ChocoBerry

✨You just shrugged. Honestly, it didn’t really matter. You had your henna done! You practically skipped through the day, all but proudly shoving your decorated hands in everyone’s faces and watching their reactions. Your friends were impressed - even Grim wanted his own henna done too. You just smiled and nodded, eyeing his fur. Maybe instead you could have Minajael decorate a handkerchief and tie it around Grim’s neck…?

✨As you were lost in thought, a loud voice calling your name drew your attention. You looked up. Waving at you from the end of the hall with his drumsticks, was Kalim grinning at you. Behind him, you could spot Jamil shouldering his gym bag. They must’ve just finished up their club activities. Perfect timing!

“Hey guys!” You grinned at Kalim, watching him rush over to you. “Kalim, slow down-!” Jamil tried, but Kalim stopped just in front of you. “So you did get your mehendi done! Cater told us during practice!” You nodded, proudly holding your arms up, “mm-hmm!~”

Kalim’s ruby eyes sparkled, “Oh wow! Can I see?” He took your hand in his, pulling it up to see the henna. “Your mehendi is so pretty! It’s so detailed!” His hands were warm, gently running his fingers over your skin. You chuckled as Kalim twisted your hands around to admire them, ruby eyes sparkling. You must’ve been like this with Minajael too, you mused. 

Jamil finally made it to you both, looking tired. “Hey Jamil,” you said with a small smile, ignoring Kalim scrutinizing your arms, “how was basketball practice?” He huffed, shaking his head with a tired look. “Floyd.” “Ah.” You nodded, deciding not to ask. 

Kalim looked up, “Look! (Name) has their mehendi done!” That’s when Jamil finally noticed it. Silently, he admired the stain. It was nice, he thought. Even at a passing glance, anyone could tell your henna was painstakingly done. Flowering blossoms spiraled on your arms, finally reaching your hands. Even your palms had a design, a mandala stained darker than the rest of your skin. Jamil nodded with a smile, “It’s very nice, (Name).” 

While Kalim gushed, Jamil studied the pattern. The design looked somewhat familiar. Jamil couldn’t quite put a finger on it, but there was something about the flower design. He just shook his head. Perhaps it was just a design you’d gotten inspiration from. Still, how did you even get henna out here in Sage’s Island? It was the off-season for when people typically got their henna done. Even Kalim didn’t have any with him. 

Beside you, Kalim tapped one of the henna flowers thoughtfully. “This looks kind of like royal mehndi designs,” he commented. Your eyes widened, “really?” Kalim nodded, “mm-hmm! That design is usually done by the royal family! The jasmine flowers are pretty unique designs, a lot of people in the Scalding Sands like ‘em. I know my cousin does!”

At that, Jamil eyed the floral design carefully. Hmm, Royal designs? His brow furrowed. Was that where he’d seen those flower motifs? He shook his head, no, you must’ve seen it at the Scalding Sands when he took you to the Yasamina Silk festival. He must be overthinking it. “Did you look the design up online?” Jamil asked, keeping his tone even. You chewed the inside of your mouth, not wanting to say. “Um, kind of?” you said, not noticing Kalim turn your hand over to see your palm. 

“Huh, that’s weird,” Kalim squinted, bringing your palm up close to his face. “Why’s Minajael’s name here?” You flinched as Jamil’s bag cluttered to the ground. Jamil couldn't stop the words coming out of him, “what?”

Minajaels name? Was in? Your HENNA design?! Jamil all but snatched your wrist out of Kalim’s grip. You yelped, but Jamil ignored it as he searched between the narrow mandala petals. “Mm-hmm!” Kalim chirped, leaning to point it out to Jamil. Kalim didn’t seem to notice the look on Jamil’s face, or that your eyes were blown wide, “Right here, on the palm!” Following Kalim’s finger, Jamil scanned through the mandala rows until he finally spotted it. In the looping script of the Scalding Sands language, was Minajael written among the layered petals.

You shook your head, “Oh, no, a part of it got smudged or something on my palm.” Poor Jamil just stared at your palm in shock, almost willing it to be a mere smudge instead of that spoiled prince’s name. Kalim shook his head, answering your question, “nope, that definitely says Minajael. Right, Jamil?”

At first, Jamil didn’t heard Kalim. His eyes were glued to your henna. The vine-like design climbing up your arms, the swirling patterns flicked perfectly outward, the mandala petals intricately and painstakingly drawn in - all of it was done patiently. Fit for a royal. That’s when Jamil realized - Your henna wasn’t just nice. It was done lovingly. 

Something boiled in Jamil’s gut before he finally snapped out of his thoughts. “Yes, that’s certainly the Prince’s name,” he ground out, forcing a neutral smile on his face and letting go of the iron grip on your wrist. Kalim ignored Jamil’s inner turmoil, instead bringing your hand closer to you to point it out.

“See, (Name)? It’s right here.” Your eyes widened. Sure enough, the same area you thought was just a smudge, or maybe where Minajael lost control of the henna, was actually writing. Surprise overtook you as you studied your palm. Suddenly, the looping script didn’t look like random scribbles anymore, but an actual alphabet. So that’s how it’s written. Minajael… you looked at it thoughtfully.

Jamil’s gaze was sharp and narrow as he studied your expression. He didn’t like the soft look on your face one bit. “(Name), you didn’t… ask the henna artist to put his name there,” his grey eyes bore into yours, “did you?” 

You just blinked, “no?” Kalim chimed in, “yeah, why is his name here? Usually having someone else’s name in your henna design means that you’re enga- mmph!” Jamil smacked his hand over Kalim’s mouth. Luckily, you were too caught up squinting at the mandala on your hand to register what happened. 

You shrugged, “I guess… maybe he left his name there as a signature?” At Jamil’s deadpan look, you stammered to explain, “y’know, like how an artist signs their artwork! Yeah!” 

Kalim nodded in understanding, while Jamil frowned. “So, he did this for you?” At your wide-eyed look, Jamil pressed, “you saw him yesterday?” You pursed your lips. Dang, looks like you were caught. You just nodded nonchalantly, playing it off, “yeah, he did my henna.” If you were lucky, you could maybe get out without a lecture. Unfortunately, you weren’t so lucky. You sighed inwardly as Jamil’s eyes grew wider than a Spelldrive disk, already freaking out. “What?!”

You just shrugged, “It’s fine, I just… had some free time, that’s all, and I went to Royal Sword Academy for a bit.” Really, it wasn’t that bad. You’d left NRC with permission before, so why did Jamil look so indignant?

“You can’t just leave campus like that!” Jamil blustered, all exhaustion from the day gone as he scolded you. You tried not to roll your eyes as you began walking towards the Hall of Mirrors. “I’ve left campus before, Jamil. I’m a big Prefect, I can handle myself. And this was worth it!” You wiggled your henna-stained fingers, trying to lighten his mood. Jamil just groaned, “That’s besides the point!”

Kalim just grinned, slipping his hand into yours. “Hey, maybe we should get matching mehendi when this one fades!” You grinned, “definitely! What do you think, Jamil?” 

Jamil just exhaled. Typical of Kalim to make plans on a whim. You looked over, “Jamil?” You prompted. He willed his shoulders to relax, and nodded. “Sure. I’ve done Kalim’s mehendi in the past, and Najma’s too.” Kalim brightened, “we could all have matching mehendi’s!” he cheered. 

You grinned, nudging Jamil as the three of you began walking towards the Hall of Mirrors. “Hey, maybe I could try doing yours!” Kalim chimed in, “Yeah! You never have your mehendi done, Jamil!” Jamil hummed at that. It wasn’t often that he’d had his own henna done. Between handling Kalim and managing his own school and work affairs, it wasn’t something he really had time for. Still… He glared down at your hand with that prince’s name scrawled in your hand. 

As if his name being there wasn’t bad enough, it was also the placement. Something about Minajael’s name being scrawled in your palm made Jamil’s skin on edge. To have his name in your hand… Jamil scowled. As if that prince wasn’t spoiled enough, he even had to go and put his name on you. How presumptuous. Even if your name was in his own hand, the idea still frazzled him. He wouldn’t even want his own name being inside anyone’s hand. The mere idea made scowl. Did that pampered prince even ask you what you wanted? 

After you waved your goodbyes, he and Kalim walked through the Scarabia mirror. While Kalim chattered excitedly about your henna, Jamil was more pensive as he thought about the flowers encircling your arms. If he were to do your henna, what design would he make? Perhaps stars or animals? Maybe he could do arches inspired by the Scalding Sands architecture. You seemed to like it when you visited. What about faux-bracelets encircling your wrists? He shook his head, huffing. This was ridiculous. He’d simply ask you what you wanted, and he’d do it. 

Soon he was back in his dorm room. Even now, he was still stewing over your mehendi design an hour later. It was the sheer intimacy of having Minajael’s name in your palm…  He scowled. And the audacity. Minajael’s name in your palm was still on his mind, no matter how much he tried to push it out of his head. He unwound his hair from its braids, looking back at his reflection in the mirror. 

He wouldn’t dare inscribe his own name in your skin without you knowing. Jamil stared at himself in the mirror, eyes darkening at his reflection as he undid the last of his braids. Although… Some little part of him couldn’t deny the intimacy of having a name on someone’s skin. His thoughts drifted. Where would he put your name on himself? Certainly not in his palm. The implications of having you in his hands made his thoughts turn sour. Idly, he stretched his wrists, still tight from club practice. Then he stopped. 

