synopsis: You die completely at random and wake up in the manhwa you were reading… as the villainous wife of the Duke of the North, no less. The same woman who spent the last six months giving her husband the cold shoulder, ruining their marriage, and basically speedrunning her own execution.
Now you have exactly one job: fix this disaster of a relationship before your husband decides to finish what the original plot started.
a\n: longest fic i’ve written so far. nearly lost my mind, almost scrapped it entirely, questioned every life choice that led me here, but somehow, against all odds… it’s done. so glad its over LOL
You died while reading a manhwa.
One moment you were curled up in bed at 3 a.m., a blanket pulled up to your chin, the only light in your dark room coming from your phone screen. Your eyes were glued to the latest chapter of The Duke’s Black Heart, thumb hovering over the final panel as frustration and reluctant longing twisted in your chest. The illustration was breathtakingly brutal: Duke Ryomen Sukuna standing tall amid swirling snow, pink hair tousled by the wind, crimson eyes empty of mercy, black tattoos stark against his skin as he looked down at the broken body of his wife.
The page loaded one last time. The panel filled your screen. Then your vision blurred, the room spun violently, and everything went black. No pain. No final breath. Just sudden, heavy nothing.
And then you woke up somewhere else.
Cold air rushes into your lungs, sharp and biting. Your eyes flutter open slowly, lashes feeling unusually heavy. You’re lying in a massive four-poster bed, the canopy above you made of thick crimson velvet that drapes down like heavy curtains. The silk sheets beneath you are cool and slippery against your skin in a way that feels far too expensive, far too unfamiliar. Thick blankets weighted with fur press down on your body, carrying a faint scent of woodsmoke and aged iron. Your limbs feel wrong — too slender, too delicate. When you lift your hands, they are smaller, with smooth palms and perfectly manicured nails that catch the dim morning light filtering through tall, frost-laced windows.
You push yourself up into a sitting position. The silk nightgown slips off one shoulder. A large, ornately framed mirror stands across the room, reflecting the lavish bedchamber: dark wood furniture, heavy tapestries on the walls, a fireplace crackling faintly in the corner. You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet meeting cold stone that sends a shiver racing up your spine.
You turn toward the mirror.
The face staring back at you is not your own. It is strikingly beautiful in a refined, aristocratic way that feels both alien and intimidating.
You have transmigrated.
You are now the villainess.
Duke Ryomen Sukuna’s wife of exactly six months.
The realization slams into you like ice water. Memories that don’t belong to you flood your mind in vivid, unrelenting flashes. The forced marriage ceremony under the Emperor’s decree. The wedding night where her body had lain stiff and unresponsive beneath his, silent tears tracking down her cheeks as she called him a beast under her breath and swore she would never allow him to touch her again. Six agonizing months of total, deliberate silence: never speaking a single word directly to him, never sharing his table, never sharing his bed. Only curt notes passed through servants, hidden schemes whispered to outsiders, and a cold, hateful distance that grew sharper every day. Sukuna’s contempt had hardened into something lethal.
In the original story, he kills her. Publicly. Brutally. Before the year is out — dragging her into the courtyard and ending her life with the same large, scarred hands you’ve fantasized about for months.
And now I’m her.
Your breath catches sharply in your throat. Panic explodes in your chest, tight and suffocating. Your hands fly up to press against your sternum, feeling the frantic thud of a heart that isn’t supposed to be yours. Cold sweat prickles along your hairline and down your back. The room feels smaller, the air thicker. If I don’t change this right now, he will kill me. I have to win him over — the man I’ve been completely obsessed with — before he decides I’m still that same woman who deserves to die.
The heavy wooden door creaks open. Two maids slip inside, heads bowed low, shoulders hunched like they’re expecting the worst. They carry a tray between them with a pitcher of steaming water, neatly folded linens, and a small bowl of scented oil. Their footsteps are quick but nearly silent on the cold stone floor, as if they’re trying to disturb you as little as possible.
“My Lady,” the older maid says quietly, almost whispering as she carefully sets the tray down on the side table. “We’re here to help you dress. Your usual silks today?”
You swallow and keep your voice soft. “No, not the silks. Something simpler and warmer, please. I’m going down to have breakfast with the Duke in the dining hall.”
The younger maid’s eyes go wide. She almost drops the pitcher, water sloshing dangerously over the rim and dripping onto the floor. “Breakfast… with His Grace?” she blurts, voice cracking with surprise. “In the dining hall?”
The older maid quickly elbows her and forces a nervous smile, though her hands are visibly shaking. “Are you sure, My Lady? He always eats alone. He might not… like it if you show up.”
You nod, sliding your legs over the side of the bed. The stone floor is icy against your bare feet, sending a shiver up your legs. “I’m sure. Please help me get ready.” You pause, then add gently, “And thank you. Both of you.”
The maids go completely still. The younger one stares at you with her mouth slightly open, pitcher forgotten in her hands. The older one blinks rapidly, her hands freezing mid-air above the tray. They exchange a wide-eyed, startled glance, the kind that speaks volumes without a single word. The silence stretches for a long, awkward moment, thick with confusion and unease.
Finally, the older maid clears her throat. “Of course, My Lady. Right away.”
They hesitate for another heartbeat, still stealing uncertain glances at you, before hurrying into motion. Their hands are a little clumsier than usual as they help you out of the nightgown and into a heavy charcoal gown with long sleeves. The soft wool feels warm and comforting against the chill in the air. While they brush out your hair and pin it up in a simple style, they keep darting quick, nervous looks at your reflection in the mirror. The younger maid’s fingers tremble slightly as she works, and the older one’s breathing is a touch too shallow.
They finish dressing you in tense, heavy silence. Once they step back, you thank them again. They both bow deeply, still visibly unsettled, and you step out into the torch-lit corridor. Servants you pass press themselves flat against the walls, whispering frantically the moment your back is turned. Your heart hammers louder with every step toward the grand dining hall.
The massive double doors swing open with a low creak.
There he is.
Duke Ryomen Sukuna sits alone at the head of the long oak table. Pale morning light filters through the tall windows, casting sharp shadows across his face. Loose strands of pink hair have escaped their tie and fall across his forehead. His dark tunic stretches tight over broad, powerfully muscled shoulders, the collar open just enough to reveal the edges of intricate black tattoos that swirl across his collarbones and down his arms. Crimson eyes are narrowed in concentration as he cuts into a thick slab of meat with slow, deliberate strokes of his knife. Old scars mark the visible skin of his neck and the backs of his large, calloused hands. He radiates raw, quiet danger — the kind that makes the air feel heavier. This is the man you’ve spent months fantasizing about, the one whose every appearance in the manhwa made your pulse race.
You walk straight to the chair on his right — the seat that has stayed empty for the entire six months of your marriage — and sit down.
His knife stops mid-cut.
The silence is immediate and suffocating, broken only by the soft crackle of the hearth fire.
Sukuna’s crimson gaze lifts slowly. It locks onto you with raw disbelief and burning disgust. His jaw clenches, the scar along his cheek tightening. For a long moment he simply stares, like he’s trying to decide whether you’re real or some new form of insult.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” His voice is low and rough, laced with irritation.
You swallow hard, hands trembling under the table. You force a small, nervous smile and say softly, “Good morning, husband. I thought it might be nice to have breakfast together for once.”
The words hang in the air.
Sukuna’s expression darkens. He sets the knife down with a sharp clink that echoes through the hall. Slowly he rises to his full height, towering over you — tall, broad-chested, every inch the warlord who has killed without hesitation. The look he gives you is ice-cold.
“You thought it would be nice?” His voice is low, cold, and dripping with contempt. “Six fucking months you couldn’t even be bothered to speak to me… and now you suddenly decide to play house?”
He pushes the chair back with a harsh scrape and rises to his full height, towering over you. His large hand clenches so tightly around the back of the chair that the wood groans in protest.
“Just looking at you ruins my appetite.”
Without another word, he turns sharply on his heel. His cloak snaps behind him like a whip as he stalks out of the hall. The heavy doors slam shut with a deafening boom that echoes through the room and makes the silverware rattle on the table.
You’re left completely alone at the long table, staring at his abandoned plate as the food rapidly cools. Your heart pounds violently in your chest.
This is going to be so much harder than I thought.
But you don’t run. You pick up your fork with still-shaking fingers, take a small bite of the now-lukewarm food, and force yourself to swallow. A heavy, determined weight settles in your stomach alongside the food.
The rest of the morning dragged by in a haze of nervous energy. You moved carefully through the castle, speaking softly to the servants, thanking them for small things, and trying not to overwhelm anyone with your sudden change in behavior. Every time someone flinched or stared too long, your stomach twisted. You knew they were waiting for the old you to snap back into place.
By mid-afternoon the light outside had shifted to a softer gold, and the castle felt a little less oppressive. You decided it was time to try something more direct.
You found one of the kitchen maids and asked her to prepare a simple tray — strong black tea, warm bread, and a few slices of roasted meat. These were the things you remembered him enjoying in the manhwa, the small details you’d clung to while reading late at night. Nothing too elaborate. When the tray was ready, you took it yourself, ignoring the wide-eyed, startled looks from the staff as you carried it down the long corridor toward Sukuna’s private study. Your heart beat faster with every step.
Your heart was hammering so hard it felt like it was trying to climb out of your throat. Two guards outside the heavy double doors stared at you in open confusion but didn’t stop you. You paused for a second, took a steadying breath, and knocked once.
A gruff “Come in” came from inside.
You pushed the door open and stepped into the study.
The room was exactly the kind of place you’d pictured him in — tall shelves lined with old books and rolled scrolls, a massive oak desk covered in maps and scattered letters, weapons mounted neatly on one wall. A fire burned low in the hearth, filling the air with the faint smell of smoke and polished leather. Sukuna sat behind the desk, quill in hand, pink hair tied back messily with a few loose strands falling forward. He didn’t look up right away, focused on whatever he was writing.
Then his crimson eyes flicked up.
The moment they landed on you holding the tray, the temperature in the room seemed to drop. His expression shifted from irritation to pure suspicion in a heartbeat.
“What the hell is this?” he asked, voice low and flat, like he was already tired of whatever game he thought you were playing.
You stepped further inside and carefully set the tray down on the edge of his desk, trying not to let your hands shake too obviously. “I noticed you didn’t eat anything at breakfast,” you said quietly. “So I brought some tea and a few things. It’s nothing fancy. I just thought… maybe you’d be hungry by now.”
Sukuna leaned back in his chair, studying you like you were a problem he couldn’t quite solve. The silence stretched out, thick and uncomfortable. He glanced at the tray, then back at your face.
“You brought me food,” he said slowly, almost like he was testing the words. “You suddenly show up with tea and bread like we’re… what? Friends now?”
He pushed his chair back and stood, circling around the desk with slow, deliberate steps until he was standing right in front of you. He was so tall you had to tilt your head back to look at him. Up close he was even more overwhelming — the heat radiating from his body, the faint scent of leather and steel and something darker, the way his broad shoulders seemed to fill the space between you.
You forced yourself to hold his gaze. “I know I’ve been terrible to you,” you said, voice soft but steady. “I don’t expect you to believe me right away. I just… I want to try and do better. That’s all.”
Sukuna’s jaw tightened. He reached out and picked up one of the slices of bread, turning it over in his large hand as if checking it for poison. Then he dropped it back onto the tray with a quiet scoff.
“You want to try,” he repeated, the words laced with disbelief and a sharp edge of mockery. “How convenient. Tell me, wife — what exactly changed overnight? Did someone put you up to this?”
His hand suddenly came up, fingers gripping your chin firmly but not harshly, tilting your face up so you couldn’t look away. His touch was warm, rough from years of fighting, and the closeness made your pulse spike.
“Or are you just scared I’ll finally do what everyone’s been expecting me to do for months?” he asked, voice low and dangerous.
Your breath caught. Being this close to him — feeling the intensity rolling off him in waves — made fear and something far more complicated twist together in your stomach.
“I’m not here to scheme,” you whispered. “I just don’t want things to keep being like this.”
Sukuna stared at you for a long, heavy moment. His thumb brushed once over your jaw, almost absentmindedly, before he let go and stepped back.
“Get out,” he said, the words cold but quieter than you expected. “And take your pity tray with you.”
He didn’t move away any further. He stayed standing there, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching you with dark, unreadable eyes — like he was waiting to see whether you would actually leave… or do something else.
You didn’t argue.
You simply picked up the tray with both hands, gave him a small nod, and left the study without another word. The heavy doors clicked shut behind you. The hallway felt longer than usual as you walked back toward your chambers, the tray growing heavier with every step.
Once inside your room, you set the tray down on a side table and closed the door. Then you sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor.
That went badly.
You let out a slow breath, rubbing your hands over your thighs. The memory of Sukuna’s cold stare and dismissive words kept replaying in your head. He hadn’t even touched the food. He’d barely listened.
Of course he didn’t. Months of silence doesn’t just disappear because I brought him tea.
You leaned back on your hands, looking up at the canopy above the bed. The situation felt heavier now. Fixing this relationship was going to be a lot harder than you’d hoped. He clearly still saw you as the same person who had ignored and schemed against him for half a year. And why wouldn’t he?
If you couldn’t turn this around, things were only going to get worse. You didn’t want to think about how the original story ended, but the possibility lingered in the back of your mind anyway.
You sat there for a while, the afternoon light slowly shifting across the room. Eventually you stood up, walked over to the window, and looked out at the grounds. Your mind kept turning over what to try next. Another small gesture? Giving him more space? Something else entirely?
It was going to take time. A lot of it. And patience you weren’t sure you had.
You sighed quietly and moved away from the window, already thinking about what you could do tomorrow.
The next morning arrived quietly.
You woke earlier than usual, the soft grey light filtering through the tall windows pulling you from a restless sleep. For a few minutes you lay there, staring at the velvet canopy above the bed, thinking about yesterday. The rejections still stung, but you refused to give up after just one bad day.
You got up, washed, and chose a simple but elegant deep-grey gown. After eating a light breakfast alone in your room, you decided on a different approach today. No trays, no forcing your way into his meals. Just quiet presence.
You made your way to the castle’s main library — a spacious, peaceful room lined with tall shelves of books and scrolls. You picked a thick volume on regional history from the shelves and settled into a comfortable chair near the window where the light was good. Not too close to his usual spot, but not hiding either.
About an hour later, the door opened.
Sukuna walked in, still wearing his cloak from whatever business he’d been handling outside. He stopped short when he saw you already there, book open in your lap.
For a brief second his expression flickered with surprise before settling back into that familiar guarded look.
“You’re here too now,” he said, voice flat as he moved toward the large table in the center of the room. He pulled out a chair and sat down, spreading some documents in front of him. “Is there anywhere in this castle that’s still mine?”
You closed your book slowly and looked up at him.
“I can leave if you want,” you offered calmly. “I just thought it might be nice to read in here. It’s quiet.”
Sukuna didn’t tell you to go. He leaned back in his chair and studied you for a moment, crimson eyes sharp and assessing.
“You’ve been talking quite a bit these past two days,” he said, tone dry. “More than I’m used to.”
You gave a small, honest shrug. “I know. I’m trying to change that.”
He tapped his fingers once against the table, watching you openly now. “Trying,” he echoed, like he was testing the word. “That’s what you keep saying. But I still don’t know why.”
You hesitated, then answered simply, “Because I don’t like how things have been between us. And I think we could be… better. If we tried.”
Sukuna let out a short, humorless breath and leaned back further, still studying you.
“Better,” he repeated. “That’s a bold claim.” He paused, then added quietly, “Don’t get your hopes up. I’m not interested in pretending.”
But he didn’t ask you to leave.
You stayed in the library for another hour, reading in silence while he worked across from you. He didn’t speak again, but every so often you caught him glancing in your direction — wary, confused, and just a little unsettled.
It wasn’t much.
But it also wasn’t outright rejection.
You stayed in the library for another hour, the only sounds being the occasional rustle of paper and the soft crackle of the fire. You kept your eyes mostly on your book, though you were barely absorbing the words. Every now and then you felt Sukuna’s gaze on you — heavy, searching, and still full of suspicion.
Eventually, he set his quill down with a quiet tap. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his broad chest as he looked at you directly.
“If you’re serious about wanting to fix things,” he said, voice low and even, “then maybe you should start by actually appearing publicly with me.”
You looked up from your book, surprised. He continued before you could respond.
“There’s a ball tomorrow night at the capital. I’m expected to attend.” He paused, studying your reaction. “Rumors have already reached half the empire that my wife hates me. It would be good to change the public perception a little. At least act like a fucking couple for once.”
The invitation — if it could even be called that — hung in the air. It wasn’t warm or romantic. It was a test, plain and simple.
You closed your book slowly and met his eyes. “I’ll go with you,” you said without hesitation. “If that’s what you want.”
Sukuna watched you for a long moment, as if waiting for you to take it back. When you didn’t, something unreadable flickered across his face.
“Good,” he said simply. Then he stood up, gathering some of his documents. “Be ready by evening tomorrow. Don’t make me wait.”
He headed toward the door, cloak shifting over his shoulders. Just before he left, he paused and glanced back at you one last time.
“And try not to embarrass me,” he added, though his tone was less biting than before. Almost… cautious.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone in the quiet library once again.
You let out a long breath and leaned back in your chair, heart still racing. A public ball. Tomorrow. With Sukuna.
This was a big step — and a dangerous one. You’d have to be careful. Very careful.
But it was also an opportunity. A chance to stand beside him in front of everyone and start showing that you were different.
You stood up, clutching the book to your chest, a mix of nerves and quiet determination settling in your stomach.
Tomorrow it is.
The next day passed in a quiet blur of nerves and preparation.
You spent most of the afternoon trying not to overthink everything, but as evening approached, the anxiety crept in anyway. When the maids finally arrived to help you get ready, they moved around your room with careful, slightly confused energy — still adjusting to this gentler version of their mistress.
You chose a deep crimson gown made of rich, heavy silk that flowed elegantly to the floor. It had long, fitted sleeves and a modestly elegant neckline that showed just enough collarbone to feel refined rather than daring. The maids helped you into it, lacing the back with steady fingers while you stood in front of the large mirror. The fabric felt cool and luxurious against your skin, the color bringing out a quiet intensity you hadn’t expected.
They brushed your hair until it gleamed, working through every tangle with patient strokes. Most of it was pinned up into an elegant style with delicate silver pins, but they left a few soft strands loose to frame your face. One of the maids added a simple but beautiful necklace with a single dark gem that rested just below your collarbone, along with matching earrings. A touch of rose-tinted balm was applied to your lips, and a light dusting of powder to even your complexion.
You stared at your reflection the entire time, heart beating faster. This version of you looked every bit the refined duchess — poised, beautiful, and completely unlike the cold, silent woman the public had come to expect at Sukuna’s side.
“You look beautiful, My Lady,” the older maid said softly as she stepped back, a hint of genuine surprise in her voice.
“Thank you,” you replied quietly, smoothing your hands down the front of the gown. Inside, your stomach was in knots. This would be your first real public appearance with Sukuna. Everyone would be watching. Waiting for the usual tension or outright disdain they’d grown used to seeing between the Duke and his wife.
A firm knock sounded at the door.
“He’s ready for you, My Lady,” a servant called from the hallway.
You took one last steadying breath, thanked the maids again, and stepped out.
Sukuna was waiting in the main hall, dressed in formal black with subtle gold embroidery along the collar and cuffs. His pink hair was neatly tied back, and the sight of him in full formal attire made your chest tighten. He looked every bit the powerful duke — tall, imposing, and dangerously handsome.
His crimson eyes swept over you slowly, from head to toe. For a moment his expression was unreadable.
“You’re actually coming,” he said, voice low. It wasn’t quite a question.
“I said I would,” you replied simply.
He gave a short nod, then offered his arm. The gesture felt stiff, like he was still testing whether you’d take it or pull away at the last second.
You slipped your hand through his arm without hesitation. His muscles were tense beneath your fingers, but he didn’t pull away.
As you walked together toward the waiting carriage, he spoke again, keeping his voice low enough that only you could hear.
“People talk. A lot. If we’re going to do this, at least try to look like you don’t hate being next to me.”
You glanced up at him. “I don’t hate it.”
Sukuna didn’t respond, but his grip on your arm tightened just slightly — not painful, just… firmer. Like he was anchoring himself.
The carriage ride to the capital was quiet, the only sounds being the wheels on the road and the occasional shift of fabric. Sukuna sat across from you, watching the passing scenery with a distant expression. Every so often his gaze would drift back to you, as if he still couldn’t quite believe you were really there.
When the carriage finally slowed to a stop outside the grand hall, music and warm light spilled out into the night. You could already hear the murmur of voices and feel the weight of the eyes that would soon be on both of you.
Sukuna stepped out first, then offered his hand to help you down. His palm was warm and steady against yours.
“Ready?” he asked, voice gruff.
You nodded, slipping your hand back into the crook of his arm.
“Then let’s go act like a fucking couple.”
The grand hall glowed under hundreds of crystal chandeliers, casting warm golden light across marble floors and velvet-draped walls. Music from a full orchestra swelled through the air, mingling with the low hum of conversation, the clink of champagne glasses, and the rustle of silk and satin gowns. The scent of expensive perfumes, fresh flowers, and roasted meats from the banquet tables hung heavy in the room.
The moment you and Sukuna stepped through the tall arched entrance together, the entire atmosphere shifted.
Conversations faltered. Heads turned. A ripple of surprised murmurs spread through the crowd like a wave.
You felt every eye on you. Some were curious, some shocked, many openly calculating. The Duke and Duchess of the North rarely appeared together in public — and when they had in the past, it had always been marked by cold distance and icy silence.
Tonight was different.
Sukuna’s arm was solid beneath your fingers as he guided you forward. His posture was straight and commanding, every inch the powerful Duke Sukuna the empire feared and respected. You stayed close, your hand resting lightly but deliberately on his arm, chin lifted with quiet confidence.
A portly lord with a heavy gold chain and an embroidered waistcoat approached first, bowing deeply.
“Your Grace, Duke Sukuna,” he said smoothly, then turned to you with a slightly wider smile. “And Duchess… what an unexpected pleasure to see you both together this evening.”
Sukuna gave a curt nod. “My wife wished to attend. I saw no reason to refuse her.”
The lord’s eyebrows rose, but he recovered quickly. “How wonderful. The two of you make quite the striking pair tonight. The Duke and Duchess of the North, united at last.”
You offered a polite, gentle smile. “Thank you, my lord. It’s a pleasure to be here.”
Sukuna’s arm tensed slightly under your hand, but he didn’t pull away. As the lord moved on, more nobles drifted closer, drawn by the unusual sight. You heard the whispers clearly now.
“...the Duke and Duchess actually look civil…”
“I thought she hated him…”
“Look at them. She’s practically standing with him…”
Sukuna kept you close the entire time, one large hand occasionally resting at the small of your back as you moved through the hall. The touch was possessive, almost protective, even if his face remained cool and composed.
Later, when the orchestra struck up a slower, more intimate melody, Sukuna leaned down, his voice low against your ear.
“Dance with me.”
It wasn’t a question.
You nodded. He led you onto the polished floor, one broad hand settling firmly on your waist while the other held yours. He moved with surprising grace for someone of his size and power — confident, controlled, guiding you effortlessly through the steps. You followed his lead, hyper-aware of every point of contact: the heat of his palm burning through the silk of your gown, the solid wall of his chest so close to yours, the faint scent of leather and smoke that clung to him.
For a few moments the rest of the room seemed to fade.
“You’re doing better than I expected,” he muttered, voice barely audible over the music. His crimson eyes flicked down to meet yours. “People are staring less like they’re waiting for us to start arguing in the middle of the floor.”
You looked up at him, a small genuine smile tugging at your lips. “I told you I wanted to try.”
His grip on your waist tightened just slightly. His thumb brushed once over the fabric of your gown, almost absentmindedly.
“Don’t get comfortable,” he said, though there was less bite in his tone than usual. “This doesn’t mean I trust you yet.”
“I know,” you replied softly. “But thank you for giving me the chance anyway.”
Sukuna didn’t answer. But he also didn’t let go of you when the song ended. Instead, he kept his hand on your lower back as he guided you off the floor, staying closer than strictly necessary.
A short while later, a group of older lords approached Sukuna. One of them — a tall man with silver hair and sharp features — gave a respectful bow.
“Your Grace, if we could steal a moment of your time? There are some matters regarding the northern border that require your input.”
Sukuna’s jaw tightened for a brief second. He glanced down at you, then back at the lords.
“Fine,” he said curtly. “I won’t be long.”
Before he stepped away, he leaned in close to your ear, voice low. “Stay here. Don’t wander off.”
You nodded. His hand lingered on your waist for one extra second before he pulled away and followed the group toward a quieter side balcony for their discussion.
Suddenly, you were alone.
You stood near the edge of the dance floor, champagne glass in hand, trying to look more relaxed than you felt. The weight of curious stares hadn’t faded. A few noblewomen still whispered behind their fans, and every so often someone would glance your way with open speculation.
A deep, smooth voice spoke from your left.
“Duchess, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of a proper introduction tonight.”
You turned to find a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and sharp green eyes watching you with a lazy, confident smile. He was dressed in deep emerald and black, a marquess’s insignia pinned neatly to his lapel.
“Marquess Toji Fushiguro,” he introduced himself with a respectful bow of his head. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you over the years. Though I must say, seeing you here with the Duke tonight is… refreshing.”
His tone was warm and easy, without any obvious scheming edge. You felt yourself relax just a little.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Marquess,” you replied with a small smile. “I’ve heard your name mentioned before. You handle the eastern trade routes, don’t you?”
Toji’s smile widened, looking genuinely pleased that you knew. “I do. Though I’m surprised you’re familiar with such dull matters. Most duchesses prefer to stay far away from trade talk.”
The conversation flowed surprisingly well. He was charming in a straightforward, slightly roguish way — asking light questions about the northern estates, commenting on the music, and even making a dry joke about how stiff most balls tended to be. You found yourself smiling more naturally, the tension in your shoulders easing as you chatted. For the first time that evening, talking to someone felt… comfortable.
Toji tilted his head slightly, green eyes glinting with curiosity. “If I may be bold, Duchess — you seem different tonight than what the rumors suggested. Happier, perhaps?”
You were about to respond when a large, familiar hand suddenly slid around your waist from behind, fingers gripping your hip with clear possessiveness. A warm, solid body pressed against your back, and you didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
Sukuna.
His grip tightened, pulling you back against his chest in one smooth motion. The heat of his body seeped through the silk of your gown, and his thumb brushed slowly over your hip bone — a blatant, territorial claim.
Toji’s easy smile faltered for half a second before he recovered, inclining his head respectfully.
“Duke Sukuna,” he greeted calmly. “I was just keeping your wife company while you were occupied.”
Sukuna’s voice was low and dangerous, rumbling against your back. “I can see that.” His hand stayed firmly on your hip, fingers pressing in just enough to make a point. “Though I don’t recall asking anyone to entertain my duchess.”
You felt the tension rolling off him in waves. His other arm came around your other side, almost caging you against him in front of the entire hall.
Toji raised an eyebrow, still perfectly civil. “No offense meant, Your Grace. It was an honor speaking with the Duchess.”
Sukuna didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke loud enough for Toji to hear.
“We’re leaving this conversation,” he said flatly. Then, louder, “Come, wife.”
Sukuna didn’t stop walking until he had guided you into a quieter corner of the grand hall, partially shielded by a tall marble pillar and heavy crimson velvet drapes. The music and chatter of the ball felt distant now, muffled. His hand never left your hip. If anything, his grip tightened, fingers digging possessively into the silk of your gown as though he needed the contact to ground himself.
He turned you to face him with surprising care, then backed you gently but firmly against the cool marble pillar. One large hand stayed locked on your waist while the other came up to brace beside your head, effectively caging you in. His body heat enveloped you instantly — warm, solid, and overwhelming. The faint scent of smoke, leather, and something darker clung to him, making your pulse stutter.
“You seemed to be enjoying yourself,” he said, voice low and rough, almost a growl. His crimson eyes burned down into yours with unmistakable intensity. “Laughing with him like the two of you were old friends. Did you forget you’re here with me tonight?”
The jealousy in his tone was unmistakable — sharp, dark, and barely leashed.
You kept your voice calm, though your heart was racing. “We were only talking. He was civil. Nothing more.”
Sukuna’s jaw clenched visibly. His thumb began to trace slow, deliberate circles over the curve of your hip through the thin silk, a possessive caress that sent heat rushing across your skin.
“Civil,” he repeated, the word laced with pure disdain. “I saw the way he looked at you. The way he smiled at you.”
He leaned in closer, his breath warm against the shell of your ear, voice dropping into something dangerously intimate. “And here I thought you were trying to mend our relationship. Yet the second I turn my back, you’re chatting and smiling with another man like it means nothing.”
His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you flush against the hard wall of his chest. You could feel the tension coiled in every muscle, the barely restrained frustration rolling off him in waves. One of his fingers slipped just beneath the edge of your gown, brushing bare skin at your hip — a deliberate, claiming touch.
“I don’t like sharing what’s mine,” he growled softly, lips brushing your ear. “Especially not with bastards like Toji Fushiguro.”
You swallowed hard, breath shallow. “I wasn’t trying to make you jealous. I was just being polite while you were busy.”
Sukuna let out a low, dangerous sound in the back of his throat — half a scoff, half a laugh. His free hand moved to your jaw, tilting your face up so you had no choice but to meet his burning crimson gaze.
“Polite,” he murmured, thumb stroking slowly along your jawline. “You’re lucky I didn’t drag you out of here the moment I saw his hand move toward you.”
His eyes dropped to your lips for a long, heavy second. The air between you felt charged, electric, like the tension might snap at any moment. For a heartbeat you thought he might kiss you right there — hard, claiming, in full view of everyone still watching from across the hall.
Instead, he leaned in until his lips ghosted against your ear again.
“Next time someone approaches you while I’m gone,” he said, voice dark and velvet-rough, “you tell them you belong to me. Clearly. Because if I have to remind them myself… I won’t be nearly as polite.”
His fingers flexed on your hip in one final, possessive squeeze — a silent promise — before he slowly stepped back. His hand remained at the small of your back, heavy and unrelenting.
The music swelled again around you.
Sukuna’s expression smoothed into something cooler and more composed for the public eye, but the heat in his eyes stayed locked on you.
“Come,” he said, voice still low. “We’re dancing again. And this time, you’re not leaving my side for the rest of the night.”
Sukuna led you back onto the dance floor without another word, his hand firm on your waist, pulling you closer than strictly proper for a public setting. The orchestra had shifted into a slower, more intimate melody — strings and soft piano weaving through the air. Couples swirled around you, but you barely noticed them. All you could focus on was the heat of Sukuna’s body pressed against yours, the way his fingers splayed possessively across your lower back, and the unmistakable tension radiating from him.
He moved with controlled grace, guiding you effortlessly through the steps. Your bodies were flush together, chest to chest, his thigh occasionally brushing yours as you turned. Every point of contact felt electric.
“You’re quiet now,” he murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear. His crimson eyes locked onto yours, dark and intense. “What happened to all that polite conversation you were having with the marquess?”
You tilted your head slightly to meet his gaze. “You told me not to leave your side. I’m listening.”
A low sound rumbled in his chest — not quite a laugh. His hand slid lower on your back, fingers pressing in just enough to make your breath hitch.
“Good girl,” he said softly, almost mockingly, though the heat in his eyes was anything but. “Keep listening. I don’t want to see you smiling at anyone else like that tonight.”
The jealousy was still there, simmering just beneath the surface. You could feel it in the way he held you — tighter than necessary, almost like he was daring anyone to try approaching you again.
As you turned under his arm and came back into his embrace, he leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“He thought he had a chance,” he continued, voice rough. “Like he didn’t know exactly who you belong to.” His fingers flexed against your waist. “Maybe I need to make it clearer.”
Your heart hammered against your ribs. Being this close to him — surrounded by the swirl of music and watching eyes — made everything feel heightened. The scent of him, the solid strength of his body, the barely restrained possessiveness in every touch.
“Sukuna…” you started softly.
He cut you off by pulling you even closer, until there was almost no space left between you. His breath was warm against your temple.
“You wanted to mend things,” he reminded you, tone dark. “Then stop giving other men reasons to think they can talk to my wife like that. Smile at me. Stay close to me.”
The song began to slow, but Sukuna didn’t release you. He kept you locked in his arms even as other couples started drifting apart. His hand slid up your back, fingers tracing your spine through the silk, a silent claim in front of the entire hall.
When the music finally faded, he didn’t let go right away. He stared down at you, crimson eyes heavy with something dangerous and hungry.
“We’re leaving,” he said abruptly, voice low. “I’ve had enough of these people watching us.”
He didn’t wait for your agreement. His hand stayed firmly at the small of your back as he guided you through the crowd toward the exit. Nobles parted for him instinctively, eyes wide at the sight of the Duke and Duchess leaving together so early — and so obviously entangled.
The cool night air hit you the moment you stepped outside. Sukuna kept you close as you waited for the carriage, his arm wrapped around your waist like he still wasn’t ready to stop touching you.
