you've been friends with satoru since you both were kids. satoru always tells you about omegas are weak, clingy, and too dependent on alphas. you never really cared about secondary genders enough to argue with him. satoru turns to look at you with those bright blue eyes and grins. "we will be the strongest alphas."
the day your secondary gender test results are handed out, the class feels unusually quite. you've always doubtful that you'd present as an alpha, but the look in satoru's eyes is full of hope. you unfold the paper, eyes catch the results, an omega. you turn to look at satoru with a small shrug like it isn't a big deal, but it is for him.
you start avoiding satoru, and he never questions it. the first few months are easy enough, until you develop your pheromones. things start going missing after that. first a hair tie, handkerchief, headband. you think you've simply misplaced them. until one day, you catch a glimpse of white hair slipping out of an empty classroom, with your scraf in his hand.
you find your scarf again the next day, neatly folded on the desk, right where you left it. when you bring the scarf close to your face, satoru's pheromone clings faintly to the fabric. it calms you. so you wear it the rest of the day.
there's an alpha tries to approach you, only to stop halfway. his expression shifts the moment he catches another alpha's scent on you. across the room, satoru looks far too pleased with himself.
you start purposefully leaving your things behind on the desk, so satoru can take them whenever he wants. the scarf, hoodie, sweater are the only things he gives back. of course he always leaves his pheromones on them. then, one day, your first heat starts. you absence in the class.
satoru grows restless. he hears omega's heats aren't easy. they're painful, exhausting, and dangerous around alphas. he intimidates another omega student into delivering a bag to your dorm immediately. when you open the strange bag, there are two hoodies and spare shirts. they're all carrying the heavy scent of his pheromones.
it doesn't stop there, from the first day of your heat until the last, satoru keep sending more of his clothes. more of his scent, more of satoru. after your first heat, things between you and satoru never return to normal. he still steals your things, and you still leave them behind on purpose.
graduation comes quietly. by then, you and satoru barely speak unless necessary. still, he finds you after ceremony. "so, what are you gonna do after this?"
you glance up at him, since when did he become so tall? "I'll still work as a sorcerer, whenever they call me." you clear your throat, hiding the awkwardness. "what about you?"
"thinking of becoming a teacher."
"you? teaching?" despite everything that happened over the years, you naturally laugh when he's around. satoru just laugh with you.
"I'm sure the kids will like me, because I'm good at everything, you know." and just like that, the conversation keeps flowing.
before leaving, you stop in front of satoru. "thanks," your cheeks heated up when he gives a confusion look. "for the clothes... your pheromone helped me during heat."
"i could send my clothes to your place if you need." for once satoru doesn't joke around. and you nod your head.
you reach out a hand. "see you around, satoru."
"yeah, see you." he takes your hand, his fingers linger for a second too long before letting go. you don't notice the missing bracelet until hours later, and you don't go look for it.
years pass, you still come to solo missions and sometimes leading the new students through the assignments. one time, you go with satoru alone in a special grade mission.
your body hits the ground before satoru can catch you properly. everything goes silent for a second, then your pheromones spill into the air all at once. it's not heat, it's distress. you're in pain and exhausted.
satoru doesn't think twice, he brings you to his place. because go to infirmary, everyone could smell your pheromones. satoru carefully tends your cuts and bruises, then fill the room with the comforting scent of his pheromones.
sometime later, the smell of food slowly pulls you awake. your body still aches, the overwhelming distress from earlier is gone, replaced by the familiar comfort of satoru's pheromones lingering around the apartment.
you sit up slowly, eyes wander around the room, then stop at the box on the nightstand. you open it, there are dozens of your hair ties, bracelets, and handkerchiefs. your things, years worth of your things.
satoru walks in to check on you, he freezes, you find his secret box. when you look up at him, he lets out a breathless chuckle. "you caught me."
a small laugh slips out your lips. "no, i already knew you were the culprit."
satoru steps closer, a blush creeping up his neck. "yeah, of course you knew." he slowly sits next to you. "sometimes i look at them when i miss you."
"i thought you hated omegas." your small, hesitant voice makes satoru's head snaps back toward you. then realization slowly settles across his face, all these years, you've been avoiding him because of something he said.
"i... please ler me correct myself." his hands on your shoulders, gently turning you to face him. "i don't hate omegas, especially not you. omegas aren't weak, and i like it when you dependent on me, only me."
"i thought you wanted an alpha as a partner."
"you seriously think i care about that?" his fingers tightening on your shoulders. "wheter you're an alpha, beta, or omega... i would've still wanted you. it was always you."
your face grows warmer, instinctively look away from him. "you say embarrassing things so casually..."
a grin slowly spreads across satoru's face as he slowly leans in. "you like hearing them?"
while satoru keeps talking, your attention drifts back to the box beside you. between the bracelets and hair ties, something unfamiliar catches your eye, a small velvet ring box.you blink in confusion before picking it up. "i don't remember losing this."
the second satoru realizes what you're holding, he nearly chokes. “wait—”
too late, you already open it. the inside is a diamond ring. you turn to look at him, demand an answer.
"i was saving that." satoru's swallow hard before continues. "for romantic moments like... i take you out to candlelit dinner, dramatic confession, all that stuff."
"papa is not romantic at all." your daughter cuts into the story immediately. satoru lets out a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest like he wounded.
"that's right, papa was a coward for made mama sad for years." your eldest son is judging satoru with the same bright blue eyes.
satoru turns to look at you like he's about burst into tears. "sweets... tell our children i can be romantic."
you burst into laugh, your swell stomach trembling slightly with the movement. eventually, you force yourself to calm down, one hand resting protectively over your belly, worried the twins might get uncomfortable inside. "don't bully your papa too much, he's still trying."
your eldest son places a hand on your stomach, gently rubs the swell. "when i grow up, I'll be the best, strongest alphas. so i can protect my little siblings."
your daughter, already half asleep, crawls into satoru's arms and clings to him sleepily. "better than papa?" she mumbles.
"better than papa." your son nods seriously. satoru gasps in offense while you break into laughter all over again.
i didn't realize, i wrote this until 2 am. anw thank you for reading 🤍
︵ ೀ fluff. you call satoru by his last name in public and he is a bit dramatic about it
the staff meeting at jujutsu high was supposed to be the most boring hour of your week, the kind where yaga talks about statistics and everyone quietly checks how many minutes are left before they can go get lunch.
but you and satoru had gotten into a fight that morning, one of those stupid arguments that starts over something small and somehow spirals into “well maybe you just don’t think about anyone but yourself,” and neither of you had really resolved it before you both had to show up to work like functioning adults.
so when he strolled into the conference room fifteen minutes late, blindfold pushed up onto his head, grinning like the whole world owed him a good morning, you didn’t even glance up from your notebook.
“morning, morning, did everyone miss me?” he said, dropping into the seat next to yours like nothing at all had happened between the two of you a few hours earlier.
“gojo,” you said, without looking up, your voice perfectly even, like you were greeting a coworker you barely knew.
the entire room seemed to freeze for a second. not satoru. not babe, not the nickname you swore you’d never use in public but absolutely used constantly at home. just gojo, delivered with all the warmth of a weather report.
nanami’s eyebrows climbed so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline. shoko made a small choking sound and had to set her coffee cup down before she embarrassed herself further. even yaga, who had seen a thousand strange things happen in this school, paused his sentence about budget allocations to look between the two of you like he’d wandered into the middle of a drama he hadn’t signed up for.
satoru blinked, the smile faltering just slightly at the corners. “huh?”
you flipped a page in your notebook and underlined something that absolutely did not need underlining, just to have somewhere to put your hands.
“did you,” he started, sitting up straighter now, all his earlier ease draining out of him, “did you seriously just gojo me?”
“can we please get back to the agenda,” you said, addressing the room in general rather than him specifically.
nanami cleared his throat and tried to steer things back on track. “as i was saying, the eastern district has seen an uptick in curse activity over the past—”
“she gojo’d me,” satoru interrupted, loud enough that the whole table heard it, staring at you with the wounded expression of a man who had just watched his house burn down in front of him. “in front of everyone. she used my last name like i’m a substitute teacher.”
you still didn’t look at him. you clicked your pen closed, then open again, then closed, a habit you knew drove him up the wall, and said nothing at all.
“focus, gojo,” you said again, watching the way his whole soul seemed to leave his body when you said it a second time was a little more satisfying than you’d expected.
“okay. okay, everybody hold on,” satoru said, raising both hands like he was trying to talk down an actual hostage situation. “nobody move, nobody speak, something has gone horribly wrong here. she just used my government name. in public. on purpose.”
“that is your name,” nanami pointed out, deadpan, not even looking up from his own notes.
“not to her it isn’t! not in four years has she ever once called me gojo, and now suddenly, out of nowhere, in the middle of a staff meeting, she’s talking to me like i’m a stranger she met at the post office—” he turned to you again, voice climbing with real panic now. “okay, you know what, meeting’s over, everyone go home, thank you for coming, we’ll reschedule—”
“the meeting,” yaga said flatly, unimpressed, “is not over.”
“it is for me!” satoru stood so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor, then leaned across the table toward you, blindfold slipping further down his forehead, genuine desperation creeping into his voice. “what did i do. just tell me what i did and i’ll fix it. is this about the mission partner thing? it’s the mission partner thing, isn’t it. i can undo it. i can un-fix the fixing. i can grovel right here in front of everyone if that’s what this requires—”
you finally looked up to deliver the final blow with the sweetest, most devastating calm you could manage:
“i’m not sure what you mean, gojo. we’re in the middle of a meeting.”
that was the moment the room completely lost it. shoko was laughing so hard into her coffee cup that she had to set it down entirely, wiping at her eyes. nanami pressed a hand over his face like he was praying for the strength to survive this job for one more day. even yaga, who never smiled during meetings on principle, was clearly biting back one now, badly.
“that’s it,” satoru said, dropping back into his chair. “fine. that’s fine. be like that. see if i care. i am literally the strongest sorcerer in the world and i am being disrespected in my own place of employment, in front of my own coworkers, by my own—” he lowered his voice for the last part, leaning toward you like it was a secret, “—girlfriend, who apparently doesn’t remember that we live together and that i know exactly what cereal she eats and exactly what she looks like without—”
“gojo,” nanami cut in, exhausted, “please let the meeting continue.”
“see! even he can feel that something is deeply wrong here! the temperature in this room actually dropped! shoko, did the temperature just drop or was that just me—”
you allowed yourself the smallest, most private smile, tucked safely behind the cover of your notebook, as the strongest sorcerer alive continued to unravel in real time over exactly one syllable of his own last name, in front of the entire senior staff of jujutsu high, on a random tuesday morning.
by the time you got home that evening, satoru had clearly spent the whole day rehearsing something, because the second you walked through the door he was already there, hovering, almost vibrating with nervous energy like a dog that knows it did something wrong but isn’t sure what.
“okay so,” he said, following you into the kitchen, “i’ve been thinking about this literally all day, and i want to formally apologize, on the record, for the mission partner thing, and also i want to say, for the record, that what you did today was actually kind of terrifying and i need you to never do it again.”
“do what,” you said, setting your bag down like you had no idea what he could possibly mean, even though you absolutely did.
“you know what,” he said, sliding an arm around your waist from behind before you could even take your jacket off, chin dropping onto your shoulder. “the gojo thing. please. i’m begging you. never again.”
“it’s your name,” you said, echoing nanami from earlier, and you felt him groan directly into your shoulder.
“it is not my name when you say it like that,” he mumbled. “when you say it like that it sounds like you’re breaking up with me in front of witnesses. i had to sit there for an entire meeting wondering if this was it, if this was the day my girlfriend decided she’d had enough of me and was breaking the news.”
you turned around in his arms, biting back a laugh, and he immediately seized the opportunity to rest his forehead against yours, eyes closed like he was bracing for more punishment.
“so you admit you deserved it,” you said.
“i admit nothing,” he said, “except that i am deeply, deeply sorry, and that i will never again swap your mission partner without telling you first, and that if you ever call me gojo again in public i will actually die.”
“say please.”
“please,” he said immediately, no hesitation at all, pulling you in tighter like he was worried you might change your mind and use his last name right there in the kitchen just to torture him further. “please, please, i’ll do anything, i’ll even do paperwork, just—just be normal about it. call me anything else. call me an idiot, call me insufferable, i don’t care, just not that.”
“fine,” you said, finally letting the smile show. “satoru.”
the relief on his face was almost embarrassing, the way his whole body seemed to unclench at once, like you’d just lifted some enormous curse off him.
“thank you,” he said, dramatic as ever, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then finally your mouth. “never again. i mean it. that was the scariest six words of my entire life and i’ve fought curses that wanted to eat my ass.”
“it was one word,” you pointed out.
“it felt like six,” he said, and pulled you into a hug so tight it nearly knocked the breath out of you, laughing into your hair, all traces of this morning’s fight forgiven, or at least thoroughly overridden by how badly he never wanted to hear his own last name from you again.
It’s been three hours since it happened, and the fury has yet to subside. If anything, the silence in your shared apartment is making it worse, fanning the flames of your irritation until you feel like a walking, talking inferno. A very pregnant, very uncomfortable inferno.