Jamil looked down at his wrist. Idly, he brushed a thumb over his skin until he could feel his pulse beating underneath - dutiful, strong, and ever-constant. 

The rhythm of his heart, proof of life. 

A smile tugged the corner of his mouth. Maybe he didn’t know what designs he’d create, but he knew one thing he’d like. Your name written in henna stain over the pulse on his wrist. Yes. That would do nicely, ya hayati. 

I hope this was ok!! Personally I’ve always thought getting someone’s name in henna over the wrist pulse was super romantic so. I indulged myself. Also I had no idea what to title this lmao 😭

Anyway this was a lil late bc I didn’t know how to end it but lmk what you guys think :D Thanks for reading!! I’m glad so many people liked the Minajael part!!!!

Until next time, take care shrimpies~ Xoxo Calci!~

◆ The Story Everyone Knows. Ryomen Sukuna, the most terrifying man on the university rugby team, is dating the girl who read through his match. You showed up once because Shoko dragged you, wore your headphones, and forgot his name before the whistle blew. Then you pointed out a flaw in his positioning and walked away. His teammates see you at practice, sitting under a tree with your book, and they don’t understand. But Sukuna always finds you first. Before warmups, his eyes cut across the field until they land on you, and only then does his jaw settle like something has been put where it belongs.

◆ The Defensive Perimeter. He is territorial, but not in the loud, performative way people expect. Sukuna’s possessiveness is a perimeter. He doesn’t hover over you to prove ownership; he stands where the room has to go through him before it reaches you. He keeps your exit clear. He notices who is making you perform and clocks the exact second the crowd density becomes a threat. Then he adjusts — no announcement, no fuss — making the world slightly less hostile by the time it reaches you. When Gojo says your name with too much familiarity, the room gets colder. Not because Sukuna thinks you are fragile, but because your name is information he wants handled with respect.

◆ Categories of Quiet. Sukuna notices before he understands. He notices that you turn pages faster when you aren’t actually reading. He learns that your quiet has categories. Comfortable quiet means your pencil is moving; thinking quiet means your thumb is at your ring. Overloaded quiet is the dangerous one — still hands, distant eyes, and answers shortened to their bones. At first, he didn’t know what to do with that data. He was used to noticing where someone carried pain just to exploit it. With you, the noticing changed. Your hand rising toward your mouth stopped being a “tell” and became something he wanted to interrupt gently.

◆ The Toll of Sincerity. He is not sentimental out loud. He learns you at a resolution that would scare most people, not to own you, but to meet you. When he gets it wrong, he hates it, because he knows accuracy matters more to you than vague kindness. So he becomes precise. The first time you went too still at a party, he didn’t ask what was wrong. He said “Too much?” — flat, like he was confirming a play call. You nodded once. He said “Lights or air?” You said air. He took you outside without touching you. He says these things like they cost him nothing, even though they cost him his pride. He says them anyway because you can handle a hard truth, but you cannot survive a lack of clarity.

◆ Specific Touch. Sukuna is not casual with touch. He is rough with everyone else — shoulder checks and shoves — but with you, touch is an anchor. His hand at the back of your neck in a crowd, thumb pressing once at the base of your skull. His thigh against yours under a table, warm and steady. He waits at the edge of your choices and lets the decision stay yours. He doesn’t confuse your trust for surrender. When you cross the space to him by choice, his hand on your waist tightens once before easing, a silent admission that he was waiting.

◆ Tactical Gifts. He is terrible at giving gifts in any way that resembles normal human behavior. No wrapping, no speeches. He leaves an object somewhere you will find it and acts like it committed a crime by existing. The candle you smelled at the market. The tea you mentioned when you were tired. The hammered gold ring you put back because of the price — he buys it before you can talk yourself out of wanting it. When you call him on it, he says, “It fit.” As if the fact that it fit your finger meant it had become his responsibility to ensure it stayed there.

◆ Domestic Infrastructure. His care becomes infrastructure before either of you have the words for it. Your tea in his cabinet. Your preferred side of the couch kept clear. Your book moved carefully, never face-down, because he saw you wince when someone cracked a spine. If you ask about it, he shrugs and says, “Was there,” or “You use it.” He would rather chew concrete than say he did it for you. But the lamp he finally opened after months in the box just because you fell asleep on his couch tells the real story.

◆ The Sensory Exit. He never asks what is wrong in front of people. He knows the question itself is just another demand for a performance you don’t have the energy to give. When you go still at a bar, his hand finds your knee under the table — one point of pressure that says I see you. Then he just says, “Outside.” He gets you past the noise and into the air. He has learned that you don’t always need comfort; sometimes you need variables eliminated. He is frustratingly good at knowing whether you need space or pressure, because Sukuna is disciplined when something matters.

◆ A Private Language. Your hands are his favorite study. He learns the difference between fidgeting and distress. Fidgeting is a rhythm; distress is an interruption. When your fingers stop mid-page or your thumb digs too hard into your index finger, he doesn’t make it a spectacle. He simply puts something else in your hand — his water bottle, his phone, a roll of athletic tape. Sometimes he just presses his thumb into the side of your finger where you usually pick at it. Not stopping you, just anchoring you. When you once asked if he watched your hands that much, he said, “You use them to talk,” and looked away like the truth had betrayed him.

◆ The Audacity of Listening. He listens like it annoys him, which is a lie. He listens with the same severe attention he gives a field: tracking motifs and sentence rhythm. He says very little while you talk about books, which is why his low, immediate “Finish” hits so hard when you try to stop. He listens twice — once to understand the words, and a second time to understand why your eyes lit up when you said them. You catch him listening to the exact album you recommended, and when you smile, he looks away like you’ve caught him doing something obscene.

◆ Accountability Over Elegance. He is blunt, and loving you makes that bluntness dangerous. He can strike when he feels exposed by your ability to see him. The first time he did, he left without a word. He came back at one in the morning and sat in your doorway with his shoes still on. “I said something I can’t take back. I was wrong.” No flowers. No softening. Just the truth dragged out of his own throat and laid at your feet because leaving you alone would be easy, and he has decided against easy.

◆ The Choice. In private, he is still Sukuna — blunt, arrogant, and impossible before breakfast. But he lets you touch his face after a match. He lets you tape his fingers. He lets you fold sideways into his ribs because your body has decided he is a safe place to hold weight. He loves by noticing what everyone else missed and making the room easier before you enter it. You are the woman who read through his match and didn’t move just because his gravity expected it. You are soft, but you are not small, and Sukuna learns that loving you means respecting the difference.

Filed under — the man who would build a perimeter around your peace and call it a coincidence.

Reblogs and tags keep these stories alive. — Vela ◆

Taglist — @freddiweasly @wiredswan @technicallytinyheart @lunarmashroom @moldyfuzz @mommyneytiri

You hate how he sounds like he knows you haven’t been eating anything lately, although you hadn’t seen him in a few weeks.

“You know that’s not how questions work, right?” You say, turning around and opening your door wider to let him in. He steps into the hall and out of his shoes.

“Huh?” You hear him ask as he follows you into the kitchen. You turn to face him and take the plastic bag from him.

“Can I take that?” You ask him afterwards, finger pointing to the bag.

He smiles wide and you already feel your eyes rolling upwards. “Why, of course, my dear colleague!” He starts, speaking loud and exaggerating the jolly tone. Moving to the counter, you try not to pay him too much mind. “I am perfectly okay with you doing this, as I wish for nothing but your comfort and satisfaction, and I reckon you should feel free to get comfortable with me as we have known each other for quite a while now!”

Your back is facing him as you fish the bag’s content out of it, trying not to burn yourself in the process. Steamed pork buns, noodles and fried chicken. Good choice. You hope your appetite is going to miraculously reappear as you start eating.

“Which is the answer I was expecting from you, by the way.” You hear him tell you from where he stands behind you.

“Well, that’s cute.” You tell him, getting the chopsticks out of the bag and throwing said bag away. “But you came over anyway, so I’m assuming I can skip this whole part.” You set the dishes on your kitchen table and Gojo sits on the tall chair that’s facing you.

Opening the fridge door, your eyes search for the sweet drink Gojo likes (which he put there himself that one time he came over with a bag full of cans). You pour yourself some water and set the drinks on the table before sitting down in front of him. The both of you snap your chopsticks apart and Gojo digs in immediately. You, on the other hand, hesitate.

Considering that he’d brought you food, you figured you were going to eat at least a little, but now the thought of even tasting a pork bun is making you nauseous. You hadn’t felt hungry for days, maybe weeks. Setting your chopsticks down without having eaten anything, you decide to drink some water, though you doubt it’s going to change anything.

You know Satoru notices. Still, he chooses not to say anything.

You break the silence. “How’s Shoko?” You ask him, putting your glass back on the table. Gojo snorts.

“She asks about you all the time too.” He tells you, gathering a scoop of noodles with his chopsticks. “It’s always the first question the both of you ask me. Just marry each other already.” He jokes. You can’t help but smile at that. You were really fond of Shoko, and despite visiting Tokyo pretty often, you still missed her a lot.