Once inside the carriage, he sat beside you instead of across from you. The door had barely closed before his hand was back on your thigh, gripping possessively through the fabric of your gown.
The carriage started moving, carrying you both back toward the estate through the dark roads. Sukuna’s hand remained on your thigh the entire ride, heavy and warm — a silent reminder of exactly who you belonged to.
By the time it finally rolled to a stop in front of the castle, the moon hung high in the sky. The journey had been quiet, thick with lingering tension. Sukuna hadn’t spoken a word, but his grip on your thigh never loosened.
When the footman opened the door, Sukuna stepped out first and offered you his hand. You took it, letting him help you down onto the stone steps. The cool night air felt refreshing after the stuffy ballroom, but it did little to calm the nerves fluttering in your stomach.
He walked you inside, his hand resting possessively at the small of your back the whole way through the dimly lit halls. Servants bowed and quickly disappeared when they saw you both. The castle felt unusually still.
When you reached the point where the corridors split — one leading to his private wing, the other to yours — Sukuna stopped. He turned to face you, his expression unreadable in the low torchlight.
“You did well tonight,” he admitted grudgingly, staring at you for a long moment before glancing away. “But if I see him — or anyone else — near you again like that…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.
Sukuna gave a short nod, almost like he was dismissing you. “Goodnight.”
He turned to leave, heading toward his own chambers.
You stood there for a second, heart pounding, before the words slipped out — soft, shy, and a little nervous.
“Wait…”
Sukuna paused, looking back at you over his shoulder.
You swallowed, cheeks warming as you forced yourself to speak. “You know… we can’t really fix things as a couple if we keep sleeping separately"
The words hung in the air between you. They sounded bolder than you felt.
Sukuna went completely still. For several long seconds he simply stared at you, crimson eyes narrowing slightly as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. The silence stretched, thick and heavy.
Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but something darker, more dangerous.
“Is that so?” he said, voice low and rough. He took one step back toward you, then another, until he was standing close again. “You’re asking to sleep in my bed now?”
He tilted his head, studying your face like he was trying to find the trick in your words. His hand came up, fingers lightly brushing your jaw as he looked down at you.
“Careful, wife,” he murmured, thumb tracing your lower lip. “You keep pushing like this… I might start thinking you actually mean it.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth for a long second before returning to your eyes. The tension between you crackled again, even stronger than it had been at the ball.
Sukuna didn’t move away. He waited, watching you closely, as if daring you to take it back… or push further.
The silence stretched, heavy and charged. His thumb was still resting against your lower lip, warm and rough, while his crimson eyes searched your face for any sign of deception. You could practically feel the suspicion rolling off him in waves.
Finally, he let out a slow breath, almost a scoff.
“…Fine,” he said, voice low and guarded. “If that’s what you want.”
He stepped back slightly, but his hand stayed on your waist, fingers still gripping you with quiet possessiveness. His expression remained cold, cautious, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Don’t expect this to mean anything,” he added, tone flat. “I’m still not convinced you’ve changed. But if you’re so determined to play the part of a real wife… then come.”
He turned and started walking down the corridor toward his private wing, keeping his hand on the small of your back to guide you along with him. The touch was firm — not gentle, but not forceful either. It felt like both an invitation and a test.
The halls were quiet at this hour, lit only by flickering torches. Every step echoed softly. Sukuna didn’t speak again until you reached the heavy wooden doors to his chambers. He pushed them open without hesitation and stepped inside, holding the door for you.
His rooms were large and unmistakably his — dark wood furniture, a massive bed with black silk sheets, a low fire burning in the hearth, weapons and scrolls neatly arranged on shelves. It smelled faintly of smoke and leather.
Sukuna closed the door behind you with a heavy click. He leaned against it for a moment, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching you with that same calculating stare.
“You wanted this,” he said quietly, almost like he was reminding both of you. “So here we are.”
He pushed off the door and walked further into the room, loosening the ties on his formal tunic as he went. The movement was casual, but you could feel the tension still radiating from him.
“Get comfortable,” he told you, glancing back at you over his shoulder. His voice was low, almost seductive, but the suspicion never fully left his eyes.
He didn’t say anything else. He simply waited, watching to see what you would do now that you were truly alone with him in his space.
You stood there for a moment, suddenly very aware of how large his chambers felt and how small you felt inside them. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting warm light across the dark wood and black silk sheets. The air smelled like him — smoke, leather, and something faintly metallic.
You swallowed and moved toward the side of the room where a large wardrobe stood. One of the maids had already brought a few of your things here earlier, as if the servants had anticipated this. You picked out a simple black silk nightgown and hesitated.
Sukuna had turned away slightly, pulling off his formal tunic and tossing it over the back of a chair. The movement revealed the strong lines of his back and the black tattoos swirling across his skin. He didn’t look at you, but you could tell he was still aware of every move you made.
You changed quickly behind the privacy screen in the corner, the silk cool against your skin. When you stepped out, Sukuna was already sitting on the edge of the massive bed, wearing only loose black pants. His pink hair was untied now, falling messily around his face. He looked up when you approached.
For a long second he just stared.
Then he let out a slow breath and patted the space beside him.
“Come here,” he said, voice low.
You walked over and climbed onto the bed. The mattress dipped under your weight. Sukuna watched you the entire time, suspicion still clear in his crimson eyes even as he pulled the covers back for you.
You slipped under the sheets, lying on your back. The silk felt cool and smooth. Sukuna stayed sitting for another moment, then finally lay down beside you. The bed was large, but he took up so much space that you could feel the heat radiating from his body.
He turned onto his side, facing you. One arm rested above his head while the other lay between you, close enough that his fingers almost brushed your arm.
The silence was heavy.
“You’re really here,” he muttered, almost to himself. His gaze traced your face, still guarded. “In my bed.”
He reached out slowly and brushed a strand of hair away from your cheek. The touch was surprisingly gentle, but his eyes remained cold and watchful.
“Don’t make me regret this,” he said quietly. “If this is another game… I won’t be kind about it.”
Then he shifted closer. Not enough to touch fully, but close enough that you could feel his breath against your skin. He didn’t pull you into his arms. He simply laid there, watching you like he was waiting for you to prove something — or reveal your true intentions.
The fire crackled softly in the background. The weight of his presence beside you made it hard to relax, but you stayed there, heart beating steadily.
Sukuna’s voice was barely above a whisper when he spoke again.
“Sleep, wife. We’ll see how long this little performance of yours lasts.”
He didn’t close his eyes right away. He kept watching you in the dim firelight, guarded, suspicious… and just a little intrigued.
Morning light filtered softly through the heavy curtains, pale and hazy, casting long golden stripes across the dark wooden floor. You woke slowly, cocooned in warmth that felt both foreign and strangely comforting. Sukuna’s arm was draped heavily over your waist, his broad chest pressed against your back, one leg loosely tangled with yours beneath the black silk sheets. His breathing was deep and steady, the faint rise and fall of his chest brushing against you with every inhale.
For a long moment you didn’t move. This was the first time you’d ever woken up beside him — sharing the same bed, the same space, the same air. Your heart beat a little too fast as the reality settled in. The Duke of the North was holding you in his sleep, even if it was only out of habit or unconscious possession.
Sukuna stirred a few minutes later. His arm tightened around your waist for a brief second, pulling you closer on instinct, before his body went still. You felt the exact moment consciousness returned to him — the subtle shift in his breathing, the way his muscles tensed ever so slightly against your back.
He didn’t pull away immediately.
“You’re still here,” he said quietly, voice low and rough with sleep. There was a hint of genuine surprise beneath the words. “Figured you’d sneak back to your own room before I woke up.”
You turned your head slightly on the pillow to look at him. His crimson eyes were half-lidded, messy pink hair falling across his forehead. Up close like this, without the usual cold mask, he looked almost human — though the sharp suspicion in his gaze reminded you he was anything but.
“I told you I wanted this,” you replied softly.
Sukuna let out a slow breath, almost a huff. He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at you properly. His hand stayed on your waist, thumb brushing slow, absentminded circles over the silk of your nightgown. The touch was light, but you could feel the weight of his attention — guarded, calculating, searching for any crack in your resolve.
He watched you for a long, heavy moment, suspicion still clear in his expression. The silence between you felt intimate and fragile at the same time. His fingers flexed once against your waist before relaxing again.
“Don’t get too used to this,” he said eventually, tone flat but not cruel. “One night doesn’t fix anything. One night doesn’t make me trust you.”
Then, almost like he couldn’t help himself, he added more quietly, “But… you can stay for breakfast if you want.”
Sukuna rolled away and got out of bed, stretching his powerful arms above his head. The morning light traced every line of muscle and the intricate black tattoos that covered his shoulders, chest, and back. He moved with the casual confidence of someone completely at ease in his own space, yet you could still feel the tension humming beneath his skin.
God, he’s even hotter in person… no wonder I was obsessed.
He grabbed a fresh tunic but didn’t put it on. Instead, he leaned against the wardrobe, watching you in his sheets with that dark, cautious gaze. The fire had burned low, leaving the room quiet and heavy with unspoken tension.
Sukuna tilted his head slightly. “Well?” he asked, voice still rough from sleep. “Are you going to lie there all morning?”
You didn’t make him wait long.
You slipped out of bed, the black silk nightgown clinging lightly to your skin as you moved. The morning air in the chamber felt cooler than the warmth of the sheets you’d just left. Sukuna watched you the entire time from where he leaned against the wardrobe, arms crossed over his broad chest, expression unreadable but intense.
“Breakfast will be brought here,” he said simply, voice still rough from sleep. “No need to go to the main hall today.”
A short while later, servants arrived with silver trays. They moved quickly and quietly, setting the table near the tall windows with practiced care — a pot of strong black tea, warm crusty bread, thick slices of roasted meat, fresh berries, and a small dish of honey. The scent of the food filled the room, warm and savory. They kept their eyes lowered, clearly unsettled by the sight of you in the Duke’s private chambers wearing only a nightgown and robe, but they left without a single word.
Sukuna sat down first. You took the seat across from him.
The morning light streamed in through the tall windows, casting a soft golden glow across the table and highlighting the sharp angles of his face. It traced the black tattoos visible at the open collar of his tunic and the faint scars on his hands as he picked up his knife. For several long minutes, the only sounds were the quiet clink of silverware and the distant crackle from the hearth.
Finally, Sukuna set his knife down with a quiet click and leaned back in his chair, crimson eyes locking onto you with that familiar guarded intensity.
“So,” he said, voice low and guarded, “what made you change?”
You looked up from your plate, heart skipping a beat. Just died and woke up in the body of the woman you’re supposed to kill. No big deal.
There was no point in holding back anymore.
“I like you,” you said simply, meeting his gaze. “I’ve liked you for a long time.”
Sukuna stared at you for a long, heavy beat. Then he let out a short, bitter laugh that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Bullshit.”
The word landed blunt and cold. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, watching you with sharp suspicion.
“You expect me to believe that? After months of silence, after treating me like I was beneath you, after making sure everyone knew how much you despised this marriage… you suddenly like me?” His voice dripped with disbelief. “Try again.”
You didn’t look away. Your voice stayed quiet but steady.
“No, really,” you said. “I do. I like you. That’s why I’m trying so hard.”
Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. He studied your face like he was searching for the lie, the manipulation, the trick. The silence stretched between you, thick and tense. His fingers tapped once against the edge of the table before he leaned back again, the corner of his mouth curving into a slow, dangerous smirk.
“Okay, little liar,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Then prove it to me.”
You blinked, heat rising to your cheeks.
“Prove it to you…?” you repeated softly, the words coming out a little breathless.
Sukuna’s smirk deepened, but his eyes stayed sharp and watchful. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table, closing some of the distance between you.
“Yes,” he said, voice dropping lower, almost velvet-smooth. “Prove it. You say you like me. You say you want to fix this marriage. So show me.”
His gaze drifted slowly down to your mouth, then back up to your eyes. The air between you felt heavier now, warmer. He reached across the table and brushed his fingers lightly against the back of your hand, the touch deceptively gentle.
“You’re in my chambers. In my bed,” he continued, thumb tracing a slow line over your knuckles. “If you’re actually serious… then stop hiding behind pretty words and prove it.”
His touch lingered, possessive but controlled, sending a slow shiver up your arm. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he watched your reaction closely, crimson eyes dark with suspicion and something much hotter underneath.
“Prove it, wife,” he said again, voice low and seductive. “I’m right here. Show me how much you like me.”
The breakfast table suddenly felt far too small. The tension had shifted — still laced with his suspicion, but now crackling with slow, deliberate heat as he waited for you to make the next move.
Your pulse thundered under his thumb. You could feel the weight of his stare, the way his crimson eyes darkened as they traced your face, your lips, the line of your throat. He wasn’t touching you anywhere else, but it still felt like he had you pinned.
You swallowed, heat blooming across your cheeks and down your neck.
“…How?” you asked, voice quieter than you intended. “How do you want me to prove it?”
Sukuna’s smirk deepened, slow and dangerous. He leaned in a little closer across the table, his thumb still stroking lazy circles over your knuckles.
“That’s the fun part,” he murmured. “You figure it out. You’re the one claiming you like me. So show me what that looks like.”
His free hand moved, reaching across to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was almost gentle, but his fingers lingered at the side of your neck, tracing lightly down the column of your throat before pulling away.
“You can start by coming here,” he said, voice low and commanding. He pushed his chair back slightly and patted his thigh once. “Don’t make me ask twice.”
Your breath caught. Heart racing, you stood up slowly and rounded the table. The moment you were close enough, Sukuna’s hand caught your wrist and pulled you down onto his lap. He settled you sideways across his thighs, one arm wrapping securely around your waist while the other rested on your leg, fingers splayed possessively over your thigh.
Up close like this, you could feel the heat of his body, the solid strength of his chest against your side, the way his breath brushed your temple.
“Better,” he said, voice rough. His hand slid slowly up your thigh, stopping just below the hem of your nightgown. “Now… show me.”
He tilted his head, lips hovering near your jaw.
“Kiss me,” he ordered softly. “Like you mean it. Like you actually want your husband.”
His crimson eyes were locked on yours, still guarded, still waiting for the lie to slip through. But beneath the suspicion, there was clear hunger — dark and patient, daring you to close the distance.
Sukuna’s fingers flexed on your thigh, a silent reminder of his patience running thin.
“Well, wife?” he murmured, voice velvet-rough against your skin. “I’m waiting.”
You didn’t hesitate any longer.
Leaning in, you pressed your lips to his. The kiss started soft — tentative on your end, testing. Sukuna stayed still for half a second, as if surprised you’d actually done it.
Then he took control.
His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you harder against his mouth. The kiss deepened instantly, turning hungry and demanding. His tongue swept past your lips, claiming your mouth with a low growl that vibrated against you. He tasted like black tea and heat, and the way he kissed you was nothing short of possessive — like he was trying to erase every other man who had ever looked at you.
You gasped into his mouth. Sukuna used the opening to tilt your head and kiss you deeper, tongue stroking yours with slow, filthy intent. His other hand gripped your thigh tighter, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulled you more firmly onto his lap until you were straddling him.
“Better,” he rasped against your lips when he finally pulled back just enough to breathe. His crimson eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “But not enough.”
He kissed you again, harder this time. One hand slipped under the hem of your nightgown, palm sliding up your bare thigh, pushing the silk higher and higher until his fingers brushed the edge of your underwear. He didn’t go further yet — just teased, stroking the sensitive skin there while his mouth moved to your jaw, then down to your neck.
“You say you like me,” he growled against your throat, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Then prove how much.”
He sucked on your skin, hard enough to leave a mark, and you couldn’t stop the soft moan that escaped you. Sukuna’s grip on your thigh tightened in response, and you felt him growing hard beneath you, the thick length pressing against your core through his pants.
Your hands moved on instinct, sliding up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. He made a low, approving sound and rocked his hips up once, grinding against you deliberately.
“Touch me,” he ordered, voice rough. “If you’re serious, then fucking touch me.”
You obeyed, sliding your hands under his tunic, palms running over the hard planes of his stomach and the tattoos that covered his skin. His muscles tensed under your touch. Sukuna rewarded you by biting down on your neck again, then soothing the spot with his tongue.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, breathing heavy, eyes burning.
“Keep going,” he said, voice dark and commanding. His hands gripping your ass firmly as he pulled you down harder against his growing erection. “Show me exactly how much you want your husband.”
His hips rolled up deliberately, grinding the thick ridge of his cock against your clit in slow, filthy circles. The friction was maddening, heat building fast between you.
You moaned into his mouth. The sound seemed to snap something in him.
He growled low in his throat and rocked you harder against him. “Fuck,” he rasped against your lips, breath hot. “You’re already so wet for me.”
One large hand slipped further under your nightgown, calloused palm dragging up your bare thigh until his fingers found the soaked fabric of your panties. He groaned at the feeling, pressing two thick fingers against your clothed slit and rubbing firmly, spreading your wetness.
“So fucking wet,” he muttered, voice dark and rough. “All this from just sitting on my lap?”
He pushed your panties aside with impatient fingers and dragged two thick digits slowly through your slick folds. The first direct touch made your hips jerk sharply. Pleasure shot through you like lightning — hot, electric, and overwhelming. You were already soaked, embarrassingly wet, and Sukuna could feel it.
He chuckled darkly against your throat, the low vibration sending shivers racing down your spine as he kissed and bit along your neck, marking you with teeth and tongue.
“You’re dripping down my fingers, wife,” he growled, voice rough and filthy. “This greedy little cunt is making such a mess already.”
He pushed one thick finger inside you slowly, stretching your tight walls. Your inner muscles clenched hard around the intrusion, hot and silky. The feeling of being filled by him — even just one finger — made your breath hitch. He added a second finger almost immediately, scissoring them lazily while his thumb found your swollen clit and rubbed tight, relentless circles.
The wet, obscene sounds of his fingers pumping into your soaked pussy filled the quiet morning room — lewd squelching noises that would have made you blush if you weren’t already trembling with pleasure. Your arousal coated his hand, dripping down his wrist and onto his lap as he worked you open with practiced, unhurried strokes.
You whimpered, hands fisting tightly in the front of his tunic. Sukuna’s free hand yanked the neckline of your nightgown down roughly, exposing your breasts to the cool air. He leaned in and sucked one sensitive nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking roughly over the peak before his teeth grazed it. The sharp sting mixed with pleasure made your back arch, pushing your chest closer to his hungry mouth.
“So fucking sensitive,” he murmured against your skin, voice muffled as he switched to the other nipple, sucking harder. “Look at you. Falling apart just from my fingers like a desperate little whore.”
He curled his fingers inside you, stroking that perfect spot with devastating accuracy while his thumb pressed firmer circles on your clit. Your hips rocked desperately against his hand, chasing every thrust, every stroke. The wet sounds grew louder, filthier, echoing obscenely in the quiet chamber.
Sukuna pulled back just enough to watch your face, his crimson eyes dark with lust and that ever-present edge of suspicion.
“Cum for me,” he ordered, voice low and rough. “Let me feel how much this supposed ‘liking me’ makes this tight little pussy squeeze around my fingers.”
His fingers curled harder, stroking that sensitive spot relentlessly while his thumb worked your clit faster. The pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core, burning hotter with every thrust, every filthy word.
It snapped.
You came hard with a broken moan, walls clenching violently around his thick fingers. Your thighs shook uncontrollably as slick gushed over his hand, soaking his palm and dripping down his wrist. Pleasure crashed through you in waves, leaving you gasping and trembling.
Sukuna groaned deeply at the feeling, still pumping his fingers slowly through your spasms, drawing out every last pulse until you were shaking and oversensitive, whimpering softly.
He finally pulled his fingers free, glistening with your release. Without breaking eye contact, he brought them to his mouth and licked them clean, tongue dragging slowly and deliberately over his skin, savoring your taste.
“Sweet,” he murmured, voice husky and dark. His eyes never left yours.
He lifted you effortlessly and stood, carrying you toward the massive bed. He laid you down on the black silk sheets, hovering over you with that same dark, hungry look.
“Take the nightgown off,” he commanded, already pulling his own tunic over his head, revealing the full expanse of his tattooed, muscled torso. “I want to see all of you.”
His hands moved to his pants, loosening them as he watched you, eyes burning with lust and that ever-present edge of suspicion.
“Prove how much you actually want me, wife.”
You sat up on the bed, heart hammering against your ribs. Under his burning gaze, you reached for the hem of your nightgown and pulled it up and over your head, letting the silk fall to the floor. The cool air of the chamber brushed over your bare skin, making your nipples tighten instantly.
Sukuna’s eyes raked slowly over your naked body — from your flushed face, down the curve of your breasts, your stomach, and the glistening wetness already coating your inner thighs. He let out a low, rough sound deep in his chest, almost a growl.
“Fuck… look at you,” he muttered, voice thick. “So small. So fucking pretty.”
He shoved his pants the rest of the way down his hips and kicked them aside. His cock sprang free, heavy and thick, the veined shaft curving slightly upward. It was meaty — obscenely so — the girth making your mouth go dry. The flushed head was already leaking, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. Even fully hard, it looked almost too big, too heavy, the weight of it making it hang thick and full between his powerful thighs.
You couldn’t help the soft, shaky breath that escaped you.
Sukuna noticed. His smirk was dark and satisfied as he crawled onto the bed, the mattress dipping deeply under his much larger frame. He settled between your spread thighs, his broad shoulders forcing your legs wider apart. The size difference hit you all over again — he was so much bigger than you, his body completely eclipsing yours as he hovered above you.
He gripped his thick cock in one large hand and dragged the heavy head through your soaked folds, coating himself in your wetness. The blunt, meaty tip nudged against your entrance, pressing just enough to tease the stretch.
“You’re tiny compared to me,” he rasped, voice low and rough. “Gonna feel every inch when I split you open.”
He pushed forward slowly.
The thick head of his cock breached you, stretching your entrance with a slow, burning pressure. You gasped sharply at the sheer girth — he was so thick that your walls had to part around him, fluttering and clenching as he sank deeper. The heavy, meaty weight of his cock filled you inch by inch, dragging against every sensitive ridge inside you until you were full, so full, your back arching off the bed with a broken moan.
Sukuna groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through his chest as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours. His balls rested heavy and warm against you.
“Shit,” he breathed against your neck, voice strained. “So fucking tight… this little pussy is sucking me in like it was made for me.”
He stayed buried deep for a moment, letting you adjust to the overwhelming stretch, the way his thick cock throbbed inside you, hot and heavy. Then he started moving — slow, deep rolls of his hips that dragged his meaty length along your walls with every thrust. The wet, obscene sound of him sliding in and out of your soaked cunt filled the room, slick and filthy.
You whimpered, nails digging into his broad shoulders. “Sukuna… you’re so big—”
He growled at your words, hips snapping harder, driving his thick cock deeper. The drag was exquisite, every vein and ridge rubbing against your most sensitive spots. His size made you feel impossibly full, stretched wide around his girth, the pressure bordering on too much but so, so good.
“Take it,” he rasped, voice dark and possessive. “Take every fucking inch like the good little wife you’re trying to be.”
He leaned down and captured your mouth in a messy, hungry kiss, tongue fucking your mouth in time with his deep thrusts. His heavy balls slapped against you with every powerful stroke, the wet sounds growing louder as your arousal dripped down his shaft and soaked the sheets beneath you.
You moaned into his mouth, legs wrapping tighter around his waist, heels digging into his back. The size difference made everything more intense — his broad chest crushing your breasts, his muscular thighs spreading you wide, his massive frame completely dominating yours as he fucked you into the mattress.
Sukuna pulled back just enough to look at you, breathing hard, eyes dark with lust and that lingering edge of suspicion.
“Tell me again,” he growled, hips grinding deep, the thick head of his cock pressing against that perfect spot inside you. “Tell me how much you like your husband’s cock while I’m ruining this tight little pussy.”
You could barely think through the overwhelming fullness. His cock was so thick it felt like he was splitting you open with every slow, deliberate thrust. The heavy drag of his veined shaft against your walls made your toes curl, pleasure bordering on too much.
“I like it,” you gasped, voice breaking on a moan as he rolled his hips again, grinding the fat head against your g-spot. “I like your cock so much— fuck, Sukuna, you’re so deep…”
A low, satisfied growl rumbled in his chest. He hooked one of your legs over his arm, spreading you wider, and drove into you harder. The new angle made his thick cock hit even deeper, the heavy weight of his balls slapping wetly against your ass with every powerful thrust. Your juices coated his shaft, dripping down to soak the sheets beneath you, the lewd squelching sounds echoing obscenely in the quiet room.
“So fucking tight,” he groaned, voice rough and strained. “This greedy little cunt is sucking me in like it doesn’t want to let go.”
He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a messy, dominating kiss. His tongue fucked into your mouth in time with his cock, deep and filthy, while his hips snapped forward harder. The sheer size difference made everything more intense — his broad, muscled body completely covering yours, his weight pressing you down into the mattress as he fucked you with long, punishing strokes.
You whimpered into his mouth, nails raking down his back, leaving red lines across his tattooed skin. Sukuna hissed at the sting and rewarded you by pounding into you even harder, the thick head of his cock bullying that sensitive spot inside you over and over.
“Again,” he demanded against your lips, breath hot and ragged. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”
“You,” you moaned, legs shaking as another wave of pleasure crashed through you. “It belongs to you— only you—”
“Good girl.”
He sat back on his heels, pulling your hips up with him so your lower back was off the bed. The new angle let him drive even deeper, his thick cock stretching you wide with every brutal thrust. His thumb found your swollen clit again, rubbing tight, firm circles while he fucked you senseless.
The wet slap of skin against skin mixed with your broken moans and his low grunts. Your breasts bounced with every powerful snap of his hips, nipples tight and aching. Sukuna’s gaze was locked between your legs, watching hungrily as his thick cock disappeared into your soaked pussy again and again, stretching you obscenely around his girth.
“Look at that,” he growled, voice dark. “Taking every inch like you were made for me. So fucking pretty when you’re stuffed full of my cock.”
The pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core, burning hotter with every deep thrust, every swipe of his thumb on your clit. Your thighs trembled violently in his grip.
“Sukuna— I’m gonna—!”
“Cum,” he ordered, hips slamming into you harder. “Cum on your husband’s cock like the desperate little wife you are.”
It hit you like a wave. You came hard with a broken cry, walls clenching violently around his thick length, pulsing and fluttering as slick gushed around him. Your whole body shook, back arching sharply as pleasure tore through you.
Sukuna groaned deeply at the feeling, hips stuttering. “Fuck— that’s it. Milk my cock.”
He fucked you through your orgasm, prolonging it until you were whimpering and oversensitive. Then, with a low, guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt and came hard, thick ropes of hot cum flooding deep inside you. He kept grinding his hips in slow circles, pushing his release even deeper as he emptied himself completely.
“We’re not done,” he said quietly, a dangerous promise in his tone. “Not even close.”
Sukuna pulled out of you with a wet, filthy sound, your combined release dripping down your thighs. Before you could catch your breath, he flipped you onto your back and manhandled you like you weighed nothing. He sat on the edge of the bed, pulled you into his lap facing away from him, and hooked his powerful arms under your knees, folding you in a full nelson.
Your back pressed flush against his broad, tattooed chest. Your legs were spread obscenely wide, knees pushed up toward your shoulders by his strong arms. The position left you completely helpless — folded in half, pussy exposed and dripping, his thick cock sliding hot and heavy between your slick folds.
“Fuck, look at you,” he growled right against your ear, voice feral. “So small and folded up for me. Perfect little fucktoy.”
He thrust up hard, burying his massive cock back inside you in one brutal stroke. The new angle made him feel even thicker, even deeper. You cried out, the sound raw and broken as his meaty length stretched you wide open again, the fat head bullying against your cervix with every thrust.
Sukuna went feral.
He fucked you like an animal — hard, fast, and relentless. His hips snapped up with powerful force, slamming his thick cock into your soaked pussy over and over. The wet, obscene slap of skin against skin filled the room, mixed with the lewd squelching of your dripping cunt taking every inch. His heavy balls slapped against your ass with every brutal thrust, the impact jolting through your body.
You were cockdrunk almost immediately.
Your mind went hazy, eyes rolling back as pleasure overloaded your senses. All you could do was moan helplessly, body limp in his hold as he used you. His thick cock dragged against every sensitive spot inside you, the sheer girth stretching you so wide it bordered on pain, but the pleasure was so intense you couldn’t think straight.
“S-Sukuna— ahh— too deep—” you slurred, voice broken and whiny.
He only fucked you harder, arms locked tight under your knees, keeping you folded and helpless as he pounded into you. His chest was slick with sweat against your back, his hot breath panting against your ear.
“Take it,” he snarled, voice feral and animalistic. “Take every fucking inch. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? My cock ruining this tight little pussy.”
You could only moan incoherently, head lolling back against his shoulder. Drool slipped from the corner of your mouth as he fucked you senseless, his thick cock bullying your insides with every savage thrust. The wet sounds were filthy — your juices coating his shaft and dripping down his balls, soaking the sheets beneath you.
Sukuna suddenly pulled out, flipped you onto your stomach, and yanked your hips up so your ass was high in the air. He slammed back into you in one brutal thrust, fucking you in deep, punishing doggy style.
“Fuck— yes,” he groaned, voice wrecked. One large hand came down hard on your ass with a loud smack, the sting blooming hot across your skin. He did it again, harder, the sharp crack echoing as he pounded into you from behind.
Your face was pressed into the sheets, ass up, completely at his mercy as he railed you. His thick cock drove so deep you felt it in your stomach, the heavy drag of his veined shaft making your eyes roll back. He smacked your ass again, gripping the soft flesh hard as he used you.
“You’re mine,” he growled, hips snapping forward relentlessly. “This pussy is mine. Say it.”
You could barely speak, mind blank and cockdrunk, but you whimpered obediently between moans, “Yours… it’s yours—”
Sukuna snarled in satisfaction and fucked you even harder, the bed creaking violently under the force of his thrusts. His heavy balls slapped against your clit with every brutal stroke, pushing you closer and closer to the edge again.
He was relentless now — grunting low and animalistic, cursing under his breath as his hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise. He claimed you with deep, punishing strokes, each one driving his thick cock so deep you felt it in your stomach.
“Fuck— this pussy is sucking me in so greedily,” he growled, voice wrecked and animalistic. One hand left your hip and came down hard on your ass again with a loud smack, the sharp sting blooming hot across your skin. He did it again, harder, gripping the soft, reddened flesh and spreading you wider as he railed you.
Your mind was completely melted. All you could do was moan and whimper into the sheets, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth as he pounded into you. His thick, meaty cock stretched you so wide it felt like he was reshaping you from the inside. Every deep, punishing thrust made the fat head kiss your cervix, sending sparks of overwhelming pleasure-pain shooting through your body.
“S-Sukuna— too much— ahh—!” you slurred, voice broken and whiny, barely coherent anymore.
He laughed darkly, low and breathless, and smacked your ass once more before gripping both cheeks and spreading you obscenely. He watched hungrily as his thick cock disappeared into your soaked, fluttering pussy again and again, your juices coating his shaft and dripping down his heavy balls.
“Look at this greedy little hole,” he rasped, hips snapping forward brutally. “Taking my fat cock so well. You’re dripping everywhere, wife. Making such a fucking mess on my sheets.”
He leaned over you, chest pressed to your back, one arm wrapping around your waist to hold you in place while the other braced beside your head. The new angle let him drive even deeper, his heavy cock bullying that perfect spot inside you with every savage thrust. The wet, filthy plap plap plap of his hips slamming into your ass filled the room, mixed with your broken moans and his guttural grunts.
You were shaking, thighs trembling violently, another orgasm building fast. Your mind was blank — nothing but the overwhelming stretch, the heat, the relentless drag of his thick veined cock inside you.
Sukuna’s breath was hot against your ear. “You’re mine,” he growled, teeth grazing your shoulder. “This tight little cunt is mine. Say it while you cum on my cock again.”
You could barely form words, but you whimpered obediently between moans, voice slurred and cockdrunk. “Yours— it’s yours— Sukuna— please—!”
He fucked you harder, hips pistoning relentlessly, the heavy slap of his balls against your clit pushing you over the edge. You came with a shattered cry, walls clamping down around his thick length like a vice, pulsing and fluttering as another intense orgasm ripped through you. Slick gushed around his cock, soaking his thighs and the sheets beneath you.
Sukuna groaned loudly, the sound raw and feral. “Good fucking girl—”
He didn’t stop. He fucked you through your orgasm with deep, stuttering thrusts, hips snapping erratically as he chased his own release. With a final, powerful drive, he buried himself to the hilt and came hard. Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded deep inside you, pulse after heavy pulse filling you until you felt impossibly full, the warmth spreading through your core. He kept grinding slowly, rolling his hips in lazy circles to push every drop deeper, making sure you took all of him.
You could feel it leaking out around his thick cock — warm, sticky, and messy — dripping down your thighs and soaking the sheets beneath you.
Sukuna stayed buried deep inside you for a long moment, his massive body pressing you firmly into the mattress. His chest heaved against your back, hot, ragged breaths fanning across the side of your neck. The scent of sweat, sex, and his skin filled the air with every shaky inhale. One of his hands stroked slowly up and down your side, almost possessively, while the other stayed gripping your hip, fingers digging in like he still wasn’t ready to let go.
