Yu writes ♡

She/her, 30 y.o. Occasionally nsfw. Chaotic bisexual, nerd. Soft soul with chronic depression. 🥀

[yuwritesstuff]

Hey everyone! 👋

This is my silly little blog for JJK writing. Just some drabbles for fun, occasionally NSFW 💫

English is not my first language though.

I live in Ukraine, so I hope I’ll be able to update regularly despite all the hardships of living through wartime. Writing helps me get through the hard days. I hope some of it can inspire you too.

Stay safe, and thanks for checking this out!

[yuwritesstuff]

You had always lived in silence — not the peaceful kind, but the hollow one that echoes too loudly inside the skull. The kind that hums between the ribs like a trapped ghost.

Ever since childhood, you’d seen them. Curses, shadows of grief and hatred that slithered through the streets and coiled around people who seemed to be blind. You’d grown up believing you were cursed yourself — a freak, a stain on a world that never had space for you. The first time you told someone, they called you a liar. The second time, they called you insane. You tried and tried, but soon enough you realised nobody actually cared. After that, you stopped speaking altogether.

Years passed in a haze of failure — halfhearted jobs, lost friends, and that slow descent into a gray numbness that felt like dying in slow motion. Depression wasn’t an event anymore; it was the air you breathed. You’d tried so hard to fit in, to smile at the right time, to wear the right mask — but nothing stuck. Society had no corner for the girl who saw monsters in daylight. Or worse than indifference — telling the truth about what you saw was dangerous and could land you in a mental hospital.

Sometimes you really thought it was you who was the problem, you decided you were insane.

And then you met him.

You accidentally noticed how he destroyed one of the monsters right before your eyes. You stepped back in disbelief. You had never met people capable of doing that before. You managed to ward off smaller curses, but you avoided larger ones out of self-preservation, because you didn’t know if you could handle them.

Suguru Geto had looked at you the way no one else ever had — as if your presence, your energy, was something holy, not broken. He hadn’t flinched when you spoke about the things you saw. He had simply said, “You’re one of us.”

That sentence had rebuilt your world.

At first, it was only respect — a desperate, fervent kind of gratitude that bordered on reverence. He taught you what cursed energy was, explained how your pain was your power, and how the very things that haunted you could be shaped into strength. He didn’t tell you to suppress yourself. He told you to understand what you really were.

For the first time, you belonged somewhere. In his world — among those who knew, who saw curses — you weren’t an aberration.

You joined his cult without thinking too much about the consequences. The consequences were for people who had something to lose. You had nothing to lose in a world of non-sorcerers. And you could gain so much by staying with Suguru.

Days bled into months, and something gentler began to stir between the lessons, between the prayers and the missions. You turned an old, neglected greenhouse on the cult’s territory into a cozy corner and spent a lot of time there. He would leave a small plate of sweets near your garden when he knew you’d been working late. A new belt for your kimono appeared one morning, folded neatly atop your futon. An extra day off that you didn’t ask for, free from any obligations or tasks related to the cult matters. Although you never knew how to use it, you were grateful.

Once, you’d come back to the gazebo you tended — your sanctuary on the cult’s grounds — to find new flowers planted, the soil still damp. You had never said a word about it, but you knew it was him. His presence in your everyday life. His gestures were quiet, almost imperceptible — but they pierced deeper than any declaration could.

And you, foolish heart trembling like a feather in your chest, began to love him.

It wasn’t the naïve love of fantasy. It was the aching kind — the one that grows out of gratitude and loneliness and the terrible beauty of finding salvation in another flawed soul. You loved him even knowing what he was: a leader of a cult, a man burdened by conviction and guilt, a shadow of what the world might have made him. You got to know him better and didn’t push him away. You owed him all the peace you had in your life right now.

You never said it aloud. He carried too much on his shoulders — responsibility, faith, the weight of those who followed. And though his tone was sometimes sharp, his eyes sometimes distant, you never feared him. To you, he was not the monster others saw — he was the light that had pulled you from the void.

Over time, he entrusted you with something precious: his daughters.

Small hands reaching for you, giggling as they braided flowers into each other’s hair. Their laughter filled your days, softening the walls inside your chest. When Suguru watched you together, his expression would soften in ways he didn’t allow anyone else to see.

That was when you realized — he trusted you. Truly. Enough to let you hold what he held dearest. And that, more than any confession, was love.

Sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, you would sit in your flower garden, tracing the petals with your fingers. The scent of blooming lilies drifted on the breeze, and you would imagine his presence nearby — that calm, steady weight that made you feel safe. Even just knowing that he was somewhere nearby in the house, having dinner, working, relaxing, filled you with a sense of comfort and ease. You felt truly at home under the same roof with him.

You had suffered your whole life searching for a place in the world. Now you had one — even if it meant living in the shadow of this calm man who carried a real storm inside him.

It was peaceful in the shadows, and you felt good. Really good, probably for the first time in your entire life. The voices in your head, the depressive thoughts, the self-hatred gradually retreated, filling you with a sense of presence in the moment. In the life that Suguru had given you

Perhaps it wasn’t salvation. Perhaps it was another kind of damnation. But if it was about him — you would accept it.

Because for the first time, you were not alone.

◐

It was late summer when the air first began to cool, and the cicadas softened their song. The compound lay quiet beneath the pale moonlight — the kind of silence that felt almost merciful.

You sat in the gazebo, your hands resting in your lap, surrounded by flowers that swayed gently in the breeze. The garden had grown wild and beautiful — bursts of color spilling from every corner, even in the dark, scenting the night with something tender. You had meant to trim them, but tonight, you let them bloom as they pleased.

The sound of footsteps reached you before the shadow did.

“Still awake?” Suguru’s voice was calm, deeper in the quiet.

You turned. He stood at the edge of the garden, his dark robes brushing against the grass, his expression unreadable but softer than usual. The moon caught in his hair, turning it silver at the edges. A beautiful picture. As if a deity had descended from heaven to earth. Perhaps the moon prince? You admired how the moon outlined his features.

And then you awkwardly adjusted a strand of your hair—you were wearing your usual work kimono, which you hadn’t changed into your nightwear because you had stayed up late reading fairy tales to the girls.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you said quietly. “The girls fell asleep after a tale and began to toss and turn in their sleep. I didn’t want to disturb their rest, so I went out into the garden.”

He nodded, stepping closer. For some time, neither of you spoke. The scent of lilies filled the distance between you.

“You’ve done well here,” he said at last, his gaze sweeping over the flowers. “They wouldn’t have survived without you.”

You smiled faintly. “They only needed care.”

He looked at you then.

Something in his eyes was almost painful to witness. A flicker of longing, of all the words you both refused to speak.

“You’ve given them more than care,” he murmured. “You’ve given this place peace. A new way of being.” He paused, and his voice lowered. “You’ve given me some peace.”

Your breath caught. You wanted to answer, to tell him what he had given you in return — purpose, belonging, warmth in a world that had long since gone cold. But your throat was sore from worry, and the right words stuck in your mouth. To say them would break something fragile that neither of you could afford to lose.

So instead, you reached for one of the lilies beside you and held it out to him. A white flower covered in night dew, perfect in the moonlight, just like Suguru himself. Purity of intentions and a touch of light sadness in its symbolism. He took it carefully, his fingers brushing yours — the smallest contact, but enough to send a quiet ache through you both. A sweet, delicious desire, firmly held back by a sense of duty. It only made your hearts beat faster.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full — of everything unsaid, everything you could and couldn’t be.