“She’s sleep-deprived. I’d say pretty anxious, too. She’s trying to manage and obviously doing a horrible job at it.” Gojo finally answers. A few seconds pass before he speaks up a second time. “And her smoking is out of control.” He says casually, looking for what he’s going to eat next. You guess that’s a pretty decent reaction to learning one of your friends became an evil curse user and then got killed at the hands of his own best friend.

You lift your head to look at Gojo, but he’s not looking at you. His tone is detached, like he couldn’t be bothered by any of this. It’s actually your first time seeing him ever since all of this happened. Right after the parade, you and your friends pretty much all went M.I.A. for a few days. You didn’t see each other, didn’t call, didn’t text. Not for a while anyway.

Things had slowly started going back to normal — whatever normal was supposed to be without Geto and with an unshakable feeling of impending doom like lead on your stomach. On the picture of a document you had asked Shoko for recently, you had actually noticed remnants of ash in the corner of the frame. Shoko had never went as far as smoking indoors before, let alone at her desk. You didn’t say anything, and she didn’t either.

“Figured.” You say, voice low, eyes even lower. Looking back up at Gojo, you watch him still not looking at you. And how are you? Is what you want to ask, but you’re not sure it’s a good idea. You know you’re probably not going to get much out of him. Know he’s going to brush it off, because he’s the strongest, and nothing gets to him, not even the strongest curses, not even fear, or time, or grief.

“She’s better than she was at the beginning, though.” He says, mouth still full. He finally looks at you. “Also, Megumi asks about you.”

You almost perk up at that. “How is he?” You ask Gojo. Up until a few weeks ago, Gojo frequently took you to Tokyo to see Megumi. You had easily taken a liking to the little boy. He was very calm, an incredibly fast learner and a very thoughtful and caring brother to Tsumiki. But with the whole incident happening, you hadn’t seen either in a few weeks.

“He’s doing well. He keeps learning, his pace is good.” Gojo pauses, sipping his drink. “I think he likes when you’re around.” You nod and hum in response. You’re glad to hear that. When first meeting him, you had figured you’d need to work hard to gain Megumi’s trust.

Gojo sets his chopsticks down and looks at you. He ate about a quarter of what he brought, but you hope he’s going to keep going. “You’re not hungry?” He asks you.

“Not really.” He’d brought your favorite food to you, so you do feel guilty about not eating anything. “Let’s bring these over to Megumi and Tsumiki. I’d like to see them today.” You say, pointing to the food.

Gojo actually isn't surprised to see you have so little appetite. He hadn’t seen you at all since the incident, but he had assumed that your attempt at acting like you were managing would turn out just as bad as Shoko’s. What does surprise him, though, is you suggesting to go to Tokyo. He had planned on going with you today — more like dragging you there, since he didn’t think you’d actually be up for it. He told Megumi you were coming anyways.

“Megumi’s supposed to be with Shoko this afternoon.” He answers.

You’re pleased to hear you’ll get to see Megumi, Tsumiki and Shoko this afternoon. You think it’s finally time to breathe again after the past few weeks spent in darkness.

“Is Nanami in Tokyo right now?” You might as well vist everyone you want to see at this point.

“Uh, I think so. Let me check.” Gojo picks up his phone and starts looking for what you assume is his text conversation with Nanami. After a few seconds of swiping, he starts typing.

“So you’ve just been wallowing in misery and despair while I wasn’t there, huh?” He asks you while texting Nanami. He’s not wrong, but you still frown.

“Can we just act like the past weeks haven’t happened?” You sound more tired than you initially intended to.

After saying this, you try to think of what happened on the last time you saw Gojo. Looking at his face, you can see he’s doing the same. A smirk starts spreading slowly on his face after a few seconds, which, in your experience, has never been a good sign. You try to think faster.

“Okay, then.” He says, voice already laced with a teasing lilt. No good at all. The last time you saw Gojo comes to you in flashes, but you’re missing the important part. A dimly lit room. Gojo in an oversized white shirt, with disheveled hair. “Are your legs better?” He asks, and it clicks.

The rest of the picture appears in your mind : Gojo’s in the same white shirt, back facing you, while you’re sitting on your bed with your knees to your chest, in nothing but underwear. He giggles a bit, because you jut told him something along the lines of ‘fuck, my legs are sore’.

Looking at Gojo now, you sigh out and let your head drop on the table. “Okay, I hate this.” You tell him. Of course, he just barks out a laugh.

The last time you saw Gojo, he’d invited himself over just like he did today. You were cleaning up the place, which he’d surprisingly helped you with, taking on the dishes. You don’t really know how you got there – you never really know – but it ended with you on top of him, both of his hands on either side of your head, holding it while looking straight into your eyes.

You remember it lasted for a while. Maybe it’s because he had noticed how tense you were and, being the gentleman that he is, he’d wanted to take his time helping you relieve all that pent up tension. And it was good, it always was. You kind of hate to admit it, but Gojo has that thing where he just knows exactly how to make you feel ecstatic. The type of sex that makes you want to tell him you love him.

You’d rather slit your own throat, of course, because now he’s still laughing at how embarrassed you are, and it’s making you want to bash his head in. “It’s fine.” He says, dragging out the last word. You get up to collect his leftovers. “You look like you could use some more stress relief anyways.” Bringing them over to the kitchen counter, you start wrapping them up for Megumi and Tsumiki. “Which I’m always ready to help with.” He adds and you sigh out.

“Don’t you ever shut up?” You tell him with your back facing him. Not allowing him any time to answer, which he was going to do despite the question obviously being rhetorical because no, he never shuts up, you speak up again. “Actually, I feel like I should just get something else for Tsumiki.” You say, staring down at the food. You remember her telling you about wanting to eat healthier meals the last time you’d seen her.

Gojo watches in silence as you open your fridge to search for something. Then he watches as you close it and apparently mull something over for a little while. And he’s still watching when you finally open your fridge back up, pick a few things that he can’t quite make out and wrap them up. He can’t help but congratulate himself internally for having picked you to look after Megumi and Tsumiki. As he’d predicted, you were very good for them, and to them. Not that he’d really considered anyone else.

“We’re getting really good at playing house, huh?” Gojo thinks out loud, getting up to go wash his hands.

You glare at him. “We? As in you and me?” He snorts.

“You know we’re the closest to a parent figure they’re ever going to get, right?” You know. It’s funny.

The seconds pass and his words sink in. It’s not that funny anymore. “I’m clearly a much better parent than you are.” You tell him.

“Yeah, well, I’m clearly a much better partner than you are.” That makes you scoff. The seconds pass again, his words sink in again. When was this ever about being partners?

“There is no partnership of any kind here. I like these kids, you do too, no strings attached.” You say, going to pick up your jacket.

When you’re done putting your jacket and gathering your things, Gojo’s already put his sunglasses back on. He looks like he’s waiting for you. “Of course, of course.” He tells you, turning around and heading for the door. “Though that’s kind of hard to tell when I come over and we have s–”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Move.” You cut him off, walking past him in your hallway to open the door.

Gojo smirks, because there are very few things that he likes more than embarassing you. Even fewer things that he likes more than getting you all pent up. And panting all over. Sighing and moaning his n–

Well. Gojo might have to stay away from you.

← previous tape

—

this one took a very long time to come out, sorry! uni has been beating tf out of me

shrugging, you avert your gaze, suddenly finding the kitchen tile much more interesting than your 6’5” towering bestie. this pity game you’re playing is really starting to piss him off. so he sighs, mirroring your stance, crossing his arms, and leaning his hip against the counter.

“spit it—”

“he just had his suspicions. . . that’s all.”

sukuna’s brows come together, and he fights the urge to roll his eyes. really? this is what you’re going with? it just makes him believe you ran off and said something to one of your friends and they told, because honestly? they were the better person you’d claim to be. he wouldn’t tell you that though. he deals enough with your mouth as is.

“‘suspicions’?” he tilts his head, staring at you with narrowed eyes til you start to squirm where you stand, briefly glancing up at him before shifting your gaze once more.

“he thought we were weird. but i—” you swallow down thickly, like you’re trying not to cry, and sukuna freezes for a split second. what the fuck? did you really like the guy this much but still chose to cheat on him anyway? “i don’t know, it just came out. . !”

ah.

there it is.

he does roll his eyes this time, sighing heavily, like he’s irritated. “so you told on yourself? great job, princess.” he makes it worse by bringing his hands together in a mocking clap, watching the way your face twists in anger.

“you think this is the shit i want to hear right now, sukuna?” you hiss, stepping closer to jab a finger against his chest, finally meeting his eye for the first time tonight. at least something about you is going back to normal. for a second there, sukuna thought you were going to break down and cry.

“i didn’t force you on my cock,” he spits out, long fingers wrapping around your smaller wrist, giving you a warning squeeze—telling you to cut it out while you still can. but it just makes you angrier, lips downturned as you sneer at him. the audacity of you being mad at him when you were just as much a willing participant makes his blood boil.

“fuck you,” you poke his chest harder, and all it serves to do is annoy him even further. you don’t seem to notice his growing irritation, settling on ‘calling him out’ for things that you do as well. “you can never just own up to what you’ve done, can you?”

his grip tightens.