“…Not bad,” he muttered, voice hoarse and low against your ear. “For a little liar.”
He finally pulled out slowly, inch by thick inch. A heavy trickle of his cum immediately leaked from your abused, fluttering pussy, warm and obscene as it ran down your inner thighs. Sukuna let out a low, satisfied hum at the sight before he rolled you onto your back and collapsed beside you.
Without a word, he pulled you against his chest, one strong arm wrapping around you possessively. His skin was hot and slightly damp with sweat, his heartbeat still racing steadily under your cheek as he held you close.
His fingers traced lazy patterns on your skin as he caught his breath.
But he didn’t let go.
a\n: honestly didn't know how to end this but hope you enjoyed! likes and reblogs appreciated!!
ᢉ𐭩 fem!reader, nephew!yuji worries about you when you and unckuna have an argument
it was a friday afternoon, and you were tired of sukuna never listening to your words. you curled into yourself, desperate for warmth in your cold and lonely bed, with the silent house. something was wrong.
the door creaked open just a smidge, and tiny footsteps came in, along with soft sniffles and hiccups that came from what sounded like to be yuji.
when you looked down with your eyebrows furrowed, all of your irritation was driven away when a tear-stained yuji stood by the side of your bed. you could almost feel your heart breaking into millions of pieces as he gazed up at you with a pout, with his glossy eyes and with his hands that grabbed the covers.
“oh, yuji,” you cooed, then you picked him up by the armpits and sat him on your lap, “what’s wrong, baby?”
you could hardly hear his voice over his sobs, “do you- hic- not love hic- kuna anymwore?”
you wiped at his tears, “i still love him, yuji, we just need a couple of hours away from each other, you shouldn’t be worried about this stuff.”
“please don’t leave us! i’ll- i’ll miss you, and- hic- kuna looks at photos of you like-like all the time! you’re on his phone and he talks to me about you even though he- hic- told me not to tell you!” he wailed.
he babbled on and on, snot and tears soaked your shirt as he gripped the cloth in his little fists like he was scared you’d leave. it isn’t until you placed a small, reassuring kiss on his forehead that his sobs softened to sniffles.
“i’m not leaving you two, okay?” you whispered, then focused his glossy brown eyes.
he whimpered and nodded, but his head snapped toward the bedroom door when it creaked open. his little eyebrows furrowed as he clung on tighter to you when he saw sukuna in the doorway.
“no!” yuji exclaimed as sukuna began to step closer, then held an arm out to somehow protect you, “you made her sad!”
“that’s why i’m here to apologize, brat. leave so i can do this in private.” he argued, then rolled his eyes as he sat down on the bed next to you.
yuji grumbled and pushed him with all his might, but to no avail. “go away!” he shouted. sukuna only laughed, then gently pushed yuji as he toppled onto you.
but during a moment of silence, yuji still held onto you, then embraced you into a tiny but tight hug, and he still frowned at sukuna, while he tried his best to intimidate him.
“i didn’t mean what i said,” he mumbled, as he ashamedly looked down at the sheets, “i’m an asshole, i know that. but i’m trying to be better for you… and for this little runt here too.” he ruffled yuji’s messy hair, who huffed in protest. sukuna continued, “i’m sorry. i’ll be more considerate of your words next time,” he caressed your soft hand in his tattooed one.
yuji slowly looked back up at you with red around his eyes, “does this mean we can still have movie fridays after school?”he whispered.
“yes,” you smiled, “thank you for apologizing, kuna,” you murmured, “i love you.”
he reciprocated the words, and when you two left a kiss on each other’s lips, yuji let out a little ‘yuck!’ with a soft giggle.
suddenly, like a little boy his age who couldn’t focus on anything for more than five minutes, he ran out of the room and yelled, “i’m picking the movie!”
hope u guys like this! gonna work on another kuna requests… maybe hybrid tiger kuna
pls send in requests
trying to do more past tense, tell me if there’s any grammar mistakes besides capitalization
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ⋮ Your long term boyfriend, Hayato made a disgusting post about you on Reddit. I mean, who even thinks that it’s a good idea to put your name on a Reddit username? Your Reddit obsessed best friend sent you the post and it was closure to his already shitty attitude to begin with. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of crying and yelling — You just packed and left for good (not before you changed the Netflix account password though, and Spotify). When your now ex-boyfriend went batshit crazy after your departure, your best friend suggested her older brother to look after you.
Except, all he’s good at (probably) is studying and his looks.
𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 ⋮ suggestive content . no smut . real world au . gojo and reader are in their mid 20s . an implied gojo being a loser . fake dating . nerdjo is kinda arrogant bcs he knows he's smart . cursing . mentions of sex but no sex scenes bcs ur girl don't know how to write good smut . doesn't follow the jjk plot at all . SLOW UPDATES . tba .
𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯
OOO. CHAT, AM I THE ASSHOLE?
OO1. INTRODUCING, GOJO SATORU
OO2. GOJO SATORU SAYS "NO"
OO3. GOJO SATORU SAYS "YES"
OO4. HAYATO CRASHOUT
OO5. SUSPICIOUS PURCHASES
OO6. HAYATO'S GRAND ENTRANCE
OO7. DESSERT BAR SHENNANIGANS
OO8. MATCHING POKEMON KEYCHAINS
OO9. RAIN, RAIN GO AWAY? NO, SICK, SICK GO AWAY.
O1O. ONE BED, TWO PEOPLE?
O11. IT'S RAINING THUNDER
O12. NEW NUMBER, THIS IS SHE
O13. SO, YOU'RE (NAME)?
O14. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SATORU
O15. SATORU'S SPECIAL DAY
O16. SHE'S A KEEPER!
O17. KEPT ON DELIVERED
O18. UNINVITED APPEARANCE
O19. PERMISSION TO CONTINUE
TBA
𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯
gojo dealing with his students after they saw your messages during class ⸝⸝ TBA
you and sukuna are just two young college kids raising yuji
note: this is not plagiarized, it's a repost + extended version of a drabble i had (and got marked mature for literally no reason) no warnings, just fluffy unc!kuna <3
yuji goes down easy tonight. that alone feels like a miracle.
you tuck the blanket up under his chin, smoothing his hair back while he blinks sleepily at you, already halfway gone. the nightlight casts a warm glow over his room, softening the edges of everything. his breathing evens out quick, small chest rising and falling like he trusts the world enough to let go for a few hours.
“night, buddy,” you whisper.
he hums something that might be goodnight, or might just be a dream starting.
you shut the door quietly and lean your forehead against it for a second, exhaling. the apartment is dim now, hushed except for the distant hum of traffic outside and the low buzz of the fridge. the day finally feels over.
sukuna’s already in bed when you slip into the room. shirt off, sheets kicked halfway down, hair still damp from the shower. he looks tired—edges worn down, shoulders relaxed. when you crawl in beside him, he shifts without thinking, arm coming around you, pulling you in close.
you fit there easily. like this is where you’re supposed to be.
for a brief, quiet moment, it feels like just the two of you. the lights are low. the room is warm. his thumb traces absentminded lines against your arm. you close your eyes, letting yourself sink into the calm of it.
then—a soft knock. followed by a hesitant little voice. “…can i sleep with you guys?”
you and sukuna freeze. you both sigh at the exact same time. you glance at each other in the dark, sharing that look resigned, already smiling. sukuna scrubs a hand down his face, then pushes himself up slightly.
“yeah,” he calls gently. “c’mon.”
the door creaks open and yuji pads in, blanket dragging behind him, eyes heavy but hopeful. he climbs up between you without hesitation, like it was never a question. like this has always been allowed. he curls in close, pressing his face into your side with a sleepy little huff.
“thanks,” he mumbles.
sukuna pulls the covers up around all three of you. you shift just enough to make room, one hand resting protectively on yuji’s back. his breathing slows almost immediately, comforted by the closeness.
the room settles again. sukuna leans his forehead against yours, voice low. “guess that’s that.”
you smile, eyes closing. “yeah.”
and honestly? you wouldn’t trade it.
yuji wakes up before either of you are ready for the day.
it starts with feet. small, relentless feet kicking under the blankets like he’s trying to escape. you groan into the pillow, barely conscious, one arm reaching out blindly until your hand lands on sukuna’s chest. he makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a threat.
“he’s doing it again,” you mumble.
“he’s fermenting,” sukuna says. “if we ignore him long enough he’ll evolve.”
yuji giggles. immediately louder.
“i’m awake!” he announces, like this is news you asked for.
you peel one eye open. light leaks in through the blinds, pale and early, outlining the mess of limbs in the bed. yuji is sitting up now, hair sticking out in every direction, blanket bunched around his waist.
“what time is it?” he asks.
“too early,” sukuna says flatly. “go back to sleep.”
yuji kicks him. sukuna grabs the blanket and yanks it back with exaggerated offense.
“hey,” he says. “you don’t pay rent.”
yuji grins. “neither do you.”
you snort despite yourself, rolling onto your back. “okay, okay. up. i have class in twenty.”
that gets yuji moving. he slides off the bed and pads down the hall, already talking about cereal and cartoons and whether today is a backpack day or a lunchbox day. you sit up slower, rubbing sleep from your eyes.
sukuna watches you for a second before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “you know,” he says casually, “most people our age wake up hungover. not… like this.”
you glance at him. “jealous?”
“deeply,” he deadpans.
the apartment fills with morning noise in layers. cabinet doors. running water. yuji narrating his entire existence from the bathroom. you move around each other without thinking—him reaching over you for a mug, you nudging his hip out of the way with your knee. he corrects yuji’s shirt like it’s an insult that it was wrinkled in the first place.
“what is this,” he mutters. “are you trying to embarrass me?”
yuji sticks his tongue out. “you’re not my dad.”
“tragic,” sukuna says. “for both of us.”
and it’s stupid, and silly, and familiar—but then there’s a moment.
you’re standing in the doorway, watching them. sukuna crouched down, tying yuji’s shoes with surprising patience. yuji talking nonstop, hands flying, entirely at ease. sukuna listening, actually listening, even as he complains under his breath.
it hits you all at once how much work it took to get here.
how this didn’t come naturally. how he used to be sharp-edged, impatient, all teeth and ego. how he had to learn how to soften without losing himself. how he did it anyway. how he shows up every morning like this, half-awake and fully present.
he glances up and catches you staring.
“what,” he says. “do i have something on my face?”
you shake your head. “no.”
“then stop looking at me like that,” he adds, teasing. “it’s weird.”
you smile and turn back to the counter, but the feeling lingers.
by the time you’re out the door, backpacks slung over shoulders and keys almost forgotten, the apartment already looks lived-in again. bed unmade. a cereal spoon abandoned in the sink. proof of a morning survived.
yuji skips ahead down the walkway, chanting something unintelligible. sukuna walks beside you, bumping your shoulder with his.
“we’re doing okay,” he says, like it’s a joke. like it isn’t.
you don’t answer. you don’t need to. you just walk a little closer.
campus feels louder than it should.
people your age everywhere, moving fast, laughing too hard, complaining about exams and parties and things that feel strangely distant now. you walk through it with your bag slung over your shoulder, phone clutched in your hand like a lifeline, already checking the time without realizing you’re doing it.
you catch yourself thinking in increments. how long until pickup. how long until dinner. how long until everyone’s back under the same roof again.
it’s weird, the way your life reorganized itself without asking permission. how your schedule bent around someone else’s needs. how it doesn’t feel like a sacrifice so much as a shift—like furniture being moved until the room finally makes sense.
you sit through lecture half-present, notes scattered and messy, professor’s voice fading in and out. your mind drifts back to the morning. to yuji’s laugh. to sukuna crouched on the floor, laces between his fingers, complaining the entire time but never once stopping.
you think about who he used to be. sharp. impatient. allergic to responsibility. you think about who he is now—still teasing, still condescending, still impossible—but steady. reliable. someone yuji trusts enough to sleep between at night.
someone you trust enough to build a life around.
your phone buzzes. a text from sukuna.
he asked if dinosaurs could be real again. said to tell you.
you smile to yourself, thumb hovering over the screen before you reply.
only if they behave, you type back.
a few seconds later:
then no. we’re doomed.
you tuck your phone away and lean back in your chair, whatever this is—whatever you’ve made together—it’s holding. it’s real. and for the first time all day, you’re not counting the minutes anymore.
you already know where you’re going back to.
dinner happens in pieces.
not all at once, not neatly. noodles in mismatched bowls. a pot left on the stove a little too long. sukuna complaining about the cost of groceries while adding extra egg anyway. yuji narrating his entire day between bites, swinging his legs where they don’t quite reach the floor.
you catch fragments more than full sentences. a math quiz. a kid at recess. something about a bug. sukuna reacts to each one like it’s a personal affront, scoffing and asking follow-up questions like he’s cross-examining a witness.
“and what did you learn from this exactly,” he says, pointing his chopsticks.
yuji thinks hard. “that bugs are gross.”
“correct,” sukuna says. “no notes.”
by the time the bowls are empty, the apartment looks like it always does after a long day—comfortable, a little wrecked. yuji ends up on the couch with his homework spread out, papers sliding off the cushions. you sit beside him, helping with spelling while sukuna hovers nearby pretending not to care.
“that’s wrong,” he says from across the room.
yuji glares. “you didn’t even look.”
“i can feel when it’s wrong.”
you roll your eyes. “ignore him.”
“i am a victim in this household,” sukuna mutters, grabbing a towel to wipe the counter.
homework stretches on longer than it should. yuji yawns through the last problem, letters wobbling across the page. you guide his hand gently, praising him when he finishes. he beams like he just won something.
“can i stay up a little?” he asks.
you glance at the clock. then at sukuna.
“absolutely not,” sukuna says immediately.
“traitor,” yuji whispers to you.
you laugh and usher him toward the bathroom, bedtime routine unfolding like muscle memory. teeth brushed. pajamas on. one more glass of water. one more question. one more story you swear will be the last.
when yuji finally settles into bed, it feels quieter than it did this morning. you sit on the edge while sukuna stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching.
“night,” yuji says, already sinking.
“night,” you echo.
sukuna flicks the light off, softer than you’d expect.
later, back in your room, the day catches up to you all at once. you kick off your shoes, stretch out under the covers, exhaustion settling into your bones. sukuna joins you a moment later, closer than he needs to be, warmth familiar.
the door doesn’t open this time. no knock. no small voice. just quiet.
you lie there, listening to the apartment breathe around you—the hum of the fridge, the distant traffic, the soft certainty that tomorrow will look a lot like today.
Thinking about shy virgin!Reader finally ready to have sex with her boyfriend!Sukuna.
You two have been dating for a month and to everyone's surprise Sukuna has been patient enough to wait until you were ready to go to the next level.
And one day you decided you finally were. You wanted to give yourself to him completely.
And you found the perfect opportunity when he invited you over to his place to stay the night.
You did your best to prepare. Read up on what to expect, how to please him and how to tell him you were ready. Your mind was racing at all the advice especially the one's that said you should say it outright to him.
You were never good with words so you decided on the other option.
And that was purchasing a red lacy lingerie set and surprising him with it. You blushed profusely as you slipped it on before putting on a loose sundress on top of it, clutching your bag and making your way to his house.
(Too lazy to not use bullet points sorry)
You surprised him before the two of you were getting ready for bed. When Sukuna stepped out of the shower, towel loosely around his waist while he used the another one to dry his hair. He looked over to you and said "Shower's free."
But he noticed how nervous and shy you looked. He slung the towel over his shoulder and walked over to you, cracking a smug smile your way. "Hm? What's got my woman all nervous?" He teases you tenderly as arms wrap around you and he presses his lips against yours.
But you place your hands on his chest to gently push yourself away. Your heart is beating wildly as you just stand there. He raises his eyebrow at you but then he watches as your shaking hands grab the edges of your dress, pulling it up and taking it off.
And his heart skips a beat when he sees you there, in red lacy lingerie. You refused to meet his eyes, hugging yourself nervously and you're sure your blush is as red as what you're wearing.
But then Sukuna pulls you in his arms. His red eyes gazing at you with want, hunger and affection as he whispers "Let me make you mine." And kisses you.
It's hot and passionate. You gasp, your hands finding purchase on his broad shoulders. While his one hand is planted firmly on your back, the other rest on the curve of your ass. You felt your knees growing weak, head spinning at how he was kissing you.
He presses you down on his mattress. He doesn't take off the lingerie. Instead, sliding your panties aside with one hand. His tongue lapping at your cunt hungrily while his other hand slides up to cup and fondle your clothed breast. You mewl and gasp, fingers buried into his hair.
Sukuna who doesn't let you return the favour. The moment he slips off the towel, revealing his hard cock, you shyly reach for it. But he pulls your hand away with a chuckle. "No, sweet thing. Tonight's only about you."
He takes you gently, completely the opposite of how he did with his past flings who he'd prefer to either take from behind or let them ride him so he could laze on the bed and let them do all the work. But, no. He's on top of you, gazing down at your face with those fiery red eyes. One hand stroking your cheek while the other spreading your legs wide as he slowly slips inside you.
He lets you instruct him. He doesn't move until you tell him to. Doesn't pick up the pace until you moan for him too. But when you finally tell him to go harder and faster, he let's go and fucks you deep and hard.
All you can do is cling to him tightly and moan for him, overwhelmed as all your senses are just surrounded by him. By Sukuna. "S'kuna! Can't...! C-Close...! I'm close!" And he's panting too because finally he has you.
"Cum for me, sweet girl... Cum on my cock." He growls into your ear and groans when he feels you tightening on him, finally reaching your orgasm. "Fuuuck—That's it—that's my girl."
Sukuna who let's you rest after the first round. Who holds you close, arms securely wrapped around you. You simply giggle and snuggle into his broad chest, tired but so content and so happy. You feel like you're closer to him than before.
And somewhere along the way your cuddle session turns into another round. But this time your lingerie is discarded. You're both laying on your sides and he's behind you, his broad chest pressing against your back. One hand lifting up your leg as he fucks you deeply. His other hand coming down to lazily pinch and play with your clit while his mouth leaves marks on your neck and shoulder.
And for the first time in his life, Sukuna actually engages in aftercare. Bringing you a glass of water and some snacks, cleaning you up, holding you close and stroking your hair. He talks to you. Asks you how it all felt and how you're feeling. And you've never felt so loved in your life than you have at that very moment.
Sukuna, too, has never felt like this before. You've changed him and he's come to realize that you've changed him for the better.
you flinch when you feel the sharp rows of bone sink into the flesh of your shoulder. your afternoon weekend reading halted by a little visitor come crawling into your nook.
kyros blinks up at you, eyes almost glowing with mirth as the little bit of dribble drips from the corner of his mouth onto your skin.
you raise a curious brow. “angel? why are we biting mama?”
he peels his lips back into a mischievous grin, bearing sharp tiny teeth in pink gums, clamping down more. you frown, “kyros! ouch!”
“aaa!” he gasps, eyes watering already at your expression of pain. he crawls into your arms, asking desperately to be held. he didn’t mean to hurt, he just wanted to… bite. “sowwi, mama! i sowwi!”
what’s the matter with him? you wonder as you push his lips back, spotting a growing sharp tooth to the right of his incisors. you rub on the gum where the irregular canine emerges with your thumb and he whimpers in discomfort.
“that’s new,” you murmur, checking if the other side has one too. it does not. “does it hurt?”
“bit.” he holds his fingers up to imitate a pinch. “want bite.”
you haven’t heard that in a while. not since they’d started growing in their baby teeth and you’d taught them how to ask for something to bite on instead of attacking you the exact way he just did. your heart twinges, seeing the look on his face.
“maybe we need your rubber teethy again,” you suggest, wondering if it’s still in the fridge. it had been his best friend when he was growing his teeth, you didn’t think he’d need it again.
kyros nods at the suggestion. “or pop-tickle?”
“sure, baby,” his cheeks are peppered with gentle kisses, soothing his discomfort with your understanding. forgetting about the bite that bruises almost completely.
but it is curious how a tooth can emerge sharp and painful, asymmetrical and just out of nowhere. this one didn’t get to grow in his first set of baby teeth, and now it crowds its way between those already there.
you worry if it’s just him, it it hurts more than he lets on. you’d want to help as much as you can, of course. “papa should know about this too.”
kyros nods, circling arms around your neck to be carried down to the kitchen.
you start to call for sylus to tell him the news, bellowing down the halls, “sy—!”
where a resounding “ow!” echoes back just in time. “lucian!”
“woosian has toof too.” kyros whispers, thinking it a good time to tell you.
you nod in understanding, making the turn into the kitchen rather than continuing on to the study. waiting just a few seconds until your husband and child arrive with the same intentions.
sylus takes one look at you and kyros, sets lucian down on the counter beside his twin and pulls down the sleeve of your shirt to reveal the circular indent of teeth with one very prominent deep notch.
he clicks his tongue in distaste. a finger boops kyros’s nose, and reveals his own battle scar to you, so graciously gifted by your other snaggle-toothed son.
he grins, revealing his own set of incriminating fangs and says to you. “guess we match.”
Your parents think Gojo is your gay bff — if only they knew he’s been folding you like laundry behind closed doors ;)
“Honey, are you two okay in there?”
“We’re just fine, mom!”
“And Gojo?”
Smiling like the Cheshire Cat, he winks at you before he replies, “We’re fabulous. Don’t worry your pretty self about us!”
She giggles through the bathroom door. “Okay, but make sure you get her to shave her mustache too, sweetie. She’s not as keen on feminine hygiene as we are. Work her hard in there.” Ouch?
“Oh, trust me girl, I’m working her real hard.”
How she hasn’t figured out by now that your ‘gay’ best friend isn’t as gay as she thinks, you will never know. It seems so obvious — the constant sleepovers, the wearing his shirt, how touchy he was even to their face, and how he’d be sporting a boner when you entered his line of vision. But who are you to complain?
At least your parents’ obliviousness means you two can have as much sex in your house as you’d like. For example, right now, when he’s balls deep inside your pussy in the bathroom, fucking you against the cold tiles with the excuse of a ‘DIY spa-day’ as your cover.
Swallowing your moans, he kisses you until you’re dizzy and desperate for air. Every thrust, every grind of his pelvis to your clit, every throb of his cock inside your gummy walls, drives you wild. But you have to be quiet, have to not let the squelch! squelch! of your mixing juices bleed through the door, and give away your little secret. And it's oh so hard when he's fucking you oh so good.
Naturally, it was his idea — something about the sneaking around and deceiving everyone turned him on endlessly. The way he could make you cum through your panties under the dinner table with his foot as he chatted with your dad about taking him shopping, or fingering you under the blankets when watching Barbie for the hundredth time, and how he could actually come inside the dressing rooms in stores with your mother right outside, not knowing his tongue was exploring your pussy. And you won’t lie, it's pretty damn hot to be so obvious whilst everyone is none the wiser.
“Slay, boots down houston I’m -ngh- d-deceased,” he says through gritted teeth, his tip gliding past your walls and prodding that spot inside that has you creaming harder on his cock. “This pretty pussy never fails to -fuuuuck loosen up baby gonna make me cum early- to m-make my problems sashay away.”
Nails digging into his slippery back, you groan. “Shut up, Satoru. Seriously.”
He chuckles against your neck, hot breath tickling the sensitive skin. “Just method acting, babe. Respect the craft.”
Your father’s voice sounds out through the pleasurable haze. “How are my two queens doing in there? Can I say queens?”
Gojo snickers before he forces his own voice into an ear-splitting high pitched tone, still rutting into your sopping cunt. “You can say whatever you want, daddykins — we’re almost done.”
The older man laughs before he pads away and you two resume your animalistic, uninhibited fucking. Your own wetness is dripping down your thighs. His mouth is wrapping around your nipple, flicking the bud with the tip of his tongue. And they have no clue — it’s kinda embarrassing to have parents so airheaded but you love them dearly, just not enough to be honest it would seem.
Only after you both cum, shuddering against each other with long, quiet moans, do you finally ask, “Do gay men even say ‘daddykins’?”
He grins.
“This gay does.”
This might be offensive but my fr gay best friend gave me the go ahead so woke fiends don't come knocking at my door!
ryomen sukuna would never admit it—not even under threat of death, but he notices everything about you. not in an obvious, clingy way, and definitely not in a way he’d ever let you catch him doing. it’s quiet, subtle. the kind of attention that slips in under the door and settles into his skin before he realizes it’s there.
the first time you’re running late, you barely register his presence at all. you’re rushing around your apartment like a storm, half-dressed and frazzled, muttering curses at your missing water bottle. and then suddenly it’s just… in your hand. you blink, confused, and look up to see sukuna leaning against your door frame, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“you always forget it,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious fact in the world.
you don’t remember telling him that.
the next time comes when you’re tired—exhausted-wanted-to-quit-life tired—lying face-down on your couch with a headache pounding behind your eyes. you think you’re alone until there’s a gentle clink on the coffee table beside you. a small bottle of the exact painkillers you always buy. unopened and waiting.
you lift your head sluggishly.
sukuna shrugs, avoiding your eyes. “you get headaches when you don’t sleep enough,” he mutters. “didn’t think you’d notice if i left it there.”
you always do.
there’s the day you come home stressed, bags under your eyes, backpack digging into your shoulder. you drop your keys twice because your hands are trembling with how overwhelmed you feel. you’re trying not to cry, you really are—but the burn in your throat is getting harder to swallow.
and right when you’re about to crumble, there he is. leaning in your kitchen doorway. watching you quietly, softness flickering behind the usual sharpness in his gaze. before you can hide your shaking hands, he steps forward, plucks the keys from your fingers, places them gently on the counter, and says, “sit down. i’ll heat up your food.”
you freeze. sukuna cooking for you should be a crime against the natural order—but he moves around your kitchen like he’s done it a hundred times, muttering under his breath about how you “never eat before you start breaking down” and “you should really get your shit together.”
you know what he really means. you can hear it in the space between his words.
and then there are the smallest things—the ones that stay with you the longest. he keeps a hoodie in his closet because it’s the one you always borrow. he uses your laundry detergent scent because you once said his smelled harsh. he knocks on your door exactly two minutes before your alarm goes off on exam days because he knows you never wake on the first ring. he buys your favorite fruit without you asking. he knows which mug you like. he knows which side of the bed you gravitate to when you’re half-asleep.
he knows you, and he never, ever says it. not until the night you finally catch him slipping. he hands you a small bag—your favorite comfort snack inside—nd you say, with a teasing smile, “you’re really good at remembering things. it’s kinda cute.”
he stiffens. looks away so fast it’s almost comical. mutters something that sounds like a threat but feels like a deflection. “don’t say shit like that,” he grumbles, ears faintly red. “i just pay attention.”
you step closer, softening. “to everyone?”
he looks at you then—unguarded for just a sec. “no,” he says quietly. “just you.”
and before the silence can hang too long between you, he flicks your forehead and adds, “don’t get cocky. it’s annoying.” but he’s smiling. and you’re warm all over.
if looks could kill, 14,233 people in kuna's chat would be reduced to oily stains against their crummy couches and sweaty sheets. there's nothing like telling a group of parasocial idiots that he doesn't owe them shit like staring dead-on in the staticky, dark camera — eyes half lidded and barely holding onto mercy as his chat flies twenty miles an hour.
on his headset, laughter cracks through a shitty, cheap mic: "give the people what they want, man."
"chat, it's like you want to get called slurs—
now, kuna won't say it, but he is expecting to make at least four thousand off this stream tonight as he jumps around a fortnite server, waiting for the lobby to load in with the scrambling idiots around him.
naoya's droning on and on in his ear, interacting more with his chat than kuna ever really does. he's scowling towards the screen, crimson eyes reflecting the cheery blues and greens of the pixelated landscape on his second monitor.
"—like two years since kuna's got a victory royale."
"was not two fucking years ago, you idiot." he drones, hissing in the receiver as fan service. he's not stupid, and he certainly didn't get so successful by being modest and nice. no, his audience is a bunch of touch-deprived women and pre-pubescent boys. there is no in between, just like his mood at any given second.
"one and a half if you're asking me on a good day... someone in chat said he has a tally — pull it out, man! put it in the discord!"
the two load into their match — kuna keeping his eyes on his gaming screen as his chat rolls with a vengeance. viewers spike with pre-battle, and he reaches to his side, sighing as his duo-partner spouts nothingness in his ear that he just blocks out.
for their last match on, he has to make it count. that thought crosses his mind once he marks their location in the city, choosing all or nothing because he doesn't crave peace. kuna wants to land and start killing immediately.
footsteps on the ground, naoya stubbornly lands somewhere behind him, falling short and falling too quickly for where sukuna marked. chat doesn't even let him breathe — deciding the annoyance's neck is one easily digestible. naoya fights for his life daily, knowing his gaming skills can never hold a flame to his firecracker mouth.
kuna, however, drops down and loads up without muttering a word, eyes flicking from chat every few seconds as it rolls by. donos roll in on his dashboard, all urging him in: PLEASE READ or can you say happy birthday to-
"if you ask me to say happy birthday one more time, you're getting banned." he deadpans, watching as the dono gets buried in real time by even more. "dumbass, you sent like fifty donos asking the same question, you're worthless."
the proxy chat explodes around him and naoya as they regroup in a basement house, crouching and shielding when a duo swings open the door, heavy footsteps thumping in his ear.
naoya speaks, giving their presence away before sukuna can reload his pump. "fuck—
hearing the proxy static of naoya's voice, another player chirps, "wait, where are they?"
"you— i hope they assassinate you, dickhead... waste of space." kuna clicks around on his pc setup, fingers lost to his audience, and lost on him with the speed they harness. sometimes he forgets he was an early tournament leader.
then, he hears you. "wait, don't kill them—
'here, take this small pot,' your teammate's voice is equally as soft in contrast — dragging and lazy like only a girl that knows what she's doing can pitch. 'these dudes, look.'
"it's a girl. a duo of girls? fuck, let's just shoot each other." naoya speaks through closed teeth, tense-bodied as he prepares to fight against his better reasoning.
not quite talking to him, not quite talking to you, your teammate speaks into the proxy: 'he's a dick, we have to.'
"no!" you chirp, and kuna cannot hide that look on his face when you and your duo's avatars scurry down the steps, not even flinching when naoya builds up in wood around them.
"fuck off, wait," kuna actually stops, swinging out his polished katana axe to demolish the structure. you in your stupid ass razor skin, t-bagging him in his territory that he scouted before your grabby hands came along.
from your line, your voice cracks out, "wait, don't kill us. lets just join up."
naoya starts, "we don't need women—
"shut the fuck up!!!" kuna yells, voice booming through the proxy so deafeningly that your teammate breaks out into hysterical laughter, drawing every single surrounding team your way. "he doesn't ever shut the fuck up — god,"
'cheap ass skin, you're a loser.'
"they can join." kuna decides on a whim, flipping through his inventory — throwing you a mini-pot when your hp shows up on his screen. naoya's on ten shield, twenty health — now you're on fifty shield, a hundred health.
what can he say? kuna looks out for those who look out for him.
satoru always said that to his baby. any time the smallest of the clan was in the grasp of their father, it was the same thing. but how couldn’t he.
with the chubby legs, small hands, and their cheeks— satoru could just bite them. hence his words.
and he would.
and your child? in giggles. their fit would put you into a fit yourself. the sound contagious as your husband would pretend to bite them. your stomach aching from how much you were laughing.
“mmph—” there it was.
a squeal following after. giggles and more giggles as satoru continued to nibble on the rolls of their arms up to their neck and onto their cheeks.
he pulled away to look at his child’s face. matching eyes stared back as baby leaned in and— mmph. you laughed. satoru’s nose scrunched at the contact before laughing himself.
your baby’s gummy mouth on his cheek as they cooed— pulling back with a strand of drool to follow. “you’re just like daddy, huh?” you ask wiping the wet patch on your husbands cheek before wiping your child’s mouth.