“Divine beauty,” he said softly, examining the flower and inhaling its scent. “Thank you for giving me such wonderful nights in this garden.”

When he finally turned to leave, he lingered for a moment, the flower still in his hand.

“Get some rest,” he ordered gently. “Tomorrow will be another long day.”

The wind stirred the lilies in answer, brushing their petals against your skin like a promise. You nodded and watched him disappear into the dark, your heartbeat heavy and alive all at once.

Somewhere beyond the garden, a door closed softly — and the world continued, quiet and cruel, but no longer completely empty.

◑

He first noticed you because you paid attention. You didn’t look away.

You noticed the curse he had destroyed. You were a sorceress. And you were not easily frightened. You approached him right in the middle of the street and started asking about things that had tormented you all your life and kept you from living freely. A complete stranger. Desperation? Perhaps. For him, it was also courage.

Most people looked away from him, even sorcerers in the cult. When they met his gaze, they saw what they wanted — danger, faith, madness. But you had simply seen him, without judgment. Your eyes, tired but steady, reflected the same exhaustion he’d long stopped naming. The kind that comes from watching a world rot from the inside.

He hadn’t intended to take you in at first. His followers already whispered too much, hungered for a purpose he could barely sustain. Yet when you spoke of your cursed visions, your failed attempts to exist among the ordinary — something in your voice struck him. Not pity. Recognition. You were what he once had been: a sorcerer suffocating in a world that despised your gift.

He remembered thinking, she shouldn’t be left to drown alone.

So he showed you what he could — how to weave cursed energy, how to stand tall beneath the weight of it. You learned quietly, diligently, like someone afraid of breaking the silence that finally held you. There was nothing extraordinary about your strength, not at first — but your devotion was absolute. You listened as if his words were salvation.

And yet… there was something gentler beneath that reverence. Something unspoken.

He saw it in small gestures — the way you lingered after a meeting to ask if he had eaten, the way your gaze softened when he passed. It was not worship, though the others might have thought so. It was affection, raw and human, born from the same loneliness that had driven him to you.

He never encouraged it. But he didn’t stop it either.

He wanted to touch you, wanted to get a more obvious manifestation of feelings, but treated you gently, like a rare flower. He was afraid of scaring you away, of losing the opportunity to bathe in your attention.

Perhaps he was selfish. Perhaps he simply wanted to be seen not as a leader, not as a prophet — but as a human. In your presence, the constant hum of expectation faded. You asked nothing from him but honesty. And that, for someone like Suguru Geto, was a rare mercy.

He’d begun to leave things for you in secret — a plate of sweets you liked, a kimono’s belt to replace the old one you had mended too many times. An old book with interesting poems. A flower picked from his side of the garden. You would have guessed it was from him, because they grew only by his window.

It was foolish, sentimental. But it anchored him. Reminded him that he could still create small kindnesses in a world built on hate.

When you transformed the neglected gazebo into a beautiful greenhouse, he’d found himself standing there one night, long after everyone had gone to sleep. The scent of wet earth clung to the air. He’d planted a few new shoots before leaving, unsure if he wanted you to notice. You did, of course. You always noticed such details.

And then there were the girls.

He hadn’t meant for you to become part of their lives. Yet his daughters had taken to you immediately — trailing after you through the garden, their sweet voices threading through the soft rustle of leaves. They called you big sister before he even realized it.

He watched you from a distance once, the three of you played tea party, and you showed them how to make tea, haloed in sunlight. You were smiling — a rare, unguarded smile — and his chest had tightened with something both tender and unbearable.

Trusting you had been instinctive. Dangerous, perhaps, but necessary. There were few he trusted with anything at all. But you handled his daughters with a quiet care that mirrored the way you treated him — as if they were fragile and sacred, as they really were to him, after all.

Sometimes, late at night, when the compound was silent and only the cicadas sang in hot summer air, he would stand near your garden, unseen.

You would be there, fingers tracing the flowers you’d raised from ruin, your eyes distant but peaceful. He’d think then — so this is what it means to be understood.

You were so calm in those moments. He was struck by the look on your face when you gazed at your garden and thought, he hoped, about him. The merciful Buddha could not compare to your calmness. He wanted to keep this image in his heart until the day he died. To protect you and your peace. Crazy thoughts. He needed such to survive. To save at least a shred of humanity within himself.

He knew what you felt for him. He felt it mirrored in himself, subtle but real, dangerous but inevitable. But he also knew what his path demanded. Love, in his hands, would only turn to ash.

So he kept his distance, even as his heart betrayed him with every small kindness. Even as he found himself imagining, against reason, a gentler life — one where curses didn’t exist, where his daughters could laugh without fear, and where you could call him your lover without hesitation.

Dreams were for those who believed in redemption.

He may have had these dreams, but in the end, he only believed in his purpose.

Still, on the nights when the burden grew too heavy, he would look toward your garden and think — if there were another world, another time… perhaps I could have chosen peace.

And maybe, in that other world, you would have been his salvation too.

[yuwritesstuff]

The words hit him harder than any curse ever could.

A child. Your child.

The silence after your confession stretches on too long. Suguru is rarely caught off guard — he always has a plan, always keeps control. But this? This unravels him.

Pregnant. His beloved one. Carrying his child.

He never thought he would allow himself such a thing — not in this life he’s chosen, not while the world is fractured and dangerous. And yet, hearing it from your lips, seeing the uncertainty flicker in your eyes, something inside him shudders awake.

He swallows hard, his throat tight, and a dozen conflicting voices crash inside him.

“...Are you certain?” he finally asks, his voice quieter than usual. Not sharp, not cold, but tentative — as though he’s afraid of breaking something fragile.

When you nod, his jaw tightens. He turns away, running a hand over his mouth, as if trying to conceal the storm of emotion in his expression.

Inside, it’s war.

He knows he has no right. After all he’s done — after leading others to slaughter, after rejecting the world that shaped him, after casting away his friends and family. And yet, the thought of you carrying his child sets his chest alight with something dangerously close to joy. Something he hasn’t let himself feel in years.

It’s selfish. He knows it. You should be free of him, free of this life. But the idea of losing you — of you leaving, of this chance vanishing — makes his stomach clench. He doesn’t want to let go. He can’t.

Suguru steps closer, placing a hand against your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin. His touch is tender, but his eyes are conflicted — too many thoughts in them at once.

“I destroyed the home I came from,” he mutters, voice low, rough. “I buried that part of myself without regret. And yet—”

The look in his eyes is almost desperate.

His lips press against your forehead. His breath is shaky, uneven.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?” he whispers. It’s not anger — it’s awe, and fear, and hunger all tangled together.

He lowers his head to your shoulder, burying his face in your hair. The scent of you fills him, grounding him, intoxicating. His hand slides to the curve of your neck, fingers brushing tenderly, possessively. He imagines the months ahead — your body softening, rounding as it nurtures his child.

You, in the delicate flowered kimono he’s already decided to order. Fabric blossoming around your form, your beauty even more unbearable to him. Sakura flowers, embroidered with gold thread, and the tenderness of silk belts. Cherry blossom symbolizes renewal and rebirth.