“you think you’re so much better, as if your shit doesn’t stink just like everyone else’s. you put on this act as if you’re so tough and untouchable. when really you’re just fucking toxic.” you’ve gone blind with fury, a fire burning behind your eyes as you lash out at him. “you can’t stand to see me winning in life, so you resort to dragging me down with you.”

the way you deliver the words so matter-of-factly, as if stating the ugly truth. your voice is so steady and direct, hitting him right where it should hurt.

but it doesn’t.

it just makes that anger boiling burst from his veins. before you even have the chance to continue poking the bear, his free hand moves, snatching up your face. a sharp gasp slips from between your teeth in surprise, his thick fingers digging so hard into your cheeks he’s sure there’ll be marks tomorrow, but he doesn’t really care at this point.

it takes you a moment to regain your composure, lips forced into a pout, brows knotted together harshly, lashes fluttering as a brief wave of confusion washes over your face from being grabbed so abruptly.

“watch your mouth,” sukuna hisses, his voice taking on an eerie edge, a tone that’s far scarier than if he were shouting. he presses in close, forcing you against the counter til you’re shifting, trying to stop it from digging into your lower back.

a warm, shaky exhale washes over his lips, your hand twisting into his shirt while the other grips the one holding your face. the look on your face is one of uncertainty and a little bit of fear.

good, he thinks.

you should be afraid.

“you want to talk about toxic?” a quiet, humorless laugh escapes him as he tilts your head back so you can see the hunger simmering in his eyes. “you’re wearing my shirt, sweetheart. got my scent all over you while you whine and cry about some other guy that you claim to love. no one dragged you down,” he murmurs. “you were already here.”

sukuna leans in closer, letting his nose drag along the side of your face before his lips brush your ear, “you and me? we’re more alike than you think. two of a kind we are, princess.”

he pulls back just enough to watch the way your bottom lip trembles, not from sadness, but from the truth he’s just forced you to hear.

for a second, everything is quiet—just the two of you staring at one another, tears brimming in your eyes. sukuna doesn’t feel bad about seeing them. it’s not the first time he’s made you cry, and it damn sure won’t be the last. but it riles him up nonetheless.

his gaze drops to your lips, and your breath hitches when he tilts your head back further. he doesn’t know when he snaps. maybe when that damn finally broke, and you cried, but he found his lips against yours, harsh and firm. a groan erupts from his throat when he tastes the salt from your tears, pressing up against you, letting you feel his cock hard in his jeans.

he doesn’t give you time to react, not that you can, with how he still holds your face in his grasp. his mouth slots over your bottom lip, teeth cutting into the sensitive flesh til he tastes copper. for a split second he feels your hand tighten on his shirt, hears the muffled whimper you let out as your body instinctively seeks his out.

but just as quickly as he leaned in, he’s ripping away.

the force of him removing himself from you leaves you stumbling, hands torn away from his body to steady yourself against the counter. sukuna doesn’t move to help you. he just stands there watching as you try and regain your breathing, one of your hands rubbing at your sore cheek.

“you’re acting pathetic,” he holds nothing back as he speaks to you, “putting all the blame on me?” he scoffs, turning around, ready to take his leave. as harsh as he’s being he knows it’s what you need to hear. you always come back from these types of things. if he weren’t so sure of it, you wouldn’t be best friends after all. “there’s nothing here for me to do except make things worse. you know that.”

as he steps forward, he doesn’t look back to see you standing there in his shirt, looking helpless and broken, curling yourself up against the kitchen counter as you sob quietly to yourself. he doesn’t care that he’s leaving you like this because he knows you can come back from it, he knows you’ll reach out when you’ve bettered yourself and realized how wrong you were to drag him down with you.

you need to sit in for a bit, let it stew, he thinks as he pushes open your front door, letting it close with a click behind him. you need to realize that sukuna knows what’s best for you, and what’s best is leaving you to come to terms with just how awful a person you really are—how that little boyfriend of yours never knew the real you, that the true dirty, low down side of you is has only ever been seen by sukuna. then and only then will he be waiting for you with open arms.

You smiled slightly in victory.

That expression ruined the rest of his evening immediately.

Afterward, the nights began stacking together slowly enough that neither of you noticed the accumulation until it was already far too late to pretend otherwise.

Vil would arrive after filming or interviews or rehearsals and the worst part, Vil eventually decided, was how naturally your apartment learned him.

The place adapted around his existence slowly enough that he only noticed once the transformation had already rooted itself into every room.

His preferred tea appeared stocked in your cabinets without discussion. The couch permanently carried the faint scent of his perfume soaked into the fabric from too many exhausted late nights collapsed sideways against the cushions. Your bathroom mirror became crowded with expensive skincare products arranged in neat gleaming rows beside your chaotic collection of half-empty bottles.

Even the lighting changed.

You started leaving lamps on instead of overhead lights because Vil complained once that bright lighting after midnight made him like he was still under the spotlight and afterward your apartment remained permanently dipped in warm gold and shadow.

It made everything softer.

The edges of furniture blurred slightly at night. Steam from the shower drifted lazily through hallways glowing amber beneath low lighting. Reflections stretched across windows after rainstorms while synth-heavy playlists hummed endlessly somewhere in the background, all slow basslines and dreamy melodies that wrapped around conversations until the nights themselves started feeling suspended outside ordinary time.

Vil became addicted to that feeling almost immediately.

He arrived one evening long after midnight to find you sitting on the kitchen counter eating strawberries directly from the carton while staring blankly into space.

“You look haunted,” he informed you after stepping inside.

You blinked slowly.

“You ever get so tired your bones feel microwaved?”

“What a deeply upsetting sentence.”

You held a strawberry toward him without looking.

Vil accepted it automatically.

Everything between you had become automatic; especially touch.

At some point during the past few months, both of you had stopped noticing the constant small collisions drawing you together throughout every night. Knees pressed together beneath blankets. Fingers brushing absentmindedly during conversations. Your ankle hooked lazily over his foot while sitting beside each other on the couch.

Vil found himself reaching for you unconsciously now.

A hand against your waist while passing behind you in the kitchen. Fingers smoothing your damp hair away from your face after showers. His thumb tracing idle circles against your wrist while neither of you paid direct attention to it.

The intimacy accumulated slowly until the apartment itself felt thick with it.

One night the two of you ended up in the bathtub again sometime around three in the morning after Vil complained his muscles hurt from rehearsals.

Your building’s hot water system was criminally inconsistent, meaning the bath had already begun cooling by the time you climbed in beside him.

Steam fogged the mirrors completely. Music drifted softly from your phone speaker across the room, muffled slightly beneath the sound of water shifting around both of you.

Vil leaned back against the tub with his eyes closed while you traced meaningless patterns through condensation gathered along the tile wall beside his head.

“What are you drawing,” he murmured sleepily.

“Nothing.”

“I'm calling it, it'll be a cat.”

“It’s abstract.”

Vil opened one eye just enough to look at you.

Your hair is damp, strands sticking lazily against your neck ans forehead while warm light from the lamps painted gold across your skin. You look relaxed and that has softened your entire expression. You looked loose around the edges somehow, comfortable in a way Vil rarely allowed himself to become around other people.

Then your finger drifted downward absentmindedly through the fogged tile until you drew a tiny heart directly beside his shoulder.

You stared at it afterward as if surprised by your own hand.

Vil’s chest tightened painfully.

The silence afterward stretched warm and heavy.

“Your hair is falling out of the clip,” you mumbled eventually.

“You say that every time I attempt to relax.”

“Because every time you attempt to relax you start unraveling physically.”

“You make me sound defective.”

Then your head drifted sideways against his shoulder naturally enough that he doubted you even consciously chose to do it.

The movement nearly stopped his heart anyway.

There were moments now where the closeness between you became almost overwhelming in its density. Nights where the apartment felt too warm despite open windows. Too quiet despite music playing softly in the background. Too full of unspoken affection pressing invisibly against every room.

Vil had never experienced emotional intimacy this prolonged before.

Passion, yes. Attraction, endlessly. Admiration from afar practically followed him professionally.

But this?

This slow drowning sensation of becoming intertwined with another person piece by piece until even solitude started feeling incorrect? That was new.

The nights grew stranger after that.

Sometimes the two of you would fall asleep halfway through conversations without meaning to. Vil sprawled across your bed still wearing reading glasses while you rambled softly beside him about absolutely nothing. One moment he would still be listening to your voice through heavy exhaustion, and the next he’d wake hours later to find your face pressed sleepily into his chest while dim blue morning light leaked through the curtains.

Other times neither of you slept at all.

The city would stretch endlessly outside your windows while music looped quietly through the apartment and both of you drifted through rooms half awake, sharing fruit directly from the fridge at four in the morning or brushing teeth side by side while Vil lectured you.

“You use entirely too many products,” you informed him one night while leaning against the bathroom counter.

“You use entirely too few.”

“My skin survives.”

“Barely.”

“You looked at my face and said barely.”

“I say many truthful things.”

“You’re evil.”

“And yet you continue allowing me into your home.”

You stared at him through the mirror for several long seconds before dissolving into helpless laughter again.

Vil watched your reflection quietly while smoothing moisturizer across his skin.