“obviously.” satoru grinned before num num nming on his kid.
to love a girl who lives like the world is ending every day
feat. nanami kento
summary. a quiet man meets a girl who treats every minor inconvenience like divine punishment. his life once moved in order — neat, clean, predictable — until hers crashed into it like champagne and thunder. she cries over bruised fruit, curses mascara, throws tantrums over breakfast, and calls him heartless for not panicking. he sighs, bandages her finger, fixes her hair, and takes her out anyway. it’s the story of one calm man and his spoiled, unhinged girlfriend; of chaos and patience tangled into something that almost looks like love.
triggers/warnings. non-sorcerer au, college au, domestic chaos, spoiled rich girlfriend x patient boyfriend, gentle boyfriend x unhinged girlfriend, slowburn fluff, modern slice of life, emotional support man nanami kento, brat tamer nanami kento, dramatic girlfriend behavior, overreaction as a love language, soft arguments, comedic tantrums, mascara-related tragedy, minor injuries & major meltdowns, luxury problems, everyday near-death experiences, clingy girlfriend, quiet devotion, comforting her through the chaos, calm man / dramatic woman dynamic, dramatic monologues at 2am, love through exasperation, unspoken tenderness, bandages & forehead kisses, pillow talk vulnerability, “you’ll live” but make it romantic, soft domestic intimacy, healing through patience, he sighs she cries they cuddle anyway.
episode i : in which i am struck by fever and the unbearable tenderness of being loved while dying beautifully
the fever hits like divine punishment, cruel and theatrical, exactly how you imagine dying would feel if death itself had a flair for drama. your room—your oversized, silk-draped, chandelier-lit room—feels like an oven, and you’re sprawled on the bed, surrounded by crumpled tissues, three half-empty water bottles, and your phone lying on your chest like a lifeline.
you’ve already called nanami three times in the past hour, crying that you might not make it through the night, that he needs to come over now, and you don’t care if he’s in class or saving orphans or solving world hunger—you’re dying.
you can almost hear the disbelief in his sigh when he finally picks up. you’re not dying, he said, calm as ever, before you started wailing about your will and how you want him to inherit your favorite perfume collection because he’s the only one who truly appreciates your taste. you don’t even remember what he said next because you hung up dramatically after that, crying into your pillow just to prove a point.
and now, ten minutes later, you hear his car outside.
you roll onto your side, pulling the blanket dramatically over your head, whispering to yourself like some tragic heroine. “he’ll regret not coming sooner when i’m gone.”
the door opens. his footsteps echo through the marble floor of the hallway, the quiet authority in his stride irritatingly familiar. then comes the faint knock on your bedroom door—because even now, he’s polite enough to knock—and his voice, steady, level, patient, the voice of a man who’s seen too much of your nonsense but still shows up anyway.
“i’m coming in.”
you sniff loudly, ensuring he hears, then groan weakly, just for effect.
when he steps inside, he’s still in his college clothes—slacks, crisp white shirt, tie loosened, a coat draped over one arm. his hair’s slightly tousled from the wind, glasses fogged from the heat of your room, and you almost hate how composed he looks while you’re a beautiful wreck melting into your satin sheets.
he pauses at the foot of the bed, eyes scanning the disaster that is your bedside table—thermometer, medicine left untouched, half a bowl of soup your housekeeper left earlier that you refused because “it smells medicinal.”
you peek at him from under the blanket, sniffling. “you took your sweet time.”
“i broke multiple traffic laws getting here,” he replies dryly, walking over to set his coat on the chair.
“well,” you say, voice soft and pitiful, “i could’ve been dead by now.”
“clearly, you’re not.”
you throw the blanket off dramatically, revealing your disheveled hair and flushed face, wearing one of his oversized shirts that you stole from his closet weeks ago. “you don’t even look concerned,” you say, eyes glistening with exaggerated pain.
“i am concerned,” he says, taking off his watch and setting it neatly on the nightstand. “you called me thirteen times.”
“because you didn’t sound worried enough the first twelve!” you cry, pointing at him with a trembling hand.
he doesn’t respond. instead, he reaches out, presses his palm to your forehead. his hand is cool, steady, and you lean into it immediately, eyes closing, sighing like a martyr.
“you’re burning,” he murmurs, his tone quieter now.
you hum dramatically. “see? i told you i was dying.”
“it’s a fever,” he says. “you’ll be fine.”
you groan, throwing your head back on the pillow. “fine? fine? i’m sweating like i just ran a marathon and i can’t even breathe properly! i might as well start writing my eulogy.”
he shakes his head, moves to the edge of the bed, and sits beside you. the mattress dips slightly under his weight, and you immediately reach for him, curling your fingers into his sleeve, tugging weakly.
“stay,” you mumble. “don’t move.”
“i wasn’t planning to.”
you sniff, looking up at him with watery eyes. “good. because if you leave, i’ll haunt you.”
he tilts his head, amused. “even after death, you’d still be dramatic.”
“don’t mock the dying,” you whisper gravely, clutching his wrist.
“you’re not—” he stops himself, sighs, then gently pries your hand from his arm only to tuck it under the blanket. “have you eaten?”
“no. i can’t eat. my throat feels like sandpaper.”
“you need to take your medicine.”
“no.”
“you’ll get worse if you don’t.”
“then i’ll get worse.”
he exhales slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose, but there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—he’s fighting a smile. you see it, and it makes you push harder, because you live to crack that stoic façade.
“you’re supposed to feed me,” you murmur, voice small, batting your lashes.
he looks at you for a long moment, then stands, grabbing the tray from the nightstand. “you can’t even sit up, can you?”
you pout. “no. i’m weak. fragile. helpless.”
he raises an eyebrow. “you managed to scream into the phone for ten minutes straight.”
“that was my final burst of strength,” you say solemnly. “i’m fading now.”
he sets the tray down, adjusts the pillows behind you, and helps you sit up with one arm around your shoulders. you melt into him instantly, cheek pressed against his chest, sighing softly.
“you smell good,” you mumble, fingers curling into his shirt. “you always smell good. it’s annoying.”
he ignores that, scooping a spoonful of soup and holding it near your mouth. “open.”
you narrow your eyes suspiciously. “what is it?”
“soup.”
“but what kind?”
“the kind that will help you get better.”
“so poison.”
his expression stays painfully neutral, but you hear the faintest exhale of laughter. “eat.”
you take a small sip, grimace dramatically. “ugh. it tastes like depression.”
“that’s called nutrition.”
“i hate it.”
“i know.”
you glare up at him, pouting even as you take another spoonful just to please him. he’s annoyingly gentle, blowing on the soup before each spoonful, making sure you don’t burn your tongue. you keep muttering things under your breath—complaints, declarations, vague threats—but he just hums, unbothered, like he’s immune to your nonsense.
“you’re so calm it’s infuriating,” you mumble between spoonfuls. “don’t you ever get emotional?”
“you’re emotional enough for both of us.”
you smack his thigh weakly with your hand. “you’re mean.”
“and yet, you called me.”
you stare at him for a second, then grin weakly. “because you’re the only one i trust with my dramatic death.”
he shakes his head, finishing the last spoonful before setting the bowl down. “you should rest.”
“don’t leave,” you murmur again, tugging at his sleeve.
he sighs, but lies down beside you, his arm slipping easily around your waist as you shift closer, pressing your burning cheek against his shoulder. your eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, you’re quiet.
“you’re warm,” you whisper. “it’s comforting.”
“that’s because you have a fever.”
“no, it’s because you’re comforting.”
he doesn’t answer, only tightens his arm around you. you smile, eyes still closed, fingers playing with his tie.
“you should marry me,” you mumble, half asleep.
“you’re delirious.”
“maybe, but i’d look really good with your last name.”
he hums softly, and you can tell he’s smiling even if you can’t see it. “sleep.”
you do—eventually. half curled against him, half sprawled like a defeated queen, your fevered breathing softening as he keeps his hand on your back, steady, patient. and when the night grows quieter and the rain starts tapping against the windows, he brushes his thumb across your temple, whispering something under his breath—something you’re too far gone to hear—before pulling the blanket up to your chin.
and in your dreams, you’re still dramatic, still dying, still clinging to him like your last breath depends on it. but in the morning, when you wake up and find him still there, sitting by your bedside with his glasses low on his nose and a book in hand, you smile lazily and whisper, “told you i’d survive.”
he looks up, his mouth curving faintly. “unfortunately, yes.”
you grin, voice hoarse but smug. “you missed me?”
he closes his book, leans over, and kisses your forehead. “always.”
episode ii : on the tragedy of my broken leg, and the cruelty of a world that expects me to heal
you swear the world has ended. you swear your life is over. it’s been exactly one day since your leg got wrapped in a cast, and you’re convinced you’ll never walk again. the sky outside is blue, the birds are singing, and you hate every second of it. your mansion-sized bedroom has turned into a battlefield—pillows thrown, water bottles rolling on the floor, remote somewhere under the bed because you threw it when netflix dared to buffer for five seconds. you’re sprawled on your ridiculously oversized bed, leg propped up on a mountain of silk pillows, and you are suffering.
“kento,” you groan dramatically, voice echoing off the high ceiling like a dying actress in an opera, “i can’t live like this.”
you hear footsteps in the hallway, calm and even, like he’s walking into an exam rather than your personal apocalypse. the door opens quietly, and there he is—nanami kento, the picture of composure, wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, tie slightly loose, hair perfectly neat like life hasn’t just been torn apart by your tragedy. he looks at you for three seconds, scanning the mess that surrounds you, then sighs.
“you’re not dying,” he says, setting a tray of food down on the nightstand.
you lift your head off the pillow, glaring. “says the man with two functioning legs.”
he blinks, unimpressed. “it’s a fracture.”
“it’s disfigurement, kento.” you flop back down dramatically, clutching the blanket like you’re in mourning. “i’ll never be able to wear heels again. or dance. or run away from my problems. i’m a crippled woman now.”
he hums quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed. “the doctor said you’ll be walking again in six weeks.”
“six weeks?” you nearly shriek, sitting up only for the pain to shoot through your leg, and you grab his arm instantly, groaning. “that’s practically forever! i’ll wither away before then.”
“you’ll heal,” he says simply, reaching over to fix the pillows behind your back.
you narrow your eyes, clutching his sleeve. “you’re being awfully calm for someone whose girlfriend is now permanently disabled.”
he raises an eyebrow. “you’re not permanently disabled.”
“how do you know?” you snap, voice wobbling. “what if it heals wrong? what if i limp forever? what if i start walking weird and people call me names behind my back?”
“no one’s going to call you names.”
you gasp dramatically. “you think they won’t, but people are cruel, kento. cruel. i’ll be pitied. i’ll have to start wearing flats. do you realize what that’ll do to my image?”
he presses a hand to his forehead, exhaling slowly, like he’s silently counting to ten. “you’ll survive.”
“easy for you to say,” you mutter, crossing your arms. “you’ve never known real pain. you’ve never known the agony of not being able to storm off during an argument.”
his lips twitch like he’s fighting back a smile. “you can still throw things. that’s one of your talents.”
you gasp again, scandalized. “you’re mocking me.”
“i’m stating a fact.”
“you’re heartless.”
“i brought you breakfast.”
“you’re trying to buy my silence.”
he doesn’t answer, just lifts the tray toward you, neatly plated with omelets, toast, and fruit. your stomach betrays you with a low growl, and you glare at it like it’s a traitor.
“i can’t eat,” you say dramatically, turning your head away. “i’ve lost my will to live.”
“you said the same thing last night,” he replies, calm as ever.
“because it’s true.”
“you ate two slices of pizza after saying that.”
“i was emotional!”
“you’re always emotional.”
you smack his arm lightly, but he catches your hand before you can pull it back, his fingers wrapping around yours easily, grounding, steady. you look down at his hand over yours, then up at his face—too calm, too gentle, too composed for someone who’s dealing with your misery.
“you’re not even worried about me,” you whisper, eyes wide and accusing.
“i’m here, aren’t i?”
you frown, pulling at his sleeve. “you should be more distressed. you should be pacing around the room, looking like your world ended. that’s what people do when their partner is crippled.”
he exhales a quiet laugh, soft and low. “you’ve been watching too many dramas.”
“because my life is a drama,” you say, placing your hand on your chest. “i’m the main character, and this is my downfall arc.”
“it’s a broken leg,” he says again, because that’s all he ever does—counter your theatrics with quiet, immovable reason.
you sigh heavily, flopping back into the pillows. “you don’t understand. this is trauma.”
he hums again, standing to pour you a glass of water. “you’ll heal faster if you rest instead of crying every hour.”
“i don’t cry every hour.”
“you cried at seven, nine, and eleven this morning.”
“those were valid tears.”
he hands you the glass. you take it with exaggerated delicacy, sipping slowly just to make him wait, then look up through your lashes. “you’ll take care of me, right?”
“i’ve been doing that since yesterday.”
“no, i mean really take care of me. like feed me, bathe me, dress me—”
“you’re not helpless.”
“oh?” you challenge, gesturing dramatically at your leg. “then what do you call this?”
“a consequence of ignoring my warning about climbing on the kitchen counter.”
you gasp, horrified. “so now you’re blaming the victim?”
he pinches the bridge of his nose. “you’re the one who fell.”
“i fell in the name of hunger and independence,” you argue. “you should be proud.”
he shakes his head slowly, setting the glass down. “lie back.”
you shift a little, reaching for him again. “then hold me.”
he sits back down beside you, and when you reach out this time, he doesn’t resist—his arm slides around your shoulders, and you lean into him, cheek pressed to his chest, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne. your fingers find his hand, tracing the veins along it lazily, and for a brief, quiet moment, you forget about your leg entirely.
“you’re nice to me when i’m broken,” you mumble.
“you’re always broken,” he replies softly, and you can hear the smile in his voice.
you swat his chest weakly. “i hate you.”
“no, you don’t.”
“i do.”
“sure.”
you groan, dramatic as ever, pressing closer. “you’ll never understand how hard this is for me.”
“then explain it.”
“i can’t walk, kento.”
“for a few weeks.”
“that’s like half my lifespan.”
he laughs quietly—really laughs, the sound low and rare and warm—and it makes you smile despite yourself. you burrow closer, your voice smaller now. “you’ll carry me everywhere, right?”
“everywhere is a strong word.”
“then at least to the bathroom.”
he pauses. “you have a wheelchair.”
“but it’s ugly.”
“you can decorate it.”
“with what? my tears?”
he shakes his head again, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “you’re dramatic.”
“i’m in pain.”
“you’ll live.”
“barely.”
he presses a kiss to your forehead, his voice soft. “i’ll help you through it.”
you hum contentedly, eyes fluttering shut. “you better. if i die from boredom, it’ll be your fault.”
“you won’t die.”
“then bring me flowers every day until i recover.”
he sighs. “you’ll fill the whole room with them.”
“then at least i’ll have something pretty to look at while i rot.”
he smiles faintly, brushing his thumb against your temple. “you won’t rot. you’ll drive me insane before that happens.”
“as i should,” you murmur sleepily, clinging to his shirt, your voice fading. “that’s love.”
he doesn’t correct you. he just stays there, hand in your hair, calm and steady as always, while you drift off—still pouting, still dramatic, still you. and somewhere in that silence, even he can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, you’d survive anything, if it means he’d get to keep seeing you like this: unhinged, spoiled, alive.
episode iii : a philosophical inquiry into beauty and the bump upon my forehead
it starts with pain, humiliation, and a loud thud that echoes through the marble floors of your estate—then silence. and then, you screaming like the world just ended. you’re clutching your forehead, dramatic tears already forming, and your poor maid is frozen two feet away, terrified, because you’re on the floor muttering oh my god i’m disfigured, i’m ruined, i’ll never be pretty again. she tries to help you up, but you shove her hand away like you’re the queen of england refusing an inferior’s touch, insisting that no one, absolutely no one, can understand the pain you’re in.
fast forward fifteen minutes, and you’re in your bedroom, sitting in front of the vanity mirror, staring at the massive bump forming right in the center of your forehead. it’s red, shiny, and the size of a small planet. you poke it once and wail, immediately grabbing your phone and dialing the only person who must witness this tragedy firsthand.
“kento,” you croak dramatically when he answers, “come here. come here now.”
you don’t give him a chance to speak before hanging up because this is not a discussion. this is an emergency.
by the time he arrives, you’ve already iced it with a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a louis vuitton scarf, and your eyes are puffy from crying, mascara smudged like you’re a tragic movie character who’s just been betrayed. he opens your bedroom door, still in his beige slacks and white shirt from his part-time job, looking painfully calm, like he hasn’t been summoned to a scene of despair.
he stands there for two full seconds, taking you in—the ice pack, the pout, the tear-streaked cheeks—and you can see it. that tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth.
you narrow your eyes. “don’t.”
“what happened?” he asks, already walking toward you, his tone too gentle, too neutral, like he’s trying not to laugh.
“i fell,” you say through a sniffle. “face first.”
his brow twitches, and he looks away for a second. “are you hurt?”
“i’m deformed,” you wail, pointing to your forehead. “look at me! i look like a fucking goldfish.”
and that’s when it happens—he laughs. a quiet, low, soft laugh, but enough to make your jaw drop. your dramatic gasp fills the air, and your hand flies to your chest like you’ve been stabbed.
“you’re laughing?” you shriek, eyes watering all over again. “you’re actually laughing while i’m in pain?”
he clears his throat, immediately trying to compose himself, but his lips are still twitching. “i’m not laughing at you—”
“yes, you are!” you cut him off, voice rising. “you’re laughing because i look stupid! oh my god, you think i’m ugly!”
he sighs, stepping closer, but you flinch dramatically, pressing your hand to your forehead like a fainting victorian woman. “don’t come near me, kento! i can’t bear to see the pity in your eyes.”
“there’s no pity,” he says, calm and steady, but the small smile is still there, and that only fuels your fury.
you grab a pillow and throw it at him. it bounces off his chest harmlessly, but you feel a bit better. “you monster! i’m hideous, and you’re laughing about it. i’ll never recover from this humiliation.”
he catches the second pillow you throw, setting it aside with practiced patience. “you’re overreacting.”
“overreacting?” you clutch your chest. “i have a lump the size of an egg on my forehead! i can’t go outside! i can’t be seen like this! i’ll have to drop out of college and live in the shadows like some kind of troll!”
he runs a hand through his hair, clearly torn between comforting you and not laughing again. “you don’t look like a troll.”
“liar.”
“you don’t.”
“then what do i look like, huh? go ahead, say it. say i look like a swollen fish.”
he sighs, crouching in front of you, his expression softening despite himself. “you don’t look like a fish.”
you blink at him, eyes glassy and pitiful. “a frog, then?”
he exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “you look like someone who tripped and bumped their head.”
“that’s not comforting.”
“it’s the truth.”
you glare at him, tears welling again. “you’re so mean to me.”
he shakes his head, reaching for your hand. “come here.”
you pull away dramatically. “don’t touch me, you’ll get cursed by my ugliness.”
“i think i’ll risk it.”
you hesitate, still pouting, still glaring at him through watery lashes. “you really think i don’t look ugly?”
“no,” he says simply.
“not even a little?”
“no.”
you squint suspiciously, searching his face for any hint of mockery. he looks calm, patient, irritatingly sincere. finally, you give in, leaning forward until your forehead almost bumps his shoulder. “you’re lying.”
“i’m not.”
“you are.”
“you still look like yourself.”
“a self with brain damage maybe,” you mutter, pressing your cheek against his chest. “you don’t get it. this is a crisis. i have to wear a hat for the next three weeks.”
“it’ll go down in a day or two.”
“a day or two? i could die of shame by then.”
he hums, rubbing your back gently. “no one will notice.”
“everyone will notice. i’m practically a public figure.”
“you’re a college student.”
“a famous one.”
he smiles faintly, and you hate that it makes your stomach flip. “you’ll be fine,” he says softly, and the calm certainty in his voice almost makes you believe him.
you sigh, pressing closer to him, your hand finding his tie and tugging lightly. “you’re supposed to be panicking, you know. you’re supposed to be like, ‘oh no, my beautiful girlfriend’s perfect face!’ and then swear eternal devotion.”
“that’s not really my style.”
“well, it should be.”
he chuckles quietly, his thumb brushing over your temple where the bump is, so gently you barely feel it. “does it still hurt?”
“physically or emotionally?”
“both.”
“yes,” you say dramatically, closing your eyes. “my soul is scarred.”
“should i call a doctor?”
“no, just buy me something expensive.”
“something tells me this isn’t about your forehead anymore.”
you peek up at him, pout deepening. “you should make it up to me. for laughing.”
“i smiled.”
“you laughed. i saw teeth.”
he exhales, amused. “what do you want, then?”
“hmm.” you tap your chin thoughtfully. “flowers. a cake. maybe a spa weekend. and you have to carry my bag for the rest of the week.”
“you’re fine.”
“i’m traumatized.”
“you’re fine.”
you whine softly, curling closer into him until you’re practically draped across his lap. “you don’t understand. i’m fragile. i need affection.”
he sighs but lets you, his hand finding its way into your hair, fingers threading through gently. “you’re impossible to argue with when you’re like this.”
“that’s because i’m right.”
“you fell on your face.”
“because gravity is jealous of me.”
he laughs again, quietly, and you gasp, pulling away to glare at him. “you did it again!”
“i couldn’t help it,” he admits, smiling now, soft and fond. “you’re just—” he stops himself, shaking his head. “you’re something else.”
you pout, but your anger’s already slipping, the warmth of his hand on your waist distracting enough to make your chest flutter. “you think i’m cute even when i look like a cartoon character, huh?”
“that’s one way to describe it.”
you hum, smug now, leaning your head against his shoulder again. “fine. i forgive you.”
“how generous.”
“but you still owe me a cake.”
“i’ll consider it.”
“you’ll buy it,” you mumble, already half asleep against him, your words softening. “you always do.”
he doesn’t argue. he just sits there, his hand stroking your hair, the small bump on your forehead catching the faint light from the chandelier. and though you’re dramatic and unhinged and entirely too much, he looks at you like it’s the most natural thing in the world—like every tantrum, every tear, every ridiculous declaration is just another part of loving you. and maybe it is. because when you wake up later, groggy and pouting, the first thing you see is a cake box on your nightstand with your name written on it in neat cursive, and a tiny note beside it that simply says: still the prettiest.
episode iv : the lament of a woman who met a knife and discovered the fragility of flesh
it starts with a knife, an apple, and your delusional confidence. it’s a lazy sunday morning in nanami’s apartment—sunlight spilling through the blinds, quiet jazz humming from the speaker, and you standing in his kitchen wearing his shirt, hair messy, half-awake but determined. he’s still in the shower, and you, the self-proclaimed princess of leisure who has probably never sliced anything sharper than a credit card, have decided that today you’ll surprise him by cutting fruit like a normal, functional human being.
except five minutes in, it’s all chaos. the knife is heavier than it looks, the apple keeps rolling, and your coordination is nonexistent. you frown, bite your lip, press down too hard, and then—pain. sharp, sudden, horrifying pain.
“oh my god,” you gasp, staring at your hand as a tiny bead of blood blooms on your fingertip. for two whole seconds, you freeze, blinking down at it in disbelief. then the panic hits.
“kento!” your voice cracks instantly, shrill and dramatic. “kento, i’m bleeding! i’m dying!”
the sound of running water stops. you hear the bathroom door open, his footsteps quick and heavy across the hallway. by the time he appears in the kitchen doorway, you’re sitting on the floor, clutching your finger like it’s been severed, tears brimming, the knife abandoned somewhere on the counter.
he stops, towel around his shoulders, hair damp, shirt halfway buttoned, and just stares at you. “what happened?”
you look up at him with watery eyes, your lip trembling. “i was cutting an apple and i—i cut myself and now there’s blood.”
he blinks once, twice, trying to process the sheer amount of drama over a paper-cut-sized wound. “how deep?”
“deep enough to end me,” you wail, extending your hand toward him like a martyr.
he sighs, kneeling beside you, taking your hand gently to inspect the damage. it’s a shallow cut, barely bleeding anymore, but you’re breathing like you’ve lost half your blood supply.
“it’s a scratch,” he says quietly.
“it’s a stab wound!” you protest, voice shaking. “i saw my life flash before my eyes!”
“you’ll survive,” he murmurs, standing up to grab the first-aid kit from the cabinet.
“you’re so calm about it!” you yell after him, clutching your chest with your uninjured hand. “your girlfriend is dying in your kitchen and you’re walking! slowly!”
he doesn’t respond, because he’s used to this. he comes back with the small white box, sets it on the counter, and crouches again. “give me your hand.”
you hesitate. “what if you make it worse?”
“i won’t.”
“what if you rip my skin off?”
“i won’t.”
“what if i faint?”
he looks at you flatly. “then i’ll catch you.”
you squint at him, suspicious, then reluctantly extend your hand. he takes it, his fingers careful and steady as he wipes the small cut clean with a disinfectant pad. the sting makes you flinch violently.
“ow! ow, kento, it hurts!” you cry, jerking your hand but he doesn’t let go.
“you’ll live,” he says again, tone maddeningly calm.
“you keep saying that like it’s comforting!”
“it is.”
“no, it’s not! you’re supposed to say things like ‘oh no, my poor baby, how could this happen!’”
“that’s not how first aid works.”
you glare at him, lip quivering, but he’s too focused on carefully wrapping a bandage around your finger to notice your righteous indignation. when he finally tapes it neatly, he glances up and meets your pouty eyes.
“there,” he says, simple, efficient, infuriatingly composed. “all better.”
“it’s ugly,” you sniff, staring at the beige bandage like it’s ruined your aesthetic. “why couldn’t you use a pink one?”
“this is all i have.”
“you’re so unprepared. what if i wanted to bleed in style?”
he breathes out slowly, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “you’ll survive,” he repeats, and you gasp dramatically again.
“stop saying that! i might have trauma from this!”
he stands, rinsing his hands, and says over his shoulder, “you’re dramatic over everything.”
you cross your arms. “i am sensitive, not dramatic.”
“you cried when your soup was too hot last week.”
“that was different! that was betrayal.”
he turns back to you, shaking his head, walking over to pat your head lightly. “no knives for you.”
you huff, tilting your head back to look at him, your eyes still wet but your pride too loud to admit you’re grateful he came running. “so what, i can’t even cut fruit now?”
“you don’t need to. i’ll do it.”
you blink. “you’ll cut my fruit for me?”
“yes. to prevent any more… incidents.”
you grin, victorious, despite the bandaged finger. “so you do care.”
he doesn’t take the bait, just walks to the counter, picks up the knife you abandoned, and starts cutting the rest of the apple with practiced ease. you watch him, chin in your hand, sighing dramatically.
“you look good doing that,” you say, voice slow, lazy, flirtatious. “like a sexy househusband.”
“don’t start,” he says without looking at you.
“what? i’m complimenting you.”
“you’re fishing for attention.”
“so? it works.”
he sets the knife down, slicing the pieces into perfect even wedges before placing them on a plate and handing it to you. “eat.”
you smile sweetly, taking it with your uninjured hand. “thank you, my brave savior.”
“you’re welcome, my clumsy patient.”
“rude.”
“accurate.”
you stick your tongue out at him, then wince as you lift a piece of apple to your mouth—the movement tugging at your bandaged finger. “ouch,” you whimper softly.
he raises an eyebrow. “does it hurt?”
“emotionally,” you say, lowering the plate dramatically. “my finger’s been through so much.”
“you cut it two minutes ago.”
“and yet it feels like a lifetime of suffering.”
he shakes his head, sitting beside you on the stool. “you’re something else.”
you lean your head on his shoulder immediately, sighing like a dying heroine. “you should kiss it better.”
he glances at you. “your finger?”
“yes. that’s how healing works.”
he hums, taking your hand gently, and before you can even make another demand, he presses a soft kiss to the tip of your bandaged finger. the gesture is so tender you forget to breathe for a second.
you stare at him, wide-eyed, a little stunned, then smile, all teeth, smug and melty. “see? love is the cure.”
he chuckles quietly, shaking his head, and you curl closer, looping your arms around his waist.
“you’re gonna make fun of me for this forever, aren’t you?” you mumble into his shirt.
“probably.”
“you’re so mean to me.”
“you make it easy.”
you lift your head, pout deepening. “you’re supposed to protect me from the world, not bully me for my suffering.”
“you cut fruit with a chef’s knife,” he says, voice flat, and you gasp.
“so now you’re blaming the victim again?”
he laughs softly, the kind of sound that feels like home. “you’re not a victim. you’re a hazard.”
you pinch his side lightly, your tone dropping into a pouty whisper. “you’re lucky i like you.”
he looks down at you, eyes warm, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair away from your face. “i know.”
you grin, curling up against him again, whispering, “you’re gonna cut fruit for me forever, right?”
“if it keeps you from bleeding again, yes.”
“good,” you murmur, closing your eyes, a little smug, a little sleepy. “that’s what boyfriends are for.”
he hums quietly, the sound low and fond, and when you glance up one last time, you catch the faintest smile tugging at his lips. you decide that even if your finger hurts, it was worth it—because nothing feels better than being indulged by him, even when you’re a walking disaster wrapped in designer pajamas and bad decisions.
episode v : the metaphysics of vanity: or how i blinded myself in pursuit of perfection and was still kissed on the forehead
it starts with the usual chaos of you getting ready, the kind of ritualistic disaster that could only exist in your world—music too loud, every drawer open, makeup scattered like confetti across nanami’s bathroom counter, and you standing in front of the mirror in one of his shirts that you stole last week because it “smells like boyfriend,” hair half-done, mascara wand in hand, mouth open, concentration deadly serious. you look perfect already, obviously, but perfection is your baseline, not your goal, and today’s date feels like a performance you refuse to underdeliver.
he’s out in the living room, quietly reading, because he knows better than to intrude when you’re in this state—when you’re painting your face like a battlefield and muttering under your breath about your eyeliner wings and the unfairness of eyelashes never cooperating when you need them to. everything’s fine, everything’s steady, until it isn’t.
you blink too soon.
the mascara wand jabs straight into your eye with surgical precision.
“fuck!” you yell, jerking back from the mirror, clutching your face. “ow, ow, ow—oh my god!”
there’s a pause in the other room, the quiet sound of his book closing.
“kento!” you shriek, voice breaking. “kento, i think i’m blind!”
you hear his footsteps approaching, calm, steady, the same maddeningly even rhythm he always has, and that just makes you more hysterical. you’re half bent over the sink now, one hand pressed to your eye, the other waving blindly toward the door like you’re summoning him from the underworld.
he appears in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, expression perfectly neutral. “what happened?”
“i stabbed myself!” you cry.
his brows draw together, confused. “stabbed?”
“with the mascara thing!” you say, spinning toward him dramatically, your left eye already watering uncontrollably, black smudge across your cheek like war paint. “oh my god, i think i popped it out or something—am i bleeding?”
he blinks once, twice, taking in the sight before him. “no. you’re not bleeding.”
“how do you know?” you demand, panicking even more, leaning toward him. “check! check if i’m bleeding!”
he sighs, stepping closer, catching your flailing wrist gently. “let me see.”
you tilt your head back, eyes squeezed shut, trembling like you’re on the verge of death. “be honest,” you whisper. “if it’s bad, just tell me. i’ll wear an eyepatch and start a new identity. i’ll live as a pirate’s widow.”
“open your eye,” he says, and you shake your head violently.
“no! what if it falls out?!”
he’s quiet for a long second, the kind of silence that feels like patience thinning into disbelief. “your eye won’t fall out.”
“you don’t know that!” you snap, pulling your hand away to clutch at your face again. “what if i go blind? i can’t go blind, kento. i have a date today! i can’t show up half blind looking like a tragic backstory.”
“you’ll be fine,” he says, voice calm, steady, infuriatingly rational.
you glare at him through one eye, mascara streaking down your cheek. “you’re so fucking heartless. i’m in pain and you’re—what—smirking?”
“i’m not smirking.”
“you are! i can feel it!”
he exhales, stepping even closer until he’s in front of you, his hands gently cupping your cheeks, thumbs brushing away the smudged makeup under your eyes. “look at me,” he says softly.
you sniff, defiant. “no.”
“look at me.”
you finally crack one eye open, squinting up at him. his face is close—too close—and his gaze is patient, warm, infuriatingly composed, the kind of calm that feels like gravity itself. he leans a little closer, inspecting your eye like he’s a doctor and not your long-suffering boyfriend.
“it’s fine,” he says after a moment, tone final. “you didn’t hurt yourself. it’s just irritated.”
you blink up at him, lips trembling. “really?”
“really.”
“you’re not lying to make me feel better?”
“no.”
“you swear?”
“yes.”
“because if i wake up tomorrow with one eye swollen shut and a tragic scar—”
“you won’t,” he interrupts gently.
you stare at him, pout deepening, before you groan and lean forward, pressing your forehead against his chest. “i hate makeup,” you mutter, muffled against him. “it’s evil.”
his hand comes up, sliding over your back, slow and comforting. “then don’t wear it.”
you gasp, pulling back to glare at him like he’s insulted your ancestors. “don’t wear it? are you crazy? i look like a corpse without it.”
“you don’t,” he says easily, and that makes you falter for half a second before you roll your eyes (carefully this time).
“you’re biased.”
“maybe.”
you huff, turning toward the mirror again, staring at the half-ruined mess of your makeup. “great. now i look like i’ve been crying in a horror movie.”
“you kind of do,” he admits, and you whip around so fast he barely dodges your death glare.
“you’re not helping!”
“i wasn’t trying to.”
you grab a tissue dramatically, dabbing at your face with unnecessary aggression. “i can’t go out like this. cancel the date. tell everyone i died.”
“it’s just me,” he reminds you.
“then tell yourself i died!”
“you’re not dying.”
“i could! mascara poisoning exists!”
he leans against the counter, folding his arms, watching you with the faintest hint of a smile. “you’re the only person i know who could turn getting ready into a tragedy.”
“it is a tragedy,” you say, throwing the tissue at him. it bounces off his chest harmlessly. “you should be mourning my beauty.”
“your beauty’s fine,” he says. “your patience, though…”
“shut up,” you mutter, but you’re already softening, staring at him through the mirror as he steps behind you, his hands resting gently on your shoulders. his reflection meets yours, calm eyes, faint smile, and somehow that steadies you more than anything else could.
“breathe,” he murmurs.
you do. reluctantly.
“better?”
“no.”
“liar.”
you tilt your head back slightly, meeting his gaze in the mirror again. “you’re so smug. i should’ve dated someone less calm. someone dramatic like me.”
