastating. geto watched you once. then again. then again. and suddenly he found himself doing something he hadn't done in years: considering. he didnât want to kidnap youâthough, in a different life, that mightâve been easier. no. if you were to be his, you had to come willingly. even if only for show. but what was he supposed to say? hello. I'm suguru geto. I run a violent, weird cult and believe most of humanity is a disease, and wish to wipe them out, you included. be my wife? hard sell.
so he softened. slowed down. approached carefully. he befriended you. as much as he could. coffee in crowded cafes. long, quiet walks filled with philosophical debates you didnât know youâd win. you challenged him in a way that was neither aggressive nor flirtatiousâit was natural. and he hated how much he liked it. you werenât enamored with him, and that made you perfect. you werenât trying to impress him, and that made him obsessed.
he knew it wouldnât last. his time was stretched too thin. his followers were waiting, watching, wondering. he needed a solution. so he made you a deal. marriage. in name only. three to five years. no romance, no expectation. he would cover your expenses. you would live in his homeâtechnically. your own room. your own space. all he asked in return was attendance. appear beside him during select gatherings. smile. nod. pretend. that was all.
you were skeptical. overthinker that you were. he liked that about youâuntil it made him afraid youâd say no.
then, the night of a morale-boosting celebrationâone of those ornate, incense-slick parties filled with silent devotees and powerful investorsâyou showed up. you didnât just walk in. you showed up. hair done up like it was sacred. a modest but stunning dress. jewelry glinting like devotion. your nails were painted. your perfume was intentional.
you approached him in full view of the gathering andâwithout askingâkissed his cheek. your lips lingered long enough to let the room talk. then you leaned into his ear and whispered, soft as sin: âIâll accept your deal.â he had expected relief. instead, he felt desire. not lust. not even love. something worseâattachment. interest. a dangerous craving for something he couldnât control.
he spent the rest of the evening parading you through the room, introducing you as his girlfriendâwife, if you corrected him, which you often didâwith a quiet affection that bordered on convincing. he watched you charm donors, engage with scholars, maneuver conversations with calculated grace. you made him look like a fool in comparison, and he adored you for it.
the transition was quick. you moved into the estate. brought only what you needed. your room remained tidy. you were unobtrusive, like a guest in a museum. but your presence lingered in the air. a forgotten book on the table. a mug with lipstick at the rim. a scarf that smelled like soap and morning.
you played your role flawlessly. sat beside him with quiet loyalty. held his arm with a loverâs grace. you never slipped. not once. and the cult loved you. they bowed to you with more devoutness than they ever offered him. they brought you flowers. confided in you. hung on your words. you didnât ask for their worship, but they gave it freely.
where geto commanded with doctrine, you ruled with kindness.
and slowly, the rumors changed. no longer was he the pathetic, untouched false prophet. no. now he was something elseâsomething enviable. a man with a sharp, elegant wife who had chosen him. how else could he have pulled someone like you?
it was lateâclose to midnight. the halls of his northern shrine were quiet, flickering with the low, golden light of oil lamps. geto had wandered them without thought, seeking nothing. just movement. restless in the way only men who are too full of feeling and too empty of peace can be.
that was when he heard your voice. faint, from around a stone corner. not afraid. but strained. he paused in the shadow of a carved pillar, half-hidden, half-listening. a higher-level followerâone of the more politically useful but spiritually hollow typesâstood speaking with you. no, not speaking. lamenting.
â...heâs too harsh. too rigid,â the man sighed. âIâll be honest, the only reason I've stayed loyal to this place is because of you. you make this place livable.â
a pause. your reply came short, clipped. âthank you.â but thenâcolder. âthat said, you misunderstand him. suguru acts out of necessity, not cruelty. if he wanted a cult full of weaklings, heâd put on a softer face. but he doesnât. he wants people with purpose. with power. that takes force.â
geto froze. heart in his throat. you werenât defending him out of obligation. you wereâŠangry. angry on his behalf. âheâs not heartless,â you continued, voice steady, razor-sharp. âheâs strategic. heâs smarter than most of us combined, and the weight he carries would crush you if you tried to bear it for even a day. heâs a better man than you think.â something twisted in getoâs gut. something old and bright and dangerous. because when the man laughed lowly and leaned closer to youâtoo close, with a smile too familiarâit turned to a spark of rage.
âstill,â the man murmured, âyou couldâve done better than him.â
you stepped back. your discomfort was visible, even in your silence. you didnât like this. you didnât want it. that was enough. geto stepped forward, quiet as death. âgo home.â the man startled. his mouth opened, closed again. getoâs presence was ice. his voice, quieter now, more final: âdonât speak to my wife again.â
there were no threats. no violence. but he left shaking. you stood stiff, looking down at your hands.
âIâm sorry,â you said, voice soft. âI didnât mean to make a scene.â
âyou didnât,â he replied. âI did.â
but his gaze lingered, almost intimate. you had defended him. without being asked. without reward. not for appearancesâbut because you meant it. he left that night different than he arrived. something in him had shifted. whatever tether had been holding him back, had been convincing him this was just strategyâjust performanceâhad frayed completely.
from then on, geto became yours in the quietest, clearest of ways. he skipped council meetings to sit with you on the back balcony, legs crossed beneath him as you braided his long hair with gentle, idle fingers. he abandoned tactical briefings just to listen to you explain some theorem he didnât understand but loved watching you describeâso alive, so sharp. he no longer held court after dark. his evenings belonged to you.
he didn't care that his men muttered about how soft heâd become. that his enemies started whispering about how domesticated he looked. that his public image had cracked around the edges. he let it.
you were the first good thing in years that didnât ask him to be something else. and in turn, he stopped trying to resist the pull. he watched you build a quiet life within his temple wallsâstill working, still learning, always hungry to understand more. you werenât ornamental, you werenât submissive, and you werenât easily impressed.
you justâŠwere. and that was enough.
he began to crave those soft weekend mornings, when heâd find you sitting alone on one of the garden benches, knees to chest, reading something complicated. your brows drawn, lips slightly parted in thought. heâd sit beside you, close but not intrusive, letting his fingers trace soft lines into the skin of your arm or thigh. a grounding ritual neither of you questioned anymore.
he picked wildflowers from temple paths and tucked them behind your ears with complete sincerity. he carried you inside when you fell asleep near the water, curled into yourself like some forgotten nymph, his coat draped over your shoulders.
he loved you. he hadnât said it. but everyone could see it. and you? you were falling, too. gently. undeniably. it was in the way your head tilted toward him when he entered a room. the way your hands lingered longer when brushing against his. the way you now wore rings on both hands, but only one mattered.
your place in his home grew permanent in the most quiet, irreversible ways. your clothes in his wardrobe. your slippers by the door. your hum in the kitchen. your toothbrush beside his. you werenât pretending anymore, and neither was he.
so it made perfect senseâthough it still managed to break him completelyâwhen one night, as the stars hung low over the lake and the house had gone still, you kissed him. you were brave. braver than heâd ever been. your lips were soft but certain, trembling only slightly as they pressed against his.
geto froze. and then he shattered. he kissed you back with something dangerous in his chest. hands braced on either side of you, mouth rougher now, panting against your skin. he pressed you gently against the wall, reverent but greedy, overwhelmed by how long heâd waited.
âmy wife,â he groaned between kisses, as if the words hurt to say.
now that you were hisâtruly his, not just in title but in breath, in blood, in shared silenceâgeto stopped pretending he was anything less than obsessed with you. he becameâŠpossessive. not in the loud, showy way. no, he didnât flaunt you. he didnât drape you in diamonds or have you paraded at his side. he didnât need to. you existed in his life, and that was enough to shatter his composure completely.
he stopped bringing you to cult gatherings as often, no longer sat you at his right hand during meetings. not because he was ashamedâgod, noâbut because the sight of other people bowing to you stirred something ugly in him. pride, yes, but also jealousy. they looked at you too long. they took too much from your softness.
his wifeâand oh, how the title ruined him. he said it constantly. unnecessarily. gleefully. he used it to tease you, smirking with lazy smugness every time your cheeks flushed. âmy wife,â he whispered as he kissed your shoulder. âmy wife,â as he untied your apron in the kitchen. âmy wife,â while you argued over chess strategies and he let you win anyway. it was annoying. it was adorable. you loved it.
and yet, despite his ease with you, despite the quiet comfort you brought him, geto still had moments where panic gnawed at the edges of his ribs. what if you wanted more? what if the lake and the shrine and his terrible world were not enough for you? what if you grew restless, and one day you left?
he tried to hide it, but one eveningâwhen the sun had nearly dipped beneath the horizon and the air smelled like moss and the lake shimmered silverâhe broke. you were sitting beside him on a blanket, curled against his side, wearing one of his old black robes like it belonged to you (and it did). the world was quiet. softly spinning.
âI can let you go,â he said suddenly. you looked at him, a little startled.
âif you want,â he added, slower now, like the words hurt. âyou donât owe me anything. this arrangement...I never meant for it to trap you. if you want to leaveâtrulyâIâll make it safe for you. Iâll fund your life for as long as you need. no one will follow. no one will stop you.â
your gaze didn't leave him. you let him finish, then reached out and took his hand, weaving your fingers through his. you leaned your temple against his shoulder. âif I wanted to leave, suguru,â you murmured, âI would've.â silence stretched between you, sweet and thick and tender. âIâm exactly where I want to be.â he didnât reply at first. his throat closed around something too raw.
but then he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you flush against him, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and letting himself breathe again. you could feel the way he exhaledâlike the weight of the entire shrine, of the whole world, had finally left his shoulders. he held you tighter.
satoru had spent years pissing off the higher-ups, mocking them behind closed doors, disobeying orders with a smile, and tossing out their thinly-veiled demands like yesterdayâs trash. theyâd long grown tired of his antics, but tolerated them, because gojo was, after all, the strongest. untouchable. unmanageable. unmarried.
theyâd been pushing for a union for yearsâsomeone respectable, traditional. a woman from a noble clan. quiet. pretty. powerful enough to birth the next heir of the gojo line, obedient enough to stay in her lane. it sickened him. the very thought of shackling some poor woman to the political machinery of the jujutsu worldâto himâfelt inherently cruel. he refused, outright and loudly.
that is, until he met you. you showed up quietly at jujutsu tech one spring, a new instructor assigned to teach close combat. fists only. you didnât wield a flashy cursed technique. you didnât brag or posture. you taught students how to survive with grit and knuckles and instinct.
he noticed you before he even realized he had. at first, it was just curiosityâhow you held your ground in the staff meetings, how you always sat by yourself at lunch but never looked lonely. you were strong. maybe not gojo-level strong, but you moved with precision and power, and your presence commanded attention. still, what struck him most wasnât any of that.
it was your kindness. you werenât sweet in the obvious way. you werenât a pushover. but there was something about youâgentle when you didnât have to be, encouraging even on your worst days. the students adored you. nobara would go on and on about how much more she liked you than any other teacher, looking pointedly at gojo. yuuji would recount everything youâd taught him during training, as if the other first years hadnât been there. megumi liked you, too, of course in his own secretive, soft way.Â
and gojo? he was smitten. not instantly. it happened over weeks. months. you disarmed him with every passing day. he kept expecting you to hate him like utahime did. to pity him like nanami sometimes did. but you didnât. you laughed at his jokes. called him out when he deserved it. you treated him like a person, not a weapon, not a myth.
he hadnât planned to say anything at the next clan meeting. but when they started in again about marriage, the words just tumbled out. âwouldnât it be hilarious if I married the new combat teacher?â he said it like a punchline. a grin tugged at his mouth. a joke. sort of. not really.
the elders pounced. unorthodox, yesâbut at least it was something. they took it seriously. they liked the idea. you were respectable enough. and if this was what it took to get satoru to do what they wantedâfine. a quiet, pretty wife with discipline and strength. acceptable. they brought it up to you the next week. not as a suggestion. as an order.
gojo had never felt guiltier. he told himselfâswore to himselfâthat if you so much as hesitated, if you looked the slightest bit hurt or uncomfortable, heâd call it off immediately. but you didnât. you said yes. calmly. clearly. like it was just another mission. and being married to satoru gojo didnât seem like the worst thing in the world.
the wedding was beautiful. lavish to the point of discomfort. youâd never been given anything like this. flowers, silks, gold-dusted food. the dress alone was enough to make you feel like a stranger in your own skinâwhite and flowing, clinging in all the places gojo tried so hard not to look at. he kept close to you, but not overly soâhands tucked behind his back, smiles offered gently. he didnât want to make you feel like a prize or an ornament.
the ceremony wasnât for you. not even for him, not really. it was for them. for the elders, for the world, for the headlines. you said yes because thatâs what good sorcerers do. and gojoâwell, gojo made it as bearable as possible. sweet, funny, thoughtful in a way you didnât expect.Â
then came the house. if the wedding was unsettling, his estate was something else entirely. a mansion outside the city, all glass and high ceilings, polished floors that felt too clean to walk on. he gave you the grand tour, pointing out rooms he hadnât been in for years.