It started simply enough. You were heading to the kitchen for your fourth glass of water in the last hour – this baby was apparently determined to turn your bladder into its own personal water park. That’s when you caught it: a low chuckle from the living room sofa.
You paused, one hand on your burgeoning belly, the other on the small of your back, trying to alleviate the ever-present ache. “What’s so funny?”
Sukuna’s laughter wasn’t the full-throated, arrogant sound that usually echoed through your home. No, this was a suppressed, wheezing thing, the kind of laugh that happens when you’re trying desperately not to, which only makes it a hundred times worse. He was buried in his phone, but his shoulders were shaking.
“Nothing,” he managed to get out, his voice strained.
You narrowed your eyes. “It doesn’t sound like nothing. What are you laughing at?”
He finally looked up, and that’s when you saw it. The glint of amusement in his crimson eyes, the smirk playing on his lips. He was trying to school his features into something neutral, but he was failing spectacularly.
“It’s just…” He gestured vaguely in your direction. “The way you’re walking.”
The air in the room seemed to crystallize. You could feel your blood pressure skyrocket. “The way I’m walking?” you repeated, your voice dangerously low.
“Yeah,” he said, and the idiot actually chuckled again. “You’re waddling.”
And that was it. The dam of your carefully maintained composure broke.
“Waddling?” you shrieked, and you were vaguely aware that you sounded like a tea kettle reaching its boiling point, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. “I am not waddling! I am carrying your child! A human being! Do you know how much this weighs? It feels like I’m smuggling a watermelon, and you’re over there, laughing at me?”
The smirk on his face finally vanished, replaced by a look of dawning horror. He’d been with you long enough to recognize the signs of an impending hormonal meltdown. He slowly put his phone down, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Okay, okay, baby, I’m sorry,” he said, his voice placating. “It was a stupid thing to say. You’re not waddling. You’re… gliding. Like a majestic, pregnant swan.”
“A majestic, pregnant swan?” you repeated, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Do I look like a swan to you, Sukuna? Do I?”
He wisely chose not to answer that question. He stood up, crossing the room in a few long strides, and tried to pull you into his arms. You sidestepped him, your arms crossed over your chest (or, as much as you could with your belly in the way).
“Don’t touch me,” you snapped. “I can’t even look at you right now.”
And that was the crux of the problem, wasn’t it? You were furious with him, so angry you could spit nails, but the thought of actually being away from him was unbearable. Your hormones were a tangled mess of contradictions, and you were just along for the ride.
That’s when the idea struck you. It was brilliant in its absurdity, a perfect solution to your current predicament.
“Go get a paper bag,” you commanded.
Sukuna blinked. “A what?”
“A paper bag,” you repeated, pointing a finger at him. “From the pantry. The big ones we use for recycling. Go get one.”
He looked at you as if you’d grown a second head, but he didn’t argue. He knew better than to argue with you in this state. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned a moment later, holding a large brown paper bag.
“Okay,” he said, holding it out to you. “Now what?”
“Put it on your head,” you said, your voice deadpan.
He stared at you, the bag dangling from his hand. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.
He sighed, a long-suffering sound that you had become very familiar with over the past few months. He unfolded the bag, and with a final, defeated look in your direction, he pulled it over his head.
And so, here you are, three hours later. Sukuna is sitting on the sofa, a paper bag over his head, and you’re on the armchair opposite him, still fuming. The silence is thick with unspoken words, a testament to the ridiculousness of the situation.
You have to admit, it’s a little hard to stay mad at a man with a paper bag on his head. Every so often, you can hear him sigh, a muffled sound from within his paper prison. You’ve made him cut eyeholes in the bag, so you know he’s watching you, but you refuse to meet his gaze.
“Are you still mad at me?” he asks, his voice distorted by the bag.
“Yes,” you say, your voice clipped.
“It was a joke,” he says, his voice softer now. “A stupid one, I’ll admit. But I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“It wasn’t funny,” you say, your voice wavering slightly. You can feel the tears welling up in your eyes, and you hate it. You hate that you’re so emotional, that you can go from rage to tears in the span of a few seconds.
“I know, baby,” he says, and he sounds genuinely remorseful. “I’m sorry. I really am.”
You sniff, trying to hold back the tears. “You’re just lucky I love you,” you mumble.
“I know,” he says again, and you can hear the smile in his voice, even through the bag. “I’m the luckiest man in the world.”
He stands up and walks over to you, the paper bag rustling with every step. He kneels in front of you, and you can feel his hands on your knees, his touch warm and familiar.
“Can I take this off now?” he asks, his voice a low rumble.
You hesitate for a moment, then nod. He reaches up and pulls the bag off his head, and you’re met with the sight of his handsome face, his eyes soft with affection. He leans in and kisses you, a slow, tender kiss that makes your heart melt.
“I love you,” he murmurs against your lips.
“I love you too,” you say, your voice thick with emotion. “Even if you are an idiot.”
He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through you. “I know,” he says.
And as he pulls you in for another kiss, you know that he’s right. He’s your idiot, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. Even if he does make you want to strangle him sometimes.
an: y'all my favorite influencer is pregnant and i got this idea when i saw her waddle cause its so cute ughhh
tojis voice is gruff and deep when he enters through the door into your shared bedroom. its the sound of your muffled soft sobs that stop his feet like theyve just been glued to the floor.
his heart skips a beat before it quickens and hes moving again. "baby?" his voice called you through the dark room, throughout your robs and the pain you were experiencing in your stomach you hadnt exactly noticed or heard toji entering the room.
you were laying curled up on the bed, didnt have time to pull the covers over you as you clutched your knees to your chest. "shit, is it time baby?" he asked stepping closer, big hands now carefully approaching your frame, one resting on your back as the other steadies on the mattress where he plants on knee to bend over your figure and see your face.
"im here, cmon baby lets get you comfortable,'m here." he grunts before you hear a noise, tojis hands land on your body, moving your arms in ways to her rid of your shirt, the one that was starting to annoy you but you couldnt really do much about it because of the pain.
replacing it with his own warm shirt that smelled exactly like him. instantly your mind quieted down and you felt a bit braver now that your husband was near you, now that you felt his warm hands on you. he quickly helped you get rid of your pants and laid you inbed properly, a pillow between your knees to help you lay better.
toji softly pressed a kiss to your forehead, "ill be back, baby." he whispers just as soft as the tender kiss he just laid onto your forehead.
then hes gone, minutes stretch and it feels like youve been dying for an eternity now. all you want is his comfort and the safety of his arms when you hear him again. "hey, im sorry doll- heater broke and i had to boil the water on the stove." he mumbled- rambled annoyed, at the heater ofcourse.
you let out a sound more like an agreeing sound when he scooped you up into his arms, familiar heatpack on your stomach and his big soft most of all comforting arms around you.
his heart was beating quickly from trying to get it done as soon as possible which made you smile against his chest the warmth from the heatpack now distracting you from the pain.
along with tojis arms, tojis held onto you like you were wounded, like he could sqeeuze the pain our of you if he applied enough pressure because if he didnt hed lose you. he held you like he was in pain himself but you knew he just wanted to take your pain.
because nothing hurt toji more then seeing you in pain.
a/n - ufh if i had his arms around me my period cramps would be gawwnnn , such a random post but im having cramps sooo ⊹ ࣪ ˖ atp i can make my tummy ache thing a series, where r my tummy issue ppl at ⚞^. .^⚟ ur accepted hereee
toji stuff i also post more tummy pain comforting fics if youre interested, masterlist
this is Sukuna. Sukuna loves his personal space. this is you. you also love Sukuna's personal space—especially when he’s trying to nap.
⪼ Sukuna loves his personal space mini-series
Midday sun blazes against the living room windows, the blinds drawn tight, but still useless against the suffocating heat that seeps into every corner. The air hangs thick and unmoving, making every breath heavy with humidity, and the only sound is the low, muffled hum of a rock station drifting from the battered old radio on the side table. Sukuna's sprawled flat on his back across the couch, one massive arm thrown over his eyes to block out the harsh sunlight, dead asleep despite the heat. His broad, bare chest rises and falls slowly, every muscle slack with exhaustion as he tries to wring a scrap of rest from the oven-hot afternoon.
Sukuna loves his personal space when he's trying to nap. You, on the other hand, happen to love Sukuna's personal space more than your own.
Bare feet silent against the floorboards, you slip into the living room and pause at the edge of the couch, taking in the massive, inviting sprawl of Sukuna’s frame. The empty stretch by his feet and the soft armchair across the room don’t tempt you even for a second. Instead, you climb onto the middle cushions, sinking your knees in before crawling straight up his body until you’re stretched out on top of him. Your whole front presses flush against his bare chest, chin propped on folded hands right over his heart.
Dragging his arm away from his forehead, Sukuna cracks open heavy eyelids, blinking away the last remnants of sleep before his eyes find you and track your every movement, narrowing into a flat, unimpressed stare that lands squarely on your face. The sheer audacity of your intrusion leaves him looking irritated at first, but then, almost against his will, a reluctant warmth seeps into his features as the humidity clings to his skin.
"You're heavy," he lies, letting his voice drop into that low, sleepy rumble that always has your chest tightening with affection, shifting beneath you just a little to be dramatic.
"Light as a feather," you counter softly, wiggling until you're perfectly settled on his chest and grinning up at him.
"More like a sack of bricks," he grumbles, making absolutely no effort to throw you off him. "It’s too hot for this, and you're like a weighted blanket I never asked for. Why are you on me, huh?"
"Because you're comfy."
Sukuna lets out a sharp, incredulous scoff, his chest heaving beneath you. "The armchair's right there. It’s comfy too."
“Your skin’s nicer," you murmur.
"I'm not furniture, woman." He tries to sound stern, but there’s the faintest hint of amusement curling at the edge of his words.
"Aren’t you?" You arch an eyebrow, lips quirking in challenge.
"Unbelievable," he groans, rolling his eyes skyward as if he’s searching for patience. "My whole body’s aching after beating the hell out of each other with Toji at the gym, and you’re treating me like a mattress."
"You make a good mattress," you tease.
"I'm gonna throw you onto the floor," he threatens, but you both know he lost that battle the second you climbed onto him.
"You won't," you shoot back, poking a finger lightly into his side, right over his ribs. "You'd miss me too much."
"I'd sleep like a log," he fires back, his lips twitching as he tries to maintain his glare despite the dull ache in his muscles. "I'd have the whole couch to myself. No tiny parasites sucking the life out of me."
"Fine, I'll go," you sigh, making an exaggerated show of wiggling away with no intention of leaving.
You barely manage to shift before his massive hands leave the cushions, wrapping around your back and locking you tight against his body. His grip is unyielding, pinning you flat to him, while thick fingers slip under the hem of your loose shirt, tracing slow patterns along your spine with his blunt nails.
"Stay put," he grumbles, voice going all low and rough. "You already ruined my nap. You don't get to just walk away now." Even as he tries to sound threatening, his arms tighten around you, making it painfully obvious he has no intention of letting you go.
"Oh, so you do want me here?" you whisper, tilting your head up to give him a smug, victorious grin.
Sukuna lets out a heavy, defeated sigh, his head tilting until his cheek rests on the top of your head as his thick leg hooks over yours, sealing you in.
"Shut up and sleep, menace," he mutters into your hair, fingers drawing lazy circles between your shoulder blades. "You really don't believe in personal space, do you? Every damn nap turns into this.”
"You don't mind," you mumble, nuzzling your cheek into his chest, eyes drifting shut as his touch lulls you toward sleep.
His chest expands beneath you with a deep, contented sigh before he presses a slow, lingering kiss into your messy hair, his grip never loosening.
"No," he murmurs softly into the quiet of the room. "I absolutely don't."
It doesn’t take long before his breathing slows, the lazy circles against your back growing fainter until they stop as sleep finally claims him, too.
after talking it over with sukuna, you and he both decided it would be a nice surprise to take the kid to the zoo, give him a bit of a break from his school routine. it was also a much needed break for the two of you as well to get some sun and air on your skin while spending time with each other as well as one of the most important people in both your lives.
"look uncle 'kuna! look auntie! look!" yuji screeches excitedly at the sea lion doing barrel rolls in the water at the guidance of his stubby little finger covered in funnel cake sugar. his brown eyes are practically sparkling with adoration for the pinniped as he zips across the exhibit , the creature racing after him behind the thick display glass. onlookers in the crowd are audibly "awww"-ing at the bond he had formed with the animal.
sukuna stood, menacing as ever with his muscular, tatted arms crossed while keeping his eyes trained on yuji and you as well as keeping himself aware of his surroundings. you on the other hand were squatting as you recorded him on your semi expensive hand camera, gushing over him, almost like you were actually his auntie.
almost like yuji was your kid.
it made sukuna's heart melt on the inside, though he would never admit this out loud.
"don't run to fast, you might fall on your face," sukuna barks, no bite behind the words.
"okay!" he slows down for a few moments before picking back up were he left off again, zipping back and forth across the glass. He continued like that until another kid bumped into him.
sukuna had noticed this kid watching his nephew earlier. he was there with another man who was was obviously his guardian, clearly not paying attention to his own kid as he was to busy with his nose buried in his phone. the little boy seemed curious and almost envious that yuji was playing with the sea lion and not him. he had stepped in front of him to bump into him to discourage him away from the glass. finally, the kid deciding he wanted his turn and he wanted it now, shoved little yuji to the ground.
