jade

you let satoru do as he pleases, threading your hands through his hair as his hand dips between your inner thighs. he hums into your neck when you scratch his scalp. “suguru,” you breathe, “how’d you two even get here? coach toji’s gonna kill you guys.”

“kiss,” satoru interrupts. you tilt your head towards him, eyes still on suguru as gojo presses his lips to yours.

suguru’s face twists in disgust, but he doesn’t comment. “satoru bribed him. paid him a couple hundreds to see you for five minutes.”

“right—” your voice strains when gojo gropes your ass once again. “and you followed him because?”

geto is already looking away. “he bribed me too.”

you snort, but it turns into a shiver as satoru sucks on your earlobe. he hums, pleased, when your fingers tighten in his hair.

“mmh… got an away match,” he kisses your jaw. “wanted to see my girl first.”

you’re not his girl, you know you’ll never be, but you still laugh when he squeezes your waist & presses hurried kisses to your cheek. you shove him away & his grin is cocky.

“gonna score for you,” he tugs you back, dipping his head to your ear. “and then you’ll treat me, yeah?”

you hum when his arms snake around your hips once again.

“only if you score the winning goal.”

2. POST MATCH SEXCAPADES !

satoru comes back too late.

you’re not sure exactly why—maybe overtime, maybe the team stopped somewhere to celebrate their win—but you don’t let the thought plague you. you’re more concerned about the fact that it’s nearly evening & you can hear a ball kicking against the gym walls. you’re still in your cheer uniform, tiny skirt & sheer top, standing at the metal doors as you watch gojo dribble on his own.

he stops dribbling to catch his breath, wiping sweat off his chin. and then he’s off to sit at the bleachers, letting water slide down his neck as he chugs from a bottle.

you take it as your cue.

you have your hands behind your back, padding all slow, steps soft as you make your way to him. gojo keeps his bottle pressed to his lips but he sees it. how your skirt clings to your thighs. how your breasts ripple under the thin material. he lets out a low hum as you sit yourself on his lap.

you loop your hands around his neck. “hi.”

his lip tugs. “hi,”

he squeezes your waist as you press yourself into him. your tits smush against his chest, nipples hardening, and his fingers are already tracing the hem of your skirt & gliding up your thigh.

“how was the match?” you mumble.

“was good,” he mutters, but his thumb has already found your panties underneath your skirt. he rubs a slow circle over the bud. “you miss me?”

“no,” you sass, but he presses his thumb into your clit & your hips stutter. satoru laughs.

“i know what you like now,” he hums, left hand gliding up your side as the other rubs slow circles over your panties. “know it only takes a little.”

his thumb finds your nipple through your thin shirt. he rubs a circle over the pebbled peak, slow, but then he raises a brow. “no bra?”

you can’t respond. your breath hitches as your head falls into his shoulder.

“so cute,” he murmurs softly. he lets you press against him, leaving your panties to grope your heavy tits in his palm. he squeezes and fondles, pressing light kisses to your cheek as you make pretty noises in his ear. your hips buck into him.

“needy,” he scoffs, but his hands come up to guide your hips as you rut against him. he’s already hard and your panties are soaked thin and you let the material cling between your folds as your clit rubs against him. he flips up your skirt to find you drenched & slobbering. he bites his cheek.

“fuck, baby,” he rasps, sliding your panties over your aching cunt. you’re still humping him. “why’s your pussy so fucking wet?”

you only whimper as he presses his thumb to your sticky clit, rubbing hard circles over the bud. his other hand gropes your hip, guiding you faster over him. your breathing shudders as his thumb circles your clit faster and harder, until your hips are stuttering & he’s cupping your pussy so you cum in his palm.

you whimper, tears pricking at your lashes as you come down from your high. satoru kisses your cheek slow. “mmh, good job, baby.”

he’s still rubbing his palm over your pussy, massaging your warmth all slow & lazy. your eyes drop to his bulge, his cock practically twitching in his shorts. you reach a hand to glide over it, palming him so his hips twitch. he inhales sharply, “fuck—”

“not in my uniform,” he steals your hand, kissing your jaw. “gonna be a nightmare to clean.”

you glare at him through your lashes. “it’s already dirty, idiot.”

he laughs at your pretty face glaring up at him. your cheeks are still flushed, lashes wet, and your lips are in a frown but satoru swears you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. he folds his hand over yours and dips his head to kiss you warm & slow. you gasp as his tongue pushes in, a soft moan leaving your lips as his tongue grazes yours.

“another time,” he murmurs against your lips. “no pouting, yeah?”

you pout anyways, and satoru kisses it off.

3. NOT YOUR GIRLFRIEND !

satoru is driving too fast.

his jaw is tight, knuckles white against the steering as you clutch your seatbelt beside him. your heart hammers against your ribs but the engine soon slows, his foot easing down on the breaks as the car comes to a stop at a traffic light.

today’s match went bad, really bad, so bad to the point that afterwards you’d tried to console him and he’d simply walked past. you try not to let it get to you. you know how men are when it comes to losing in sports.

but satoru’s breathing settles beside you, so you try once more.

“you played good today.”

silence.

"i know you're upset," you continue, voice soft. "but it's just one game, and you'll get them next time.”

silence again. his jaw only ticks, face illuminated by the traffic light’s red glow. the seconds seem to stretch into minutes, and you fumble with your skirt.

“you did your best,” you turn to him. “that’s all that matters—“

“can you stop?”

you freeze.

satoru doesn’t look at you. his fingers tap against the steering as he lowers his foot to the gas pedal. he’s not speeding anymore, but the silence stretches & you can feel a lump clawing at your throat.

you bite your lip. and satoru’s mad, yes, but he’s got no right to talk to you like that or take his anger out on you. so you suck in a breath, try to correct him. “i was only trying to help. you don’t have to take it out on me—“

“do you ever get tired of talking?”

“what?”

but satoru continues. “you always have something to say, don’t you? you’re not my fucking girlfriend. and i don’t need your fucking comfort.”

you blink. the words don’t register at first, but soon your throat is closing up, and you’re nodding obediently before you can think any better of it. your skirt bunches in your hands as you try to keep your breathing steady. god forbid you give him a reason to snap at you once again.

“you’re right,” you try for sass but it fails. “and i won’t act like it again.”

but satoru sees you through the rearview mirror. your eyes are on your lap, like you’re still trying to process what just happened, your thumbs fiddling with the hem of your skirt. satoru only swallows, glances away. if he ignores you long enough, you’ll be just fine, right?

your breath hitches beside him and he crumbles immediately.

he’s already pulling over, unbuckling his belt to reach over the console. “no baby, i’m sorry,” he pleads, and maybe he shouldn’t because it only makes tears fall from your eyes. “shh baby don’t cry, i’m sorry, i’m so fucking sorry.”

he smushes your face into his chest, carding his fingers through your hair. you try to push him away but he takes your hand and presses it to his chest.

“didn’t mean to snap at you,” his breathing is ragged as he cups your face. “don’t cry baby, you know i hate it when you cry.”

you sniffle as he swipes a thumb over your wet lashes. “then what are we?”

satoru doesn’t answer. instead he presses his lips to yours, slow and warm, head tilting to deepen the kiss. “you’re my girl,” kiss. “my baby,” kiss. “my everything,” kiss.

he doesn’t say my girlfriend. but he doesn’t need to, right?

footballer!gojo doesn’t do relationships. and cheerleaders like you don’t make good girlfriends anyway. so you swallow the lump growing in your throat & let him part open your thighs.

SCORE, end

The silence in Megumi Fushiguro’s apartment had never felt like a weapon before. It had always been a soft, comfortable thing. The quiet of shared space, the peace of two people who didn’t need to fill every moment with noise. But tonight, the silence it felt different.

Megumi had come home late, later than usual, his shoulders hunched and his jaw tight. You’d watched him shrug off his jacket, his movements jerky and exhausted, and your heart had clenched with sympathy. You knew he’d had a brutal week. A mission had gone sideways, leaving him with a concussion and a civilian casualty that wasn’t his fault but weighed on him anyway. Then there had been the endless debriefings, the paperwork, the sidelong glances from the higher-ups who always seemed to be waiting for him to fail. You’d seen the dark circles under his eyes deepen with each passing day, watched him pick at his food without eating, and felt him toss and turn beside you in bed long after the lights went out.

So you’d done what you always did. You’d tried to help. You’d made his favorite tea, the ginger one that stung the nose and warmed the throat. You’d set out his comfortable clothes, the soft sweater with the frayed cuffs he loved. And when he’d sunk onto the couch with a bone-deep sigh, you’d settled beside him and started talking, hoping to pull him out of his head, to distract him from the darkness you could see swirling behind his eyes.

“I was thinking about time today,” you’d begun, your voice soft and meandering, the way it always was when you were trying to soothe him. “Not like, clock time, but geological time. Did you know that if you compressed the entire history of the Earth into a single year, humans wouldn’t show up until like, eleven-forty PM on December thirty-first? And the entire recorded history of human civilization would be the last few seconds before midnight? It’s wild, right? All of our wars and art and love and everything, just this tiny little blip. And it made me think about how when you’re in the middle of a bad week, it feels like it’s going to last forever, but in the grand scheme of things, it’s not even a fraction of a fraction of a—”

“Can you just be quiet?”

The words weren’t loud. They weren’t even particularly harsh. But they stopped you cold, your mouth still half-open around the next syllable, your hands frozen mid-gesture. You stared at him, waiting for the punchline, the softening of his eyes, the small quirk of his lips that meant he was teasing.

It didn’t come.

He wasn’t looking at you. His head was tilted back against the couch, his eyes closed, and there was a furrow between his brows so deep it looked carved there. The words hung in the air between you, ugly and final, and for one bizarre, disorienting moment, a single thought cut through your shock: This isn’t Megumi.

The thought was so strong, so visceral, that your eyes darted around the room, half-expecting to see the shimmer of a veil, the telltale distortion of a curse’s technique. Because this couldn’t be real. Your Megumi—your sweet, quiet, secretly tender Megumi who let you put face masks on him and once sat through a three-hour documentary about nudibranchs because you’d said they looked like tiny sea dragons and you loved them—your Megumi would never, ever say that to you. This had to be a curse. Some vile, parasitic thing wearing his skin, twisting his voice, using his exhaustion as a doorway in.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until your lungs started to burn. Your hands were trembling in your lap, but you kept them still, kept your face as neutral as you could manage, while your mind spiraled through every exorcism you’d ever studied, every curse you’d ever encountered. You searched his face for some sign of the supernatural, some glint of something that wasn’t him.

Megumi’s eyes opened, and you searched them desperately. But all you saw was exhaustion. Bone-deep, soul-crushing exhaustion, and underneath it, a flicker of irritation that made your stomach drop.

He must have seen something in your expression—the wide-eyed horror, the desperate scanning—because his brow furrowed further. "Nothing is wrong, I just… I can’t right now. I need quiet. Please.”

Please. He’d said please, like it was a reasonable request, like he hadn’t just taken the thing you were most vulnerable about—the thing you’d been terrified of your entire life—and confirmed it was true. You talked too much, you shared too much, you were too much, and the one person you’d trusted with all of it had finally gotten sick of pretending otherwise.

You didn’t remember standing up. You didn’t remember walking to the bedroom. All you remembered was the click of the door closing behind you, the sound of your own heartbeat thundering in your ears, and the slow, creeping horror of a new thought slithering into your mind.

What if he’s been holding this back for our entire relationship, and tonight he just… slipped?

You pressed your back against the bedroom door and slid down until you were sitting on the floor, your knees drawn up to your chest. The tears came hot and silent, and with them, the spiral.

Because the thing was, it made sense. It made terrible, perfect sense.

You’d always known you talked a lot. You’d been told so your whole life—by teachers who moved your desk to the back of the classroom, by friends who slowly stopped returning your texts, by family members who smiled tight smiles and said, “Don’t you ever run out of things to say?” You talked when you were happy, when you were nervous, when you were sad, and when you were excited. Talking was how you processed the world. It was how you connected, how you loved, how you breathed.

And Megumi… Megumi was so quiet. He spoke in glances and small gestures, in the brush of his fingers against yours, in the way he’d make you tea without being asked. You’d always thought—hoped—that your talking was the yang to his yin, that you filled the silences he didn’t want to fill himself, that he liked it, that he liked you.

But what if he didn’t? What if every story you’d ever told him, every random observation, every excited ramble about sea slugs or cloud formations or the socioeconomic implications of ancient Roman plumbing—what if every single word had been sandpaper against his nerves? What if all those little hums and nods, the ones you’d interpreted as listening, had actually been him just… enduring?

You thought back through your entire relationship, and the memories shifted and warped before your eyes, taking on a sinister new shape. The time you’d spent forty-five minutes explaining the plot of a book he’d never read, and he’d just sat there, silent. You’d thought he was being a good listener. What if he’d been wishing you would stop? The time you’d made him watch a video essay about the history of buttons, and he’d fallen asleep halfway through. You’d teased him about it, thinking it was cute. What if he’d been so bored, so exhausted by your endless stream of words, that his body had just given up?

Every memory became evidence. Every silence became a verdict. And you, who loved him so much, realized with a sickening lurch that your love might have been a burden. That the very thing you’d been offering him—yourself, unfiltered and enthusiastic and overflowing—might have been the thing he’d secretly wished he could escape.

You didn’t sleep that night. You lay in bed, still and silent as a stone, listening to Megumi’s breathing on the other side of the mattress. He didn’t reach for you. He didn’t say anything. And that, too, felt like confirmation.

───

The next morning, you woke up with a new resolve. If Megumi needed quiet, you would give him quiet. If your talking was a burden, you would set it down. You would become smaller, neater, easier. You would be the girlfriend he deserved, not the one he’d been saddled with.

It was the hardest thing you’d ever done.

The first day, you caught yourself a dozen times. You’d open your mouth to tell him about the weird bird you’d seen outside the window, and you’d snap it shut again. You’d pick up your phone to text him a thought that had just occurred to you, and you’d set it back down. Every suppressed word felt like a small death, a little piece of yourself that you were burying alive.

But you did it. For him, you did it.

“Morning,” you said when he stumbled into the kitchen. One word. Neat. Contained. You placed his coffee in front of him—black, no sugar, the way he liked it—and turned back to the sink.

Megumi grunted in response, rubbing his eyes. He didn’t seem to notice anything different. Why would he? This was probably what he’d always wanted. A quiet morning. A peaceful coffee. A girlfriend who didn’t assault him with trivia before he’d fully woken up.