âI forgot this one even existed,â he muttered as he opened a study lined with books. âseriously, I donât know whoâs been dusting in here, but I need to give them a raise.â
the kitchens were fully staffed. cooks, assistants, spotless fridges full of delicacies you didnât even recognize. you nearly cried. when he asked what was wrong, you couldnât quite answer. the kindness? the extravagance? it felt too big, too much. youâd never had luxury before. never had ease.
he showed you to your room across the hall from his. you gasped softly. it was bigger than your entire apartment had been. the walls were still mostly bare, the bedframe starkâbut the potential shimmered. âIâll fill it with anything you want,â he promised. âyou want books? a piano? anything. say the word.â
you laughed, and something clicked in his chest. from that moment, gojo made a quiet, private vow: he would spoil you. gently. endlessly. just because he could.
you lived together, so time together became natural. you woke up at the same time, got ready side by side. his showers were long and theatrical. your mornings were quiet and fast. you tried to help in the kitchenâcouldnât shake the guiltâbut satoru stopped you every time. âI hired them,â he said softly. âtheyâre paid very well. let them do it for you.â you nodded, but it still sat heavy in your chest. youâd never had help before. never been allowed to relax.
but you still felt itâthat looming question. why me? you werenât from a notable clan. you werenât docile. you didnât bat your lashes and whisper behind silk fans. you werenât a perfect wife.
and yet, gojo couldnât stop watching you. couldnât stop thinking how lucky he was to have you in his orbit. so he started to shower you in praise. a constant stream of warmth, tucked into jokes and winks and soft murmurs.
âyou look radiant today, wife.â
âyouâre too good to these kids.â
âyour students love you, yâknow? but not as much as I do.â
every compliment made your heart skip. still, after months, you felt like a guest in his home. so he asked you out on a date. âcome on,â he said one evening, spinning his chopsticks. âlet me take you out. one night. for real. if weâre gonna live together, we might as well know each other, right?â you hesitated. but you agreed. and the restaurantâŠoh, it was a mistake.
the building shimmered. the valet line alone made your stomach twist. youâd checked the menu before leavingâit cost more than a monthâs groceries. you were dolled up, but you didnât feel like yourself. this wasnât your world. this wasnât you.
you stood on the curb, heart hammering, sure heâd regret this the moment he saw you. and then he did see you. and gojo forgot how to breathe. god, you were beautiful. he wanted to bottle the image of youâeyes wide, shoulders drawn in shyly, that tiny uncertain smile. you didnât know what to do with your hands. you looked like you wanted to run. and he never wanted to make you feel that way.
âyou look stunning,â he said, not joking for once.
you flushed. âyou donât have to say that.â
âIâm notâI'm not saying it because I have to,â he says, earnestly, a little disturbed at the suggestion. âIâm saying it because I want to.â your embarrassment and joy at his words was too strong for you to form a response.Â
dinner wasâŠperfect. he talked too much. you listened, soft and smiling. you talked a little, about work, about your students, about your favorite kind of bento. he leaned in closer, listening like you were the most important voice in the world. and you felt it. slowly. you felt it. safe. wanted. not as an object. not as a sorcerer. but just⊠as you.
you laughed when he told you about a mission gone wrongâaccidentally setting off a cursed trap that dyed his hair slightly green for two days. he laughed when you mimicked yuujiâs horrendous battle stance. the air between you shifted.
you felt beautiful under his gaze. he felt peace in your presence. by the time dessert came, you forgot how uncomfortable youâd been. by the time the bill came, you forgot how small youâd felt. by the time he walked you to your room that night, you forgot this had started as anything less than real.
âgoodnightâŠsatoru.â and down the hall, in a room big enough to hold his loneliness, satoru lay awake and smiled to himself. she called me satoru. like it meant something.
from the moment you said goodnight, something in gojo shifted. he stopped pretending. not just to the elders. not just to the students. to himself. whatever arrangement had brought you together was irrelevant now. because for himâfully, totally, undeniablyâit was real.
heâd fallen for you. maybe slowly. maybe all at once. but it had happened. irrevocably. irreversibly. and now, he woke up each morning and counted the ways he was doomed. he told himself heâd wait. however long it took. however long you needed. because he thoughtâmaybe, just maybeâyou were starting to fall, too.
he saw it in the soft smile you gave him when he drove you to work, lingering just a second longer than necessary before getting out of the car. he saw it in the note you tucked into his coat pocket during your lunch break: âIâll be home late, meeting with ijichi and yaga. donât wait up <3â but of course, he waited up. you were worth losing sleep over. he saw it in the mochi balls you left in the freezer when you went on overnight missions. the ones in his favorite flavorâalways yours to begin with, now his because you decided so. he saw it in how you leaned into him, instinctively, when some kyoto teacher tried to talk over you at a summit. as if his presence was the only shield you trusted.
gojo had spent his entire life being a weapon. an asset. a symbol. heâd been used, revered, fearedâbut never once had he been treated like someone who could be loved. until you. you made him feel gentle. and he clung to that feeling like salvation.
he took you on dates like his life depended on it. maybe it did. dinner, of courseâoften too fancy, always too expensive. but also quiet walks through the countryside, boots crunching on leaves, his arm slung lazily around your shoulders. hikes through the mountains, where heâd tease you with sweets at the summit and watch you roll your eyes, breathless and pink-cheeked in the cold.
big sorcerer galas, where he let you coo and tsk and fuss over his migraines heâd get from not wearing his mask, massaging his temples with warm hands while whispering, âdoes that feel better?â god, how could you even ask that when it was the best thing heâd ever felt? he was putty in your hands, melting fastâand happily.
there were smaller dates, too. the kind that mattered more. little bookstores tucked in tokyo alleys. underground musicians he knew you liked. libraries where heâd watch you run your fingers down spines and mentally note every title you paused at.
to be loved, he realized, was to be known. so gojo satoru made it his one goal in life: to know you.
he asked questions constantly. whatâs your favorite color? your favorite season? favorite book? favorite breakfast food? have you ever broken a bone? what was your worst day of high school? you answered shyly at first, then more easily. he remembered everything.
a fresh bouquet of your favorite flowers appeared in your room every week. he didnât just read your favorite bookâhe devoured it. then cornered you in the kitchen to discuss every plot twist like it was the most pressing political scandal of the year. your laughter sounded like home.
you were still humble. still quietly unsure. still never asked for anything. but youâd stopped flinching when he gave you a compliment. stopped shrinking when he spoiled you. you didnât encourage it exactlyâdidnât clap your hands and beg for moreâbut you didnât recoil anymore either. you took his love in slow, careful sips, as if trying not to choke on it.
gojo noticed. and he cherished every bit of it. he never said it aloud, but his chest had been torn wide open and stuffed full of sunshine. if you turned off all the lights, heâd glow in the dark.
and maybe thatâs why, on one chilly night, he just couldnât hold it in anymore. you were walking the gardens outside his estate. slowly. almost aimlessly. your pace had slowed to nothing. you were bundled in his jacket, too big on you, sleeves swallowed by your hands. the air was crisp. stars overhead. silence between you.
then you turned to him, voice quiet. âthank youâŠfor this life.â he froze. you kept going. âI know you couldâve had anyone. I know the higher-ups have been trying to marry you off for years. I know I'm notâŠâ your voice cracked. you looked away. âI just hope I've been good enough.â
satoru felt something dark and furious twist in his chest. he didnât speak. he grabbed you. one hand cupped your cheek. the other slid around your waist. he kissed you like heâd been starving for youâbecause he had. you kissed like that for a long time. breathless. desperate. full of everything unsaid.
when he finally pulled back, you were dazed. warm. his forehead pressed against yours. âI asked for you.â your breath caught.
âI asked them to pick you.â his voice cracked. âIâm sorry I didnât tell you. I was afraid. I didn't know how else to have you.â his words poured out in a rush. âIâm sorry if it felt like a lie, I swear I didn't mean for it to. I justâI didnât want to trick you, I just didnât think I could ever actually deserve you. youâre so good. you make me feelâhuman. and I let you think you werenât enough when really I'm the one whoâs notââ
you didnât let him finish. you grabbed his collar and kissed him again. fierce. certain. real. that was your answer. and it was more than enough. satoru couldnât wait to spend the rest of his married life knowing you.Â
ino had spent the better part of his life proving himself. becoming a grade 1 sorcerer under mentor recommendation wasnât easyâespecially not when you were once the kid with the fake glasses and something to prove. it took years of training, fighting, and swallowing his doubts like medicine. and when he finally got that promotion, that recognition? it felt good. really good. but short-lived. because the higher-ups didnât care much for individual merit. not really. they cared about bloodlines, continuity. legacy. the survival of jujutsu society through childrenâpreferably from the strongest, the best, the most ârespectableâ clans.
it was gross. he knew it was gross. but still...he couldnât deny it. that fantasy had always lingered at the edges of his mind. the dream. a sweet, beautiful wifeâsomeone soft and kind, who called him honey and kissed him on the cheek and left sticky notes on the fridge. kids, loud and messy, who ran through the hallways with little paper talismans and toy weapons. a small home. a big one. didnât matter. just a lifeâone that didnât end with his cursed energy bleeding out on some battlefield.
he loved his job. he really did. loved helping people. loved protecting them. loved being useful. but that kind of love had a cost. and ino, even as young as he still was, could feel it gnawing at him. he was 15 when he became a first-year at jujutsu tech. since then, every second of his life had gone toward climbing the ranks. he didnât go to parties. didnât have dumb high school crushes or hold hands under lunch tables. didnât go on vacations or have summers off. he had given everything to this life.
so, when the elders called him in at twenty-one and handed him a marriage file? he didnât fight it. maybe that shouldâve bothered him more than it did. maybe it wouldâve, if he hadnât opened that folder and seen you.
just a photo. a passport-style headshot. it wasnât much. but even in that sterile little image, you were gorgeous. it kind of knocked the air out of him. he wasnât sure if it was just the whole youâre gonna be my wife thing making him feel a little delirious, but⊠you looked like the kind of woman who was already out of his league, and nowâsomehowâhe was marrying you.
the rest of the file gave him a little more context. you were the same age. same amount of years in the field. smartâreally smartâaccording to your transcripts (which made him laugh; what did test scores have to do with being a good wife?). from a small, quiet clan, not big or flashy, but deeply respected. strong, too. you had dozens of successful missions under your belt and several commendations.
too perfect, he thought at first. like theyâd just built you in a lab to be everything heâd ever wanted. maybe that was a good thing. maybe someone like you could pull him together. soften his sharp edges. keep him steady. he didnât want to get too excitedâdidnât want to start imagining too much. but⊠it was hard. hard not to imagine holding your hand in public. hard not to imagine brushing his teeth next to you. falling asleep next to you. maybe evenâŠwaking up next to you with his arm still around your waist. god, he was down bad and he hadnât even met you yet.
you didnât meet until the wedding. he hated that part. hated that this was how you had to meet. through obligation and duty, instead of something romantic. you deserved more than this, he was sure of it. but then you walked down the aisle, and all his guilt vanished. because it wasnât dread that hit him. it was awe. it was you, you, you, youâand nothing else.
your dress was simple, elegant, and you wore it perfectly. hair down, soft curls tucked behind your ears. your expression calm and polite, even though he could tellâjust from the way you kept your hands foldedâthat you were a little nervous. you kept your gaze down for most of the short ceremony, only glancing at him once or twice. he didnât mind. he was looking enough for the both of you. god, he hoped you couldnât hear how fast his heart was beating.
the ceremony was short. civil. boring, honestly. just enough formality to appease the elders. your family didnât come. he didnât ask why. he didnât have much family of his own. maybe that was for the best. it made the moment feel smaller, more intimate. quieter. like the two of you were slipping into something private and precious, away from the noise of sorcerer society.
you answered every question like it had been rehearsed. like you were saying your lines. and ino got it. you were doing what you were told. just like him. it made something in his chest ache. he couldnât let himself get too attached. not yet. but when the ceremony ended, and your hand finally found hisâlight and gentle in his palmâhe knew he already was.
the house was new. small, not flashy, tucked into a sleepy neighborhood on the edge of tokyo. not too far from the school, but far enough that the city buzz faded into birdsong and the occasional neighborhood dog.
it wasnât muchâtwo bedrooms, a little backyard, warm hardwood floorsâbut to ino, it felt like everything. because you stepped inside and smiled. you ran your hand along the kitchen counter and said, âthis is perfect.â and you meant it.
he showed you around room by room, stumbling over his words sometimes, rubbing the back of his neck like a teenager on his first date. but you⊠you seemed so at ease with him. more open than you had been at the ceremony. you laughed when he opened a closet and found a waspâs nest. you gasped when you saw the backyard garden that had come with the property.
you already trusted him, somehow. thatâs what it felt like. and ino was desperate to protect that.
he put all the furniture together by hand. dragged in chairs and tables, assembled bedframes with sore wrists, then unassembled them and reassembled them when you decided theyâd look better in the other room. he didnât mind. in fact, heâd never been happier to bruise his thumbs with an allen wrench.
every night that week, the two of you cooked dinner together. sometimes you sat in the kitchen and read while he worked. other nights you danced around each other in your socks, making curry and rice and bickering playfully about how spicy was too spicy. you seemed to be very fast friends.Â
you didnât know it yetâbut he was already in love with you. quietly, fully.Â
one night, over dishes still warm from rinsing, you told him. not in many words. just a whisper, quiet as steam rising from the sink. you hadnât known what to expect from him. youâd been so afraid. that he would be cruel. controlling. that heâd treat you like something owned, expected things from you without asking. an heir. obedience. silence. youâd been prepared to be treated like an asset, like you always had. a sorcerer first. a woman second. a person last. you didnât say much more. you didnât need to. ino didnât say anything, either. but it hit him like a curse to the chest.
firstâguilt. heavy and hot in his gut. not because of anything heâd done, but because youâd been made to think your whole life would be like that. that someone like himâwho wanted so badly to be good, to be gentle, to be enoughâcould be feared by someone like you. that someone mustâve made you believe you werenât worth softness, safety, or kindness.
thenâgrief. quiet, cold. the ache of watching someone you care about shrink into themselves. the sadness of knowing youâd walked into this marriage bracing for pain. expecting commands, demands, rules, punishments. he hated that for you. hated every memory that mustâve taught you that love came with conditions.