"hey!" he squeaked, his little tiger bucket hat falling away from his fluffy pink hair. the crowd gasped.
instantly, you tucked your phone away into your small purse and sukuna followed quickly afterward, ready to punt the brat into the enclosure since he wanted the animal's attention so badly.
"baby, are you okay?" you say, panicking a lot more than you probably should be as you checked him over. he has some surface level scraps on his hand from hitting the concrete, but other than that, the kid was fine.
" 'm okay, auntie," he says, wiping dirt crumbs on his white shirt and dark blue jeans.
"the hell are your parents, punk," sukuna growls at the kid. you place an arm on his shoulder, understanding of his fury but also warning. he had a right to be mad, but he still couldn't just be yelling at a stranger's kid in public.
he was scary looking as well, so that definitely would not help his case.
on cue, an anxious looking lady scampers over to the boy, apologizing profusely about her son and scolding him.
"i'm so sorry-i went to the bathroom and there was a line, his dad should've been watching him-"
she made her son apologize to yuji, but yuji just smiled and took the situation in stride.
"it's okay! we were gonna go see some other animals anyways. bye!" he lets you put his hat on his head while you and sukuna cut eyes at the woman. she yanks her kid along with her and also snatches up her husband. yuji seemed to be taking the whole situation fine, so you and sukuna dropped it.
later that day, after going back for a second helping of funnel cake and seeing some indoor exhibits, it was finally time to see the main attraction (at least in yuji's opinion) the tiger exhibit! he was so excited, pulling on both your arms as hard as he could to urge you along.
"alright, alright, we're going!" sukuna gruffed. he scooped yuji up and sat him on his shoulders, letting the kid steer him in the direction of the tiger exhibit.
the two of them made your heart swell so much you'd think you explode out of your chest. you snuck a couple of pictures, resigning to send them to sukuna later.
finally, after yuji getting sidetracked by some exhibits on the way, you wanting to look at the ponies and sukuna actually wanting to look at elephants a capybaras, you finally arrived to the tiger display.
it was alongside the lion exhibit, the environments being built in a roundabout fashion. once you were done looking at one big cat, you could walk around in a circle and see another on the opposite side.
"now when you see these tigers, remember not to scream okay? we don't wanna startle anyone," you told him. he nodded, reaching out for you to hold hand. you obliged, of course.
yuji's eyes popped out of his head and his body tightened instantly with excitement. he clapped his chubby hands over his mouth and squealed into his hands in order to suppress the screech. sukuna gripped the boy's legs a little harder to keep him steady.
"careful."
"look yuji, this plaque right here says the names of them," you say, sukuna walking closer so yuji could get a better look.
"fifi and juno," he reads out carefully. then he chants the names in a sing song melody while rocking his head back and forth, sukuna's head (forcefully) rocking with him.
"chill the hell out," he said, but yuji keeps going anyway, the scene earning a light airy chuckle out of you.
"i'm gonna go use the bathroom okay? yuji, don't rip your uncles neck off."
"okay!" he says. he softly scratches his uncle's head to give his excited hands something to do.
as you walk off sukuna engages his nephew in conversation.
"having fun?" he asks.
"mmhm! i'm glad auntie also came along, i like hanging out when it's all three of us."
sukuna had hoped you liked hanging out with them just as much, he genuinely couldn't see his or yuji's lives without you.
"this was her idea, so you better say thank you to her later," he says after a few beats of thinking. he looks around the crowd absentmindedly, his scarlet eyes falling on falling on that same woman from earlier and her evil son. he'd notice the dad wasn't with them, and that's also when he realized you hadn't come back from the bathroom yet. it wasn't that far-it was actually to his right. as if he read his uncle’s mind, yuji asks:
“who’s auntie talking to?”
imagine his surprise when he glances over to see you chatting it up with a guy a few steps away from the bathroom facility.
the way you were standing indicated you weren’t trying to engage with the guy, but he was holding you conversationally hostage. sukuna squinted.
that man looked awfully familiar.
“hey, kid, my shoulders are getting tired,” sukuna says, setting yuji down on his own two feet. a lie. he could probably carry ten yuji’s and barely break a sweat. “we need to go rescue auntie.”
yuji gasps.
“from the stranger!”
“yup.”
you’re greatfull when you finally leave the bathroom, sucking in the fresh air to give your nose a palette cleanse from the public restroom atmosphere. before you could start walking back to your boys, this guy intercepted you, trying to start up a conversation.
you didn’t want to be rude, so you you indulged.
“nice day to be at the zoo, huh?”
“y-yeah, guess so.” he doesn’t let up, not letting you have one foot out of the conversation as he unloads a flurry of sentences at you. your suspicions were correct when he mentions that he’d seen you at the sea lion exhibit.
he was definitely trying to ask you out. he looked familiar too. you tried to run back all the faces in your mind, trying to remember if you’d seen him back then, too. that’s when it clicked.
he was the dad of the kid that pushed yuji earlier.
gross of to hit on you while he was literally here at the zoo with the mother of his child and showing himself as a distant, neglectful man and father.
what a sleaze ball.
“look, i need to go, i have people waiting for me,” you tried to say but he wouldn’t budge. he wasn’t hearing it though. you were about to actually ring sukuna’s phone when you heard a voice that you were all too happy to hear.
“STRANGER DANGERRRRRRR!” yuji yells out, running straight to you with his arms spread wide open, the little ears on his hat bouncing with each step. he crashes face first into your thigh, arms and legs wrapping around your leg.
he hisses at the guy.
“mine! my auntie!”
the dude’s face flushed with embarrassment as onlookers directed their attention to the scene.
“this guy giving you trouble?” sukuna’s voice blooms behind you, his arm snaking around your waist and pulling you to his side.
your body grows hot at the gesture, hands bracing against his chest instinctively. your body grows could feel his heart beating a little faster than usual.
eventually the guy trudges off, shame leaking off his body as he makes his way back to his wife and son and the boys let you go.
“auntie! are you okay? that guy wasn’t giving you any trouble was he?” yuji squeaked. it was honestly adorable.
“i’m okay you two, really,” you say, turning to sukuna to reassure him. “he was just being annoying. thanks for the save though.”
“good, that’s good,” he says, letting his protectiveness die down a little.
yuji steps between you and his uncle, grabbing your wrists and forcing you two to hold hands.
“uncle kuna has to hold your hand so you won’t be bothered by strangers anymore he says. sukuna’s keeping a straight face, but you giggle as his face and ears bloom a bright red. yuji takes charge, leading the way back to the tigers and looking back to make sure you two keep your hands held together.
sukuna’s stiff a little, but he’s okay. he grounds himself by stroking his thumb over your knuckles.
“today was interesting,” you say finally, watching yuji stand on his tip toes to look through the exhibit railing.
“yeah, yeah it was.”
I am the god at terrible endings dont worry though more baby yuji and sukuna to come!
Heyy could I request something ? I got this idea from a video I saw where the guy said he didn’t want to wear the wedding ring because it felt uncomfortable. Maybe Max tells reader this and the reader gets upset and kinda does the same to provoke him ?
Thank you 🌷
A Matter of Principle
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader
Summary: Max says his wedding ring doesn’t matter in order to symbolise your love, but when yours disappears too Max learns that jealousy has a way of making symbols feel very real.
5.2k words / Masterlist
Max stopped wearing his wedding ring so casually that at first you thought he'd simply forgotten it.
You noticed it over breakfast, his left hand wrapped around a mug while he scrolled through something on his phone, his thumb moving absently across the screen. The pale band of skin around his finger was still there, a faint outline where the ring usually sat, but the gold itself was missing.
“Where’s your ring?” you asked.
He glanced down at his hand as though he hadn’t noticed until you pointed it out.
“Upstairs I think.”
“You think?”
“On the bedside table.” Max took another drink, entirely unconcerned. “I took it off last night.”
You waited for him to explain, but he returned his attention to his phone, forehead creasing at whatever message he was reading. You told yourself there was nothing unusual about it. He sometimes removed it when he trained, and once or twice he’d forgotten to put it back on before leaving the house, although usually he noticed within an hour and sent you a message about it.
This time, however, the ring remained on the bedside table.
It was still there when he left for the factory the following morning. It sat beside his watch, placed neatly on the dark wood rather than abandoned carelessly, which somehow made its absence from his hand feel more deliberate.
“You’ve forgotten this again,” you said, holding it out to him as he came back into the bedroom to retrieve his wallet.
Max looked at the ring, then at you.
“I didn’t forget.”
Your fingers slowly curled around it. “You’re not wearing it?”
“No.” The answer came too quickly, without the sheepish smile you had expected, and something unpleasant tightened beneath your ribs.
“Why not?”
Max sighed, already sensing that the conversation was becoming more serious than he believed it needed to be. He stepped closer and placed his hands on your waist, rubbing his thumbs over the soft fabric of your jumper as if affection alone would smooth the concern from your face.
“It’s uncomfortable, it catches on everything,” he explained. “Especially when I’m driving or training. I keep noticing it and I don’t really like wearing jewellery anyway,” flexing his fingers as though the ring had been causing him some terrible physical hardship rather than a faint inconvenience.
“You’ve worn it for nearly two years.”
“Yes and it’s annoyed me for nearly two years.”
You stared at him but he just smiled, trying his best to make it sound harmless. “Not because it’s our wedding ring… just because it’s a ring.”
“It never seemed to bother you before.”
“It did. I just didn’t say anything because I knew you would take it personally.”
“I’m not taking it personally.”
“You are.”
“Well you never said anything.”
“Because I knew you'd be upset.” His answer came too easily. You looked at him for several seconds, waiting for some awareness of how unhelpful that confession was, but Max merely took a small step back.
“So you knew it would hurt me, and you decided to do it anyway.”
His expression tightened. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s very close.”
“I just told you.” Max lifted one hand to your cheek. “It has nothing to do with you. I love you. I am married to you. I am completely committed to you and a ring does not change any of that.”
“It represents it.”
“To other people maybe.”
“To me.”
His hand fell away from your face and he looked briefly frustrated, although he tried to conceal it. Max had never understood attaching enormous significance to objects. He cared about actions, loyalty and the things that existed privately between you, the parts of your marriage that did not require an audience. To him the ring was a symbol of something he already knew with complete certainty and symbols had always mattered less to him than facts.
The fact was that he loved you.
The fact was that he came home to you.
The fact was that he had stood in front of everyone who mattered and promised that there would never be anybody else for as long as he lived.
He didn’t understand why a narrow band of gold should carry more weight than all of that.
“It doesn’t make me more married when I wear it,” he said carefully. “And taking it off doesn’t make me less married. You know that.”
“I know.”
“Then what are you asking?”
“I suppose I was asking you to care that it means something to me.”
Max’s expression faltered, but only briefly. He stepped back towards you and placed both hands on your waist again, drawing you close despite the stiffness in your body. His voice softened as he kissed your forehead, evidently believing the affection should reassure you more effectively than any further discussion.
“I care about everything that matters to you,” he murmured. “But I think you’re taking this personally when it has nothing to do with you.”
You pulled back enough to look at him. “You keep saying that as if it helps.”
“It should help. I love you.”
“I know.” you repeated
“Then trust that.”
You did trust it. That was almost the most irritating part.
It’s not like Max was trying to appear single. He wasn’t ashamed of you, nor was he concealing your marriage from anybody. He spoke about you constantly, often without realising he had done it, he’d developed a habit of beginning stories with my wife even when your marital status had absolutely no relevance to what followed. There was no hidden intention behind his decision as far as you could tell.
Still, it hurt.
Perhaps because you remembered how he’d looked at the ring on your wedding day, turning your hand beneath the light with a tenderness that had made your chest ache. Or maybe because he’d spent weeks before the ceremony pretending not to care about the design only to privately contact the jeweller three separate times to ensure the engraving was exactly right. Possibly because after the wedding you’d caught him looking down at his own hand with a small, private smile, as though the ring proved something he’d once been afraid he would never have.
It had meant something then.
You didn’t understand why it suddenly meant nothing now.
“I don’t want to argue before you leave,” you said, placing the ring back on the bedside table.
Max studied your face. “Then don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’ve hurt you.”
You gave him a thin smile. “You should go. You’re already late.”
He kissed your forehead before leaving, lingering for a moment as though reluctant to end the conversation there, but he still left the ring behind.
Over the next week you tried to let it go. You reminded yourself repeatedly that he hadn’t changed. There no secret motive for you to uncover, no suspicious behaviour hiding beneath his decision and no sudden reluctance to acknowledge your marriage. Max spoke about you constantly, often with an unmistakable pride that made even strangers aware of how thoroughly his life had rearranged itself around you. He introduced you as his wife when everybody in the room already knew who you were, kept photographs of you tucked into places he thought you’d never noticed and called you after almost every meeting, flight or race because he seemed to measure the passing of his days by when he could speak to you again. He still reached for your hand beneath restaurant tables, and he still pulled you against him in his sleep as though even unconsciousness made him possessive of the space between you. He continued to behave exactly like your husband.
He simply did it without looking like one.
Other people noticed.
His mother asked whether his fingers had swollen from training. One of the mechanics jokingly asked if he’d already lost it. A journalist’s gaze dropped conspicuously towards his hand during an interview before she carefully rephrased a question about how married life was treating him.