The second day was harder. You saw a dog on your walk home that looked exactly like his Divine Dog, a big black shaggy thing with soulful eyes, and your first instinct was to take a picture, to send it to him, to say, “Look! It’s your son! He’s working at a café now apparently, very distinguished!” You had your phone out, the camera app open, before you remembered. You put the phone away. You walked home in silence. And when Megumi asked, “How was your day?” you said, “Fine,” and nothing else.

The third day, the fourth day, the fifth day—they all blurred together into a haze. You’d never realized how much of your life was made of words until you had to swallow every single one. You’d never realized how lonely silence could be until you were drowning in it.

You didn’t have a lot of close friends. It wasn’t that people didn’t like you—they did, or at least, they seemed to. But friendships required maintenance, and you’d always poured so much of yourself into your relationship with Megumi that there hadn’t been much left over. He’d been your person. The one you texted at 2 AM when you had a thought that couldn’t wait. The one whose shoulder you shook when you saw something beautiful or weird or funny, because sharing it with him was what made it real.

Now you had no one. The thoughts piled up inside you, a tower of unsaid words growing taller every day. You started a journal, but it wasn’t the same. The journal didn’t hum in the right places. The journal didn’t roll its eyes fondly or call you an idiot with that particular soft inflection that meant I love you. The journal was just paper, and you were so, so lonely.

Megumi didn’t notice.

Well, that wasn’t entirely fair. He noticed something. He noticed that you were quieter, but he chalked it up to mood swings. You’d always been emotional, up and down, sunshine and rain. He figured you were going through something personal—maybe family stuff, maybe hormones, maybe just the general weight of being a sorcerer in a world that never stopped needing saving. He’d ask, “You okay?” and you’d say, “I’m fine,” and he’d accept it, because Megumi was not, by nature, a person who pushed.

A small, petty part of you wanted him to push. You wanted him to grab you by the shoulders and say, “You’re not fine. You haven’t told me a single fact about marine biology in five days. What’s wrong?” But he didn’t. He just drifted through the apartment like a ghost, and you drifted with him, two silent ships passing in a fog of your own making.

Weeks passed. You got very good at being quiet. You learned the precise number of words required to get through a day without arousing suspicion: “Good morning.” “Do you want dinner?” “I’m going to bed.”

And through it all, the thoughts kept coming. They never stopped. Every moment of every day, your brain was churning out observations, questions, connections, jokes, stories. Did you know that octopuses have three hearts? Did you know that the moon is slowly moving away from the Earth? Did you know that I love you so much it’s killing me not to tell you? The words pressed against the inside of your skull and you had nowhere to put them.

Until Yuuta.

───

You’d gone to the sorcerer headquarters to drop off some paperwork for Gojo—a favor you’d agreed to in the morning. You were walking across the training grounds, head down, already composing the text you wouldn’t send Megumi about the interesting moss pattern on the path, when you literally ran into someone.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, I wasn’t—” You looked up into a pair of kind, worried eyes, and your brain short-circuited. “Yuuta?”

Yuuta Okkotsu smiled at you, that gentle, slightly awkward smile that made him look like a startled puppy. “Hey! It’s good to see you. I feel like it’s been forever. How are you? How’s Megumi?”

And something in you, something that had been wound tight for weeks, just… snapped.

“Did you know,” you said, the words tumbling out before you could stop them, “that there’s a species of jellyfish that’s biologically immortal? It’s called the Turritopsis dohrnii, and when it gets injured or stressed or just old, it can revert back to its polyp stage and start its whole life cycle over. It’s like hitting the reset button on your own existence. Scientists are studying it to see if there are applications for human aging, but honestly, I think the jellyfish is onto something. Imagine if every time you made a horrible mistake, you could just turn back into a baby and try again. Megumi would probably appreciate that, right? A do-over button for relationships? ‘Oh no, I’ve been a terrible boyfriend, time to become a polyp!’ Though I guess that’s not really fair. He’s not terrible. I’m the terrible one. I’m the one who talks too much. That’s literally what he said. Well, not literally, but implied. He said, ‘Can you just be quiet?’ and I’ve been trying, I really have, but it’s so hard because I have all these thoughts and nowhere to put them and I can’t tell him because he doesn’t want to hear it and I don’t have anyone else because he was my person and now I’m just—I’m just full. Do you ever feel full? Like you’re going to burst if you don’t say something, but if you say something, the person you love most in the world is going to look at you with that exhausted, annoyed expression, and you’ll die a little inside? No? Just me? Okay. Okay, I’m sorry. I’m doing it again. I’m talking too much. I should stop. I’m going to stop now.”

You stopped. You were breathing hard, your heart pounding, and you realized with a distant sort of horror that you’d just verbally vomited all over Yuuta Okkotsu, a man you barely knew, a man who was probably just trying to be polite and was now trapped in a conversation with a lunatic.

But Yuuta didn’t look trapped. He looked… concerned. And interested. And maybe a little bit sad.

“The jellyfish thing is really cool,” he said quietly. “Tell me more about that.”

You stared at him. “What?”

“The immortal jellyfish. How does it work, exactly? Does it remember its previous life, or is it a blank slate every time?”

It was like someone had opened a floodgate. You couldn’t stop yourself. You didn’t want to stop yourself. You told him about the cellular transdifferentiation process, about the way the jellyfish’s cells could change from one type to another, about the implications for regenerative medicine and the philosophical questions it raised about identity and consciousness and what it meant to truly die. And then, because he was still listening, still nodding, still asking questions with genuine curiosity in his dark eyes, you told him about octopuses and moon phases and the time you’d gotten lost in a museum and accidentally attended a lecture on medieval grain storage, and it had been the most fascinating hour of your life.

You talked for two hours. Two solid hours of uninterrupted, uncensored, gloriously rambling. You told Yuuta things you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding in. You told him about the specific shade of gray the sky turned before a storm, and the way Megumi’s hair fell over his eyes when he was concentrating, and the dream you’d had about flying whales, and the theory you’d developed about pigeons being government drones, and—

And through it all, Yuuta listened. He didn’t endure. He listened. He laughed at your jokes. He gasped at your revelations. He leaned in when you got to the good parts, and he shook his head in wonder when you finished a particularly convoluted tangent. He was, you realized with a pang, everything you’d been missing. Not a romantic prospect—you were too in love with Megumi for that, even now, even after everything—but a friend. A real, true friend who didn’t seem to mind that you talked too much. Who maybe even liked it.

“That was incredible,” Yuuta said when you finally wound down, your throat hoarse and your heart lighter than it had been in weeks. “You’re like a living Wikipedia, except way more entertaining. Megumi’s a lucky guy.”

The mention of Megumi’s name was like a splash of cold water. “I should… I should probably go. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

“You didn’t take anything,” Yuuta said firmly. “I offered. And honestly?” He ducked his head, a little shy. “It was nice. I enjoyed learning so much, and if it made you feel better, then I am even more glad. So thank you. For talking to me.”

Something in your chest cracked open. “You’re welcome, thank you too for hearing me.” you whispered. And you meant it.

───

The afternoon sun was slanting through the trees of the training grounds, casting long, golden shadows across the grass, and Megumi Fushiguro was worried.

Something was wrong with you. He’d noticed it in the small things—the way you’d stopped texting him random facts in the middle of the day, the way the apartment had become so painfully quiet, the way you’d answer his questions with one-word responses and tight, brittle smiles that never reached your eyes. He’d told himself it was a mood swing, or stress, or something personal that you’d share when you were ready. He’d told himself to be patient, to give you space, to be the steady, silent presence you needed.

But today, the worry had sharpened into something sharper. You hadn’t answered your phone. Three calls, straight to voicemail. You were supposed to drop off paperwork for Gojo, a simple errand that should have taken an hour at most, but three hours had passed and you still weren’t home. Megumi had tried to ignore the cold knot forming in his stomach. He’d tried to reason with himself—maybe your phone died, maybe you got caught up talking to someone, maybe you just needed time alone. But the image of your face that morning, pale and drawn and so terribly quiet, had pushed him out the door.

He found you on a bench near the old training fields, a secluded spot dappled with light and shadow, the kind of place you used to drag him to for “cloud-watching dates” where you’d spend an hour narrating the lives of the cumulus sheep and their stratus shepherds. The memory hit him like a punch to the chest, a reminder of everything that had been missing, everything he’d somehow let slip away.

But you weren’t alone.

Yuuta Okkotsu was sitting beside you on the bench, his body angled toward you in a posture of complete, undivided attention. And you were talking. You were talking the way you used to talk to Megumi, your hands flying through the air, your face alight with an animation he hadn’t seen in weeks, your voice carrying across the grass in a bright, effervescent stream that made his heart seize in his chest.

"—And that’s why I’m convinced pigeons are actually government surveillance drones,” you were saying, your voice breathless with laughter. “I mean, think about it, Yuuta. They’re everywhere. They never migrate. They have that weird red eye thing that looks exactly like a camera lens. And have you ever seen a baby pigeon? No. You haven’t. Because they’re not born. They’re manufactured.”

Yuuta laughed—a real, genuine laugh, warm and surprised—and Megumi watched him shake his head in wonder. “That’s the most unhinged wild I’ve ever heard,” Yuuta said, but his voice was fond, almost admiring. “I love it. What else do you have? What’s your take on squirrels?”

“Oh, squirrels are just tree spies,” you said immediately, and you launched into another tangent without missing a beat, your whole body leaning toward Yuuta like he was the sun and you were a flower desperate for light.

Megumi stood frozen at the edge of the treeline, hidden in the shadows of a large oak, and watched.

He should have walked away. He should have announced himself, or texted you that he was there, or done anything other than stand there like a ghost, eavesdropping on a conversation that was never meant for his ears. But he couldn’t move. His feet were rooted to the ground, and his eyes were fixed on you, on the way you sparkled, on the way you came alive in a way you hadn’t around him in weeks.

Look at her, a voice whispered in the back of his mind, cold and insidious. Look at how happy she is. Look at how she’s glowing. You haven’t made her look like that in weeks. Maybe ever.

He tried to push the thought away, but it clung to him like a curse, sinking its claws into the softest, most vulnerable parts of his heart. He watched Yuuta lean in slightly, his dark eyes soft with genuine interest, and something bitter and acidic rose in Megumi’s throat.

Of course. Of course it’s Yuuta.

Yuuta Okkotsu, the prodigy. The special grade sorcerer who had overcome a curse born of love itself. The one everyone admired, the one everyone trusted, the one who was unfailingly kind and gentle and everything Megumi knew, deep in his bones, he could never be.

He’s perfect for her.

The thought was a knife twisting in his gut. Yuuta was everything you deserved. He was affectionate. He was emotionally available. He probably knew how to say “I love you” without choking on the words, without hoping his actions could speak loudly enough to drown out his silence. He would never snap at you after a hard week. He would never make you feel like your voice was a burden. He would listen—really listen, with his whole heart, the way he was listening now—and he would make you feel seen, cherished, adored.

And what did Megumi do? He grunted. He nodded. He made tea and hoped you understood that the steam rising from the cup meant you are my whole world. He was a coward, a man made of silences and shadows, and he’d always known, somewhere deep down, that it was only a matter of time before you realized you deserved more.

This is it, he thought, and the cold certainty of it settled over him like a shroud. She’s found someone who can give her what I can’t. Someone who can listen. She’s going to leave me.

He watched you laugh again, your hand reaching out to touch Yuuta’s arm in a gesture of easy familiarity, and something inside him cracked. You used to touch him like that. You used to look at him like that, like he was the only person in the world who mattered. And he’d thrown it away. He’d thrown it away with two stupid, careless sentences, spoken in a moment of exhausted weakness.

“Can you just be quiet?”

The memory of that night crashed over him like a wave of ice. He remembered the way your face had crumpled, the way you’d frozen, silent and terrified, before retreating to the bedroom without a word. How you’d looked at him like he was a stranger wearing a familiar face. And he’d been too tired, too wrapped up in his own misery, to follow you. He’d let you go. He’d let you think, for weeks, that your voice was a burden, that your beautiful, bright, overflowing self was something to be endured rather than cherished.

And now here you were, blooming under someone else’s attention, because he had starved you of his own.

She deserves this, he thought, and the resignation was so heavy it made his knees weak. She deserves someone who doesn’t make her feel like she has to be small. Someone who doesn’t need weeks to notice she’s dying inside. Someone like Yuuta.

Yuuta said something that made you laugh again—a full, unrestrained, head-tilted-back laugh that Megumi hadn’t heard in so long he’d almost forgotten the sound of it. The joy in it was a blade, and it cut him to the bone. He wanted to be the one making you laugh like that. He wanted to be the one you leaned toward, the one you touched, the one you trusted with your wild theories and endless curiosities. But he’d forfeited that right, hadn’t he? He’d pushed you away, and you’d found someone else to fill the space he’d left.

If you love her, you’ll let her go. The thought was noble, self-sacrificing, the kind of thought the heroes in your stories would have. But Megumi wasn’t a hero. He was a jealous, terrified, broken man who couldn’t stand the idea of losing you, even if it was exactly what he deserved.

He watched Yuuta stand up from the bench, saying something that made you smile and nod. You stood too, and for one horrible, heart-stopping moment, Megumi thought you might hug him, might press yourself against Yuuta the way you used to press against him. But you didn’t. You just waved, a cheerful, grateful wave, and Yuuta walked away, leaving you alone on the path.

Megumi should have waited. He should have let you walk home, should have given himself time to compose his thoughts, to find the right words, to be calm and rational and mature about this. But he’d spent his whole life being calm and rational and mature, and look where it had gotten him. Standing in the shadows, watching the love of his life light up for someone else because he’d been too stupid, too silent, too scared to tell her how much she meant to him.

He stepped out from behind the tree.

You saw him immediately. Your head turned at the sound of his footsteps, and the smile—the beautiful, radiant smile you’d been wearing for Yuuta—froze on your face and then slowly, painfully, died. It was like watching a door slam shut, and Megumi felt the impact in his soul.

“Megumi,” you said, and your voice was flat. Neutral. Nothing like the bright, bubbling stream he’d just been eavesdropping on. “What are you doing here?”