“they wouldn’t survive you,” he says without hesitation, and you can’t help but laugh—quiet, low, the kind that pulls warmth from your chest.
you turn around fully, hands sliding up his chest to his collar, fingers fisting lightly in the fabric. “you’re so annoyingly perfect,” you murmur.
“you’re covered in mascara,” he replies softly.
“shut up and fix it for me.”
he reaches up, thumb brushing under your eye again, wiping away the smudge with patient precision. “you’re going to finish getting ready,” he says. “we’re still going.”
“no,” you whine, leaning into his touch. “my eye hurts.”
“you’ll live.”
“my ego doesn’t want to be seen like this.”
“you look fine.”
“you’re lying.”
“then let me prove it.”
you pause, eyebrows furrowing, about to ask what that even means when he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the corner of your eye, right where the smudged mascara meets skin. it’s gentle, unhurried, the kind of thing that makes your brain shut off completely for a second.
you blink up at him after, lips parting. “…that’s cheating.”
“it worked.”
you grumble under your breath, pretending to fix your hair so you don’t have to admit it did. he straightens, watching you quietly as you pick your mascara back up, hesitating like it’s a wild animal.
“i can’t do it,” you say. “you do it for me.”
“no.”
“please?”
“absolutely not.”
you pout, dragging out a dramatic sigh. “you’re so cold.”
“you’re dangerous with sharp objects,” he says, and you roll your eyes but start applying it again—carefully, cautiously, every blink exaggerated. he stands behind you the whole time, arms crossed, like a bodyguard supervising a crime scene.
when you’re finally done, you drop the wand like it’s a weapon and spin around, grinning proudly. “see? perfect. no injuries this time.”
“progress,” he says dryly, and you swat his arm playfully.
you lean up, tugging lightly at his collar, voice dropping softer. “you’re still taking me out, right?”
“yes.”
“even though i almost blinded myself?”
“especially because you almost blinded yourself.”
you smile then—lazy, smug, warm—and loop your arms around his neck. “you’re too nice to me.”
he leans down, presses a kiss to your temple, and says quietly, “someone has to be.”
and maybe that’s why you go on the date anyway—because he keeps you grounded even when you’re halfway to hysterical, because every tantrum ends in his calm voice, his steady hands, his quiet affection. because somehow, despite the mess you are, he always makes you feel beautiful again.
bonus : letters from a wounded narcissist to the man who still holds her hand
the night ends soft, quiet, unhurried—like the world’s finally tired of spinning. you’re back in his apartment after the date, after the chaos, after the mascara incident that had you declaring you’d never show your face in public again. somehow, he still managed to get you out of the house, still managed to make you laugh over dinner, still managed to make you forget the world was ending because of an eyelash wand. and now it’s late, the lights are dim, the room smells faintly of his cologne and your perfume mixing together in the air, and the two of you are tangled up in his sheets, limbs warm and heavy, the city humming outside the window.
you’re on your side, facing him, half under the blanket, wearing one of his shirts again—soft, oversized, smelling like him. his arm is draped around you, lazy, his thumb tracing idle circles against your hip like he’s not even thinking about it. he’s quiet, the kind of quiet that isn’t awkward but familiar, and it makes you restless. you stare at him for too long, watching his chest rise and fall, watching the way his eyes flicker open when he feels you looking.
“what,” he murmurs, voice low, rough from sleep.
you shake your head, sighing dramatically. “nothing.”
“you’re staring at me.”
“because you’re nice to look at.”
he hums quietly, eyes half-shut again, and you can tell he’s smiling even if you can’t see it in the dark. for a moment, it’s peaceful—too peaceful, maybe, because your brain starts to spiral the way it always does when things are too still. you fidget, fingers playing with the hem of the blanket, and then you say it, voice small but sharp in the quiet.
“do you ever get tired of me?”
he blinks, the movement subtle, but his hand pauses. “tired?”
“yeah.” you roll onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. “like. of my dramatics. my tantrums. my… whatever it is that i am.”
he doesn’t answer immediately, and that silence makes your stomach twist, so you keep talking, too fast, too defensive. “because i know i’m a lot. i cry too much, i complain, i say stupid things, and i make everything about me sometimes, and i know that’s annoying, and you’re always calm and patient and perfect and i’m just—” you stop yourself, biting your lip, the words burning your throat. “i don’t know. i just feel like maybe one day you’ll wake up and think, ‘god, she’s exhausting.’”
he exhales quietly, the sound steady, and you hate that he’s so composed when you’re spiraling. you turn your head to look at him again, your eyes catching the soft city light slipping through the blinds. he’s looking at you, of course, because he always does when you talk like this—like he can’t help it.
“you finished?” he asks gently.
you groan, pressing the pillow over your face. “don’t say it like that.”
“like what.”
“like i’m being dramatic.”
“you are being dramatic.”
you peek out from under the pillow, glaring at him. “see? this is why i can’t have emotional moments with you. you bully me.”
he smiles, small and slow, the kind that makes your chest ache. “i don’t bully you. i just don’t let you lie to yourself.”
you frown, propping yourself up on your elbow. “i’m not lying.”
“you are.” he reaches up, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “you’re not exhausting.”
“you sure?”
“positive.”
“you hesitated.”
“i didn’t.”
“you did.”
“you just imagine things when you’re tired,” he says, his tone almost teasing now, but there’s that softness underneath—the one that always unravels you.
you flop back down, throwing an arm over your eyes. “ugh, you’re so annoyingly calm. can’t you just say something romantic for once? like ‘no, darling, you’re my reason for living’ or something?”
he chuckles under his breath. “you’d laugh if i did.”
“i would not!” you protest, sitting up dramatically, glaring down at him. “i’d probably cry and kiss you and then accuse you of lying, but that’s completely different.”
he looks up at you from where he’s laying, his expression somewhere between fond and amused, the corners of his mouth curving in that quiet, infuriating way that makes you want to both kiss him and punch him.
“come here,” he says finally, reaching for your wrist, pulling you back down until you’re half sprawled across his chest.
you mumble something incoherent but don’t resist. his hand slides up your back, steady, grounding, like he knows exactly what you need even when you don’t.
“you make things loud,” he says softly after a moment, “but i like loud.”
you blink against his shirt, voice muffled. “that’s weird.”
“so are you.”
“you’re supposed to say something sweet, not insult me.”
“that was sweet.”
you groan, lifting your head to look at him. “you’re so emotionally constipated, i swear.”
he laughs—quiet, real, the sound warm against your skin. “you make up for it.”
you narrow your eyes, but your lips are already curving, because somehow, that feels like the most romantic thing he could’ve said. you reach up, tracing his jaw with your finger, slow and lazy. “you sure you’re not secretly tired of me?”
he meets your gaze, steady and calm. “i wouldn’t be here if i was.”
you pout, leaning closer, brushing your nose against his. “so you like when i throw tantrums?”
“no.”
you gasp, fake offense laced with a grin. “wow.”
“i don’t like it,” he continues, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, “but i like you enough that it doesn’t matter.”
you stare at him, your chest tightening, and for once, you don’t have anything smart to say. instead, you just melt a little, resting your forehead against his, voice small. “you know i don’t mean half the things i say when i’m mad, right?”
“i know.”
“i just—” you pause, fingers curling against his shirt. “i get scared sometimes. like you’ll get tired of dealing with me.”
he hums softly, his thumb brushing against your collarbone. “you’re dramatic. not disposable.”
you blink, your throat tightening, and you whisper, “that was actually really sweet.”
“don’t make me regret saying it,” he says dryly, and you laugh, burying your face against his neck.
you stay like that for a while, your body pressed against his, your fingers tracing patterns on his chest while he runs his hand slowly through your hair. the silence stretches, comfortable now, warm. you can feel his heartbeat under your ear, steady, calm, the kind of rhythm that could quiet a storm.
“kento,” you mumble after a while, your voice drowsy.
“hm?”
“if i ever stop being dramatic, you’ll still like me, right?”
he pauses for a beat, then says, “you won’t.”
you smack his chest lightly. “you’re an ass.”
“but i’m right.”
“shut up,” you mutter, nuzzling closer to him, and he just hums, pressing a kiss to your hair.
you fall quiet after that, eyes half-closed, and he thinks you’ve drifted off until you whisper softly, “you make me feel like it’s okay to be too much.”
he doesn’t say anything back, just tightens his arm around you, the kind of gesture that says everything without words, and somewhere between your dramatic sighs and his quiet patience, the world settles into something that almost feels like peace.
okay but ferrari! racer satoru who genuinely hates being touched. absolutely dislikes it (an interviewer asked why, about his aversion to touch, and he just laughed it off and shrugged, plain and blunt and giving his pr girl a fucking pulmonary embolism—“just don’t,” he said with a careless shrug, teeth white, grin wide. “if i say hands off, it means hands off, yeah?” the reporter had stumbled over her words, fumbled to keep going and he kept the same lazy posture). but what fans have picked up—and the media—is that there is one person who he lets touch him. the rest of his team? the tp? even fellow drivers? they know to keep their hands off, that the most he’ll do it a shake of a hand, maybe a clap on the back, but they know not to pull him into hugs or ruffle his hair, that he gets stiff when he feels hands on him, that he bristles, some old prey instinct coming back to bite at the hand that touches him.
but where he’d drawn a tight circle around himself, there’s one person who bypasses that—you. the fans have seen it—the way you’re the one who helps him don his racing suit, wipe the sweat from his throat after he pushed so hard in quali he almost spun out, and still managed to cinch pole like the inevitable storm he is. the only one he lets close enough. the fans find out you’re on his personal team, a manager and a stylist and a friend all in one is how he had described it once when someone asked as he signed their cap. there are clips floating online—you and satoru behind the ferrari garages after a nasty quali, you close, his head tilted down to listen to you. of your hand grazing his back to gently steer him through the paddock and he leans into it, chattering your ear off about telemetry and paddock gossip and you just hum and guide him into the ferrari motorhome.
of satoru crouching after a race, his head in his hands, breathing laboured and fast, voice breaking and rambling that he fucked it, he fucked it all and his dad is in the motorhome and he doesn’t wanna go back there and the car is a shit box and nobody is listening to him and he’s fucked it again what if they don’t renew his contract what if his dad is right about him— and then you’re there, cupping his face, brushing his sweaty hair back, promising him it’s okay, and he crumbles into it, presses his face into your throat like it’s the only place he can breathe, only place he can exist right now. he knows what the fans think, knows what the media think, hell he even knows what his own father thinks about it.
but fuck them, he thinks personally. he likes his personal space and he likes you in it. likes your hands on him, like the way you laugh soft and fond when he’s being ridiculous, the way you gently pet his hair absently as he pours over telemetry and lap times until his eyes burn. the way you gently guide him away with sure but gentle fingers to get some rest. and he likes the secret lingering kisses you press to his forehead when you think he’s asleep, breathing soft, body heavy after a brutal race weekend.
so yeah, he hates people touching him. until it’s you. because under your hands, he’s not the storm or the dark horse or the bruise that's never healed. he’s something made softer, less of the god that greedy hands have carved him into since he first sat in a small kart, baby fat on his cheeks and not knowing what that glint in his fathers irises meant when he did that first lap with beautiful, perfect, untouchable instinct. just a human, just a satoru. not a war machine, not vengeance coming to collect, not the beating heart of italy with its legacy and heritage poured into his veins and down his throat.
he’s softened into something that doesn’t make his bones creak under the weight of a nation, a religion, on his back, a heavy crown on his head, prince of ferrari, their golden boy, the tiofsi’s saviour, their hope incarnated, their chances at glory, at delivering glory that is biblical at this point, written in the stars and he’s the man to deliver it. but you make his brain slow down, no longer desperately latching onto lap times and telemetry numbers chasing the next win, desperate to deliver, to prove he deserves this still—the praise, the adoration, the hands that grab at him and demand for more, more, more. but there’s none of that with you—with your gentle hands and fond smiles, with the way your fingers don’t feel like they’re tearing him apart to take more from him, just gently running down his back or his neck or hand, just to touch. that’s it. not asking for more. with you, the touch is honest, safe, genuine.
you don’t expect him to be nervous. he hides it well, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders relaxed like this is nothing—just another friday night. but the second you open your dorm door, sukuna just… pauses. eyes dragging down your outfit, lingering a half-second too long like he’s trying to memorize you.
“you look—” he clears his throat, gaze snapping away. “yeah. good. really good.”
he’s wearing a hoodie that somehow looks newer than anything he owns, like he bought it because you said his other one smelled like “frat house walls.” his hair’s pushed back like he actually tried. he even smells like something cologne-adjacent instead of weed and whatever body wash was closest.
he holds out his hand, pretending it’s casual. “c’mon. we’ll be late.”
you take it, and his fingers tighten just a little, just enough to say don’t let go yet. he takes you downtown, somewhere quieter than the usual frat-boy chaos. a tiny ramen place with soft lighting and booths that make you sit close. he tries to act like he’s been here before but he obviously googled “date restaurants near me.”
he lets you order first. he keeps glancing over the menu like he’s studying, even though the only thing he ends up saying is, “i’ll get whatever she’s having.” like he’s proud to match you.
during dinner he does that thing where he watches you talk more than he talks himself. he tries not to stare, but his leg keeps bouncing under the table every time your knee brushes his.
“you’re quiet,” you tease.
he shrugs, poking at his food. “don’t wanna say something stupid.”
“you always say stupid things.”
he looks up, deadpan. “yeah, but tonight i’m trying not to.”
that’s when you really feel it—this version of him that no one else gets. not the loud, cocky frat boy. not the guy people whisper about at parties. just sukuna, sitting across from you, pretending he’s not nervous because he wants this to go right.
after dinner, he takes you to the tiny arcade down the street. says it’s “just to kill time,” but then spends $12 trying to win you a plushie from a claw machine. swears under his breath every time the claw drops it.
“this stupid thing’s rigged,” he grumbles, shoving another dollar in anyway.
the fourth try, he finally gets it—a little pink bunny that he doesn’t even look at before handing it to you. “here,” he says. “don’t lose it.”
you smile. “you got this just for me?”
he rolls his eyes. “don’t make it sound corny.”
it’s almost midnight when he walks you back, hands shoved in his pockets again, but he stays close enough that your arm brushes his each step. outside your dorm, he hesitates. the kind of hesitation that makes your heart stutter.
“so…” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “did you… like it? i mean. the date.”
you step closer. “i liked it a lot.”
he looks down at you, eyes soft in a way he doesn’t show anyone else. then—carefully, like he’s afraid to mess it up—he cups your jaw with one warm hand and leans in. the kiss is slow, gentle, almost shy. nothing like the frat-boy reputation he wears like armor. this is different.
when he pulls back, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath since you opened your door. “good,” he murmurs. “cause… i wanna take you on another one.”
you smile against his chest when he pulls you in, hoodie soft against your cheek, heartbeat steady under your ear. and for once, he doesn’t pull away first.
this is rly the loml fr ugh i don't even wanna write smut anymore he's converted me to soft & fluffy kuna only
“everything seems to be good, you’re doing well at keeping them healthy.”
that should be reassuring. and it is, your growing boys are happily flourishing into their new lives and your doctor has just confirmed it.
but you can’t help but wonder, “don’t you think they’re a little… tiny?”
“they’re babies.”
“no, i know that,” you roll your eyes, recognizing his attempt at dry humor. you see the faintest smirk quirking the corner of his mouth. “i meant for their age.”
“it’s normal.” he smiles kindly. then glances at sylus’s tall frame looming in the corner, still upset about the flu shots. “i doubt it’ll last very long.”
you nod. “okay.”
“alright, just take the vitamins, eat veggies and you’re all set.” he says, checking off on his chart and straightening his coat.
kyros and lucian smile at him when he comes near, expectant. they always try to be good during their yearly check ups, despite them being scary. remnants of their sobs are evident on their red noses and wet eyes. but they believe they’ve done their best being good, and good boys get—
their faces visibly fall at the head pat they get instead of their usual treat. which zayne follows up with, “oh, and no more sweets.”
“ha?”
“one to two candies a week should do.” you and sylus nod at his advice and thank him for his time, letting him exit the examination room.
but lucian yells after him, “HAA?!”
you giggle at his cartoonish look of disbelief. “you hear him, lucian, no—“
“DOTER SAYNE!” he screams, scrambling in sylus’s arms as he’s placed on the ground. he runs to the heavy door and and tries to pry it open. “DOTER SAYNE, NO! NO!”
— my boyfriend, his stupid plants, and that bitch with the bangs
feat. nanami kento
summary. you don’t get jealous — people get jealous of you. so why are you crying in a cinema bathroom over nanami kento explaining photosynthesis to another girl? after an emotional meltdown worthy of an award, nanami steps up to prove you’re his priority—setting boundaries, choosing you loudly, and holding you through every tear and tantrum. slowly, painfully, beautifully, you relearn what it means to be loved without having to perform for it.
triggers/warnings. non-sorcerer au x college au, jealousy, emotional breakdown, crying in a public bathroom, mild emotional manipulation (unhinged brat behavior), swearing, threats of violence (mostly botanical-themed), possessiveness, and unhealthy coping mechanisms that eventually lead to healthy communication and comfort.
the day was offensively bright, the kind of sunlight that made glass buildings glitter like they were mocking anyone who couldn’t afford to exist beautifully, and you—obviously—were the exception; if the universe had taste, it would put a spotlight on you the moment you stepped out, and today felt like one of those days where the pavement should’ve rolled out a red carpet simply because your shoes touched it.
the campus was buzzing in that nauseatingly enthusiastic way students got after midterms, everyone acting like sun exposure and iced coffee was enough to cure the generational trauma of academia, and god, just breathing the same air as these people felt like charity work.
still, you strutted down the pathway leading to the campus café—miu miu cropped knit in a red so sinful it should’ve come with a warning label, the tiny matching buttons straining against the shape of your chest in a way you knew made nanami rub his forehead like he suddenly had a migraine from “dealing with you,” which translated directly to “you look too good and it stresses him out.” your black alaïa pleated mini skirt swayed with each unapologetically privileged step, wolford sheer tights hugging your legs like a second skin, white miu miu socks folded just right above your glossy chanel mary janes, each click of your heel on the pavement sounding like a verdict—everyone else was underdressed.
you held your iced latte—oat milk, two pumps of vanilla, and emotional superiority—raised delicately between manicured fingers as if the cup itself was beneath you, but unfortunately necessary for survival. the tiny vintage chanel handbag slung over your shoulder bounced against your rib as you walked, and you didn’t even bother pretending you were rushing because punctuality was for people with nothing better to do. truthfully? you didn’t even go to class today. like hell you were going to drag your soul out of your egyptian-cotton-bed cocoon before noon just to listen to some underpaid academic talk about things google could teach you in five minutes. but nanami didn’t need to know that. your boyfriend would give you that glare—the one that could make a country surrender—and you really weren’t in the mood to be lectured by the only man who could make discipline sound like intimacy.
you approached the café, a place plagued by the aesthetic curse of trying too hard to look indie and failing spectacularly. the outdoor seating was crowded with students who thought reading murakami made them profound, but your eyes zeroed in on the table by the glass wall—the round one far too small for six people, which was exactly why those idiots chose it. gojo’s white hair was like a flag of chaos even from a distance, geto lounged like the cult leader he could easily become, shoko looked chronically done with everyone including herself, and haibara radiated optimism like a deranged labrador. but none of them mattered the second you saw nanami’s back.
the black short-sleeved knit polo you picked for him stretched over his shoulders like the fabric was praying for mercy, the sleeves hugging his biceps tight enough that your teeth tingled with the urge to leave evidence. his arm rested on the table, forearm flexed casually, veins visible—disgustingly attractive. he sat so straight, so composed, like he personally invented posture and everyone else should pay him royalties. even from behind, you could sense that irritating calm aura of his—your own personal grounded planet you orbited, even if you’d rather die than admit it out loud.
you didn’t slow down. you didn’t greet them like a normal person. no, normalcy was too cheap for you.
your free hand slid onto nanami’s shoulder the moment you reached them, fingers pressing into the warm, firm muscle like you were checking if heaven was solid. you leaned forward just enough to cast your shadow across their conversation, smiling like a disney villain in silk gloves.
“afternoon, children,” you said, voice honeyed and teasing, because you knew how to command a room without even trying.
gojo looked up first, his grin instantaneous. “look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” he said. shoko muttered something you didn't bother to hear, but you were already sliding into place, which meant you didn’t have to answer.
nanami turned, eyes already giving away that quiet mix of exasperation and affection he reserved solely for you. you leaned down, pressed a kiss against his cheek like you were marking territory, murmuring, “hi, baby.”
he hummed low in his throat, one arm looping around your waist in automatic surrender. the other hand—warm, steady—rested on your thigh, thumb brushing over the sheer fabric of your tights like he was reminding you to behave, though you both knew that was a lost cause.
“you’re late,” he said quietly.
“i’m fashionable,” you corrected, twisting slightly so you could face the table, still perched neatly on his lap. “there’s a difference.”
gojo snorted into his drink. “yeah, about three hours’ worth.”
“you can count? proud of you, sugarcube.”
haibara laughed, bless his innocent heart, and geto just smiled behind his cup like he’d seen this play a hundred times before. nanami’s fingers tightened on your thigh, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you that the show had an audience.
you tilted your head, looking down at him. “you missed me?”
he didn’t look up, but the smallest smirk tugged at his mouth. “you were gone for four hours.”
“and that’s four hours too long,” you said, leaning in until your lips brushed his jaw. “don’t be shy, you can say it.”
his eyes flicked to you—sharp, restrained, golden under the café light. “behave,” he murmured, just for you.
you smiled sweetly. “no.”
shoko groaned. “if you two start making out, i’m leaving.”
“then leave,” gojo offered. “less witnesses.”
“you’re all disgusting,” shoko said flatly, sipping her drink anyway.
you grinned, cheek lean on nanami’s head. “we’re adorable.”
“you’re unbearable,” nanami corrected.
but his hand didn’t move from your thigh.
you basked in the warmth of him, the way his presence steadied you even as you tried to poke holes in it. he was too serious, too controlled, and you were everything he shouldn’t have fallen for—spoiled, dramatic, perpetually five minutes away from chaos. it wasn’t that you wanted to make him jealous or tired or undone. it’s just that you loved watching the cracks form in that composure. loved being the one person who could unmake him.
the conversation at the table moved around you—movie plans, class gossip, haibara’s endless optimism—but your focus stayed where it always did. the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you, the quiet flex of muscle under his sleeve, the pulse that beat steady against your thigh.
gojo squinted at you over the rim of his iced matcha like a nosy suburban aunt pretending to be subtle, which, obviously, he wasn’t. his sunglasses were perched unnecessarily on his head despite being indoors, because he had a disease called “attention-seeking,” and he leaned forward with that shit-eating grin that made you want to shove his face into the table.
“question,” he announced, finger pointed at you like a courtroom accusation, “why didn’t i see you anywhere on campus today? don’t tell me you skipped again.”
you didn’t react at first. you simply blinked, slow, turning your gaze towards him as if he had personally offended your bloodline. then, with the grace of a woman who knew silence was powerful, you dragged your eyes from gojo to nanami—very slowly—because if anyone was going to kill the mood, it was the tax-paying adult you were dating.
nanami’s profile was stoic, but his head turned just a fraction, not enough to be dramatic, just enough to say: i heard that. answer correctly if you value your life. his hand remained on your thigh, thumb frozen mid-stroke, waiting. he didn’t speak—nanami didn’t need to. his expectation sat in the air like a guillotine.
you shook your head quickly, too quickly, a little too eager to throw the lie forward before anyone could breathe. “no,” you said, voice falsely innocent, like a kid denying stealing cookies while covered in crumbs. “i did not skip class, actually. thanks for the concern, satoru, really. very touching.”
your friends reacted like you’d just given the worst performance in the history of lying. haibara tried to hide his laugh behind his hand, geto smirked into his drink, and shoko—who didn’t believe in sugarcoating unless it was on donuts—snorted so loud the table next to you turned.
“you definitely skipped,” shoko said flatly, deadpan as if stating the weather. “i was looking for you in lecture earlier and you were nowhere. not even in the bathroom pretending to cry so someone would comfort you.”
you gasped at the accusation and placed a hand on your chest, clutching invisible pearls because real pearls would’ve required more wardrobe planning this morning. “excuse me? i did fucking not skip.”
geto didn’t even look up. he just lifted a brow lazily. “yeah? then where were you?”
your mouth opened… and absolutely nothing came out. your brain went to file excuses and found the cabinet completely empty except for a metaphorical moth. you inhaled sharply, turned away from all the eyes staring at you, and reached for nanami’s drink like it was diplomatic immunity. you took a sip—an unnecessarily long sip—as if green tea could save your soul from the social execution happening around you.
nanami let you drink it, which should’ve been a red flag in itself. he only let you touch his drink when he was either (1) too tired to argue or (2) preparing to lecture you.
you placed the glass back, very gently, very slowly, the way one disarms a bomb, and then turned to face nanami with your sweetest, most weaponized smile—the one that got you out of legal consequences once.
“baby, listen—”
he didn’t raise his voice. nanami didn’t need theatrics. his disappointment alone could level civilizations.
“you skipped class.”
“i— no, i didn’t skip, i just… didn’t attend,” you argued, hands moving in useless little gestures as if rearranging air could make your excuse sound less idiotic. “there’s a difference.”
nanami blinked once. slowly. the way a man does when mentally calculating if prison is worth it. “and what,” he said, tone calm to the point of terrifying, “is the difference, sweetheart?”
gojo leaned in like a hyena. “yeah, educate us, princess.”
you shot satoru a look that could curdle milk. “the difference,” you said, straightening your back on nanami’s lap, as if delivering a thesis, “is that skipping sounds intentional and irresponsible. i simply chose peace and preserved my mental health by not exposing myself to academic distress. self-care. you should try it.”
shoko wheezed. geto covered his smile with his hand like a scandalized victorian woman in church. haibara actually clapped quietly, the traitor.
nanami stared. “you overslept.”
“i—” you lifted a finger, offended, “no. i rested.”
“until one in the afternoon,” nanami clarified, because of course he checked.
you clicked your tongue, rolling your eyes and looking away because you refused to be wrong in front of an audience. “god, you say that like it’s a crime.”
“it is when you’re paying for courses you don’t attend,” nanami replied, adjusting your position on his lap like he was grounding you into sanity. “do you intend to graduate, or do you plan to survive on generational wealth alone?”
gojo grinned. “i vote for generational wealth. it suits her.”
“shut up, satoru!” you snapped, smacking his arm across the table.
nanami caught your wrist mid-swing—gentle, firm, thumb pressing into your pulse like a warning. he leaned in, voice low enough that it curled down your spine like expensive silk. “behave.”
and your friends, the demons you called family, burst into laughter like they’d been waiting for that exact moment.
your face heated—not embarrassed, because you didn’t do embarrassment—just… strategically annoyed. “are you all done enjoying my suffering, or should i perform a tap dance too?”
geto raised his cup. “please do, bonus points if you fall.” you scowled, sinking further into nanami’s chest, arms crossed like a brat, mumbling, “you’re all mentally ill.” shoko took a drag from her vape and exhaled smoke right over your hair. “and yet, we go to class.”
six of you slipped back into conversation, the kind that required zero brain cells—mostly gojo lying, geto enabling it, haibara believing it, and shoko regretting her existence—but it was comfortable chaos, and nanami’s arm around your waist grounded you, thumb tracing slow circles on your thigh in that absent-minded you’re mine, don’t start way he did.
and then she appeared.
a girl materialized beside the table with the unwanted presence of an unsolicited ad popup. weird bangs—like she cut them during a psychotic episode or let a blindfolded toddler do it—long black hair, cardigan buttoned wrong like a cry for help. she beams at gojo first, all teeth, dimples, and misguided optimism.
“gojo-kun! hey!”
of course she knew him. everyone with bad decision-making skills did.
gojo lit up like a dumb golden retriever who just saw its leash. “ohhh, utahime! guys, this is utahime! she’s in my and nanamin’s major.”
you zoned out at the name because it sounded like a villain from a discount fairytale. irrelevant. what wasn’t irrelevant was gojo pulling out a chair for her—the chair right across from nanami.
oh. so this is the type of day we’re having.
“utahime, this is geto, shoko, haibara, and—” gojo gestured vaguely at you and nanami, “—nanami and his girlfriend.”
you lifted your hand with the grace of royalty blessing peasants. “hello.”
she glanced at you for half a millisecond, uttered a bland “hi,” then turned fully to nanami like you were an aesthetic prop that came with the table.
“nanami, right? i think i’ve seen you around in the literature department.”
you stared at her like she’d grown a second head. you were literally sitting on his lap and she still managed to mentally crop you out of the frame like a bad ex. the audacity smelled like drugstore perfume.
nanami nodded politely, because unfortunately he was raised with manners. “yes, we share a few lectures.”
she smiled at him. smiled. like she had teeth specifically for him. “i thought so. you always look very focused. it’s impressive.” your eyelid twitched. impressed? what was he, a circus act?
nanami, oblivious to your growing homicidal aura, replied with that calm, respectful tone that made professors love him. “i just prefer not to fall behind.”
gojo elbowed geto under the table, whispering loudly, “she’s so into him.”
geto hummed. “dead on arrival. she has no idea who she’s messing with.” shoko exhaled smoke into the shape of a middle finger. “she’s brave. or stupid. likely both.”
utahime didn’t hear—tragedy. she settled in, and somehow, like a cursed domino effect, the conversation shifted. you were mid-complaint to shoko about how leggings weren’t pants when you noticed nanami and utahime were… talking.
like, actually talking.
animated.
engaged.
she asked about some assignment or some book, and nanami—your nanami, the man who rationed his words like they were wartime supplies—responded with actual sentences.
you narrowed your eyes. suspicious.
you tuned back in when you heard utahime say, “you’re part of the campus horticulture and sustainable agriculture society, right?”
you blinked. the campus what?
nanami nodded. “yes. the horticulture and sustainable agriculture society—HSAS. we’re focusing on soil health improvement this semester. most students ignore the foundational care required for—”
“soil health,” you repeated blankly under your breath, like the words themselves gave you indigestion.
shoko chuckled. “oh look, your boyfriend’s having his plant ted talk.”
utahime leaned in, elbows on the table, chin in hands, like nanami was reciting poetry in italian. “that’s fascinating. i’ve been wanting to grow herbs in my apartment but everything i touch dies. what soil do you recommend for beginner plants?”
nanami actually warmed up. warmed up. his voice gained depth, like she just unlocked npc dialogue level two. “well, herbs require well-draining soil. most beginners overwater because they assume more water means faster growth, but it increases the risk of root rot—”
you stared. root rot? this man barely used more than five words with anyone and suddenly he was the david attenborough of basil plants?
gojo leaned toward you with a grin that deserved jail time. “look at nanamin go. bro’s flirting plant-style.”
you hissed, “one more sound and i will shove your matcha straw so far up your nose you’ll taste grass.”
haibara laughed nervously. “guys, be nice…”
geto sipped his drink, amused. “this is fantastic. i’ve never seen nanami talk so much to anyone who wasn’t her.” he tilted his head at you. “how does it feel to be replaced by fertilizer talk?”
you glared at him, jaw tightening. “i’m not bothered.”
you were absolutely bothered.
it was like watching your golden retriever boyfriend suddenly become conversational with a passing pigeon. who the fuck was she to get this much dialogue from him?
nanami continued, utterly unaware of the storm brewing on his lap. “if you’re new to plants, start with mint or rosemary. they’re resilient and don’t require much intervention.”
“wow,” utahime said softly, eyes big enough to irritate you on a spiritual level, “you know so much.”
you could feel your soul leave your body, hover above the table, and consider flipping it.
shoko leaned over and whispered, “you gonna let her herb-flirt with your man like that?”
“i’m unbothered,” you repeated, nails digging into nanami’s thigh hard enough to pierce through his soul. nanami’s hand tightened on your waist—not painfully, just enough to say behave without interrupting his fucking spinach seminar.
geto smirked. “you look seconds away from committing eco-friendly homicide.”
you whispered through a closed-teeth smile, maintaining your princess composure, “i swear to god if that girl asks him one more plant question, i’m ripping the rosemary out of her hypothetical garden and making her eat it.”
gojo cackled. “i will literally pay to see that.”
and nanami, sweet plant-talking, politely smiling nanami—was still answering her question about sunlight exposure like he wasn’t currently sitting under a girlfriend-shaped nuclear bomb.
you inhaled, slow, deliberate, eyes narrowing as utahime leaned closer to him again.
your grip on nanami’s thigh tightened, nails sinking in.
he paused mid-sentence, finally turning his head just enough to look at you, brow slightly raised—only a millimeter, but on nanami that equaled what are you plotting.
you smiled, all teeth.
if he didn’t stop this herbal bonding session soon, you were about to water that girl with holy water and bury her in “well-draining soil.”
as everyone left the café to walk toward the cinema, the situation deteriorated with the same speed as your patience. what was supposed to be your afternoon—your boyfriend, your friends, your post-class movie date—had now been hijacked by the bangs-gone-wrong herbal witch who somehow glued herself to nanami’s side like an unwanted sticker on a luxury bag.
you should’ve known gojo was capable of this level of treason. he was skipping ahead like a golden retriever who found a ball, proudly leading utahime into your circle as if he’d discovered fire. the bitch was now walking in front, beside nanami—beside your nanami—talking about plants. still. they were still talking about the horticulture club (you mentally renamed it the horti-culture-of-ruining-your-day-club), her voice full of curiosity and fake academic interest, while nanami nodded and responded like he was a responsible mentor in a children’s education program.
normally, nanami would hold your hand, walk beside you, adjust your pace like you were the center of his orbit. now? you were behind him. behind. like a side character. a background extra. a cautionary tale.
gojo slung an arm over your shoulder, grinning like he was waiting for popcorn to watch you combust. shoko walked on your other side, hands in her pocket, already scrolling her phone. behind you, geto and haibara chatted about something that wasn’t nearly as important as your personal crisis.
you crossed your arms over your chest, eyes drilling holes into the back of utahime’s skull. maybe if i stare hard enough, a giant plant pot will fall on her head from a cosmic balcony and she’ll go back to photosynthesis permanently. you were not wishing for her death—you were merely manifesting a gardening accident poetic enough to send her away.
gojo glanced down at you, smirk widening. “you look like you’re planning a homicide using fertilizer.”