Max answered every comment with the same calm explanation.
He didn’t like jewellery.
The ring was uncomfortable for his style of work.
It did not mean anything.
You smiled whenever somebody looked towards you for reassurance, unwilling to admit that each repetition made the irritation beneath your skin burn a little hotter.
The final push came at a sponsor dinner in Monaco.
You were standing beside Max while he spoke with a group of executives, only half following the conversation as you watched a woman at the edge of the group look him over. She was subtle about it, but not subtle enough. Her attention lingered on his face, his shoulders and then, predictably, his bare left hand.
Her smile changed.
She stepped closer.
You watched her direct questions exclusively at him, laugh too brightly at comments that were not particularly funny and touch his forearm while making a point. Max remained oblivious, answering politely and occasionally glancing towards you, but he didn’t move away from her touch until he saw your expression.
Then he shifted immediately, placing a hand at the small of your back and drawing you closer.
“This is my wife,” he said, although you’d already been introduced.
The woman looked briefly embarrassed. “Of course.”
Max’s hand remained firmly against you for the rest of the conversation.
In the car afterwards he glanced towards you several times before eventually saying, “You’re quiet tonight.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re annoyed.”
“I’m apparently always annoyed now.”
“She knew I was married.”
“After you told her.”
Max frowned.
“She looked at your hand, saw no ring and thought she could try.”
“And then I told her you were my wife.”
You turned towards the window. “Exactly.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “You’re making this into something it’s not.”
“I— I, maybe.” You stuttered slightly, and then looked back out the window.
The ease of your agreement made him suspicious, but he decided to let it go as you said nothing else.
The following morning you removed your wedding ring.
You didn’t announce it, you didn’t leave it pointedly on his side of the bathroom counter or place it somewhere he would be forced to notice. You simply slipped it from your finger while getting dressed and put it inside the small jewellery box in your wardrobe.
For the first few hours Max didn’t realise. He kissed you goodbye, left for a meeting and sent you two irritated messages about traffic. When he returned home in the afternoon he found you in the kitchen arranging flowers that had been delivered earlier that day.
He walked behind you, wrapped both arms around your waist and kissed the side of your neck.
“Who sent these?”
“The foundation.”
“For what?”
“The charity dinner next week.”
He reached around you to examine the card, and his gaze fell upon your hand.
His entire body went still.
You felt the change immediately, although you continued trimming the stem of a flower.
“Where’s your ring?”
The question sounded remarkably similar to the one you’d asked him a week earlier, except there was none of your tentative confusion in his voice. Max sounded sharp, alert and instantly displeased.
“In my jewellery box.”
“Why?”
“It was uncomfortable.”
He released you slowly. You could almost feel him arranging his response, separating what he wanted to say from what he was allowed to say. When you finally turned around, his jaw was set and his eyes were fixed on your bare finger.
“Your ring has never been uncomfortable. You’ve taken it off because I stopped wearing mine.” Max sighed frustrated.
“I thought you said it didn’t matter.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“Perhaps it’s annoyed me for years and I never said anything because I knew you would take it personally.”
His gaze lifted to yours. “You’re doing this to prove a point.”
“I’m just doing the same thing you are.”
“No you aren’t.”
“Why does the reason matter if the ring doesn’t? How is it different?”
“Because you like wearing yours.”
“You don’t get to decide whether I like wearing it.”
“I know you like it.” His voice tightened. “You play with it when you are nervous. You touch it whenever somebody asks about the wedding. You never take it off unless you’re showering or sleeping.”
“Maybe I changed my mind.”
“You didn’t change your mind. You’re trying to irritate me.”
You returned your attention to the flowers, choosing another stem. “Why would it irritate you? A ring doesn’t make me more married, and taking it off doesn’t make me less married. You know I love you. You know I’m committed to you. I shouldn’t need jewellery to prove that.”
Max stared at you in silence.
Hearing his own reasoning returned to him should have ended the argument. Instead, it seemed to make something darker and more complicated move behind his eyes.
“I don’t like it,” he said eventually.
You tried not to smile. “That sounds personal.”
“It is personal.”
“Interesting.”
“Put it back on.”
You looked at him then, unable to conceal your disbelief. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am serious.”
“So you can decide that you don’t want to wear yours, but I have to wear mine because you’ve told me to?”
“I didn’t tell you that you had to.”
“You just said, ‘Put it back on.’”
Max looked increasingly frustrated, not with you so much as with the fact that he had walked directly into a trap constructed from his own words. He rubbed a hand across his mouth, glancing again at your empty finger.
“You’re my wife.”
“And you’re my husband.”
“I know.”
“People can’t tell that when they look at your hand.”
“I’ll tell them.”
“And I’ll tell them,” you shot back quick.
“That’s not the point,” The words escaped before he could stop them.
Your eyebrows rose. “No?”
Max closed his eyes briefly.
He knew he was being hypocritical. He knew every argument he wanted to make could be dismantled with something he’d already said to you, and more importantly, he knew you knew it too.
You waited, but he had nothing else to offer. He couldn’t admit that the sight bothered him without giving validity to everything he’d dismissed, and he was too proud to concede the argument when he still believed his original reasoning made sense.
“All right,” you said eventually. “Then it shouldn’t be a problem.”
The following days became a quiet war.
Neither of you wore your ring and neither of you mentioned it. Max’s discomfort however, became increasingly obvious.
At dinner with friends he watched the waiter smile at you for a little too long while describing the specials. When you thanked him, Max’s hand immediately settled possessively on your thigh beneath the table. At a party an acquaintance you’d met only once before touched your elbow and asked whether you were attending alone. Max appeared at your side before you could answer.
“No,” he said, sliding an arm around your waist. “She’s here with her husband.”
The man blinked. “I didn’t realise.”
You pressed your lips together to hide your amusement.
Max did not find any of it amusing.
Without your ring every innocent interaction seemed to catch his attention, he noticed men looking at you in bars, strangers finding reasons to start conversations and old friends becoming slightly too familiar. Most of them likely would have behaved exactly the same way had the ring been there, but Max no longer had that immediate, visible claim to comfort himself with.
It made him restless.
It also made him clingy.
His hand rarely left your waist in public, he introduced you as his wife with unnecessary frequency. He kissed you more openly, sometimes in the middle of conversations, and stood so close behind you that the front of his body remained pressed to your back.
You knew precisely what he was doing.
He was replacing the symbol he had dismissed with constant physical reminders that you belonged together.
The hypocrisy was so obvious that you expected him to surrender.
Instead, the disagreement became something neither of you could address without reigniting the original argument. Max refused to wear his ring, and you refused to wear yours, while both of you quietly resented the other for making the same choice.
The situation finally broke at the next race weekend.
A set of images from a sponsor dinner appeared online showing you and Max standing several feet apart during a conversation. In one photograph his bare left hand was visible and in another, so was yours.
The speculation began almost immediately.
Most people dismissed it, but enough accounts repeated the suggestion that your marriage might be in trouble for the rumour to reach journalists. A reporter asked Max about it during a media session, disguising the question as casual concern.
Max’s face hardened instantly.
“My marriage is fine,” he answered.
The journalist began to clarify, but Max interrupted.
“It’s more than fine. My wife and I are very happy and there’s no story.”
When he came back to the hotel that evening, he was furious. You were sitting on the sofa when he entered, his phone clenched in one hand. He tossed it down on the table and began removing his jacket with agitated movements.
“They’re saying we separated.”
“I saw.”
“We could’ve released something.”
“A statement announcing that our marriage is intact but neither of us likes wearing jewellery?”
Max looked at you sharply. “This is not funny.”
“I don’t think it’s funny.”
“They’re saying you’ve moved out.”
“I’m sitting in our hotel room.”
“They don’t know that.”
You held his gaze. “You can tell them.”
The reminder of his own words made his jaw clench.
“I did tell them.”
“Then there shouldn’t be a problem.”
“There is a problem when thousands of people think my wife has left me.”
“Why do you care what they think?”
“I don’t care about them.”
“Then who?”
Max turned away, pacing towards the window before facing you again.
“I care that somebody might believe you’re available.”
There it was again, the truth he kept revealing in pieces without ever allowing himself to examine it fully.
“You know I’m not.”
“That’s not the point.”
You stood slowly. “That’s exactly what you said to me.”
“I know what I said.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, and I still believe it. I know you’re committed to me. I know a ring doesn’t change that.”
“But you hate other people not knowing.”
Max didn’t answer.
“You hate the possibility that someone might look at my hand and think there’s space for them in my life,” you continued. “You hate having to explain that I’m your wife after they’ve already approached me, and you hate that people are looking at photographs and questioning whether our marriage is secure.”
“Obviously.”
The answer was quiet, but it came without hesitation.
“That’s how I felt when you took yours off.”
“It’s not the same.”
Your frustration finally broke through. “Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because I didn’t take it off to hurt you!”
“And I didn’t take mine off to make people think I’d left you, I took it off because you made me feel foolish for caring about it.”
Max stopped. You had said versions of the same thing before, but never so directly. His anger faltered as he looked at you.
“You treated the ring like it was meaningless,” you said. “You made me feel shallow.”
“I never said you were shallow.”
“You kept telling me that your love should be enough, as though wanting the symbol as well meant I didn’t trust you. I never thought you were going to cheat on me. I never thought you wanted to look single. I only wanted you to understand that it meant something to see you choose to wear it.”
Max’s eyes lowered towards your hand.
“And when you refused,” you continued, your voice less steady now, “I started looking at mine and feeling stupid. Every time I wore it beside you, it felt as though I was publicly claiming something you’d decided was too inconvenient to acknowledge in the same way.”
“That’s not what I was doing.”
“I know… logically I know, but it’s how it made me feel.”
He came closer, but you stepped back before he could touch you. The movement seemed to wound him more than anything else you’d said.
“I need some air,” you murmured.
“It’s late.”
“I’m going downstairs, not leaving the country.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“I’d like to go alone.”
Max’s face changed. His protective instinct battled visibly with his awareness that following you would only make the situation worse.
You picked up your phone and left before he could decide.
The hotel bar was quiet, occupied mostly by guests finishing late drinks after the event. You found a seat at the far end of the counter and ordered water, wanting space more than alcohol.
You’d been alone for less than ten minutes when a man took the seat beside you. You recognised him vaguely although you couldn’t remember his name. He worked for one of the sponsors and had spoken to you earlier in the evening while Max was occupied.
“Escaping the crowd?” he asked.
“Something like that.”
He smiled. “I was hoping I might see you again.”
The intention behind the comment was clear enough to make you straighten.
“I’m married.”
His gaze dropped predictably towards your hand.
“I heard there might be some uncertainty about that.”
“There isn’t.”
The firmness of your answer should have ended the conversation instead he leaned one arm against the bar. “Then your husband is a very lucky man.”
“We both are.”
“Does he know you’re down here alone?”
You turned towards him fully. “I don’t need my husband’s permission to sit in a hotel bar.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“It sounded like it.”
Before the man could respond, a familiar voice came from behind you.
“She also doesn’t need to explain herself to you.”
Max stood several feet away, his expression too controlled to be anything but anger. His sleeves were rolled unevenly, the top buttons of his shirt undone like he had followed you before he could stop himself.
The man rose. “We were only talking.”
“I heard enough.” When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but unbridled jealousy sat beneath every word.
“Max,” you warned.
His gaze shifted to you, softening for only a second before returning to the man.
“She told you she was married.”
“I wasn’t doing anything.”
“Then leaving should be easy.”
The man muttered something beneath his breath but walked away. Max watched until he disappeared through the doors, then turned towards you. His restraint was already fraying.
“What were you thinking?”
Your disbelief was immediate. “Excuse me?”
“Sitting down here alone without your ring while people are saying we separated.”
“I told him I was married.”
“He didn’t care.”
“And that’s my fault?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what are you angry about?”
“That he looked at you as if he had a chance!”
His voice rose enough to draw attention from the other end of the bar. Max noticed it too, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to lower his voice, but the emotion was still there, sharp and impossible to hide.
For a second neither of you said anything more. Then Max looked around the room, like he had only just remembered where you were.
“We’re not doing this here,” he said.
You should have argued. Part of you wanted to, just to make him stand there a little longer with all that jealousy burning under his skin, but the truth was, your own chest felt too tight, and you hated the idea of strangers pretending not to listen.
So you walked past him towards the lifts.
Max followed half a step behind you, close enough that you could feel him there, but not touching you. That somehow made it worse. He was usually all hands when he was like this hand on your waist, fingers at your back, some small claim disguised as care. Now he seemed to know he had lost the right to do it.
The lift ride was silent.
The moment the hotel room door clicked shut behind you, the argument picked up exactly where it had left off.
“You don’t get to be angry at me for this,” you said, turning on him.
Max was already facing you, one hand still on the door handle. “I’m not angry at you.”
“You are.”
“No I’m angry because he thought he had a chance, he sat beside you because he thought you were alone and when you said you were married he looked at your hand and decided he didn’t have to respect it.”
“That is exactly what happened to me when that woman approached you.”
“I know.”
“You dismissed it.”
“I know.”
“Then why are we still having this argument?”
Max stared at you, breathing hard as the anger gradually drained from his face. In its place came something far more exposed.