He opened his mouth to say something reasonable—“I was worried about you,” or “Your phone was off,” or “Let’s go home and talk about this calmly”—but what came out instead was: “So that’s it, then. You’re going to leave me for him.”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

“Yuuta.” Megumi’s voice was shaking, and he hated it. He hated the way he couldn’t control it, the way all the fear and jealousy and self-loathing he’d been swallowing for weeks was spilling out of him like poison. “I saw you. Just now. You were so happy, talking to him. You were so… you were yourself again. And you haven’t been yourself with me in weeks. So I get it, okay? I get it. He’s better than me. He’s everything I’m not. And you deserve someone like him.”

The words hung in the air between you, ugly and raw and desperate. Megumi watched your face cycle through shock, confusion, and then—slowly, devastatingly—understanding.

“You were watching us,” you said quietly.

“I came looking for you.” He couldn’t meet your eyes anymore. He stared at the ground, at the grass, at the ants marching in a neat line across the path. “You weren’t answering your phone. I was worried. And then I saw you with him, and you were talking the way you used to talk to me, and I just… I knew. I knew you’d finally realized I’m not enough.”

“Megumi—”

“Do you know what I was thinking the whole time I watched you two?” The words kept coming. His hands were shaking at his sides. His chest was so tight he could barely breathe. “I was thinking, ‘Of course. Of course it’s Yuuta.’ Yuuta is kind and gentle and he probably never forgets to tell you how much he loves you. He probably listens to every word you say and tells you you’re brilliant and doesn’t just grunt and hope you understand. He’s affectionate and he’s sweet and he’s exactly what you need, and I’m just… I’m just me. I’m dark and quiet and broken, and I’ve always known, deep down, that someday you’d wake up and realize you could do better.”

He finally looked up at you, and the expression on your face made his heart shatter into a thousand pieces. You were crying. Silent tears were streaming down your cheeks, and you were looking at him with something that wasn’t anger or confirmation—it was heartbreak. Pure, aching heartbreak.

“Oh, Megumi,” you whispered.

He couldn’t stop. Everything he’d been holding in for years was pouring out in an uncontrollable torrent. “He’s better for you. Everyone knows it. Gojo, Nobara, probably even you. Yuuta is the kind of person who deserves someone like you—someone bright and warm and full of life. I’m just the guy who told you to shut up when you were trying to help me. I’m the guy who didn’t notice you were dying inside for three whole weeks because I was too wrapped up in my own head. I’m the guy who can’t even say ‘I love you’ without feeling like I’m going to choke on it. So go ahead.” His voice cracked, and he felt the hot sting of tears in his own eyes, tears he’d been fighting for weeks, for years, for a lifetime. “If you’re going to leave me for him, just do it. I won’t stop you. I won’t fight. I just… I need to know.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Megumi stood there, trembling, his heart laid bare in the ugliest possible way, waiting for the axe to fall. He’d said it. He’d said all of it—every fear, every insecurity, every dark thought that had ever whispered in the back of his mind. And now you knew. Now you knew exactly how fucked up he was, exactly how little he thought of himself, exactly how terrified he’d been from the very beginning that you would leave.

You took a step toward him. Then another. And then you were right in front of him, your hands reaching up to cup his face, your thumbs brushing away the tears he hadn’t even realized had fallen.

“You absolute walnut,” you said, your voice thick with tears. “I’m not leaving you for Yuuta.”

Megumi blinked. “You’re… you’re not?”

“I’m not.” You tightened your grip on his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. “I’m not in love with Yuuta. I don’t want Yuuta. I want you, you emotionally constipated disaster of a man. I have always wanted you.”

“But you were so happy with him,” Megumi whispered, and the words came out small and broken. “You were laughing. You were talking. You were… you were yourself. And you haven’t been yourself with me in weeks. I thought… I thought you’d finally found someone who could make you happy.”

Your face crumpled. “I haven’t been myself with you because you told me to be quiet,” you said, and the words were gentle but they hit him even harder. “You told me to be quiet, and I thought… I thought you’d been holding that in our whole relationship. I thought every story I’d ever told you, every random fact, every ramble about clouds or sea slugs or whatever—I thought you’d just been enduring it. I thought my voice was a burden to you, the person I loved most in the world. So I tried to be less. I tried to be what I thought you wanted. And it was killing me, Megumi. It was killing me because I have all these things I want to tell you, all these thoughts and ideas and questions, and I couldn’t, because I was so terrified you’d look at me the way you did that night. Like I was exhausting. Like I was too much.”

Megumi felt the ground tilt beneath him. Everything you were saying—it was so much worse than he’d imagined. He’d thought you were pulling away because you’d outgrown him. He’d thought you were preparing to leave because you’d found someone better. But the truth was so much more devastating: you’d been trying to stay. You’d been contorting yourself into someone smaller, someone quieter, someone you thought he wanted, and it had been destroying you. And he’d been so blind, so self-absorbed, that he hadn’t even noticed.

“I talked to Yuuta today because I was desperate,” you continued, your voice breaking. “I’ve been drowning in silence for weeks, and he was there, and he listened. That’s it. That’s all it was. He was a life raft in the middle of an ocean I’ve been trying not to drown in. He’s not you. He’ll never be you. I don’t want a life raft. I want my person back. I want the man who makes me tea without being asked and lets me put face masks on him and sits through documentaries about nudibranchs even though he’s probably bored out of his mind. I want you, Megumi. Just you. But I need you to talk to me. Actually talk to me. With words. Out loud. So I don’t have to guess what’s going on in that beautiful, overthinking brain of yours.”

Megumi stared at you, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. “You want… me? Still? Even after everything?”

“Even after everything.” You smiled, a watery, trembling smile that was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “I’m still mad at you, by the way. Very mad. ‘Can you just be quiet?’ What kind of thing is that to say to the love of your life?”

“I’m sorry.” The words came out in a rush, desperate and sincere. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I was exhausted and I was taking it out on you, and that’s not an excuse, it’s just… it’s the truth. I was drowning in my own head, and you were trying to help, and I pushed you away because I’m an idiot who doesn’t know how to accept love. I should have apologized the next morning. I should have apologized every single day for the past three weeks. I should have noticed. I should have seen that you were hurting and asked you what was wrong instead of just… assuming.”

You shook your head, still holding his face in your hands. “Don’t blame yourself. I know you love me, Megumi. But sometimes I need the words too. Sometimes I need you to tell me, out loud, that I’m not too much. That my voice isn’t a burden. That you like listening to me.”

“You’re not too much.” The words came out fierce, almost angry in their intensity. “You’ve never been too much. You’re exactly enough. You’re more than enough. Your voice is—it’s the best part of my day. Every day. When you talk to me about clouds or jellyfish or the socioeconomic implications of Roman plumbing, it’s like you’re chasing all the shadows out of my head. I’m not bored. I’m never bored. I’m just… quiet. I’ve always been quiet. But that doesn’t mean I’m not listening. That doesn’t mean I don’t love every single word.”

You were crying again, but you were smiling too, and Megumi realized with a jolt that these were good tears. Relief tears. The tears of someone who had been holding their breath for weeks and was finally, finally allowed to exhale.

“I’m sorry I compared myself to Yuuta,” he said quietly. “I just… I saw you with him, and you looked so happy, and I thought… I thought maybe he could give you something I can’t.”

“He’s not you,” you said simply. “And I don’t want someone who isn’t you. Yuuta is sweet. He’s kind. He’ll probably make some other rambling disaster of a person very happy someday. But he’s not my person. You are. You’ve always been my person.” You paused, and a mischievous glint flickered in your tear-bright eyes. “Now, I have approximately four hundred more facts to tell you, and I’ve been holding them in for three weeks, and I’m pretty sure my brain is going to explode.”

Megumi let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob, and he didn’t kiss you—not yet. Instead, he pulled you into his arms and held you as tight as he could without breaking you, burying his face in your hair and breathing you in like you were oxygen and he’d been drowning for weeks.

“Tell me,” he whispered against your temple. “Tell me everything. I’m listening. I swear I’m listening.”

“Did you know that wombats have cube-shaped poop?”

He laughed, a real laugh, startled out of him by the sheer absurdity of it. “…What?”

“It’s true! It’s so they can stack it to mark their territory without it rolling away. Nature is amazing and also deeply weird, and I have so many more where that came from. Are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” he said, and he meant it. He was ready to listen. He was ready to learn. He was ready to spend the rest of his life proving to you that your voice was the most precious thing in his world, that your words were never a burden, that he would never, ever make you feel small again.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, to take in the way the setting sun caught the tears still drying on your cheeks and turned them to gold. “I love you,” he said, and the words didn’t choke him the way they usually did. They felt right. They felt necessary. “I should have said it more. I love you and I love your voice and I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to be quiet.”

Your smile, when it came, was the sun breaking through the clouds after a storm. “I love you too, you walnut.”

And then you kissed him, and he kissed you back, and the silence between you wasn’t a weapon anymore. It was a soft thing. A comfortable thing. A thing you could share together, without fear.

Later, you would walk home together, your hand in his, and you would tell him everything—the immortal jellyfish, the medieval grain storage, the flying whales, the specific shade of gray the sky turned before a storm. He would listen to every word, and he would ask questions, and he would make the right hums in the right places, and he would silently vow to spend the rest of his life being the kind of partner who deserved the gift of your voice.

But for now, there was just this: the two of you standing in the golden afternoon light, holding each other like you’d found your way home after a long and lonely journey. The sky overhead was doing that thing you loved—turning that specific shade of gray before a storm—and you’d tell him about it later. You had time. You had all the time in the world.

The first time had been almost at the end of his first year at Jujutsu Technical College and 3 weeks after he had officially asked you out. The upperclassmen usually avoided him, put off by the so called "prodigy," but he had finally been able to strike up a conversation with them after the school's athletics carnival had went well. Suguru had kicked the football a total of 3 times and scored one goal, while Satoru had hogged the ball most of their first year match and scored over 10 goals, before Yaga had dragged him off of the field by his ear. 

"Ohhh, right, I saw you get dragged off," Haruto has nodded and yawned, scratching the back of his neck, while Yoshida had hummed. "Yeah, Sawako even wanted us to check up on you, pfft," he snorted before Haruto nudged him to shut up.

"Whaaat? I'm being a good friend," Yoshida scoffed and rolled his eyes with a prideful smile, before his eyes looked over at his tall underclassman again. "Yo, Satoru, do you have a girlfriend?" he asked bluntly, ignoring his friends glares and sighs of embarrassment and awkwardness. 

He had raised a confused eyebrow, before pointing his thumb back at the classroom. He was sure he had kissed you and held your hand on the bleachers that day, did they not see? More importantly, you were literally the most gorgeous and prettiest girl in his eyes, obviously someone as hot as him was perfectly paired with another otaku baddie like you! Pshhhh, maybe they couldn't believe someone like him has been able to pull you.

"Yeah. Her." His thumb pointed back at your figure in the empty classroom.

Yoshida and Haruto had peered into the classroom, only to see… some girl they had never seen before. Plain hair, plain eyes, plain uniform, and a plain you just pressing away at your Tamagotchi. Haruto and Yoshida shared a confused look, before Yoshida clicked his fingers and gasped. "O-oh yeah, that's the girl I was telling you about the other day! You know, the one who walked away when I was trying to ask her for directions?" Haruto nodded, eyes lighting up in recognition, before confusion washed over their faces at the same time.

How does one of the most extroverted and loud boys, fall and date someone like you? Someone who talks in class maybe once a week! someone who’s flip phone is used to play snake while Gojo’s is used to actually… talk to people!

"What?" They had blurted at the white haired student, going on and on about how someone like you should’ve hated someone like gojo, and that you were clearly not meant for each other, and how they were going to tell Sawako that it'd be a waste of her time to pursue Satoru. As if Satoru wasn't right there. His eyes narrowing and upper lip curling in obvious annoyance.

As if he’d let anyone insult you.

"Hey, dumbasses. That's my girlfriend you're talking about," he scoffed at him, pushing past and going back inside the classroom to sit next to you again. 

You had looked over at him curiously, showing him the small screen of your Tamagotchi. "Look, our child is growing," with that casual smile on your face. Satoru blinked, his face straight, before he broke out into coos and awhs, pinching your cheeks and suffocating you in kisses all over your face. "Aghhhh, get off of me! You lunatic!" You had huffed, while he was happily kissing your face all over, "you're such a good mother to our baby dragon! Awhhh, what's the name you chose for him again, my beautiful princess?"

You had huffed, looking a mess before sighing and giving the toy to him. "Sylus."

That day was one of the main reasons that Satoru avoided outright disclosing your relationship, preferring to show it to people instead. 

Nanami didn't need to ask when he finally had enrolled into JJT, as Satoru made it a habit to hold your hand at every chance he got, and kiss your cute face. Haibara, unfortunately, hadn't seen enough or gotten the clue, only seeing how quiet and standoffish you were, and made the brilliant terrible statement when you all were camping in the back of the forest behind JJT for fun. Unfortunately, Haibara had spoken right in front of Satoru fucking Gojo, or Satoru L/N as he'd prefer to be called. 

The fire crackled in the cold dark night, illuminating 6 faces in the forest, as the scent of pine and wet soil drifted through the air. "Y/N and Nanami would make a good pair, wouldn't they? They're so similar!" he had smiled happily and adjusted his hold on the marshmallow he was roasting, not noticing Suguru choking on his spit, Shoko looking up at him and even pausing in chewing her gum. He especially didn't notice Satoru freezing, when he was draping his expensive jacket over your shoulders, cold icy blue eyes glaring holes at the sweet boy's face.

"Converg—" Suguru had jumped to stop and tackle gojo to the ground before he could possibly have killed Haibara. 

After calming Gojo down, mostly by you looking at Gojo as if he was embarrassing you and him whining apologies to you, Haibara had finally been made aware that Gojo and you were dating. "Ohhh, you're Y/N's boyfriend, sorry Satoru, I didn't know," Haibara had chuckled and nodded his head in an apology. 

"We're married," he lifted his hand to show a string you had tied around his ring finger a few minutes ago while fidgeting with him quietly. "We're not married," you shook your head bluntly, correcting him with a straight face.

"Engaged. We're engaged." he nodded proudly and flipped his hair back, all cool and already thinking about wanting to whip out his digital camera and force Suguru to take more shots of him for his fans. "We're 17, Satoru."

"We have a child." "I have a Tamagotchi pet… one that you get jealous of."