and finallyârelief. thick and sharp. like taking a breath after holding it underwater. because he could be safe for you. he was safe for you. and more than thatâhe wanted to be. you werenât scared of him now. not when you sat beside him at dinner. not when you touched his hand during movies. not when you smiled sleepily at him from the couch like you werenât afraid of anything at all.
you trusted him. and it made him want to weep with gratitude. so he didnât speak. he just kept drying the dishes. handed them to you gently. let his fingers brush yours. and in that silence, in that fragile, wordless spaceâyou relaxed. for the first time in your life.
and so did he. because even though takuma ino was silly and light-hearted and maybe didnât always say the right thing, with youâŠhe didnât have to prove anything. he wasnât just a sorcerer. he wasnât just a husband by contract. he was someone who could love you, and that, he realized, was the best thing heâd ever be allowed to do.
things were perfect in a way that made takuma nervous. not the kind of nervous he got before a mission or when he had to answer to gojo or yaga. not even the kind of nervous he felt the first time youâd stood across from him at the altar, calm and unreadable while heâd practically vibrated with anxious energy. no, this was different.
this was the kind of nervous that crept in after you realized everything you wanted was already in your hands. because life had never felt this full before. this bright. this good. and he had you to thank for all of it. ino had once hopedânaively, maybe stupidlyâthat being married to someone strong and serious might whip him into shape. that his new wife would be strict, sharp, practical. that sheâd mirror the same steely, polished professionalism expected of a grade 1 sorcererâs spouse. maybe sheâd keep his head on straight. help him level up in the ways that counted: promotions, reputation, rank. make him better.
but then you came alongâand takuma forgot what he was trying to be better for. because with you, he didnât think about sorcery at all. he didnât think about his technique. or how long it had been since nanami had last given him a nod of approval. or how many cursed spirits heâd banished in the last six months. none of that mattered.Â
all he could think about was you. how much he liked you. how soft you made him feel. how he woke up every morning wondering how he could make you smile that dayâhow he could earn your happiness, and keep it. he knew the nature of arranged marriages in jujutsu society. they were never designed to be tender. they were contracts. strategic. binding. and he didnât even want to think about the consequences heâd face if you ever left himâprofessionally or personally. but it was never about that. not really.
he didnât want you to stay because of the contract. he wanted you to stay because he couldnât go back to being alone. to being half-human, half-weapon. to measuring his worth in mission reports and scars. he couldnât stomach the idea of being someone you used to live with. someone you used to care about.
and the wildest part? you didnât live like that. not anymore. it was subtle at first, but ino saw it. youâd come from a house of rules, strict and sharp-edged. you were disciplined to the core, trained to put others first, to perform, to be perfect. but nowâŠyou were learning how to live.
you slept in sometimes, you ate the sweets you used to avoid, you laughed at terrible puns. you took ino on suspiciously date-like outings to coffee shops and farmerâs markets, dragging him past flower stalls and baked goods, eyes gleaming like youâd never been allowed to enjoy them before. and best of allâyou never treated him like a sorcerer.
you never asked about his technique. never seemed impressed by his grade or reputation. you asked how his day was. you packed his lunch and left notes. you let him talk, vent, joke, ramble. you saw him. just him. not the title. not the rank. just takuma. and it wrecked him.
one evening, you told himâquietly, hesitantlyâthat you were thankful. that you didnât know how you got so lucky, ending up with someone who was kind to you. you stumbled over the words, which wasnât like you. you were usually so composed. but you admitted that maybeâŠin a different life, things would be different. the marriage wouldnât have to be fake.
the words made his blood buzz, like he'd been holding his breath for months. without thinking, he grabbed youânot harshly, just urgently. like he needed to anchor you to the ground. like he was scared you'd float away the second you said it out loud. and then, like it had been waiting on the tip of his tongue since the moment he met you, he said: âit was never fake for me. from the moment I saw you, none of it was fake.â
you stared at him, wide-eyed. and then, slowly, carefully, you reached out. wrapped your arms around your husband. leaned in close. and kissed him, because isnât that what married couples do? and takuma kissed you back like heâd been waiting his whole life to be allowed to.
âŠâŠ
the house was louder now. a little messier. there were fingerprints on the glass doors and juice cups in the sink, toys left halfway through elaborate adventures on the living room floor. someone had drawn all over one of his mission reports in crayon. he hadnât even been mad.
because when he looked up and saw youâhair pinned messily back, laughing in the kitchen as you tried to scoop rice into a bowl while a toddler clung to your legâhe felt something in his chest swell so big and full it was a wonder it hadnât broken open yet.
this was his life. you and the kids. a house full of soft chaos and unshakable joy. days that started too early and ended with little bodies asleep between you, mouths slightly open, cheeks warm with sleep. heâd never been so tired. heâd never been so happy.
takuma had once believed love would cost him something. that having a family would be another weight to carry. one more duty. another thing to fail at. but heâd been so, so wrong. thisâthisâwasn't a burden. this wasnât something to carry. it was the thing that carried him. being a father was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
it changed everything. his priorities. his pace. he still took missions, still wore the badge of grade 1 with quiet pride, but he said no now. he turned down the ones that felt wrong in his gut. he left the field when he was injured. he let others take the high-risk ones. because his wifeâhis wifeâmattered more than any of it.
he watched you now from the doorway, one arm lazily braced above the frame, eyes half-lidded with love as the kids scrambled around your legs, yelling something about dinosaurs and bugs and an impending tea party. you scooped the youngest up without missing a beat, balanced them on your hip like it was second nature. it was.
and takuma thought, not for the first time, god, sheâs perfect. not just beautiful, though you were that too. but good. kind. strong. warm in a way that softened the sharpest corners of his soul.
heâd once been so scared of responsibility. now he wanted it. he wanted to be your husband. their dad. he wanted to be the one who made dinner when you were tired, who helped with math homework, who kissed bruised knees and told bedtime stories that got increasingly dramatic just to hear the kids laugh.
âI ever tell you,â he said, padding into the kitchen, voice soft as he slid behind you and kissed your temple, âthat this is all I ever wanted?â
you leaned into him, eyes tired but bright. âevery day,â you teased.
he grinned. âgood. Iâm not planning on shutting up about it.â and he meant it.
because he had everything now. a home. a family. you. and takumaâonce a lonely, overworked, people-pleasing sorcerer who thought praise and promotions were the only proof he was doing something rightâfinally understood what it meant to live a life worth protecting.
choso was new to sorceryâbut even newer to being human.
when the summons arrived, a scroll sealed and stamped in the language of tradition, yuuji and gojo were quick to explain that the higher-ups loved to play god. force alliances, breed lineages, shape the next generation of jujutsu society like clay in their gnarled hands. âyou donât have to do anything you donât want to,â gojo had said bluntly, rolling his eyes. âtheyâre just bored aristocrats in robes.â
but choso hadnât said no. not because he felt obligatedâhe barely recognized authority as it stoodâbut becauseâŠwell, he thought it sounded kind of nice. sweet, even. romantic. yuuji had explained marriage to him in simple terms. a lifelong bond. partnership. someone who could be your best friend. a person who chooses to love you every day. it made choso's chest ache in a way he couldnât explain.
he wasnât even sure he could reproduce. half-curse biology was a tricky thing, and he didnât care to explore it. but stillâif it was just for looks, as gojo and yuuji insisted, then maybe it wouldnât be so bad. maybe heâd get to wear something nice. eat cake. smile at someone pretty. maybe heâd get to try being romantic.
yuuji was wary on his behalf. protective. he didn't want some power-hungry clan girl using choso's status to claw her way higher up the jujutsu hierarchy. but when they met youâquiet, trembling, kindâyou shattered every cynical assumption theyâd had. you werenât from a flashy family. your clan was small and conservative, one that preferred tradition and silence to showy skill. you bowed politely. you smiled nervously. you never raised your voice, never met their eyes.
choso didnât say much on the day of the wedding. he was stunned into silence, not out of fear but from sheer sensory overload. the ceremony was extravagant, as expected, but to him it felt like magic. he wore a tuxedo for the first time. had his long hair carefully styled by a jujutsu tech assistant. yuuji stood proudly beside him, trying not to cry. there was music, too. food and flowers. a big, beautiful cake.
and then there was you. he couldnât look away from you. your dress. your skin. the way you held your breath when your eyes met his. you looked like something out of a storybook. choso didnât know how to be subtle, so he didnât even try. he stared. wide-eyed. awestruck. you looked like you were glowing. he told yuuji every thought that crossed his mind after. âshe smells nice,â âher dress was soft-looking,â "Is it okay to think my wife is pretty?â yuuji begged him not to say any of that to your face. not yet.
the car ride back to your new home was silent. you sat stiffly beside him, your hands folded in your lap like you were bracing for impact. choso stole little glances at youâthen long ones, staring openly when he thought you wouldnât notice.
you noticed. you kept waiting. bracing. wondering when the act would drop. youâd been raised in a home where men didnât love. they owned. where girls were groomed to say yes and smile and open their legs whether they wanted to or not. where being married meant being silent, and scared, and useful.
but choso just stood at the threshold of your new home, turning slowly, taking everything in. the wallpaper. the strange furniture. the cozy rug. he pulled out his phone and texted yuji: âdo I say something now?â then he turned and gave you a smileâshy, awkward, but genuine.
you waited. your fingers trembled in your lap. you waited for the barked orders, for the dragging hand, for the crack of authority to echo through the house. but choso only asked you softly where you wanted your boxes placed. said your name like it was something delicate in his mouth.
he talked a little that first night, though he wasnât good at it. told you he liked your hair. that he liked the house. that it was weird but fun to wear a tux. that he was sorry if he seemed strange, he just⊠didnât know what he was supposed to be doing. you didnât say much in response, mostly nodded. you couldnât believe it. couldnât believe that this wasnât a trap, a test, or some cruel prank.
âkamoââ you started.
âcall me choso,â he interrupted gently, his gaze sincere. âplease. IâI prefer that name.â
you nodded, unsure. your voice caught in your throat. you wanted to ask a thousand questions.
do you know what marriage means?
do you know what youâre supposed to do with me?
do you know whatâs expected of youâand of me?
but you said none of them. afraid that speaking the words aloud might summon the monster.
that night, you made dinner. a modest meal, more ceremony than sustenance, just something to ground yourself in normalcy. choso ate all of it. every bite. said it was the best thing heâd ever tasted. âyuuji once burned ramen,â he told you proudly. âhe tried so hard. it was still crunchy.â
you laughed, just a little. you didnât know it yet, but choso would hold that sound in his chest for the rest of the week. days passed. stilted. quiet. hesitant. but safe.
you began to relax in the space. your steps no longer tiptoed. you cooked more meals. choso started asking, shyly, if youâd mind packing his lunch when he left on errands. âonly if itâs not too inconvenient,â heâd say. you nodded. of course, you told him. I'm here to be useful to you, choso. he didnât answer right away. something about the way you said it unsettled him. useful? he didnât like the sound of that. like this marriage was about what you could for for him.Â
yuuji gave him advice. told him to take you out. âlike a date. a real one. show her you like her.â choso brought it up clumsily. you said yes instantlyâso instantly it felt like a reflex. âyou donât have to say yes if you donât want to,â choso told you earnestly, head tilted like a confused dog. "I wouldnât want to make you uncomfortable.â
that was the moment the fog began to lift. you realized, in a single breathless moment, that choso wasnât a monster waiting to strike. he wasnât a master. or a soldier. or a shadowed curse. he was just a man. a little lonely. a little confused. a little smitten. a man who liked you and happened to be married to you.
"I want to,â you said. and chosoâs hands shook with joy as he texted yuji, "I think she likes me now!!!!â he planned a clumsy little date. you wore something pretty and he complimented it three times before you left the house. he took you to a movie (a romcom, because you said horror was too scary), and halfway through the popcorn he whispered, âthis is the best day ever.â you laughed, but he meant it.
the next week, he tried to cook for you. it went terribly. the dumplings were a mess. half-burnt, lopsided, falling apart before they even reached the plate. choso looked crushed by itâslouched at the stove, brows furrowed like heâd disappointed you. but you didnât mind. you were quick to move beside him, murmuring a soft reassurance as you grabbed the pan, fixing what could be saved with steady hands and a bit of seasoning. you plated them neatly. made them presentable. and when he took his first bite, he looked at you like youâd performed a miracle.
there was praise in his eyes. gentle admiration. âyouâre so great,â he told you, with hearts in his eyes. âyouâre so good at everything.â you flinch a little at the praise, like youâre not sure what do with the weight of it on your shoulders. choso saw itâhow your fingers trembled just slightly. how your eyes dropped to the floor. how praise seemed to sit heavy on your shoulders like you didnât know what to do with it. that quiet, guilty way your shoulders curled in. he noticed how you smiled without meeting his gaze. how you moved around him like he was a fragile bomb, unsure of what might set him off. he didnât know exactly what heâd done wrongâbut he knew, with the kind of certainty that sat heavy in the chest, that something was wrong.
âare youâŠafraid of me?â he asked, gently. the idea made him sick. the last thing he wanted was to be feared, especially by someone like whom he liked so much. âwhy are you always soâcareful?â the question hung in the kitchen like smoke. it wasnât an accusation. it was a genuine wonder. because he didnât understand why someone as soft and sweet as you looked at him like he might break you.
you opened your mouthâbut nothing came out at first. then you sat down at the edge of the dining table, fingers clenched in your lap, eyes wide with something older than fear. something deeper. something that lived in the bones. and you told him. not with rehearsed clarity or poetic structureâbut with a raw, unraveling honesty. stammering, halting words. a truth that had been carved into you over years.
it didnât come out like a confession. it wasnât a story with a beginning, middle, and end. it was bits and pieces, torn at the edges. the heaviness of your silence as it cracked open into something trembling. shame. memory. fear so deeply rooted, it had shaped the way you walked, the way you thought, the way you braced yourself for touch that never came.
marriage had never meant safety to you. it meant control. obedience. pain. youâd grown up watching women disappear inside themselves, reduced to what they could provideâbodies, labor, silence. youâd watched the world turn cruel inside the walls of a home. and somewhere along the way, you had decided that love was just another kind of wound.
choso listened. still and unmoving, like if he breathed too loudly it might scare the truth back inside you.