“Because I was wrong.”
The admission was not enough to soothe you immediately, particularly after weeks of stubbornness.
“You could have said that days ago.”
“I always understood that it upset you,” he continued. “I guess I just didn’t fully understand why.”
“And now?”
Max looked down at your hand. “Now… I still think a ring doesn’t make us married,” he admitted. “I still think what we have is more important than whether other people can see it.”
You waited.
“But I hate that they can’t see it.”
There it was, not quite an apology, but close.
You leaned back against the table. “Why?”
His eyes narrowed slightly, as if the answer should have been obvious.
“Because you’re mine.”
You gave him a warning look laced with a smirk.
“You know what I mean,” he said quickly. “Not that I own you, but you’re my person. You’re my wife, and I don’t like somebody looking at you and thinking that place beside you might be available.”
“It isn’t.”
“No.” Max stepped closer. “But I like that it tells them before they ask.”
You studied him for a long moment Max came to stand between your knees, his hands settling on your hips. Unlike all the other times he’d touched you over the past week there was no performance in it now, no deliberate need to show anybody what you were to each other. It was only the two of you in the small room.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“You made me feel ridiculous.”
“I’m really sorry.”
He bowed his head towards yours, “I thought you were putting too much meaning into an object when you should already know how I feel. I didn’t really consider that wearing it was one of the ways I showed you how I feel.”
“And?”
“And I have been an enormous hypocrite.”
A laugh slipped out before you could stop it.
Max’s mouth twitched. “I knew that would make you happy.”
“A little.”
He brushed his thumb over the place where your ring usually rested.
“I don’t like jewellery,” he said. “That part is true. I still find the ring uncomfortable sometimes.”
You gave him a flat look.
“But I would rather notice it a hundred times a day than make you believe I don’t value what it represents.”
“Then we can find one that isn’t.”
He looked at you. “What?”
“A thinner band. A different material. Something you barely notice. I never said it had to be the exact ring we bought for the wedding.”
Max frowned as though this practical solution had somehow never occurred to him. “You wouldn’t mind?”
“The ring matters because you’re choosing to wear it. I don’t care whether it’s gold, silver, silicone or something you found inside a cereal box.”
“A cereal box?”
“Perhaps not that.”
He smiled properly then, his shoulders finally relaxing.
“I’ll wear the original when we go somewhere important,” he said. “And we can find something more comfortable for every day.”
“That sounds fair.”
“But you have to put yours back on.”
You lifted an eyebrow.
Max corrected himself reluctantly. “I would very much like you to put yours back on.”
“And not because you nearly had an aneurysm when a man assumed I was single?”
He slid one hand around the back of your neck, leaning closer until his forehead rested against yours.
“I trust you,” he murmured. “I don’t trust other people to behave properly around you.”
“You can’t be angry with them for not knowing I’m married when you’re the one who said I shouldn’t need a ring to show it.”
“I can be angry about whatever I like. I simply can’t blame you for it.”
You smiled. “Growth.”
His mouth found yours the kiss beginning soft before deepening with the same possessive edge that had coloured his behaviour all week. His hands tightened around your waist, pulling you firmly against him, and you felt the last of the tension in his body finally ease when your arms settled around his neck.
When he pulled back, he kissed the corner of your mouth once more.
“Will you wear it tomorrow?”
“I haven’t brought mine,” you said.
“It’s here.”
You blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I put it in the hotel safe.”
“You’ve known where it was this entire time?”
“Yes.”
“And you brought it with us?”
His expression became faintly sheepish. “I didn’t like leaving it at home.”
The confession was so painfully hypocritical that you stared at him.
“You carried my wedding ring across countries while insisting it did not matter?”
“Hey, I’ve already admitted I was wrong don’t I get some credit for that?”
“Will you wear yours?”
“Yes.”
“Even if it’s uncomfortable?”
Max sighed dramatically. “Until we replace it.”
You pretended to consider it.
“Then yes.”
The relief on his face was almost comical.
Later he retrieved your ring from the safe and placed it in your palm without immediately asking you to wear it. He sat beside you on the edge of the bed, his knee pressed against yours while he waited.
He held out his hand.
You took his ring first.
For a moment you simply turned it between your fingers, tracing the engraved date hidden along the inside. Then you slid it slowly back onto his finger. Max watched you with an intensity that made the moment feel strangely reminiscent of your wedding, stripped of the ceremony and the guests but not of its meaning.
He picked up yours next.
“I don’t need this to know you love me,” he said, looking at you rather than your hand.
“I know.”
“And you don’t need mine.”
“No.”
“But I will wear it because it matters to you.”
You softened. “And I’ll wear mine because it apparently keeps you from glaring at every innocent man who speaks to me.”
“None of them were innocent.” He growled.
“Max.” You laughed as he slipped the ring back onto your finger.
His thumb passed over it once, then again, and you watched the familiar satisfaction settle over his face. He lifted your hand to his mouth, kissing directly above the band before lacing your fingers together.
The rings didn’t make you married. They didn’t create the loyalty between you nor did they guarantee it. They couldn’t carry the full weight of every promise you had made or every private thing your marriage had become, but as Max stared down at your joined hands, both bands finally returned to their places he seemed to understand that symbols did not have to replace the truth to matter.
ExHusband!Toji headcanon in which he wants his wife back (sfw, fluff)
ExHusband!Toji was a stark contrast from the man you married six years ago. He had a steady job now, light in his eyes, and was always the first to spoil baby Megumi rotten.
ExHusband!Toji shared custody, but somehow found reasons to show up 5 to 6 times a week, always "just to see Megumi," never mentioning the way his eyes lingered concerningly on your limp leg first.
ExHusband!Toji had a habit of dragging up university, talking about the apartment you shared, the awful cheap ramen you both survived on. And he always ended with the same line of “I miss the simple version of life with just us two.”
ExHusband!Toji was too afraid to voice out his reconciliation attempts outright, so he'd send 6 y/o Megumi home with a peony bouquet "for mama" instead.
ExHusband!Toji tucked a blanket over you when you fell asleep on the couch, pressing a kiss to your forehead like muscle memory, only to disappear into the guest room right next door to sleep alone.
ExHusband!Toji would go quiet and tight-jawed, painfully watching your neighbor flirt with you at your front door, fists clenched like he wanted to punch the guy for wanting to be with his (ex) wife.
ExHusband!Toji started using his evenings to stock your fridge and scrub your house clean before your night shifts ended, baby Megumi trailing behind him and scattering a mess of Legos he’d keep having to clean up.
ExHusband!Toji would release the tension from your shoulders with his calloused hands, lingering a minute too long during what was supposed to be a ‘quick’ massage. Neither of you would move, both of you secretly wanting more.
ExHusband!Toji would panic at a single undelivered text, certain that you blocked him and finally closed the door on him for good.
ExHusband!Toji left a new jacket in your closet the day after he noticed a hole in your old one, not realizing that you liked the old one because it had memories of you both when you wore it as a cover-up during your dates with him.
ExHusband!Toji's hand stayed wrapped around yours a little longer than needed after you'd already found your balance on the crutches as he helped you out of your car.
ExHusband!Toji kept replaying you finally hugging him first, years after the divorce. It was unprompted and he’dd frozen in your embrace, as your murmured how much you missed him.
ExHusband!Toji would make baby Megumi the same quiet promise every night, that one day he'd bring his mama home for good (meanwhile Megumi only cared about his dad being a new playmate for his Legos).
a/n: since y'all liked the husband kuna one so much, i figured i'd feed the toji girls right this time 🤭
+1 my freaky aah would be the one running back to toji after the divorce let's be sooo fr
I absolutely love your fics! And I wanted to ask if you are open to write for alpha Toto and omega reader?
Instinct Over Strategy
🐺 main masterlist
Toto Wolff x fem!reader (alpha!Toto x omega!reader)
Summary: During a race weekend, you try to hide your approaching heat like a responsible adult with absolutely terrible survival instincts. Unfortunately, alpha Toto notices immediately, removes you from the paddock chaos, and takes care of you with dangerous restraint, possessive tenderness, and the kind of control that does not survive your omega needing him.
a/n: I have to admit — this is my first time writing anything in the omegaverse, so I’m definitely not that familiar with it yet. I really hope I managed to do it at least some justice, and if I got something wrong, I sincerely apologize in advance 🫣
You knew it was a bad idea the second you woke up.
Actually, no. You knew it was a bad idea the second your body decided to betray you at six in the morning, somewhere between your alarm going off and your face meeting the pillow again.
Your skin felt too warm. Your head was heavy. Every sound seemed louder than usual. And your scent... Oh, brilliant. Your scent had gone sweet. Not subtle sweet. Not “maybe it is just perfume” sweet.
No.
This was full omega-disaster sweet. Like honey, warm skin, and very poor life choices.
You lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling of your hotel room. “No,” you whispered to your own body.
Your body, being extremely disrespectful, ignored you. You had a job. A race weekend. Meetings. Media prep. Garage duties. A paddock full of people with noses that worked far too well.
And worse — Toto. Alpha Toto Wolff. Team Principal. Walking authority figure. Almost two meters of Austrian control issues and expensive suits.
Also, unfortunately, the man your omega instincts had selected months ago like some deeply embarrassing biological shopping cart.
You were doomed. Completely doomed.
Still, because denial was a perfectly valid strategy if you applied enough confidence, you got up, showered, drowned yourself in scent blockers, tied your hair back, put on your Mercedes team kit, and looked at yourself in the mirror.
“You are fine,” you told your reflection.
Your reflection looked pale, overheated, and deeply unconvinced.
“Rude,” you muttered.
By the time you reached the paddock, you had decided on a simple plan. Avoid Alphas. Avoid enclosed spaces. Avoid Toto.
Very reasonable. Very achievable. Completely impossible.
Because the second you stepped into the Mercedes hospitality, you heard his voice. Low. Calm. Sharp.
“Where is she?”
You froze. Because of course he was already asking about you. The man could sense operational chaos from three continents away.
You turned slowly, hoping to escape through pure invisibility. Sadly, you were not invisible.
Toto stood near the entrance to the garage, wearing black trousers, a white Mercedes shirt, and an expression that suggested he had already found twelve problems before breakfast.
Then his eyes landed on you. Everything in him stilled. You saw it. The tiny shift in his shoulders. The slight lift of his chin. The way his gaze sharpened as if the whole paddock had disappeared and only you remained.
Alpha.
Your omega went very quiet. Then immediately started screaming.
Toto inhaled once. Barely.
Your stomach dropped.
Oh no. Oh no, no, no.
His eyes darkened.
You smiled like an idiot. “Morning.”
His gaze moved over your face. Too pale. Too warm. Too tense. Then lower, to the scent blocker patch badly hidden under your collar.
His jaw tightened. “Office,” he said.
You blinked. “Good morning to you too.”
“Now.”
You crossed your arms, which was difficult because your body wanted to walk toward him like he was gravity in a headset.
“I have things to do.”
“You have a temperature.”
“I have ambition.”
“You are shaking.”
“I am passionate about motorsport.”
His mouth flattened. Several mechanics nearby became extremely interested in their laptops.
Toto took one step closer. Not enough to crowd you. Enough for your instincts to notice.
Unfortunately, your instincts noticed everything about him. His warmth. His scent beneath the clean fabric and expensive cologne. Cedar, rain, coffee, something darker and steadier that always made your chest loosen. Home.
No. Absolutely not.
Your brain slammed a metaphorical door shut.
Toto’s voice softened, which was somehow worse. “Little one...”
You hated that. You loved that. You were in danger.
“I am fine,” you said.
He looked at you for three long seconds. Then he turned his head slightly. “Bradley.”
“Yes?” Bradley appeared with the speed of a man who knew better than to ignore Toto Wolff during a crisis.
“She is unavailable until further notice.”
Your mouth fell open. “Excuse me?”
Bradley looked from you to Toto, then wisely decided he valued living. “Of course.”
“I am very available,” you protested.
Toto did not look at Bradley anymore. His eyes stayed on you. “No, you are not.”
You laughed once, sharp and nervous. “You cannot just remove me from the weekend because you have decided to be bossy.”
“I can.”
“Toto.”
“I am your boss.”
“That argument is deeply annoying.”
“I am also your Alpha.”
The words were quiet. Your breath caught. The garage sounds seemed to blur around you. Nobody had heard him. You knew nobody had heard him. But your body reacted as if he had spoken directly against your skin.
Your Alpha.
The problem was, he wasn’t wrong. Not officially. Not publicly. Not in any way that could be explained on a PR document without Bradley Lord developing a medical condition.
But privately? Emotionally? Instinctively? Yes. He had been your Alpha long before either of you admitted it. In the way he always noticed when you forgot to eat. In the way he stood between you and aggressive journalists without even thinking. In the way his hand hovered at your lower back in crowds, not touching unless you needed him to, but always there. In the way your omega settled whenever he entered a room.
You swallowed. “Toto,” you said again, much quieter.
His expression changed. The authority stayed. The concern cut through it. “You should have told me.”
“I thought I could manage it.”
His brows lifted slightly. “During a Grand Prix weekend?”
“Yes.”
“With thirty cameras, twelve Alphas in the paddock, and Christian Horner existing as a general public health hazard?”
Despite yourself, you snorted. “That last one is unrelated.”