Damn, he already sees this future so clearly, as if he had been waiting for it. It enters his soul so easily, as if he becomes possessed. He seems to surrender so quickly. When it’s about you, can it be any other way?

Rebirth hurts. And Suguru suddenly becomes even more afraid, he knows you will be hurt in this battle for a new life. For your son or daughter.

Yours.

He takes your hand in his and gently caresses your skin, his hands warm and confident, large, always protecting you from the horrors of this world. His hands saved you. You know there is blood on them, but they only brought salvation into your life. The tenderness of romantic evenings, the passion of nights when you gave yourself to him completely.

Suguru has always known your strength. But the thought of the child inside you makes you even more amazing in his eyes. You are everything to him. A deity capable of giving life. These are sacred moments.

His heart hammers so hard it frightens him. For the first time in a while, he feels human — raw, vulnerable, desperately in love. It terrifies him.

And still, he clings to it. To you.

You feel his lips move against your skin when he murmurs, “You’ll be too beautiful. Even more beautiful... My baby’s mother.” His hand rests flat against your stomach, not even a swell there yet, but he holds it reverently, as if he can already sense the life inside.

Darker thoughts creep in, unbidden. Another little sorcerer in this cursed world. Another fragile, bright spark at the mercy of a society he despises. Nanako and Mimiko already weigh heavy on him — girls he didn’t create, but took in, claimed as his own. Could he bear to risk one more?

The thought twists like a knife, and for a moment his hold tightens almost painfully, before he forces himself to loosen, stroking your back instead. He is torn between wanting to shield you so fiercely the world can’t even breathe on you, and fearing his grip alone might break you.

“I’m afraid,” he admits finally. The word tastes bitter, but freeing. “Afraid of what this world will do to us. Afraid of myself. But I want this. Gods help me, I want this.”

His arms wrap fully around you, enveloping you, his voice breaking with a low, almost ragged chuckle. “You’ve made me crazy. Obsessed.”

He kisses your temple, tender but trembling. “Stay close, my love. Don’t leave my side. Can’t lose this.”

And though he feels madness creeping at the edges of his mind, though fear and desire wrestle endlessly in his chest, one thing is certain: at this moment, holding you, he holds the whole world. And he needs nothing else.

His chest aches. Sweet-sweet pain. There’s no escape from it, not now that his child’s heart is beating inside you.

Oh, you’d better accept how insane Suguru’s going to be.

[yuwritesstuff]

Something about cooking with Satoru please?🥺

Oh, of course, that's such a sweet request! Hope you'll like it!! 🤲💙 🥺 Headcanons about cooking with Satoru x gender-neutral reader.

Satoru pretends he’s a pro chef — the moment he ties an apron, he starts narrating everything in a dramatic “cooking show host” voice: “Today, folks, I’m preparing the most exquisite dish known to man… instant ramen!”

Terrible but hilarious “help” — Satoru can cook a little, but he gets distracted by you constantly. He’ll sneak up behind you, wrap his arms around your waist, and kiss your neck while you’re chopping vegetables — nearly making you cut your fingers.

Sugar thief — if you’re baking something sweet, he dips his finger straight into the batter and licks it, grinning. “Gotta make sure it’s sweet enough for me!” When you scold him, he smears a bit on your cheek and kisses it off.

Flirty teasing — if you bend over to grab something from a lower cupboard, he’ll smack your ass with a spatula and innocently smile. “What? Just making sure it’s cooked to perfection!” he giggles.

Sometimes it’s just weird recipe adventures — Satoru loves pulling recipes from random corners of the internet, sometimes with ingredients that make no sense together. You always raise a brow like: “Babe… wasabi and strawberries? Are you trying to kill me?” But you always taste it anyway.

Sometimes cooking turns into dancing — he puts on music, grabs your hand, and starts spinning you around the kitchen mid-recipe. Half the time, something burns because he’s too busy hugging you instead of watching the stove.

As much as he jokes, he loves the domesticity of it. Seeing you in the kitchen with him, laughing over something silly, makes his chest feel warm. He’ll kiss the back of your hand out of nowhere, just because he can.

He genuinely loves watching the little things: the way you push hair out of your face while reading the recipe, the way you hum while stirring, the way you focus on sprinkling spices. It makes him smile, even if he pretends to just be teasing.

When he watches you fuss with the table or stir a pot, he remembers his clan’s dinners: heavy, silent, suffocating. Those moments felt like obligation and distance. But with you, as laughter and warmth fill the kitchen, the contrast hits him deeply, catching him off guard. He hides the lump in his throat with a grin, tossing flour at you or sneaking a kiss on your cheek, but inside he’s thinking: “This feels so normal. So good.”

He doesn’t want it all to end. After dinner, when you’re clearing plates, he sometimes leans in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, just watching you with this quiet softness. He cracks a joke, but is already thinking about shared breakfast in the morning. Food tastes better in good company. In your company.

[yuwritesstuff]

Hiii do this is my first time making an ask and I’m lowkey nervou😭😭

So like can you make Shoko girl-dih headcanons cuz like yea🥹 (fem reader) sorry this is just really embarrassing 😔

Hiii! It took me ages, but here I go with couple of headcanons. I made it with NSFW thoughts, hope it's okay and you'll like it!! 🤲💘 🥺

MDNI. Headcanons about transShoko x fem reader.

Shoko's reserved start — early in your relationship, she may prefer to turn off the lights or even keep her clothes on, focusing more on you and your pleasure. This isn't because she doesn't want you, but rather because she's concerned you might see her as bad kind of “different”. Once she can trust you, she's more open and willing to discover some pleasure together.

The first time you undress her fully, she trembles – when your hands slide over her breasts and lower, she holds her breath, bracing herself for rejection. Instead, you kiss her chest gently, tasting her skin and smell, citrus and bitter cigarettes, you whisper how beautiful she is, and she melts in your arms.

Her breasts are sensitive — therapy gave her softness and sensations she never expected; when you take her nipple between your lips, licking and biting it, she arches, gasping, clutching at your hair, whispering “fuck, don't stop” so hopelessly, you're soaked just from her voice.

And you don't stop. You play with her slowly, paying attention to her breasts as if they’re the greatest treasure. She returns the favor, and everything blends into kisses and caresses, squeezing and playful biting, until you both are drunk with pleasure. Touching her bare skin with yours, goosebumps all over your body, you feel like this is the most tender thing you've ever experienced.

Shoko gets painfully hard when aroused — though shy about it, once you take her cock in your hand, she shudders violently, whispering your name like a prayer. The contrast of being called your “pretty girl” while you stroke her makes her dizzy.

Her favorite position is having you on top — seeing you take control, grinding down on her cock, breasts bouncing in her hands, makes her lose control faster than anything.

Shoko loves it when you ride her slowly at first — the way your warmth envelops her, how you hold eye contact makes her feel worshiped. She tries to keep her composure, but ends up moaning into your shoulder, nails digging into your hips.

You kiss her with your mouth open, lavishly and wetly, so that your chest feels tight and hot. You wrap your thighs around her and grind against her, and she's pulling you closer to feel every detail of your arousal. She tries to hold back, but ends up grabbing your waist and slamming up into you.