"I'm sorry,â you said finally, a knee-jerk apology you didnât even realize you were offering. "I'm so sorry if I ever seemed cold or distant or strange, or-or if I ever made you feelâŠI donât knowâI justâŠâ you turn your head away, unable to bear the immense weight of his silent gaze. "I'm so sorry,â you whispered again, this time into the stunned quiet. "I know itâs not fair to think that of you, and I feel awful about it, but I didnât know. I didnât know someone like you existed.â
his jaw was tight. his eyes shined. "I donât want you to be useful,â he said. "I just want you to be happy. if I do anythingâanythingâto make you feel small or scared, I want you to tell me, and I'll fix it. I'll change it. I'll stop whatever it is.â a pause. then, with a breath like a prayer: "I want to be someone who makes you feel safe.â
the change is subtle. so small it almost passes by unnoticedâbut choso sees it. itâs in the way your steps donât hesitate beside him anymore. the way you reach for his sleeve when youâre nervous. the way, when the conversation around you grows too sharp, too loud, you lean into him rather than shrinking away. once, your posture around him was all calculation: poised, perfect, prepared to endure. now itâs something gentler. closer. unafraid.
you trust him. choso can feel it in his bones. and he holds that knowledge like a precious thingâtender, breakable, sacred. he doesnât take it lightly.
when you stumble, he catches you. he never lets you apologize for it. when an event grows too loud, too bright, too much, he doesnât ask. he just finds your hand, leads you out, drives you home. quietly, like itâs nothing, like itâs easy for him. because it is.
he likes driving you places. likes when you sit in his passenger seat and pick the music. likes the way you hum under your breath at red lights. likes treating you to dinnerâramen, sushi, pancakes at midnightâanything you want. itâs not about being traditional. he just wants to be good to you. provide for you. make sure you never go without, not while heâs around.
you become friendsâslowly, then all at once. laughter starts filling in the gaps between awkward silences. shared jokes and quiet routines. the way he always brings you tea in the morning, even if he doesnât drink it himself. the way you always double the recipe when cooking, setting his plate down before he even sits.
he didnât understand, not really, what the people meant when they said âmarriage.â but now he does. itâs this. this quiet companionship. this soft joy. this life.Â
he still has his quirks. heâs blunt to a faultâawkward, painfully honest, and occasionally a little too literal. romance doesnât come naturally to him, but that doesnât stop him from trying. he compliments you like itâs as natural as breathing.
âyou are so beautiful.â
âyouâre the prettiest girl I've ever seen.â
"I love it when you smile.â
sometimes heâll say it in passing. midway through folding laundry. after biting into a dumpling. while youâre brushing your hair and not even looking at him. you smack his arm with a smile. tell him not to flatter you so much. but itâs not flattery to him. he doesnât even register it that way.
choso doesnât know how to flirt. he doesnât realize thereâs any performance to it. he just says what he thinks, exactly as he thinks it. and thatâs what gets you most of allâhow sincere it is. how uncalculated. no charm, no strategy, just choso, all wide-eyed and genuine and completely unaware of what his words do to you.
you begin to soften around him like melting snow. he notices the warmth in your gaze before you do. you start sitting closer to him on the couch, letting your knees touch. you start making his favorite meals without asking. you brush lint off his collar without realizing it.
he never stops doing his part. always careful, always patient. gives you space without ever making you feel alone. when he brings you to meet yuuji for the first time, he pulls his little brother aside beforehand and tells him firmlyââno yelling.â he knows loud men rattle you. keeps you far away from gojo on principle.
you cook for yuuji often, and his grumpy little friend megumi. choso eats every meal like itâs a holiday. thanks you every time. you tell him itâs nothing, that itâs the least you can do. he always disagrees. you donât owe him anything, he says. you never did. but it still means the world to him.
one day, youâre walking together through tokyo. itâs sunny, but not hot. crowded, but not unpleasant. youâre talking softly about the bakery you want to try around the corner when you feel itâhis hand, slipping into yours. like itâs normal. like itâs always been that way. you look down, blinking. he doesnât even seem to notice, just keeps walking like itâs the most casual thing in the world. you glance up at him, a question forming. he catches your expression and offers, plainly, âyuuji said couples do that.â
you laughâa real one, bright and unfiltered. then you squeeze his hand and lean in, close enough for your shoulder to brush his arm. he glances down at you, curious, smiling faintly. and you say, in the softest, most conspiratorial whisperââdid yuuji tell you what kissing is?â choso trips over a crack in the sidewalk. which answers your question well enough.
marriage had always been part of nanami's plan. not a romantic dream, not some wistful fantasyâbut a goal, like anything else. stability. consistency. someone to build a life with. someone to go home to. someone to care for, to take care of. he never imagined love would come easyânothing ever hadâbut he'd always imagined it would be real. earned. honest.
justâŠnot like this. not arranged. not forced. not signed and sealed by the higher ups with a polite congratulations and a subtle reminder of the responsibility now placed upon his shoulders.
he put it off for years. every time the elders insisted, he declined. until gojoâwith his reckless, star-bright optimismâwent through with it. and somehow, shockingly, it worked for him. so nanami caved. signed his name where they told him to. said yes when they gave him your name. figured at worst, you could be companions. civil. polite. friends, even. youâd both maintain your dignity. your distance.
it didnât have to mean anything. and then he saw you walk down the aisle. and every thread of logic in his head went up in flames.
you were breathtaking. not in the overdone, romanticized sense of the wordâbut truly, viscerally. the kind of beautiful that made him sit up straighter. that made his pulse spike with guilt. your dress hugged every curve like it was made to provoke him. your face unreadable, your lips soft and untouched, your eyes wide with something he couldnât name. you looked like someone from a dream he hadnât dared to admit heâd had. and he knew, right then, that friendship was off the table.
he was so screwed. so he did what he always does when emotions run too high: compartmentalized. stuffed it down. locked it up. told himself this was a marriage in name only. that he would be respectful. dutiful. distant. he would not touch you. he would not think about you. he would not ruin you with the weight of his own desire.
and then you spoke to himâsoftly, sincerely, asking if he needed anything. if there was anything you could do to make this easier on him. and you smiled at him like you meant it. like you didnât mind being here. like maybe you were hoping for something.
and nanami felt sick. not at youânever at youâbut at the situation. at the system that placed you in this position. at the knowledge that somewhere along the line, someone taught you this was your role. to ask what he needed, to offer yourself up for service like some kind of dutiful wife on day one. he told youâfirmly, perhaps too firmlyâthat he expected nothing from you. and he meant it. but the way your face dropped still haunts him.
because you had hoped, hadn't you? not for love. not for anything improper. just for connection. for kindness. to not be alone.
you told gojo, apparently. quietly, in confidence. that you didnât think nanami liked you. that maybe youâd done something wrong. of course gojo told him. "she feels like you donât like her," he said, shamelessly stirring the pot. "which is crazy, 'cos sheâs great."
"youâve met her twice, gojo. and donât talk about my wife." nanamiâs voice was sharp, clipped. but the words lodged like a knife in his chest. heâd wanted to be honorable. restrained. a gentleman. but somehow youâd taken his distance as dislike. his silence as coldness. he couldnât let that stand.
so he changed. slowly, carefully. he didnât get any closer physicallyâstill maintained his boundaries, still slept on the edge of the bed if you even let him in the room at allâbut his efforts became more intentional. his speech softened. his tone warmed. he held doors. he asked about your day. he remembered things you said.
still, he never once commented on your appearance. not your hair, which always looked soft and neat, not your perfume, even when it made him dizzy. not your lips, even when you bit them while reading, which drove him mad. because he didnât want you to think that was all this was. he wouldnât reduce you to something superficial. wouldnât treat you like a trophy. wouldnât make you feel small.
but it was hard. so hard. because you were gorgeous. and kind. and funny, though you kept that part guarded. you were sharp-tongued and prickly and far too used to fending for yourself. you flinched under the smallest bit of praise. frowned when he complimented your cooking. got visibly uncomfortable when he opened your door or pulled out your chair.
"you donât have to do all this husband-y stuff," youâd mutter, half-under your breath. he only smiled at that. yes, he did. you didnât understandâthis wasnât performance. he wasnât playing a role. he wanted to be good to you.
so he started smaller. made it subtle.
not "I bought this for you,â but "I picked up this chocolate. couldnât finish it all, if you want some.â (he could finish it. he didnât even like chocolate.) not "I booked you a trip,â but âthereâs a train to takahama saturday morning. I remembered you said you liked coastal cities.â
you didnât realize it was spoiling. it didnât feel like spoiling. it felt casual. convenient. but it wasnât. nanami had a hand in everythingâsoftly, quietly, never drawing attentionâbut always thinking of you. always.
and still, you didnât see it. because somewhere along the way, someone taught you that you werenât meant to be treasured.
that night, on a checkered picnic blanket under low evening light, you finally told him. you didnât look at him. you were chewing a fancy pastry he bought just for you, one youâd insisted he didnât need to get, and between bites you murmured, like it was nothingâ"I donât really deserve any of this. youâre amazing. this whole thing feels like a joke. I meanâŠI'm nothing compared to you."
and nanami put his pastry down. very calmly, very clearly, he said, âdonât say that again.â you blinked. unsure if youâd heard him right. âyou deserve everything,â he said. âand if youâll let me, I'd like to be the one to give it to you.â you swallowed hard. "I know this marriage may not be the realest thing,â he continued, softer now. âbut you are. youâre real. to me.â and for once, you didnât argue.
you just looked at him. like you believed him. or maybe like you wanted to. nanami is the perfect husband, or he can be. if youâll just let him.
you remain a bit uncomfortable, even after that. nanami can tell. youâre polite. grateful, even. but still not used to the spoiling. still flinching at the painful sweetness of his attention. like youâre waiting for the other shoe to drop. like youâre afraid heâll stop.
but that only makes him more determined. he thrills at the sight of you eating sweetsâhow your eyes flutter closed for just a second, how you savor every bite like itâs a secret. he keeps a mental list of every flavor that makes your face light up.
he notes how you smile up at him, surprised but pleased, when he casually drops a quote from your favorite book into conversation. and how you hover near him at sorcerer gatheringsânot because you have to, but because you want to.
youâre starting to like him. maybe even trust him. but not nearly as much as he likes you. as he loves you. the realization hits him quietly one evening, like most important things do. another sorcerer gala. he hates them. has always hated them. the showboating. the politics. the noise. but nowâŠhe attends them all. with you on his arm. his wife.
you, dressed in silk and sparkle, laughing under low chandeliers, letting him spin you gently on the floor like he might break you otherwise. you, with one hand in his and the other around a flute of something bubbly, looking every inch the vision you were on your wedding day.
heâs never believed in much. but âmy wifeâ becomes scripture. biblical. he says it like a prayer. at meetings. at missions. at dinners.Â
âmy wife likes that brand of tea,â he says absently in meetings, pointing to the box someone brought in for the breakroom, as if itâs a credential that matters.
âmy wife read that book,â he murmurs during a mission debrief when some sorcerer brings up philosophy, and thenâbecause he canât help himselfâadds, âshe said the ending was overrated, but the prose was lovely.â
he says it everywhere. your name, your title, your presence. it becomes his rhythm. his grounding. he clings to it like scripture.
my wife this.
my wife that.
my wife likes her soup just a little spicy.
my wife hates when it rains and she doesnât have an umbrella.
my wife once said she wanted to see fireflies again. so weâre going. end of june.
he knows you like the back of his hand. not because he memorized you like a taskâbut because loving you is the only thing that comes easy in a world thatâs never been kind.
gojo teases him endlessly. nanami doesnât care.
heâs proud. reverent. and somewhere along the way, you stop pulling away. start leaning in.
itâs not immediate. not dramatic. but slow. cautious. earned.
you start to accept this scary thing called love.
and then, maybeâmaybeâyou start to give it back.
it all falls apart (or falls together) after one of gojoâs absurd, over-the-top parties. youâd worn a sleek, fitted dress. something clingy and dark. your hair up. makeup soft and devious. you looked like danger and desire and everything he could never let himself want.
and nanamiâpoor, tired, utterly smitten nanamiâwas a little bit drunk. not much. just enough that his restraint began to crack.
youâd said something innocuous in the hallway. something about the night winding down. how your feet hurt. how you were ready to go. he didnât even think. "you are so beautiful."
and you froze. you turned to him slowly, lips parted. eyes wide and owlish. âyou think so?â you asked, quietly. like you didnât believe it. like you couldnât. "I thoughtâŠmaybe you didnât.â of course you thought that. he never said anything. never allowed himself to say anything. and now it hits himâhow confusing that must have been. how his constant restraint had read as indifference.
and it ruins him. he fumbles through the silence, reaching for the right words. of course I think so. I always thought so. I just didnât want to make you uncomfortable. you seemed so unsure. so tense. I didnât want to reduce you to that. I didnât want you to think I married you for that. I didnât want to hurt you. I didnâtâ you grab his jaw with both hands and kiss him. you kiss him like you mean it. like youâve been waiting. like you know. and nanami kisses back like a man starved. like heâll never get another chance. like heâs finally, finally allowed to touch the thing heâs been revering from afar.