“It is never unrelated.”
You pressed your fingers to your temple. “I did not want to be a problem.”
That did it. His face hardened. Not at you. For you. “You are not a problem.”
“Toto—”
“No.” His voice dropped. “You are not a problem because your body needs care. You are not a problem because your heat is early. You are not a problem because you are omega.”
Your throat tightened. Stupid hormones. Stupid Alpha. Stupid beautiful man with his stupid emotional competence.
“I just didn’t want people to know,” you whispered.
Toto looked around once. Everyone immediately discovered urgent tasks elsewhere. Impressive, really. The man could clear a room with one eyebrow. Then he held out his hand.
You stared at it.
“You are coming with me,” he said.
“I can walk by myself.”
“I know.”
“You are still holding your hand out.”
“Yes.”
You looked at his hand again. Large. Warm. Steady.
A very bad idea. Your omega strongly disagreed. Your omega had already packed a suitcase and moved in.
You placed your hand in his. Toto’s fingers closed around yours. Instant calm moved through your body. Not enough to fix the heat. Enough to make you breathe.
His thumb brushed once over your knuckles. “Good girl,” he murmured.
Your knees nearly filed a formal resignation. “Do not do that in public,” you hissed.
His mouth twitched. “There she is.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you do not.”
“I strongly dislike your accuracy.”
“That is closer.”
He led you through the back corridors, away from the garage, the noise, the cameras, the mess of scents and bodies and stress. You were grateful for the quiet before you could admit you were grateful.
By the time you reached his private office, your skin felt hotter. Your scent blocker was failing. You knew it because Toto went very still the second he closed the door behind you.
The room was small, clean, and painfully him. Laptop on the desk. Race notes. Bottled water. Neatly folded team jacket. Everything controlled. Except the Alpha standing in front of the door, looking at you like control had become a personal insult.
You wrapped your arms around yourself. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you are about to start a war.”
“I am considering it.”
“Toto.”
His eyes flicked to your throat. You felt your pulse jump there.
“Who noticed?” he asked.
“No one.”
His stare said: try again.
You sighed. “Maybe George looked confused.”
“George always looks confused before coffee.”
“Kimi asked if I changed perfume.”
Toto’s jaw worked. You pointed at him. “Do not growl.”
“I did not growl.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“That is not illegal.”
“It should be in your case.”
He moved closer, slowly enough that you could step back. You didn’t. Because you were an idiot. Because you trusted him. Because every part of you wanted him closer.
Toto stopped in front of you, his scent wrapping around you now, deeper than before. He was controlling it, you realized. Holding back. Keeping himself calm for your sake.
That somehow made it worse.
“You are burning up,” he said softly.
“I know.”
“Has it started fully?”
You shook your head, cheeks heating for an entirely different reason. “No. Not yet. But soon.”
“How soon?”
“Tonight. Maybe earlier.”
His eyes closed briefly. When he opened them, the Alpha was closer to the surface. Not dangerous. Never to you. But powerful. Focused.
“You are not staying here.”
“I have a hotel room.”
“You are not staying alone.”
“Toto—”
“No.”
You narrowed your eyes, partly because you were overwhelmed, partly because arguing with him was your favorite terrible habit. “You do know ordering an omega around during pre-heat is risky?”
“Yes.”
“And yet?”
“I am willing to take the risk.”
“You are impossible.”
“You are stubborn.”
“You like that.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth. The air changed. Your heart kicked hard.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I do.”
Oh. That was unfair. Deeply unfair. You should have had legal representation for conversations like this.
You turned away before your face could betray you more than it already had. “I don’t want this to become your responsibility.”
Behind you, he exhaled. Then his hands settled gently on your shoulders. Grounding. “You are not a responsibility,” he said. “You are someone I care about.”
You closed your eyes. “That is worse.”
His thumbs moved slowly over your shoulders. “Why?”
“Because then I want things.”
His voice softened. “What things?”
Your laugh came out small. “Don’t make me say it.”
“I need you to say it.”
“Toto.”
“Little one...” His mouth was closer now, near your ear, his voice low enough to undo your dignity one syllable at a time. “I will not guess with you. Not about this.”
Your body trembled. Not from fear. Never from fear. From wanting. From the ache building under your skin. From the terrible tenderness of being asked instead of taken.
You turned slowly. He let his hands fall away. His eyes searched your face.
“I want you,” you whispered. “But I don’t want it to be only because of this.”
Something softened in him so deeply it hurt to look at. “It is not.”
Your breath caught. He lifted a hand, then paused. A question.
You nodded. His palm touched your cheek. Warm. Careful.
Your entire body leaned into it before you could stop yourself. Toto’s expression changed again, pride and pain and affection all tangled together.
“My little omega,” he murmured.
You made a sound somewhere between a protest and a surrender. “That sounds illegal.”
“It is affectionate.”
“It sounds like you are about to lock me in a tower.”
“I prefer five-star hotels.”
You laughed, and the tension broke just enough for you to breathe again.
His thumb brushed your cheek. “I have wanted you for a long time,” he said. “Not because of instinct. Not because of heat. Because you walk into a room and make it impossible for me to think clearly. Because you argue with me in front of engineers who are twice your age. Because you steal my coffee and then pretend it was yours. Because you are brave even when you are scared.”
Your eyes burned. No. Absolutely not. You were not crying in Toto Wolff’s office because he confessed feelings with terrifying precision.
That was too much. “I do not steal your coffee.”
“You do.”
“You leave it unattended.”
“That is not a legal defense.”
“It is in my heart.”
His mouth curved. Then he leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours. The contact made your whole body settle. A quiet sound escaped you before you could stop it.
Toto went still. You felt his control strain. His hand moved to the back of your neck, fingers gentle, grounding, his thumb brushing over the sensitive skin beneath your hairline.
Your scent bloomed. Sweet. Warm. Needy. You felt embarrassment rush through you. You tried to pull back.
He did not let you. Not forcefully. Just enough to say stay.
“Do not be ashamed,” he murmured.
“I can’t help it.”
“I know.”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“It is natural.”
“You say that because you are calm.”
His laugh was low and rough. “Little one, I am not calm.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him. That was a mistake. His pupils were dark. His jaw tight. His breathing controlled, but only just.
Oh. Oh. The Alpha was not calm at all. He was simply holding himself together because you needed him to.
Your chest tightened. “Toto…”
“I will take you back to the hotel,” he said. “You will rest. I will make sure no one disturbs you. I will call the doctor if you need one. And if you want me to stay, I stay.”
Your omega practically purred. You, tragically, had a mouth. “And if I want you to stay for selfish reasons?”
His thumb brushed along your jaw. “Then I stay for selfish reasons.”
A shiver moved through you.
His gaze sharpened. “Use your words.”
You hated how much that worked. “I want you to stay.”
His expression turned almost painfully tender. “Good.”
“And…” You swallowed. “I want your jacket.”
His brows lifted. “My jacket?”
“Yes.”
“Any particular reason?”
“It smells like you.”
For one second, Toto looked like you had reached into his chest and grabbed his heart with both hands. Then he turned, picked up the black Mercedes jacket from the chair, and wrapped it around your shoulders.
It swallowed you whole. Warm. Heavy. Him.
Your eyes fluttered shut. The relief was immediate. You felt him watching you. When you opened your eyes, he was smiling faintly.
“What?” you muttered.
“You look very pleased with yourself.”
“I have acquired resources.”
“You have acquired my jacket.”
“Same thing.”
He stepped closer and adjusted the collar around your neck, his fingers careful not to brush too much skin.
“Toto?”
“Yes?”
“Can we leave before I do something humiliating?”
His mouth twitched. “Define humiliating.”
“Climb you like a tree.”
He stared at you. You stared back. Then his laugh broke free, low and surprised, and God, you loved that sound. Loved it more than you had any right to.
He shook his head. “You are impossible.”
“You like that.”
“Yes,” he said, eyes warm. “Unfortunately, I do.”
The journey back to the hotel was a blur of private corridors, his hand at your back, his body angled subtly between you and everyone else. Not aggressive. Not obvious. Unless someone looked too long. Then it became very obvious.
One junior staff member opened his mouth, caught one look from Toto, and closed it again. Good survival instinct.
In the car, you curled into his jacket and tried very hard not to melt against him.
Toto sat beside you, one hand resting near yours but not touching. Always letting you choose.
That made the ache in your chest worse. “You can hold my hand,” you said quietly.
His fingers found yours instantly. Warmth rushed through you again.
You leaned your head against the seat and closed your eyes.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured.
“For what?”
“Making your weekend complicated.”
His thumb moved over your hand. “My weekends are always complicated.”
“This is different.”
“Yes,” he said. “This matters.”
You opened your eyes. He was looking at you with such quiet certainty that it nearly undid you.
By the time you reached the hotel suite, your pre-heat had deepened. Your skin was too sensitive, your thoughts too soft around the edges. The room smelled neutral, clean, safe.
Then Toto stepped inside, and suddenly it smelled like him. Better.
He locked the door. You sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in his jacket, watching him move around the room with efficient care. Water. Medication. Extra blankets. Phone silenced. Messages sent. Team handled. World managed.
Toto Wolff could probably organize an emergency evacuation, negotiate a driver contract, and make tea at the same time.
Actually, he was making tea.
You blinked at him. “Are you nesting for me?”
He paused. Then glanced at the blankets he had arranged, the water on the bedside table, the dimmed lights, the jacket still around your shoulders.
“I am being practical.”
“You are nesting.”
“I am ensuring comfort.”
“That is nesting with a Mercedes budget.”
He pointed one finger at you.
“You are very mouthy for someone who nearly fainted in my garage.”
“You like that too.”
His eyes softened. “Yes.”
The room went quiet. He came closer and sat beside you, careful, leaving space.
You hated the space. So you closed it, leaning into his side. His arm came around you immediately. A sound escaped you. Small. Content. Toto’s body went tense for half a second, then relaxed with visible effort.
“You are safe,” he murmured against your hair.
Your fingers curled into his shirt. “I know.”
“No one comes in. No one touches you. No one bothers you.”
“You sound very Alpha right now.”
“I am very Alpha right now.”
You smiled against him. “At least you are self-aware.”
His lips brushed your temple. “And you are very omega right now.”
You groaned. “Do not expose me.”
“You are sitting in my lap.”
You looked down. Somehow, without noticing, you had shifted fully onto him, knees tucked at his side, face pressed into his neck.
Ah. Interesting.
“Strategic positioning,” you said weakly.
“Of course.”
“You are warm.”
“Yes.”
“And comfortable.”
“I am happy to be useful.”
“You are also smug.”
“Extremely.”
You lifted your head to glare at him, but the glare died somewhere between his eyes and his mouth.
His hand stilled on your back. The silence turned fragile.
Your body knew what it wanted. Your heart knew too. That was the frightening part.
“Toto,” you whispered.
He looked at you. “Tell me what you need.”
You touched his face, fingers brushing over his jaw. “You.”
His eyes closed briefly. When they opened, the Alpha was there. Not hiding anymore. But still controlled.
“Are you sure?”
You nodded. His hand covered yours.
“Words, little one.”
“Yes,” you breathed. “I’m sure.”
The first kiss was not rushed.
That surprised you. You expected hunger, instinct, heat pulling everything apart. But Toto kissed you like he was making a promise. Slow and careful.
His hand cradled the back of your head, his other arm around your waist, holding you close but never trapping you.
Your omega melted. Your hands gripped his shirt.
He growled then. Softly. Against your mouth.
You pulled back just enough to whisper, “You said you didn’t growl.”
His forehead rested against yours. “I lied.”
You laugh breathlessly. His smile brushes your lips. Then he kisses you again, and the room narrows to warmth, cedar, strong hands, and the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.
And then something inside you finally snaps.
You start pulling at your clothes, impatient, desperate, your fingers clumsy because your body is already too far gone to care about dignity. Toto helps you, his hands firm but careful, his mouth trailing down your throat as he pushes fabric from your skin.
His lips find your neck. Hot. Possessive. Very alpha.
A broken sound slips from your mouth, and your hands land on his shirt almost blindly, tugging at the buttons, needing him closer, needing skin, needing him.
Toto exhales a dark little laugh against your throat. “Greedy little omega.”
The words go straight through you. You whimper, your hips shifting without permission, and then you feel it — the hard length of his cock pressing against you through his trousers.
You both freeze. Only for a second. But it is enough.
Toto feels it too. A low growl rumbles from his chest, deeper this time, rougher, and your whole body answers it like instinct has reached inside you and pulled every sensible thought apart.
There is no paddock. No race weekend. No strategy. No consequences. Only him. Only your Alpha. Only the unbearable need to have him inside you.
“Toto,” you whimper, almost shaking with it.
His hand cups your jaw, his eyes dark and completely gone. “I know, little one,” he murmurs, voice rough. “I know.”
And then he moves. One second you are in his lap, trembling and burning, and the next he has you on your back, bare beneath him, your body exposed to his gaze.
The way he looks at you nearly ruins you. Hungry. Possessive.
His mouth drops to your breasts, and you arch immediately, a cry escaping you as his lips close around one nipple, then the other, his tongue and teeth making your body jolt beneath him.
His hands move everywhere. Your ribs. Your waist. Your hips. Your thighs.