Dirty talk cracks her calm mask — she normally hides behind sarcasm, but if you whisper sone sweet praises like “you feel so good inside me” while she's thrusting into you, her rhythm falters and she starts fucking you harder, desperate and messy.

You taste her, and you become addicted to how she sounds when you use your tongue on her. She's so tender and smooth, so responsive. And she loses her usual phlegmatic nature as soon as you two are fucking. She doesn't quite believe that anyone could want her so much, but you prove it every time.

Shoko arches her back to meet your tongue and wraps her thighs around your head at the peak, your ears ring, and your own heart leaps out of your chest when you feel how hard she trembles. You're wet from her moans and screams, and you're pulsing between your legs, so after her orgasm you switch places and everything mixes into soft pleasure.

She's addicted to your taste as well — going down on you is her guilty pleasure; she takes her time, licking slowly, slipping two fingers inside while she watches your face. She'll tease you until you're begging, only then finishing you with expert precision. She knows where you're weak.

Sometimes she wants to smoke, but to be honest, this habit annoys you, no matter how aesthetically she does it. The first thing you think about is her health. “Do you need something to hold in your mouth? Then I'm a volunteer,” you tease. Shoko smiles softly, putting the cigarette back in the pack, setting down the lighter, and leaning over to kiss your bare shoulder. “Then spread your legs for me,” she whispers, and a playful, slightly hoarse laugh breaks through her words. You flush with anticipation just hearing this, and of course, you obey. What a pleasant way to wean her off smoking!

The changes in her body are gradually making her arouse more slowly. At first, she's worried about it. She even avoids talking about it or initiating intimacy. Still, you notice and gently remind her that you love her regardless o any changes. She's going through this more comfortably thanks to your support and is learning to be more aware of her way to pleasure.

Shoko secretly loves being overstimulated — once she trusts you, you discover that if you keep stroking or riding her after she's come, her whole body twitches, her voice breaking as she begs, “I can't… fuck, I can't—” but she still doesn't push you away. You like it too, so much it makes you knees weak.

Afterwards, she likes to kiss your hands, gently caressing your fingers, tracing the lines of the veins on your wrists. Your breathing evens out, you lie lazily, hot and sticky with sweat. Shoko gets up first to bring you something to drink, runs her fingers through your hair, and admires you, laying in her bed so satisfied.

She becomes addicted to intimacy — though at first sex was full of hesitation, soon she's the one pulling you into her lap, undoing your clothes with steady doctor's hands, whispering in your ear how badly she needs to feel you again, how you're so special and, after some time figuring it out for herself, how much she really loves you.

[yuwritesstuff]

It was not easy to carry your new weight, and your back started to hurt badly in the last few days. You were lying on your side, propped up by pillows, exhaustion from your growing, very pregnant belly tugging uncomfortably on your lower back. A soft groan escaped your lips as you shifted, rubbing the sore spot with a wince.

Toji noticed immediately.

“You hurting?” he asked quietly from behind you, already moving closer.

You nodded. “My back’s killing me. Again.”

Without another word, he slid behind you on the bed, strong arms wrapping gently around you. “C’mere.”

His hands, calloused and rough from years of fighting and hard work, settled at the base of your spine. But when he began to move them — slow, deliberate, steady — his touch was so careful it made your throat tighten.

“You’re so gentle,” you murmured happily.

“‘Course I am,” he replied, voice low and warm near your ear. “You think I’d be rough with you now?”

The pressure of his thumbs worked into your muscles with expert precision, coaxing the ache away bit by bit. You sighed, eyes fluttering closed.

Then, you felt his lips — a soft kiss to your shoulder. Then another, to the curve of your neck. And another, just beneath your ear.

You got goosebumps.

His breath was uneven now, brushing warmly across your skin.

You smiled, teasing softly, “Are you seriously getting turned on by your pregnant wife right now?”

Toji paused, then muttered against your neck, “Well... Maybe. Why not?”

You laughed, breathless. “Then you must have some strange fetishes involving balloons!”

Toji frowned. “You're not a balloon, silly. You're an extremely beautiful and sexy woman... a little bit rounded cause you're creating a whole new person! And I... I like it, actually.”

You felt your cheeks flush at his words and smiled into your pillow.

“But, uhm... Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, voice suddenly softer.

“It’s not too much,” you whispered, turning your head slightly to meet his eyes. “It’s perfect. It feels… so good to be wanted like this. Loved like this.”

His hand slid slowly up your side, resting over the curve of your belly before trailing back to your waist. He breathed in deep, like the moment itself was grounding him. Your presence calmed him and stirred his senses at the same time, as it always did somehow.

“I never thought…” he began, then trailed off.

You looked up at him gently. “What?”

Toji’s lips ghosted over your shoulder again before he exhaled, breath heavy to your ear.

“I never thought I’d deserve something like this. A real family. That someone would trust me enough to have a baby with me.” His voice was raw, vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed. “It still doesn’t feel real sometimes.”

“Oh, love… It is real.” Your heart clenched. You turned in his arms and kissed him — slow, aching, full of everything you couldn’t say aloud.

Then, still breathless, you guided his hand to your chest.

“Feel that?” you said, pressing his palm over your heart, where it pounded beneath his touch. “It’s you. It’s all you. Always you.”

Toji leaned his forehead against yours, eyes closed, voice full with quiet longing.

“I just… I don’t know what I’d do without you. I think I’d be… completely lost.”

You kissed his cheek, then his lips again — quick and delicate kisses, like the touch of butterfly wings.

“But I’m right here,” you whispered against his mouth. “You’re not lost. You have me. And we’re okay. The three of us.”

“You and... our baby.”

It was as if he was still scared to say it. Those words had meaning. It was hard for him to get used to the idea that even though he was broken in some ways, he deserved what others had way more easily in life.

Something so simple and yet so complex. The fragile beauty of life itself and the opportunity to live it shared with someone else. That's what you were able to show him.

“Yeah, we're fine. My beautiful wife and the baby she's carrying. I'll protect you,” he managed a lighter smile.

You nodded quietly.

Toji's palm rested on your belly in a protective gesture and began to stroke it in small, careful circles. Now he was completely unlike his usual self, more like a gentle giant than a menacing and gloomy one.

He held you, skin to skin, breath to breath, kissing your shoulders and soothing your exhaustion until you drifted off to sleep, feeling his enveloping warmth.

Your exhaustion faded, as did his insecurities, and you could feel that you were each other's sanctuary in moments like these.

[yuwritesstuff]

your writing is truly beautiful, I really like the ones about Satoru, such great details and emotions 😭😭

Oh thank you, it means a lot to me!! I'm very pleased. Satoru is my blue-eyed happiness that inspires me so much 💙

[yuwritesstuff]

Headcanons about Satoru as a Girl Dad 🌺✨

He cried the first time he held her. Not in front of anyone else — he was joking and cocky and obnoxious at the hospital, trying to hide all the worries. But when it was just the three of you and she curled her tiny fingers around his pinky, he broke. Quietly. Tears were streaming down his cheeks as he cradled her and smiled happily. He had the whole world in his arms, given to him by his loved one.

She’s the only one (except her mom, of course) who can boss him around. “Daddy, sit.” And he does. “Daddy, today I choose what you’re gonna wear!” And these are the most mismatched pieces of his wardrobe, an absurd combination. But he puts these on and goes to meet with the higher-ups. “Daddy, put me on your shoulders!” And the world becomes even more interesting for her from the perspective of his height.