"We're madly in love then." He nodded again, not shy or embarrassed after being shut down by you so many times. He waited, Suguru waited, even Nanami waited, wanting to hear you correct Satoru's claim. Only after a full minute had passed, Satoru smirked, a blush on his cheeks as he shrugged, "see, she loves me. Hah," he smirked and stuck his tongue out at Nanami for a split second, knowing the blond man had been doubting him.

That's when he felt your lips press against his cheek. Very rarely did you initiate an sort of romantic gestures, let alone kisses. 

His face had turned beet red, while you were looking at him confused. Blinking blankly, and Suguru laughing loudly in the background. Yes, Satoru did love his girlfriend, more than he loved anyone or anything else, and much to peoples complaints . . .

She was a perfect match for him.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care. If anything, he cared more than anyone you’d ever known. He just showed it differently. He walked on the street side of the sidewalk without ever mentioning it. He remembered your coffee order, down to the half-sugar, and never got it wrong. When you were sick, he showed up with medicine and a bag of the specific crackers you could stomach, no fanfare, no fuss. He sat through movies he clearly didn’t enjoy because you wanted to see them, and he never complained, only glancing at you every so often to see if you were having a good time.

He was steady. That was the word for him. He was the quiet, constant presence that made everything feel more manageable. And you loved him for it. You really did.

But you also loved romance. The kind of romance that made your heart flutter in your chest, the kind that belonged in books and movies and the daydreams you indulged in when you were alone. You loved the idea of being surprised with something thoughtful just because someone had been thinking of you. A bouquet of your favorite flowers. A box of chocolates you’d mentioned wanting to try once, in passing. A handwritten note tucked somewhere you’d find it. Small things, really. Silly things, maybe. But they mattered to you in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

You’d never told Megumi any of this. It felt too vulnerable, too much like asking for something you weren’t sure he could give. What if you asked and he tried, and it was awkward and forced and you both ended up feeling worse? What if he thought it was frivolous, a waste of time and money? You’d rather have nothing than have something that made him uncomfortable.

So you kept that part of yourself tucked away. You watched your romance movies with your headphones on so he wouldn’t catch you sniffling over a love confession. You scrolled past flower shop displays without slowing down. When you saw couples on the street holding elaborate bouquets, you looked away and reminded yourself that your relationship was good, that it was solid, that you didn’t need that stuff.

And you didn’t need it. That was the thing. You wanted it, quietly and privately, but you didn’t need it. You could live without it. You’d been doing it for years.

• ───────────────── •

The first time you let something slip, it was an accident.

You were walking together through a neighborhood you didn’t visit often, on your way to a new café a coworker had recommended. It was a spring morning, sunny and cool, and you were in a good mood. Megumi walked beside you with his hands in his jacket pockets, quiet as usual, but that was comfortable. You’d learned to fill the silence when you wanted to, and to let it be when you didn’t.

You passed a small florist shop, the kind that spilled out onto the sidewalk with buckets of fresh-cut stems and greenery. The scent hit you before you even saw them—sweet and clean and a little bit heady. White lilies. Tall, elegant, their petals just beginning to open.

You made a small sound without meaning to. Something pleased.

Megumi glanced at you. “What?”

“Nothing. I just love lilies.” You gestured toward them as you walked, not breaking stride. “They smell amazing. My mom used to keep them in the house when I was a kid. I always said I’d have them everywhere when I grew up.”

He looked at the lilies, then back at you. “Why don’t you?”

“I don’t know. Seems impractical. They don’t last that long.” You shrugged. “Anyway, where’s this café supposed to be? I think we might have passed it.”

And that was it. The conversation moved on. You found the café, you ordered pastries, you argued lightly about whether the coffee was better than your usual spot. It was an ordinary morning, and you didn’t think about the lilies again.

Megumi did.

• ───────────────── •

The second time was a few weeks later, on a rainy evening after work.

You’d met up to grab dinner at a casual ramen shop, and afterward you were walking toward the station, huddled under the umbrella Megumi held. Your arm was linked through his, more for warmth than anything else, and you were in the middle of telling him about your day when you spotted it.

A chocolate shop. Not just any chocolate shop—La Maison du Chocolat, the one you’d read about in a magazine ages ago. The storefront was sleek and glowing, and through the window you could see rows of truffles in neat little lines, each one dusted or glazed or decorated like a tiny piece of art.

“Oh,” you said, pointing. “That’s the place. The really fancy one.”

Megumi followed your gaze. “Have you been?”

“No. It’s way too expensive.” You slowed down a little, just enough to get a better look at the window display. “But I’ve always been curious. They say the dark chocolate ones with the gold on top are incredible.”

He didn’t respond, but that wasn’t unusual. You kept walking, and after a moment you added, “Maybe one day. For a birthday or something.”

That was all. You didn’t stop. You didn’t stare. You just made a comment and moved on, because it wasn’t that serious. It was chocolate. It didn’t matter.

Megumi looked back once, through the rain, at the name above the door.

• ───────────────── •

The third time wasn’t about something you wanted. It was about something you felt.

You were at his apartment on a weekday evening, both of you doing your own things in the same room. Megumi was at his desk, typing something for work, and you were curled up on the couch with a book. It was a romance novel—the kind you’d normally hide or at least angle away from him—but you’d gotten too comfortable and forgotten to be self-conscious.

The scene you were reading was a love confession. The main character had written a letter. A short, simple, devastatingly earnest letter that laid out everything he’d noticed about the person he loved, all the little things he’d never said out loud. It wasn’t flowery. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just true.

You didn’t realize you were crying until a tear landed on the page.

You sniffled and wiped your face quickly, but Megumi had already turned around. He had this sixth sense for your moods, always had. He didn’t say anything, just watched you with a small furrow in his brow.

“I’m fine,” you said, before he could ask. “It’s just the book.”

“What’s happening?”

“Nothing bad. He just…” You searched for the right words. “He wrote her a letter. Telling her all the things he notices about her. The small things. And she didn’t know he was paying attention, but he was. The whole time.”

Megumi was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

He studied your face for a second longer, then turned back to his laptop. “Okay.”

You laughed a little, still blotting your eyes. “Sorry. I know it’s silly.”

“It’s not silly.”

He didn’t elaborate, and you didn’t push. You went back to your book, and he went back to his work, and the evening continued as it always did.

But Megumi had been paying attention. He was always paying attention. And what he’d noticed over the past several months was this: you never asked for anything. Not once. Not for flowers, not for chocolate, not for letters or grand gestures or any of the things you clearly loved. You consumed romance like it was a secret language, and you never, ever expected him to speak it.

He thought about that a lot.

And then he decided to do something about it.

• ───────────────── •

Today had been terrible, so terrible that it made you want to crawl into bed the second you got home. You’d had a long day—too many meetings, too many emails, too many tiny frustrations that added up into exhaustion. By the time you reached your apartment building, your shoulders were tight and your mind was foggy and all you wanted was to sit in silence for an hour.

You unlocked the door, stepped inside, and stopped.

Something smelled good. Floral. You couldn’t place it at first. Then you looked toward the kitchen and saw them.

White lilies. A whole bunch of them, arranged in a clear glass vase on the counter, their petals unfolding like they’d been waiting for you. They were beautiful. Simple and elegant and exactly the kind you’d pointed out weeks ago on a sunny Saturday morning.

Next to the vase was a box you recognized immediately. La Maison du Chocolat. Dark navy packaging, ivory ribbon. The exact one you’d looked at through a rainy window.

You didn’t move. You just stood in the doorway with your keys still in your hand, trying to process what you were seeing. Your brain felt slow, like it couldn’t catch up to your eyes.

Megumi was sitting on the couch, his laptop open on the coffee table. He glanced up when you came in, the same way he always did, like it was perfectly normal for there to be lilies and expensive chocolate on your kitchen counter on a random day.

“Hi,” he said.

You stared at him. Then at the flowers. Then back at him. “Did you…?”

He closed his laptop and stood. “You said you liked lilies. On the way to that café.” He walked over to where you were still frozen in the doorway. “And the chocolate place. You said you were curious about it.”

Your voice came out a little hoarse. “That was weeks ago.”

“Yeah.”

“I just mentioned it in passing. I didn’t think you’d—”

“I know.” He shrugged, just slightly. His ears were pink. “But you were so happy when you looked at them.”

You looked at the lilies again, then at the chocolate, and your throat tightened in a way that was both familiar and foreign. You’d felt this exact feeling a hundred times while reading books or watching movies, but never in real life. Never aimed at you.

“Megumi.” You swallowed hard. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know I didn’t have to.” He said it plainly, no self-deprecation, no false modesty. Just a fact. “I wanted to.”

You didn’t know what to say. Your mind was full of things—gratitude, surprise, something that felt dangerously close to tears—but none of it made it to your mouth.

Megumi reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was small, just a sheet torn from a notebook, the edges a little uneven. He held it out to you.

“I’m not good at this stuff,” he said. “But I wrote something.”

You took it with careful fingers. His handwriting was neat, a little cramped. The note was short.

I love you, I hope you like this. You deserve it all and more. -M

That was it. Three sentences. Not a grand declaration, not a poetic outpouring. Just a really quiet confession.

You read it three times anyway.

When you looked up, Megumi was watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite name. He looked almost uncertain, which was rare for him. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d done enough, or if he’d done it right, or if you even wanted this at all.

“Is it okay?” he asked.

You let out a breath that was half a laugh. “Is it okay? Megumi, this is more than okay.”

His shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. “Good.”

You stepped into his space and wrapped your arms around his middle and pressed your face into the fabric of his sweater. He hugged you back without hesitation, one hand resting on your back, the other coming up to cradle the back of your head.

“Thank you,” you said, muffled against his chest.

His voice rumbled above you. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know. But I want to.”

He didn’t argue. He just held you for a moment longer, and you let yourself be held, the scent of lilies filling the apartment around you.

When you finally pulled back, you were smiling.

“You really didn’t have to,” you said again. “I would’ve been fine without any of this.”

“I know you would have.” He met your eyes. “But you shouldn’t have to be.”

The words landed somewhere deep in your chest. You looked at him—at this boy who barely said those three words half the time, who hated attention, who never made a show of anything—and you understood, maybe for the first time, that he’d been paying attention all along, especially to the things you wanted but were too afraid to ask for.

“I didn’t think you were the type,” you admitted quietly. “For this kind of thing.”

“I’m not.” He said it without shame. “But I can try, if you want me to.”

You nodded, and there was something loosening in your chest, something you’d been holding onto for so long you’d forgotten it was there. “Okay.”

“Okay.” He glanced at the chocolate. “You want to try those? I’ve been waiting for you to get home for an hour.”

You laughed, real and genuine. “You could’ve started without me.”

“Didn’t want to.”

He opened the box with careful fingers and held it out to you. Inside, the chocolates were lined up in neat rows, each one glistening under the kitchen light. The dark chocolate one with the gold dust was right there in the corner, like he’d saved it for you on purpose.

You picked it up and bit into it. The chocolate was rich and smooth, not too sweet, with a faint bitter edge that lingered on your tongue. It was, without question, the best chocolate you’d ever eaten.

“This is absurd,” you said, your mouth still half-full. “It’s so good.”

Megumi watched you, and the corner of his mouth lifted—just a fraction, just enough that you noticed. “Good.”

You spent the rest of the evening on the couch, the box of chocolates between you and the lilies scenting the air. He ate a few of the chocolates, mostly the ones you handed him. You talked about your day, about his, about nothing in particular. It was just a casual day after all.

Except now there were lilies on the counter. A note in your pocket. And something quiet and steady settling in the space between you, something that felt a lot like being known.

Before bed, you put the lilies in the center of the table where you’d see them first thing in the morning. Megumi came up behind you while you were adjusting the vase, and he didn’t say anything. He just put his chin on your shoulder, a brief, light touch, and then went to brush his teeth.

You smiled at the flowers. You didn’t need the grand gestures, you never had. But it was nice to know that he saw that part of you, the secret romantic you’d kept hidden for so long, and didn’t think it was silly or too much or not worth the effort.

He’d noticed. He’d remembered. And in your eyes, that was its own kind of romance.

well, not exactly. toji zenin has his biceps flexing under the weight of crates but his eyes don’t lift to the shelf he places them on. instead his pupils flit to the automatic entrance doors, thick & glass-heavy, before he glances at his watch & back to the door again. 12:30 PM sunday. toji knows you should be here by now.

but you’re not, so toji’s lip twitches as he stares at the box of freezies in his arms and sighs. it’s pathetic, really. he’s got five more boxes of who-knows-what to arrange before the end of his shift but he can’t fucking focus. his mind’s on your short skirt & pretty laugh & the way your voice goes sweet whenever he pretends to help you look for items while holding your hand between the aisles. toji grunts, shakes his head. focus focus focus.

“toji.. can you help me reach the olive oil? the cold-pressed one with the pretty label?”

toji’s head snaps up so fast he almost drops the box of freezies.

it’s you—oh god, it’s you, and you’re looking down at him with those pretty lashes & short skirt & your hands holding a basket behind your back. you’re in those cute kitten heels you had on the first time he saw you—did you get your nails done? so pretty. you’re so pretty, you’re always so pretty, and toji’s mouth dries.

he doesn’t say anything because he can’t, because your perfume smells like honey & has his lungs sticking to his throat—but he slowly stands up anyway. you’re humming to yourself as you pad closer, getting in his way, heel clicking against the tile as he traps you in the aisle.

he reaches up to the glass bottle, and he can see your lashes fluttering up at him. your chest presses against his, and his lip ticks upward.

“you want this, princess?” he mumbles.

you playfully swat his chest, but your palm doesn’t slide off. you’re caressing his pecs now, teasing. “toji, give it to me. i have a pasta to make tonight. i’m busy.”

toji chuckles, slipping the bottle into your basket and letting his palm sneak over your waist instead. your hands are still on his pecs, lightly squeezing as you laugh when he tugs you closer. he nuzzles your jaw, murmuring, “only if i get an invite, sweetheart.”

“we’ll see,” you tease as his tongue licks your earlobe. you’re running a thumb over the silver tag on his chest: TOJI. “if you’re good, maybe i’ll let you wash the dishes.”

he kisses your neck. “m’always good for you, baby.”

you’re giggling now, shoving him away with flushed cheeks & a laugh too bright. toji catches your hands, tugging you back with a smile on his face before squeezing your hips. your lips are so glossy. is that the new gloss you bought last week? can he kiss it off?

he’ll never know, because he’s holding your hips while you tug at his collar and whisper something he doesn’t care about in his ear. his manager calls his name.

fuck.

toji gives your hips one last squeeze. “go pay, princess. i’ll bag your stuff.”