“don’t tempt me,” you muttered, voice low, venom-dipped. “i’m one intrusive thought away from repotting her six feet under.”
shoko snorted without looking up. “you’re dramatic.”
you whipped your head toward her, offended. “i am realistic.”
gojo gasped in exaggerated betrayal. “so you’re jealous.”
you turned slowly, face blank, tone flat but dangerous. “jealous? of who? of that… bangs-with-a-personality-disorder? please. the only thing i envy is the delusion she has that she belongs here.”
geto actually choked on air behind you.
gojo wiggled his eyebrows. “she’s just talking to nanami. they’re bonding.”
“over fucking soil, satoru. soil.” you hissed, voice cracking like your sanity. “tell me why my boyfriend is suddenly the plant whisperer for an outsider? what is he, some kind of agricultural tinder? people swipe right and he waters their basil?”
shoko sighed. “you’re spiraling.”
“i’m descending,” you corrected, gesturing passionately with one hand while the other murderously clutched your chanel bag. “this is a free-fall.”
nanami glanced back briefly—just a fraction—to check if you were keeping up. normally that look would soften you, but today it made your rage glitter. he didn’t even offer his hand. he just turned back to the demon-spawn herb girl and resumed discussing mint infestations like he was the ceo of oregano.
you leaned in to your friends, voice dangerously polite. “look at them. walking together. talking. breathing the same oxygen. disgusting.”
haibara, sweet innocent soul, tried to reassure you. “i’m sure nanami is just being polite—”
“polite?” you snapped softly. “he is my boyfriend. the bare minimum is him being rude to other women. loyal men don’t discuss rosemary ratios with anyone except their girlfriend. i should be the only herb in his life.”
gojo wheezed. “you did not just call yourself a herb.”
“shut your mouth before i season you with salt and eat you alive.”
utahime laughed at something nanami said. oh, she laughed. she laughed like she understood him. like she had the right. your eye twitched so hard it could’ve powered a light bulb.
“i hope,” you said calmly, like a villain making a vow, “she tries to plant basil and it sprouts a fungus. i hope her rosemary wilts. i hope her soil becomes a cursed wasteland. and i hope nanami’s watering can leaks all over his shoes so he remembers this betrayal every time he walks.”
shoko stared at you. “…girl. therapy is right there.”
you ignored that. “and him.” you gestured toward nanami, voice rising an octave of offended royalty. “he should know better. he shouldn’t look at other women—”
“he’s not,” haibara pointed out gently, “he’s literally staring at the pavement while talking.”
“bare minimum!” you shriek-whispered. “he shouldn’t talk to other women either! silence is free!”
gojo hummed. “so you want nanami to be mute to everyone except you?”
“yes,” you said without hesitation. “and to plants, apparently, since that’s his thing now.”
geto laughed quietly. “you’re insane.”
“i’m in love,” you corrected, nose in the air. “there’s a difference. love makes you gracious and kind.”
shoko stared. “you literally manifested a potted-plant accident five minutes ago.”
you shrugged. “compassion has levels.”
ahead of you, utahime giggled again—at something plant-related—and nanami, sweet oblivious nanami, slightly nodded along like he was a guest speaker at a gardening conference. you inhaled sharply. “i’m about to photosynthesize rage.”
you kept walking, seething so loudly it was a miracle the concrete under your feet didn’t crack from the sheer force of your offended aura. the world should’ve stopped. the sky should’ve darkened. alarms should’ve gone off. your boyfriend was talking to another woman—and about botany, of all the unsexy, grandma-coded subjects—and everyone around you was acting like this wasn’t a catastrophic betrayal of romance, loyalty, and personal branding.
you sped up half a step so you could hear them better—because how dare he have a conversation you weren’t the main character of—and the words “nitrogen fixation” drifted back to you like a personal insult.
you gagged dramatically. “jesus christ, he’s talking about soil nutrients. does he want to get cheated on? because that’s how men get cheated on.”
gojo raised both brows, arm still lazily over your shoulder. “wow. plants are now infidelity?”
you turned to him, eyes wide with religious conviction. “plants are a gateway drug to emotional affairs, satoru. first it’s rosemary, then it’s sharing gardening tools, and next thing you know she’s repotting her heart into his hands.”
shoko made a noise that was half-laugh, half-choke. “you’re sick.”
you ignored her diagnosis.
up ahead, utahime tucked her limp tragic hair behind her ear, leaning a little too close to nanami as she asked something about photosynthesis like it wasn’t common knowledge taught to six-year-olds with crayons and carrot sticks. nanami answered with that calm, informative tone he used when guiding lost children or explaining tax forms to you so you wouldn’t cry.
he didn’t look at her—no eye contact, bare minimum, congratulations—but he responded. willingly. completely. as if she deserved personalized nanami tutoring services.
you stared at the back of his head like you were trying to set his hair on fire telepathically.
“i can’t believe this is happening,” you muttered, crossing your arms tighter, suffocating in betrayal and your own expensive perfume. “this was supposed to be our movie time. our date. our quality time with the background characters we call friends. and now?? now we’re the supporting cast in gojo’s charity show-and-tell featuring some stray cat with bangs.”
gojo snorted. “be nice, she’s new.”
“and she can stay new,” you shot back. “new and far away. new and outside the group. new as in return to sender.”
geto chimed in from behind, amused. “you realize she can’t hear you, right?”
you whipped around so fast your hair nearly slapped him. “trust me, if she could, she would compost herself on the spot.”
haibara, ever the sunshine idiot, tried to calm you. “maybe she just wants to make friends?”
“oh, please. look at her.” you gestured violently at utahime’s back, nearly elbowing gojo in the ribs. “she’s walking like she’s auditioning to become the new moral compass of this group. we don’t need a moral compass. we barely need a compass. we are lost and we like it.”
shoko raised a brow. “you? moral compass? please. you’d sell this group for a birkin bag.”
you blinked. “shoko. don’t be ridiculous.” you paused. “it would have to be a limited edition birkin. crocodile leather. gold hardware. preferably one-of-one.”
“see?” shoko mumbled.
you ignored the truth because it was inconvenient.
you focused on your boyfriend again—your gorgeous, infuriating, plant-talking boyfriend who should’ve been holding your hand, kissing your temple, ignoring every female organism in a 50-meter radius—and instead he was giving unsolicited gardening advice like some attractive greenhouse consultant.
you hissed under your breath, “he shouldn’t be talking to her. he shouldn’t be talking to anyone. he should be carrying me like a princess and stepping on rose petals while doing it.”
gojo actually laughed. “you want nanami to be your servant?”
“i want nanami to act like a man in love,” you snapped. “not a walking national geographic episode.”
geto added, “you could just walk next to him, you know.”
you gasped as if he suggested you lick hospital floor tiles. “i will not chase him. i am not a golden retriever. i am the ball. people chase me.”
shoko pinched the bridge of her nose. “you are not the ball.”
“i am the ball, the player, the coach, and the entire damn tournament. everyone attends because of me.”
you said this right as utahime laughed again at whatever nanami said and your blood pressure skyrocketed so hard you nearly astral projected.
“i hope,” you said with the serenity of a cursed prophet, “that she wakes up tomorrow and every plant she owns is dead. i hope the leaves turn black. i hope her basil commits suicide. i hope her fertilizer expires. i hope her watering can cracks. and i hope nanami—”
gojo perked up. “ooo, what do you hope happens to nanamin?”
you inhaled deeply. “i hope nanami’s plants grow mold. i hope his little gardening gloves shrink. i hope his stupid herb club—”
“horticulture society,” haibara corrected softly.
“—i hope his STUPID herb club,” you emphasized, “loses funding and they have to sell carrots on the street like failed vegetables.”
shoko stared at you, dead-eyed. “seek help.”
you ignored that. again.
“he should only discuss plants with me,” you muttered, wounded, betrayed, dramatically heartbroken. “i don’t even like plants. but he should only talk to me about them.”
and with that, you stared ahead, at the back of your boyfriend walking beside another woman, and you thought, in the most poetic, dostoevsky-meets-deranged-princess way possible:
if this is what love is, no wonder russian literature is full of suffering.
when you all reach the theatre entrance, the neon lights flickering like a cheap attempt at glamour, gojo’s arm is still slung over your shoulder, the weight of it both grounding and irritating because it wasn’t the arm you wanted. nanami was still walking beside utahime, still talking, still breathing the same air as her, and your eye twitched so violently you were convinced you developed a new facial tic.
gojo followed your burning stare, eyes darting from nanami to you, and with a dramatic sigh—like he was babysitting a rabid raccoon in couture—he tugged you toward the ticket counters. “come on, princess,” he muttered, steering you away, “let’s just forget about him. ignore him too.”
he didn’t even wait for your response, just dragged you away, and you let yourself be pulled only because your body had entered that numb, offended, heart-bruised autopilot that happened once every blue moon—specifically when nanami kento, the one man in the universe who never, ever, not even for one second, failed to give you attention—shifted it to someone who wasn’t you.
you looked over your shoulder at them, your steps slowing, just to witness nanami tilt his head slightly toward utahime as she spoke, his hands in his pockets, posture polite but relaxed—not intimate, not flirtatious, just… engaged. it wasn’t even what he was saying. it was the absence of what he usually did with you—glancing at you, checking if you were next to him, adjusting your bag strap, brushing your hair behind your ear, telling you to watch your step, holding your waist in crowded places.
those things didn’t exist right now.
you faced forward again, jaw locking. you tried not to care, truly, you tried to swallow it with the dignity of a queen who refused to crumble in public, but the petulant, deeply spoiled part of you—the part nanami privately adored and publicly tamed—was clawing at your ribs like how dare he.
nanami had never denied you. not attention, not affection, not his time. you were the center of his carefully organized galaxy and he orbited you with steady devotion. and now? one afternoon of neglect and you felt like the moon had been kicked out of the solar system.
and the worst part? beneath the rage, beneath the jealousy, beneath the desire to poison a plant so it symbolically represented your emotional suffering—there was something softer, uglier, something you hated admitting even to yourself: it hurt.
after gojo paid for the tickets—because you sure as hell weren’t taking out your card for anything under a thousand dollars—he pulled you toward the concession stand where shoko, haibara, and geto were gathering with popcorn and drinks.
the moment they saw you approach—quiet, stiff, lips pressed together—they exchanged glances like doctors diagnosing a terminally ill patient who still thought she had the flu. geto’s eyes flicked over your shoulder, confirming the sight of nanami still with utahime before his gaze returned to your face.
he leaned closer, voice low, non-judgmental but smug enough to rankle. “are you actually upset about them?”
you didn’t trust your voice, so you hummed—short, flat, unimpressed—lifting one shoulder like an attempt at nonchalance, but the tension in your jaw exposed you like a confession written in blood.
geto hummed back, almost sympathetic, handing you a drink like it was medication. “then talk to nanami. if you feel ignored, tell him.”
of course, gojo—diplomatic as a drunk pigeon—ruined the moment.
“oh please,” he scoffed, snatching a handful of popcorn with his free hand, “she feels ignored when a houseplant gets more sunlight than her. miss spotlight here needs constant admiration or she wilts.”
you elbowed him in the stomach, sharp and precise, making him grunt. “shut the fuck up, satoru, before i rearrange your ribs into modern art.”
shoko snorted into her drink, haibara coughed to hide a laugh, and geto smiled behind his cup like he was enjoying a theatre show that didn’t require tickets.
you inhaled sharply through your nose, lifted your chin, and let the dam break.
“he should give me attention,” you snapped, keeping your voice low enough not to cause a public scene but sharp enough to cut god, “he is my boyfriend. my boyfriend. i shouldn’t have to beg for it like some charity case. i shouldn’t have to tap him on the shoulder like a fucking waiter asking for the bill. attention is part of his job description. loving me includes looking at me.”
your words were venom-wrapped silk, but your fingers—clenching your straw, the slight tremble at the tips—betrayed the vulnerable thread under the rage.
geto exhaled through his nose, head tilting, his voice kinder this time, “it makes sense you feel that way. you’re used to him being… very present with you. he set that standard, so it’s normal you expect it.”
you blinked at him, thrown off for a second by the emotional validation that hit you like someone offering you a blanket mid-tantrum.
but geto wasn’t done.
“just… maybe give him a minute? she’s new, he’s trying to be polite—”
you scoffed instantly, an unhinged, offended laugh escaping. “polite? no. no. absolutely not. nanami does not get to be ‘polite.’ he is not a community library. he is not available for public use. if he wants to be polite he can hold the door, say thank you, and move the fuck on. conversation is intimacy and intimacy is mine.”
gojo burst out laughing, a hand slapping his knee. “oh my god. you sound like a medieval king guarding his royal concubine.”
you raised your cup and pointed the straw at gojo’s throat with threatening precision. “say one more word and i will introduce your face to the popcorn machine and butter you like a croissant.”
gojo, shaking with laughter, held his hands up in surrender. “fine, fine—jealousy looks adorable on you. like a chihuahua guarding a yacht.”
“i’m a rottweiler,” you growled.
“you’re a poodle with diamond fur,” he corrected.
you glared at him, then turned to geto, voice dropping, unfiltered, raw, but still dipped in drama.
“if my boyfriend wants to suddenly audition for earth’s next top botanist with bangs mcgee, he can enjoy watering plants alone in his dorm for the rest of his natural life. because i swear, if i have to tell my boyfriend to notice me? to look at me? to choose me? i would rather swallow fertilizer.”
shoko blinked slowly. “please don’t.”
you shrugged. “depends on how long they keep talking.”
and geto, annoyingly calm, annoyingly wise, annoyingly right, just corrected quietly, “you don’t have to ask him to choose you. he already does. every day. you just haven’t told him you feel ignored.”
you hated that logic.
you hated that he was right.
you hated most of all that it made your anger taste like sadness. and you crossed your arms, chin raised, choosing violence over vulnerability—for now.
the popcorn machine hummed behind you, the smell of butter thick in the air, sticking to your skin and your mood alike, and you stood there rigid, spine straight, arms crossed so tight across your chest your bracelets dug into your skin, like your body was trying to hold your ego together before it shattered on the sticky cinema floor. geto’s words lingered like a bitter aftertaste—annoyingly sensible, nauseatingly calm, the verbal equivalent of someone placing a warm blanket on you while you’re trying to commit arson.
you stared at him, lips curling, because if there was one thing you hated more than utahime’s haircut, it was being psychoanalyzed correctly.
“oh look at you,” you muttered, shifting your weight onto one leg, jutting your hip out, your manicured nails tapping sharply against your bicep, “dr. phil reincarnated with a man bun. how poetic. how wise. how about you diagnose my foot up someone’s ass too while you’re at it?”
geto didn’t flinch—he never did, which made him infinitely more punchable in moments like this. he held your gaze, eyes soft, voice level, his cup cradled loosely between his palms like he was warming his hands on the heat of your fury. “you’re allowed to feel ignored. anyone would be upset if their partner suddenly shifted attention. it’s valid.”
you scoffed, dramatic and sharp, head tossing back as if you’d been insulted by god personally. “oh great, thank you, priest suguru, for telling me my feelings are valid. how groundbreaking. next you’ll tell me water is wet and gojo is stupid.”
gojo, who was now sipping his drink like he was watching a romcom unfold, lifted a lazy hand. “both true.”
you ignored him and leaned closer to geto, your voice lowering into that venom-laced whisper reserved for emotional emergency or homicide, whichever came first. “validation doesn’t fix shit. i don’t want to feel better about being ignored. i want him to stop fucking ignoring me.”
you felt your throat tighten—not enough to show, never enough to show—but enough to force you to look away, down at your own fingers gripping your cup like it might explode if you loosened your hold. you repositioned your stance, shifting the weight of your body just slightly so you leaned against the counter, but even that wasn’t relaxed; it was defensive, closed off, chin tilted up in futile superiority.
geto exhaled through his nose, elbows resting on the counter, leaning a little closer so you couldn’t run from the truth he was about to drop like a boulder onto your fragile, dramatic ego. “you’re hurting because you expect the version of nanami who’s always glued to you. but he’s allowed to exist as his own person too. you want devotion, not a hostage.”
your brows flew up, disbelief etched across your face as you pointed your straw at him like a weapon. “first of all, how dare you speak logic to me when i’m actively spiraling. second, nanami being obsessed with me is not hostage behavior, it’s romance. third, don’t stand there with your jesus hair and tell me to be understanding. i’m rich. i don’t do understanding. i do receiving.”
gojo wheezed.
shoko pinched the bridge of her nose, already exhausted.
haibara looked like he was watching a car crash in slow motion.
geto, still impossibly calm, still infuriatingly kind, lifted a hand in surrender. “fine. you don’t have to understand. but talk to him. he doesn’t know you feel this way yet.”
you gave him a slow, sarcastic blink. “wow. brilliant. stunning. inspiring. what a fabulous idea. i should talk to my boyfriend. how revolutionary. no one in the history of existence has ever thought of communication before. should we hold a press conference? maybe write a thesis?”
geto raised a brow. “so you won’t talk to him.”
you inhaled sharply through your teeth. “of course i will not talk to him. talking requires vulnerability. vulnerability requires humility. i have neither.”
gojo cackled. “at least she’s self-aware.”
you snapped your head toward him, eyes blazing. “self-awareness is not the virtue you think it is. it’s the burden of the elite.”
geto sighed but the corner of his mouth twitched, because even when you were insufferable, you were entertaining. “he cares about you. deeply. you know that.”
you bit down a bitter laugh. your throat felt tight, your stomach twisting, nails scraping lightly against your arm through your sweater sleeve. “yeah? well he should show it. i shouldn’t have to perform emotional gymnastics to earn the attention he used to give freely. if i wanted to beg for scraps, i’d date a man who makes minimum wage.”
shoko actually choked on her drink this time, coughing. “jesus christ.”
geto stared at you. “you do realize nanami is allowed to have conversations with other women, right?”
your head snapped toward him so fast your hair whipped over your shoulder like a weapon. “and you do realize i don’t give a singular microscopic fuck about what men are ‘allowed’ to do, right? he is my boyfriend. my emotional support adult. my legally binding emotional investment. if he wants to discuss rosemary with another woman, that woman better be me in a wig.”
haibara blinked slowly. “why would you need a wig?”
you waved him off. “for dramatics, haibara, please keep up.”
and there it was—the truth sitting on your tongue, bitter and humiliating, but ready to spill because no amount of sarcasm could bury it forever.
you exhaled shakily, your voice dropping half an octave, quieter but no less sharp. “i just… i shouldn’t have to ask to be seen.”
and the silence that followed was loud—accompanied only by the violent popping of kernels in the machine behind you, like applause for the tragedy of your own making.
the waiting area outside the theatre was cramped and buzzing, the kind of space where the floor was sticky with decades of spilled soda and regret, circular tables placed close enough that strangers’ conversations bled into each other. all six of you crowded around one of those round tables, chairs stolen from nearby like barbarians claiming land. the digital screen above the hallway flickered with “screen 4 – seats cleaning, please wait”, and everyone settled into that pre-movie limbo — except you, who sat with your back painfully straight, pretending nanami wasn’t sitting right beside you with his hand on your thigh like he owned real estate there.
you tried to ignore him. ignore the warmth of his palm through the sheer wolford tights, ignore the weight of his fingers curving around the top of your thigh like you were his favorite page-turning novel, ignore the small absent-minded circles his thumb drew — gentle, steady, familiar — the exact type of touch that usually melted you, soothed you, tethered you to him.
but right now? it felt like salt on a wound.
because while his hand was on you, his attention wasn’t. nanami was still talking to utahime. still. like the universe hated you personally.
you stared at the table, chin tilted slightly away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing your eyes, while on your left, geto raised his brows at you, a silent talk to him written across his face. you shook your head once, small, stubborn, your lips tightening, and he sighed, leaning back like he was watching a predictable tragedy unfold.
nanami didn’t seem to notice your emotional apocalypse. his posture was relaxed, other hand resting on the table, his voice low and polite as utahime asked him something about club meetings or plant pots — you didn’t care, you refused to care, but it clawed at you anyway.
you snapped.
you slowly leaned in, one elbow on the table, your body turning toward nanami, your hair falling like a curtain over your shoulder, your voice dipped in honeyed poison. “what were you two talking about?”
nanami turned instantly — and god, you hated that your heart reacted before your brain could block it. his gaze softened the moment it met yours, that small, warm smile appearing — the one that was just for you, the one that made you feel chosen, the one that usually cured every storm inside you.
his knuckles brushed your cheekbone, tender, affectionate, familiar enough to make your inhale stutter. “just some things about the plants,” he dismissed gently, thumb brushing your skin like he was smoothing your irritation away. “utahime is thinking of joining the horticulture club.”
the club again. as if the word itself didn’t sound like an allergy.
you hummed, but your eyes didn’t soften, and your jaw was wired tight. “what things?” you asked, voice light to the untrained ear, but razor-edged if anyone listened with their soul. “tell me.”
it wasn’t a question. it was a command masked as a request. you wanted him to elaborate, to include you, to bring you into the conversation where you belonged — beside him, not outside of him.
nanami exhaled, a small barely-there laugh from his nose, the kind a man makes when he thinks you’re cute for being ridiculous. “you wouldn’t understand, sweetheart,” he murmured, tone meant to soothe, not belittle — yet it sliced through you cleanly anyway. “don’t stress your pretty head about it.”
and then — the fucking bastard — he turned his attention back to utahime as if you hadn’t just spoken. as if your opinion, your presence, didn’t demand the gravitational pull it always had.
you froze.
your frown carved in deeper, lips pressing so tightly together your lipstick nearly cracked. your chest hollowed in that humiliating, nauseating way pride bleeds when pricked. and from the corner of your eye, you caught it — the smallest twitch of utahime’s lips. not a smile. a smirk. subtle, fleeting, but you saw it. the kind of expression one makes when they think they’ve been chosen over someone else.
you bit the inside of your cheek so hard the metallic taste of blood bloomed on your tongue.
nanami kento had just dismissed you. in public. in front of people. for plant girl.
humiliation and fury tangled inside you like barbed wire.
you didn’t speak. you couldn’t — because to speak now would be to either cry (never allowed) or stab (socially frowned upon). your pride was a spoiled, overfed beast, raised in luxury, pampered with attention, never starved a day in its life — and suddenly nanami had fed someone else first. your ego didn’t know how to process deprivation. it was built on the unshakeable fact that you were the exception to rules, not subject to them.
nanami had always been one of those things placed into your palms without effort — not because he was easy, no, he was one of the only things you actually wanted badly enough to hold with care — but because he chose you endlessly, without hesitation, without question, making you believe his devotion was fixed, guaranteed, unshakable.
and now? now he had shifted his attention for a moment too long, and it felt like a throne had been pulled an inch from under you. not enough to fall — just enough to wobble, enough to threaten your crown.
your voice finally emerged, low, venom-soaked, each syllable enunciated like a curse. “you know,” you said, staring at the table because if you looked at him you’d either combust or kiss him and both would be humiliating, “i must be delusional to expect my boyfriend to act like he gives a shit when i’m sitting right next to him.”
nanami blinked, head turning slowly back toward you, brows gently knitting, confusion and concern surfacing in equal measure. “i do give a—”
you cut him off, a cold laugh escaping you, sharp enough to slice the air. “really? because you’re acting like i’m some decorative throw pillow you keep around for aesthetics. should i sit on the floor so you can focus better on your little garden club recruitment?”
geto sucked in a breath. shoko mumbled “oh, fuck.” gojo was already grinning like a hyena at a feast.
nanami’s hand on your thigh tightened, firm, grounding, not rough but authoritative enough to demand your gaze — so you turned, finally meeting his eyes, and god, you hated that the warmth there made your chest ache.
“i wasn’t ignoring you,” he said softly, calmly, trying to stay level-headed like he always did with you. “she asked questions. i answered. it wasn’t meant to make you feel left out.”
you tilted your head, smile slow and poisonous. “well congratulations, you failed. gold star. ten out of ten on the ‘make my girlfriend feel like a side character in her own life’ scale.”
nanami sighed — not annoyed, not angry — but patient, because of course he was patient. “i’m sorry you felt that way. but you know you’re important to me.”
your lips curled again, a mocking echo of sweetness. “important? i’m not asking to be important, nanami. i’m asking to be prioritized. you can’t treat me like the main course one day and a mint garnish the next. pick a menu.”
and even as you stabbed him with your words, your chest throbbed with something awful, something you didn’t allow to surface: you were scared. scared of being replaceable. scared of indifference. scared because nanami was the one person you didn’t know how to exist without winning.
he held your gaze, thumb rubbing soothing circles again — this time not absent-minded, but intentional. “i should’ve paid more attention to you,” he admitted quietly.
you wanted that to fix it.
it didn’t.
not yet.
and that line — “i should’ve paid more attention to you” — should’ve knocked the fury out of your bones, wrapped you in silk, lulled you into that soft spoiled-brat slumber where you win simply because nanami surrendered first. it should’ve been enough to stop the spiral dead in its tracks.
because nanami didn’t deny you, didn’t gaslight you, didn’t tell you you were “doing too much.” he validated you. he handed you the crown back with his own hands, kissed your ego gently and placed it on the throne again — no resistance, no argument, no double meaning. pure, steady sincerity.
but you?
you were a dramatic piece of shit.
your entire existence was built on ego the way temples were built on sacred ground — your pride wasn’t a personality trait, it was the spine you walked with. one microscopic moment of humiliation felt like being stripped naked in public. you weren’t wired to crumble gracefully. you were wired to explode, self-destruct, resurrect, and then deny it ever happened.
you prided yourself on being untouchable, above nonsense, above insecurities. you prided yourself on being that girl — the one who didn’t flinch, didn’t break, didn’t chase. the one who ignored gojo’s existence for an entire freshman year because he annoyed you and you refused to give his ego oxygen. you were a monument of indifference when you wanted to be.
so admitting something got to you? that a girl with tragic bangs shook your composure enough to make you feel?
fucking humiliating.
you were supposed to be the one people cried over — not the one hiding tears.
and the worst part was knowing utahime heard you argue, saw you demand attention, witnessed the crack in your armor. she should’ve been the one feeling threatened by you — not you feeling anything over her.
your chair scraped back sharply, the sound slicing through the table’s chatter. nanami’s hand instantly reached for your wrist, instinct kicking in, but you jerked your hand away like his touch burned. the shock that flickered across his face — brief, quiet, wounded — nearly broke something inside your ribcage, but you bit down on it, rose to your feet with your chin high, spine rigid, and walked away.
you didn’t look back.
you refused to give them the image of your eyes shining.
you could hear footsteps behind you — one pair, steady, controlled (nanami), another lighter and lazier (gojo), and a third too bored to hurry (shoko). you prayed it wasn’t nanami, because if he saw your eyes, saw the crack, saw the tear that fought to slip free, your pride would shatter so loudly the universe would hear it.
you pushed the bathroom door open with more force than necessary, the fluorescent lights too bright, mirrors too reflective for fragile emotions. it was empty — stalls open, silence echoing off the tiles — a sanctuary for humiliation to decompose in peace.
you braced your palms on the counter, head tilted up toward the ceiling like you were begging gravity to pull the tears back into your skull instead of down your face. you grabbed tissues, folding them like they were fine linen napkins, pressing them beneath your waterline carefully — because you would rather die than let mascara betray you. ugly crying on top of public humiliation? no. you had standards, even in breakdowns.
your shoulders trembled once — quickly — the way a spoiled princess shakes only in private, only for a second, only before putting the mask back on.
the door creaked open. shoko entered, leaning against the sink beside you, arms crossed, chewing her gum like she was watching a circus she didn’t buy tickets for.
“that was dramatic as hell,” she sighed, like this was episode twelve of a show she couldn’t stop watching. “even for you.”
you snapped your head toward her, eyes glossy but sharp, whisper-hissed so your voice wouldn’t crack, “shut the fuck up, shoko, unless you want to be the next victim in my emotional homicide spree.”
she raised both brows, unimpressed. “i’m just saying — storming off mid-conversation like a telenovela villain after her husband cheats with the maid? iconic, but dramatic.”
you glared, aggressively patting the tissue under your eyes with the precision of someone defusing a bomb. your voice was tight, vibrating with swallowed rage. “i am trying not to cry, okay? if uta-fucking-hime makes me cry just by breathing in the direction of my man, i’ll bury her in the community garden next to the fucking carrots.”
shoko huffed a laugh, shaking her head as she grabbed another tissue and handed it to you. “you’re insane.”
“i’m territorial,” you corrected sharply, dabbing at the corner of your eye, making sure your eyeliner stayed crisp. “and i refuse to let some no-name, middle-class herb girl with a discount shampoo routine see me cry. she will not get that satisfaction. i will set myself on fire first.”
shoko shrugged, leaning next to you in the mirror. “you know nanami didn’t mean to hurt you.”
you threw the tissue away like it offended you. “he dismissed me, shoko. me. in front of her. do you know how humiliating that is for someone with my upbringing? i grew up in a house where the sun rose when i woke up. i am not emotionally equipped to be treated like… like fucking background noise!”
shoko sighed, but there was something gentler in it this time. “you felt replaced for a second. it happens.”
you clenched the edges of the sink, knuckles white, nails digging into porcelain. “i don’t get replaced.”
your voice broke on that line — just slightly, enough that shoko’s gaze softened — and you sniffed, anger and vulnerability tangling in your throat like poison.
“i don’t get replaced,” you repeated, quieter, like you were reminding the universe. “especially not by basil-enthusiast barbie.”
shoko handed you another tissue, her tone flat but honest. “you won’t be. nanami’s obsessed with you. it’s gross.”
you swallowed hard, eyes lifting to your reflection — furious, wounded, beautiful, trembling. you whispered, voice shaking but trying so hard not to break, “then why did it feel like i was… optional?”
the door creaked again, interrupting the moment before your throat could fully tighten around the confession, and a voice—annoyingly recognizable, obnoxiously casual—floated in:
“you’re not optional.”
you closed your eyes like god was testing you personally. shoko didn’t even react—meaning she expected this circus act.
gojo stepped in, sunglasses pushed up on his head like a headband, hair a mess like he styled it with electricity. he took in the scene—your glossy eyes, shoko leaning like a bored therapist, tissues everywhere—and he sighed dramatically.
“jesus, you’re really in here having a main-character mental breakdown in a bathroom,” he muttered, walking closer. “and not even a luxury bathroom. this is tragic. i expected better from you.”
you glared at him, voice already cracking with rage and humiliation. “fuck off, satoru.”
he didn’t. he reached out, plucked the tissue from your hand with surprising gentleness, and guided your chin upward with two fingers so you were forced to look at him. his movements were slow, almost annoyingly tender, as he dabbed beneath your lashes to catch the tears before they could fall.
“nanamin is disgustingly obsessed with you,” he said, tone matter-of-fact, almost bored. “like, clinically. it’s gross. if he could lock you in a little glass display case so no one breathed the same air as you, he would. he’s feral about you.”
you scoffed, voice trembling not from disbelief but from how badly you wanted to believe him. “this is my fucking fault,” you muttered, shoulders curling inward as you snatched the tissue back just to shred it between your fingers. “all my fucking fault.”
gojo hummed. “yeah. kinda.”
shoko’s head whipped toward him. “satoru—”
but you raised a hand sharply to stop her, because weirdly, you needed the honesty, even if it sliced. “no. he’s right. it’s my fault because i let myself get… bothered.” the word felt dirty, like weakness, like rust on a crown. “i shouldn’t be this… affected. i shouldn’t fucking care. i’m me. i don’t do insecure. i don’t do threatened. but here i am—crying in a fucking cinema bathroom like a side character in a netflix teen drama.”
you gestured around wildly, voice rising again, hysteria bubbling because once you started, you couldn’t stop. “and not even a nice bathroom! do you see the tiles? this place looks like it was decorated by a depressed cockroach. if i have to emotionally collapse in public it should at least be inside a hotel restroom with marble counters and a couch.”
gojo nodded seriously. “you deserve chandeliers with your breakdowns.”