He’s obsessed with her laugh. He’ll spend hours doing the dumbest things just to hear it — ridiculous dances, jokes, and parodies. That sound is his favorite in the world. It means she’s safe. She’s happy. She’s so real, his little sweet baby. He hopes that this will be one of the things she’ll remember best from her childhood. That laughing is always allowed, even for adults.

She’s just as sharp as him — and it terrifies him. One time, she tricked him into giving her dessert before dinner. A four-year-old. He was both horrified and deeply, deeply honored. “She’s definitely my kid,” he said, wiping away a proud tear. But of course, he often falls for her tricks just because he likes to spoil her.

He teaches her how to stand up for herself. From day one, he tells her: “You don’t have to shrink for anyone. You don’t owe the world softness unless you choose to give it.” And she listens. She learns. It’s like a protective mantra that he whispers to her as she falls asleep, hoping that these words will stay with her and she will realize its meaning later.

He has zero resistance to her tears. If she starts crying, his whole world stops. No jokes. Just soft panic and immediate scooping up. “Who do I have to fight?” he whispers. “What made my baby cry?” His heart is aching, and he’s ready to do anything to make her feel better. It’s hard for him to say “no” if it’s tears of demand, so she’s already spoiled by him from a very young age.

He sees her mother in her constantly. Sometimes he quietly watches her, observes her gestures and behavior, and sees you in her. Mom’s features are intertwined with dad’s, and it strikes him to the core — this is a little person made of both of you. You soulmated so hard that you created another heart, a cute little friend for both of you. She’s everything.

Oh, but she definitely has his temper too. She once looked up at him mid-lecture and said, “Is this gonna be long? I have blocks to build.” He nearly exploded with laughter. “Siblings? What are the pros and cons of that?” she wonders seriously when you ask if she wants a brother or a sister. “If they’re as cool as me... hmm, I’ll think about it!” she sticks out her tongue and giggles. His little smartass.

He keeps her drawings in his wallet. Folded, worn, cherished. Even when he’s across the world on duty, her crayon versions of the three of you remind him why he fights. When he comes back from work, they draw together, and his own drawings are no better than a child’s spontaneous doodle, but she praises him so sincerely that he melts.

They have wild inside jokes no one understands. Even you, her mother. It drives you crazy sometimes because they act like real idiots. But they’re your favorite idiots. Like synchronized “dramatic faints” at the breakfast table. Or gossiping about you quietly with a sly smile on their faces. Or their secret handshake that takes 40 seconds (you counted). Sometimes they just treat life like a game they’re winning together.

She shares his love for sweets. He buys her all kinds of goodies and treats her with the best desserts in the city, on weekends he pampers her with custom-made sweets from a pastry shop. So when it’s time to visit the dentist, you send him with her to the doctor as a lesson. He taught her to brush her teeth well. It’s nobody’s fault she has a sweet tooth like him!

He loves to put her to bed. He reads her fairy tales and tells her funny stories, assures her that there are no monsters under the bed and checks it several times if she’s scared. “Your daddy is the strongest monster fighter!” he winks. And when she falls asleep, he kisses her on the forehead and just lies next to her for a while before going to his beloved wife to make another such cutie pie.

He talks to her like an equal — always. He doesn’t baby her thoughts or shield her from the truth. He explains the world gently but with honesty. She asks hard questions. He never lies. It’s not easy when she realizes what a complicated world she lives in. Every time something inside him breaks when she gets a little more mature. But he knows that this is part of the journey too.

He’s incredibly protective, but in stealthy ways. He won’t be the loudest dad at school (surprisingly). Instead, he’ll silently ward off anyone who makes her uncomfortable — a quiet glare, a sudden presence. Nothing gets past him. He doesn’t want to get into things that she has to experience on her own, but he also doesn’t want to be on the sidelines if something hurts her.

He’s terrified of failing her. Beneath the jokes and playfulness, he carries a deep fear — that the world will hurt her the way it hurt him. So he watches closely, listens deeply, holds tighter when she sleeps. He knows that there will definitely be challenges and pain in life, but while she is so young, he will protect her and her childhood with all his best. She will have a different, better life.

He tells her every day: “You’re loved. Always.” Not just “I love you” — but “you are loved”. By him. By her mom. By the universe itself. He wants her to know it, feel it, believe it in her bones. Despite all the hardships, there is so much beauty in the world, and it’s a true miracle that we are all here, so fragile and eager for love and validation. He deeply realizes it when he becomes a father. And he wants her to feel it too.

He dreams of seeing who she’ll become. Whether she becomes a sorcerer or an artist or a chaos gremlin scientist — he’s there. Sometimes he forgets about all his bravado and feels something that he hasn’t felt much before. Fear of leaving this world too soon, not being a present father and partner. He wants to have a future in which he will see his child grow up. Happy, no matter what path she chooses. “This is her story now, and I just wanna be a part of it for as long as possible!” he smiles.

[yuwritesstuff]

🏎️ Sukuna x fem reader — F1 Driver Modern AU Headcanons 🏁

He’s the most aggressive driver on the grid. Sukuna doesn’t play safe — he drives like he owns the track, like rules are merely suggestions. Fans either worship him or call him reckless. But he's terrifyingly good. You know he calculates every risky move to perfection, even if your heart stops every time he overtakes on a blind curve.

You met during the off-season at a pretentious afterparty. Your friend brought you there, though you didn't really want to come. Sukuna was cocky, confident, and surrounded by admirers — but his eyes locked onto you like a target. You didn’t care who he was, and that only made him more intrigued. You called him an “asshole in a jumpsuit.” He laughed and brought you a drink.

He doesn’t do “soft” with anyone — except you. Sukuna is sharp-tongued and brutal in interviews, but when you’re alone, he pulls you into his lap, traces lazy patterns on your skin, and grumbles about how you’re the only one who ever calms him down. He is comfortable in your company, even forgetting to tease you sometimes. You appreciate such moments of peace and quiet.

You travel to every race. Sukuna pretends not to care, but the way his eyes search the crowd for you says otherwise. He drives harder when you’re watching. You wear a discreet charm bracelet he gave you for good luck — his initials engraved in red. This is a small but significant ritual of support, and your very presence energizes him.

He’s scarily possessive. Paparazzi caught a photo of another driver getting too friendly with you. Sukuna didn’t say anything. He just beat that guy’s qualifying time by nearly a full second the next day and shot him a look that said “Try me again.” For him, everything in life is a competition and a challenge, and he's not going to lose you. No one is going to take his girl away from him.

He lets you touch his car. No one else is allowed near it unless they're engineers. But you? He’ll smirk and say, “Want to sit in it, princess?” while lifting you into the cockpit, allowing you to feel the smell and energy of the salon in which he fights for the most impossible victories. He's crazy about his car. And he's crazy about his girlfriend. This combination makes his heart beat faster, even though he keeps a smug smile on his face.

He watches your reactions from the cockpit cameras. His team caught him once grinning during a race while watching a clip of you cheering in the paddock. He denied it, obviously. “I don’t smile. That was wind distortion.” It's a tiny weakness that he allows himself, staying focused on the track the rest of the time.