Like he cannot decide where he wants to touch you first, like every part of you belongs beneath his palms.
Then one hand slips lower. Between your legs. The moment his fingers find your clit, you gasp sharply, your whole body stretching toward him as if he has found the exact place where your sanity ends.
“Toto—”
“I have you,” he growls against your skin.
Your fingers fly into his hair, pulling him closer, needing more, while your other hand reaches down between you, searching for his trousers, for him.
The second your palm brushes over his cock through the fabric, Toto loses what little control he has left. He catches both your wrists in one hand and pins them above your head. Not cruelly. Not painfully. But firmly enough that your omega goes utterly still beneath him.
His eyes burn into yours. “You will get what you want,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “In a moment.”
You nearly sob. Because you do want it. You want him. You want all of him. You want the weight, the heat, the possession, the claiming force of him finally giving in.
He pushes his trousers and boxers down just enough, and your eyes drop despite yourself.
Your breath catches. Then your thighs part automatically, your hips lifting toward him, shameless and desperate.
Toto’s gaze follows the movement, and the growl that leaves him this time sounds almost broken.
His cock slides against your soaked cunt, and the contact makes you cry out, your back arching off the bed.
“Toto, please,” you beg. “Please, I can’t take it anymore.”
One of his hands grips your hip. The other still holds your wrists above your head.
He leans over you, his mouth brushing yours, his voice wrecked. “Look at me.”
You do. And then he pushes inside you. Hard. Deep. So deep that the air tears out of your lungs and both of you moan at the same time.
For one suspended second, neither of you moves. You feel him everywhere. Stretching you. Filling you. Claiming space inside you like your body was made to take him.
Toto drops his forehead to yours, breathing hard, his control hanging by a thread.
“Mein Gott,” he groans. “You feel so fucking good.”
Then he starts to move. Strong. Deep. Relentless. His hips drive into yours with the kind of rhythm that makes thought impossible. Every thrust pushes a sound out of you, shameless and high, your body taking him, craving him, begging for more without words.
His mouth is everywhere. Your jaw. Your throat. Your breasts. The sensitive skin beneath your ear. His teeth graze your neck, and your omega nearly breaks apart beneath him.
He still has your wrists pinned, and you should maybe care. You don’t. God, you don’t. You love it.
You love how dominant he is, how completely he covers you, how his body cages yours in, how he gives you exactly what you begged for while still holding you like something precious.
He fills you so perfectly it almost hurts. And then his cock hits that spot inside you, and your entire body jolts.
“Toto!”
He hears it. His grip tightens on your hip, and he changes the angle, hitting it again. And again. And again.
Until you are no longer capable of pretending to be quiet. Your moans fill the room, loud and helpless, mixing with his rough breaths, his growls, the obscene sound of your bodies moving together.
Instinct takes over completely. You feel wild with it. Needy. Owned. Loved.
Your head falls back against the pillows, your body tightening around him, and the words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
“Breed me,” you gasp. “Toto, please— breed me.”
He freezes for half a heartbeat. Then something in him snaps. His growl is dark, broken, almost animal. His thrusts become harder, deeper, driven by instinct now, by alpha need, by the way your omega is begging beneath him like you were made for this, made for him.
“You want that?” he rasps, his mouth against your throat. “You want your alpha to fill you?”
“Yes,” you sob. “Please. Please, Toto.”
His lips brush your ear. “Then take it.”
That ruins you. Your orgasm crashes through you so hard your body locks beneath him, your cunt clenching around his cock as you cry out, helpless and shaking, your wrists still trapped above your head, your thighs tight around his hips.
Toto groans your name like it costs him something. One last deep thrust — and then he comes inside you.
You feel it. Hot. Deep. Claiming. Your alpha spilling into you as his body shudders over yours, his grip tightening, his breath breaking against your neck.
You moan again, softer this time, trembling through the aftershocks as he fills you, as your body pulls him in, as the heat finally gives you exactly what it needed.
For a moment, there is only breathing. Hard. Uneven. Human again, but barely.
Toto slowly releases your wrists, his hand immediately smoothing over your skin as if checking whether he held you too tightly.
You do not let him move away. Your arms wrap around him, pulling him down, keeping him close.
He follows instantly, careful not to crush you, his mouth pressing to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your lips.
“My omega,” he murmurs, voice rough and tender.
Your eyes flutter closed. “My alpha,” you whisper back.
And the sound he makes at that is softer than any growl.
You lie tangled together in the soft, dim quiet of the hotel room, your body still warm, your cheek resting against his chest while his fingers move slowly through your hair.
For once, Toto is not checking his phone. Not answering messages. Not managing a crisis. Not being the man the whole team expects to hold the world together.
He is just here. With you. Wrapped around you like he has no intention of letting go.
After a long moment, guilt creeps in through the softness. “You lost almost an entire day of work because of me,” you whisper.
Toto’s fingers pause in your hair. Then his arm tightens around your waist.
“They will manage without me.”
You lift your head slightly, frowning. “Toto—”
“No.” His voice is quiet, but firm. “They are capable people. And as I can see…” His thumb brushes along your cheek, his gaze softening. “You needed me more.”
Your throat tightens. That should not make you emotional. Of course it does. Stupid omega heart. Stupid Alpha with his stupid perfect timing.
“You say that like it’s easy,” you murmur.
“For you?” he says, leaning closer. “It is.”
Then he kisses you. Slowly. Tenderly.
Not with hunger this time, but with something deeper. Something steady. Something that feels dangerously close to love.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. “You are mine,” he whispers.
A small smile touches your lips. Warm. Sleepy. Completely ruined.
“Yes,” you whisper back, brushing your nose against his. “I belong to you.”
Toto’s eyes darken, but his smile is impossibly soft. “Good.”
He pulls you closer again, pressing another kiss to your hair. And there, wrapped in his arms, surrounded by his scent and the quiet certainty of him, you finally stop fighting sleep. Because the paddock can wait. The world can wait.
For once, Toto Wolff has chosen you over everything. And you have never felt safer.
he looks down in shame. and ryomen sukuna is never ashamed of anything he’s done, and he’s done a lot of shit.
“that asshole was putting his hands on you” he huffs and looks at your chest instead of your eyes “so yes, again” you’ve never looked this visibly annoyed, and what was scaring him even more is how calm your voice was.
“look at me, not my tits ryomen” you narrow your eyes, he immediately looks up “yes ma’am” you grab his collar and the security turns a blind eye(he’s been getting on their nerves also)
“when I say no stupid shit, that means no-” you give him a hard slap “-jail, got it?” he just nods his face didn’t even budge, of course you don’t intend to harm your husband and you’re not abusive. sometimes with ryomen sukuna you literally need to smack some sense into him.
“yes ma’am” he nods again, “can you bail me now?” you roll your eyes “im not picking you up again, call choso” ryomens eyebrows knit together in annoyance “but i want you to pick me up” if anyone didn’t know any better, he’s whining for you to pick him up.
“no ryo” he tilts his head and subconsciously pouts then leans in “cmon woman, stop being a brat” his words have no bite, but when you smile he scowls.
you take a deep sigh and close your eyes, “last time” “i promise baby” he smirks.
you both know this definitely isn’t the first, nor the last.
ps. ok pinky promise this is the last drabble after this ima finish two more request than boxer choso is coming😭 taglist : : @in-aa @chewiebee @applelite @crybabylulu @yassifie-d @ai-no-tegami @silverwfern @oksukuna
boxer!𝑦uji, who has permanent calluses across his knuckles and apologizes every time he wants to hold your hand. "Sorry—they're kinda rough."
boxer!𝑦uji, who looks for you first after every fight, whether he won or lost.
boxer!𝑦uji, who also lights up the second he spots you in the crowd.
boxer!𝑦uji, who constantly aches after practice causing him to instinctively crawls into your arms, mumbling about nothing.
boxer!𝑦uji, who texts you before every match:
"Going in. Wish me luck baby! 🙏❤️"
boxer!𝑦uji, who's not embarrassed to kiss you in front of the cameras, especially after a major win. Even deepening the kiss, you could feel him smiling against your lips.
boxer!𝑦uji, who always smells faintly of athletic tape, laundry detergent, and mint gum.
boxer!𝑦uji, who happily gives you is medals to wear after every win.
boxer!𝑦uji, who pulls you into the tightest hugs after winning, careful trying not to get blood or sweat on you, but also unable to let go for like a full minute.
boxer!𝑦uji, who falls asleep immediately with his head tucked between your neck because post-fight exhaustion hits him like a truck.
boxer!𝑦uji, who gets super clingy on rest days because he’s not used to not training, so he ends up just following you around the house like:
“What’re you doing now?”
“Can I come too?”
boxer!𝑦uji, who gets quiet after bad matches and won’t talk much until you sit next to him and he slowly leans into you, seeking comfort.
boxer!𝑦uji, who is incredibly gentle with you despite how violent his sport looks from the outside.
“brat stop hogging my girlfriend.” toji groaned out, trying to get into the covers to try to cuddle you for the past fifteen minutes—only to be met with his menace of a son trying to attack him.
“papa’s stinky.”
you could barely stifle your giggles before megumi nuzzled into your side, only to turn his head to give his father a stinkeye.
“he’s just a baby, toji.”
“he’s hogging you.”
“and you don’t?”
“i have every right to, no?” he said, trying to pull you by the waist, his lips pressing softly against your neck while he tried to make himself comfortable—only to have megumi bite his arm the second he tightened them around you.
“megumi fushiguro. let me cuddle my girlfriend to sleep.” he snapped, all for megumi to just stick his tongue out at him before moving closer to you.
“the two of you are horrid.” you groaned, trying to bury yourself in the blankets while both of them fought over you like lunatics—with toji sticking his tongue out right back at megumi.
“i hope you realise you’re fighting a four year old.”
“doll, he’s a lot smarter than he looks.”
“oh, i know.”
“you’re way too biased.”
you rolled your eyes at him, watching him get into a staring contest with him, with you stuck between the two of them. toji tried to pry you away from megumi, he really did, only to have him bite him, claw at his hands, only to bat his eyelashes at you, jut his lip out until you caved.
“hmph.”
“what is it, gumi?” you asked, hugging him closer while he looked over his dad’s shoulder just to smirk at him.
“daddy always gets t—to have you, it’s not fair!”
“aww it’s okay megumi, i’m not going anywhere.”
“manipulative prick.”
“that’s your son.”
“i know what he is.”
i wrote this in the car while waiting for my cousins so sorry if its highkey ass
all works belong to @lilithkleia, do NOT copy, translate or feed to AI. lest you wish upon toji’s worm to crawl up your ass.
︵ ೀ fluff. you call satoru by his last name in public and he is a bit dramatic about it
the staff meeting at jujutsu high was supposed to be the most boring hour of your week, the kind where yaga talks about statistics and everyone quietly checks how many minutes are left before they can go get lunch.
but you and satoru had gotten into a fight that morning, one of those stupid arguments that starts over something small and somehow spirals into “well maybe you just don’t think about anyone but yourself,” and neither of you had really resolved it before you both had to show up to work like functioning adults.
so when he strolled into the conference room fifteen minutes late, blindfold pushed up onto his head, grinning like the whole world owed him a good morning, you didn’t even glance up from your notebook.
“morning, morning, did everyone miss me?” he said, dropping into the seat next to yours like nothing at all had happened between the two of you a few hours earlier.
“gojo,” you said, without looking up, your voice perfectly even, like you were greeting a coworker you barely knew.
the entire room seemed to freeze for a second. not satoru. not babe, not the nickname you swore you’d never use in public but absolutely used constantly at home. just gojo, delivered with all the warmth of a weather report.
nanami’s eyebrows climbed so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline. shoko made a small choking sound and had to set her coffee cup down before she embarrassed herself further. even yaga, who had seen a thousand strange things happen in this school, paused his sentence about budget allocations to look between the two of you like he’d wandered into the middle of a drama he hadn’t signed up for.
satoru blinked, the smile faltering just slightly at the corners. “huh?”
you flipped a page in your notebook and underlined something that absolutely did not need underlining, just to have somewhere to put your hands.
“did you,” he started, sitting up straighter now, all his earlier ease draining out of him, “did you seriously just gojo me?”
“can we please get back to the agenda,” you said, addressing the room in general rather than him specifically.
nanami cleared his throat and tried to steer things back on track. “as i was saying, the eastern district has seen an uptick in curse activity over the past—”
“she gojo’d me,” satoru interrupted, loud enough that the whole table heard it, staring at you with the wounded expression of a man who had just watched his house burn down in front of him. “in front of everyone. she used my last name like i’m a substitute teacher.”
you still didn’t look at him. you clicked your pen closed, then open again, then closed, a habit you knew drove him up the wall, and said nothing at all.
“focus, gojo,” you said again, watching the way his whole soul seemed to leave his body when you said it a second time was a little more satisfying than you’d expected.
“okay. okay, everybody hold on,” satoru said, raising both hands like he was trying to talk down an actual hostage situation. “nobody move, nobody speak, something has gone horribly wrong here. she just used my government name. in public. on purpose.”
“that is your name,” nanami pointed out, deadpan, not even looking up from his own notes.