“you better.” you huff, spoiled & sweet, and toji can only watch the sway of your hips as you make your way to the register.

you’re a pretty girl with a posh life who will never know lack. toji’s a 24-year-old who’s still in college, working odd jobs with a son waiting at home.

in the third aisle of the local loblaws, toji zenin has his hands on his hips and his eyes on the ground. toji zenin will never say it out loud, but he knows he will never, ever, get the girl.

ⵌ AT THE FRATHOUSE !

“you can’t pull someone like y/n, no offense.”

toji wishes suguru wouldn’t spell it out. he already knows, for christ’s sake.

in sigma chi’s living room, toji zenin is sprawled out on the center rug while suguru and sato eat on the floor beside him. sato is between geto’s legs with his back against geto’s chest & his toe tickling toji’s jaw through his socks. suguru is tilting his shawarma for sato to bite from before taking a bite of his own.

sato’s about to dish out an insult of his own when the door swings open. in comes ryomen sukuna, standing in the doorway with bags in his hands and his limbs stretched out like some sort of clown. he bellows, “therapy fucking sucked today. i still don’t think i need therapy, by the way. watching porn and jerking off is completely normal—fuck you, suguru.”

“maybe it is,” suguru’s lips are sticky with shawarma sauce, “but having your dick out in the same room as other people is not.”

“a young man can’t be an exhibitionist? suck my dick, man.”

“oh, i’m not hungry..”

sukuna trudges over toji’s legs, then plops on the ground opposite sato and suguru. sato throws him the middle finger with a grin. sukuna throws it back. “i brought drinks. toji, why’re you on the floor? ya need therapy too?”

sato snickers. “toji’s fallen for a rich girl.”

sukuna snorts, “don’t even joke, lad.” but suguru and toji aren’t laughing. his brows scrunch. “wait—“ he turns to toji, “you’re serious?”

toji eyes him. “mind your own business.”

sukuna doesn’t believe in complex schools of thought like ‘minding your business.’ so instead of picking a shawarma for himself and eating in silence, he joins sato and nudges his foot against toji’s cheek. “does she know you’re poor?”

“hey, hey,” geto bites his cheek, “not too much on him.”

but sukuna continues. “what about the kid? does she know you have a son?”

toji’s jaw only tightens.

sukuna looks at toji in disbelief. then at sato, then suguru—then shakes his head, laughing. “jesus christ of jollof rice,” he cracks open a beer, “you’re fucking cooked, bro.”

toji drags his hands over his face. his eyes are hot, for some reason.

suguru sighs, resting his chin on sato’s head as sato munches happily underneath him. “i hate to suggest this, but there’s a way you can get her to give you a chance.”

sukuna and toji both perk up.

“if she doesn’t know about meg—or your, uh, economics,” suguru clears his throat, “then you keep it that way. she thinks you’re some hot older uni student who works at loblaws for beer money. lean into it.”

sato frowns. “this sounds like something i’d suggest. so not good, i think.”

suguru pokes his cheek, making sato’s pout grow deeper. “i’m just spit-balling here. it’s obvious you really like her, toji. and megumi needs a mommy.”

“i don’t like her because i want her to play housewife.”

“we know,” suguru’s smile is affectionate. “that’s why we’ll help you.”

sukuna grunts in agreement. “sounds scummy but it makes sense. if she finds out you’re a baby daddy with no money, she’ll just run back to her range rover.” he takes another swig of his beer. “we’ll help you hide your true identity. you just get her hooked enough that when she eventually does find out, she won’t leave.”

sato nods. “we’ll babysit. lend you money. heck—you can drive my porsche to your dates.”

on the floor, toji zenin is staring towards the ceiling. it’s a stupid plan, his frat brothers are even stupider, and there is no way in hell whoever is up there will actually let things work out in his favor.

but toji’s desperate. he has been for a long time. so before he can let himself think about it, his lips part to respond.

“alright,” he grunts. “let’s fucking do it.”

SIGMA CHI’S REMARK : DON’T WORRY BRO, WE GOTCHU !

BROKE BOY TACTICS #2: WHO’S YOUR DADDY ?

taught by: sato, sukuna, suguru

“babysitting a five year old brat. how hard could that be?”

ΣΧ

megumi zenin is tufts of black hair, sleepy blue eyes & a tiny fist in a jar full of gummy worms. he’s slumped against his dad’s thick leg, shoving fistfuls of gummies in his mouth with candy-smeared cheeks & a bored expression on his face.

sato, sukuna and suguru are side-by-side on a straight line.

hands tucked behind their backs & chests puffed out like soldiers. toji clears his throat. “listen up. i’m going to be gone for exactly two hours. if i come back and the kid has a single scratch on him, i’m throwing all of you into a pond.“

suguru shakes his head, stepping forward to crouch down to megumi’s height. he wipes megumi’s cheeks with a smile. “don't worry, toji. we've got him. right, little man?”

“hi, uncle sugu,” megumi’s voice is flat but he leans into geto’s palm on his cheek. “are we going to draw today?”

“of course, kiddo. i bought some new crayons just for you.”

toji scoops his son up in his arms, ignoring the way his tiny body writhes towards the gummy worms abandoned on the floor. suguru lifts the jar back to megumi with a smile. sukuna, however, is frowning. “why is his face like that.”

“sukuna, do not fight my kid.”

megumi points towards him. “my daddy calls you a pervert.”

sato bursts out in laughter. suguru’s snickering too, though he’s doing a better job of hiding it. toji drops his son to the ground and crouches to his height. megumi offers him a soggy, wet gummy worm. toji eats it off his palm & pokes his belly.

he rises to his feet. “suguru is in charge. rest of you, keep your hands off him. i’m leaving.”

megumi waves a sticky hand. “bye, daddy. bring me a cookie.”

“will do, brat.” and the door shuts with a thud.

——

“we should go to wonderland. you like amusement parks, ‘gumi?”

megumi zenin has a crayon in his hands, scribbling furiously with a focused expression on his face. he’s seated in geto’s lap, occasionally having suguru hand him a crayon as he perfects his artistic masterpiece. to his right, sato gojo is leaning over the table and talking a mile-a-minute.

megumi answers, scribbling a drawing of what looks like him and his father—DADDY AND ME. “i’ve never been to an amusement park.”

“what?” sato slams his palm on the table, distraught. “what kind of kid has never been to an amusement park?!”

“my father is poor.”

“oh,” sato shrinks. “fairs.”

suguru lets out a fond huff, burying his nose in megumi’s hair to hide the fact that he’s shaking from laughter. sato looks crushed by guilt. “i can’t take this anymore, suguru.” he clutches his chest. “we’re going to the apple store and getting him an ipad pro right now.”

suguru raises a brow. “toji said no screens. and either way, i won’t let you turn him into an ipad kid.”

megumi slumps against geto’s chest. “i want a blue gatorade.”

“i’ll get it for you, buddy,” suguru smiles before kissing his cheek, easing him off his lap. “don’t let sato teach you about investment and stocks while i’m gone, okay?”

sato has his chin on the table, defeated. and just as suguru’s back turns into the kitchen, sukuna saunters in, steps heavy, palm curled around a blue bottle of—is that the last gatorade?!

sukuna cracks the plastic seal, taking a slow, heavy swig of the drink while staring right at the five year old. megumi’s tiny brows furrow. “that’s mine. uncle sugu said i could have it.”

“well,” sukuna licks his lips, slow. “uncle sugu’s not the king of this house.” he takes another gulp, throwing his head back with a refreshed ahhhhhh. megumi frowns, lips tight.

and then he screams.

“uncle sugu! mister pervert’s being mean again!”

sukuna chokes on his gatorade. “who the hell are you calling mister pervert, you little brat—“

sato jumps over the table to hold back sukuna before he can strangle the five-year-old. suguru runs out of the kitchen in alarm, quickly scrambling to hold back sukuna’s wrath alongside sato.

megumi only blinks at the display. three grown men bickering and shoving over gatorade. hell, he’s not so sure he even wants it anymore.

he sighs, reaching across the table to pick up sato’s iphone. he dials his dad’s number, palm smushed into his cheek as he watches suguru smack sukuna for his bad behavior.

ⵌ AT THE DATE !

in the local coffee shop, your lashes are fluttering & the sunlight kisses your skin as you stare out the window.

toji zenin has his heart in his throat. his hands are in his pockets but his ribs are cracked against his chest, and the sight of you pouting out the window has his mouth drying with want. he strolls over regardless, posture lazy, steps cool, because toji zenin is a man who can only have pride when he pretends.

“hi, princess,” he slides into the booth seat—next to you, not across, because he’s been thinking about the feel of your waist in his hands since last thursday—and his ankle hooks around yours on autopilot.

“hi,” you smile, leaning into his side as he kisses your hair. toji takes your palm in his. your fingers are so dainty. fuck.

“you look nice today,” you hum. “who are you trying to impress?”

your lashes are batting up at him, but toji manages to keep his cool. his smirk is lazy & gorgeous. “you, obviously.”

toji wonders how you can let him touch you so casually. even now he’s nibbling your ear as you talk about something from class—a lazy professor or something else, it’s hard to listen when your thumb brushes his jaw while you speak—and toji’s mind wanders. he’s kissing your neck now, thumbs rubbing circles on your thighs as your breath hitches between words, and toji wonders why you haven’t yet flinched in disgust.

he doesn’t dwell on it too long, though. he knows the topic will only get him down.

so he kisses your neck as you laugh and swat him away, telling him he’s distracting you from your story. you never push him off, though, and your thigh’s on his lap now.

but all good things must come to an end.

toji’s phone buzzes.

loud & obnoxious. SATO, his screen reads. he quickly swipes it away. “sorry…just spam.”

“spam?” you poke his bicep, grinning. “or is your little side piece getting impatient?”

“don’t have a side piece, baby,” he murmurs into your cheek. “only want you.”

1 NEW FACETIME AUDIO CALL : SATO 🤡

his phone has been buzzing for ages now. you sigh, crossing your arms & clearly annoyed. “toji, just answer it. what if it’s an emergency?”

you’re right, he should answer it, because if anything happened to megumi, he’d fucking flip. he bites his lip, “one second, princess.”

he presses his phone to his ear, but megumi’s voice greets him instead.

“daddy! uncle kuna’s trying to kill me because of blue gatorade!”

toji’s eyes widen. from the corner of his eye, he can see you inching closer, brows furrowed in concentration as you try to listen in.

in the background of the call he can hear sato shrieking. “suguru—! use the spatula! use the spatula! sukuna stop—“

you’re blinking at him, inching closer to his bicep on the table. “daddy? who’s calling you daddy?”

toji’s soul leaves his body.

“daddy, are you coming home soon? uncle sugu’s spanking him now. it’s very loud—“

he ends the call before you can hear any more.

“do you have a son?”

toji’s breathing stutters. you’ve inched away from him now, lips bent in a frown, brows furrowed, expression curious—or cautious, toji can’t really tell. and it pains him to lie to you, but what else can he say when you’ve already shifted your thigh off his lap?

“nah,” he answers too fast. “it’s my nephew.”

toji reaches out to thumb your cheek, but you don’t relax into his palm. “think he meant to call my brother, not me.”

he tugs your bottom lip as you speak. “i didn’t know you had a brother…”

“there’s a lot you don’t know about me, princess,” he leans in to kiss the corner of your lips, because he knows he doesn’t deserve any more than that. your pout deepens.

“we can change that though,” he lies, smiling. “wanna get dessert?”

SATO’S REMARK : NICE SAVE, TOJI ! AND MY BAD—HAHA !

BROKE BOY TACTICS #3: BLEACH !

taught by: geto suguru, toru gojo

“inviting her over already? we’ve gotta scrub this place clean, then.“

ΣΧ

toji zenin has one hour to make it seem like megumi doesn’t exist.

geto suguru is scrubbing the bathrooms. toru gojo has somehow been roped into this predicament and is scrubbing away in the kitchen. in the living room, toji zenin is picking up cheerios from the rug, phone in his ear with sukuna on the line.

“hi daddy,”megumi’s voice is flat through the speaker. “uncle kuna’s being nice to me today.”

“that’s great, kiddo. can you put him back on the phone?”

“yo,” sukuna’s voice crackles through.

“if anything happens to my son, i will spread your ass cheeks and sprinkle paprika in the hole.”

“oh.”

“yeah,” toji shifts the phone in his neck. “make sure he has a good time at that amusement park. and don’t let sato spoil him too much.”

“heyyy toji!” sato’s voice crackles through the speaker. toji sighs before grunting back a hello. “keep megumi safe, got it?”

“yes, sir!” / “we got it, boss.” / “bye, daddy!”

toji says his goodbyes. just as he clicks the end button, toru gojo pads into the living room, glasses tilting off his face & slipping rubber gloves off his hands. “all done in the kitchen. remind me why we’re deceiving this poor lady again?”

toji picks up a gummy worm tucked under the rug and cringes. “because she wouldn’t look twice at a broke guy with a kid.”

toru softens, adjusting his glasses. “you don’t know that. have you tried telling her?”

“no.”

“why not?”

"because,” he picks up another gummy worm hidden under the couch, glaring at it before throwing it away. "because every time someone finds out about megumi, they look at me different. like i'm a burden. like he's a burden."

toru purses his lip. he’s watching as toji ducks under the couch, picking out stray bits of cereal and snacks and other things that make toji’s nose scrunch up in disgust.

toru shakes his head, taking off his glasses to set them on the counter. “but you don’t know if she’s like that.”

“i know i can’t lose her before i even have her.”

toru purses his lip. toji’s voice came out too tight.

ⵌ SHOW TIME !

when toji opens his front door, you’re in a too-short dress and there’s moët & chandon in your hands.

god, you’re gorgeous. and toji really needs to stop thinking that. needs to stop saying it in his head before he slips up and says it out loud with a tone he can’t take back.

“hi,” you tilt your head, batting your lashes in that way that makes him stupid. “you gonna keep standing there? or are you gonna take this bottle off my hands?”

ah, right. toji reaches for the bottle but you pull it back. he raises a brow.

“say ‘please pretty girl, may i have the wine?’”

you’re still peering up at him, hugging the bottle of wine to your chest, teasing smile on your glossy lips. toji leans against the doorframe. arms crossed, dark eyes raking over your hips, plush thighs, pretty waist. fuck.

his lips twitch, “i’m not saying that.”