You worry constantly. No matter how confident he is, you hold your breath during every lap. After one especially bad crash, you ran to the pit lane in tears. Sukuna stumbled out of the wreckage, grinning, blood on his face, and said, “Relax. I’ve had worse hangovers.” After that, he fainted and then spent a few more days in the hospital, and you thought you would kill him with your own hands as soon as he woke up. But when he did, you just kept wiping the endless tears from your cheeks and kissed his face while he grunted back, pretending to be annoyed.

He teases you for being soft. “You get all nervous, and for what? I’m invincible, babe.” You know he's the craziest man you've ever met. Brave, strong, unstoppable. But still a man. A human being. You’ve heard the quiet way he exhales when you tuck his hair back and kiss his temple. He needs your softness more than he admits.

You anchor him. He’s chaos and ego and speed, but you’re the one who reminds him to breathe. You’re the only person who can say, “Please come back to me safe,” and make him pause before a race. He remembers that he has something else to hold on to besides the steering wheel, and although “safety” is not the word that goes with his career, he smiles at you a little softer than usual and says, “I will.”

He loves it when you wear his team colors. Once you wore a branded hoodie with his number on it, and he couldn’t stop staring. Later that night, he whispered, “That’s hot. Keep it on,” as he pushed you against the hotel wall, lifting you up with his strong arms. You were sure that the neighboring rooms complained about the noise that night. In the morning, you were so hoarse and exhausted that he made fun of you and even bought you some medicine for your sore throat. “And how are you gonna cheer me on at the race now?” he teased. “It's all your fault,” you pouted, dying inside from both embarrassment and happiness.

He’s actually proud of you. He brags to the team about your career, your achievements, and how “his girl is smarter than any PR manager here.” It gets to the point where they are completely annoyed by his stories, but they can't say anything, knowing his hot-tempered nature. He loves not only your body, but also your amazing brain. You blushed when you found out he once punched a guy in Monaco for saying “she’s just a pretty face.”

He’s got your initials tattooed somewhere only you can see. It's reckless and permanent and very Sukuna. He doesn’t tell anyone. This is for you only. You know his body, you know how to give him goosebumps and a passion as powerful as the roar of a sports car engine. He likes it when you touch this tattoo while fucking, and then lets you trace it when he’s falling asleep next to you after a long day.

He plans to win the championship for you. He says it’s for himself, for legacy, for glory. And so it is, of course, because he is made of these things. He belongs in a world of paparazzi cameras and front pages, a world of speed and money and risk. But when he crosses that finish line and raises his helmet to blow you a kiss, the world can see who he’s really doing it for.

[yuwritesstuff]

NSFW headcanons about Shoko x fem reader.

MDNI.

Shoko has a surprisingly teasing streak — she likes to lean close and whisper filthy things in your ear in the most casual tone, just to watch you squirm. Her voice is low, smooth, and deadly seductive when she wants to fluster you. You can never tell if she’s joking or actually planning to ravish you right there.

She smells like clean linen, bitter berries, and faint tobacco, a scent that clings to your sheets after nights spent tangled together. She doesn't mind when you bury your face in her neck and breathe her in — in fact, it makes her press closer and trail lazy kisses on your skin.

Shoko’s hands are precise and confident, whether she’s wielding a scalpel or undressing you slowly, like she’s memorizing every inch. She takes her time, tracing your body with the same curiosity she has when solving a mystery. She’ll hum softly when she finds the spots that make you gasp.

Morning sex with Shoko is slow and grounding. Her voice is drowsy as she pulls you close, murmuring, “You’re so warm. Just stay here.” She loves to make love half-asleep, skin on skin under soft sunlight, with kisses that taste like dream and satisfaction.

Shoko loves to watch you come undone — she’ll keep eye contact while she works you open with her fingers, calm and composed as ever, even when you’re falling apart beneath her. “Breathe,” she’ll whisper, giggling happily, her thumb circling your clit in that perfect rhythm. She knows exactly how much pressure you need.

She loves giving head, especially after a long day, when she’s in the mood to wind down by focusing entirely on your pleasure. She’ll pin your hips and hum against you, slow and thorough, eyes closed like she’s savoring every moment. She doesn’t stop until you’re trembling and breathless.

Shoko has a filthy mouth when she lets go — soft, measured moans mix with low curses and gasps of “fuck, baby, just like that.” It takes you by surprise the first time, seeing her so undone, but now you live for that moment when her composure slips.

She loves mutual masturbation sessions — sitting face to face, mirroring each other’s movements, watching the way your breath hitches and your thighs tremble. She finds it intimate, almost reverent. “Don’t look away,” she whispers, her eyes locked with yours.

She loves it when you sit on her lap, especially if you're only wearing one of her shirts. She’ll run her hands under the hem, playing with your nipples slowly, and ask, voice low, “Nothing underneath, huh?” before pulling you into a deep kiss that leaves you aching for so much more.

Sometimes she’s too tired to move after work, but still wants to feel close — so she lets you ride her face, her hands gripping your thighs tightly as she watches you with half-lidded eyes. “Look at you,” she whispers, her voice thick with affection and lust when she catches her breath and licks her lips greedily. “So beautiful like this, so so wet for me.”

She can be rough when she’s jealous, though she’d never admit it. She doesn't make loud scenes, and sometimes she doesn't even realize she's jealous, but her touches become firmer, her kisses possessive. With her mouth, her hands, and her voice right in your ear, she makes you cry only her name.

When she’s in love, Shoko is endlessly devoted, even in the filthiest moments. She’ll fuck you until you're crying from pleasure, then cradle you against her chest and kiss your eyelids. With her, sex is both grounding and extraordinary — a ritual of trust and love.

[yuwritesstuff]

Headcanons about cooking with Nanami 🥞💛

Kento enjoys simple, hearty meals, so when you cook together, he selects dishes with straightforward steps to keep things tasty and quick, ensuring the process doesn’t feel like a chore.

He often prepares ingredients in advance during his free time, so after work, you can quickly cook dinner together and have more time to relax side by side.

He dislikes loud kitchen noises, so he always tries to maintain a calm atmosphere — sometimes playing soft music in the background or speaking quietly to you to create a peaceful vibe.

He hates rushing, so during cooking he encourages slow and calm pacing, sometimes teasing or joking with you to keep the mood light and enjoyable.

He pays attention to small details — setting out napkins, arranging plates neatly, or placing coasters — to make sure everything feels comfortable and thoughtful.

He has a favorite dish that you make perfectly, and he gladly helps with small tasks like chopping or stirring to support you and make you feel cared for.

He’s always open to trying new recipes, especially if it’s a project you do together, because for him, cooking is another way to grow closer. He listens carefully to your cooking tips and recipes, even if he was skeptical at first.

He loves it when you make breakfast for him — waking up to the smell of fresh coffee and warm food instantly fills him with comfort and gratitude.

Occasionally, he organizes small picnics on your balcony or in a nearby park, where you can enjoy simple food and nature’s calm side by side.

He prefers buying high-quality ingredients — he believes even simple dishes can become extraordinary with the right products.

After you finish cooking, he likes to clean up together, enjoying these quiet, everyday moments with you and feeling content just being together.

After dinner, he usually prepares tea or pours a glass of wine for both of you. He brings it to the living room so you can unwind together, watch movies, read books, or just have a quiet and soft conversation about your day and future.