from then on, heâs yours completely. he was yours before, too. you just didnât know it. but nowânow he doesn't hide it. not from you. not from anyone.
he brings you lunch during your breaks, walking all the way across campus in the middle of a meeting because he knows you forget to eat when youâre busy. he holds your hand like itâs second nature, like it was always meant to be there. he kisses your temple, your cheek, the inside of your wrist when no oneâs looking.
he sleeps in your bed now. it wasnât even a conversation. youâd dozed off after a movie on the couch, legs tangled up in his, head heavy on his shoulderâand when he carried you to bed, you tugged him down with you. he hasnât left since.
he pulls you in every night, strong arms wrapped gently around your waist. breath warm against your neck. he mumbles half-dreamed things into your skin. sometimes itâs your name. sometimes itâs I love you. sometimes itâs just the kind of sigh that sounds like home.
he calls you his. always. because you are. and now, you let him. let him love you out loud. let him spoil you, lift the weight off your shoulders, remind you daily how precious you are. even if it still makes you blush, makes your eyes dart away shylyâhe just coos and tuts and kisses your forehead like heâs got all the time in the world. and he does. because heâs not going anywhere.
you make plans for the future now. soft, easy ones. weekend trips. new paint for the kitchen. a second bookshelf. someday, maybe, a little house by the sea. you're no longer just wife and husband in nameâyouâre partners. best friends. completely, helplessly in love. and nanami does not take that honor lightly.
you belong to each other. thatâs the difference. thatâs what changed. itâs not just he calls you his. you call him yours. your person. your constant. your kento. he doesn't just love youâhe lets you love him. completely. and you do.
you bring him his favorite coffee when he forgets breakfast, tug him away from his desk when heâs worked too long. you fold his ties and kiss his forehead and leave little notes in his wallet that say things like buy eggs and also I adore you. he blushes every time.
you donât just call him your husband anymore. you call him your best friend. and he calls you his everything. because you are. and thisâthis life youâre building togetherâitâs all either of you ever couldâve asked for.
this is something I have been debating for a while, but I believe I have reached the most beneficial decision for me right now
I think itâs time for the âtender-rosieyâ chapter to end đââïž
I have spent 4 years of my life on this account, and I couldnât have been more proud of where I am. I have gotten to a point that I couldâve never imagined. when I first started tumblr, it was all for silly funsies, but then I found people and people found me
steadily, my account started growing, and I found myself hitting unbelievable milestones. it feels like just yesterday I was figuring out how to use bullet points and readmore on tumblr. and as my account grew, I grew with it. I have been through so much during my tumblr âeraâ, and I regret nothing. I am thankful for the good moments, and I am thankful for the bad moments
and I am thankful that I got friends and was fortunate enough to be surrounded by people who are so kind and sweet
one of the first people to become my friend was @pompompurin1028 , and though weâve not talked much lately, but she is truly one of the people I will never forget. at the time, I was rather young and talking to kate felt like talking to a big sister. Iâve always admired her writing and the depth behind all her works. so, thank you for guiding in my initial days
another person I truly appreciate is @magenta-cat-drawingss . her kind words and her fun vibes have always been pushing me forward in the start of my writing career, and I am truly thankful for her interest through it all
and thank you to @tiredzoro who taught me everything about tumblr. without you, I wouldnât have been here. I was so lost back then, but you were always so kind and answered all my questions.
and thank you to @withthistreasurehollowpurple who despite my inactivity always checks up with me and talks to me. I know how my inactiveness may come off, so I truly appreciate your kindness and friendship
thank you to all the friends I have made along the way @smadhuman @sannunah28 @nameless-shrimp @strawbxrrytiger @moon-catto @alcoholandcakes @ashthemadwriter @greycaelum @seeingivy @sweetchildcloud @vagabond-umlaut @uranosbaaee
I know how inactive I am in messages and reblogs, but I truly hope that all of you know that I never stopped caring about you all, and I am always grateful for everything we have shared together, and I am sorry for anything that may have come off as rude
lastly, I want to dedicate a last thank you to all my followers from the very first one to the very last one and the ones who might come later. I have been truly blessed to have had you guys as my readers, and I am beyond thankful everyday for your support and kindness. thank you for respecting me and my decisions and for always having my back
I have tried my best during my writing career not to cause trouble and to write to the best of my ability. and I genuinely hope that I have never disappointed you guys once, and that I never will. and if I did, I give you my sincerest apologies
every single one of you is a beautiful soul that deserves so much kindness. I sincerely hope that my works have helped you guys in any form or lifted your moods because in the end, I started this journey to make you happy
this blog is so dear to my heart, and I will never forget about this time of my life. I wonât delete this blog, and I will keep it. I will just write the whole archive thing in my bio, so you can access my works whenever you want <3
with this, I will leave you guys, and thank you once again, each and every single one of you for your kindness and support
have a wonderful life, majestic people, and take care of yourself đ
I wish I could give you whatever the writer's equivalent is of an oscar for the way you write Sukuna, especially any iteration of dad!Sukuna! I'm bad with words, but your works make me feel đđ„șđđđđđđđâ€đđđ€
I know you've been getting a ton of requests for Sukuna w/ his shy daughter, so feel free to ignore this one. But, I'd love to see either (1) Sukuna scaring her except this time she doesn't recover immediately/ as quickly as usual and he has to figure out how to make it up to her or (2) Sukuna witnessing a rare moment where she stands up for herself/ is brave and bold + his reaction
tiny tremors â ryomen sukuna x f!reader
a/n: AWW THANK YOU SO MUCH I AM SO GLAD YOU LIKE WHAT I WRITE đ„č it means so much to me especially since dad!sukuna is smth i really love to explore <33 btw i also have the second request in my draft so no worries! đââïžđ«¶
d/n clings to you, her tiny frame trembling as she presses her face into the fabric of your kimono.
her sniffles are quiet, almost stifled, but they tug at your heart all the same.
you stroke her hair softly, murmuring soothing words as you glare daggers at the towering figure across the room.
sukuna stands there, arms crossed and brow furrowed, his expression an infuriating mix of annoyance and confusion.
âwhatâs the matter with her?â he demands, his voice sharp, as though the answer isnât painfully obvious.
âyou scared her, thatâs what,â you bite out, your voice tight with frustration.
he scoffs, crimson eyes narrowing. âscared her? over what? I didnât even touch her.â
âsheâs three, sukuna!â you snap, holding d/n closer as her fingers curl into your sleeve.
âyou loomed over her like some nightmare and surrounded yourself with cursed energy! what did you think was going to happen?â
âit was a joke,â sukuna mutters, as though the very concept of fault is beneath him.
âsheâs just tooââ he stops mid-sentence when your glare intensifies. his jaw works, but he doesnât finish the thought.
d/n shifts slightly, hiding her face further in your shoulder. sukunaâs crimson gaze flicks to her, a faint twitch in his jaw betraying some inner frustration.
he exhales sharply, almost as if shaking off the weight of the moment.
âwhat do you expect me to do?â he snaps, frustration evident. âI donât know how to deal with this.â he gestures vaguely.
your gaze softens, just slightly. âyouâre her father, sukuna. you donât have to know everything, but you do have to try.â
your tone seems to chip away at his irritation. slowly, he lowers himself to a crouch, his massive frame somehow still imposing even at her level.
he leans forward, forearms resting on his thighs as he stares at the top of d/nâs head, her face still hidden.
âhey,â he says gruffly, his voice softer than before. âd/n.â
she doesnât respond, her small shoulders rising as she inhales shakily.
âare you just going to hide there all day?â sukunaâs tone holds a faint edge, though itâs more awkward than harsh. âyouâre acting ridiculous.â
d/n winces at his words, and you shoot him a sharp look. he doesnât meet your gaze, instead staring at the small figure curled up in your arms.
he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. âfine,â he mutters under his breath. âI didnât mean to scare you. there.â
d/nâs grip tightens on your sleeve, and her quiet sniffles persist. sukuna scowls, looking away for a moment before trying again.
âit wasnâtâŠon purpose,â he says, the words' nature clearly foreign on his tongue.
d/n shifts slightly, her teary gaze peeking out from behind you. her lips tremble, and sukunaâs sharp eyes catch the movement immediately.
âyou scared me,â she whispers, her voice soft and shaky.
sukunaâs brows furrow, his jaw tightening as he looks at her. âscared you?â he repeats, his voice almost incredulous. âwhat, you think Iâd actually harm you?â
her small fingers tighten on your sleeve, and his eyebrow's furrow, his crimson eyes still fixed on d/n.
âyouâre my daughter,â he says simply. âif I wanted to hurt you, I wouldnât waste time playing games.â
d/n flinches slightly at his tone, and you sigh, reaching out to gently smooth her hair. âsukuna,â you warn softly.
he grunts, turning his head away for a moment before sighing deeply. âfine. listen, brat,â he starts, his tone as rough as ever, but he forces himself to meet her gaze again.
âIâm not going to scare you like that again. not because Iâve suddenly gone soft, but because youâre not supposed to be afraid of me. understood?â
d/n hesitates, her watery gaze darting between you and him. her voice is barely audible when she replies, ââŠreally?â
sukuna clicks his tongue, his expression caught somewhere between annoyance and something softer. âyes. really. donât make me repeat myself.â
she studies him for a long moment, her tiny fingers loosening their grip on you. âokay,â she whispers, finally stepping out from behind you.
âgood,â he mutters, leaning back slightly. âyou donât need to cry over nonsense like this.â
d/n shifts on her feet before hesitantly reaching out, brushing her tiny fingers against one of his hands.
âyouâre warm,â she mumbles timidly.
sukuna huffs lightly, hand ruffling her hair. Â âof course I am. Iâm alive, arenât I?â
d/n giggles softly, her tears finally drying. sukuna straightens to his full height, glancing down at her before his gaze shifts to you.
âwell?â he mutters, raising a brow. âfixed enough for you?â
"yes, I am proud of you," you hum. "lucky for you, she forgives quickly."
sukuna smirks, a playful gleam in his eyes as he folds his arms across his chest.
"forgives? it's not about that," he retorts, glancing back at d/n, whoâs still standing by his side, her small frame shrinking slightly under his gaze.
"she knows better than to hold grudges."
d/n fidgets, her gaze downcast, clearly still feeling a little unsure. âI...I donât like staying mad...â she mutters softly.
you watch the exchange, eyes drifting to your husband as your daughter finishes her sentence.
sukuna glances at you, his eyes narrowing with a hint of annoyance.
"what?" he snaps, though the edge in his voice isnât as sharp as usual. "donât tell me youâre gonna start fussing too."
you cross your arms, tilting your head with a smirk. âI think Iâve seen enough to know youâre not a complete ass.â
I wish I could give you whatever the writer's equivalent is of an oscar for the way you write Sukuna, especially any iteration of dad!Sukuna! I'm bad with words, but your works make me feel đđ„șđđđđđđđâ€đđđ€
I know you've been getting a ton of requests for Sukuna w/ his shy daughter, so feel free to ignore this one. But, I'd love to see either (1) Sukuna scaring her except this time she doesn't recover immediately/ as quickly as usual and he has to figure out how to make it up to her or (2) Sukuna witnessing a rare moment where she stands up for herself/ is brave and bold + his reaction
tiny tremors â ryomen sukuna x f!reader
a/n: AWW THANK YOU SO MUCH I AM SO GLAD YOU LIKE WHAT I WRITE đ„č it means so much to me especially since dad!sukuna is smth i really love to explore <33 btw i also have the second request in my draft so no worries! đââïžđ«¶
d/n clings to you, her tiny frame trembling as she presses her face into the fabric of your kimono.
her sniffles are quiet, almost stifled, but they tug at your heart all the same.
you stroke her hair softly, murmuring soothing words as you glare daggers at the towering figure across the room.
sukuna stands there, arms crossed and brow furrowed, his expression an infuriating mix of annoyance and confusion.
âwhatâs the matter with her?â he demands, his voice sharp, as though the answer isnât painfully obvious.
âyou scared her, thatâs what,â you bite out, your voice tight with frustration.
he scoffs, crimson eyes narrowing. âscared her? over what? I didnât even touch her.â
âsheâs three, sukuna!â you snap, holding d/n closer as her fingers curl into your sleeve.
âyou loomed over her like some nightmare and surrounded yourself with cursed energy! what did you think was going to happen?â
âit was a joke,â sukuna mutters, as though the very concept of fault is beneath him.
âsheâs just tooââ he stops mid-sentence when your glare intensifies. his jaw works, but he doesnât finish the thought.
d/n shifts slightly, hiding her face further in your shoulder. sukunaâs crimson gaze flicks to her, a faint twitch in his jaw betraying some inner frustration.
he exhales sharply, almost as if shaking off the weight of the moment.
âwhat do you expect me to do?â he snaps, frustration evident. âI donât know how to deal with this.â he gestures vaguely.
your gaze softens, just slightly. âyouâre her father, sukuna. you donât have to know everything, but you do have to try.â
your tone seems to chip away at his irritation. slowly, he lowers himself to a crouch, his massive frame somehow still imposing even at her level.
he leans forward, forearms resting on his thighs as he stares at the top of d/nâs head, her face still hidden.
âhey,â he says gruffly, his voice softer than before. âd/n.â
she doesnât respond, her small shoulders rising as she inhales shakily.
âare you just going to hide there all day?â sukunaâs tone holds a faint edge, though itâs more awkward than harsh. âyouâre acting ridiculous.â
d/n winces at his words, and you shoot him a sharp look. he doesnât meet your gaze, instead staring at the small figure curled up in your arms.
he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. âfine,â he mutters under his breath. âI didnât mean to scare you. there.â
d/nâs grip tightens on your sleeve, and her quiet sniffles persist. sukuna scowls, looking away for a moment before trying again.