“aww,” you pout, glossy and spoiled. “guess i have to turn back home and drink this expensive wine all by myself.” you turn, and toji bites his cheek because your dress has ridden up to give him the perfect view of your ass. so soft. he can’t wait to squeeze it.

“i’m gonna be so lonely…” your back is still turned to him, voice wistful. “and i came all the way over here, too. i’m so upset.”

toji doesn’t let you take another step.

you squeal as he scoops you up with a grunt, arms snaking over your waist & under your thighs to lift you bridal style. you squeeze the bottle of wine in your arms, eyes shut tight as you giggle while he kicks the door shut. “toji! put me down!”

careful what you wish for.

toji drops you to his couch with a thud. you land with a breathless laugh, dress bunched up to your hips & he can see the print of your panties. your hair is fanned out, and the bottle of wine is pressed to your stomach. you’re giggling, eyes bright, and god. you look so fucking gorgeous all laid out for him. toji’s jaw ticks.

he climbs over you, pressing his warm body down until the wine digs into your stomach. his eyes are dark. hungry.

“please, pretty girl,” he murmurs, breath hot, lips teasing your neck. “may i have the wine?”

oh.

your breath hitches. you stare up at him, cheeks hot, eyes wide, thighs squeezing together in anticipation. but you’re a bad girl, so you don’t give toji zenin what he wants just yet.

your smile falters, but you tilt your head. “thought you weren’t gonna say it?”

he grins, pressing a hot kiss underneath your ear. “and i thought you were leavin’.”

you let out a shaky gasp as toji licks a hot stripe up your neck. he’s filthy—big hands gripping your hips to keep you pinned to the couch, squeezing you hard each time you moan and buck yourself into him. his breath is hot against your neck, sucking and kissing and teasing, the occasional nip when you whimper just the way he likes.

his weight presses the wine harder into your stomach. you gasp, “toji, the wine—“

“hold it, baby.”

your eyes squeeze shut as his kisses trail further down your neck, tummy fluttering as heat pools between your thighs. his thumb on your hip sinks under the silk of your panties, and you whine his name before he shushes you with a sweet kiss to your cheek.

toji doesn’t kiss you on the lips. the lips are too honest, and toji is not.

you’re still clutching the bottle, chest heaving as toji presses your hips deeper, deeper—

“ow!”

toji freezes.

in truth, toji zenin has never been a gentle man. his body is too big and his hands are too rough, and life itself has never treated him gently, nor given him much reason to be gentle towards others. but as toji hovers over you, limbs frozen in alarm, his stomach can’t help but twist with disgust. said body and rough hands have crushed something soft yet again.

“did i hurt you?” his voice comes out weird. “doll—look at me. you okay?”

“i’m fine,” you wince, cheeks flushed as you try to steady your breathing. you twist your leg slightly, sliding your fingers down into the sofa cushion where something sharp poked at you. “something... something poked my leg.”

you pull out a tiny, red brick.

you blink. “a lego?”

for the second time this evening, toji freezes.

he takes it from your hand, flicking it away. he lifts your arms to wrap them around his neck, and lowers himself back to your chest. “that what you stopped me for, princess?” he mutters coolly, like his heart isn’t beating in his throat. “had me so worried, baby.”

“toji, why do you have a lego?”

he kisses your jaw, “my nephew’s.”

ah, that makes sense. you hug his neck tighter, giggling as he slips the wine off your belly & onto the floor. he presses yet another kiss to your neck, warm & sweet, and you let your chin rest on his shoulder as he loves you with gentler hands.

but then you see it.

on the metal door of the kitchen fridge, past a jar of gummy worms and a poorly placed broom, a banana-shaped magnet is there.

and right under it, a scribbled drawing. the messy figure of a man with spiky hair, and a smaller, more spiky-haired boy.

DADDY AND ME.

your body goes still.

toji’s hands are on your hips, thighs, waist—but his touch suddenly itches. the warmth has gone cold.

“toji,” you whisper. “who drew that?”

toji doesn't move. his eyes slowly follow your gaze to the fridge, and the panic in his eyes is unmistakable. the lie slips out of his mouth before his brain can even catch up to it.

“sociology project,” he breathes. “developmental regression. drew it with my left hand.”

“your left hand…”

your voice trails off as toji sinks his lips back to your neck.

toji zenin does not study sociology.

TORU’S REMARK : YOU CAN’T FOOL HER FOREVER.

BROKE BOY TACTICS #4: LEAN INTO THE LARP !

taught by: sato gojo

“you can’t pull up to a date in an uber. take my porsche—you’re a rich guy now.”

ΣΧ

it’s late, and three floors down, toji zenin has his hands on his hips, staring at sato’s sleek black porsche in disbelief while his tie itches at his neck. three floors up, in toji’s crappy apartment, the gang’s all there.

megumi has a blanket pulled up to his chin, seated on the couch next to suguru. sukuna is lounging on the floor with his back against said couch. sato is flipping through TV stations. the light in the room is dim, and sato snickers at something sukuna says before tossing him the remote.

“why does everyone always leave me?”

the trio freeze.

megumi’s expression is flat. he’s staring into the tv’s glow, but his eyes are soulless and empty. suguru hesitates—but then he rests a hand on megumi’s hair. “what do you mean, kiddo?”

“daddy’s always leaving now,” megumi closes his eyes, rigid against the couch cushions. “he never spends time with me anymore. he’s acting like my mommy did.”

the three boys’ hearts crack right down the middle.

they’re staring at each other now, the weight of megumi’s words on their shoulders. how do they tell a little boy that the reason his father has been less present—and is also not present tonight—is because he’s currently trying to hide his child’s existence to impress a woman? and that they’re all helping him?

sato speaks first. too quick, too fast.

“he’s just been busy,” he croaks out. “he’s been picking up new shifts. he’s working really hard.”

“yeah,” sukuna agrees. “he’s working hard. to take care of you, meg.”

megumi stares into the tv screen. geto’s hand is still heavy on his head, and his body is limp and his eyes are heavy.

“i know.” megumi mutters. “he’s my hero.”

suguru bites his lip. “you know what, meg? why don’t we draw something? a new picture for your dad?”

megumi’s eyes flit to the kitchen fridge. DADDY AND ME. the picture is still there, but the paper is crinkled and damp now. as if someone threw it away with heavy eyes, then somehow thought better of it.

megumi nods, “yeah.”

“okay, buddy. i’ll go get the crayons.”

“i’ll get the paper!”

“and i’ll… uh. you want a gatorade, kid?”

the three adults go after the various items. megumi takes one last look at his drawing on the fridge, and then he slips off the couch and pads away.

ⵌ SHOW TIME !

toji zenin is a man who can only have pride when he pretends.

so today, he pretends the sleek black porsche parked outside your house is his. he pretends he’s not wearing sato’s luxury cologne, that his tie isn’t secondhand, that the cuff of his suit isn’t too tight on his wrist and that the guilt in his mouth doesn’t taste like his blood.

he’s gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles turn white.

when you open the car door, you look like a dream.

your lips are glossy, always glossy, but it’s a different shade of shimmer tonight. your hair is loose all over your shoulders, heels clicky, dress black and matching the shade of sato’s car. toji stares, jaw slack as you slide into the passenger’s seat. the words in his throat have turned into bile.

“Hi.” you blink at him.

“Hi.”

he can’t say much else, and he really ought to but he can’t, so instead he only watches as you huff and click your seatbelt in place. toji licks his lips, turns back to the wheel. says a quick prayer to a god he doesn’t believe in. “you look gorgeous.”

you don’t respond.

the car starts with an expensive growl. it makes toji wince, and he hopes you don’t notice. he’s practiced starting the car three times so he can pretend he’s used to it. he isn’t, and he’ll never be.

he pulls onto the streets, eyes frantically scanning the road as his pulse drums in his teeth.

“toji?” you say, eyes trained ahead of you, voice flat.

“yeah, baby?”

“where are we going?”

toji’s fingers drum on the steering wheel. he turns right at the fork. “somewhere nice,” his voice is strained. “somewhere you deserve to be.”

he lets his right hand shift to the center console, trying to bridge the gap. his hand is sweating, maybe. you glance at it. glance away.

you peer out the window, head against the edge, watching the lights blur through the glass. “i feel like i’m sitting in a museum,” you murmur, quiet. “everything feels curated. including you.”

he swallows. “i’m trying to make tonight special.”

“special…” you trail off, lashes fluttering as you stare out the window.

“i don’t know who you are, zenin.”

toji’s head aches. and so does his chest, violent and sharp and stabbing. he’s a liar, a con artist, a selfish man with rough hands and a son waiting at home. oh—megumi. his phone’s been buzzing in his pocket for a while now. how’s megumi?

“i’m just a guy,” he chooses to say. “a guy who likes you.”

“do you? or is that just part of the exhibit?”

maybe there really is a god watching, because before toji can respond something makes a sound.

he’s not sure what, honestly, but he’s quick to capitalize on it. he needs the air. toji turns into an empty street to park. he unbuckles his seat belt, leans over a bit. “stay in the car, okay?”

you only nod, and toji’s throat curls with guilt.

the night air is cool on his skin. he opens the car bonnet—careful, as careful as a man like him can be—pretending to scan the engines for a possible source of the noise. he doesn’t find anything wrong, and he knew he wouldn’t, but he holds up the bonnet and pretends to check anyways.

three minutes pass before he returns to the car.

three minutes of toji zenin teaching himself how to breathe. the same way he does when megumi shuts down even though he thinks the steps are corny. having a kid really changes you, doesn’t it?

megumi. he looks at his watch, 9PM. his boy should be in bed by now.

the buzzing from his phone has stopped. he should check it now, but you’re still waiting. still beautiful. still hurt.

so toji slams the hood shut. sucks in a breath and slides back into the driver’s seat. you’re staring at him as he buckles his seatbelt.

“toji,” your voice is careful. “do you have anything you want to tell me?”

yes. i work three jobs and i’m drowning in student loans. i got a girl pregnant when i was eighteen, and she left me when i turned twenty-one. i have a boy who’s five-and-a-half and he’s the only good thing i have left. and i’m sorry i lied, but i didn’t want you to leave me before i could love you and i’m sorry, and i’m sorry again, and you deserve better, and i’m sorry.

“no,” toji lies.

you purse your lips. “okay.”

the engine roars back to life. and toji is sweating, and the date feels over before it’s even started, and his pulse is too loud and—

“daddy?”

toji’s blood runs cold.

in the backseat of sato’s porsche, megumi zenin is there, body tucked under a blanket and rubbing his eyes. he slips off the seat and stumbles towards the console, still rubbing at his face. “hi, daddy.”

toji zenin can only stay frozen as megumi wraps his smaller arms around his neck.

he tries to speak, fingers twitching as they hover over his son’s back. “megumi—hey, buddy—what’re you doing here?”

megumi buries his nose into his father’s neck. “i didn’t want to be alone again.”

toji bites his lip. he can feel your eyes boring into him, and he nervously scrambles. “hey—you’re never alone, buddy. where are your uncles? come here.”

he lifts megumi into his lap, avoiding your gaze.

“is this your son?”

toji’s mouth dries.

he could say it’s his nephew, make up some lie about him referring to both him and his ‘brother’ as dad, but god. you’re already looking at him with something he doesn’t have the vocabulary to name, and toji’s jaw aches.

“yes,” he sucks in a breath. “this is my son, megumi.”

he brushes megumi’s hair back, taking his little fist away from his face so he stops rubbing at his eyes. “meg, say hi to the pretty lady.”

“hi, pretty lady.”

megumi waves a small hand, then collapses against his father’s stomach.

you force a smile and flick your eyes back up to toji.

“i think you should take me home.”

???’s REMARK : YOU CAN’T LARP YOUR WAY INTO BEING LOVED !

BROKE BOY TACTICS #5: EMBRACE YOUR ECONOMICS !

taught by: nanami kento, megumi zenin.

“maybe she doesn’t hate you. maybe she hates that you thought so little of her you felt the need to live a lie.”

ΣΧ

it’s a new day, and toji zenin is laden with old burdens.

he’s slumped against his bedroom wall, phone pressed to his ear with megumi on his stretched out legs. megumi has a red & green colored hand in another jar full of gummy worms. toji makes a mental note to hide it better next time.

“you didn’t just lose the date,” nanami’s voice cuts through the speaker, flat and professional as always. “you insulted her intelligence. made her out to be a shallow woman who’d only care about you if you had money in your bank account.”

toji stares at the ceiling. then at megumi, who’s about to eat a gummy worm off the floor. he flicks it away. “she looked at me like i was trash, nanami.”

“she looked at you like you were a liar,” nanami corrects. “which you are.”

nanami sighs, breath sending a crackle through the speaker. all he wanted to do was spend his afternoon reading his new favorite BL, doukyuusei, but once again the shenanigans of his friends have interrupted his peace.

“toji, you’re a smart man. and she sounds like a smart woman. i doubt she’d lose interest because you have a son—i believe she hates that you lied to her.”

megumi takes a worm and makes it crawl through toji’s lips. it’s cold, but toji chews and swallows anyways. “i need to apologize.”

“yes,” toji can hear a page flip. “and quickly. i have to attend to other matters now, but say hi to megumi for me.”

the line goes dead, and toji drops his hand to the floor.

megumi chews a gummy worm. then he takes it out of his mouth, frowns at it, then eats it again. “daddy, are you mad at me?”

toji frowns. “for what?”

“i ruined your date,” megumi looks into the jar of worms, frowning, then back at his dad. “with auntie.”

toji looks at his son. at his candy smeared cheeks, sticky hands, black spikes of hair and sugar in his teeth. megumi looks just like him. he’s always known it, but he’s growing to look more and more like his father every day.

“you didn’t ruin anything,” he murmurs, pulling his son into his chest. “you’ve never ruined anything in your life.”

he pats megumi’s hair, head thrown back. “i’m sorry, meg.”

five-year-old megumi zenin has already lost interest. he’s more focused on getting the red and blue gummy in the sea of yellow-green ones, small hand grabbing fistfuls of worms before dropping them back. he doesn’t know his father is sorry, sorry for everything, for trying to erase his existence to impress a woman and for bringing him into this world knowing he will never be able to give him the future he deserves.

megumi retrieves the red and blue gummy worm. his favorite flavor. he blinks at it once, twice.

then he turns to his dad. lifts the gummy worm on his palm to his face.

toji zenin eats it right off.