[yuwritesstuff]

ur writing style is so sweet so gentle 🤤🤤 i love it so much

OMG thank you!!🥺 It's really inspiring to know that, especially cause writing is my favorite thing to do. My heart feels warm🤍

[yuwritesstuff]

You didn’t mean to get clingy. Well… maybe a little.

It started around the second trimester, right when the morning sickness eased up and the craving phase began — only what you craved wasn’t pickles or ice cream or whatever clichés people liked to joke about. No, what you wanted most was your husband.

Specifically, his scent.

Toji’s smell had always done something to you — that warm, earthy mix of sweat, soap, and something primal you couldn’t describe. But now? It was like your brain short-circuited every time he walked by.

Your face would bury itself into his chest without warning, fingers grabbing at his shirt like a lifeline. You even started stealing his workout clothes just to lie in bed with them, face tucked into the worn fabric, smiling like an idiot.

He noticed.

Of course, he noticed.

“Hey. That’s the third hoodie you’ve stolen this week,” he muttered one evening, arms crossed, looking down at you curled up in his hoodie on the couch. Your nose was buried in the collar, eyes closed like you were high on him.

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, not even bothering to look guilty. “You smell really, really good.”

Toji raised an eyebrow. “I just got back from the gym.”

“Exactly,” you mumbled, tugging the hoodie tighter around yourself. “It’s perfect.”

He grumbled something under his breath, but his ears were red.

Later, when you padded up behind him in the kitchen and wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his back, he sighed.

“You’re like a koala lately,” he teased, smirking. “Did pregnancy switch on your cling mode?”

“Maybe,” you said sweetly, nuzzling the space between his shoulder blades. “You’re warm. And you smell like home.”

Toji’s hand twitched on the counter. He turned slightly, catching you with a sidelong glance — that lazy, heated look he only gave you when no one else was around.

“And what exactly are you sniffing, woman?”

“You,” you answered, simple and smug.

Toji turned fully, leaning back against the counter as you kept hugging him, now looking up at him with those soft eyes that always turned him to mush on the inside — not that he’d admit it. His palm found the swell of your belly without thinking, fingers splayed across the fabric.

“You know I’m gonna get hard if you keep lookin’ at me like that,” he said flatly.

Your smile turned mischievous. “Oh no. Wouldn’t want that.” You didn’t move an inch.

His jaw ticked. “I meant that as a warning.”

“I know.” You leaned up on your toes and kissed the underside of his jaw — slow, deliberate. “Still wanna complain?”

Toji growled under his breath and dragged you in by the hips, kissing you like he’d been waiting hours to do it — which, knowing him, he had. His hands were firm but careful, palms wide and warm against your back, one sneaking under the hem of the hoodie you’d stolen.

“Why are you such a cute tease?” he murmured, biting your lower lip just enough to make you gasp.

“You’re the one who smells like sex and safety,” you whispered back.

“Damn hormones,” he muttered. But he was smiling now, even as he bent to kiss you again, rougher this time. His hand was already sliding lower, along the line of your hips and ass. You trembled slightly, but he caught it and grinned knowingly.

Pregnancy had made you want him more.

“Shower,” he said hoarsely, lifting you easily into his arms despite your protesting giggle. “You’ve got ten minutes before I stop being patient.”

You smiled against his throat. “But can I keep the hoodie?”

“You can keep me, woman,” he huffed as he carried you to the bathroom.

[yuwritesstuff]

You didn’t come to the gym to lose weight.

That much you’d made clear to yourself from the very beginning — despite the way some people glanced at your curves, or how certain influencers online seemed to equate effort with appearance. No, you were here to grow stronger. To last longer than ten minutes on the treadmill without feeling like your lungs were on fire.

To lift something heavier than your self-doubt.

And maybe, just maybe, to sneak a glance now and then at the man who trained like a demon had possessed him.

Toji.

You caught his name at the reception desk when he was renewing his membership. It stuck in your head.

He was there almost every day, silent, serious, drenched in sweat but somehow never looking tired. His muscles moved with precision, like every motion was a habit born of necessity — not vanity. You were aware of the amount of work that went into such a physique.

He barely spoke to anyone. Most kept their distance. But you couldn’t help admiring the quiet power in him, the way he never seemed to hesitate or waste a moment to become even stronger.

You really tried not to stare, but it was hard not to.

Today, you'd nearly finished your third set of squats when it happened — your wireless earbud popped free and rolled across the floor. Before you could react, a hand reached down and plucked it up.

“Yours?” a deep voice asked, slightly amused.

You looked up, startled — and met his eyes.

Your heart sank in your chest.

Oh. Oh no.

Toji.

“Uh— yeah! Thanks,” you blurted, cheeks already flushing as you reached for it. Your fingers brushed his, rough and hot, and your breath caught.

“You’re the cardio girl, right?” he added, smirking faintly.

You blinked. “Cardio girl?”

“You’re always on the treadmill,” he said, glancing in the direction you’d just come from. “Ten minutes of death and wheezing. It’s kinda cute.”

You gasped a little. What a nerve. “Hey—! I’m working on it!”

He chuckled low in his chest, and the sound made something flutter in your stomach. You overreacted to this sudden interaction, imagining how flushed your face must have been. But you could blame it on your training, so he wouldn't think you were some kind of weirdo.

Then he tilted his head, a strange, wicked glint in his eye.

“Cardio’s important. Builds endurance. Great for stamina.”

There was a teasing edge in his tone — but it flew right over your head.

What was he talking about? About… training together?

“Oh,” you said seriously. “Do you think you could maybe help me? Like… actually train with me?”

Toji stared at you, looking a little surprised.

You didn't know where this sudden courage to ask such a thing came from. Your heart was pounding like a drum in your chest at your audacity. Most people flinched under his stare — but not you, not now.

You looked completely earnest — bright-eyed, a little breathless, with a determined smile that made you look even softer in contrast to the harsh lights of the gym.

He gave a low huff of amusement, almost a laugh. The corner of his mouth tugged upward — the closest he ever came to smiling.

“Maybe,” he said at last. “If you don’t annoy me too much.”

You puffed out your cheeks and pouted. “Rude.”

Toji shrugged, still watching you, the warmth in his eyes barely masked under his usual deadpan. “You asked.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the grin that played at your lips. Your chest felt warm — not from exertion, but from something you hadn’t quite dared to name yet.

Maybe you would survive those ten-minute runs, after all. Especially if he was there at the end of them.

[yuwritesstuff]

Polyam headcanons about satosugu x fem reader ♡

It started with friendship — late nights of laughter, teasing, shared snacks, quiet comfort, and unspoken feelings. The bond between the three of you felt so natural, it took a while to realize it was already love.

Suguru was the first to bring it up seriously — tentatively, one night when you were cuddling after watching movies together. He didn’t say the word “polyamory,” but he said, “I think I’m in love with both of you,” and it made something click.

Satoru initially brushed it off with jokes, but only because the idea scared him in a way nothing else did. The next day, he sent a dozen texts to both of you — some silly, some heartfelt, all saying: I don’t want to lose this. I want this.

You all talked about it — awkward, fumbling conversations where words like “jealousy” and “trust”, and “boundaries” came up. Suguru downloaded three e-books about polyamory. Satoru made fun of him... and then read them too.