âit wasnâtâŠon purpose,â he says, the words' nature clearly foreign on his tongue.
d/n shifts slightly, her teary gaze peeking out from behind you. her lips tremble, and sukunaâs sharp eyes catch the movement immediately.
âyou scared me,â she whispers, her voice soft and shaky.
sukunaâs brows furrow, his jaw tightening as he looks at her. âscared you?â he repeats, his voice almost incredulous. âwhat, you think Iâd actually harm you?â
her small fingers tighten on your sleeve, and his eyebrow's furrow, his crimson eyes still fixed on d/n.
âyouâre my daughter,â he says simply. âif I wanted to hurt you, I wouldnât waste time playing games.â
d/n flinches slightly at his tone, and you sigh, reaching out to gently smooth her hair. âsukuna,â you warn softly.
he grunts, turning his head away for a moment before sighing deeply. âfine. listen, brat,â he starts, his tone as rough as ever, but he forces himself to meet her gaze again.
âIâm not going to scare you like that again. not because Iâve suddenly gone soft, but because youâre not supposed to be afraid of me. understood?â
d/n hesitates, her watery gaze darting between you and him. her voice is barely audible when she replies, ââŠreally?â
sukuna clicks his tongue, his expression caught somewhere between annoyance and something softer. âyes. really. donât make me repeat myself.â
she studies him for a long moment, her tiny fingers loosening their grip on you. âokay,â she whispers, finally stepping out from behind you.
âgood,â he mutters, leaning back slightly. âyou donât need to cry over nonsense like this.â
d/n shifts on her feet before hesitantly reaching out, brushing her tiny fingers against one of his hands.
âyouâre warm,â she mumbles timidly.
sukuna huffs lightly, hand ruffling her hair. Â âof course I am. Iâm alive, arenât I?â
d/n giggles softly, her tears finally drying. sukuna straightens to his full height, glancing down at her before his gaze shifts to you.
âwell?â he mutters, raising a brow. âfixed enough for you?â
"yes, I am proud of you," you hum. "lucky for you, she forgives quickly."
sukuna smirks, a playful gleam in his eyes as he folds his arms across his chest.
"forgives? it's not about that," he retorts, glancing back at d/n, whoâs still standing by his side, her small frame shrinking slightly under his gaze.
"she knows better than to hold grudges."
d/n fidgets, her gaze downcast, clearly still feeling a little unsure. âI...I donât like staying mad...â she mutters softly.
you watch the exchange, eyes drifting to your husband as your daughter finishes her sentence.
sukuna glances at you, his eyes narrowing with a hint of annoyance.
"what?" he snaps, though the edge in his voice isnât as sharp as usual. "donât tell me youâre gonna start fussing too."
you cross your arms, tilting your head with a smirk. âI think Iâve seen enough to know youâre not a complete ass.â
I wish I could give you whatever the writer's equivalent is of an oscar for the way you write Sukuna, especially any iteration of dad!Sukuna! I'm bad with words, but your works make me feel đđ„șđđđđđđđâ€đđđ€
I know you've been getting a ton of requests for Sukuna w/ his shy daughter, so feel free to ignore this one. But, I'd love to see either (1) Sukuna scaring her except this time she doesn't recover immediately/ as quickly as usual and he has to figure out how to make it up to her or (2) Sukuna witnessing a rare moment where she stands up for herself/ is brave and bold + his reaction
tiny tremors â ryomen sukuna x f!reader
a/n: AWW THANK YOU SO MUCH I AM SO GLAD YOU LIKE WHAT I WRITE đ„č it means so much to me especially since dad!sukuna is smth i really love to explore <33 btw i also have the second request in my draft so no worries! đââïžđ«¶
d/n clings to you, her tiny frame trembling as she presses her face into the fabric of your kimono.
her sniffles are quiet, almost stifled, but they tug at your heart all the same.
you stroke her hair softly, murmuring soothing words as you glare daggers at the towering figure across the room.
sukuna stands there, arms crossed and brow furrowed, his expression an infuriating mix of annoyance and confusion.
âwhatâs the matter with her?â he demands, his voice sharp, as though the answer isnât painfully obvious.
âyou scared her, thatâs what,â you bite out, your voice tight with frustration.
he scoffs, crimson eyes narrowing. âscared her? over what? I didnât even touch her.â
âsheâs three, sukuna!â you snap, holding d/n closer as her fingers curl into your sleeve.
âyou loomed over her like some nightmare and surrounded yourself with cursed energy! what did you think was going to happen?â
âit was a joke,â sukuna mutters, as though the very concept of fault is beneath him.
âsheâs just tooââ he stops mid-sentence when your glare intensifies. his jaw works, but he doesnât finish the thought.
d/n shifts slightly, hiding her face further in your shoulder. sukunaâs crimson gaze flicks to her, a faint twitch in his jaw betraying some inner frustration.
he exhales sharply, almost as if shaking off the weight of the moment.
âwhat do you expect me to do?â he snaps, frustration evident. âI donât know how to deal with this.â he gestures vaguely.
your gaze softens, just slightly. âyouâre her father, sukuna. you donât have to know everything, but you do have to try.â
your tone seems to chip away at his irritation. slowly, he lowers himself to a crouch, his massive frame somehow still imposing even at her level.
he leans forward, forearms resting on his thighs as he stares at the top of d/nâs head, her face still hidden.
âhey,â he says gruffly, his voice softer than before. âd/n.â
she doesnât respond, her small shoulders rising as she inhales shakily.
âare you just going to hide there all day?â sukunaâs tone holds a faint edge, though itâs more awkward than harsh. âyouâre acting ridiculous.â
d/n winces at his words, and you shoot him a sharp look. he doesnât meet your gaze, instead staring at the small figure curled up in your arms.
he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. âfine,â he mutters under his breath. âI didnât mean to scare you. there.â
d/nâs grip tightens on your sleeve, and her quiet sniffles persist. sukuna scowls, looking away for a moment before trying again.
âit wasnâtâŠon purpose,â he says, the words' nature clearly foreign on his tongue.
d/n shifts slightly, her teary gaze peeking out from behind you. her lips tremble, and sukunaâs sharp eyes catch the movement immediately.
âyou scared me,â she whispers, her voice soft and shaky.
sukunaâs brows furrow, his jaw tightening as he looks at her. âscared you?â he repeats, his voice almost incredulous. âwhat, you think Iâd actually harm you?â
her small fingers tighten on your sleeve, and his eyebrow's furrow, his crimson eyes still fixed on d/n.
âyouâre my daughter,â he says simply. âif I wanted to hurt you, I wouldnât waste time playing games.â
d/n flinches slightly at his tone, and you sigh, reaching out to gently smooth her hair. âsukuna,â you warn softly.
he grunts, turning his head away for a moment before sighing deeply. âfine. listen, brat,â he starts, his tone as rough as ever, but he forces himself to meet her gaze again.
âIâm not going to scare you like that again. not because Iâve suddenly gone soft, but because youâre not supposed to be afraid of me. understood?â
d/n hesitates, her watery gaze darting between you and him. her voice is barely audible when she replies, ââŠreally?â
sukuna clicks his tongue, his expression caught somewhere between annoyance and something softer. âyes. really. donât make me repeat myself.â
she studies him for a long moment, her tiny fingers loosening their grip on you. âokay,â she whispers, finally stepping out from behind you.
âgood,â he mutters, leaning back slightly. âyou donât need to cry over nonsense like this.â
d/n shifts on her feet before hesitantly reaching out, brushing her tiny fingers against one of his hands.
âyouâre warm,â she mumbles timidly.
sukuna huffs lightly, hand ruffling her hair. Â âof course I am. Iâm alive, arenât I?â
d/n giggles softly, her tears finally drying. sukuna straightens to his full height, glancing down at her before his gaze shifts to you.
âwell?â he mutters, raising a brow. âfixed enough for you?â
"yes, I am proud of you," you hum. "lucky for you, she forgives quickly."
sukuna smirks, a playful gleam in his eyes as he folds his arms across his chest.
"forgives? it's not about that," he retorts, glancing back at d/n, whoâs still standing by his side, her small frame shrinking slightly under his gaze.
"she knows better than to hold grudges."
d/n fidgets, her gaze downcast, clearly still feeling a little unsure. âI...I donât like staying mad...â she mutters softly.
you watch the exchange, eyes drifting to your husband as your daughter finishes her sentence.
sukuna glances at you, his eyes narrowing with a hint of annoyance.
"what?" he snaps, though the edge in his voice isnât as sharp as usual. "donât tell me youâre gonna start fussing too."
you cross your arms, tilting your head with a smirk. âI think Iâve seen enough to know youâre not a complete ass.â
I wish I could give you whatever the writer's equivalent is of an oscar for the way you write Sukuna, especially any iteration of dad!Sukuna! I'm bad with words, but your works make me feel đđ„șđđđđđđđâ€đđđ€
I know you've been getting a ton of requests for Sukuna w/ his shy daughter, so feel free to ignore this one. But, I'd love to see either (1) Sukuna scaring her except this time she doesn't recover immediately/ as quickly as usual and he has to figure out how to make it up to her or (2) Sukuna witnessing a rare moment where she stands up for herself/ is brave and bold + his reaction
tiny tremors â ryomen sukuna x f!reader
a/n: AWW THANK YOU SO MUCH I AM SO GLAD YOU LIKE WHAT I WRITE đ„č it means so much to me especially since dad!sukuna is smth i really love to explore <33 btw i also have the second request in my draft so no worries! đââïžđ«¶
d/n clings to you, her tiny frame trembling as she presses her face into the fabric of your kimono.
her sniffles are quiet, almost stifled, but they tug at your heart all the same.
you stroke her hair softly, murmuring soothing words as you glare daggers at the towering figure across the room.
sukuna stands there, arms crossed and brow furrowed, his expression an infuriating mix of annoyance and confusion.
âwhatâs the matter with her?â he demands, his voice sharp, as though the answer isnât painfully obvious.
âyou scared her, thatâs what,â you bite out, your voice tight with frustration.
he scoffs, crimson eyes narrowing. âscared her? over what? I didnât even touch her.â
âsheâs three, sukuna!â you snap, holding d/n closer as her fingers curl into your sleeve.
âyou loomed over her like some nightmare and surrounded yourself with cursed energy! what did you think was going to happen?â
âit was a joke,â sukuna mutters, as though the very concept of fault is beneath him.
âsheâs just tooââ he stops mid-sentence when your glare intensifies. his jaw works, but he doesnât finish the thought.
d/n shifts slightly, hiding her face further in your shoulder. sukunaâs crimson gaze flicks to her, a faint twitch in his jaw betraying some inner frustration.
he exhales sharply, almost as if shaking off the weight of the moment.
âwhat do you expect me to do?â he snaps, frustration evident. âI donât know how to deal with this.â he gestures vaguely.
your gaze softens, just slightly. âyouâre her father, sukuna. you donât have to know everything, but you do have to try.â
your tone seems to chip away at his irritation. slowly, he lowers himself to a crouch, his massive frame somehow still imposing even at her level.
he leans forward, forearms resting on his thighs as he stares at the top of d/nâs head, her face still hidden.
âhey,â he says gruffly, his voice softer than before. âd/n.â
she doesnât respond, her small shoulders rising as she inhales shakily.
âare you just going to hide there all day?â sukunaâs tone holds a faint edge, though itâs more awkward than harsh. âyouâre acting ridiculous.â
d/n winces at his words, and you shoot him a sharp look. he doesnât meet your gaze, instead staring at the small figure curled up in your arms.
he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. âfine,â he mutters under his breath. âI didnât mean to scare you. there.â
d/nâs grip tightens on your sleeve, and her quiet sniffles persist. sukuna scowls, looking away for a moment before trying again.
âit wasnâtâŠon purpose,â he says, the words' nature clearly foreign on his tongue.
d/n shifts slightly, her teary gaze peeking out from behind you. her lips tremble, and sukunaâs sharp eyes catch the movement immediately.
âyou scared me,â she whispers, her voice soft and shaky.
sukunaâs brows furrow, his jaw tightening as he looks at her. âscared you?â he repeats, his voice almost incredulous. âwhat, you think Iâd actually harm you?â
her small fingers tighten on your sleeve, and his eyebrow's furrow, his crimson eyes still fixed on d/n.
âyouâre my daughter,â he says simply. âif I wanted to hurt you, I wouldnât waste time playing games.â
d/n flinches slightly at his tone, and you sigh, reaching out to gently smooth her hair. âsukuna,â you warn softly.
he grunts, turning his head away for a moment before sighing deeply. âfine. listen, brat,â he starts, his tone as rough as ever, but he forces himself to meet her gaze again.
âIâm not going to scare you like that again. not because Iâve suddenly gone soft, but because youâre not supposed to be afraid of me. understood?â
d/n hesitates, her watery gaze darting between you and him. her voice is barely audible when she replies, ââŠreally?â
sukuna clicks his tongue, his expression caught somewhere between annoyance and something softer. âyes. really. donât make me repeat myself.â
she studies him for a long moment, her tiny fingers loosening their grip on you. âokay,â she whispers, finally stepping out from behind you.
âgood,â he mutters, leaning back slightly. âyou donât need to cry over nonsense like this.â
d/n shifts on her feet before hesitantly reaching out, brushing her tiny fingers against one of his hands.
âyouâre warm,â she mumbles timidly.
sukuna huffs lightly, hand ruffling her hair. Â âof course I am. Iâm alive, arenât I?â
d/n giggles softly, her tears finally drying. sukuna straightens to his full height, glancing down at her before his gaze shifts to you.