ⵌ SHOW TIME !

megumi zenin is in his best clothes: baby blue button-up from suguru. a white top with a red race car that sukuna had got him for his birthday. light up skechers from uncle sato. toji had tried to get him to wear normal shoes, but megumi shut that down quickly. he wanted to be seen.

you no longer frequent the local loblaws.

and it breaks toji’s heart, actually. you haven’t blocked him just yet, thank god, so toji thinks you might not yet hate him completely. that he might still have a chance.

call him a weirdo, but he’s been to almost every grocery store nearby.

no frills, sobeys, you name it. and now, at 12:30PM sunday, toji zenin is in his car with his son, watching you load groceries into the backseat with a pout on your lips. like you’re above this. like you need a big, strong man to offer his help. and toji’s chest aches. because he could be that man, you know. if you’d let him.

toji slips out of the car. megumi hops out too.

he stops just a few feet behind you, watching you mutter curses as you haul a carton of juice. toji’s lip twitches. then he pulls megumi along.

“let me help.”

you blink as toji comes out of seemingly nowhere to save the day. he lifts everything out of your cart and into your car, never breaking a sweat. truthfully, your groceries aren’t even that heavy. he’s not sure why you were struggling, but he thinks it’s so fucking cute.

he lets you click your remote to close the boot shut. then he turns to you: “i owe you an apology.”

you tilt your head. “do you?”

he squeezes megumi’s hand in his own to ground himself. “i lied because i was scared,” he admits, and you never thought you’d hear toji and ‘scared’ in the same sentence. “you’re a pretty girl from a nice family who spends my rent money on groceries,” he breathes. “and i want you, bad. and i thought if you saw me—the me who lived paycheck to paycheck and has nothing except this little brat,” he raises megumi’s hand, “you’d leave before i even got a chance.”

he shifts his hand to megumi’s head. “it’s fucking stupid, i know. but this is my son,” he ruffles megumi’s hair. “say hi, kid.”

“hi, auntie.”

your gaze shifts away from toji, and drops to the little boy beside him. megumi is apple cheeks, dark, messy hair and nervous feet shifting on the pavement. he looks like his dad, and the sight makes your heart melt.

“hi, baby boy.” you crouch down to his height. “i love your shirt. do you wanna come here?”

megumi nods. he abandons his father’s side to let you scoop him up in your arms.

toji frowns.

megumi’s a shy kid. or not shy—awkward. he can’t make eye contact with kids his age, his tone is too flat, and his eyes are always bored. he doesn’t like to be touched by people he isn’t familiar with, and he’s very quick to say no to what he doesn’t like or want. so toji can only watch, brows knit in confusion, as megumi’s fist curls over your necklace and he lets you press a kiss to his cheek.

“hi, auntie,” megumi collapses into your shoulder, fist still gripping your necklace. “i did a very good job.”

“so good, baby,” you kiss his hair, grinning. “i’m gonna buy you all the gummies in the world.”

megumi blushes from the affection. he shifts his head over your shoulder so all you can see is his pink chubby cheek.

“what the hell is happening?”

“daddy’s a big dummy,” megumi mutters into your shoulder. “the biggest,” you agree.

toji’s frown deepens, and you laugh. “i’ve already met megumi, silly.”

toji blinks. he’s about to ask how, but you beat him to it: “remember when you got out of the car? megumi woke up in the backseat,” you kiss his ear softly, and megumi’s blush deepens. “we had a long chat about you, toji. and i asked him to pretend we’ve never met, and go back to sleep in the car.”

you watch megumi, fond. his fingers curling deeper into your necklace, his eyes shy and staring behind you. “i can’t believe you’ve been keeping this little angel from me. you’re a monster, toji.”

“dummy monster…” megumi mutters. you kiss his cheek again and he hides.

toji thinks about it. to megumi referring to you as auntie back in the apartment. fuck. he didn’t think too much of it, but perhaps he should’ve.

“so? you two were testing me, or some shit?”

you shift a hand from megumi’s back to your hip. “no attitude, mister. i’m still mad at you,” your frown, and then your shoulders drop. “did you really think you had to fake having money to impress me? picking me up in a porsche when i’ve already seen your crappy apartment?”

you stroke megumi’s hair. “and lying about meg,” your expression goes soft, sad. “have you apologized to him?”

“yeah,” megumi tugs your necklace. “he told me sorry.”

you smile at him, then kiss his little fist. “that’s great, baby. you deserve an apology. and i’m sorry as well, for taking away your time with your father.”

megumi pats your face, voice flat. “i forgive you.”

you giggle, pinching his cheek, and toji can only stare in disbelief.

megumi’s cheeks are pink from your kisses, little fingers curled tight around your necklace while you sway him absentmindedly against your chest. his light-up skechers blink every time his feet kick against your thighs. you’re smiling at him like he’s heaven as a boy, and megumi—quiet, awkward, megumi—is hiding his face in your shoulder because he’s shy.

how greedy.

how greedy of toji zenin to pick out cheerios from between couch cushions like trying to erase evidence of a crime scene. how greedy of him to scrub crayon off his walls, peel gummies off his floors and hide away his son with other people he can’t truly call family. how greedy of him to rip his son’s drawing off the fridge, only to put it back again later because he can’t even be greedy right.

how greedy of toji zenin to hide the only good thing in his life away; all because he wanted yet another good thing: you.

he wanted your pretty laugh in his apartment. wanted your heels by the front door, wanted your perfume in his sheets and your voice mixed with megumi’s cartoons on saturday mornings. toji zenin wanted everything.

now his everything was shoving his chubby hand in the face of his other everything to keep from getting attacked by kisses. but he was smiling. megumi zenin was smiling, and blushing, and laughing—and toji thinks about how he hasn’t seen megumi this childish in a while.

his heart aches.

“i’m sorry.”

sorry for what? he knows what he’s sorry for, but the words have failed him again, so he can only watch. watch as you tilt your head the way you always do, before megumi glances at you and tilts his head back at him the same way. oh god.

“‘gumi, do we forgive daddy?”

“yeah,” megumi’s feet kick. his shoes light up, red and blue. “if he stops hiding my gummies.”

toji won’t hide his gummies anymore. hell, he’ll never hide anything again in his life.

and maybe megumi senses the guilt on his father’s shoulders, because he squirms his tiny body for you to set him down and dashes so hard into his father’s legs that he knocks his forehead against his knee. “ow…”

toji snorts, crouching. “what are you doing, kid.” but he’s scooping megumi into his arms anyways. you pad closer, grin cheeky, and poke megumi on his side.

“how about we go shop for some gummy worms?”

BONUS — Y/N AND MEG’S FIRST MEET !

“who are you?”

the voice makes you jolt. you’re staring at your hands in the passenger’s seat of toji’s rented—no, probably borrowed—porsche, blinking away tears in your eyes when a tiny voice speaks behind you.

you whip your head around so fast your neck aches.

and standing there is a little boy, tiny, maybe four or five, rubbing away sleep from his eyes. his hair comes in tufts of black, and his eyes are blue, and oh my god he looks just like his father.

toji.

megumi is rubbing his eyes harder now. your heart melts.

“hi, baby,” you coo, patting away your own tears on your lashes. “i’m friends with your daddy. what’s your name?”

“i’m megumi,” he sniffles, yawns. “my friends call me meg. but i don’t have any friends.”

oh. “hi, meg. what’re you doing here? did your dad leave you home alone?”

you hope he says no, because you know toji’s been hiding something—someone from you, but he wouldn’t go that far. at least, you hope he wouldn’t.

“no, my uncles are at home,” he says sleepily. and you hover your hands over his face in silent permission. he blinks at your hands, sniffles again, before nodding to let you brush his hair back from his face. “i wanted to see daddy. he left for work.”

work? no he didn’t. toji zenin is outside, lifting the bonnet of a car he knows is too good to call his. “did he tell you he was going to work, meg?”

“no, but i know he is. he works for us. he wears the tie and he goes away.”

“oh, baby…”

toji zenin is a liar. a liar with a handsome face, and warm touch, and words that make your head dizzy. and you should be mad, really. you are, but the sight of this little boy with a face like his father’s only makes your heart ache.

you want to ask questions: who are your uncles? where were you when i came over? is your mother still in the picture?

but megumi zenin is blinking sleepily as you caress his cheek, leaning into your touch with a sigh.

“megumi, do you wanna make a deal?”

“what kind of deal?” megumi tries to rub his eyes, but you ease his fist away.

“a super simple one. your daddy’s been acting really strange, right? to you and me,” you pat his cheek. “all you have to do is act like we’ve never met, and i’ll give you anything you want.”

megumi thinks very hard. then he asks, “are you the lady daddy wants to impress?”

you blink. “what do you mean?”

“i heard him on the phone with uncle sugu,” megumi rests his head against your leather car seat. “he said he likes a nice lady. said he wants to be a better man for her.” he rubs his eye. “then he started leaving me. where’s daddy? i wanna talk to daddy.”

“oh, meg,” your heart breaks. “come here, baby.”

megumi hesitates, but then he lets you pull him into a hug. his hands are limp by his sides, but he pats your back once before his tiny hand slips away. “auntie, why are you crying?”

your shoulders shake over him. you sniffle, “don’t worry about it, meg. and your daddy’s gonna come back soon, okay? and he won’t leave you alone anymore. i’ll make sure of it.”

megumi pulls back. “you promise?”

you cup his cheeks. “i promise. go back to sleep, okay?”

EPILOGUE !

on the couch of toji’s crappy apartment, megumi zenin is curled into his father’s side, gummy worms in his mouth as he presses his sticky hands to the screen of his brand new ipad pro. a shiny gift from his loving uncle sato, who bought him the device despite suguru and toji’s wishes.

megumi offers his father a gummy worm. “when is auntie coming?”

toji eats it off his palm. “soon, kid,” he clicks his tongue. “swear you like her more than me now.”

megumi picks out five gummy worms from the jar, then lines them up on his ipad screen for convenience. “nah, i like daddy the most.”

toji softens.

all toji can see right now is the top of his little boy’s head, his tiny nose poking out and his chubby little cheeks. the ipad screen is sticky and candy smeared—much like megumi’s hands—and on the screen is a video of a teacup in a ballet dress—ballerina cappucina?—getting married to a little espresso man wearing a ninja bandana. toji frowns. the video gives him flashbacks to his days of working as skai jackson’s personal AI prompt writer. he shivers.

toji shakes his head. “meg, you know i’m never leaving, right?”

“i know,” megumi groans. “you told me a billion times yesterday!”

“quit whining,” toji murmurs, pulling his son into his lap. megumi reaches for his jar of gummy worms, and toji tugs it closer. “just wanted to remind you.” he mumbles.

megumi slumps against his father’s chest. soft, distracted, satisfied. “you don’t need to say sorry anymore. i forgive you.”

toji kisses his hair, burying his face in the dark strands. he sighs, “thanks, kiddo.”

———

when the doorbell rings, toji zenin is already half-asleep.

the sound—and megumi’s accidental jab of his elbow against his stomach—wakes him right up. toji smooths his hair, rubs the sleep from his eyes. then he turns to tell megumi to go wash his sticky hands, then decides not to.

he sucks in a breath and opens the door.

“hi, pretty.”

“move. i’m not here for you.”

you shove at his chest and push your way into the apartment, and on the couch to the right megumi zenin is there, ipad in hands and cheeks sticky and looking up at you with big, blue eyes.

“auntie?”

“oh, my baby!”

you scoop him off the couch and into your arms, and megumi clutches your shoulders tight as you attack him with kisses on his forehead, cheeks, everywhere. toji’s eye twitches in disbelief. “are we serious?”

“oh, you’re still here,” you glance over at him, bored. “meg and i are gonna make cookies today. mind being a doll and fetching the ingredients from the car?” you toss him your car keys.

toji looks at the keys in his hands. then you, who is cooing silly things that make megumi blush and bury his head in your neck.

toji pads over to you, slow. “i wanted to see you.”

you ignore his hands snaking around your hips. you turn your nose up at him, “and now, you have.”

“you still mad at me?”

of course you’re still mad. maybe not as mad as you were a week ago, but still upset. that he lied. that he thought so little of you that he went out of his way to sculpt a whole other life and hide away the little angel in your arms. but toji’s hands are still heavy on your hips. his voice is warm in your ear. and he apologized, you know. in the parking lot that day. at your house on monday, holding a bouquet of half-dead flowers and wearing a rented suit that went to waste because you refused to go out with him anyway. he sent you an hour long voicemail apologizing. you listened to it all on the way here.

toji zenin is such a sap.

he acts like he isn’t, though. but he is, and you feel it in how he presses his lips to your neck, over and over and over again. i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry.

megumi shoves his father’s lips away. “daddy stop.”

you laugh, nuzzling megumi’s cheek. “he’s such a dummy, isn’t he meg? do you think i should forgive him?”

“yeah,” megumi mutters, collapsing into your neck. “he said sorry a billion times to me yesterday. daddy’s really sorry for everything.”

“aww. daddy’s so cute when he’s sorry, isn’t he?”

toji is glaring at you. you can only giggle and press a kiss to his jaw, and his eyes widen a bit in surprise. you cup his jaw and press another one to his cheek. just one more, because you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t missed him as well.

“i forgive you, mister. now go get those groceries—shoo!”

toji nuzzles your neck before leaving the apartment.

megumi is still on your hip, clutching your shoulders for balance as you pick out pans and trays from the cupboard. he grips your hair in a tiny fist. “auntie?”

“hm, gummy?”

megumi hides in your neck—shy, nervous. “are you gonna be my new mommy?”

you freeze.

megumi clutches you tighter. his face is buried in your throat, and he’s gripping so tightly his little nails bite into your skin, but you soften. toji had already confessed everything in his voicemail. his mom isn’t in the picture anymore. how a mother can let go of a little angel like meg, you don’t know, but who are you to judge and conclude?

“i don’t know, meg, it’s too soon,” you hum softly, setting a pan on the tabletop. “but i know i’ll be here, baby. for you.”

“will you be at my school, too?” he peers up at you, big eyes glimmering with hope. “all the other kids have mommies except for me.”