“exactly!” you snapped, pointing at him like he was the only person with IQ in the room. “i am too expensive for this kind of emotional scenery.”
shoko leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you unravel like yarn. “you’re spiraling.”
you shot her a glare through the mirror. “i am aware. now shut up and let me spiral with dignity.”
you turned back to gojo, eyes burning. “and it’s your fault too.”
gojo blinked. “my fault? how did i enter the chat?”
you jabbed a finger into his chest with the force of an entitled squirrel on caffeine. “you brought that farm-fresh disney side character into our group. you let her tag along. you encouraged her. and now i’m crying over miss herbal-essence-reject because she dared to breathe within ten inches of my boyfriend.”
gojo’s lips twitched. “okay, fair, i’ll take partial responsibility for releasing the eco-friendly demon into our circle.”
shoko snorted.
you ran both hands through your hair, pacing a small circle, your heels tapping aggressively against the tiles, movements sharp, emotional energy radiating like static. “i am so embarrassed. do you understand? embarrassed. i do not feel. i make other people feel. i do not chase, i get chased. i do not compete, i get worshipped. and suddenly i’m… this.” you gestured to yourself like you were a cursed portrait. “this pathetic puddle of emotional goo because my boyfriend decided to talk about fucking plants with someone who isn’t me.”
gojo placed a hand on his chest, tone solemn. “plants are disrespectful like that.”
you nearly laughed—almost—before the ache returned, tightening your throat.
“i hate that i care,” you whispered, eyes dropping again, thumb rubbing at the tissue in your hand like you could scrub the feeling away. “i hate that she got under my skin. i hate that he let her. i hate that she saw me crack.” you swallowed, voice thinning with raw embarrassment. “she’s not even on my level. i shouldn’t feel anything. she should feel inferior, insecure, irrelevant — not me.”
and there it was again—your truth, ugly and spoiled, but honest.
gojo’s voice softened just slightly, just enough to cut through your tantrum. “you care because he matters. that’s not pathetic. it’s just… love. the messy, vomit-inducing kind.”
you clenched your jaw, lip trembling despite your effort to kill it. “i don’t want love to make me look stupid.”
shoko spoke this time, voice dry but real. “yeah, well… that’s kind of the default package. love fries brain cells.”
you stared at your reflection. eyeliner still sharp. mascara intact. lipstick only slightly smudged. you looked angry and beautiful and fragile and terrifying all at once. you exhaled shakily, like forcing out poisoned air, “if loving someone means i cry in a public bathroom that smells like buttered trauma, then i want a refund.”
gojo stared at you for a moment, the playful glint in his eyes dimming just enough to reveal something almost… human. sympathy, guilt, the faint wrinkle of someone realizing oh shit, i accidentally kicked a puppy while trying to pet it. he let out a breath, long and uncharacteristically genuine, his hand settling briefly on your shoulder—not heavy, not mocking, just there.
“okay,” he said quietly, “i’m sorry. i didn’t think bringing her would… you know, make you feel like this. i didn’t mean to dump emotional compost on your royal garden of delusion.”
you sniffed, wiping the corner of your eye with a new tissue as if dabbing at expensive wine spilled on silk. “as you should be sorry.” your voice was hoarse but sharp. “you’re lucky i’m emotionally unstable right now or i’d be charging you for emotional damages. and trust me, my invoices come with interest.”
a small laugh puffed out of him, but he nodded. “i know. you come first. always. dramatic loyalty oath or whatever.”
you flicked your wrist like a queen accepting tribute. “good. as you should choose me first. imagine picking her.” you scoffed like the idea itself was beneath language. “ew.”
gojo leaned back against the sink next to shoko, crossing his arms, shoulders slumping, expression turning thoughtful in a way that made him look borderline competent. “you know,” he said, head tilting, “if i did actually like her—like like her—I’d be spiraling, too. probably worse than you.”
you gestured at him with the damp tissue. “exactly. you are the blueprint of being a dramatic clingy bitch in this friend group. i learned from the best.”
shoko snorted, arms crossed as she leaned beside him. “he’s dramatic, not psychotic. your issue is… more advanced.”
you didn’t hesitate. you threw the crumpled tissue at her face with perfect aim.
“shut the fuck up, shoko, or I’ll flush your vape down the toilet.”
she caught it mid-air, dropped it in the trash, and exhaled like dealing with you aged her in dog years.
you turned back to gojo, brows furrowing as you wiped under your eye again carefully, preserving the wing of your eyeliner like it was a fragile national treasure. “seriously, though. how are you not losing your shit? miss herbal shampoo is out there flirting with nanami in 4k, and you’re just… breathing. like normal. aren’t you supposed to be performing a one-man telenovela by now? throwing yourself dramatically over the concession counter? faking a fainting spell? something?”
gojo shrugged, pushing his sunglasses further into his hair as he examined his nails like he was filing his feelings away. “i mean, i don’t really care-care. she’s cute, but not ‘cry-in-a-bathroom’ level. the crush wasn’t crushing, you know?”
you gawked at him, scandalized. “so you brought a girl you didn’t even like like into our sacred circle of dysfunction? you contaminated the ecosystem for a lukewarm crush? are you deranged?”
he lifted both hands, palms out. “in my defense, my standards are confusing even to me.”
you threw your hands up. “so you emotionally derailed me for absolutely no fucking reason except your brain short-circuited and thought ‘hey let’s invite the human embodiment of a compostable tea bag to movie night’?”
he opened his mouth. closed it. then nodded. “yeah that sounds about right.”
you gasped, pressing a hand to your chest like a heart-broken victorian widow. “i swear to god, satoru, if i ever commit a felony, you will be the reason.”
shoko muttered under her breath, “you’ll commit a felony no matter what.”
you shot her a look. “not the point.”
you turned to the mirror again, tilting your head to assess your reflection—puffy waterline, makeup still salvageable, lashes intact, lip gloss slightly faded but fixable. good. you could still walk out there and look untouchable. but the humiliation? still boiling.
your voice softened—not weak, but the kind of softness anger uses when it starts eating itself.
“i just… i hate that someone like her got under my skin,” you admitted, picking at your thumbnail, your reflection looking back at you like a stranger you didn’t consent to be. “i hate that i cracked over something so… beneath me. she’s not even competition. i shouldn’t have felt anything.” your throat bobbed, your pride bleeding slowly. “i’m supposed to be the storm. not the one caught in it.”
gojo bumped your shoulder lightly with his. a rare, gentle gesture. “storms still get tired.”
you stared at him through the mirror, eyes narrowing as if evaluating whether to accept the comfort or set him on fire.
“i don’t get tired,” you muttered.
he arched a brow. “you’re literally crying next to a hand dryer.”
you inhaled sharply, scanning your reflection once more, lifting your chin a millimeter higher, as if that alone could glue your dignity back into place.
“fine,” you said, swallowing pride like poison. “maybe i got… temporarily… inconvenienced by emotion.”
shoko snorted. “inconvenienced? you sprinted out of there like nanami announced he was marrying utahime on wednesday.”
you pointed at her again. “keep talking and i will bite your face.”
but your reflection didn’t lie: you were shaken, cracked, and scrambling to rebuild the throne inside your chest before anyone else saw the fracture.
you weren’t done spiraling—but you were done being seen falling apart.
and just as you braced your palms on the sink to steady yourself, the bathroom door opened again.
this time, footsteps were steady. familiar. slow.
nanami.
the sound of those footsteps—measured, unhurried, familiar in their quiet certainty—slithered under the bathroom door crack and hit your spine before the door even opened. nanami’s footsteps always sounded like intention, like calm inevitability, like consequences arriving dressed in beige and self-restraint.
the door pushed open with a soft click. gojo and shoko both straightened, not out of respect but because nanami Kento entering a bathroom while you were mid-breakdown was the emotional equivalent of a nuclear inspector walking into a live warzone.
nanami stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him, his eyes scanning the room until they found you. his posture was composed, hands in his pockets, shoulders squared yet soft, like he was approaching a frightened animal he didn’t want to spook. his gaze moved from your blotchy waterline to the tissue shreds on the counter, and something in his expression shifted—pain, regret, a flicker of guilt tightening the muscles of his jaw.
gojo cleared his throat, stepping slightly in front of you like a bodyguard wearing clown shoes. “hey, we’re having a very important emotional meltdown here—private screening, by invitation only.”
nanami didn’t look away from you. “step aside, gojo.”
gojo opened his mouth to argue—then saw the look in nanami’s eyes and decided he valued his life. he lifted both hands in surrender. “roger that. therapist daddy mode activated, we’ll leave.” shoko followed him out, but not before patting your shoulder like she was petting a traumatized cat.
the door shut again. silence fell, thick and suffocating as expensive velvet.
nanami took one step closer. you instinctively straightened, lifted your chin, wiped the corner of your eye with a sharp swipe like erasing evidence. your arms crossed over your chest, your body angling away from him—not quite running, not quite ready to forgive, suspended in the ugly in-between of pride and pain.
he spoke first, voice low, steady, the kind that softened even when saying hard things. “you walked out. can we talk?”
you scoffed, avoiding his gaze in the mirror, fixing an imaginary smudge on your eyeliner. “wow, you noticed. truly a christmas miracle.”
he exhaled slowly, stepping closer but leaving enough space so you didn’t feel cornered. “i noticed the second you stood up.”
“congratulations,” you muttered, tossing the ruined tissue into the trash with surgical precision. “a little late though, don’t you think? maybe if you had noticed i existed five minutes earlier, we wouldn’t be starring in this bathroom drama.”
he ran a hand through his hair—once, a small tell he was gathering patience. “i wasn’t ignoring you.”
you spun around to face him fully, arms still crossed, heart still bleeding but covered in barbed wire. “you dismissed me, nanami. in front of her. i asked you to include me and you basically told me to go play with crayons because my stupid little brain couldn’t understand your plant science shit.”
nanami’s brows knit, genuinely pained. “that’s not what i meant. i wasn’t belittling you. i thought you were frustrated already and—”
“oh, so now i’m fragile? delicate? mentally allergic to academia?” your laugh was dark, humorless. “please, enlighten me, professor horticulture—explain how telling your girlfriend ‘don’t stress your pretty head’ while turning your back to her isn’t dismissive. i’ll wait.”
he closed the distance by half a step, hands lifting but not touching you yet, as if waiting for permission you would never verbally give. “i was trying to keep the conversation light, not make you feel inferior.”
your throat tightened. you hated how badly you wanted to believe him. how much you wanted him to fix the bruise he caused.
you turned away again, pacing a small line near the sinks, heels clicking like punctuation to your rant.
“do you have any idea how humiliating that was?” your voice cracked before you forced it steady again. “i don’t do… this.” you gestured angrily to the bathroom, your face, your reflection—your vulnerability. “i don’t get affected. i don’t compete. i don’t chase attention. i am the attention.”
nanami’s voice softened. “you are.”
you ignored the way that hit you. “and suddenly i’m crying in a public bathroom that smells like expired mops because some random girl dared to speak to my boyfriend like she—” your breath wavered, “like she was entitled to his time.”
nanami’s shoulders softened, and he stepped closer again, slow, deliberate. “you are not optional. you are not second to anyone.”
you snapped your gaze to him, eyes burning. “then why did i feel like a placeholder? like a side character sitting there while you entertained fan mail from some herb-obsessed homewrecker apprentice?”
nanami pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling, then met your eyes again—direct, unwavering. “i should have put my attention on you. i should have noticed you were upset. i got caught up in answering her questions and didn’t see how it affected you. i’m sorry.”
his apology wasn’t defensive. wasn’t performative. wasn’t sugar-coated.
it made it worse.
because now you had no villain to fight but your own fear.
you scoffed to keep from letting it soften you. “sorry doesn’t un-humiliate me. sorry doesn’t make her forget she saw me beg for attention like some common mortal.”
“you didn’t beg,” he said firmly. “you asked. because it mattered to you.”
you bit back the ache behind your teeth. “well, it shouldn’t have. i shouldn’t care this much. tears over plants? is this what i’ve become? an emotionally unstable salad?”
nanami’s lips twitched—not mocking, but like he wanted to smile at the sheer absurdity of you. “you care because you love me.”
you rolled your eyes so fast you saw heaven. “don’t say it like that. it makes me sound weak.”
“loving someone isn’t weakness.”
you scoffed, pacing again, resorting to sarcasm like armor. “easy for you to say. you weren’t the one crying next to the tampon dispenser.”
nanami took another step, closing the gap, his voice low. “i love you. i am allowed to talk to others, but you are the one I choose. always.”
you swallowed, hating how your pulse reacted to hearing him say it plainly.
you lifted your chin, clinging to the last shard of drama left. “you better. because if i have to keep sharing your attention with some botanical disney princess, i swear i will uproot her entire bloodline, replant them, and watch them wilt.”
nanami nodded, dead serious. “noted. i’ll make it clear to her that we won’t be having more one-on-one conversations.”
you blinked. “…oh.”
your ego perked up like a spoiled cat being offered caviar again.
his hand finally reached for yours—slow, giving you time to pull away if you wanted—but you didn’t. he held your fingers carefully, like they were something precious he almost dropped once and refused to lose again.
“you come first,” he said quietly. “if i made you feel anything else, i’ll fix it.”
and for once, you had no witty comeback ready.
your pride hated how good that felt.
and yet—because you were you—you sniffed, wiped under your eye again, and muttered, “you better, because i refuse to cry in a 2-star bathroom twice in one day. my reputation can survive one mental breakdown per quarter at most.”
but here’s the universal truth mothers should stitch into baby blankets so no girl grows up delusional: men are fucking liars. even the good ones. even the morally-upright, self–righteous, tax-paying, cardigan-wearing, philosopher-souled species of man. the ones who read books without pictures, the ones who sort their recycling, the ones who speak gently to old people and cats.
yes—even nanami kento.
your precious boyfriend, the man who lectured you about honesty like it was a religion and he was the last pope standing—turned out to be a man with a mouth capable of lies. small ones, yes, but lies nonetheless. lies sprinkled in moral salt. lies marinated in good intentions. but lies.
because after all that cinematic bathroom telenovela meltdown, after all the comforting, the forehead kisses, the “i’ll fix it,” the “you come first”…
utahime was still there.
not only there.
everywhere.
the bitch multiplied like mold in humidity.
somehow, she burrowed into nanami’s horticulture club like a tick with a dream. and because the club wasn’t just weekly—it was meetings, garden maintenance, farmer’s market volunteering, seed exchange events, greenhouse cleanup, weekend plant fairs—she was suddenly permanently glued to his schedule like ivy choking a wall.
every time you turned a corner on campus—she was there. carrying a watering can. laughing too loudly. holding seedling trays like they were newborns.
every time you looked out the window during class—you saw her walking with nanami to the greenhouse.
every time you checked instagram—someone posted a story of the club and guess who was standing too close to him?
every time you waited outside his lecture—she walked out with him, talking, giggling (yes, giggling—like you didn’t threaten to bury her under a basil farm).
she joined the same library study group.
she sat two rows behind him in lectures she didn’t even take.
she suddenly found “reasons” to be in the cafeteria when he got lunch.
the girl was haunting your life like a stalker ghost with bangs.
and worse? nanami didn’t shut her down like he promised he would.
so you did what any self-respecting spoiled princess with injured pride and an inflated sense of self-worth would do:
you ignored him.
full commitment. full silent-treatment olympics. gold medal performance.
you didn’t text first.
you didn’t sit next to him in class.
you left his messages on read and sometimes—just to inflict psychological warfare—delivered.
you walked past him in hallways with your chin up like a widow attending the funeral of a husband who died in dishonor.
and the audacity of nanami?
the man noticed and chased.
today, he cornered you outside the library, hand gently curling around your wrist—not forceful, just enough to halt your dramatic strut. his voice soft, tired, laced with concern.
“you’ve been ignoring me.”
you turned slowly, sunglasses on despite being in the shade, chewing gum like violence, your posture dripping with aristocratic disdain. arms crossed, hip popped, chin lifted—your entire body language declared: try me, peasant.
you took a long, theatrical breath. “ignore you? no, darling, i simply redirected my attention. i’m sure utahime is thrilled to receive the overflow.”
nanami’s jaw flexed—a tell. “you know it isn’t like that.”
you barked a dry laugh, head tilting with enough sarcasm to slice a man. “really? because from where i stand, it looks exactly like that. she’s glued to your side like you’re the last functioning brain cell on this campus.”
his brows knit, his hand loosening slightly on your wrist so he wouldn’t hold you if you pulled away. “she keeps approaching me. i’m not entertaining anything inappropriate. i’m just being courteous.”
you ripped your hand out of his hold, stepping back like his touch burned. “courteous? you were supposed to make it clear—your words, not mine—that there would be no one-on-one interactions. ring a bell or do you need me to write it on your forehead with permanent marker?”
nanami sighed through his nose, the way he did when he was trying so hard to remain patient with your unfiltered psychopath era. “i didn’t want to embarrass her in front of the club. she’s new. she hasn’t done anything wrong.”
your head snapped back as if slapped by the stupidity of that sentence. “not done anything wrong? existing near you is wrong enough for me. breathing your air is a felony in my book.”
“you’re being unreasonable,” he murmured gently.
your spine straightened, chin lifting a millimeter higher, eyes narrowing into slits of diamond-cut rage. “don’t you dare call me unreasonable. i am extremely reasonable for a woman who hasn’t committed aggravated assault yet.”
he stepped closer, voice lower. “i understand you’re upset. but i’m doing my best to handle this without causing unnecessary conflict.”
you scoffed, folding your arms tighter across your chest. “newsflash, nanami: conflict is necessary. humiliation isn’t. and you let me look like a clown that day. so now? i’m protecting my dignity.”
his expression softened in that maddeningly stable nanami-way. “you’re not a clown.”
you shrugged, indifferent mask slipping back on. “maybe not. but i felt like one. and you didn’t stop it.”
a beat of silence.
the truth sat between you like a wounded animal.
nanami’s voice came quieter, careful, the way a man sounds when stepping on emotional landmines. “i should’ve set boundaries more firmly. i thought I could handle it politely, but I see now that it hurt you. I’m sorry.”
and god, he made it so hard to stay angry when he did that—when he offered accountability instead of excuses.
but you weren’t done bleeding yet.
you clicked your tongue, looking him up and down like he was a disappointing purchase you were considering returning. “sorry isn’t enough this time. fix it. or i swear i will start a rumor that you and your plants are in a polyamorous relationship.”
nanami blinked. “that… doesn’t even make sense.”
you smirked coldly, leaning closer, voice dropping to a whisper of rich, spoiled poison. “watch me make it make sense.”
and then, because pride demanded a dramatic exit, you turned on your heel and walked away—leaving the scent of expensive perfume, ego, and emotional carnage in your wake.
but here’s the cruelty in the universe that no one warns you about because it would make little girls grow up violent: men will swear on their grandmother’s grave that they won’t do something… and then go do that exact thing with clean conscience and a student-discount coffee in hand.
and nanami kento — your nanami, the man built from ethics and moral consistency, the man who looked like he’d file a police report if he saw someone cut in line — turned out to be a man, too.
a man capable of promising and then failing.
after the cinema meltdown, after the bathroom breakdown, after nanami held your hand and said the equivalent of you’re my priority, after he placed metaphorical rose petals on your ego and vowed to do better…
utahime didn’t disappear.
no, the bitch multiplied.
like she was photosynthesizing off your rage.
and the worst part? she wasn’t just present. she was strategic.
she was everywhere nanami was — like she subscribed to his personal movement calendar.
everywhere, meaning: when you went to meet nanami after class? utahime was there, “coincidentally” packing her bag slower than a glacier melts. when nanami had club duty in the greenhouse? she was already inside with gloves on, hair clipped back all “i’m such a hardworking little plant fairy” aesthetic.
library study sessions? somehow she “didn’t understand the homework” and asked nanami for help. she sat next to him — next — not across, not diagonally. group lunch with your friends? she slithered in like a side character trying to make herself relevant, tray in hand, pretending she “just happened to be here too.”
and your friends saw it. gojo saw it first (and enjoyed it like live theatre). geto sighed like a disappointed parent. shoko made nicotine-laced commentary. haibara tried to “give her a chance” until you threatened to drown him in fertilizer.
you did what any self-respecting, pride-soaked, ego-driven, spoiled girlfriend with an image to protect would do: you went full cold war.
if nanami wanted politeness, he could enjoy silence instead. you ignored him with the elegance of a duchess excommunicating a traitor. and nanami noticed immediately because you didn’t just ignore — you withdrew.
you didn’t sit next to him in class — you sat between gojo and your bag like a chastity belt.
you didn’t touch him — no hand on his arm, no kiss on the cheek, not even a hair tuck.
you didn’t text first — and when he texted, your responses were so short they were practically Morse code:
him: are you free after class?
you: busy.
him: can i call you?
you: no.
him: are you upset with me?
you: ask your club member.
you left his “goodnight”s on read.
you left his “are you okay?” on delivered because read would be too generous.
in the group, it was worse — because nanami tried public damage control, which was humiliating for you and painful for him.
like earlier today, all of you were at your usual table in the campus café. you arrived last, sunglasses on, iced latte in hand, a picture of uninterested royalty. nanami pulled out the chair beside him for you — your usual seat — and you walked right past it and sat between shoko and geto instead, crossing your legs like a throne had been rolled under you.
nanami’s hand hesitated mid-air before lowering. everyone saw.
a muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing — at first.
then, after ten minutes of group chatter, he tried to join your space.
he leaned slightly toward your side of the table, voice low enough for you but audible to others, “you’re quiet today.”
you didn’t look at him. you sipped your drink, adjusting your sunglasses, and responded with a tone dry enough to produce drought:
“maybe i’m photosynthesizing.”
gojo choked on his muffin. shoko coughed to hide a laugh. geto stared into his drink like it was a portal to escape reality.
nanami inhaled, patient but cracking. “can we talk later?”
you smiled — cold, polite, corporate-HR-email kind of smile. “why? so you can politely ignore me again in favor of plant girl? i’m busy later. very, extremely, unprecedentedly busy.”
“you’re upset,” nanami said softly — and god, he sounded like he was trying not to touch a wild animal, “and I understand why, but i told you, i’m not entertaining anything. she’s new and i’m trying to be decent.”
you turned your head just enough to look at him over the rim of your sunglasses — only the lower half of your gaze visible, dripping with contempt and luxury.
one brow lifted. “decent? don’t use words you clearly don’t understand. decent would’ve been keeping your promise.”
geto winced. haibara whispered “oh no.” gojo grabbed popcorn like entertainment had begun.
nanami kept his voice steady, though his fingers tapped once against his cup — a tiny crack in composure. “i didn’t break the promise. i haven’t spoken to her alone outside of club responsibilities, and when she—”
you cut him off with a laugh — sharp, cruel, aristocratic. the kind a queen gives when a peasant offers excuses.
“club responsibilities,” you repeated, mockingly. “what a sexy phrase. truly. i’m so thrilled you found a morally sound loophole in your vow. maybe next you’ll say ‘we only breathed air in the same vicinity for charity reasons.’”
his brows pulled together — he was trying, really trying. “you’re twisting my words.”
“no,” you said, leaning back with one arm draped over the back of your chair, looking him dead in the eyes, “i’m repeating them. just slower. so they sound as stupid as they actually are.”
nanami exhaled, steady but strained, and the worst part? he still validated you because he loved you like it was a discipline. “i understand why you’re hurt. you’re right to feel neglected. i should’ve enforced stronger boundaries.”
you shrugged, inspecting your nails like the conversation bored you. “words, words, words. if i wanted rehearsed accountability, i’d date a politician. i wanted results.”
nanami’s voice dipped lower. “i’m trying to fix it.”
you stared at him, expression blank, voice sugar-poisoned, “try harder.” and after that, you went back to ignoring him — because you weren’t done punishing him yet. your pride demanded interest.
nanami kento, for all his monk-like patience and buddhist-level self-control, was still a man with limits, and you—blessed, cursed, loved, unbearable you—had been kicking those limits like a toddler on a sugar high. he missed you. painfully. he missed the chaos, the clinginess disguised as entitlement, the way you demanded affection like it was your birthright, how you’d climb into his lap without asking because why the fuck would you ask, the iced coffee orders you shoved into his hand when he picked you up, the kisses you gave like they were currency and he was the only bank that accepted them.
he missed you so much it made him irritable, and nanami kento being irritable was a rare supernatural event—like the northern lights or a government official being honest.
so he did the only logical thing: he showed up at your stupidly large house.
the house you didn’t call a mansion because “mansion sounds tacky” but where the staff wore uniforms and the ceiling height legally required a parachute. the kind of house that had wings—plural—as in east wing, west wing, wife’s-attitude-control wing.
the workers knew him by now. the butler gave a respectful nod. one of the maids greeted him by name. none of them questioned the expensive, tall, blond man walking through the front door like he paid the mortgage. nanami climbed the spiraling staircase—custom marble, cold under his palms when he used the railing—and walked the long hallway to your room at the far end, because of course the princess needed isolation and acoustics for dramatic exits.
your door was ajar just enough for him to push gently, and he entered quietly.
there you were.
sitting in the center of your ridiculous, king-plus sized bed like a pissed-off deity. silk pajamas clinging to your shoulders, the color soft and expensive, the kind of fabric that looked like it refused to touch poor people. your hair damp from a recent shower, strands falling around your face, lashes dark against your cheeks, skin still warm from steam. you looked soft enough to hold and sharp enough to stab—your default state.
you looked up, saw him, and rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle you didn’t see your brain. you didn’t say a word. not “why are you here,” not “go away,” not even “fuck off.” nothing. the silence itself was an insult.
nanami closed the door behind him with a quiet click that echoed in the large room, and walked further in, footsteps slow, gaze steady on your face—even if your expression screamed i hope you step on lego barefoot for eternity. he took a moment to just look at you, as if memorizing your resentment was better than not seeing you at all.
you snapped, voice sharp and flat: “what.”
nanami hummed, that infuriatingly calm, deep hum of his. “can we talk?”
you scoffed, leaning back on your palms, chin tilting with aristocratic disgust. “i don’t talk to pieces of shit. and you’re a big one. like, family-sized. extra value pack.”
nanami blinked once, head tilting a fraction, absorbing the insult without flinching. “i’m a piece of shit?” he repeated, tone so soft it made the words sting more.
you crossed your arms tight over your chest, silk rustling. “yes. obviously. congratulations on finally joining the rest of your gender.”
instead of defending himself like most men would—loudly, stupidly—nanami did something worse.
he accepted it.
he quietly dragged one of your chairs—one of those stupidly soft velvet ones meant for “decorative reading” you never actually used—across the floor and set it directly in front of you. he sat down, knees spread slightly, forearms resting gently on his thighs, posture straight but not intimidating. it was the posture of a man prepared to listen, not fight. which made your chest tighten and your temper spike—because you wanted to be angry, not understood.
he met your eyes, unwavering, voice low, even, heartbreaking in its steadiness.
“then tell me why,” he said. “why am i a piece of shit?”
and just like that, the floor was yours—your stage, your arena, your battlefield. and nanami kento sat there, ready to let you stab him with every word.
you stared at him for a long moment, the kind of stare that wasn’t silent—no, it was loud, screaming, accusing, trembling at the edges with wounded pride you refused to show. your jaw tightened, your fingers curled into the silk pooling around your thighs, and when you finally spoke, your voice came out low, cracked with disbelief and venom.
“do you ever think,” you began slowly, eyes narrowing at him, “how fucking humiliating it was for me to sit there—your girlfriend—fighting for your attention against nobody but uta-fucking-hime?”
nanami didn’t flinch, but his throat bobbed.
you continued, leaning forward, one finger stabbing the air at him like you were pointing at a suspect in court, “she’s not even competition. she’s a filler character, a background extra with tragic bangs and soil under her nails. i shouldn’t have to compete with that. i shouldn’t have to try. but there i was, reduced to fighting for scraps like some desperate peasant dog waiting for the king to drop crumbs from the fucking banquet table.”
nanami opened his mouth, but you kept going, steamrolling him because if he spoke now, you’d crumble, and weakness was not on tonight’s agenda.
you huffed a humorless laugh, sitting upright again, crossing your arms tight across your chest, chin lifting with aristocratic disgust. “do you understand how degrading it felt? i don’t fight for attention. i’m used to being the center of gravity. people orbit me. planets shift because of me. i don’t beg. i don’t chase. i don’t sit there like some forgotten decorative pillow while you—” your voice sharpened, “—politely entertain some herb-collecting homewrecker apprentice.”
nanami inhaled, eyes soft but steady. “i never expected you to fight for my attention. i’m sorry you felt you had to.”
you scoffed, rolling your eyes and looking away because his softness was a knife to your ribs. “yeah, well, congratulations, you put me in that position. so yes, you’re a piece of shit.”
you extended a hand toward him like you were listing charges in court, each finger flicking upward with another bullet of rage.
“one: you dismissed me. like i was some stupid little decoration on your arm. like i was a shiny accessory you forgot to polish that day.”
nanami sat straighter, hands clasping gently between his knees, voice calm. “i didn’t intend to dismiss you. i thought—”
“wrong,” you cut him off, glare sharp, “your intentions don’t fucking matter if the result still makes me want to drown myself in fertilizer.”
nanami pressed his lips together, accepting the hit.
you held up a second finger.
“two: you told me you would set boundaries. you said you’d stop the little one-on-one herb therapy sessions with her. and guess what? she’s still glued to you like mold on bread. if this is your definition of ‘boundaries,’ i fear what chaos your freedom must look like.”
nanami exhaled a long, controlled breath. “i did limit our interactions. i haven’t spoken to her outside the club and—”
you barked a laugh that was almost a choke. “oh, outside the club—wow. such discipline. such restraint. truly, a saint among idiots. i’m so touched. should i nominate you for boyfriend of the year or just frame your bullshit and hang it in a museum?”
his brows pulled together, a muscle flexing in his jaw—but he stayed calm, infuriatingly so. “i’m telling you the truth. i’m not entertaining her.”
you leaned closer, voice dropping to a slow, lethal whisper. “you don’t have to entertain her for it to still feel like betrayal. the bare minimum for a boyfriend is to make sure his girlfriend never questions whether she comes first. and you didn’t do that. you left space. you left opportunity. you left room—and she ran into it like a stray dog finding an open door.”
that one hit. nanami looked down for a second, breath steadying, his hands loosening on his thighs as if unclenching invisible tension. “you’re right. i shouldn’t have left any room for doubt.”
and god, the way he agreed so easily made your anger burn hotter—not colder—because part of you needed him to fight back so you could keep throwing knives. his accountability cornered you into feeling instead of yelling, and you hated it.
your voice wavered very slightly, and you looked away quickly to hide it. “and three,” you whispered, throat tight, “you made me feel small. and i don’t get to feel small. ever.”
nanami’s head lifted, eyes on you instantly, body leaning forward just enough to reach you if you needed grounding. “you’re never small to me. not for a second.”
you swallowed, back stiffening, legs crossing and uncrossing because the vulnerability made your skin itch. “well, that’s what it felt like. and feelings are facts now because mine are expensive.”
nanami nodded once, accepting your twisted logic as truth because to you, it was. “then i’m sorry. for every part of this that made you feel less.”
you blinked hard, jaw clenching, because his calm acceptance was suffocating in the most disarming way.
you wanted to stay angry. you wanted to scream. you wanted him to beg. but he just sat there—quiet, steady, unshaken—offering himself as the place for your rage to land, not deflecting it.
and that—somehow—was worse.
so instead of softening, you scoffed again, looking away with a shaky breath, because god forbid he sees the crack forming.
“you should be sorry,” you muttered, voice smaller than you meant, “because if i ever have to feel that kind of humiliation again, i’m burning down the greenhouse with you both inside. i’m not joking, nanami. i will commit arson in the name of love.”
you weren’t done—oh no, your rage had chapters, footnotes, an appendix, and a director’s cut. and nanami sitting there so calmly, giving you space to unravel, only fed the fire.
you pushed off the mattress and sat up straighter, the silk of your pajama shirt sliding against your skin as you hugged your knees loosely to your chest, posture defensive but regal, like a dethroned princess still wearing the crown out of spite. your fingers dug into the soft duvet, knuckles whitening as the words clawed up your throat.
“and another thing,” you snapped, pointing at him again, your voice shaking—not with fear, but with insulted pride, “you made me look fucking stupid.”
nanami’s brows drew in, but he didn’t speak—he knew better than to interrupt when you were winding up.
“do you have any idea how that felt?” you continued, your tone rising in waves, “you made me sound like some brain-dead bimbo who couldn’t comprehend the basic concept of sunlight and leaves. like i’m incapable of understanding the most entry-level plant shit. me. you treated me like i’m stupid.”
nanami shook his head, voice quiet, “that wasn’t my intention.”
“but that’s what you did,” you shot back immediately, not letting softness leak in. “i asked what you two were talking about at the cinema—my boyfriend, talking to another girl—and you dismissed me. like i was some annoying toddler interrupting grown-ups having a cultured conversation. like i couldn’t hold a single fucking sentence about your club.”
your voice cracked, and you hated that it did.
your fingers curled tighter into the blanket, nails sinking into the velvet fabric.