âwell?â he mutters, raising a brow. âfixed enough for you?â
"yes, I am proud of you," you hum. "lucky for you, she forgives quickly."
sukuna smirks, a playful gleam in his eyes as he folds his arms across his chest.
"forgives? it's not about that," he retorts, glancing back at d/n, whoâs still standing by his side, her small frame shrinking slightly under his gaze.
"she knows better than to hold grudges."
d/n fidgets, her gaze downcast, clearly still feeling a little unsure. âI...I donât like staying mad...â she mutters softly.
you watch the exchange, eyes drifting to your husband as your daughter finishes her sentence.
sukuna glances at you, his eyes narrowing with a hint of annoyance.
"what?" he snaps, though the edge in his voice isnât as sharp as usual. "donât tell me youâre gonna start fussing too."
you cross your arms, tilting your head with a smirk. âI think Iâve seen enough to know youâre not a complete ass.â
Hey, rosiey! I'm not sure if you know who I am /remember me (I don't blame you, we interacted 1 time) but I'm the person who wrote the thought of modern! Sukuna x kindergarten teacher reader and I gotta say that your writing is really inspiring me to actually write a fic about it!
It's just you have a really good way with words and how you write sukuna! It's so different from other writers but it feels so close to his character :)
Anywho, if I ever do write the fic, I was wondering if you'd like to be tagged or not
No biggie if you don't! I completely understand that and I wanna respect your boundaries
I hope you have a good day/night đ„°
hellooo!
I do remember you, and I am super honored and happy to be inspiring you to expand the post into a fic. the idea is super super lovely đ€
and thank you so much for your kind words! I am glad you think so about the way I write sukuna <33
and for sure! I would love to be tagged 𫶠I am sure that it will turn out awesome, but just make sure to take care of yourself and take it easy đ«Ąđ
YOURE ARABIC?? AA IâM NOT ARABIC IM INDIAN BUT IM STILL SO EXCITED TO SEE SOMEONE WHO ALSO HAS A SIMILAR CULTUREE I HOPE RAMADAN GOES WELL FOR YOU ALL<3
YESSS AND YOURE SO RIGHT OMG LOVE HAVING SIMILAR CULTURES đ„č and wishing you a blessed Ramadan too! <33
I burn my fingers and my dad says I deserve it and turns it into a life lesson about how I am the only one to carry the pain when I make mistakes irl đž
a/n: when I said silence, I meant it literally btw <3
it starts the way it always doesâwith him talking.
satoru loves to talk. he thrives on it, really.
his voice fills every space he enters, a mix of cocky and teasing remarks, words tumbling out of him like they were just waiting for an audience.
he has no problem being that audience himself, either, monologuing even when no oneâs listening.
and right now? right now, heâs very much talking at you.
ââso obviously, I had to step in, because nanamin was totally going about it the wrong way, yâknow? I mean, the guyâs got skill, sure, but zero flare. no pizzazz. noâhey, are you even listening?â
you are. technically. but you donât give him the satisfaction of confirming it.
instead, you tilt your head up at him, one brow raised in that way that always makes his grin twitch wider.
satoru doesnât like being ignored. thatâs why you do it.
and, sure enough, he scoffs. âoh, I see how it is. you think youâre cute, huh?â
you hum, noncommittal.
his fingers drum against the table, restless energy leaking into movement. âitâs a good thing youâre married to me, âcauseââ
you lift a hand.
itâs not much. just a simple flick of your wrist.
the moment your fingers move, his words catch, cut off like someone pressed pause on a song mid-verse. his mouth is still open, brows furrowed like he canât quite believe it.
oh, but he believes it.
your technique has always been a thorn in his side. you donât know what makes it work, just that it does.
no one else can silence him like thisâliterally silence him, rendering every word, every noise, completely null the second you decide youâve had enough.
it drives him insane.
you let a few beats of silence pass before you drop your hand. his voice snaps back into existence, mid-word.
ââainât no way you just did that again,â he grumbles, like this is somehow the first time.
his mouth pulls into a pout, the corners twitching with the threat of a smirk. âyâknow, most wives enjoy hearing their husband talk.â
âI do,â you say, because itâs true.
satoru leans in, one hand propped beneath his chin. âso? why do you keep shutting me up, then?â
you lift your fingers again, just slightly, and watch the way his whole body stiffens in response. he goes silent before you even activate it, eyes narrowing.
âI swearââ
your fingers twitch.
nothing.
his mouth slams shut anyway, like muscle memory has kicked in. his whole face scrunches up, torn between irritation and reluctant amusement.
it takes him a second to realize you never actually used your technique, and when he does, his eye twitches.
âoh, you suck.â
you smile. âI know.â
satoru groans, dragging a hand down his face. âhowâd I get stuck with you?â
you just hum, pretending to think. âbad luck?â
he snorts.
and just like that, whatever annoyance he was pretending to have dissolves into something elseâsomething warmer. his head tilts, his voice dropping into that low, teasing hum. âor maybe good luck.â
you donât let yourself react, but a wave of warmth rushes through you anyway. his eyes gleam behind his glasses, sharp and knowing. he feels it, too.
itâs always been like this with satoruâthis push and pull, this game of who can get under whose skin first. he hates being shut up. but he loves being shut up by you.
thatâs probably why he keeps trying.
the next time he catches you alone, itâs in the kitchen.
youâre getting water, half-distracted, when arms loop around your waist from behind, a chin dropping onto your shoulder.
âwhatcha doinâ?â
âgetting water,â you deadpan.
âoooh. riveting.â his arms tighten just slightly, like heâs trying to keep you there. âyâknow, I was thinking.â
âthatâs new.â
satoru gasps, scandalized. ârude!â
he nuzzles closer, all dramatic offense and fake hurt. âas I was sayingâI was thinking about how unfair it is that you get to shut me up whenever you want, but I canât do the same to you.â
you sip your water, unimpressed. âsounds like a you problem.â
âexactly! and since weâre married, your problems are my problemsâso really, we should fix this together.â
you know where this is going. you donât like where itâs going.
ââŠno.â
âbut I didnât evenââ
âno.â
his arms squeeze tighter, his voice dropping into that saccharine lilt. âcâmooon. just one little pactâno more silencing me, and in returnâŠâ
âin return what?â you ask, humoring him.
âin return, Iâllâuhââ he pauses. âIâll try not to annoy you as much?â
you turn your head just enough to squint at him. âyou could just not annoy me in the first place.â
âpfft. impossible.â
you roll your eyes, setting your glass down. âthen no deal.â
satoru pouts. âyouâre no fun.â
âIâm plenty fun.â
ânot to me.â
you lift a hand.
his mouth clamps shut instantly.
ââŠI hate you.â
you drop your hand. âno, you donât.â
his pout deepens. âno, I donât.â
and because heâs satoruâbecause heâs infuriatingâhe suddenly dips forward and presses a kiss to your cheek.
itâs quick, but deliberate, with his lips lingering just enough to tease you. by the time you turn to scold him, heâs already slipping away, whistling like nothing happened.
the sneaking doesnât stop.
if anything, it gets worse.
he tests you in public now, dropping snarky comments just to see if youâll silence him mid-sentence.
he tries to get the upper hand, tooâkissing you without warning, murmuring things low enough that only you can hear, things designed to throw you off balance.
and it works. sometimes.
but the thing about satoru? he talks a lot.
he always has.
and thatâs exactly why you win.
it happens in front of his students.
which, really, is something he shouldâve seen coming.
youâre standing off to the side, arms crossed, watching as megumi practices his stance. nobara is stretching. yuji is bouncing on his feet like heâs ready to fight someone on the spot.
itâs peaceful. quiet.
and, naturally, satoru canât have that.
he claps his hands together. âalright, kiddos! whoâs ready for an essential, life-changing lesson?â
yuji perks up immediately. âooh, what kinda lesson?â
âthe most important kind,â satoru declares, straightening his posture like heâs about to reveal the secrets of the universe. âa lesson in style.â
megumi exhales sharply. nobara groans. you donât even have to look to know theyâre both already tuning him out.
but heâs not done.
âyou may think you know fashion, but you donât. not like me. there are levels to thisâdepths of drip, if you willâlike an expertly curated wardrobe of absolute perfection.â
he gestures grandly to himself. âand lucky for you, I am both your teacher and your fashion icon.â
nobara shoots you a look. âthis is every day for you, isnât it?â
âunfortunately.â
satoru hears it. of course, he hears it.
he places a hand over his chest like youâve wounded him. âunfortunately?â he echoes, all faux devastation. âsweetheart, you wound me.â
yuji chokes on a laugh. âwow, sensei. that was fast.â
âyou donât get it, yuji.â satoru points at you, sunglasses slipping down his nose.
âthis woman right here? my beloved, my precious, my better half? she is cruel.â he sighs, tilting his head dramatically.
âevery day, she shuts me up without a second thought. do you know how unfair that is? the strongest sorcerer in the world, silencedâjust like that.â
megumi, who has absolutely witnessed this before, doesnât even look up. âsounds like you deserve it.â
satoru gasps. âet tu, megumi?â
âyeah,â megumi deadpans. âet me.â
satoru clicks his tongue, shaking his head. âsee? this is what I deal with. betrayal. disrespect. my own wife using her technique against me at every turn.â
yuji raises a hand. âwait, waitâso she actually can shut you up?â
âoh, she can,â satoru grumbles. âand she does.â
you see the exact moment realization dawns on himâwhat heâs just done, the challenge heâs issued on your behalf.
you see it in the way his jaw shifts, the way his weight shifts ever so slightly on his heels.
you raise a brow. âyou want me to prove it?â
satoru narrows his eyes. âdonât you dare.â
you lift your hand.
âdonât youââ
silence.
satoruâs mouth is still open, but no sound comes out. nothing. not even the beginnings of a protest. his lips move, forming words you canât hear, before he snaps his mouth shut entirely.
the silence stretches.
thenâ
âoh my god,â nobara breathes.
yuji loses his mind.
megumi simply nods. âgood.â
satoruâs eye twitches. he points at you, accusing, but thereâs nothing he can do. you smile sweetly.
after a long beat, you drop your hand.
ââbelieve you just did that in front of my students,â he huffs, voice returning in the middle of a sentence.
his sunglasses slide down his nose, revealing wide, scandalized eyes. âmy own wife, betraying me in front of my kids.â
âthey asked me to.â
âyeah,â nobara pipes up. âthat was amazing. do it again.â
satoru splutters. âhey! whose side are you on?â
yuji is grinning. âI mean, sensei, that was kinda cool.â
âit was humiliating!â
âyou deserved it.â
âI did not!â
you hum, faux thoughtful. âyou kinda did.â
satoru stares at you, horrified. âet tu, my love?â
a/n: when I said silence, I meant it literally btw <3
it starts the way it always doesâwith him talking.
satoru loves to talk. he thrives on it, really.
his voice fills every space he enters, a mix of cocky and teasing remarks, words tumbling out of him like they were just waiting for an audience.
he has no problem being that audience himself, either, monologuing even when no oneâs listening.
and right now? right now, heâs very much talking at you.
ââso obviously, I had to step in, because nanamin was totally going about it the wrong way, yâknow? I mean, the guyâs got skill, sure, but zero flare. no pizzazz. noâhey, are you even listening?â
you are. technically. but you donât give him the satisfaction of confirming it.
instead, you tilt your head up at him, one brow raised in that way that always makes his grin twitch wider.
satoru doesnât like being ignored. thatâs why you do it.
and, sure enough, he scoffs. âoh, I see how it is. you think youâre cute, huh?â
you hum, noncommittal.
his fingers drum against the table, restless energy leaking into movement. âitâs a good thing youâre married to me, âcauseââ
you lift a hand.
itâs not much. just a simple flick of your wrist.
the moment your fingers move, his words catch, cut off like someone pressed pause on a song mid-verse. his mouth is still open, brows furrowed like he canât quite believe it.
oh, but he believes it.
your technique has always been a thorn in his side. you donât know what makes it work, just that it does.
no one else can silence him like thisâliterally silence him, rendering every word, every noise, completely null the second you decide youâve had enough.
it drives him insane.
you let a few beats of silence pass before you drop your hand. his voice snaps back into existence, mid-word.
ââainât no way you just did that again,â he grumbles, like this is somehow the first time.
his mouth pulls into a pout, the corners twitching with the threat of a smirk. âyâknow, most wives enjoy hearing their husband talk.â
âI do,â you say, because itâs true.
satoru leans in, one hand propped beneath his chin. âso? why do you keep shutting me up, then?â
you lift your fingers again, just slightly, and watch the way his whole body stiffens in response. he goes silent before you even activate it, eyes narrowing.
âI swearââ
your fingers twitch.
nothing.
his mouth slams shut anyway, like muscle memory has kicked in. his whole face scrunches up, torn between irritation and reluctant amusement.
it takes him a second to realize you never actually used your technique, and when he does, his eye twitches.
âoh, you suck.â
you smile. âI know.â
satoru groans, dragging a hand down his face. âhowâd I get stuck with you?â
you just hum, pretending to think. âbad luck?â
he snorts.
and just like that, whatever annoyance he was pretending to have dissolves into something elseâsomething warmer. his head tilts, his voice dropping into that low, teasing hum. âor maybe good luck.â
you donât let yourself react, but a wave of warmth rushes through you anyway. his eyes gleam behind his glasses, sharp and knowing. he feels it, too.
itâs always been like this with satoruâthis push and pull, this game of who can get under whose skin first. he hates being shut up. but he loves being shut up by you.
thatâs probably why he keeps trying.
the next time he catches you alone, itâs in the kitchen.
youâre getting water, half-distracted, when arms loop around your waist from behind, a chin dropping onto your shoulder.