The relationship wasn’t about splitting time or competing for attention. It was about a triangle, not a line — a whole unit of three hearts beating in sync. You shared space, meals, beds, playlists, and long silences.

When people ask, “So who’s dating who?” Satoru would say, “Yes,” and smile like a little shit. Suguru would gently add, “All of us. Together.” You just nod and grin with pride and satisfaction.

There were rough spots — moments when someone felt left out or insecure. But instead of letting it fester, you made a habit of honest check-ins: “How are you feeling?”, “Do you need anything more from us?”

Satoru is the one who demands cuddles, often loudly and dramatically. He flops on top of both of you with no shame. Suguru pretends to be annoyed, but always wraps an arm around your waist or plays with your hair, showering you both with soft kisses.

Suguru is the most emotionally perceptive — he notices tension before anyone else does and knows how to gently nudge it into the open. He also kisses both of you like he’s memorizing your existence.

You’re the glue in some ways — the soft voice in the storm, the warmth that draws both of them close when they get too tangled in the world’s noise. You remind them to eat, sleep, and rest, to be present when things get tough.

Sex is passionate and playful — a dance of laughter, whispered confessions, intense eye contact, and touches that know exactly how to bring pleasure. No one’s left behind. Everything is about shared connection.

You have inside jokes that make no sense to anyone else. You and Satoru often goof off when you're sitting in a cafe somewhere, laughing out loud at absurd jokes, and even though Suguru sighs tiredly, he can't help but smile too. And sometimes he makes very strange jokes himself, in such a serious tone that you both can't calm down for a while.

On slow weekends, you all cook together. Satoru burns the simplest toast. Suguru makes something complicated and perfect. You try a new recipe from social media. In the end, it’s a chaotic but delicious mess that you eat curled up together.

Sometimes, the three of you dance in the living room with the lights dim and the music low. Satoru spins you, then Suguru, then pulls you both close. Those moments feel sacred like nothing bad could ever touch you.

You don’t all say “I love you” at the same time — but it happens constantly. Suguru whispers it when you're falling asleep. Satoru says it while handing you your coffee in the morning. You say it when they least expect it, and every time, they melt.

[yuwritesstuff]

You thought you'd hidden your romantasy books well enough.

They were neatly stacked on the bottom shelf of your bookcase, spines turned inward, behind a few academic-looking hardcovers. But somehow, Satoru had sniffed them out like a bloodhound with too much time and curiosity.

He was sprawled out on your bed now, flipping dramatically through one of it, a smug grin tugging at his lips.

“His stormy eyes burned into her soul as he whispered promises of forever—” he read aloud in a deep, fake-sultry voice, then looked up at you, eyes glinting. “Wow. You really read this stuff?”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “Satoru—”

He sat up. “No, no, I’m not judging! I’m just… deeply fascinated. Do these men always clench their jaws when they’re feeling things? Is that a requirement?”

“You’re impossible.”

“But am I at least as hot as this sword-wielding prince of shadows?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows as he held up the cover of the book. “Be honest.”

You shot him a half-hearted glare, but couldn’t hide the smile pulling at your lips. “Well… These are just silly, comforting books. Before I met you, I really thought those guys were the only kind of love I’d ever get.”

Satoru blinked. For a moment, he was confused by the sincerity of your confession and the vulnerability in your words.

Oh sweet thing, you just wanted to be loved so much. You were so romantic and cute, he wanted to give you everything.

When he looked at you, the cocky smile was still there, but something softer glowed beneath it. A flush touched his cheeks, almost shy if it weren’t for how boldly he asked:

“Hm… which one’s your favorite scene?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”

“Because,” he said, setting the book down and walking toward you with a lazy stride, “I’m wondering which one we should recreate.”

Your breath hitched.

He stopped in front of you, tall and glittering with mischief, his voice dropped lower.

“I mean, surely you’ve imagined one or two with someone better than a fictional prince?” He leaned closer. “Say, someone oh so tall, white-haired, and devastatingly charming!”

In fact, you forgot about these books when you started dating Satoru. Everything you could imagine was now connected to him and his bright personality.

You laughed nervously, your cheeks fully flushed now. “You’re ridiculous.”

He grinned. “Ridiculously perfect, maybe?”

His hand brushed yours — lightly, testing the waters — and he held your gaze. To see your happy, blushing face and big eyes full of excitement.

“So,” he said again, gentle this time, “tell me, princess. What should our lovemaking chapter look like?”

[yuwritesstuff]

Satoru was used to the best. The best clothes, the best desserts, the best anything that money — or his charm — could buy. So when he walked into the kitchen and saw you there, cheeks dusted with flour and brows furrowed in concentration, he tilted his head and grinned.

“A cake? For me?” he teased, leaning on the doorway with a smirk tugging at his lips. “Wow, you must really like me.”

You didn't turn around, just gave a soft huff and muttered, “Don't start, Satoru. It's almost done.”

That only made him more amused. He sauntered over, peering over your shoulder like a curious child, nose twitching at the warm, buttery smell. “Is this chocolate I smell? And vanilla? Oh, you're going all out, huh?” His voice dropped to a mock-serious whisper. “Trying to seduce me with sugar?”

You elbowed him gently without looking up. “If I wanted to seduce you, I’d just look at you for longer than three seconds.”

Satoru clutched his chest dramatically. “Oof. Right in the heart. I’m being roasted and baked all at once.”

The cake cooled, was frosted with care, and finally placed before him with your shy, sparkling eyes watching his reaction. Satoru looked down at the plate, then up at you, and for a moment — just a moment — the teasing faded. There was something about it. The slightly uneven layers, the hand-whipped cream, the little chocolate curls on top that spelled out “♡ for Satoru”.

He picked up the spoon, took a bite, and instantly stilled.

It was sweet. Not just sugary — sweet in a way that bloomed warmth right beneath his ribs. His lips parted slightly as he chewed slower than usual, tasting not just the chocolate but the effort. The care. The love folded into every layer.

His face twitched. And then — betrayal. A pink flush began to creep up his cheeks.

He coughed lightly, glancing away. “Okay, so maybe it’s... edible.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Edible?”

“I mean, for a first try, you did okay,” he said airily, though he kept taking bites like a man starved. “Could use more vanilla. Or cinnamon. Or—”

“Satoru!”

He grinned, cheeks still glowing. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding! It’s delicious.” He looked at you then — hands still dusted with flour, smiling like you weren’t sure you did good enough. “It’s the best cake I’ve ever had.”

You blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, quieter this time. “Because it’s just for me.”

There was a beat of soft silence between you, the kind that wasn’t awkward, just full of things that didn’t need words. Then, of course, he ruined it.

“I knew you couldn’t resist my charms! Cooking for me? That’s basically a love confession.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were laughing, and oh he loved that sound. You stepped closer, tilting your head up toward him. “What if it is?”

Satoru opened his mouth, but instead of another joke, he leaned in, brushing frosting off your lower lip with his thumb. “Then I guess I have to say thank you properly.”

And he kissed you, pressing his sweet lips gratefully to yours.

It was slow, warm, and lingering — like the taste of cake and the feeling of being cherished. When lips parted, you were breathless, and he was smiling again, even softer.

“Sweet,” he whispered, feeling foolishly happy. “But not as sweet as you.”