“not to her it isn’t! not in four years has she ever once called me gojo, and now suddenly, out of nowhere, in the middle of a staff meeting, she’s talking to me like i’m a stranger she met at the post office—” he turned to you again, voice climbing with real panic now. “okay, you know what, meeting’s over, everyone go home, thank you for coming, we’ll reschedule—”
“the meeting,” yaga said flatly, unimpressed, “is not over.”
“it is for me!” satoru stood so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor, then leaned across the table toward you, blindfold slipping further down his forehead, genuine desperation creeping into his voice. “what did i do. just tell me what i did and i’ll fix it. is this about the mission partner thing? it’s the mission partner thing, isn’t it. i can undo it. i can un-fix the fixing. i can grovel right here in front of everyone if that’s what this requires—”
you finally looked up to deliver the final blow with the sweetest, most devastating calm you could manage:
“i’m not sure what you mean, gojo. we’re in the middle of a meeting.”
that was the moment the room completely lost it. shoko was laughing so hard into her coffee cup that she had to set it down entirely, wiping at her eyes. nanami pressed a hand over his face like he was praying for the strength to survive this job for one more day. even yaga, who never smiled during meetings on principle, was clearly biting back one now, badly.
“that’s it,” satoru said, dropping back into his chair. “fine. that’s fine. be like that. see if i care. i am literally the strongest sorcerer in the world and i am being disrespected in my own place of employment, in front of my own coworkers, by my own—” he lowered his voice for the last part, leaning toward you like it was a secret, “—girlfriend, who apparently doesn’t remember that we live together and that i know exactly what cereal she eats and exactly what she looks like without—”
“gojo,” nanami cut in, exhausted, “please let the meeting continue.”
“see! even he can feel that something is deeply wrong here! the temperature in this room actually dropped! shoko, did the temperature just drop or was that just me—”
you allowed yourself the smallest, most private smile, tucked safely behind the cover of your notebook, as the strongest sorcerer alive continued to unravel in real time over exactly one syllable of his own last name, in front of the entire senior staff of jujutsu high, on a random tuesday morning.
by the time you got home that evening, satoru had clearly spent the whole day rehearsing something, because the second you walked through the door he was already there, hovering, almost vibrating with nervous energy like a dog that knows it did something wrong but isn’t sure what.
“okay so,” he said, following you into the kitchen, “i’ve been thinking about this literally all day, and i want to formally apologize, on the record, for the mission partner thing, and also i want to say, for the record, that what you did today was actually kind of terrifying and i need you to never do it again.”
“do what,” you said, setting your bag down like you had no idea what he could possibly mean, even though you absolutely did.
“you know what,” he said, sliding an arm around your waist from behind before you could even take your jacket off, chin dropping onto your shoulder. “the gojo thing. please. i’m begging you. never again.”
“it’s your name,” you said, echoing nanami from earlier, and you felt him groan directly into your shoulder.
“it is not my name when you say it like that,” he mumbled. “when you say it like that it sounds like you’re breaking up with me in front of witnesses. i had to sit there for an entire meeting wondering if this was it, if this was the day my girlfriend decided she’d had enough of me and was breaking the news.”
you turned around in his arms, biting back a laugh, and he immediately seized the opportunity to rest his forehead against yours, eyes closed like he was bracing for more punishment.
“so you admit you deserved it,” you said.
“i admit nothing,” he said, “except that i am deeply, deeply sorry, and that i will never again swap your mission partner without telling you first, and that if you ever call me gojo again in public i will actually die.”
“say please.”
“please,” he said immediately, no hesitation at all, pulling you in tighter like he was worried you might change your mind and use his last name right there in the kitchen just to torture him further. “please, please, i’ll do anything, i’ll even do paperwork, just—just be normal about it. call me anything else. call me an idiot, call me insufferable, i don’t care, just not that.”
“fine,” you said, finally letting the smile show. “satoru.”
the relief on his face was almost embarrassing, the way his whole body seemed to unclench at once, like you’d just lifted some enormous curse off him.
“thank you,” he said, dramatic as ever, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then finally your mouth. “never again. i mean it. that was the scariest six words of my entire life and i’ve fought curses that wanted to eat my ass.”
“it was one word,” you pointed out.
“it felt like six,” he said, and pulled you into a hug so tight it nearly knocked the breath out of you, laughing into your hair, all traces of this morning’s fight forgiven, or at least thoroughly overridden by how badly he never wanted to hear his own last name from you again.
nanami laid you down gently on the mattress, his familiar scent crowded you almost immediately as you buried half your face deeper into his pillows, filling your nose with a propinquity that felt like home.
nanami stood close by the bed, gazing at you in a state of unreadiness. his usual slicked back hair was now down and unruly, navy shirt fit him snugly making his arm looked extra delicious, loose pants hanging on his torso. it had been a little late when you called him drunkenly to pick you up, he knew you were on a night out with shoko.
“ugh, it’s so hot,” you mumbled, reaching out to grab the hem of his shirt; nanami played along with a quiet smile on his face, moving a step closer just so your hand could reach. you pulled, beckoning him to sit on the side of the bed, he obliged easily, brushing away the hair that’s sticking on your face. “it’s warm, take off your shirt,” you blinked at him, as he chuckled softly.
“why should i take off my clothes when you’re the one feeling warm, hm?” he asked with a soothing voice, stroking your hair over and over.
“global warming, and stuff,” you rambled, giving up in putting sense on your sentence. nanami looked at you with wonder, curious to hear what amusing things will come out of your mouth next.
“i wonder what’s going on inside this head right now,” he said, rubbing his thumb gently at the side of your forehead. you sighed deeply, enjoying his touch.
“i want a kiss,” you claimed suddenly, proving his point. nanami shot a defeated smile, his eyed narrowed in adoration as he caved, planting a short kiss on your lips; his hair tickling your skin as he leaned down. nanami pulled away before you could savor the feel of his mouth thoroughly.
“more.”
he kissed you once more.
“more.” you whined softly, not liking how he ended each kiss so fast.
the only respond you received was a soft brush of his finger on your bottom lip as he said, “that’s all you’re getting tonight love.”
nanami saw your dramatic expression change, frowning as though it’s the end of the world. a hearty laugh escaped him at your theatric, rubbing your cheek with the back of his index finger, his touch felt feather light against your side, “you’re terribly drunk, the only thing you need to be doing right now is sleep.”
“not drunk,” you mumbled, even though sleep sounded amazing in your ear right now as you felt your eyelids getting heavier by the second, nanami’s ever so softly touch didn’t help you in staying awake at all.
“if you say so,” he replied easily, getting up from his spot without words, leaving you alone in bed. you flashed an exaggerated pout as if the man could still see you, not knowing he’s already returned to the same spot within a minute with a familiar looking bottle on his right hand.
“i don’t wanna drink anymore,” you murmured, giving him a pleading look. nanami chuckled.
“i’m not making you drink this silly,” he claimed gently, pouring three drops of the liquid content to a cotton pad you’re just now seeing, before wiping away your face tenderly like you’re made of glass.
right. that’s your bottle of make up remover. “oh.”
the soft dab of the cotton on your face over and over made you sleepier, the consistent rhythm of rubbing and tapping nanami was working wonders, almost like a magician in soothing you. but the focused expression on his face as he leaned close to you held you back from going into the dream land.
“you’re so handsome,” you whispered, staring the man like he hung the moon.
“am i? thank you love,” he replied without missing a beat and at this point you knew this man would always respond patiently to whatever nonsense you were cooking in your mind even though it's easier to ignore what you're saying while you’re under the influence, instead he was spoiling you rotten.
“what about me? am i pretty?” you asked, eyes half-lidded.
“the prettiest.” he smiled tenderly, stopping just to give you a smitten look before going back to work, the soft wipes of cotton underneath your eyes knocked you right into a daze, deciding to just close your eyes because it was too much work to keep them opened.
“ken?”
“yes love?”
"d’you think cats are sad they don’t get to blow candles on their birthday?” you asked in a serious tone, half your body felt like it’s being pulled into slumber, nanami’s laugh sounded like as though it’s underwater.
“maybe, but they’re going to be even more sad if you don’t go to bed now,” he said, the last thing you heard was the sound of an object being put on the bedside table and the feeling of your hair being brushed gently. nanami saw it happened as your breath slowed, head limping to the side.
he kissed your head softly, adjusting the blanket and tucked you all proper.
Sukuna doesn't handle waking up in an empty bed in the middle of the night very well
Blinking awake into the dim blue-gray haze that fills the bedroom, Sukuna’s mind lingers in a heavy, half-dreaming state, and the first thing he notices is the empty stretch of mattress at his side. Fingers drift across the sheets, searching out of habit, only to find nothing but cold where warmth should be.
For a moment, he just lies there, staring up at the ceiling, trying to shake the fog of sleep that refuses to let go. Only when the red glow of the alarm clock finally catches his eye does he move, brow creasing as the numbers come into focus. 4:03.
It’s the weekend. Both of you had gone to bed together hours ago, so there’s absolutely no reason for you to be anywhere else.
Before the thought can even finish forming, his body jolts upright as adrenaline floods his veins, snapping him awake faster than his mind can catch up. The sharp thud of his heart feels almost ridiculous in the silence, but the apartment is so quiet that it only makes every instinct louder.
Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he pushes himself up, rakes a hand through his hair, and steps into the hallway, every muscle tense, ears straining for the faintest sound.
Nothing.
Moving down the hallway without hesitation, he checks the bathroom, even though the darkness behind the door already tells him you aren’t there.
The living room is empty, the couch looks exactly the same as earlier that night, with your blanket still tossed carelessly over the armrest where you left it. Maybe you slipped out onto the balcony, but the curtains hang motionless and the glass door is sealed tight. The pressure in his chest ratchets up another notch, and he moves through the flat faster now.
The last remnants of sleep are completely gone when each room confirms the same thing over and over again: you aren’t there. Each feeds the growing, irrational fear that something has happened while he slept, and by the time he reaches the kitchen, his breathing is shallow, his jaw clenches, and his hands ball into tight fists at his sides.
And then he stops.
The kitchen is bathed in dim light, just the gentle glow from the stove clock and a faint spill of streetlight through the window, enough to outline you standing barefoot by the counter. One hand holds a glass of water, the other strokes absently over Mikan’s back as the cat perches on a high chair, leaning into your touch and purring like nothing in the world could ever be wrong.
You look half-asleep yourself, hair a little messy, the hem of his shirt brushing your thighs, eyes soft and unfocused the way they get when you wake just enough to wander to the bathroom before crawling back to bed.
For a long moment, Sukuna stands frozen in the doorway, breath caught somewhere between relief and anger, adrenaline still pulsing through his veins. The sight of you, safe, slams into the fear he’s been carrying, heavy and real as anything.
Your head lifts when you notice him.
“What the hell are you doing?” The words come out sharper than he means, still edged with the panic that hasn’t left his body yet.
Confusion flickers across your face at his tone, and you blink at him, like you’ve only just remembered there’s a world beyond the counter and the purring cat pressed against your palm.
“Drinking water,” you answer quietly, your voice rough with sleep, lifting the glass slightly in explanation, like the answer should be obvious. Then, softer, as the reason for him standing there at four in the morning, staring at you like that, finally clicks, you add, “I didn’t want to wake you.”
Something in his chest finally gives, and the tension snaps all at once. Muttering a curse that barely makes it past his teeth, he walks over and catches your arm before you can get another word out, tugging you into him so abruptly that the water in your glass nearly spills over the rim. Only then does he let out a shaky breath he’s been holding since the moment he woke up.
His voice rumbles low and rough, words muffled by your hair as he pulls you tight against his chest. “You scared the shit outta me.”
His grip tightens for a heartbeat before easing. One hand slides up, fingers threading through the hair at the nape of your neck, while the other stays splayed warm and steady across your lower back. Caught off guard by the sudden intensity, you let your free hand find its way to his side, settling there gently.
“I’m sorry.” It slips out before you can stop it, even though you know you haven’t done anything wrong. Tilting your head back to meet his eyes, you find his stare heavy with something that makes it clear that he doesn’t want you apologizing for this, not ever. Nuzzling your cheek into his chest, you feel the frantic thud of his heartbeat beneath your ear. “I was only gone a minute,” you add softly, a little sheepish.
Sukuna huffs softly, and the short, weary sound carries more relief than frustration, but his arms stay locked around you, unyielding, as if letting go might let the fear slip back in.
“I know,” he mutters eventually, almost to himself, the edge of panic fading away. “I know that.”
For a few seconds, neither of you moves. The kitchen is quiet except for the slow, steady thud of Sukuna’s heartbeat finally calming beneath your cheek, and the impatient purring of Mikan weaving around your ankles, as if he’s been personally wronged by all this drama.
Then, he slips the glass from your hand and sets it on the counter, his other arm settling around your shoulders, steering you gently toward the bedroom, unwilling to let even an inch of distance creep in.
“Come on,” he murmurs, and you don’t argue.
Sleep tugs at you again, heavy and insistent, and as you sink back onto the mattress, your body leans instinctively toward his warmth. Sukuna wraps himself around you, pressing his chest firmly against your back and banding one arm tight across your waist, his hand splayed over your stomach. The other slips beneath your pillow, fingers searching until they find yours and tangle together.
Now that you’re back exactly where you should be, Sukuna lets out a slow, quiet exhale as the last traces of restless adrenaline finally drain from his chest.