Then slowly, without fully thinking about it, you wandered toward him and rested your forehead against his shoulder.

Vil immediately wrapped an arm around your waist.

Your sigh against him sounded so soft it almost disappeared beneath the music.

That sound haunted him for days afterward.

The closeness became greedy over time and then increasingly impossible to ignore.

Vil started lingering after kisses instead of pulling away immediately. He started touching your face absentmindedly during conversations. He was staring too long whenever sleepiness made your expression go soft around the edges.

And every single night ended the same way.

With Vil wanting one more hour.

One more song. One more conversation. One more moment stretched beneath dim apartment lighting while the outside world remained mercifully distant.

Because inside your apartment, surrounded by low music and warm shadows and the unbearable sweetness of your presence wrapped around every room, Vil sometimes felt frighteningly close to happiness so complete it bordered on unreality.

A fantasy.

One he increasingly feared waking from.

"What's happening?" You huffed at him, attempting to reclaim a fraction of your dignity despite him seeing you in far worse states than this before. He'd held you when you were disheveled, thighs pinned to your chest as he prepared you for things you were supposed to do with your future husband one day. With sweat sticking to your forehead and your body shaking, face scrunched up with pure pleasure from his nimble fingers and tongues. He didn't even react at your obvious worry, watching you swallow hard as the panic still freely pounded in your chest, holding onto his strong forearm to steady yourself. "Where are we?"

He smiled at you, letting go of your side to caress your cheek, your heart stupidly fluttering at the gesture you both knew he shouldn't be doing. Not when he was meant to stand guard for you.

You were his duty. His life.

He was only ever supposed to be a supporting role in yours.

"Somewhere safe."

“Safe?” You echoed, blinking up at him without understanding.

“I brought your favorite books,” he murmured, softly stroking your hair as he looked down at you. “And more of those paints I got you last year for your birthday.”

“But why are we-”

“Your parents were about to sell you off to a brute,” he grimaced, even when he was speaking to you so tenderly. Dark eyes hardening as they narrowed just enough to let you know he was serious.

"He wasn't-" You started to protest, thinking back to the single time you'd actually seen him at a banquet a handful of months ago. Sure, you hadn't spoken directly to you, not when you were so closely supervised, but you watched him from across the room.

There were men far worse than that.

“He would have just used you for heirs while he slept with half his court,” he dismissively scoffed.

But, wasn’t that you were meant for?

A pretty tool to be purchased as a means for peace between kingdoms?

You always knew it would happen to you. The arranged marriage, having heirs, living in a foreign place with no friends.

All your manners classes, the rigid rules you'd spent your life learning, they were all leading up to this.

You were born to be a queen.

"I can't just run from my duty," you murmured, reaching back up to drag your thumb over his defined jaw, attempting to soften the blow of disappointment. He must've spent a long time preparing this place for you, ready to commit treason just to do what he thought was best.

Forever your knight, always thinking of you when you both knew that the feelings you harbored for each other would never amount to more than the handful of nights you'd stolen together.

"And you can't expect me not to do mine."

Your mouth hung open, not sure what to do with his defiance. Just staring at his unchanging expression, resolve etched into every strong line of his face while your hand fell from it.

“This is for your own good,” he promised, leaning close enough to press a chaste kiss to the top of your forehead. “You’ll see.”

You hadn't seen three months in.

He wouldn't let you leave.

Refused to budge even when you begged with your best set of puppy dog eyes as you asked about how your family was doing, if you'd been declared missing, what was happening back at home.

His jaw would always clench, dark eyes swirling as he cupped your face and told you that you worried too much.

Solemnly swore your parents weren't even looking for their missing princess.

No, apparently, they'd just sent someone who looked enough like you to not arouse suspicion to the prince you were meant to marry.

Suguru dried your tears with kisses, dragging his tongue over the damp spots they left, his honeyed voice reassuring you that no one could replace you to him.

An imposter was out there in your place, pretending to be you, and you were in a tower trying to find the positive in this...monotony.

It wasn't like it was so terrible being trapped here with him.

Homemade meals. No more awful meetings or balls you were forced to attend. Nights spent in the warmth of Suguru's body with no fear of getting caught and condemned for what your heart wanted.

The days drifted by lazily. Napping in your bed. Reading the books he brought you. Painting by the small window.

Pacing your floor when the minutes started to drag, counting how many steps it took to get from one side of the room to the other. You even started to teach yourself how to sew, although you had to practically plead with Suguru to bring you the supplies for them.

The tower itself was cramped. Your room led directly out to a spiraling staircase, with uneven stone steps and a nauseating drop down the middle. The steps widened as you went down, but you'd barely been able to bring yourself to make it further than Suguru's living space below yours.

It was bigger than yours, but more...quaint, you supposed?

Rickety wooden furniture. A thin blanket over his bed. A single table with two chairs for you to eat with him.

He knew you hated heights.

So Suguru usually ended up coming to you instead.

A picnic blanket spread on your floor. Flowers freshly plucked from the forest below. A candle lit like it made this romantic.

And despite your determination to convince him that you could both still return to the palace, or even start a new life in a quiet port town somewhere, you were the one starting to crumble under his coaxing.

What was so great about your old life anyway?

No one could make you do anything up here. For the first time, your life was now yours.

It took you another year to realize your life was actually his.

Well, considering you lost track of time, you could only guess it had been a year. Watching the seasons come and go, leaves falling off the trees and snow capping the branches until the weather warmed again.

There was only so much painting to pass the time you could do before everything became boring.

Staring out the window waiting for something to happen, Suguru's hand on the small of your back while he delicately brushed your hair off your shoulder.

There weren't any scissors for you to trim it with. Not a single sharp item left anywhere within reach. He refused to entertain the idea of chopping some of it off either, insisting on taking care of it himself, toying and twirling the ridiculously long strands down as they cascaded over your worn dress.

It had always been long, but whatever was in the food he'd been feeding you had made it grow far faster here, trailing along the floor wherever you walked. He brushed it out for you, washed it and dried it while he made excuse after excuse not to cut it.

"Let down your hair, princess," Suguru called out from below, and for a brief second, you considered telling him that his joke wasn't funny - even though you suspected after another year or two, it might really be long enough to reach the ground. You stared down at him as he shielded his face from the sun, a hand on your hip as your brows scrunched together.

"Come inside," you shouted, struggling not to frown as you watched him walk out of your line of vision, a basket slung over his shoulder, probably with food from the closest town - not that he'd ever let you see it for yourself.

No, he locked your door when he left.

Kissed your forehead and promised to be back as soon as possible whenever he had errands to run.

It took him nearly fifteen minutes to make it back up to your door, the keys clinking as he unlocked it from the outside, swinging it open with a loud creak as you refused to look back at him.

"How's my beautiful girl?" He murmured as he approached, lips grazing against the shell of your ear while his hands traced your frame.

"I'm getting sick of being up in here," you half-whispered as you confessed what had been plaguing you for weeks, your voice raw from how little you'd been using it lately. "Can't we go to a village? Just for a day? We could wear disguises or-"

"No," he firmly said, pressing a kiss on your collarbone as you let out an annoyed huff.

"Please, Suguru," you whined. "It's been so long-"

"I'm not taking any risks when it comes to you," he scoffed a little, as if you were asking him for something absurd.

"Didn't you say no one was even looking for me?" You tilted your head to the side, pushing out your bottom lip like it would make his impenetrable resolve finally fracture.

"Anyone who saw your hair-"

"So cut it," you stomped your foot, swallowing hard as your lashes fluttered up at him.

"No," he repeated, refusing to budge.

His fingers were already unlacing the back of your dress, making quick work of loosening it while you struggled to come up with an argument that might sway him just for him to spin you around to face him.

Could you somehow convince him to take you on just a single outing?

Was it truly too much? Were you a moron for wanting more than just this?

Your dress was falling by your feet before you could think of anything - and his mouth was on your throat to make sure you wouldn't be able to.

Kiss after kiss pressed against your skin, lips tantalizingly skimming along the tendon until his teeth were grazing over your jaw. His hands making their way over your waist, fingers digging into your sides as he suddenly hoisted you up.

Carrying you back to your bed, careful not to step on your hair as he continued to pepper you with his gentle affection.

"Did I not make it perfect for you here, princess?" He purred, tenderly placing you back down on the soft mattress, making sure to drape your hair off the side. His own was falling in his face as his mouth slowly traveled down the valley of your breasts, across your belly button and pausing just below it to peek up at you. "I try so hard."

He did, didn't he?

Suguru had risked his head just by bringing you here. Did his best to make sure you weren't wanting for anything - that you wouldn't go without the luxuries you'd be lavished in your entire life.

Couldn't you just be happy for him when he was working so hard for you?

"I know," you muttered softly, guilt creeping in while his soft purple eyes bore into you. "I just-"

"Want to throw away everything I've given you for what? You'd rather hang around some peasants than me?" He grumbled, stare narrowing as he pushed your thighs up against your chest, like he had some point to prove.

"No, that's not-" You started again, but then his fingers slipped inside you, two thick digits digging deeper to stretch you out - and shut you up.

"Not what?" He dryly mocked, cocking his head to the side, well aware you would't be able to answer as he shoved his fingers deeper, dragging them against your walls.