“before,” you went on, quieter for a second, “when i asked about your club, when i tried to show interest in the nerd shit you like, you’d tell me things. short things, but still things. and i listened. i tried.”
nanami opened his mouth slightly, and you saw the apology forming, but you didn’t let it land—you surged forward, fueled by humiliation you hadn’t digested yet.
“but the moment uta-fucking-hime bats her dollar store lashes and asks you something?” your voice rose again, bitter, sarcastic, acidic, “suddenly you’re hosting a fucking TED Talk on soil acidity and root trauma. suddenly you’re plant Jesus delivering parables. suddenly you found the fucking words you never bothered using with me.”
nanami’s chest expanded with a slow inhale, his elbows resting lightly on his knees, fingers intertwined—not defensive, not reacting, just listening, which somehow made it worse.
you dragged a hand through your damp hair, pushing it back sharply, pacing a few steps in front of him like your body couldn’t contain the indignation.
“do you know how fucking humiliating that was?” your voice trembled as you paced, silk pajamas swaying with every sharp turn. “you didn’t just ignore me. you made me feel like i wasn’t smart enough to be included. like i didn’t belong in your world when i’m the one who’s supposed to be in it the most.”
nanami finally spoke, tone soft but steady, “i didn’t share more with her because she’s special. i did it because she asked specific questions, and i—”
you spun on him, eyes burning. “so when i ask, what? my questions aren’t specific enough? sorry for not speaking fluent Plant Nerdish. should i learn latin and photosynthesis formulas to earn basic politeness?”
he shook his head immediately, “that’s not what I—”
“because it sure as hell felt like it,” you spit out, arms crossing again, hugging yourself without wanting to look like you needed comfort. “felt like i wasn’t worth the same energy. like you didn’t think i’d care. like you assumed i’m too shallow to understand anything that isn’t shopping, lipstick, or chaos.”
nanami’s eyes softened further—the exact softness you avoid because it disarms you. “i never thought that of you. i know you can understand anything you want to. i just didn’t want to bore you or overwhelm you when you already seemed upset.”
you stared at him, chest rising and falling quickly, the fight still trembling inside you like a caged animal.
he continued gently, “with utahime… i wasn’t thinking about you in that moment the way i should have. i should’ve noticed how it made you feel and prioritized you instead. i’m sorry.”
and because your pride was a skyscraper—tall, expensive, reinforced with ego—you refused to let his sincerity dissolve your anger.
you scoffed, wiping under your eye with the back of your hand before the tear could fall. “you better be sorry. because if i ever have to watch you give some other girl a powerpoint presentation while i get the toddler-version explanation again, i’ll personally make sure your precious rosemary never sees sunlight again.”
nanami actually huffed a quiet breath—half a sigh, half a disbelieving laugh.
you leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing like a warning blade, voice low and lethal:
“try me, kento. i’ll turn your little greenhouse into a botanical graveyard.”
he stared at you gently, the smallest curve at the corner of his lips—not mocking, but full of something unbearably tender.
“i believe you,” he said.
and for a split second, the room pulsed with something that wasn’t anger—but you shoved it back into its cage before it could soften you.
you sat down on the very edge of the bed, like the mattress might swallow you whole if you dared to sit properly, silk pajamas pooling around your thighs, your spine stiff and your hands gripping the duvet so tightly the fabric bunched under your fingers. your legs were tense, knees angled inward, like you were holding yourself together through sheer ego alone. your chin trembled—not enough to expose you, just enough to betray the strain of holding everything in.
your eyes burned, lashes wet, vision blurring in that humiliating way that felt like defeat. you blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall because crying in front of him felt like handing over your crown—but your voice betrayed you, coming out raw, cracked, furious.
“do i have to learn fucking plants now?” you snapped, glaring at the floor because looking at him would break you. “is that it? i have to memorize soil pH and fucking photosynthesis just so you don’t have to talk to uta-fucking-hime?”
nanami inhaled, slow, steady, as if bracing himself to not crumble at the sight of you unraveling. “no,” he said gently, “you don’t—”
you cut him off with an unhinged laugh, bitter and broken at the edges. “because apparently that’s what it takes to get your attention these days. maybe i should start growing basil out of my ass too. will that help?”
nanami’s eyes widened a fraction—not at your vulgarity (he was used to that) but at the complete sincerity under the sarcasm. he took a slow breath, leaning slightly forward in the chair, hands clasping together, his voice careful. “you don’t need to learn any of that. i don’t want you to change. you don’t have to pretend to care about something just because I do.”
your head snapped up at that, eyes flashing, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. “aren’t i already pretending?” your voice wavered, then steadied through force. “i sat there, listening to you talk about leaves and soil and mint like it was the fucking cure to cancer, trying so goddamn hard to look interested, to support you—because it mattered to you, so i made myself care.”
nanami’s face softened, guilt pooling in the lines of his expression, but you continued before he could speak.
“and the one time—ONE TIME—I ask to be included, to be part of your little plant world, you shut me out like i’m some airheaded idiot you have to protect from botany knowledge.” your hand flew to your chest, pressing there like the pressure could keep your heart from cracking open. “what is that? what do you think i am?”
nanami’s voice dropped, quiet but urgent, “i didn’t shut you out because i think you’re stupid—”
“no?” you snapped, leaning forward, your anger trembling with hurt. “then why did you treat me like i’d break a nail if you explained what fucking soil is? why did she get the encyclopedia version while i got the kindergarten summary with sparkles and crayons?”
his brows pulled together, jaw tightening, but his voice stayed gentle—too gentle. “i thought I was making it easier for you. i didn’t want to overwhelm you with details when you were already upset.”
you scoffed again, wiping under your eye aggressively with the heel of your hand, smudging nothing because your skincare was too expensive to budge. “then you should’ve shut up, not dumb it down. i don’t need you to simplify the world for me like i’m some fragile porcelain doll who’ll shatter if exposed to big words.”
your throat tightened painfully, words spilling before pride could stop them.
“i’m not broken,” you whispered, then louder, sharper, “i’m NOT stupid.”
nanami’s face softened entirely, his voice warm and low and infuriatingly tender. “i know you’re not.”
your lips trembled, but you forced them still.
he tried to reach for your hand, slow and deliberate, giving you time to pull away—but you did, snatching your hand back to your lap, your body curling slightly inward, shoulders tightening, like you were trying to shrink away from the hurt without letting him see the wound.
“i don’t want to learn about plants,” you spat, voice thick with tears you refused to let fall. “i don’t want to join your stupid club. i don’t want to talk about soil or herbs or whatever the fuck rosemary trauma you deal with. i just…” your breath shook, “i just want you. and i shouldn’t have to study for the role of being your girlfriend.”
nanami’s eyes softened further—dangerously, heartbreakingly so—and he leaned forward just a little, elbows on his knees, voice steady in a way that threatened to unravel you completely.
“you already have me.”
you laughed—ugly, shaky, self-mocking. “do i? because it sure as hell didn’t feel like it when you were looking everywhere but at me.”
the tear finally escaped.
you swiped it away so fast it barely had time to fall.
he saw that tear—just one, microscopic, fast—but nanami was the kind of man who could feel an earthquake from a single tremor. his expression shifted, softened, his breath leaving him in something almost pained as he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped loosely like he was holding the weight of this carefully, terrified of crushing it.
“i’m sorry,” he said quietly, voice low, raw, without any of the neat composure he’d tried to maintain. “i hurt you. i shouldn’t have dismissed you, and i shouldn’t have allowed room for you to feel replaced or lesser. that was my failure.”
you scoffed instantly, curling further away from his sincerity like it burned. “oh, wow. an apology. revolutionary. should i clap? maybe roll out a red carpet? you want a medal for saying sorry like a big boy?”
nanami accepted the jab without flinching. “i’m not asking for praise. i’m telling you the truth—i’m sorry.”
“yeah, well,” you muttered, sniffing harshly as you dragged the sleeve of your silk pajama top across the corner of your eye before the next tear could betray you, “sorry doesn’t erase the fact that i looked like a fucking clown.”
nanami’s brows pinched at the word, but his voice stayed steady. “you didn’t look like a clown.”
you laughed—sharp, bitter. “don’t lie to me now. i humiliated myself for a man—you, unfortunately—and she watched. that’s worse than death. i should fake my own disappearance and move to monaco under a new name at this point.”
he shook his head, leaning closer on instinct, like his body couldn’t stand the space between you. “you reacted because you care about us. there’s nothing humiliating about caring.”
you snapped your gaze to him again, fury flaring through the heartbreak. “stop saying caring like it’s cute. it’s pathetic. i don’t do pathetic. i’ve never been pathetic. i don’t cry over boys. boys cry over me. that’s the natural order of the universe.”
nanami’s voice softened even more—a tone you hated because it saw right through you. “you’re not pathetic. you’re hurt. because I made you feel like you weren’t valued. that’s on me.”
you shook your head fiercely, hair falling forward, fingers tugging at the silk on your thigh like you needed something to anchor you. “you made me feel like some… irrelevant, dumb, useless accessory. and i know i’m spoiled and dramatic and ridiculous but—” your breath broke again, “but i shouldn’t have to beg to matter to the one person who’s supposed to love me most.”
nanami swallowed hard, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter, thicker. “you never have to beg for that. you never should have felt you did.”
you scoffed again, but weaker, because his sincerity was cracking your armor. “well, congratulations, you made me feel exactly that. you can add it to your achievement list: hurt your spoiled girlfriend enough to make her almost learn about basil.” you sniffed deeply, then glared at him like it was his fault oxygen existed. “do you know how low that is? i almost googled plants for idiots. that’s rock bottom.”
nanami blinked, then exhaled a breath that was almost—almost—an amused disbelief, but he restrained it because he knew laughing now was equivalent to suicide. “you don’t need to learn anything for me. i don’t want you to pretend interest for my sake.”
“but she asked,” you hissed, leaning forward, hands dropping to the mattress, gripping the edge as if the bed would levitate otherwise, “and you gave her the whole encyclopedia of plant shit like you were teaching a masterclass. meanwhile, when i ask, i get don’t stress your pretty head. do you hear how insulting that is?”
nanami closed his eyes briefly—guilt flickering across his features like a shadow—and when he opened them, he held your gaze firmly. “you’re right. that was condescending. i thought i was protecting you from stress, but i see now that it sounded like I was belittling you. that wasn’t my intention, but it doesn’t change how it made you feel.”
you stared at him, breath shaky, throat tight, and your voice dropped into something almost small—but still edged with venom because you refused to hand him the pure version of your pain.
“i don’t need protection from information. if i don’t understand, i’ll ask. i’m not fragile.”
nanami leaned forward more, hands loosening, as if fighting the urge to reach for you but respecting the invisible wall you kept between you. “i know you’re not. you’re strong, sharper than anyone I know. i should’ve respected that instead of trying to soften things for you.”
the compliment, the acknowledgment, the correction—it hit somewhere deep you didn’t want him to reach, so you snapped, defensive:
“you should have. because now? now i look like the stupid girlfriend who can’t keep up, while miss horticulture homewrecker gets the professor edition.”
“you’re not stupid,” nanami repeated, firm enough to anchor the air around you.
you looked away again, jaw clenching, your voice barely above a whisper: “but you made me feel like i was.”
he inhaled deeply, voice steady but pained. “then i failed you. and i’m sorry.”
this time, the apology didn’t feel like words— it felt like weight. and your pride, your last line of defense, forced your chin up, even as your voice cracked, “you should be. because if you ever make me feel like that again, i’m ending us both. emotionally, socially, and possibly legally.”
he apologized again—soft, steady, without flinching—and you opened your mouth, ready to snap back with one of your signature lines that would absolutely emotionally assassinate him and then ruin your life five seconds later, but he lifted a hand ever so slightly.
not commanding.
not silencing.
asking.
“can you… listen to me first?” he said, voice low, gentle, the kind that didn’t demand obedience but somehow earned it.
you hated that tone.
because for all your unhinged chaos, you weren’t heartless—you weren’t immune to the way nanami spoke when he genuinely needed you to hear him. his voice dipped lower, his posture leaned in—not towering, not intimidating, not challenging—just close enough to show sincerity, far enough to give you space to breathe.
you clenched your jaw, eyes narrowing, but you nodded once—sharp, reluctant—like you were granting an audience to a criminal on trial.
your body language screamed i’m listening against my will, but you stayed quiet, arms still folded, nails digging into your silk sleeves, your chin tilted up just a fraction as if to remind him you were still pissed, still wounded, still royalty on her throne of spite.
nanami exhaled, relieved you didn’t storm out or throw a pillow at his head.
his voice stayed calm, steady—because he was talking to a hurricane, not a person, and he knew it.
“i didn’t handle things correctly,” he began, his tone soft but anchored. his hands rested on his thighs, fingers relaxed now, not clasped tight like before. “i thought I was doing the considerate thing. you were upset that day, and I didn’t want to overwhelm you with details or make you feel out of your depth. i thought simplifying things would help. i see now it came across as dismissive and condescending.”
your lips twitched—because yes, that’s exactly what it was—but you held yourself back, biting your tongue, letting him continue because you agreed to listen and your pride wouldn’t let you break your own rule.
he kept going, breathing slow, every word careful:
“with utahime, I didn’t realize how it looked. she kept asking questions, and I answered because I thought I was being polite, not because I found her more deserving of my time.”
he swallowed once, eyes softening as they held yours. “but intention doesn’t erase impact. and the impact was that you felt second. that’s on me.”
the words hung in the room like incense—heavy, honest, impossible to ignore.
you shifted on the bed, uncrossing your arms just to cross them again tighter, because your heart tried to soften and your pride screamed no, not yet. your foot tapped once against the floor—restless, emotional energy leaking out in movement because sitting still with feelings was dangerous territory.
nanami continued, leaning in a little—not invading, just closer, grounding:
“you felt replaced. dismissed. stupid. and that’s the last thing I ever wanted you to feel. you’re the person I respect most. you’re the person whose attention I cherish, not hers. you matter to me more than anyone else does.”
your throat tightened. you looked away, staring at the edge of your vanity table, anywhere but at him, because if you looked directly at the warmth in his eyes you would break.
he let the silence settle a moment—not awkward, not rushed—just enough for his words to land, to breathe, to reach the place in you that still cared through all the rage.
“i should’ve shut the conversation down sooner,” he admitted quietly. “i thought staying polite would avoid unnecessary tension, but it cost you peace instead. and that isn’t worth it to me.”
your hands loosened just a little in your sleeves—barely—but enough for him to notice.
nanami breathed out, voice softer:
“I’ll fix it. properly this time. not just with words, but with action. I won’t let you feel sidelined again.”
you sat there in silence for a few seconds, your heart pounding against your ribs like a prisoner demanding release, your pride fencing every emotion like a guard dog on steroids.
and because you can never sit in vulnerability without throwing a knife to feel balanced, you finally muttered, voice low, biting, but thinner around the edges:
“if you start defending her, i swear to god i’ll shove your plants up your ass root-first.”
nanami blinked, then nodded, dead serious, as if you hadn’t just threatened him with horticultural assault. “i’m not defending her. i’m explaining myself to you, because you deserve that.”
your jaw clenched again, and though the rage was still there, the ice around it had begun—just barely—to crack.
you sighed, dramatic, exhausted, wiping at your lower lash line with your thumb like the tears were dust you could remove and pretend never existed.
“okay,” you muttered, still refusing to fully face him. “go on. i’m listening. finish the monologue before i change my mind and kick you out.”
and nanami—ever patient, ever steady—continued. and the more he spoke, the harder it became to keep your armor intact. his voice wasn’t trembling or begging, he wasn’t groveling or panicking — no, that would’ve been easier to reject. instead, he spoke in that devastatingly calm, steady, nanami way, the way that slipped past your defenses because he wasn’t trying to win, he was trying to understand you.
“you don’t deserve to share space with doubt,” he said, tone low, warm, maddeningly sincere. “you don’t deserve to question your place in my life. you are the person i choose, every day, in every room. i should’ve made that impossible to doubt — especially for you.”
you swallowed, your throat clicking, jaw locked so tightly that your teeth ached. you looked everywhere but at him: the chandelier reflection in your mirror, your perfume bottles arranged like a shrine to your vanity, your silk pillowcases, the edge of your nail on your thumb — anything that wasn’t his eyes because you knew one direct second of eye contact would flatten you.
nanami didn’t move closer, didn’t reach out, didn’t try to touch you before you allowed it — and that alone made your chest twist painfully. he knew pressure would make you bolt, so he simply sat there, giving you space to break at your own pace.
“i love you,” he continued, voice smoothing out like velvet pulled taut, “and i don’t expect you to hide your feelings or pretend you’re unaffected. you feel deeply — loudly — and it’s overwhelming sometimes, yes, but it’s also one of the things i adore most about you. you love in color. in flame. in extremes. i would never want to dim that.”
your lip trembled — actually trembled — and you pressed your teeth into it to physically punish the weakness.
nanami’s voice gentled even more, if that was somehow possible. “i will make sure you never feel like a second option again. i will be clearer. firmer. i will not leave room for anyone to assume my attention is available. i’m yours. you don’t need to fight for that.”
you breathed out — a fragile, uneven sound that almost wasn’t a breath at all. something in your ribcage shifted.
your shoulders sank an inch.
your fists loosened.
your vision clouded.
you hated it.
you hated how easily he could peel your rage back and expose the soft, shaking thing beneath. hated how his calm didn’t belittle your chaos — it held it. hated how he didn’t match your fire with ice or irritation, but with something worse: understanding.
you blinked, and a second tear slipped — traitorous, slow, warm against your skin. you swiped it away angrily, like it offended you. “fuck you,” you muttered — not hateful, not sharp — just broken. “fuck you for talking like that. i can’t stay mad when you talk like that.”
nanami’s gaze softened so achingly you had to glance away again. “i don’t want you to stay mad. i just want you to feel safe with me.”
your breath hitched — actually hitched — and suddenly the space between you felt unbearable. the absence of his touch felt like a scream against your skin.
you slid forward on the bed — once, hesitantly, like pride was clinging to your ankles — then again, knees brushing his, breath shaky, silk whispering across your thighs. nanami didn’t move, didn’t reach first, didn’t break the fragile consent of your approach — he waited, letting you choose him.
you moved that final inch — your knees between his legs, your hands trembling as they reached for his shoulders — and then you climbed into his lap, settling with your legs curled around him, your forehead pressing into the warm column of his neck like you were hiding in him, not hugging him.
the moment you made contact, nanami’s arms came up — slow, careful, then firm — wrapping around your waist with the kind of hold that said i’m not letting you go unless you ask me to. one hand cradled the back of your head, fingers sinking into your damp hair, the other anchored at your spine, steady, grounding, warm.
the first sob was silent — a sharp inhale into his shirt, your nails clutching at his shoulders like you were falling and he was the only surface left on earth. the second made a sound, a small broken one, like a wineglass cracking.
nanami tightened his arms around you, one thumb stroking the back of your head, his lips brushing your temple, voice low against your skin. “i’ve got you. i’m here.”
you hated how safe it felt — hated how quickly you melted — hated that after all your swearing and threatening arson and botanically themed murder monologues… you were crying in his lap anyway.
you sniffed against his neck, voice muffled, angry even through tears: “you’re still a piece of shit.”
nanami nodded into your hair. “i know.”
you curled tighter into him, your pride bleeding into his shirt, your voice cracking, “but you’re my piece of shit.”
his hand stroked your back, slow, intentional — the kind of touch that rebuilt things quietly. “always.”
and just like that, the storm inside you finally collapsed — not because he forced it to, but because he sat in it with you until you could breathe again.
it took a while—long enough for your breathing to steady, long enough for your fists to unclench in the fabric of his shirt, long enough for the heat behind your eyes to settle into a dull throb instead of a storm. you stayed in his lap even after the crying slowed, face tucked into the warm crook of his neck, your weight fully resting on him now like your body had finally surrendered to the truth that you felt safest with the same man you threatened to bury alive with his plants.
his palm stroked your back in slow, absent circles, the kind that weren’t meant to hush you but to anchor you. it was disgusting how much it worked.
after a long stretch of quiet—your kind of quiet, the heavy kind where pride is still limping around the room—you exhaled against his skin, voice rough, reluctant, and grudgingly soft.
“…i shouldn’t have… lost my shit like that.”
nanami didn’t speak, just hummed, a subtle vibration against your cheek that meant i’m listening.
you shifted slightly on his lap so you could look at him, but you didn’t move far—you stayed close enough to breathe the same air, your fingers still curled lightly over his shoulder, your forehead almost touching his. your voice stayed low, as if it would break if you raised it.
“i was fucking mean,” you muttered, eyes darting away because eye contact made honesty more painful, “i insulted your hobby like it’s stupid and i know it’s not stupid. it makes you happy. it gives you peace or whatever. and i shit all over it like a bitch having a tantrum.”
nanami cupped your jaw with one hand—not forcing you to look at him, just holding you gently, thumb brushing your cheek with steady warmth. “you were hurt. you reacted from that place. i don’t take it personally.”
you rolled your eyes with a watery scoff, wiping your face with the sleeve of your silk top, smearing your expensive moisturizer but not caring for once. “you should take it personally. i called you soil jesus. who even says that? what the fuck is wrong with me?”
the corner of his mouth twitched—the ghost of a smile—but he kept it small, respectful of your fragile dignity. “you’re passionate. and dramatic. it’s part of who you are.”
you glared half-heartedly. “that’s a diplomatic way to say i’m a fucking menace.”
“you are,” he agreed evenly, brushing a strand of hair away from your face and tucking it behind your ear with maddening tenderness. “but you’re my menace.”
you inhaled sharply, offended at how easily that softened you again. “stop saying things like that. it makes it hard to stay mad and i deserve to be mad for at least another six business days.”
nanami leaned in just enough that his forehead almost touched yours, his voice dipping lower, sincere in a way that stripped you bare. “you don’t need to punish yourself for feeling jealous. or threatened. you’re human.”
you clicked your tongue. “i don’t want to be human. i want to be a god. untouchable.”
nanami’s thumb stroked your cheek again, slow, grounding, annoyingly gentle. “i don’t want an untouchable goddess. i want you. spoiled, dramatic, sharp-tongued, mean when you’re hurt, soft when you think no one is watching—you.”
your chest tightened again, but this time it wasn’t painful, it was warm and terrifying.
you sniffed once, shifting again in his lap to hide the growing softness in your features. “i’m still sorry for being… like that. insulting your club. your plants didn’t deserve that verbal abuse.”
“no,” nanami said calmly, “they didn’t.”
you glared, offended that he agreed so easily. “you’re supposed to say ‘no, baby, you were totally valid in threatening my rosemary.’”
nanami’s lips curved slightly. “you weren’t valid in threatening my rosemary.”
“fuck you,” you muttered, but it had no heat. “i’ll poison your basil first.”
he nodded, indulgent. “i know.”
you sighed—heavy, dramatic, collapsing your full weight against his chest like the universe exhausted you. your fingers fisted lightly in his shirt for stability as you mumbled into his collarbone, voice muffled:
“i am such a bitch sometimes.”
nanami’s hand slid up your back, resting at the nape of your neck, his thumb rubbing small, rhythmic circles there that made your muscles melt one by one. “yes,” he said softly, honestly. “you can be… very mean.”
you jerked back just enough to glare at him, eyes still glossy, mouth open in disbelief. “you’re supposed to disagree, you emotionally constipated goldfish!”
nanami held your glare without flinching. “you asked me to listen and be honest.”
you blinked at him, then let out a short, incredulous laugh. “…i hate that you’re right.”
“i know,” he repeated, with infuriating calm.
you stared at him a second longer, lips parted, then shook your head slowly, your voice lowering into something almost vulnerable, almost small.
“and you still want me? like this? spoiled, mean, psychotic gremlin behavior and all?”
nanami didn’t hesitate. not even a breath.
“i like my girl spoiled and mean,” he said, voice warm and sure, eyes steady on yours. “i love you exactly as you are.”
something inside you cracked again—but this time it didn’t shatter into sharp pieces.
it softened. melted.
you swallowed, heat burning behind your eyes again, but you didn’t fight it this time as you leaned forward and rested your forehead against his, your voice breaking in a whisper, “you’re still a piece of shit.” nanami smiled—small, real, adoring—and whispered back, “i know.”
you end up horizontal without even remembering the transition — one moment you were sitting on his lap falling apart like a wet cupcake in the sun, the next nanami was lying beside you on your absurdly large bed, both of you under the soft weight of your overpriced duvet. the room was dim now, only the soft bedside lamp on, throwing a warm gold across his cheekbone and making him look disgustingly gentle, the kind of gentle that made your chest ache in that embarrassing, sentimental way you would sooner die than admit in daylight.
you were curled against him, your head on his chest, your leg thrown over his like you owned every square inch of him (you did), and his hand was in your hair — fingers combing through the damp strands slowly, over and over, like he was memorizing the texture of you. his other arm was wrapped around your waist, palm splayed over your back, thumb tracing slow circles beneath the silk that made your skin warm.
your voice came out small, muffled against his shirt, “are you staying tonight?”
you hated how you sounded — soft, almost shy, like a child asking if the thunder would stop — but nanami didn’t tease, didn’t smirk, didn’t make you regret vulnerability. he tightened his arm around you, his nose brushing your hair as he answered, voice low enough to settle into your bones,
“yes. i’m not going anywhere.”
you exhaled, long and slow, your fingers fisting lightly in the fabric at his chest, not in anger this time but in that instinctive don’t leave yet way that made your throat squeeze. “good. because if you left after all that emotional nonsense i’d actually pull a juliet and poison myself.”
he huffed a laugh against your forehead — quiet, warm, fond — and pressed a soft kiss there, his lips lingering like he was sealing the promise into your skin. “please don’t poison yourself. it would ruin the sheets.”
you swatted his chest weakly, raising your head to glare at him with no heat left in your body. “i hate you.”
he tipped his head slightly, eyes half-lidded, soft in the lamplight as his thumb brushed your cheekbone. “you love me.”
your lips twitched. “tragically.”
he smiled — a real one, warm and a little tired from the emotional hurricane you put him through — and he pulled you closer, tucking you just under his chin so he could speak against your hair. “i love you more than i know how to say. more than anything.”
his fingers traced lazy patterns along your back, not stopping for even a moment, like he needed the contact as much as you did. you let yourself melt into him fully now, all the claws retracted, all the sharpness dimmed. it was embarrassing how good it felt to be held like this — safe, wanted, adored — and you hated how much your body relaxed because of him.
“i missed you,” you murmured into the fabric of his shirt, and this time your voice didn’t come out defensive or dramatic — just honest, soft in a way only nanami ever got to hear. “i was so pissed at you and i still missed you the whole time.”
he angled his head down, his lips brushing your temple again, then your hairline, then the corner of your forehead — as if he was following a map of where to place comfort. “i missed you too. more than i expected. i didn’t like the distance. not from you.”
you shifted up just enough so that your face hovered near his, your nose brushing his jaw, your fingers moving to lightly trace the line of his throat — slow, absent, intimate. “you better never do that again,” you whispered, soft threat with no teeth left behind it. “i can’t handle missing you and being mad at you at the same time. it’s emotionally exhausting. i could’ve died.”
nanami smiled into your hair, one hand sliding down from your back to your hip, resting there with a protective weight that made your heart turn into warm pudding. “i won’t. i’ll do better. i promise.”
you sniffed, leaning up to press a tiny, barely-there kiss at the corner of his jaw — feather light, like your lips were shy now that they weren’t arguing. “good. because you’re mine. and i’m yours. and i don’t share.”
his grip tightened at your hip, gentle but firm, like the words hit him somewhere deep. “i know. and i don’t want you to.”
you hummed, content now, your body molded against him like you were crafted to fit there. his hand drifted up again, sliding into your hair, fingers massaging your scalp slowly, like he wasn’t even thinking about it — just needed to touch you in some way, any way, constantly.
“you’re very clingy,” you whispered, eyes growing heavy.
he kissed the top of your head again — slow, deliberate, warm.
“only with you.”
you smiled — soft, sleepy, safe — and buried your face in his chest again, breathing him in like warmth, like home. for once, you didn’t feel like you had to perform, or prove, or defend, or win. you just existed in his arms, and he held you like that was enough.
it turned out nanami wasn’t just a man who talked pretty—he actually followed through, which was infinitely more dangerous for your heart because now you couldn’t even stay mad at him for fun. the very next day, when you showed up at the greenhouse after class — not because you suddenly cared about plants, but because you needed to see his promise in action — he proved himself in 4k HD.
you arrived looking like sin among seedlings: hair perfect, lip gloss expensive, outfit curated to silently declare “i own the man in charge here”. the greenhouse smelled like damp soil and mint and academic overachievement. nanami was inside, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing while watering something green you didn’t know the name of but decided to internally call “future pesto.”
he noticed you instantly — his entire posture softened, jaw unclenching like you were oxygen. he put the watering can down and walked straight to you, one hand sliding around your waist with a confidence that made your pride purr. he pressed a brief kiss to your temple in greeting, low enough for only you to hear when he murmured, “hi, sweetheart.”
and then—she appeared.
utahime and her tragic bangs, holding a notebook like she was auditioning for a role in “botany for people with no charisma.” she approached, clearing her throat, and launched into yet another question, voice way too chipper for a woman who should’ve learned fear by now.
“nanami, can you explain again why the rosemary is wilting even though i watered it twice? i think i’m still doing something wrong—”
nanami didn’t even let her finish.
he turned slightly, keeping you tucked to his side, his hand on your waist tightening possessively — polite, but unmistakably boundary-marking — and said in a level, courteous tone that somehow carried a scalpel:
“i’ve explained that twice already. i’m spending time with my girlfriend now — you can ask one of the senior members for help.”
the silence that followed was delicious, like a gourmet dessert made of karma.
utahime blinked, startled, clearly not expecting the polite brick wall. “oh, i— right. sorry, i didn’t mean to—”
you smiled sweetly, leaning your head onto nanami’s shoulder, nails tracing along his forearm as you added, voice dripping with honeyed poison:
“maybe try listening next time. watering every time you feel emotional isn’t how plants work, babe.”
utahime stiffened. nanami squeezed your waist — warning, but gentle — though you could feel him trying not to laugh. she retreated toward some other helpless club member, and nanami turned his face into your hair for a second, exhaling like he was holding back amusement.
“be nice,” he murmured.
you scoffed, pulling back to look at him. “i was educationally constructive. i’m contributing to the learning environment.”
he kissed your cheek. “you’re impossible.”
you smirked, looping your arms around his neck. “and you like it.”
later that week, the friend group witnessed Proof #2: nanami’s boundary olympics.
you were all at your usual table — coffee, snacks, gossip, geto reading something philosophical he didn’t understand. you sat on nanami’s lap, his arm around your waist like a permanent seatbelt, your legs draped over his like you owned the throne and the king.
utahime walked into the café — of course — and spotted you all. either god hated you or you were starring in a sitcom. she approached, smiling like she wasn’t the antagonist in your personal novella.
“oh! i didn’t know you guys were here. do you mind if i join?”
already pulling a chair. already delusional.
before you could unsheathe your verbal knives, nanami beat you to it — politely, gently, firmly.
“we’re having quality time with our friend group right now,” he said, voice almost warm but with an iron spine. “maybe another time.”
shoko, sipping her iced coffee, didn’t miss a beat. “yeah, we’re trauma-bonding. it’s exclusive.”
gojo grinned with all teeth, draping himself over the back of his chair. “also we’re at maximum capacity for straight-laced energy. one more person with no sense of humor and we’ll combust.”
geto added thoughtfully, “we reached our quota of new people three years ago.”
haibara waved apologetically, “maybe next time! like… next century.”
utahime froze, blinked, and did the walk of shame back to the counter.
you leaned in, whispering into nanami’s ear with prideful satisfaction, “i could kiss you right now.”
nanami didn’t hesitate — he turned and kissed you softly in front of everyone.
gojo gagged loudly. “okay but i didn’t mean in front of me, have some respect for my single trauma.”
you flipped him off without looking.
and the thing is — nanami didn’t just do it once for show.
he kept doing it.
day after day, little actions stacking like bricks rebuilding trust. when utahime approached him during club, he redirected her to literally anyone else. he kept you close — hand at your back, fingers intertwined, lips brushing your hair, gentle touches that said mine without needing to say it
he included you deliberately in plant conversations, explaining things properly — not simplified, not dismissive. he sent you photos of his plants with captions like “this is thriving. like us.”. when people asked about his schedule, he said, “i’m with my girlfriend,” like it was a valid unbreakable appointment (it was). he texted you good morning and goodnight like rituals of devotion. he left club early to walk you to class, iced coffee in hand, your order memorized down to ice quantity and foam thickness
and slowly — painfully, annoyingly, wonderfully — your anger had nothing left to feed on. nanami didn’t leave space for doubt anymore. he made it obvious — to you, to your friends, to utahime, to the plants, to the universe — that you were his priority.
one evening, as you curled into his side again, your voice barely above a whisper, you muttered, “…you’re still a piece of shit.”
nanami kissed your forehead, fingers tracing your spine.
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