“oh, megumi—of course i’ll be there!”

it’s taking everything in you not to carry this boy and run! you attack his face with kisses, and megumi squirms in your arms but he’s giggling. his hands are sticky on your face, neck, everywhere, but you kiss him over and over again, because you’ve only known him for a little over a week but you’re already ready to give him the world. “auntie, stop!” but he’s laughing. “there’s lip gloss all over me!”

when toji walks in, he can’t believe his eyes.

there are too many shopping bags in his hands, because everything about you is too much, even down to your shopping, and toji is staring in disbelief. the woman of his dreams in his kitchen, holding his son, and his son is laughing. laughing the way he used to before his mother left him two years ago.

and he doesn’t really deserve the warmth curling in his chest, or the strange feeling coursing through his veins, but who is toji zenin if not greedy?

so he drops the bags to his feet (gently, because you’d curse him if the eggs broke), and pads over to the kitchen where you’re showering megumi with affection, and he snakes his arms around your waist and drops his head into your neck. you turn, grinning, and you don’t push him away when he presses a quick kiss to your lips. the lips are honest, and now toji is too.

“aww, look at you getting all sappy.”

“auntie made my face all sticky..”

toji squeezes you both tight. a little greed never killed a man.

MEGUMI’S REMARK : CAN I HAVE SOME GUMMY WORMS…?

#SIGMA CHI STORIES !

LOVE OVER LOBLAWS, end.

© HEARTKAJI. do not steal, copy, edit, translate or reupload.

SIGMA CHI TAGLIST (A) — JOIN HERE !

getting familiar with your new home is a walk in the park. satoru, now your new owner, had already prepared the apartment for your arrival. he's stocked up on treats, plushies, several collars, and even your own pretty, pink recliner occupying a corner of the living room. it's horribly out of place amongst the rest of his interior, but perfect for curling up in his lap and taking naps on.

more importantly, satoru has granted you an entire room to yourself. "eh, it was one of my guest rooms, but now i'm giving it to you, pretty." and it is a nice room, complete with a queen-sized bed, heart-shaped vanity, and an assortment of toys and plushies waiting to either be chewed on or cuddled with.

despite the initial excitement of having your own bedroom, you rarely ever sleep there. after the first week or so, you made it a habit of prancing right into satoru's room—whether he was there or not—and making yourself comfy in his king bed. you preferred when he was home so you could push your way between his arms and snuggle into his chest, though just being wrapped in the fluffy, satoru-scented sheets was still heavenly by itself. it only took a month living with him before you were fully obsessed.

getting to know satoru was even easier. from the initial car ride home to when your eyes shut for bed, the two of you never stopped talking. doesn't matter what you said, what you asked, what you poked and prodded about, he had an answer for everything. satoru was also completely comfortable with your constant displays of affection, even returning it tenfold on day one. you'd wrap yourself around his arm and follow him anywhere, and satoru would respond with a smile and head pat.

he actively welcomed you into his personal space. you loved resting your head on his shoulder, falling asleep to satoru stroking your ears. other times you would hop into his lap, tossing both arms around satoru's neck before rubbing your cheeks against his. being so restless, you wriggled in satoru's lap a lot, which he didn't mind, per se, though he would eventually grab your hips and sit you still. it never clicked why until satoru had stopped your squirming and the heat in the pit of your belly would register. and also the sudden hardness you were sitting on that definitely wasn't there before. you weren't necessarily an idiot about breeding, but the shop you came from didn't let their hybrids reproduce, so this made you...curious, to say the least.

you were enamoured with satoru. he treated you well, spoiled you rotten, loved you hard. you couldn't find a single downside about living with him,

unless you considered the...guests he would have over.

they were rarely men, usually women. lucky because you had a low tolerance for pretty much any man who wasn't satoru. aside from his one friend—suguru, you think?—with the long black hair who always led you into his arms. the one who would squish your cheeks between his fingers and study you as he listened to your idle chatter. that was, until satoru decided you'd paid suguru enough attention, patting his own lap, and a victorious gleam would grace his pretty blue eyes at the speed in which you'd break out of his friend's embrace and hop over into his. regardless of how kind or inviting suguru was, they both knew who your heart belonged to.

as for women...honestly, you weren't too fond of them, either. satoru would come in late some nights with one on his arm, both of them drunk and giggling. other times you'd peep out into the hallway and he'd be carrying them to his bedroom, slamming it shut and you'd have to listen to her loud moans as satoru, your satoru, had his way with her. those nights, you'd be forced to sleep in your own room.

the thought of satoru sharing his affections with others made you sick with possession. after all the effort you'd put into rubbing your scent all over him and his bed and his things, you'd have to mark your territory all over again to get rid of the stranger stench his guests would always leave behind. satoru was adamant that his bed was your bed, and you despised the idea of some person, man or woman, sleeping where you belonged. it made you feel bitter. it made you feel jealous.

one morning, you bit the person he'd brought the previous night. a woman with fair skin and brown hair down her back who was a little too comfortable with the layout of his house. you didn't get the chance to draw blood like you wanted, but you were happy to have hurt her nonetheless. that's what she got for her little invasion.

"god-, i'm so sorry." satoru stumbled into the nearest bathroom, reappearing with alcohol, tissues, and a box of bandaids. "they don't usually bite."

technically true, but that's only because you'd never felt the urge. his other guests would settle on waving or just ignoring you entirely as satoru ushered them to his room. who did this woman think she was, trying to pet you? really, it was her own fault.

"naughty girl.", satoru sighs and pinches your ear after she's left. "you can't go around biting people."

it seemed a bit hypocritical considering he liked to nibble on your neck or thighs when you two were alone and suck marks into them. he'd also giggle about how your teeth tickled whenever you gently gnawed on his fingers or arms or neck. just more of satoru's enabling behavior.

and it's not like he'd given you any kind of training when he brought you here. that's why you were spoiled. satoru let you chew on him. he let you occupy half his bed when you had a perfectly fine room to yourself. he let you litter toys all over the apartment, his bedroom included. satoru let you steal bites of his food, though sometimes he'd make you whine and pout and blink your cute puppy-dog eyes at him and beg for it (all while knowing he was going to say yes, anyway). he let you shove your pretty new phone in his face and whimper about whatever new thing you just had to have. spoiled.

the closest thing you ever got to a real scolding or proper training was when satoru spontaneously decided he didn't want you doing something, because he'd just discovered you doing said something five minutes before and didn't like it. you don't leave the house alone anymore because he told you not to. 'it's safer if i'm with you' he said. you don't get bored and devour half the tasty sweets in his fridge anymore because he spanked you for it. and you don't kiss suguru's face to greet him anymore because jealously is a disease, and satoru's cure involved making you grind on his thigh all night long until he thought you'd learned your lesson.

so, this was really just another impromptu rule. something satoru had decided in the moment needed to be corrected: don't bite the guests i have over.

you remain bothered by satoru's preference to bring other people into his, your home, for the purpose of breeding with them. he's your mate after all. one might find it silly to consider him one rather than your owner. but also, isn't he? your mate?

he treats you like one. squeezes your cheeks til your lips pucker and pecks wet kisses on them until you're a giggling mess. he runs a bath on quiet nights and leaves he door open, a silent offer to join him if you'd like (and you do). he bites at your neck, marking you like a mate, and refreshes the reddened bruises on your skin whenever they begin to fade. at first it was because you'd bite first, but satoru soon admitted he grew to like seeing them on you. it makes your tail twitch, ears perk up, heart flutter, knowing he's claiming you. of course you think he's your mate when he acts like one.

the obvious next step would be to breed with you, then, no? but it's coming up on six months and he hasn't made a move. satoru has never penetrated you, with his cock or fingers. the farthest he's went is grinding you down on his bulge until you both came, and that's far from good enough, in your opinion.

"how come we don't breed?", you ask him curiously from the bathroom doorway. he always leaves the door unlocked, or sometimes wide open. nothing to hide and, if satoru's lucky, you'll hop in the shower with him.

"hm?" satoru raises his white brows at you in the mirror, spitting out toothpaste before going to rinse.

despite rehearsing this conversation in your head, the words begin to sizzle away on your tongue. it doesn't help that he's just in a towel, body damp from the shower. his back muscles look woefully empty of your teeth marks. "you–, you always bring those other people here, all the time. why not breed with me?"

you see his shoulders tremble, and huff because you can tell he's trying to hold back giggles.

"firstly," satoru says, huffing out a laugh, "you can call it sex, pretty girl. because like–, it's–, no one really–". he stops, sighs. "i don't know, just don't call it breeding."

"okay.", you nod. "so?"

satoru peeks at you again through the mirror, blue eyes piercing into yours. "dunno. i kinda don't wanna scare you. or break you, for that matter."

his words draw your ears to attention, and your head tilts. "break me? how would you do that?" and then you think for another second. "also, you wouldn't scare me! we're mates!"

satoru studies you for a moment, then shakes his head and releases a louder chuckle. "baby, you've never had sex before."

"how do you know that?"

"well, have you?" satoru's giving you that look like he already knows the answer. the one that makes you feel feisty, because you want to throw a wrench in the situation just to be a brat, but you know he's expecting that, too.

"no..."

"uh huh.", is all he says. and then, satoru turns to you and he's undoing the towel around his waist.

he lets it fall to the floor and you give him several, wide-eyed blinks. you've never actually seen his dick before in all it's glory—only half-hard through his pants or boxers before he pulls you into his lap.

it's huge. even limp, it's bigger than anything you could have imagined. it's like the width of your fucking wrist. and even though the drool is pooling up in your mouth, all you can think is 'holy shit' and wonder how it would fit inside you soft, let alone thick and heavy when he's hard.

"still wanna try?", satoru asks. you can't speak, only hear him burst out laughing at your slack-jawed expression as you continue gawking at his dick. satoru ruffles your hair as he leaves the bathroom fully nude. it's patronizing. it's the same thing he does when he holds your favorite treats high above his head and tells you to grab them, knowing you can't reach. a mockery.

long after he's left for a work trip, satoru's words continue bouncing around in your head. he doesn't want to scare you. nonsense. even with his intimidating size, you would never be afraid of him. maybe nervous, but...still not scared. and you're going to prove it to him.

if satoru is worried about your first time taking his cock, then the obvious solution is training yourself to take it. but first: research. living in various hybrid shops your whole life meant never having a chance to be bred. or have sex, whatever satoru wanted you to say. and it also meant taking suppressant pills to stop whatever heats you may have had once you reached a certain age. workers at the shop were careful with not allowing any frisky behavior between hybrids, so your sensual interactions with satoru are the most intimate encounters you've ever had in your life.

your research is brief, and only consists of watching various videos of women masturbating. they make it look easy enough.

one quick trip to satoru's room later and you have his favorite sweatshirt in your possession. your acute sense of smell makes his scent hit 10x harder, and your tail wags as the comforting aroma of satoru fills your nostrils. you pad down the hallway and towards your room, slipping inside the woefully unlived-in space and locking the door behind you.

flopping into bed, you throw satoru's sweatshirt over your face and slide a hand down your shorts. you brush a finger over your cunt, feeling at the sparse, curly hairs, leaving light touches over your inner thighs. when you part your folds, your finger is immediately soaked in slick, gliding down your soaked cunt and the tip slips easily into your entrance. you tug satoru's shirt down and pull your hand out to inspect it. your fingers are coated in a clear and stringy fluid, keeping the digits connected as you part them and look on in awe.

you sigh, inhaling the smell on satoru's shirt again. your eyes flutter closed and a fantasy beings spinning in your mind: satoru finally returning from another week long work trip. him pouncing on you right after his shower, tugging you into his lap, sucking on your tongue and grinding his bulge into your core, groping and squeezing your ass. long, curious fingers wandering up your tail to send shivers down your spine as satoru mutters about how much he missed you.

circling and pressing down on your twitching clit shoots a familiar pleasure throughout your body, and a heat begins to boil in your lower tummy. it's a lot more intense than when you're dryhumping satoru. incredibly pronounced when it's direct contact. 'fuck'.

your hips shift upwards into your hand. a gasp leaves your parted lips, followed by a moan as you apply more pressure to the swollen nub. the shirt suffocates you in his scent, and the more you inhale, the more intoxicated you become.

suddenly, they're not your fingers anymore, they're satoru's. you've had them in your mouth before, allowed to gently gnaw on them to satiate an oral fixation. though, satoru's also shoved them there to occasionally silence your bratty whines. he'll corner you against a wall, cooing gently as he rubs at your ears with his free hand and watches the defiance drain from your heavy-lidded eyes.

the scent of your arousal is heavy and plentiful in the air, almost overpowering satoru's shirt when it's still right on top of your nose. the pleasure feels unbearable. your limbs twitch and jerk, dripping hole clenching on nothing, begging to be filled.

you go limp in order to catch your breath. your heart pounds in your ears, legs sore and aching. there's an underlying sense under all the pleasure of just feeling utterly pathetic. how do you expect to take satoru's cock if you can barely handle having your clit rubbed?

'whatever'. you pull up the hem of your shorts to stare at your drenched hand, coated in your own juices. you don't have any other sort of lubricant within reach, nor know where satoru keeps his. besides, the sluggishness weighing your body down wouldn't allow you to get up, anyway.

after taking a few more minutes, you glide your middle finger between the slick folds of your pussy again, gasping at the sensation. your index and middle form a 'v' shape, toying with yourself, pinching at your clit, pulling back the hood to expose what's underneath. it leaves your back arching, mouth flying open, cunt throbbing as you grind against your own hand. you dive a little lower, prodding the tip of your finger against you hole again, and your spasming cunt threatens to suck it in whole.

pushing in past the first knuckle feels weird. you've never had anything inside you before. it's mildly uncomfortable, wiggling your middle finger further along. it's barely an inch but it feels like way more. a little deeper and you can feel the hot, gummy walls of your pussy clamp down as you tighten and untighten. it doesn't really feel like anything.

you spend a while exploring around in there, gasping and twitching whenever your fingertips brush against some squishy spot you can't quite reach, no matter how hard you try. it's frustrating. you think maybe a toy would do the trick. or satoru's fingers, but you're not quite ready to approach that topic again. you eventually admit defeat with a persistent flame boiling in your lower tummy.

one ¥30,000 purchase later, and you're excited for tomorrow when you will be the proud, new owner of a bottle of lube and a 'g-spot rabbit vibrator', whatever that was. just based on visuals, it was the smallest vibrating dildo thing you could find on the website. maybe once you could handle your own fingers, you'd spin back for a dildo. for now, them and their intimidating length and unfathomable girth had successfully scared you away.