"Don't be mean," you hissed at him, chest constricting as your lungs squeezed in time with your cunt. Unable to breathe when his digits felt like they were forcing all the air out with each consecutive thrust.

"It hurts my feelings when you want to leave me," he said, but his condescending tone didn't exactly lend any credence to what he was saying. Still, your heart stalled anyway, mind instinctively working to win him back.

"I don't want to leave you," you argued. "Just here. For a little bit."

"For a little bit," he sarcastically echoed, an anxious pit opening in the bottom of your stomach as you shook your head.

"Suguru," you whined, wiggling your hips as he drove those digits all the way in, working you open with an almost clinical precision.

"What, angel?" He hm-ed, knowing exactly what you wanted - and pretending he didn't.

You knew you should be mad. Put your foot down and demand that he take you out. But when he was looking at you like this, his fingers dimpling your skin and his mouth pampering you, you couldn't bring yourself to do either.

No matter how much you missed the sun. Smelling fresh flowers in your garden. Talking to a stranger instead of someone you knew every damn detail of.

"Come on, Sugu, would it be so bad?" You tried to charm him, but he just clicked his tongue.

"What do I have to do to keep you happy, hm?" He asked, sapping your strength without even trying. Drawing it out with every fast drag of his fingers. "Fuck you until you forget about these silly ideas?"

He pulled his fingers out, mouth pressed in a thin line just for him to tug his pants down enough to free his cock.

It bounced up against his shirt, pre-cum leaving a stain on it before he wrapped his fist around his thick base.

Watching it bob as he got back on top of you, one hand still pressing your thigh down to keep you open as he nudged his fat tip against your entrance.

His chin tilting up as he started pushing in, his jaw flexing as his shoulders tensed, testing his own self-control with each inch he slid inside of you.

You used to think your knight was an expert at restraining himself.

Back when he'd keep a straight face during banquets despite how often you'd pester him about sneaking away. Composed and collected until he finally got to claim you in private.

And now, he'd stolen you.

Turned your dreamy little secret into a reality that had started to stretch towards a forever.

You were still reaching up for him, tangling your fingers in his dark hair while he reached up to softly stroke the top of yours. The weight of him pressing down as he drove his cock in further, making sure to fill you up until he was fucking every thought that wasn't about him out of that pretty head of yours.

"My princess doesn't know what she needs," he murmured, his voice thick with hunger, all dark and dangerous as he dragged you down with him.

"I need you," you whispered, voice cracking when he abruptly bottomed out, his tip smushed against your cervix as your mouth parted in a broken gasp.

You needed him to let you breathe a little. To understand that you couldn't just spend eternity in this little world he crafted for the two of you.

But none of it actually came out.

Just more messy moans, your fingers clawing at the blankets while he just thrusted into you again and again.

The bed whined under your combined weight, your thighs trembling as his hips smacked down into you. His mouth was colliding into yours, sucking on your bottom lip while he wrecked you without hesitation.

Trying to ruin you.

Rip your heart out to have for himself. Hold it hostage too.

"Maybe I should put a baby in here," he grunted when the kiss broke, his breath warm on your cheek as he gritted his teeth. Stare drifting down to your stomach with a determination you knew you should be scared of. "You wouldn't leave our baby, would you?"

He knew exactly what to say to get to you.

Which strings to pull to turn you into his perfect puppet.

No better than a plaything. A doll to be dressed up in his very own dollhouse.

"I-I-" You stammered, but shit, when he was stuffing you so full, you couldn't find enough sanity left to string coherent words together. Left writhing and whimpering as his cock rocked and rutted into all your favorite spots.

"You what? Want one?" He teased, your heart hammering faster at the idea of actually being pregnant.

Carrying his child while you were still confined to this room.

Would he be so overprotective to confine you to the bed next?

"It's okay if you don't know," he cooed, his soft voice pitching lower while the hand on your thighs slipped down so he could have fun with your clit next.

Massing it with intention, drawing rough circles over the sensitive bud while he clicked his tongue at you again.

"That's why I have to take care of you," he continued, pressing down harder, his cock pistoning back in with more force, making sure you didn't even have the air in your lungs to tell him that you didn't need to depend on him.

You loved Suguru.

But the only way he knew how to love you back was to suffocate you. You knew you were his world. He just had to make sure he was yours.

Perhaps you were a fool for thinking that you'd be able to find a way to express that to him. To change a man who already made up his mind.

"I love you," you started, swallowing hard as you tried to gather your focus enough to get the right words out this time, get him to see your side.

But then his lips were connected with yours, barely parting enough to breathe, "I love you too."

His hips slammed against yours harder, his fingers working faster, your stomach tied together in knots as the pressure pushed you to a precipice you knew you'd fall from.

"C'mon, princess, cum for me," he groaned in between kisses, swallowing your moan as your body unravelled for him in a bright burst of pleasure. Stars you sorely missed splotching across your vision as you scrunched your eyes shut, feeling him buried to the hilt as something warm started to fill you up.

Had he-

"I hope it's a girl," he muttered, half-collapsing on top of you. His forehead pressed against yours as he sucked in heavy breaths, his cock still throbbing as his cum leaked out inside you. "Or twins."

"Twins?" You echoed, dazed as you blinked up at him.

"That should keep us busy," he smirked, one corner of his mouth curling up higher than the other as he refused to pull out. Still lodged deep inside you like he wanted to make sure his seed took.

He readjusted you, pulling your legs down so he could lay on top of you fully, his firm chest pressed against your softer one, his calloused fingers caressing your cheek as he looked at you with that lovestruck stare you'd grown accustomed to.

Had it always looked so sly?

Or were you starting to piece together something you missed once the haze of sex started to dissipate?

"I'll always keep you safe."

As your lover? Your knight? Your warden?

You still weren't sure which when you woke up the next morning. The smell of sex and sweat still sticking to your skin as you rubbed your exhausted eyes and rolled over with sticky thighs.

The left side of bed was empty.

Only a warm spot where Suguru was supposed to be. Had he gone to make breakfast? Perhaps decided to spare you of more discussions of raising children in this lonely room?

You pulled the covers up to your chest as you sat up, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you stared at the ghost of your past life in the form of furniture and books you used to enjoy before you read them a hundred times.

A piece of paper was left on the nightstand, a small note you supposed Suguru must've written for you, neat letters informing you that he'd be out for the day and he left meals pre-made for you on a tray outside.

Maybe on a different day, you might've found it sweet.

But an idea sprouted in the back of your head, blooming quickly enough that you were scurrying over to your dresser to find something to throw on, hurrying to get dressed before opening the door to find the tray he mentioned.

Instead of taking a bite, you just brought it inside - and slipped back out.

Bracing yourself for the long walk down, holding your breath as you crept down the stairs, a lump in your throat that seemed to get larger with every step you took.

You refused to look at the bottom.

Slowly making your way, attempting to remind yourself that with each step you took, you were another one closer to a way out.

It wasn't like you wanted to run away.

Not really.

You doubted your family would take kindly to you returning. Especially not if their unwed princess came with the unexpected baggage of a child they'd consider a bastard. With a man of no noble blood or important background.

But you were sure that you'd die if you didn't get some fresh air soon, wither and rot up there in your single-windowed cell.

The end came into sight - the last stair just a few feet away, your feet scampering down as your excitement started to bubble over, your head snapping up to the-

Door?

There was nothing there.

Just stone walls with no way in or out.

Was it magic? Some seal on the outside that stopped anyone else from intruding on something they shouldn't?

You were simply stuck.

And you sincerely doubted any prince would be coming to save you.

a/n: feel kinda meh about how this one turned out but hope you guys enjoyed anyway <3 reblogs + comments always appreciated

"I've worked a bit on the banquet today and wanted to review some of my points with you. Especially regarding the food situation a few days ago," you said.

His head crooked, revealing more of his pale throat. Yours ran dry.

The darkness accentuated his eyes. Blue, bright and oh so beautifully brutal. They cut through the shadows like stunning needles.

His hair, despite dishevelled, complimented his stare as always. White strands adorned over his brows and emphasising the sharp features of his face.

Your husband was as infuriating as he was attractive.

"Are you here to show me your plans or did you just need an excuse to stare at me today?"

And as observant as he was attractive.

You coiled your grip tighter around the scrolls. In hopes that the ink would seep out onto the floor and distract him from the fact that you were instead, staring.

"I— sorry." Your apology was swift. Your lowering gaze was swifter.

But not fast enough to miss the smug curl at the corner of his pale lips. Your eyes glued to the floor watched as his feet stepped closer. His presence was the calm before a storm.

You braced yourself for impact.

Satoru loomed over you, as always. Head leaned over to the side of your face. His voice slithered on your ear. A forked tongue was all you heard.

"Is my sweet little wife getting bold?"

You tensed, "no. I wasn't even—"

"So you don't want something from me?"

Surely, it was the darkness that wrapped around your hand. A shadow. An obscurity. A figment of your imagination.

Because in no realm of reason, would your husband actually be holding your hand right now.

Dreaming.

You must be dreaming.

The scrolls clattered to the floor. That should have woken you up.

Your body jolted. That should have stirred you from sleep.

Long, pale fingers wrapped around yours. A cuff to your wrist. His thumb daunted your pulse. The chills of his touch dripped into your veins and pumped to your heart until it froze.