âwhatcha doinâ?â
âgetting water,â you deadpan.
âoooh. riveting.â his arms tighten just slightly, like heâs trying to keep you there. âyâknow, I was thinking.â
âthatâs new.â
satoru gasps, scandalized. ârude!â
he nuzzles closer, all dramatic offense and fake hurt. âas I was sayingâI was thinking about how unfair it is that you get to shut me up whenever you want, but I canât do the same to you.â
you sip your water, unimpressed. âsounds like a you problem.â
âexactly! and since weâre married, your problems are my problemsâso really, we should fix this together.â
you know where this is going. you donât like where itâs going.
ââŠno.â
âbut I didnât evenââ
âno.â
his arms squeeze tighter, his voice dropping into that saccharine lilt. âcâmooon. just one little pactâno more silencing me, and in returnâŠâ
âin return what?â you ask, humoring him.
âin return, Iâllâuhââ he pauses. âIâll try not to annoy you as much?â
you turn your head just enough to squint at him. âyou could just not annoy me in the first place.â
âpfft. impossible.â
you roll your eyes, setting your glass down. âthen no deal.â
satoru pouts. âyouâre no fun.â
âIâm plenty fun.â
ânot to me.â
you lift a hand.
his mouth clamps shut instantly.
ââŠI hate you.â
you drop your hand. âno, you donât.â
his pout deepens. âno, I donât.â
and because heâs satoruâbecause heâs infuriatingâhe suddenly dips forward and presses a kiss to your cheek.
itâs quick, but deliberate, with his lips lingering just enough to tease you. by the time you turn to scold him, heâs already slipping away, whistling like nothing happened.
the sneaking doesnât stop.
if anything, it gets worse.
he tests you in public now, dropping snarky comments just to see if youâll silence him mid-sentence.
he tries to get the upper hand, tooâkissing you without warning, murmuring things low enough that only you can hear, things designed to throw you off balance.
and it works. sometimes.
but the thing about satoru? he talks a lot.
he always has.
and thatâs exactly why you win.
it happens in front of his students.
which, really, is something he shouldâve seen coming.
youâre standing off to the side, arms crossed, watching as megumi practices his stance. nobara is stretching. yuji is bouncing on his feet like heâs ready to fight someone on the spot.
itâs peaceful. quiet.
and, naturally, satoru canât have that.
he claps his hands together. âalright, kiddos! whoâs ready for an essential, life-changing lesson?â
yuji perks up immediately. âooh, what kinda lesson?â
âthe most important kind,â satoru declares, straightening his posture like heâs about to reveal the secrets of the universe. âa lesson in style.â
megumi exhales sharply. nobara groans. you donât even have to look to know theyâre both already tuning him out.
but heâs not done.
âyou may think you know fashion, but you donât. not like me. there are levels to thisâdepths of drip, if you willâlike an expertly curated wardrobe of absolute perfection.â
he gestures grandly to himself. âand lucky for you, I am both your teacher and your fashion icon.â
nobara shoots you a look. âthis is every day for you, isnât it?â
âunfortunately.â
satoru hears it. of course, he hears it.
he places a hand over his chest like youâve wounded him. âunfortunately?â he echoes, all faux devastation. âsweetheart, you wound me.â
yuji chokes on a laugh. âwow, sensei. that was fast.â
âyou donât get it, yuji.â satoru points at you, sunglasses slipping down his nose.
âthis woman right here? my beloved, my precious, my better half? she is cruel.â he sighs, tilting his head dramatically.
âevery day, she shuts me up without a second thought. do you know how unfair that is? the strongest sorcerer in the world, silencedâjust like that.â
megumi, who has absolutely witnessed this before, doesnât even look up. âsounds like you deserve it.â
satoru gasps. âet tu, megumi?â
âyeah,â megumi deadpans. âet me.â
satoru clicks his tongue, shaking his head. âsee? this is what I deal with. betrayal. disrespect. my own wife using her technique against me at every turn.â
yuji raises a hand. âwait, waitâso she actually can shut you up?â
âoh, she can,â satoru grumbles. âand she does.â
you see the exact moment realization dawns on himâwhat heâs just done, the challenge heâs issued on your behalf.
you see it in the way his jaw shifts, the way his weight shifts ever so slightly on his heels.
you raise a brow. âyou want me to prove it?â
satoru narrows his eyes. âdonât you dare.â
you lift your hand.
âdonât youââ
silence.
satoruâs mouth is still open, but no sound comes out. nothing. not even the beginnings of a protest. his lips move, forming words you canât hear, before he snaps his mouth shut entirely.
the silence stretches.
thenâ
âoh my god,â nobara breathes.
yuji loses his mind.
megumi simply nods. âgood.â
satoruâs eye twitches. he points at you, accusing, but thereâs nothing he can do. you smile sweetly.
after a long beat, you drop your hand.
ââbelieve you just did that in front of my students,â he huffs, voice returning in the middle of a sentence.
his sunglasses slide down his nose, revealing wide, scandalized eyes. âmy own wife, betraying me in front of my kids.â
âthey asked me to.â
âyeah,â nobara pipes up. âthat was amazing. do it again.â
satoru splutters. âhey! whose side are you on?â
yuji is grinning. âI mean, sensei, that was kinda cool.â
âit was humiliating!â
âyou deserved it.â
âI did not!â
you hum, faux thoughtful. âyou kinda did.â
satoru stares at you, horrified. âet tu, my love?â
a/n: when I said silence, I meant it literally btw <3
it starts the way it always doesâwith him talking.
satoru loves to talk. he thrives on it, really.
his voice fills every space he enters, a mix of cocky and teasing remarks, words tumbling out of him like they were just waiting for an audience.
he has no problem being that audience himself, either, monologuing even when no oneâs listening.
and right now? right now, heâs very much talking at you.
ââso obviously, I had to step in, because nanamin was totally going about it the wrong way, yâknow? I mean, the guyâs got skill, sure, but zero flare. no pizzazz. noâhey, are you even listening?â
you are. technically. but you donât give him the satisfaction of confirming it.
instead, you tilt your head up at him, one brow raised in that way that always makes his grin twitch wider.
satoru doesnât like being ignored. thatâs why you do it.
and, sure enough, he scoffs. âoh, I see how it is. you think youâre cute, huh?â
you hum, noncommittal.
his fingers drum against the table, restless energy leaking into movement. âitâs a good thing youâre married to me, âcauseââ
you lift a hand.
itâs not much. just a simple flick of your wrist.
the moment your fingers move, his words catch, cut off like someone pressed pause on a song mid-verse. his mouth is still open, brows furrowed like he canât quite believe it.
oh, but he believes it.
your technique has always been a thorn in his side. you donât know what makes it work, just that it does.
no one else can silence him like thisâliterally silence him, rendering every word, every noise, completely null the second you decide youâve had enough.
it drives him insane.
you let a few beats of silence pass before you drop your hand. his voice snaps back into existence, mid-word.
ââainât no way you just did that again,â he grumbles, like this is somehow the first time.
his mouth pulls into a pout, the corners twitching with the threat of a smirk. âyâknow, most wives enjoy hearing their husband talk.â
âI do,â you say, because itâs true.
satoru leans in, one hand propped beneath his chin. âso? why do you keep shutting me up, then?â
you lift your fingers again, just slightly, and watch the way his whole body stiffens in response. he goes silent before you even activate it, eyes narrowing.
âI swearââ
your fingers twitch.
nothing.
his mouth slams shut anyway, like muscle memory has kicked in. his whole face scrunches up, torn between irritation and reluctant amusement.
it takes him a second to realize you never actually used your technique, and when he does, his eye twitches.
âoh, you suck.â
you smile. âI know.â
satoru groans, dragging a hand down his face. âhowâd I get stuck with you?â
you just hum, pretending to think. âbad luck?â
he snorts.
and just like that, whatever annoyance he was pretending to have dissolves into something elseâsomething warmer. his head tilts, his voice dropping into that low, teasing hum. âor maybe good luck.â
you donât let yourself react, but a wave of warmth rushes through you anyway. his eyes gleam behind his glasses, sharp and knowing. he feels it, too.
itâs always been like this with satoruâthis push and pull, this game of who can get under whose skin first. he hates being shut up. but he loves being shut up by you.
thatâs probably why he keeps trying.
the next time he catches you alone, itâs in the kitchen.
youâre getting water, half-distracted, when arms loop around your waist from behind, a chin dropping onto your shoulder.
âwhatcha doinâ?â
âgetting water,â you deadpan.
âoooh. riveting.â his arms tighten just slightly, like heâs trying to keep you there. âyâknow, I was thinking.â
âthatâs new.â
satoru gasps, scandalized. ârude!â
he nuzzles closer, all dramatic offense and fake hurt. âas I was sayingâI was thinking about how unfair it is that you get to shut me up whenever you want, but I canât do the same to you.â
you sip your water, unimpressed. âsounds like a you problem.â
âexactly! and since weâre married, your problems are my problemsâso really, we should fix this together.â
you know where this is going. you donât like where itâs going.
ââŠno.â
âbut I didnât evenââ
âno.â
his arms squeeze tighter, his voice dropping into that saccharine lilt. âcâmooon. just one little pactâno more silencing me, and in returnâŠâ
âin return what?â you ask, humoring him.
âin return, Iâllâuhââ he pauses. âIâll try not to annoy you as much?â
you turn your head just enough to squint at him. âyou could just not annoy me in the first place.â
âpfft. impossible.â
you roll your eyes, setting your glass down. âthen no deal.â
satoru pouts. âyouâre no fun.â
âIâm plenty fun.â
ânot to me.â
you lift a hand.
his mouth clamps shut instantly.
ââŠI hate you.â
you drop your hand. âno, you donât.â
his pout deepens. âno, I donât.â
and because heâs satoruâbecause heâs infuriatingâhe suddenly dips forward and presses a kiss to your cheek.
itâs quick, but deliberate, with his lips lingering just enough to tease you. by the time you turn to scold him, heâs already slipping away, whistling like nothing happened.
the sneaking doesnât stop.
if anything, it gets worse.
he tests you in public now, dropping snarky comments just to see if youâll silence him mid-sentence.
he tries to get the upper hand, tooâkissing you without warning, murmuring things low enough that only you can hear, things designed to throw you off balance.
and it works. sometimes.
but the thing about satoru? he talks a lot.
he always has.
and thatâs exactly why you win.
it happens in front of his students.
which, really, is something he shouldâve seen coming.
youâre standing off to the side, arms crossed, watching as megumi practices his stance. nobara is stretching. yuji is bouncing on his feet like heâs ready to fight someone on the spot.
itâs peaceful. quiet.
and, naturally, satoru canât have that.
he claps his hands together. âalright, kiddos! whoâs ready for an essential, life-changing lesson?â
yuji perks up immediately. âooh, what kinda lesson?â
âthe most important kind,â satoru declares, straightening his posture like heâs about to reveal the secrets of the universe. âa lesson in style.â
megumi exhales sharply. nobara groans. you donât even have to look to know theyâre both already tuning him out.
but heâs not done.
âyou may think you know fashion, but you donât. not like me. there are levels to thisâdepths of drip, if you willâlike an expertly curated wardrobe of absolute perfection.â
he gestures grandly to himself. âand lucky for you, I am both your teacher and your fashion icon.â
nobara shoots you a look. âthis is every day for you, isnât it?â
âunfortunately.â
satoru hears it. of course, he hears it.
he places a hand over his chest like youâve wounded him. âunfortunately?â he echoes, all faux devastation. âsweetheart, you wound me.â
yuji chokes on a laugh. âwow, sensei. that was fast.â
âyou donât get it, yuji.â satoru points at you, sunglasses slipping down his nose.
âthis woman right here? my beloved, my precious, my better half? she is cruel.â he sighs, tilting his head dramatically.
âevery day, she shuts me up without a second thought. do you know how unfair that is? the strongest sorcerer in the world, silencedâjust like that.â
megumi, who has absolutely witnessed this before, doesnât even look up. âsounds like you deserve it.â
satoru gasps. âet tu, megumi?â
âyeah,â megumi deadpans. âet me.â
satoru clicks his tongue, shaking his head. âsee? this is what I deal with. betrayal. disrespect. my own wife using her technique against me at every turn.â
yuji raises a hand. âwait, waitâso she actually can shut you up?â
âoh, she can,â satoru grumbles. âand she does.â
you see the exact moment realization dawns on himâwhat heâs just done, the challenge heâs issued on your behalf.
you see it in the way his jaw shifts, the way his weight shifts ever so slightly on his heels.
you raise a brow. âyou want me to prove it?â
satoru narrows his eyes. âdonât you dare.â
you lift your hand.
âdonât youââ
silence.
satoruâs mouth is still open, but no sound comes out. nothing. not even the beginnings of a protest. his lips move, forming words you canât hear, before he snaps his mouth shut entirely.
the silence stretches.
thenâ
âoh my god,â nobara breathes.
yuji loses his mind.
megumi simply nods. âgood.â
satoruâs eye twitches. he points at you, accusing, but thereâs nothing he can do. you smile sweetly.
after a long beat, you drop your hand.
ââbelieve you just did that in front of my students,â he huffs, voice returning in the middle of a sentence.
his sunglasses slide down his nose, revealing wide, scandalized eyes. âmy own wife, betraying me in front of my kids.â
âthey asked me to.â
âyeah,â nobara pipes up. âthat was amazing. do it again.â
satoru splutters. âhey! whose side are you on?â
yuji is grinning. âI mean, sensei, that was kinda cool.â
âit was humiliating!â
âyou deserved it.â
âI did not!â
you hum, faux thoughtful. âyou kinda did.â
satoru stares at you, horrified. âet tu, my love?â