You weren't dreaming.

Frantic eyes snapped up to his. To the blues brimmed with what you could only describe as sadism.

Satoru was touching you. Touching you.

He was touching you.

You'd never felt anything softer than his yukata.

He brought your hand to his chest. Pressed your palm flat onto his robes. Every second tauting your spine that would surely snap from tension.

"Come now," he mused. Heaven on his tongue and hell on his teeth.

He craned closer. Closer than he ever had to you.

"I know you want me. It's why you stare so bad, hm?"

You cannot bring yourself to respond. Anything might have damned you at this point.

Still, he scoffed. Smirked. "Pathetic."

Your hand was a heavy stone that plummeted as he dropped you. Satoru pushed past you without so much as a glance back over his shoulder.

"When you've found your voice again, come find me."

His robes lingered. Brushed against you. A cold snap kept the fabric from daring to graze your ankle.

Infinity. The ice barrier that kept him from you.

That circled your wrist. Left the skin tender. He could not even bring himself to touch you without it.

Satoru's footsteps echoed down the hall. Mocking you with every beat. You cradled your hand. Wished it stopped there.

But your husband was a cruel man.

"I've got better things to do with my time than waste it on a woman like you."

A part of you agreed with him. Why would someone as insatiable as him waste his breath on someone who froze at the smallest touch?

You could learn for him.

You told yourself it was out of spite that you stood with your feet kissing soft blades of grass.

The aroma of blooming blossoms wasn't the scent of spite. But of youth. Naivety.

It was the scent of a young wife wanting to learn how to please her husband. As a girl wore perfume to dazzle a love interest, so you had found your way to the meadow Suguru had urged you to sneak off with him to.

It was to comfort your waning heart, you said.

The red roses blooming between white petals whispered otherwise.

The moon as your witness. It gleamed over dewdrops on the grass. Beamed a path to the man who cradled you when you froze. Encouraged you every time you went mute.

Geto Suguru. Your samurai. Sat amongst the flowers and plucking thorns off of roses. Long hair loose in silky strands. Neat, as always. Beautiful enough to make even maidens jealous.

The moon adored him. Even so, his dark eyes brightened once he spotted you. With your hands cupped in front of you and your gaze flickering to the nature. To anything else but him. A desperate effort to distract yourself from the reality that you were here.

Why did shame rear its ugly head? Satoru had said it himself, he didn't care who you spread your legs for.

Maybe that was the problem.

"Thank you for coming, my lady," Suguru smiled as he stood to his full height.

It never felt like he loomed over you. Nothing about him could ever intimate you. Not the boy you chased around your garden and ate fruit with at the ponds.

He met you halfway. Perhaps a little further. Your knees wobbled the more you approached.

"Are you sure no one will see us here?" You made it a habit of looking over your shoulder.

"I promise." His hands embraced yours. Kisses worshipped your knuckles.

His stare never pierced into yours. It caressed.

Much like the soft grass as you both settled over the hilltop. The crickets sung you a melody accompanied by a tender creek below the hill. A breeze joined with a sway of the leaves. Sprinkling shadows and moonlight over you from your spot beneath a tree.

You sat on your knees while he leaned on his forearm beside you. Laid and staring up at you like you outshone the moon.

"You look upset." He observed, with a thumb tracing gentleness over your cheekbone. "Should I even ask?"

"Gojo-San is ever cruel with his words," you murmur.

Shame tugged at your soul as you leaned into his touch.

Suguru hummed, callouses brushing over your jaw. "What did he say this time?"

"He touched me. For the first time."

His touch paused at the crux of your jaw, then traced down the valley of your neck. Silking shivers down your skin.

"How so?" He asked, ever as gentle.

"He told me I was staring. Asked if I wanted something else from him. He took my hand and put it on his chest. In the middle of the hallway too— does he have no shame? Or is mocking me worth rumours?"

Your lips pressed into a thin line and you shook your head. "Why do I even ask? He doesn't have any shame. He walked out of his office completely dishevelled. Probably sneaking around with another maid."

Be it the earlier's fluster or frustration, you could hardly tell. Perhaps it was a build up. A fracture in the humility you always tried to carry yourself with. As you had been taught to.

"He's terribly crass. Cruel. Am I married to a sadist?" Your nails dug into the grass.

"An egotist, for sure." Suguru hummed as he pushed himself up further on his forearm.

You huffed, leaning away from his touch as you stared to the sky.

"More than that. I just can't fathom why he's so. . . Cold. I've never done anything to him. I've tried to be a good wife."

Here you were, lamenting to the roses as you always did. With an added pair of ears eagerly listening.

"Have I not?" You asked. The moon, the flowers, Suguru. You weren't sure who the question was reserved for.

The moon shrouded in clouds.

The roses swayed in the breeze.

It was Suguru who replied. A thumb to your chin as he fully sat up. "Of course you have."

"It doesn't feel like it."

"You are basing that off of Gojo's reservations."

"Well he's my husband, is he not? Maybe he is—"

Your words drowned into a pair of warm lips.

The rant died on your tongue. Snuffed out by Suguru's blooming kiss and the petal softness of his palm cupping the back of your head.

He kissed you the same way he looked at you. The same way he touched you: reverent.

Your hands fell limp in your lap. Ever bemused on how to react when faced with his affection. Much like a child uncertain if they could reach for dessert.

It did not matter. His hands reached for you instead. One on your hip while the other cradled your head. Even with his staggering weight pressing over you— unease was nowhere to be felt.

The flowered kiss broke with his nectarine whisper. "You're perfect in every right. Shall I show you that again?"

His thumb rubbed promises and memories in circles over your hip. The memoir of that night nestled into the timid, warm chamber in your heart.

You did not answer him. Couldn't.

Still, Suguru nudged your head up. Encouraged your wavering gaze to meet his.

"Words, my lady." He beckoned. Soft, devoted.

Your fingers twitched as the hand on your hip guided them to his chest. The softness of Satoru's yukata paled in comparison to the warmth of Suguru's kimono.

His lips tendered yours, "tell me that you want me again. Allow me to worship you under the moonlight as you deserve."

Your breath hitched. Heart stuttered.

Shame on you for your loose tongue. She was learning confidence.

"Please," your fingers curled into the deep plum of his kimono. His smile simmered your shyness as it caressed your lips.

"Please what? Tell me."

"Please love me again."

It ached a deep part of your soul to admit it. That in the depths of your duty, you craved love. Affection. Tenderness.

A child yearned for sweets after the first taste of sugar.

Long, strong arms curled around you, tucking you into Suguru's warmth as his lips committed to worship. Over yours. Down your jaw. Velveted over your throat.

"I regretted not leaving my mark on you the first time." His words warmed your pulse. "Tonight the moonlight will be my witness."

Ever poetic, ever delicate. He mouthed over the goosebumps on your neck as his hands mapped out every inch of you. Retracing his steps. The way he held you that night. In your husband's bed. Touching you as your husband should have.

His lips searched for sensitivity. Revered when he found spots that hitched your breath and had you clinging onto him impossibly closer.

Shudders spilled in soft gasps as his lips sucked on the crevice beneath your jaw. Your head tipped back to expose yourself to him. Offer yourself like a flower on a shrine. Adorned in the moonlight. Under his lips that made sin taste sweet.

Suguru repeated the patterns. Searching, kissing, sucking— until warm stings bloomed across your neck. Unfamiliar, but they fluttered your heart and lashes.

"Suguru," you whispered.

"I'm here," he promised.

His lips adored your skin. Fingers slipping beneath your robes and untying ribbons. Presenting your naked skin not only to the moon and meadow, but to his majestic affection.

The grass welcomed your back and tickled your spine. Suguru's kiss consumed your mouth in a blooming nectar as his weight pressed you into the ground. Still, he cradled you. Close. Close enough to feel his heart beating against yours.

Rhythms synched. Breaths became one. Skin slid against skin.

His mouth trailed down. Leaving shivers and shudders in its wake. He opened you up like a midnight flower. Your skin petal-soft under his kiss and your thighs held with the same tenderness he did the roses.

Robes fell away. Your nudity flaunted to the nature. To him. When you tried to hide he simply lulled your hands and kissed them too.

"Let me," he said. "Let me love you as you deserve, my pretty flower."

Your hands fell to his hair instead. Lost in the dark silk as his head tucked between your thighs. Every inch of fabric removed to reveal your arousal glistening in the moonlight.

His chuckle fanned your folds. "Why, hello there." A kiss met your clit. Twitched your fingers to curl tighter. You bit back a whine.

"Your body knows," he said.

Cryptic. You hadn't the time to urge an explanation as his tongue pressed flat at the bottom of your slit and stroked up. Slow, sensual, unravelling your last shred of sense.

Suguru's groan rumbled in the depths of your heat. Large hands played over your thighs. Spread you open. Held you into the grass that pressed soft dents into your plush.

More evidence to how you offered yourself to him.

His tongue devoted itself to your pleasure. Committed, careful. It laved over your slit and lathered around your clit with each pitch of your moans.

Your head fell back once his lips sealed over the throbbing bud. You couldn't bear to look at the reverence peering up at you between your thighs in soft violets.

Heat pooled in your stomach. Seeped into your soul. Dizzied your mind as memories of Satoru slipped between the cracks. Until there was nothing but Suguru.

Suguru between your legs.

Suguru's hands cupping your thighs.

Suguru's tongue pumping in and out of you.

Your hips craned into his face. Bucked with your hiccups as you pressed down on his head. He worked you to that familiar high. The same once he guided you through on that night.

That night that you gave him everything.

"So sweet," he slurred, his saliva smearing with your slick.

"Suguru," you trembled a moan and clung tighter. "S-Suguru— I'm. Oh."

"Mhhm. Know what you're gonna do for me?"

You shook your head amidst your eyes blurring with tears.

His tongue slipped from your throbbing heat. Laved up in a lick that dragged whimpers from the back of your throat. "You're going to cum for me," he whispered in a kiss to your clit. "Say it for me. I'm gonna cum for you."

"Gonna—" you croaked, lips quivering when his thumbs spread your folds and he dove into your slick. Tongue, lips and teeth dedicated to worshipping your white, hot arousal.

"You can do it," he encouraged. "Say it. Say it for me."

When his tongue slipped back in and his thumb found your needy bud, you crumbled.

"I'm gonna cum."

You sobbed. Even if you did not understand it.

Even if all you knew was him. Him. And the blinding sensation that coursed through your every nerve and pumped into your veins.

The coil of heat in the pit of your stomach burst. Rushing blissful tremors throughout your body. Your eyes fluttered. Your heart stuttered. Incoherent whines babbled from your glossy lips.

The only fathomable thing was his name.

Suguru.

The man who took you apart in a meadow. Under the reverence of his lips and the worship of his tongue. The man who called you. . .

"My pretty flower."

Whispered against your folds as he so slowly, so tenderly, parted from you. With threads of saliva and slick webbing to his lips. So sinful. What a sinner.

Who looked at you as if you were heaven.

Who held you as if you were divine. There in that meadow. In his strong arms.

As if you were worth it.

The price for your night of pleasure bloomed across your neck.

Deep and dark. His mouth that blossomed on your skin left behind thorns the morning after.

Your reflection chastised you.

Ears deaf to the chirping of birds and tired eyes sensitive to the early morning sun, you sat before your vanity.

The wood of the table was smooth, yet you swore it splintered you.

The rouge was soft, but you were certain it grated your skin.

The brush was plush, however, its bristles bit into you.

Suguru promised he would leave marks. Now, you were left to cover them up.

The powder splotched across the bruises in fruitless attempts of merging the colour with your skin tone.

Every failed endeavour ticked your hand into more frantic pats. Aggressive taps, desperate smudges, whatever technique you could possibly think of.

In the end, it only looked muddy, odd. Your sin still dark even after layers of foundation.

What were you going to do? Go out there like this?

You frowned at your reflection. Shame glinted in your eyes.

You shouldn't have went to that meadow.

Shouldn't have given in to temptation.

Shouldn't have tainted yourself.

Shouldn't have.

Shouldn't have—

"Well aren't you a miserable little thing this morning?"

The brush nearly fell to your lap from how quick you whipped around to face the washroom door that slid open with a heavy thunk.

Leaned against the doorway with the sun adoring his pale hair in shimmers as always, was none other than Satoru. Wide awake for a man who returned only an hour after you broke sleep in the lonely bed.

Dressed in black, as always.

Stare blank, as expected.

You clutched the brush in search of an answer. Gray cast the room as clouds passed by the sun, shrouding you in disgrace.

"Good morning, Gojo-San." Was all you could muster. Your stare did not dare meet his.

Lest you wanted to knot your stomach tighter.

A low sound hummed from him. He approached. Carrying that same calm before the storm.

You braced for impact.

Squeezed your eyes.

This time, he took the brush.

Were his fingers naturally cold, or was that the ice of infinity? You couldn't bring yourself to ask as he nudged your chin up. Exposing your throat and your sin.

To the man who should loathe you for spending your night with another.

Instead, he mused. "That samurai did a nasty one on you. Look at these."

He crooked your head side to side, lips pressed in a thin line.

You wanted to tell yourself that it was jealousy.

You really wanted it to be jealousy.

But why would your insatiable husband feel anything for you?

"I just." You cleared your throat. "I'm trying to —"

"Cover them up? You're doing a terrible job."

His tongue click was ever sharp. Ever stabbing. Your heart coiled in on itself and your tongue twisted to keep you silent.

All you could do was stare, and even then, your eyes kept lowering. Kept flickering. Kept looking anywhere else but at the man whose name was now stitched to yours.

But the one who still refuses to lay down beside you in bed every night.

"Cat got your tongue?" He huffed. Leaned closer. Brutal blues sliced sharp from beneath white lashes.

He spoke, low.

"Or are you losing that voice of yours cause you keep slutting it up?"

He was one to talk.

When you didn't answer, he hummed again and stood straight. You readied for him to drop the brush into your lap. Drop another insult. Drop the last, quivering bit of your pride, too.

Gojo Satoru was a man who had surprised you awfully throughout the weeks of your marriage.

Today, he shocked you the most.

Because when you found it in yourself to open your eyes, you were met with the sight of him dabbing the brush in the powder container. Collecting some colour, tapping the edge to dispel residuals.

Your heart lodged into your throat as he brought the brush over one of your hickies. His eyes hung. Face stiff. Focused.

You peeped at the mirror from the corner of your eye. Watched his reflection. To confirm that this was real. Not a dream. But real.

Your husband was covering up the marks made by another man.

Silence clutched you tight. Whispering that you would shatter the single shred of charity he had offered you in these dreary weeks.

You didn't blink. Didn't flinch. Only stared in bemusement as Satoru reached for another cosmetic on your desk: rouge.

"You have to bring colour back into your skin. Otherwise it looks muddy." He mumbled.

Not a mock.

Not a taunt.

Guidance? Was he teaching you?

In all your bewilderment, one thing was obvious: he was good at this. How many years had he been covering up his own sin?

You sat there, frozen. To his first act of service done unto you. To the scent you could finally indulge in with him being so close.

Vanilla, with hints of smoke. Oddly sweet, in a subtle way.

Your heart squeezed. Damn her. You didn't need another reason to gush to the flowers.

As he finished up the last mark on your neck, you watched him through the mirror. How he avoided touching any other part of you. Not even a finger dared to graze on your pulse.

For the moment, you could be content with this.

For the moment, you could delude yourself.

"If you're going to be a whore, at least learn how to hide it."

Your moment tattered at the seams.

Not shattered, not crumbled. Not to your heart that had been starving for even the smallest gesture. A puppy searching for scraps. You didn't care if he just kicked you down again.

He placed the brush down and stepped behind you while you looked into the mirror. You observed your clean neck and the skill of his labour.

"Thank you," you whispered.

You weren't sure if it was for the gesture, or the fact that he cradled you for the first time.

He scoffed, brows narrowing. "Hope you paid attention. I told you to keep your love retreats on the downlow. Lest you want a scandal?" His glare pierced you through the mirror.

Yet you were still fighting back a bashful smile.

Satoru disappeared out of the room shortly after. Leaving you with an odd mix of shame and fluster in your chest.

Shame, because he still didn't want you. Still looked at you as if you were anything but his wife.

Fluster because for the first time ever.

He held you as if you were.

Or so your starving heart whispered.

She would have to quell herself. You had duties to attend to today.

On your way to your office and passing by the white roses with their red counterparts peeking in, you spotted Madame Aiyuri, walking tall in all of her elegance.

Scrolls were neatly bundled in her arms. With a few dangling at the edges. She must have been on her way to attend her own duties. Political or administrative, you were certain.

As a scroll loosened and nudged over her elbow, you sped your walk up to stop its fall. It would be a hassle for her to collect anything from the floor.

"Madame," you greeted. Gentle like the bow of your head.

She replied. Professional, curt. You were growing used to her.

"Do you need help getting these to your office?" You asked, already offering your hands out to help her with the load.

She shook her head, expression ever as strict. "These are my duties. Besides, you have your own that you should attend to."

Cold. You had stopped thinking that it was directed to you. She stared the same piercing ice at everyone who came here way. Including her son.

But there was something about the way she looked you up and down today.

"Well it wouldn't be an issue." You stood straight, your nails scratching at your palms. "I don't mind lending a helping hand."

"You are a sweet one," she chuckled.

It didn't sound endearing.

When she spoke again, the hairs on your arms stood.

"You know," she started, stare seeping into your very soul.

She smiled.

"When I was your age, I was carrying my first child."

Your lips twitched into your own smile. Because your mind told you to do so. Even as your heart pulled at you to walk away.

Instead, you tilted your head. Told yourself that your mother-in-law was finally bonding with you.

"Oh?" You said. "Satoru? I'm sure you—"

"No."

Aiyuri's smile needled. Tight.

Taunting.

Her gaze dropped to your stomach.

"Maybe you are barren like me."

Yours froze in time.

She scoffed. Bundling her scrolls and continuing down her path. Straight posture. Crystal face.

Beautiful, brutal.

Her final words to you were a blade. Stabbing your soles into the wooden floors and leaving you motionless.

"He won't be patient with you for long."

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised. divider: @/kodaswrls, @/dollywons. art cred: @/_3aem (twt)

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